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Hermione Granger-Weasley.
Youngest Minister for Magic.
Gryffindor's Golden Girl.
Harry Potter's Mudblood (that one as her least favorite).
And now? Scarlet woman.
She'd never planned this, or even thought it a possibility. Happy people didn't cheat on their spouses, and by all accounts, she was happy. She married the love of her life, had two beautiful children, and a successful career. She had not a single thing to complain about aside from the typical woes of marital bliss—no one really enjoys picking up dirty socks, or trunks off the bathroom floor, right?
But here she was, waiting anxiously for a late meeting with the man who'd begun this whole beguiling turn of events six months ago.
Her tongue swept across her carefully painted lips as she eyed the antique clock that hung just beside her office door with growing anticipation. She placed it there at the beginning of her term, a congratulations present from her husband on winning the election. To anyone else it likely seemed inappropriate, but to her, it was perfect.
A subtle reminder that life outside the four walls of her office existed, and a homage to her Muggle roots. She'd been so heavily involved in the Magical world since she'd graduated from Hogwarts, that sometimes it was hard to remember a life before magic.
Ron understood, and even better, he helped manage her need to balance her old world with her new. He didn't argue when she mentioned signing Rose and Hugo up for primary school, and absolutely didn't bat an eye when she insisted certain household chores be done the Muggle way—laundry simply smelt better when properly laundered.
Ron was… the perfect husband, and on the outside, she was the perfect wife. But perfect wives didn't wear expensive french lace knickers purchased by other men. Perfect wives didn't daydream during board meetings about kneeling at other men's feet, and perfect wives certainly didn't schedule end of day meetings so they could get shagged against their desks before running home to tuck their children into bed.
She knew it was a problem, Something she really ought to stop before her dirty little secret was printed on the front page of The Daily Prophet, but she couldn't. She was in too deep, and truthfully, this affair was the most exciting thing she'd done in years.
She'd never considered herself a thrill seeker before, typically airing on the side of caution more than not, but that stomach clenching, heart pulsing, hair rising feeling that left her body reeling at his touch was something she wasn't ready to give up—she couldn't. Not yet.
He was like a drug, her own personal brand of heroin. Habit forming to the point that the very marrow in her bones craved his touch.
"Padma?" Her voice was steeled, well practiced in the art of deception by this point, a habit she'd picked up long before finding herself bent over the edge of her desk with her skirt around her middle. She picked up the brown container that her assistant had sent into her office moments ago.
"Yes, Minister?" Her old friend turned staffer appeared in her doorway. Her hair was held up with a thick clip, wayward black locks framing her face. She was good at her job, often knowing what Hermione needed before it had even crossed her mind, evident by the dinner she'd picked up for her. But it was also that keen attention to detail that made Hermione wary.
"Thank you." Hermione tapped the take away box gently. "You're too good to me."
"Oh, it was nothing." Padma leaned against the doorframe, hand waving dismissively in front of her as a genuine smile curled on her lips. "I saw the meeting with the Supreme Mugwump and figured you might not have time between to pop out and grab a bite."
Hermione's smile faltered as she looked down at the take away box, chipped manicured nails sliding across the folded lid. "Ah… well you aren't wrong." Padma knew everything about Hermione's life. Her children's birthdays, what size clothing they wore, anniversary date, Ron's favorite color, and shoe size. She knew how to remove the wards from her home, and that Hermione was allergic to strawberries. She knew everything, which left little doubt in her mind that the witch also knew of her affair.
How could she not?
She saw her time-table. She would sit right outside her office, likely seeing through the ominous quiet that silencing spells set as Hermione found her bliss in her office by the hands, mouth and cock of a man other than her husband.
Padma was smart though—far too brilliant to still be Hermione's assistant, but she paid her well enough to keep her around. Good help was hard to find, and Padma knew that these secrets she kept were far more valuable than what tabloids could pay.
Straightening her spine, Hermione lifted her eyes back to the witch, gulping down the lump that formed in the base of her throat. "My late hour does not supersede the evening bell. Why don't you take off early?" She opened the take away boxes, peering inside at the lasagna from the canteen that would remain untouched. Merlin only knew she was far too keyed up to even think about dinner.
"Are you su—"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure." Hermione shook her head, sighing as she leaned back in her office chair, a knowing smirk falling into place. "I know it's hard to believe, but I can manage to copy my own meeting materials and turn off the lights at the end of the day."
"But I don—"
"I know you don't mind, but there is no reason you should miss tucking in Sumeet just because the Supreme Mugwump's availability is limited." Her tone was clipped, probably a little more brisk than necessary, but Padma staying was the farthest thing from an option. It was bad enough she'd risked a mid-afternoon shag before with the witch just on the other side of a closed door, there was no bloody way Hermione was going to allow her to stay during her ill advised meeting.
"Tell Ezra hello for me, and make sure to relay how sorry I am about the last minute trip to New York next week."
Padma wavered, a knowing twinkle in her deep brown eyes gleamed at her almost menacingly from across the room. "...Okay… if you're sure that you don't need my help." If Hermione were a better person she might tell her to stay. If she were a better person, she'd ask her to take notes during the meeting. She'd find an excuse to keep Padma in the room so that there was zero chance of finding her in a compromising position.
But she wasn't a good person. Good people didn't day dream about men other than their spouse. Good people didn't send their knickers in the post. Good people didn't have affairs, and after thirty five years of being a good person, Hermione was ready to let down her guard and be bad.
She'd been prim and proper her whole life. A dream of a daughter, an excellent student, a dutiful wife, and a selfless Ministry civil servant. She'd followed every rule to a tee—yes, sometime she'd toe the line, but never outwardly disobeyed a set edict.
She fought for those who were less fortunate, and took up causes to right previous wrongs.
She was, by all accounts, good, and while she wasn't about to suddenly start littering or tripping the elderly, it felt good to have this little secret.
A filthy, dirty, mortifying little habit that she didn't want to kick—not yet.
"Positive." Hermione flashed Padma a smile before waving her off. "Now get. I'll see you on Monday."
Her assistant bowed her head in a humbled nod, hands clasping at her waist as she began to step slow steps backwards towards her desk. "Alright… have a good weekend Minister."
"You as well."
Her lasagna was under a stasis, skirt charmed smooth of wrinkles, stockings adjusted, and she'd primped her hair for what felt like the hundredth time. Padma was sent home, the floor empty of all employees short of the House Elf cleaning crew, but they were under strict orders to not enter her suite.
Now all that was left was wait.
It was in these moments, pre-him that were the most excruciating. They filled her with doubt. They played tricks on the little angel on her shoulder, twisting her stomach into knots at the impending infidelity that followed his entrance to her office.
After that first fateful time she told herself it could never happen again—that it would never happen again. A careless mistake. One she'd blamed on Ogden's Finest and the heavy hand of the bartender at the International Confederation of Wizards' charity ball.
But liquor couldn't explain the second or third time it happened, and it certainly couldn't explain the weekend she'd spent in France at some nameless hotel subsisting only on his cock and dried fruit.
She was painfully sober then, and now.
Twisting her wedding band around her finger, Hermione paced a path across her office, the crisp click of her heels acting as a metronome to her wayward thoughts, keeping her anxiety in check from running away with her will to see him just one more time.
This was the last.
It had to be the last.
Rosie was starting her First Year in two short months, Hugo would require more attention, and Merlin only knew the amount of pressure she'd be under since it was officially two years into her term.
It wasn't fair to have her mind wander from her family and work. It wasn't fair to put Ron last all for some stupid, pathetic, asinine—
"Granger."
Her body froze, spine straightening at the familiar purr from an old foe. She closed her eyes, letting the air burn in her lungs until her body needed oxygen more than she needed courage to turn around and face the man who had plagued her mind for the past six months.
His mouth.
His hands.
His cock.
Everything about him used to repulse her. The thought of spending even a second in his presence was nauseating. But now? Now, the mere idea of being apart from him made her stomach turn.
Gulping down the remaining resolve she had, she turned on the balls of her feet, heels sliding across the carpeted floor so she could face the man of her day-dreams and nightmares. "Malfoy."
He stood in her doorway like he owned the damn place. Smug, arrogant and bloody delectable. His hands tucked into the pockets of a pair of charcoal trousers, a pressed black Oxford shirt draped across his torso as if it were bespoke. His sleeves were already rolled up to his elbows, exposing the sewny muscles that lined his forearms, thick veins bulging just beneath the surface as his fingers flexed inside his pockets.
Her mouth ran dry as she drank him in, noting the subtle details that gave away that this was absolutely not a business meeting. He wore no jacket, his hair was already disheveled from the day's work, and he did not carry his briefcase. He made no pretense about hiding the purpose of this meeting to any keen eye.
Her thighs clenched. That magnetic pull to put herself in his orbit was almost impossible to deny. There was something between them, a woven thread of magic that linked her soul to his. Like they were destined to find themselves in this very position after all the years.
His eyes left burning trails across her skin as he took in her outfit with an apathetic curiosity that both infuriated her and intrigued her. HIs eyes, that striking gray she'd come to dream of… they told a very different story.
"Are you going to invite me in, Minister?" A single brow was arched as his gaze fluttered back up to hers, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to resemble that smug little boy she used to loathe several decades past.
Circe, she hated him back then, and truthfully if it weren't for what he could do to her with that wicked mouth and sharp tongue, she still might.
Time and age, though, were fickle. And the things she once despised weren't so bad.
Not with a new perspective, and an open mind.
"When have you ever needed an invitation, Malfoy?" She swept her hand in front of her, fingers uncurling towards the chair in front of her desk, though she remained unmoving from the spot he'd found her in.
He let loose a harsh breath, something she might call laughter from anyone else, but from him it felt more harsh and less jovial. His eyes raked her figure one more time, no doubt critiquing her appearance, trying to determine what lay beneath. She was no stranger to this game by now. she knew precisely what he expected, but the lead up to that final push into adultery? That was almost as thrilling as the finish.
He moved into her office slowly, taking methodical and calculated steps, like she was a timid feline as opposed to a willing sacrifice to his depravity. His right hand lifted, and with a quick gesture, the heavy oak door behind him closed with a resounding thud before the familiar sizzle of wards dropping over the room.
Effortless, and powerful, Malfoy's ability to weld his magic was bar none. In school it used to make her angry that he was naturally so talented, where she had to spend hours, upon hours learning to weld and control her own power. She used to envy him in smoldering silence, simmering just on his periphery in class, insulting him in her head anytime something came naturally.
Now though, decades later, that same annoyance had become awe mixed with a dash of lust. She was no longer envious of his skill, but rather turned on by it.
He was becoming one of the most dynamic wizards of their time, and he wanted her.
Her eyes tracked his movement, watching silently as he crossed the room like owned the bloody place, walking the perimeter of her office as if on a Sunday stroll before finally claiming the chair behind her desk—her chair.
He leaned back, long legs spread, as his elbows came to rest on the wooden armrests and his fingers steepled so just the tips of his fingers rested against his chin. "Come here."
Hermione hesitated, for a singular moment debating the merits of telling him no and walking out of her office. Her body was already on edge, fraught with need for the feel of his against hers, but surely her consciousness was more human than the hindbrain that dictated her every move in his presence.
Her moral compass should be able to guide her back to north, not into the depths of whatever this wicked desire was that licked at her soul
"Granger." His voice called her back to the plane of existence, brow lifted as he crooked a finger in her direction, beckoning her forward like an incubus set upon its prey. And just like that, those pesky feelings of guilt and thoughts of why this shouldn't be were gone.
She took a step forward, but froze when he turned his palm towards her, tongue clicking disapprovingly. "Now, now, Granger. You know how you're supposed to approach me." He leaned back in her chair, wide shoulders pressing into the hard wood as he rolled his neck in a slow stretch. "Crawl."
Bastard.
Fucking asshole.
Yet, despite the immediate flare of fury that burst to life as his command, that rush of warmth between her thighs reminded her that as awful, and degrading as this was, she loved it. She loved relinquishing power to him. She loved not making a decision.
Biting the inside her bottom lip, she slowly lowered to her knees, stockings catching on the rough fibers and she let her pumps fall lamely off her heels as she sunk onto her palms. She kept her eyes low, watching the floor as she began her slow approach.
She wobbled, like a newborn kitten, her gait off in the tight pencil skirt, and she could hear him chuckle in amusement with each graceless twist of her hips. By the time the polished toe of his derbies came into view, her palms and knees burned, both likely red from the shuffle of carpet against her skin.
Reaching his feet, she felt his fingertips dance across her chin, tracing the delicate curve of her jaw before he guided her head back so she peered up between his thighs to find him already captivated. "Good girl." The croon sent a shiver down her spin, and made her stomach clench. It was illogical, really, how something as simple as his praise affected her so.
He cupped her jaw, thumb stroking across her bottom lip, smearing the berry colored lipstick she'd so painstakingly applied for his arrival. His eyes darkened, pupils widening in the soft light and she held her breath as he tucked his thumb between her parted lips to stroke the pad across her tongue.
She didn't need to be a Legilimens to know precisely what he was thinking, not when details of his depravity danced so clearly in his smoke coloured eyes.
A flash of pink tongue swept across his lips, and he lifted his eyes to hers as the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk that looked sharp enough to cut, and frankly she was ready to bleed out if that's what he required of her.
Withdrawing his hand, the salty presence of his thumb slipped from her mouth and she gulped, helpless to the draw that was his existence. She watched, enraptured by every flex of his fingers, as he unfastened his belt, and popped the hidden button that fastened his trousers. "Open up, Minister—" The sound of his zip lowering was a siren's song, one she wished she could deny knowing so well, but like a bad habit, she moved closer until her knee bit against the bottom feet of her chair. "—I know how well you are at public speaking, but I personally like you much better with your mouth full."
Hooking his thumb into the black elastic of his shorts, Draco lowered them until his cock fell free. He wasn't quite hard yet, but thick. The beginnings of what they knew they were both here for evident. Reaching forward with his other hand, he guided her by her chin towards his half-hard cock.
This time, no command was needed. She knew precisely what he liked, and intended to earn the praise she craved. Her hands curled against his thighs, the expensive fabric slick beneath her fingertips as she leaned forwards and let her lips glide across the length of his cock. She pressed open mouthed kisses along his shaft, tongue lapping against the velvety smooth skin as she worked her way down to the base and back up before slipping the head of his cock into her mouth.
Soft sighs of pleasure urged her on, filling the quiet of her office until the heavy sound of his breath overtook the sloppy wet sound of her mouth moving up and down his shaft. His nails scratched lightly against his thighs when she felt his fingers twist into her curls, holding her hair back so she could work uninterrupted.
"Such a good girl, " His voice was low, raspy with need. His fingers tightened their hold in her hair as he begun to rock into her mouth, hips jutting off the seat of the chair so she felt his cock prod at the back of her throat. "You love this, don't you? Sucking my cock on your knees like the little slut you are."
Her thighs clenched in a feeble attempt to ease some of the ache that pulsated with each filthy praise that slipped off his tongue. This shouldn't turn her on, his saying these demeaning words, but somehow they seemed perfect. Almost as if he was able to see the darkest parts of her libido and pull it to the surface with just a few select words.
Her cheeks hallowed around his cock, tongue lavishing the underside of his head with carefully placed flicks of her tongue as she redoubled her efforts, trying to turn those sultry sighs into gasps of pleasure. She wanted him to let loose, to lose himself in the forbidden bliss that was this tryst, to let that little self control he had snap away and turn into the beast she knew lay just beneath the surface.
It seemed Malfoy had other plans.
His hand nestled in her curls slipped free from the medusa like tangle, and moved to the back of her neck. Fingers dug into her pressure points as he eased her from his cock.
A twinge of disappointment rattled around in her chest, halting her lungs from expanding with her breath as worry seeped in. Was she not doing a good enough job? Was he disappointed? But those fears seemed unfounded the moment her eyes unblurred to reveal the wanton desire etched into his face.
His eyes were nearly black, only slivers of gray visible, and his pale cheeks flushed red. His restraint was barely contained, judging by the way his hand curled around the arm of the chair. The rope that held his carefully crafted image was unraveling, revealing the true man underneath the bespoke suits and sharply lined words.
She sat frozen underneath his heavy gaze for what felt like ages. Her knees burned, her ankles throbbed, and the waist of her skirt dig into her midsection uncomfortably, but she didn't dare move, as if afraid it would snap him from this raw version of himself that only came to the surface in these moments.
Strong hands moved within the blink of an eye, and soon she found his mouth against hers. Ruthless, demanding and just the wizard she'd come to desire, Malfoy claimed every inch of her mouth with his own, tongue leaving no stone unturned as he pulled her into his lap.
Her thighs draped over his, nestling against the seat of her chair, her skirt yanked up to accommodate her straddle. His hands forged unforgiving paths across her body, leaving flame-like trails even through the layers of clothing.
His nails scratched over her bared hips, across the flimsy lace of her knickers. Just as she pulled back to tell him to give her a moment to wiggle free of the expensive garment, there was a sharp tug at her waist followed by the distinct sound of fabric ripping.
"Malfoy those were—"
"Shut up," he growled, teeth gnashing against her as he yanked her body up by her hips, his cock slapping against her thigh as he pulled the ruined knickers from between their bodies. "I'll buy you ten pairs over. I need your cunt. Now."
The urgency in his words fogged her brain. She'd been with Ron for decades—had countless liaisons to recall upon a moments notice, and never once could she remember a time when he sounded like that. Like he might perish if he didn't have her—like she were the very air he needed to breathe.
It was lust.
That's all this was.
But the moment his cock slotted against her core and she sank down on it, that exquisitely full feeling came so close to something more that it was easy to forget that this was the biggest mistake of her life.
"Fucking hell." His lips found her shoulder, nose nudging the sheer fabric of her blouse back so he could scrape his teeth across her scarred clavicle. "Such a perfect pussy."
It was her turn to sigh, the soft noises dancing up her throat as she rotated her hips, letting her body stretch around him as her hands found purchase on the back of her chair.
He wasted no time guiding her, fingers digging Malfoy-sized bruise prints into the soft skin that she would have to vanish with bruise paste before she left the office. Her head fell back, the tips of her curls brushing across her lower back with each rise and descent, tickling the supple flesh until his hands skirted around to cup her arse to guide her faster.
The primal sounds of their joining filled the room, the soft smacking of flesh, the distinct wet sound of her pussy swallowing his cock, and her moans. Oh, how he could make her sing. Her voice would be raw—she'd have to blame it on talking too much during the day, and Ron, bless him, would bring her a cup of ginseng tea to ease the discomfort.
She didn't deserve him.
Especially not now.
"That's it… ride my cock, you filthy girl." Malfoy growled, grinding his hips into hers as he slammed her against his cock. "Tell me you how much you like it."
"S-So much… ohgods, so much." Her tongue felt heavy, words slurring with the gasps and moans he pulled from her and soon the ability to utter responses was stolen from her. It was all she could do to hold on, listening to his wicked chorus of praise as he drove her closer and closer towards orgasm until she finally snapped.
Her body quaked, every limb clenching as he pushed her into bliss. She bowed against his body, his name—his proper name—echoing around her. Everything felt right in this moment—the stars and planets aligned to bring her to this feeling of bliss.
Her pussy spasmed around his cock, encouraging his own end, as he drug out her orgasm with rough thrusts from below. It didn't take long for him to follow with a snarl of completion, cock pulsing deep inside her as he emptied into her.
"That's it—" His hand rose, petting her curls as he held her firm in his lap, his head lolling back, eyes fluttering shut. "—take it all."
She slumped against his chest, each labored breath a painful reminder of what they'd done. As the sane, rational, human side of her brain screamed obscenities at her for falling victim to her selfish desire, the shameful, treacherous side of her brain preened.
She didn't move, limbs hanging limply, cheek resting against his shoulder, watching the pulse point in his neck throb as he came down from his own high. She wanted to lean in and kiss it, to mark his perfectly pale skin, to leave evidence that his wife would find and demand he explain.
She wanted to ruin him for ruining her.
But fear, and perhaps a small smattering of self-preservation stopped her.
Because this, whatever this stupid thing was between them, was nothing.
He was married. She was married, and they were both entirely unavailable—metaphorically and literally speaking.
Her hands slipped across his shoulders, ghosting over the wrinkled oxford until her palms found the perfect spot to use as leverage and she pushed away from him until she sat upright.
His hand at her hip tightened, a subtle hint that he wasn't ready for her to leave just yet, and he lifted his head, half lidded eyes concealing most of the smoke colored iris. Silently assessing her, she could feel his magic brush against her own, prodding against her consciousness, asking access to the inner workings of her mind.
She humored the idea of letting him in, allowing him access to what made her tick, but it felt too intimate. Shagging was one thing, but that? No, that was a breach of trust in her marriage she'd never be able to come back from.
"Granger?"
Her eyes lifted from where they'd dropped to his chest, fingertips tracing runes against his chest—a nervous tick she'd never lost since her time on the run. "Hmm?"
His eyes sparkled in the soft light, hinting that he was on the verge of saying something they both might regret, and she prayed those words would never come. Because this was already messy enough without feelings or false promises.
Her breath caught in her throat as she waited, watching the gears in his mind turn and turn and turn until she could swear smoke wafted from his ears.
"My office on Tuesday?"
The build up to his anti-climatic question seemed laughable, but she knew the truth. The real question was still on his tongue, unspoken, waiting for the right moment—possibly waiting for forever.
"Oh… uh, I'd have to check my time-table." She patted his chest gently, slowly easing her hips back until his cock fell free of her body and she could feel the trickle of his seed slip from inside her as she began to scoot back from his lap.
"Hm… I think you can make time." He helped her feet find the floor, but before she could pull her skirt back down, two of his fingers were on her inner thigh, brushing across the come slicked skin. "I'd suggest planning for several hours. I have plans for you that require more than a thirty minute block of your time." He pushed his seed back inside her, fingers scooping as much of it as possible into her body.
There was something so primal about it. They both knew that nothing could result from it. She was on the potion, and diligent about taking it routinely, but the act still made her stomach tighten with need.
"I-I… oh—" her breath caught, a soft whimper clouding her words as her hips rocked into his hand, the slow build of pain lined pleasure beginning to swell to life once more. "—I'll be there."
He hummed with approval, gently easing his fingers from within her before tugging her skirt down, a smear of their bodily fluids clinging to the starched fabric of her skirt. "Good girl. Now, hurry home before Weasley realises what a naughty little witch you've been."