Chapter Text
MAY
The fireplace bursts to life, spitting Hermione Granger out into Pansy Parkinson’s living room.
Pansy has just enough time to thrust her rosé out of the way before Hermione boulders into her. “It’s over,” she garbles into Pansy’s thin satin blouse. “Ron and I are over.”
Pansy rubs Hermione’s back with one hand, awkwardly balancing her wine with the other. After levitating it to the amethyst crystal coaster on the coffee table, she gives Hermione a proper hug. “That’s it. Let it out.”
Hermione rubs her tear-soaked cheeks with the back of her hands. “He said he saw it coming. But I didn’t expect it to hurt this much. I thought it was what I wanted. But now I think I made a mistake.”
“No, you didn’t,” says Pansy confidently. “You’re only caught up in the moment. Give it time. You’ll be happier down the road.” Hermione begins to wail. Pansy quickly adds, “Not even a road, really, more of a driveway. Daph, some firewhisky, yeah?”
Hermione gasps, turning to find Daphne Greengrass perched on a high stool behind the marble top, looking concerned and extremely uncomfortable. “Hi, Hermione,” she says cautiously.
Instead of enchanting the glasses, Daphne walks to Pansy’s overstocked minibar, turning her back to Hermione to fill a stylish, abstract tumbler with Ogdens Old.
“Bottoms up, Granger.”
“How was the sex?” asks Daphne, on her fourth glass of whisky, sitting cross-legged on an oversized pink pouffe, her back against the exposed brick wall of Pansy’s sitting room.
Hermione, on her fifth, lies flat on the sofa, one hand balancing her glass on her stomach, the other stroking the furry rug. Her cheeks are red, her gaze unfocused, staring up at pretty specks of light on the ceiling reflected by the chandelier in the dining room. “Amazing, at first,” she says. Too numb to be shy, and more than willing to talk about her failed relationship—she can’t bear to talk about anything else, really. “… but then it became boring. And then it felt like a chore.”
“Oh no,” say the girls in unison.
Eager to engage with Hermione, Daphne asks, “What’s your body count?”
“Body count?”
“How many wizards have you bagged, Granger? Besides Weasley, of course,” Pansy clarifies with a smirk, already knowing the answer.
“Oh.” Hermione downs the rest of her glass, then floats it to Daphne for another. “None besides Ron.”
Daphne stares at the glass, baffled that Granger’s still a fully operational witch while inebriated. She rises to fetch her another. “Hold on, did you say one? But you’re twenty-four!”
“I’ve been with Ron all this time…”
“You’ve been having shitty sex this whole time? You poor thing.” She tips the bottle again, making it a double. “We’ll amend that ASAP.”
Hermione sits up, losing a fuzzy slipper on the sofa cushion. “What are your body counts?”
The ever-poised Pansy, crosses one slender leg over the other and says with a salacious grin, “Twenty-three.”
“And yours?” Hermione turns to Daphne.
Daphne cuts Pansy a jealous glower. “Seventeen. But there’s plenty of time to catch up.”
Pansy blows her a kiss in return.
Never one to be the worst at something, Hermione stares down at her knees, feeling glum and bitter. Her thoughts are hazy, the room is spinning a little, and she’s beginning to feel the whisky churn in her gut. Twenty-three and seventeen flash in her head in big bold numbers while her measly one taunts her in subscript font.
“Oh, don’t look so sorry for yourself,” says Pansy. “There’s plenty of time to catch up now that you’re a single woman. Draco’s birthday is coming up in two weeks and you know the adorable brat will throw a massive rager. Practically the whole Ministry will be there, including hot, eligible wizards. We’ll have you on your back and seeing stars in no time.”
JUNE
“Granger.”
“Malfoy.” Hermione passes him a bottle of vintage Chardonnay in a glittery gift bag. “Happy birthday.”
He passes the package to a waiting house-elf in a mini tuxedo, who levitates it to a stockpile of other flashy gifts, operating a well-oiled machine between the two of them.
Even Hermione has to admit that Malfoy looks dashing. Tailored robes in the darkest shade of green drape over his broad shoulders and long legs. His pale blond hair is slicked back but voluminous at the front and shaped expertly at his sideburns to enhance his prominent bone structure. His eyes reflect the lights of the room brilliantly, like a cityscape cloaked in thunderclouds.
The party is at Malfoy’s mini-mansion in Notting Hill. Less than half the size of Malfoy Manor, but still several times larger than Hermione’s one-bedroom flat.
His gaze travels over her tight red dress and lingers on her bouncy curls. Pansy took her shopping earlier this week and introduced her to her personal hairstylist. “You clean up nice, Granger.”
She’s stunned.
Hermione has seen Malfoy in passing at cocktail soirees and Pansy’s birthday party, but they’ve never exchanged words. She wonders how much he’s changed after the war, if at all.
Before she can reply, Pansy is there, grabbing her hand. “Finally! Thought you were bailing on me. Come, I’m ready to wing-woman the crap out of you.”
She glimpses Malfoy’s confused expression before being whisked away.
All nerves, Hermione is more than happy to fill up on overpriced champagne. Waxed, moisturised, and wearing skimpy lingerie beneath her dress, she’s confident that she’ll shag someone tonight. It’s only a question of who?
She’s surprised by the number of people here, but it slowly dawns on her it’s the allure of the open bar and expensive liquor. They’re here to gawk at the lavish home and its exorbitant custom-built furnishings, to imagine, for a few moments, that this could be their reality.
A modern-age Gatsby, Malfoy is sad and brilliant all at once, using his generosity to clear his family name.
Hermione floats around the room, exchanging polite banter with guests she knows in passing. Robards asks how Harry and Ginny are enjoying their year-long honeymoon around the globe. Wonderfully, she says. Lavender asks how Ronald Weasley is doing. Wonderfully, she says with less enthusiasm. She opens her mouth to ask another question, but Pansy is there, guiding her away.
“You’re too nice, Granger,” she hisses. “You’re on a mission tonight. Stay on track!”
Lee Jordan finds her first, deep in his cups, ogling her openly. “Bloody hell, Hermione. When did you become so beautiful?” His words slur.
Normally, Hermione would grimace and create distance, but tonight, she thinks Jordan is as good as any other wizard here and clearly attracted to her. So she tries her hand at flirting.
Pansy lifts a cheeky brow as she passes by with Blaise Zabini on her arm.
Lee Jordan has the biggest cock Hermione has seen in her life.
From past research, she knows this should be good. Exciting, even. A stroke of luck, if you will.
But Hermione is terrified he’ll tear something, and she’s not sure it’ll be worth it.
She drains the last dregs of firewhisky sitting on his cluttered dresser, then gets on his bed, shuffling awkwardly over covers that smell faintly of body odour and cheese crisps. He performs a lubricating spell between her legs, cold and wet, his eyes sparkling. He’s very, very excited below the belt.
Her heart rattles so frantically she might lose her dinner. All that overpriced champagne will go to waste.
He tries to get her in the mood, sluggish fingers prancing over her clit for a short while. She makes a moaning sound just to get him to stop and get on with it. He seems to think she’s ravenous for him because he bends down and whispers, “I’m going to give it to you so good, Granger.”
She makes a strange noise, a whimper and a moan conglomerated, because all she can think of is his voice on a projector calling out ten points to Gryffindor!, and then—holy mother of Merlin, it hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
He is panting above her. She is whimpering below, all the while wondering if this is the mind-blowing sex Pansy and Daphne have been raving about. This feels like punishment for sleeping with someone immediately after her breakup.
She’s thankful when he finishes, even more thankful that it took less than ten minutes, and most thankful of all that he passes out, allowing her to make a clean escape.
She rushes to gather her things. It hurts to walk. She throws her clothes back on, probably inside out, tosses her ruined hair up in a bun, and splashes cold water over her face to mellow the flush on her cheeks.
Does she want to cry?
A little.
But mostly, she wants to see Pansy.
Malfoy’s birthday party is on its last legs when she returns.
Pansy wasn’t at her flat, so she assumes she’s here. Unless she went home with Blaise—Bollocks. She didn’t think of that.
Just as she turns to take the Floo network home, someone calls, “Granger?”
Sod it all.
She turns slowly, attempting a weak grin. “Erm, hello again… is Pansy here?”
Malfoy has discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. A few strands of hair have come loose, dropping into his red-rimmed eyes. “Yeah, you alright?” He scans her slowly. She checks her dress, thanking every constellation in the sky that it's right side out. Malfoy couldn’t possibly tell what she was up to, right?
“Perfectly fine,” she squeaks, resisting the urge to cast a cooling charm under her arms.
He leads her through the house and into the basement where there’s a pool table, a full bar and a lounging area where Pansy is reclining comfortably, feet bare, nursing a tumbler of liquor. “Hermione.” She straightens. “What are you doing back?” Her gaze trails down Hermione’s figure, and she grins devilishly. “How was it? Tell me everything!”
“Pansy!” Hermione’s eyes dart pointedly to Malfoy.
“Oh, it’s only Draco, he doesn’t care. Besides, it might be helpful to get a bloke’s perspective on things.”
“What don’t I care about?” He joins Pansy on the sofa. “Help yourself to whatever you want at the bar, Granger.”
He turns away before catching her glare. She wonders if he’d have offered to make her a drink if she was of different blood. In pure spite, she finds the most expensive-looking bottle of booze and pours herself a triple.
“Granger is upping her body count,” Pansy tells him.
“Pansy!” she cries, tempted to throw the heavy crystal bottle at Pansy’s loose lips.
Draco chokes on his drink. “Body count as in—? Granger, I didn’t take you for that type of girl.”
She considers Apparating home despite being a tad inebriated. Honestly, getting splinched might be worth a quick escape.
“Ease up,” Pansy tells them both. “You’re acting like such prudes. We’re not sneaking around Hogwarts here. Tell us what happened with Jordan.”
“Lee Jordan?” Malfoy swivels around, pinnng her with a disbelieving look. “What did that blabbermouth ever do to you?”
“What are you on about, Draco?” Pansy deadpans.
“By body count, don’t you mean—”
“No!” Hermione and Pansy shout at the same time.
“She didn’t kill him, you idiot. She fucked him.”
Draco’s face changes as realisation dawns on him. “You slept with Jordan?” This time he’s appalled.
“He’s hot.” Pansy shoots him a dirty look. “Now that this genius is up to speed, let’s get to the important part. How was it, Hermione? I’m sweating over here.”
She downs the expensive liquor in two gulps and winces. Then determines she’ll talk and that Malfoy can stuff it. Let him hear all about Hermione Granger’s sexual conquests. He deserves it, that judgemental piece of swine.
“This information doesn’t leave this room,” she says sternly, filling the glass again. She sways a little, falling into a vacant armchair, then folds her legs beside her on the seat, wiggling in her tight dress until she’s comfy enough to declare, “His cock was too big.”
Pansy whoops, bursting into a fit of giggles. Malfoy’s eyes grow wide, his Adam’s apple bobs visibly. From the information? Or because he never expected Hermione Granger to say something like that in his presence, or ever?
“I am so Owling him!” Pansy claps her hands, fingernails stark black under the dim lights. “As long as you don’t mind, of course.”
“You can have him,” says Hermione. “It was awful. It barely fit and it hurt so badly. I think I’m too… tight.”
Malfoy is Gryffindor red now. He’d hate to see his reflection in the mirror, she reckons. His gaze is fixed on something fascinating behind Hermione’s shoulder, as it is. And his breathing has become audibly shallow. “I take it you and Weasel are no more?” he says in a low and surprisingly even voice, despite his countenance.
“Old news, Draco.” Pansy waves him off. “Who would’ve thought Hermione Granger couldn’t handle a big penis?”
“Shut up! He was only the second person after Ron. Not all of us have hit twenty.”
“What are the two of you up to, exactly?” Malfoy sips his drink, disguising his interest behind his glass.
“Granger is on a sexual journey,” Pansy answers for her. “She’s only shagged one man—Weasley. And he, surprise surprise, didn’t do it for her. Now she’s experimenting, and I’m wing-womaning.”
“Everything have to be a research project, Granger?” Malfoy is smirking now. “Must say, I find this one rather fascinating. I’ll fill the role of male advisor. You were likely not horny enough and weren’t able to handle Jordan.”
“He used a lubricating charm.” She can’t believe she’s having this conversation with him, or that he cheekily appointed himself male advisor of her sex life.
“Still, that only goes so far,” he replies. “Was there foreplay?”
“Not really…” she admits. The moment they’d reached his flat, he was ripping her clothes off and whispering dirty things into her ear in that Quidditch announcer voice she can’t shake from her memory. She’ll probably dream about him later, announcing how good he’ll give it to her in the middle of a Quidditch match at Hogwarts. Ten points for Gryffindor, oh and Granger, I’m going to give it to you so good later. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck!
Malfoy says, “Try building up to it next time. See if it helps.”
JULY
After three weeks of cheeky missives Owled back and forth to one another, Hermione sits on Anthony Goldstein’s lap with his hands up her shirt and his tongue down her throat. She has tried to take it slow with the letters and instead of rushing to his bedroom, they’re snogging in his sitting room on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
But Merlin, he’s a sloppy kisser.
Dribble trickles down her lower lip, streaming in rivulets down her chin. He tastes odd too, like sambuca and chocolate. She keeps her eyes shut, thinking about foreplay, wondering how to get in the mood.
She decides to grind on him. He makes a groaning sound in her mouth, his excitement building in his trousers. She tries to pull back for air, but his fingers are deep in her curls, keeping their lips locked. His tongue is like a skittish hamster, constantly twisting and turning. It’s distracting, and she tries her best not to grimace.
He stands with her in his arms, walking them to his bedroom next door. Was this enough foreplay? Is she ready? What if it hurts again?
It took an entire week for the effects of Earthquake Jordan to subside.
He drops her on the bed and begins divesting her of her t-shirt. His wet mouth presses kisses on her chest as his hands reach behind her back to unclasp her bra. Her nipples are utterly smooth, no trace of desire to be found. She takes his shirt off because she figures she has to.
They continue this way, wet kisses and discarded clothes until they’re pressed against one another and Goldstein has parted her legs and cast a contraception charm to her pelvis.
“Pansy said we might expect you.” Malfoy greets her in the parlour. “I’ll set another seat at the table.” He leads her to a stylish dining room with a chandelier that looks like an art instalment, and an exotic dining table carved from a single slab of wood that’s probably single-handedly responsible for tropical deforestation. It’s large enough to host ten but set for three.
Hermione sits across from Pansy while Malfoy takes his place at the head of the table. A miniature feast is spread before them, comprising roasted vegetables, perfectly grilled salmon, and colourful salads in a variety of wooden bowls. She fills her plate greedily, starving after Goldstein’s. He’d taken ages to finish and Hermione faked two orgasms that made her feel both exhausted and pathetic.
Malfoy and Pansy watch her with twin expressions of curiosity. “What happened?” Pansy breaks the silence.
“He’s a horrible kisser. Felt like I was drowning the whole time,” she says, her face stuffed with green beans. “I tried the foreplay thing with brazen letters and we snogged for too long in his sitting room beforehand, but it was atrocious!”
Draco smirks, watching her pig out with no social decorum. She doesn’t care to impress him and is too hungry to be polite. “Stop looking so pleased with yourself!” she snaps, heavily disappointed in her supposed male advisor. “I was taking your advice in the first place.”
“Not my fault Goldstein snogs like a leaky faucet,” he replies, far too delighted. He grunts in pain and Hermione suspects Pansy kicked him under the table.
“Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. What if you hooked up with someone you're already attracted to? That might help,” Pansy says. “We’ll get you that screaming O, Granger. No worries, that’s what your twenties are all about.”
“You keep saying that,” she grumbles, “but so far my twenties have been absolutely pathetic.”
“Oh, come now, Granger, it’s not all about shagging. Pansy tells me you’re doing an alright job at work. And you finally ditched the Weasel, which I think is an accomplishment in itself. You were too smart for him.”
“Insulting my best friend isn’t helping, Malfoy,” she says, but wonders when he became comfortable paying her compliments. First at his birthday, and again now.
AUGUST
“So lovely to be with you, Herm-own-ninny.” Viktor toasts his glass of red wine against hers. “I vaited a long time for this.”
She blushes, sharply aware of the sheer mass of him. She always went weak in the knees for Quidditch players. “So have I, but you know this is just casual, right? I only broke up with Ron a couple months ago, and I don’t want another relationship at the moment.”
“I see.” He grows tense. “If that is the case, sweet girl, I must say that I am not a… how you say it… regular… lover.”
“How do you mean?” She frowns.
Hermione is handcuffed to his bed, naked, and spread open for him. The way his eyes swallow every inch of her body makes her twitch. The window is open and a midnight breeze drifts into the room, turning her nipples into twin peaks.
He has a dripping candle in his hand that he slowly pours in a hot, goopy line over her stomach. When she flinches, the cuffs bite into her skin. The wind hardens the wax. He repeats the motion across her breasts and then lower where it’s extra sensitive.
She thinks she can trust him, but a voice in the back of her mind screams to get out. Who allows a man they barely know to handcuff them to a bed? Of course, they’re friends and have spent time together in the past. But she doesn’t know him that well… this well.
“Relax,” he whispers into her ear. “Just feel.”
She feels afraid. She feels intimidated. She feels like this was a horrible idea.
“Vat’s wrong, Hermy?” His eyes are full of concern as he wipes a stray tear from her cheek.
“I-I don’t want to do this.” She sniffles. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe her body count can stay meagre and low. She wants to have a sexual awakening, but it has backfired every time. She begins to cry—big fat trembling tears.
Viktor quickly frees her of the cuffs, pressing kisses on her reddened wrists. “I’m sorry, sweet girl. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“It’s okay,” she says, rushing to gather her things. “I’m the one that should be sorry.” She hiccups. “This was my mistake.”
She Disapparates.
For the second time in her life, Hermione appears in Pansy’s sitting room, a sobbing mess. She’s relieved to find Pansy by herself, Witch Weekly in hand and a steaming cup of tea in a baby pink mug on the coffee table. She could kiss Pansy for being a night owl.
“What’s wrong?” She pulls Hermione into a tight embrace. “What happened?”
She blubbers the events of the evening into Pansy’s shoulder. “I’m mortified,” she says in a small voice. “I don’t think I can ever speak to him again.”
Pansy strokes Hermione’s frizzy hair. “Nonsense. You have every right to change your mind. Don’t put yourself down. You weren’t ready for something like that, you’re alright.”
“I don’t think I want to do this anymore, Pans. It hasn’t been working out.”
“That’s alright. Nobody expects you to. I was teasing most of the time, anyway. Have a seat. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
SEPTEMBER
He brought another woman to her birthday party.
“Granger, are you alright?” Pansy has just arrived, Malfoy trailing a couple steps behind her. They watch Ron buy Lavender Brown a drink at the bar.
“Get me blistering drunk,” she tells them, leading them to the opposite end of the bar, as far from Ron and Lavender as possible.
Malfoy and Pansy buy her drinks all night long. The alcohol loosens her up, allowing her to dance without qualm and appreciate the heated looks from wizards in the vicinity. She told herself that she didn’t care about her body count anymore, but seeing Ron with her has fired her up.
“You look like an angry angel, Granger.” Malfoy smirks, taking a seat next to her at the bar. His eyes follow the lines of her bare legs all the way to the silver stilettos Pansy lent her. Hermione is turning twenty-five in a tight white top and matching miniskirt, determined to look sexy on this special day. Pansy’s hairstylist worked his magic on her once again, wrangling her hair into a half-up style, loose curls falling to her mid-back.
“Why did he even come if he was going to bring her?” she asks, gaze honing onto the ginger backstabber, sitting on the same side of an empty booth with Lavender (gross), arms around one another, gazing sickeningly into each other’s eyes (extra gross).
“Because he’s a bloody moron,” he replies without having to look. “Screw him, Granger. You were too good for that hand-me-down Weasel, anyway.”
His twenties have been kind to Malfoy’s face. More angular now, losing any boyish roundness that he once had. He holds himself with an air of confidence, but without the haughty sneer. When his nose isn’t scrunched and his mouth isn’t skewed, he’s almost handsome.
Their eyes meet, and Hermione feels a tug at the base of her belly.
“Are you still working on that research project?” He raises a blond brow before motioning for the bartender to fetch them two drinks.
Her lower lip pouts out further than the upper and Malfoy watches the movement unblinkingly. “I stopped, but now…” she risks another glance at Ron. “I reckon I shall resume.” She downs the fresh drink the bartender has given her before Malfoy has finished paying for it.
“Hi Hermione.” There’s a tap on her shoulder. “I hear it’s your birthday.” It’s Cormac McLaggen, leering predictably at her chest.
She smiles at him, tipsy enough to find him attractive and desperate enough to let bygones be bygones. “Hi McLaggen. Yes, it is.”
“Happy birthday then.” His gaze drops to her semi-nude thighs. “Care to dance?”
She gives Malfoy a knowing look. Body Count project officially back on. Only, he’s looking at McLaggen like he wants to hex him with a slew of Unforgivables.
What’s his problem?
He didn’t even look at Ron like that and he’s been shooting Ron dirty looks all evening.
“Thanks for the drink, Malfoy.” She brushes his arm with her shoulder as she stands, following McLaggen to the dance floor.
“I’m so sorry, Hermione.” McLaggen is red in the face and screwing his eyes shut. “Fuck, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Uh… no problem.” She stands awkwardly, wiggling her clothes back on. “You must have had too much to drink.” What a shitty, awful, terrible, horrible birthday. Damn it.
“Yeah, shit. Sorry. I’m so sorry.” He falls onto his back, covering his face with his hands. “It’s not you, I promise. You’re fucking hot. I want to, I swear.”
“It’s fine.” She’s thankful he’s not looking at her because she thinks she might cry. She refuses to cry in another man’s bed. “I think I’ll just go.”
She Apparates home as he’s mid-apology.
OCTOBER
“What’s wrong with me, Pans?” Hermione is lying on her friend’s couch, stroking the furry rug and moping. “McLaggen couldn’t even get it up!”
A male snort answers and Hermione looks up in surprise. Malfoy has Apparated just in time to hear the last part of her sentence. “He couldn’t get it up? What a wanker.”
“Shut up, Malfoy.” She scowls at him. “As if that’s never happened to you.”
“It hasn’t.”
She makes another miserable noise. “What’s wrong with me? Is my hair so awful? Maybe I’ve gained weight…”
“Wake up, Granger.” Malfoy is surprisingly stern. “That sounds like a him problem not a you problem. What is with you women taking everything so personally?”
Pansy kisses him on the cheek. “Draco’s right. You just need to get back on the broom.”
“I didn’t say that,” he mutters hotly, dropping onto an armchair.
Pansy ignores him. “Come to Leaky with us tonight. We’ll find you a man to pound you silly.”
Malfoy looks like he’s about to revoke the invitation when Pansy takes her arm and leads her to the bedroom. “Let’s get you changed and looking like the sexy little witch you are.”
At first, Hermione was paranoid about shagging in a broom closet without a lock on the door. But then she realises her concerns were baseless because Ernie Macmillan lasts all of three minutes.
Body count (including Ron): four, Orgasms (not including Ron): 0
NOVEMBER
“My, my Granger. You are positively exquisite in green.” Malfoy greets her with an open scan of her person.
He is hosting yet another bash at his Draco Mansion in celebration of acquiring a new Potions business. Both a publicity stunt and an excuse for a good time. Hermione was surprised she received a personal invite instead of being Pansy’s plus one.
She arrives wearing an emerald green pantsuit, leaving her hair wild and loose. The way Draco is looking at her makes it hard to swallow. Maybe she chose this specific outfit just to watch his reaction.
“I aim to please,” she teases, realising that she feels oddly comfortable around him now. Although when you discuss your sex life with someone as often as she does with Malfoy, it’s surely hard not to be?
He grabs her arm just as she’s leaving the parlour. “My boys are off limits, Granger.”
“Slytherin was never my type.”
His grey eyes fall to her mouth. Before she can analyse the look in his eyes, he releases her arm and strides back to the fireplace to greet the next newcomer.
She finds Pansy with Daphne and greets them both with double cheek kisses. “Take shots with us,” Daphne says, on good terms with her after Hermione’s post-breakup pity party.
They take advantage of Malfoy’s open bar, downing three shots in a row. Hermione notices a pretty blonde looking at her. “Who is that?” she asks Pansy in a low voice.
Pansy follows her gaze and grins. “Jennifer Holiday, she’s a musician. Looks like she can’t take her eyes off you.”
Hermione’s cheeks go hot. “You think she wants me like that ?”
“Why not?” Pansy looks her over slowly, “You’re hot. It doesn't hurt to experiment a little. All the men have been disasters. Maybe you’ve been missing a woman’s touch.” She nudges Hermione in the blonde’s direction. “Good luck.”
They find an empty guest room upstairs.
Jennifer’s lipstick has spread all over Hermione’s mouth. She smells like candy floss and vodka. The women are about the same height and it’s easy for their hands to wander as their lips lock. She’s a tremendous kisser. Equal parts sweet and sexy, making Hermione’s heart race.
Her hands shake as she discards Jennifer of her cocktail dress. She has never done this before. “Relax,” Jennifer tells her between kisses down the column of her neck. “We’ll take it slow.”
They leave a trail of clothing by the enormous bed, then Jennifer pulls Hermione’s thong off with her teeth. Her breath is warm and makes her twitch. Jennifer’s tongue on her clit makes Hermione’s eyes roll to the back of her head. She moans loudly. The rhythm of her tongue makes Hermione squirm and scream, the novelty and booze helping to enhance every sensation.
When Hermione comes, Jennifer kisses her, offering her a taste of herself. They snog while Hermione’s nervous fingers discard Jennifer’s bra. She cups her breast, feeling the weight in her palm. Then presses kisses down the woman’s slender neck and sucks her nipple between her lips, plump and soft and bittersweet like perfume. She enjoys being on the other side. It’s exciting and new and makes her feel particularly naughty.
She returns the favour, licking and fingering the blonde until she is shaking beneath her. They snog again, rubbing their bodies against one another in a frantic rhythm. They are a jungle of limbs and a symphony of soft noise. The party continues below. Tinkering chatter and a woeful melody of lethargic jazz floating to their ears.
“You are beautiful.” Jennifer kisses her a last time before standing to get dressed. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Hermione.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” Hermione replies, lying in bed a few moments longer.
Finally.
She uses the ensuite bathroom to freshen up. It has only been an hour or two since the women slipped away together. The night is far from over. Hermione feels feather-light as her heels clack on the marble steps, returning to the excitement down below.
Malfoy stands at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed. “What have you been doing up there?” He looks very suspicious and keeps looking over her shoulder as if waiting for someone to follow.
She begins to giggle.
His eyes widen as if she’s gone mad. “Granger, what the hell has gotten into you?”
Pansy arrives then, noticing the glee in her eyes. “Oh my God. She made you come! Didn’t she? You are such a minx, Granger, I am so fucking proud.”
“She?” Draco looks flabbergasted.
Pansy takes him by the shoulders and turns him in the direction of the hallway, where a few guests are mingling. She points at Jennifer, perfectly poised with a flute of champagne in hand, laughing at something Shacklebolt has just said, as if she wasn’t just orgasming against Hermione’s body moments ago. “Her.”
Malfoy turns to Hermione. His eyes are almost black. “She made you come?”
“Yes.” Hermione sighs, remembering. “It’s been months. Thank you for inviting me tonight.”
Pansy looks delighted. “Are you in love, Granger?”
“Maybe,” she replies, eyes magnetised to the back of Jennifer’s head, still high off her orgasm. “I don’t think Ron has ever made me come that hard.”
Draco makes a strangled noise from the back of his throat.
Pansy says, “You are glowing. Will you be Owling her?”
“It’s not like that,” she says. “I mean, I’m mostly heterosexual. Before today, I never thought I’d be with anyone but a man. And besides, with the right one, the sex will be explosive. I’m sure of it. Especially now that I know I can feel that way.”
Her eyes meet Draco’s, who is watching her so intensely, she’s momentarily zapped out of her post-orgasmic haze. The look on his face makes her heart thunder.
DECEMBER
Every year, her parents host a holiday party for their staff and patients. Hermione attends wearing a modest red dress with her hair up in a pristine bun, polite and welcoming as she socialises with Muggles she rarely sees.
She meets a young man named Jason who has been making eyes at her all evening. He’s tall and broad, with dark hair and eyes and a lovely smile, courtesy of Dr. and Dr. Granger. He’s naturally social and makes effortless conversation with her, asking all the right questions to the wrong person—wondering about her job (she vaguely says she works at an office), asking if she tried the delicious stuffing (she hates aubergine), and finally asking if she has a boyfriend. The energy shifts between them after she says no.
He becomes touchier, brushing a loose curl behind her ear, pressing a hand to the base of her spine to lead her to the refreshments table, wiping a smear of chocolate from the corner of her mouth after a bite of sweet and tangy chocolate-covered strawberry.
He has driven here and wonders if she wants to leave with him. She agrees, and he takes her on a drive around town. They stop at a cliff side with a pretty view of the city and she sits between his legs on the hood of the car with his arms around her. They look at hazy light-polluted stars and the brighter town lights, wrapped up in each other’s heat.
He drives an SUV and shags her in the back with the seats popped down. She doesn’t come, but it’s still a pleasant experience because he’s trying, and he’s gentle, and he lasts longer than three minutes. His eyes are very soft as he looks at her. “You are lovely,” he says, tracing the shape of her mouth with a fingertip. “Can I see you again?”
“I don’t live here anymore.”
“Maybe we could make it work.” His abs flex when he sits up, drawing Hermione’s eyes to the lines of muscle. Quidditch player body, check. “We can meet up on weekends. Long-distance relationships aren’t unheard of.”
“You’re great, Jason… but I’m not really looking for a serious relationship.”
He looks devastated. “Oh, I see.”
She feels a sudden urge to flee. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you weren’t on the same page…”
“You’re my dentist’s daughter. I wasn’t looking to shag you and not call in the morning.”
“Sorry,” she repeats, sitting up to leave. “I should go.” She scurries to gather her things, reluctant to look at his glum face. She never meant to hurt the poor bloke’s feelings.
“I’ll drive you,” he offers.
“No, no, I can uh… I can take a cab.” She yanks her tights back on. “It was, uh… nice to meet you, Jason. So sorry.”
Oh, the mortification.
JANUARY
Pansy is all but on the floor, rolling in laughter. “Oh Granger, you have the worst luck!”
“Shut up.” She glares. “How was I supposed to know the poor chap wanted a relationship? Anyway. How was your Christmas?”
“Speaking of relationships, I have news.” She grins. “Blaise Zabini and I are officially an item.”
“Finally! I’m so happy for you. But… How does Malfoy feel about that?”
“Why should Draco care?”
“He told me to stay away from his boys at his party back in November.”
“He did?” Pansy seems very interested by this tidbit of news.
“Have you and him ever… you know?” She has wondered for a while. They’re so close, and even though their relationship is platonic now, she can’t help but remember them in school.
“We lost our virginity to each other,” she admits. “But it never went beyond Hogwarts. He makes a better best friend than lover.”
“Why? Is he bad in bed?” Merlin knows she’s had her fair share of male disappointments these past few months. Shame to think Malfoy falls into that category.
“We were teenagers, Granger. Nobody knows what they’re doing at school. But not that. I imagine he’s quite good in bed now. He and Daph’s little sister had a fling for a minute last year and she won’t stop blubbering about how much she misses him.”
When? she almost asks. Draco has been in her life, sort of, since June. Was he seeing Astoria Greengrass during that time? She doesn’t know why the thought bothers her, so she asks a different question. “If the sex wasn’t bad, then why break up?”
“We’re too alike,” she replies. “It would be like living with yourself. I need a challenge, you know? Someone I can have real arguments with and fiery makeup sex after.”
“And Zabini does that for you?”
“Does he ever.”
She is moaning and her climax is reaching a crescendo and-and-and—“Oh!” she screams, seeing white. Her toes curl and her fingernails chisel a work of bloody art on the expanse of Oliver Wood’s back.
They’d bumped into one another at Flourish and Blotts. He flirted with her, talking about her bookish ways and how he always thought she was the cutest girl in her year. Another Quidditch player with a muscular build, and a dominance to him that turns her on.
She falls asleep in his arms, painfully aware of how much she missed this feeling.
She blinks awake to sunlight and rumpled sheets. Oliver is at his desk, reading a book with a mug of coffee on the table that she can smell from where she lies. “Good morning,” she says with a satisfied smile, stretching like Crookshanks.
“Morning.” He shoots her a curt look.
She frowns, suddenly conscious of the fact that she’s naked while he’s fully clothed and barely looking at her. “What are you reading?” she asks, just for something to say.
“Are we doing this, Granger?”
“Doing what?”
“The morning after thing? It was nice to see you again, but I have a busy day today and I didn’t plan on entertaining anyone…”
Wow. Alright then.
She scrambles to throw on yesterday’s clothes, reeling over the fact that he blew her mind last night and was now kicking her out without a second look. She feels small. This was obviously not going to develop into a relationship. She might not have said no if he’d offered to take her out. Nothing serious, of course.
But this…
She gathers her things and returns home without another word.
FEBRUARY
“Could I ask you something?”
He makes a noise of assent, eyes glued to the potion he’s brewing. Hermione is jealous that Malfoy has a Potions lab in his house.
Pansy is supposed to be here, but she hasn’t arrived yet and Draco tells her it’s because she’s two hours early. Though she could have sworn her letter said to be here for six. She and Malfoy always find plenty to argue about and the matter of dinner timing doesn’t need to be one of them. Besides, she’s happy to watch him brew.
“What do you do when you want to get rid of a woman the morning after?”
He shoots her an irritated look. “Having trouble kicking your conquests out of your home?”
“You put in the wrong amount of bursting mushrooms.”
His frown deepens. “I did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not.” He proceeds brewing, stares at his concoction and, when nothing happens, shoots her a fiery look before adding more mushrooms. The potion turns blue.
She smirks.
“I wasn’t kicking anyone out,” she continues, realising again how easy conversing with Malfoy has become. “I was the one who—”
He looks up at her, noting her sullen expression. “Why do you do that to yourself?”
“Do what?”
“You put yourself in these situations. Just admit that it’s not who you are. Nobody has even made you come except for that Holiday woman and you said yourself that you aren’t interested in women.”
“He did make me come.”
He pauses. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Is that so?”
“Yes, so when he all but kicked me out the next morn—”
“I don’t want to talk to you about this anymore,” he interrupts her, glaring at the potion like it has committed a personal crime against him. “If you are putting yourself in situations where you allow gits to shag you and kick you out the next day, maybe you’re asking for it.”
“I am not!” she replies indignantly. But wonders, maybe, if she is… “I never stay long enough, anyway. It’s just that it was the first time a man has made me co—”
“What did I just say, Granger? Stop. Talking. To. Me. About. This.”
“Alright.” She looks away. “Who pissed in your potion, Malfoy?”
“Ron? What are you doing here?”
He strides up to her and kisses her on the mouth in the middle of her tiny sitting room, the one he once occupied nearly everyday. “Missed you so fucking much, Mione.”
“Ron, what’s wrong?” She pulls away, spotting dried tear tracks on his pale, freckled cheeks.
“Nothing.” he lies, kissing her again. “I need you. Please.”
The last person she expected to see on Valentine’s Day was Ronald Weasley. Yet here he is, pushing her into the bedroom and pulling off her cosy pyjamas. She’s gone with a single glimpse into his light blue eyes. She’s missed him. Missed this familiarity. Missed knowing that she was with someone who loved her and wouldn’t kick her out the next day.
He makes a desperate kind of love to her, burying his tear-stained face in the crook of her shoulder and taking what he needs from her body. He’s hurt and broken and she’d give anything to make him whole again. Even when he finishes without making her come.
Hermione Granger and all her missing O’s.
“I’m so lonely,” he says once they’re wrapped up in one another’s arms like old times. “I think about you all the time.”
“What about Lavender?” She tries to keep the bitter edge from her tone. But he brought her to Hermione’s birthday only months after their breakup. And then Cormac fucking McLaggen couldn’t even get it up.
“We broke up a month ago,” he answers, pulling her back to the present. “She wasn’t you, anyway. I miss your mind, your body, this face—I miss us.”
She sighs deeply. “I miss you too, Ron.” But she misses their friendship. Harry has been gone since last May and she wants her best friends back. Nothing is the same anymore.
“Could I stay tonight?” He looks fragile in a way she hasn’t seen before.
“Yes. But this changes nothing, Ron. I don’t think we should get back together.” Oddly, she thinks of Draco. If he were here, he’d tell her she was putting herself in another pitiful situation. Another man that can’t make her come. Another awkward moment she’ll have to face in the morning. She never makes it easy on herself.
He sits up. “Why not?”
“There’s a reason we didn’t work before. I miss your friendship, and I want to see you again. But not like this. This is the last time.”
“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?”
“What?” Did he just read her mind?
“Don’t play coy with me.” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “I saw the way he was looking at you on your birthday. And the snarky comment he made at me and Lav.”
“What snarky comment?”
“Something about hand-me-downs and how I’ve never learned to take care of my things. I didn’t get it before, but it makes sense now. Are you spreading your legs for Draco fucking Malfoy?”
She slaps him across the face. “Get the hell out, Ronald. Don’t you ever talk to me that way again.”
“You are! How could you? After everything? He still calls me Weasel and you think that’s okay? He’s a fucking tosser, Hermione.”
“There’s nothing going on between Draco and me. But if there was, it wouldn’t be any of your damn business! Get. Out.”