Witch, scholar, poet, dreamer, and the rest… @dracos-amortentia - Tumblr Blog

Apr 3

New Year New Us

draco x hermione

rating: explicit mdni!

warnings/tags: smut, plot, porn with plot, dry humping, multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, power dynamics, hate sex, post-war, draco in a suit, this is what happens when i have too much free time

word count: 5k

summary: Hermione and Draco meet again for the first time in nearly a decade at the leaky cauldron

a/n: happy new year everyone, sorry it took me a month to release this. I had a baddd case of writers block halfway through this and got pretty busy during christmas with family and stuff sooo yeah. also I created a playlist for this so if your into that you can listen to it whilst reading this, if your reading this on ao3 the playlist is on my tumblr which will be in the end notes. as always if i'm missing tags or anything looks out of place let me know. have fun reading :))

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If a week ago someone told Hermione she’d be standing five metres away from Malfoy in the Leaky Cauldron, she would’ve laughed—politely, of course—before suggesting they seek immediate medical attention. Merlin’s sake, ten minutes before opening that door she could’ve listed a hundred equally ridiculous scenarios more likely than the idea of ‘The Draco Malfoy’ being caught dead near a “Leaky” anything. (that’s what she said.) Of course, there's always the more merciful option that it actually wasn’t him, just some unfortunate soul with the same discernible shade of icy blonde, and pretentious habit of wearing suits everywhere.

But she guessed she could give whoever it was the benefit of the doubt for now. Since she’d last stepped foot in the pub, shortly before the Battle of Hogwarts, it seemed to have gone through its fair share of renovations, and by that Hermione meant the place now looked unrecognisable. A lot brighter, the floors a lot less stickier, and covered in Christmas decorations from a couple days ago. It was a change she both welcomed and resented. Admittedly, it’d improved. Really improved. Not enough that it justified a three-piece-suit getup. It was still a pub. But in the back of her mind, she knew that something about it would always feel off. It’d changed too much.

She doesn’t move. She can’t, really. Seeing what little she could of her former bully renders her immobile, and in a particular state of panic. Stuck at a crossroads of wanting to tuck tail and run, whilst simultaneously being aware that any sudden movements could draw a certain someone’s attention. Ultimately, she’s stupefied, in front of the door she’s still yet to close, letting in all the unruly January draft. The few patrons here show a mild concern, likely noticing the drop in temperature over the last couple of seconds, their eyes following the cold back to its source, back to Hermione. By the time it occurs to her that standing here long enough won’t magically make her blend into the doorframe, it’s already too late. He’s turning in his stool, and instinctively she braces for impact.

Yep, that’s definitely him, older, a lot easier to look at. Nothing like the rotten boy she’d known in her youth. He only glances at her, and then the door, and then back to her again. The command is unspoken, and mirrored in the blank expressions of everyone else in the room, but she understands. Hermione fumbles for the handle, her fingers clumsy with self-consciousness. She finally pushes the door shut, the soft click echoing in the light bustle of the pub. And the move is quick, so quick she thinks she might have imagined it—Malfoy’s mouth pulls into a curved line, before returning his focus back to whatever drink he was nursing.

Okay, that was weird. Not necessarily the smile, even though, yes, that was also a little weird. But the way he looked at her. Like he’d barely even noticed it was her at all. Something she can’t say she was used to. Back in their school years, going unnoticed in his presence, even for just one second, felt like mission impossible, there was always a new way to pick on her: jokes about the purity of her blood, quiet laughter that rippled through the classroom whenever her hand shot up. The ‘accidental’ bumps in the hallways that always ended with her books scattered across the flagstones.

She keeps her head down, the curtains of her brown hair a pathetic shield between her and his peripheral vision. If he truly hadn’t noticed her yet, then she could probably still slip out through the back, she only needed to time it correctly. But she barely makes it two steps before—

“So…What’s a beautiful woman like you doing here all alone?” It takes Hermione a while to realise the question is being directed towards her, longer still to register it’s coming from Malfoy’s general vicinity. Even so she continues moving, deciding that it was just her mind playing tricks on her. Malfoy calling her beautiful? She’d laugh if she wasn’t basically behind him, just a couple more quiet footsteps away from sweet, sweet escape.

“You’re a weird one aren’t you?”

Hermione hadn’t touched a spell book or brewed a potion for close to a decade—war tended to do that, beat the wonder out of magic so thoroughly it felt more weapon than whimsy. But right now, without hesitation, she’d have given anything for an invisibility cloak. He’s facing her fully now, sporting what Hermione can only describe as a mix between shock and confusion. Not shock from recognising her. No. Shock like he’d caught her redhanded. And in all fairness, she probably did look a little worse for wear, mid tip-toe, her hair and coat dusted in snow. Ignoring him now would be overkill. Even she had to admit that.

“Hi?” Spoken like a true moron. Well done Granger.

She watches the gears begin to turn, sees the slight tilt of his head, the puzzled stare, and then…the shift. That’s it, right? No more chance of escape without him knowing she was there in the first place. He’s caught on, hopefully now he’ll only save her the embarrassment of getting mocked for how stupid she must look right now, let her go back home with some of her dignity.

He quirks a single brow. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Hermione only questions if she misheard him, not whether she should accept, because of the way he says it. Like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He really couldn’t recognise the face he’d spent seven years tormenting? Maybe he was drunk. It seemed the only reasonable explanation. The irony stings in a pathetic way. A lot still haunted Hermione, naturally. The woman had taken on Death Eaters, been tortured and had the scars to prove it. But in the times before all of that, before the war, death and destruction, when there was no sense of impending doom, and the most she had to worry about was Malfoy and his clique of goons, she’d have sworn it was all worth it if only he spent the rest of his life tormented with guilt and shame. Because, for her, at the very least, no matter how hard she tried, she could never forget all the pain he put her through.

“Seriously Malfoy? Aren’t you a little too old for pranks?” Her question is met with more confusion, and then the eventual dust settling. He’s smiling again.

“Wait, have we met before? I’d like to think I’d remember a woman as gorgeous as yourself.” Oh, he’s wasted. He has to be. There’s no way he just said that. Hermione can’t help it. She bursts into laughter. Laughter so strong she nearly doubles over from the sheer force of it, and Malfoy has to wrap his hands around her shoulders to keep them steady. He’s laughing too, in a more nervous, uncertain way like he’s not quite sure what’s happening, but still wants to be a part of it somehow.

Suddenly she’s all too aware of his touch, aware that this was Draco Bloody Malfoy flirting with her, and in a half empty, grubby pub of all places. Spending the New Year at this sort of establishment seemed a little too humble for the aristocrat. It had her questioning, for the second time tonight, if it was really him at all. Apart from the obvious out of character behaviour, something about him felt off. He was the same, but different.

When her laughter subsides to gentle hiccups, he lets go of her. Thankfully so, because if he’d held on any longer there would be no mistaking the humiliating flush burning its way up her neck right now. The heat from his fingers leave an impression on her skin, even through the thick fabric of her coat, and she has to clear her throat before she goes to speak.

“Do you use that line on every girl you talk to, or is it just the ones you think are gullible enough to fall for it?” She meant for it to be more rhetorical, but after the first couple of words it somehow turns itself into an actual question.

“Only the ones I catch staring for too long.”

Right…the not so subtle camouflage she thought she was pulling off. Hermione just looks at him, weighing her options. Draco Malfoy. Son of one of the highest ranking Death Eaters. Call it curiosity or just plain stupidity, but she decides to go along with it. She hangs her coat up by the coat rack and takes the stool next to his. Malfoy wanted to play strangers? So be it.

His lips do the weird thing with the corners again, and she lets her gaze linger there a little longer than needs be. He orders Hermione the same drink he’s having, Cherry syrup and soda. Tom the barman hands it to her, barely sparing her a second glance. What happened? Did she accidentally drink a polyjuice potion today or something? Of course Hermione knew she was no longer the meek, bushy haired girl of her past, that it did take people a while (and a hint) to figure out it was her, but this was just absurd.

She stares down at the glass, studying it the way one might a vaguely alarming insect, circling its contents before carefully taking a sip. For one it’s not alcohol like she expects, it’s sweet and kind of fruity. She was fully prepared to hate it. But the drink is like…annoyingly good.

“Not bad,” she says, feigning indifference.

“Not bad?” Malfoy repeats. “That’s high praise.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, it’s the drink I’m talking about, not you.”

He snorts, lifting his cup for another sip, his sultry eyes never leaving hers over the rim. And she hates herself for how quickly she reacts to it. Since when did Malfoy smile like that? Since when did she care?

Hermione fiddles with one of the abandoned menus on the bar table. At first it’s mostly just to give her hands something to do, but seeing some of the numbers makes her do a double take. A couple renovations and this place thinks it’s Gringotts. She knows she must be making faces but she doesn’t care—Nearly a Galleon for a Firewhiskey?

“You fascinate me.” Malfoy’s voice cuts through her thoughts, abrupt and sincere. It stuns her for a while, and she doesn’t lift her eyes from the menu.

“Fascinate you? You don’t even know my name.” It comes out too quick and too forceful to be real exasperation, the sound she makes into the space in front of her. Like she doesn’t quite believe it herself. Any moment now he’ll drop the act. Admit that this was all some kind of joke with her as the punchline, and she was stupid to believe that he could ever actually be interested in her.

But that cruel version of Malfoy she expects never comes. Instead there’s a gentle clink of glass on wood as he sets his drink down, his voice dropping an octave when he goes to speak again.

“That’s the fun part.” He says it like he’s letting her in on a secret.

She lets go of the menu, finally meeting his eyes. “The fun part?” Merlin’s beard, she feels like a parrot.

“Mmm,” he returns. “Most people tell me too much. They want me to know who they are. They want to impress me. Or intimidate me. Or get something from me”

“And I…don’t?”

So to some extent, this was a game to him? He was used to women that he could woo. That took one look at his family name, his wealth, his status, and practically threw themselves at him. She was just another woman in a sea of those other women whose names he didn’t remember. Was that the fun he was referring to? Picking up a woman at a pub, calling them fascinating, and not even asking for their name before whisking them away to his Manor for the night. She should be mad. She should feel cheapened. The revelation shouldn’t feel this comforting. But it does. Right now, for whatever reason, Malfoy doesn’t know it’s her, and for once she’s no longer the ‘filthy mudblood’. She was just another woman.

“I mean you tell me?” He quips. “You clearly know who I am, but you ignored me twice, and tried running away when I spoke to you.”

“I wasn’t trying to run away.”

“You were absolutely trying to run away” He insists.

“I was trying to leave. There’s a difference.” She can tell he’s not convinced; he raises his brows in an over-exaggerated show of understanding, but fails to keep his obvious amusement at bay. “Running would imply I was scared of you.”

“And you? Scared of me? Never.” His voice drops to a low murmur on the last part, nearly whispering as he drags out the final syllable.

This was pure insanity. She should leave. Like now, she should leave. Pay the extortionate price for the drink, take her coat, and make a run for the door. It would only be a small bruise on Malfoy’s ego, he’d easily find some other girl to charm, and if she was careful enough around Diagon Alley in the future, she’d hopefully never have to run into him again. And yet, Hermione doesn’t move an inch.

“For the record you’re the weird one, not me.” She contends.

Malfoy doesn’t argue with it. He doesn’t say much of anything really. He just sits there, staring at her in silent contemplation. Hermione wonders if maybe he’s finally seeing it, finally connecting the dots. The hair, the nose, the small scar above her lip, the one he’d given her for punching him in third year. She almost wants him to see it. He’d called her beautiful, bought her a drink. She’d been vindicated. Now she wanted him to know who he’d been doing all those things for, wanted to see the look of horror and disgust on his face when he realised he’d been flirting with Hermione Granger. The silence stretches for an uncomfortably long time before he speaks again.

“Come home with me”

It should’ve ended there. (spoiler: it doesn’t.) She’d won. Inviting her to his Manor to potentially sleep with her seemed too far for a prank. Malfoy clearly didn’t recognise her. She’d remind him now, get the satisfying reaction she was looking for, and be on her way. Anything beyond this would just be cruel. But something about being in Malfoy’s presence must bring the worst out of her, because despite her better judgement she only manages to say:

“Okay.”

────────

Well, for starters, it’s not the Malfoy Manor. Not unless it somehow shrunk into the size of a modest London terrace house. Malfoy approaches the door with his key, and it’s only when he starts to twist the lock that Hermione finally lets herself exhale the breath she’d been holding. She doesn’t know why, but until just now, she’d still been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the cameras, for him to turn and sneer that he’d known it was her all along, to find out that this entire evening was just some elaborate joke.

But apparently, Malfoy just chooses to live here, in muggle London, and not that staggeringly grand castle or its equivalent. She feels gaslit. Forced to accept that this was the new him. That he just got to wipe his slate clean, wipe his past of her, and pretend he was the good guy all along. It irked her. How he didn’t recognise her, how weird he was acting, how different he seemed.

The door swings and she follows him over the threshold. It’s about what one would expect from a property in central London: small, quaint, mildly cozy. Malfoy gestures for her coat, and she shrugs it off to hand it to him, steadily watching as he hangs it on a small rack behind the door. He looked so normal and yet so out of place, like in the pub thirty minutes ago. This. The simple life. It didn’t suit him.

“So is this how it normally works?” She’s a little more nervous than she’s willing to admit. Everything that happened at the pub felt like it was all happening at once, like she’d blinked and now she was here, now she was doing this.

“What?” He asks, playing coy. At least he’s stayed true to himself in this department, still as smug as she remembers.

“You pick up women. Walk them to your house. Act all gentleman-ly. And then you…” She hesitates. “You just…” Merlin, she can’t even bring herself to say it. For some reason, it’s only now dawning on her, as she hears herself speak, the gravity of the situation.

“Fuck them?” There was probably a less vulgar way to say it but, yes, essentially.

She hums in agreement, trying to sound more casual than she actually feels.

“Partly, yes.” He admits with a smirk, before moving in a straight line to what she presumes is the kitchen. The lights flicker on, and Malfoy turns, watching her with hands in his pockets. “But I also make them a drink.”

He disappears around the corner, and Hermione’s left to stand there awkwardly. It wasn’t just closure she was looking for. She was still here, listening to the soft shuffle of feet in the kitchen. Stopping now would mean he got off easy.

When Malfoy returns, she’s convinced herself to keep the ball rolling, whatever happened tonight would simply be a means to an end, a lesson he deserved to learn. He’s holding what looks like two mugs? He steps closer. Of hot chocolate? Not what she thought he was referring to by drinks. He hands her the one with the reindeer face on it, taking a sip from his own, the mug reading: ‘THERE’S SOME HO HO HO’S IN THIS HOUSE’.

She nearly chokes on a marshmallow.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, pointing at his mug. “Gift from work.”

Right. Work. Because Malfoy wasn’t already independently wealthy. He moves them both to his living room, inviting Hermione to sit on the sofa with him. She takes the opposite end, placing her mug down on the coffee table in front of them. What was he then? An auror? Or maybe a potions master?

He must have noticed the way she was looking at him. Maybe not her scepticism, but the confusion at least, because he adds, “I’m an investment banker.”

It’s funny. His explanations only ever seem to have the opposite desired effect, somehow. Muggle house, Muggle job, Muggle…mugs? Even as she scans the contents of the room, it’s nothing one would expect a pureblood to have. There’s a television, books stacked up nicely against the wall on a small bookshelf, a makeshift christmas tree in the corner, even outside she’d spotted a Honda Civic. Malfoy driving and not apparating? What had happened to him?

“What about you? What do you do for work?” He asks, watching her expectantly.

“I’m a social worker.” She feels so small saying it. Next to a job like his it sounds so insignificant. Another small twinge of irony tugs at the lower half of her heart. If her younger self could see her now.

She's not entirely sure what the reaction she gets is. There’s a certain look he gives to her answer. It’s long. Significant. His eyes explore the vast expanse of her face, darting between both her eyes.

“So you help people?”

“…I try.” She shrugs. It’s definitely not how people usually interpret it.

“You fascinate me.” And there it is again, that word. Hermione can see the faint outline of his irises: the classic pale grey—they drop to her lips, and her entire body stiffens. Somewhere, a better version of her—a past, more emotionally mature version, would step back. What more could she possibly want? But a lot could change in a decade. And she was so sick of being the bigger person. So when he moves in closer, close enough for him to kiss her, close—but far enough to give her room if she wants to reject him.

She doesn’t.

Malfoy reaches for her jaw, pressing his lips firmly against hers. There’s no sense of urgency in the way he kisses her. No sense of ulterior motive. Just soft, warm, gentle lips. He makes a low groaning sound in the back of his throat, sliding a hand around her nape, his other hand tugging her forward, pulling her up and across until she’s settled on his lap. From the new angle the kiss deepens. It gets sloppier. A little needier. She hates it, but it’s what she’s willing to put up with for payback.

He lets out another groan. It comes out much more hoarse, desperate, and she realises, with some alarm, that she’s been mindlessly rocking her hips against him.

She rolls into him again, consciously, clinging onto his shoulders to keep herself steady, and for the first time all evening, a grin, genuine and wicked, stretches across her lips. Making Malfoy cum from nothing more than a bit of dry humping ought to be more humiliating than just kissing her.

She pulls back to make work of his belt buckle, and almost instantaneously he’s lifting his hips to tug down his trousers, not bothering to fully undress. She does the same, bunching her dress up and around her waist. When she lines them up and sinks back down onto him, she nearly gasps at the friction alone. Clearly she’d forgotten to account for her biological response to such an act.

He feels impossibly big, even through the sheer layers of their underwear she can feel how thick he is, pressed against her core. It’s not at all what she expected, but she figures that as long as she’s in control it should be easy enough to ignore the growing heat between her thighs. Malfoy’s head lolls against the back of the sofa, a string of curses spilling from his lips as she continues to grind against him.

“So wet—fuck, n-need to be inside you.” She doesn’t make a move to fulfil his request, instead she pretends she’s too lost in the moment to hear him. He looks so pathetic, the way his eyelids fall, half closed, how he licks his lips as if he wants to remember the taste of her forever. There’s a strange sense of empowerment one gets from watching someone like Malfoy fall apart beneath them. She flips her hair to one side, picking up speed.

“Want your cum all over my panties.” It’s a diversion attempt. A blunt, perhaps racy diversion, but stubborn as she is to admit it, what she’s doing isn’t exactly easy on her, so having this end sooner rather than later would still be a step below actually fucking him.

“Fuck, say that again.” His hands find their way under her dress, squeezing her ass hard, pulling her deeper into him.

“Want you to cum all over my panties.” Hermione pants, resting her forehead against his. “Want you to ruin them.”

That seems to do it.

“Y-yeah?” He responds.

In a horrifying turn of events, she’s being flipped onto her back on the sofa, Malfoy hovering over her. He kicks his trousers off the rest of the way, shoving his boxers down just enough to pull out his cock. “You like it when men make a mess of you?”

As far as witty comebacks go, she has none. She watches in a daze as he fists himself a couple times before settling between her thighs. Everything was going to shit. He drags the head of his cock along her sodden underwear, pumping himself between them in long and uneven strokes. His tip catches on her clothed clit with every pass, and her thighs start to tremble, she can feel a familiar tightness beginning to coil inside her.

No, no, no.

She reaches a hand down to grip his length, halting the movement entirely. Hermione would sooner take another Crucio then let Malfoy have the satisfaction of making her cum. It’s played off as though she meant to jerk him off, she quickly switches to stroking him, using the cup of her hand to work along his cock back and forth. He pushes himself upright and for a moment she thinks he might be trying to get a look at what she’s doing, his face contorts into a look of pain—something she finds deeply amusing—and she pumps even faster. But then she feels a hand come flat against her pubic bone, and without warning his thumb begins making tight circles around her clit.

The unexpectedness of it causes her to lose a bit of her resolve, and just like that it’s happening again, the coiling inside her. So tight, so close. She squeezes his base in retaliation. Malfoy hisses.

Hot, sticky jets coat her pussy, some splattering on her pubic bone. He makes a mess of her, like he said he would, like she asked. She opens her eyes, only now becoming aware that she’d closed them. Merlin, it’s so much. The image of Malfoy half bare and panting over her, of him working tirelessly to get her to the same state.

She’s left little to no time to revel in her victory. Fingers from where he was still rubbing her get slick with his own cum, and he uses it as a sort of lube as he continues to tease her swollen clit. Her hand shoots down to stop him but it’s already too late. She’s already so close when it happens, just bordering the edge when she grabs his wrist. The few seconds between him finishing and her realising are enough to send her over with a force she’s ashamed to admit she’s never felt before. She’s cumming. She’s cumming all over Malfoy and Malfoy’s sofa the loudest and painstakingly hardest she ever has before. And on more than one occasion she tries squeezing her legs together, forgetting there’s someone between them. The experience is humbling to say the least, and she hates the wicked smile that dances along his face by the end of it.

What she thinks is arrogance must be enough to snap her out of it, she doesn’t spare a beat getting back on track.

“I have to tell you something—”

Her words get cut off when she feels her thighs being pushed further apart, the thin fabric of her underwear being slid aside. What was he doing…oh.

She’s still coming down from the high of her first orgasm, but it doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest because he’s snapping his hips forward, and Merlin—he’s fucking her. Slow, deep strokes at first, letting her feel the entirety of him swell back up inside her. Maybe she really did drink that polyjuice potion after all, only it wasn’t just affecting her appearance, but maybe her mind as well. Why else was she allowing any of this to continue?

“You—” he exhales, unsteady. “This is good, right?”

Hermione only had herself to blame. She’d practically waltzed into the lion's den with this one. Thinking she could have complete control over this type of situation was costing her a lot of dignity.

“Fuck—Draco, I think I’m going to cum.” She tells the ceiling, flailing her arms uselessly at his chest.

It’s all the answer he needs, he goes back to rubbing her clit, pinching and rolling the nub in his fingers.

She begins to jolt, babbling and sputtering out plea after plea. He hits her with his final thrust and she cums for the second time tonight, the remnants of her last orgasm propelling her into a new one. This time, when she comes, there’s no room for shame. She claws at his back and hopes it leaves a mark.

“One more?”

She slides back and forth against the sofa, her head hitting the armrest as he fucks her with renewed vigor. She couldn’t remember ever hearing him talk in such a smooth, gravelly tone. The words ripple through her and she hates this. She hates him, but they don’t stop. There’s no more fight left in her. She feels her pussy contract at the overstimulation, and then her entire body tensing up as a violent wave of ecstasy courses through her.

“Hermio—”

Everything cuts to ringing and her eyes roll to the back of her head. It drags out for a long time. In her mind she’s suspended in time, feeling herself clam down on his cock, in his living room, the Christmas decorations he hasn’t taken down even though they’re nearly a week into the new year, those stupid, stupid holiday mugs, Malfoy filling her with his seed.

Malfoy filling her with his seed.

“I need t—I need to tell you something…” Hermione squeezes out.

A bout of scrambling ensues. This isn’t really happening is it? For the love of Merlin, please let this be some sort of nightmare. She shoves him back, forcing space between them. He seems reluctant to comply at first, giving her a look before taking his place back on the opposite side of the sofa.

Nothing is said for a while. They both just stare at each other, half-naked and panting. She just can’t believe what happened, what she let him do.

“Could you ask me a personal question?” He finally breathes out.

“Personal?” He can’t be serious. Were they just going to gloss over the fact that she has his cum inside of her right now?

He nods. “Yeah, something I wouldn’t tell just anyone. Something private. I just—I just want you to know me.”

Is that regret? Suddenly fucking him is turning out to be a useful choice. The possibility to turn this around is very much still there. Here he was unknowingly offering his deepest darkest secret to the last person he’d ever imagined telling. The thought settles slowly, heavy and sharp all at once. Not triumph—something more dangerous than that. Power, maybe. Or the illusion of it. She could push. She could pry. She knows, now, exactly where the lines are. That if she asked the wrong question now, he’d answer it.

She doesn’t.

“What was it like growing up?”

#oh i was NOT prepared for that ending #dramione #draco x hermione #oneshot #smut #tethrarxitett #lovely mutuals #help i’m still at the restaurant

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