Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

DragonTamer sent you +£50

“That was very generous. Thank you so much, DragonTamer.” It barely sounds like her, sugary sweet, higher pitched than usual—but it works. The men love it when she looks up at the camera, bats her eyes, long lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks, and says things like please and thank you. Complimenting them like the puppy they think she is. When things are really tight financially, she might even press her biceps against her ribs, elbows pinching at her waist, so what little chest to see is lifted just as high as the vowels.

What made her different, though, from all the streamers on the site was the occasional glamour charm. Sure, it was against the statute, but unless the minister himself was watching, it didn’t hurt anyone, just a little something extra to make sure her makeup stayed on when she cried through an orgasm. Or a cushioning charm when she found herself posing on her knees for her followers.

All of it made the little hearts roll in from the chat, tips popping up in the corner, emails dinging in the background as people buy things off her wishlists. Is it the most ethical job she’s ever had? No. Does it pay better than her research assistant job? Yes, about one thousand times over, to be exact.

Another tip rolls through a few seconds after the words leave her mouth, the amount making her pulse skitter and thud.

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

If she’s being honest, Hermione likes nice things. No one at Hogwarts understood or believed her when she explained that muggles also enjoyed the finer things in life. That they were the ones who harvested things like caviar or that there were burgundy wines superior to any elf wine they might present her. But no one wanted to listen.

Harry got it, sure, but his mother just accepted life in the magical world, sprinkling in a few muggle traditions here and there— the ease of magic was too convenient to ignore. Ginny was in it for the thrill, sweet but always looking for adventure in the muggle parts of town. And Ron, well, Merlin help him. It was often too much to explain, and he was focused elsewhere before the first sentence was even finished.

Pansy had been a surprise edition, though, another witch who needed a roommate at Oxford after graduation, a former classmate not really a friend, but that didn’t matter. What did, and most importantly, was that she didn’t judge Hermione. If anything, the pureblood witch made her feel like she was hallucinating the first time they met up by commenting on how she knew Hermione had good taste from the beginning, cooing something about her yule ball dress and that quality dyed chiffon was tricky to come by in Wizarding London. The whole thing was wildly unlike the ridicule Hermione remembered from their time in school, where her muggle-born status was looked down on just as the luxuries she grew up accustomed to. Pansy almost seemed impressed.

It was a tense friendship at first but bickering over where to put the kettle blossomed into ranting about classes, gossiping about former classmates after someone posted online, and finally, friendship. And now Pansy ignored the source of everything that arrived, never asking questions, so long as she got her share. She didn’t dig about deliveries in ribbon-tied designer boxes that had to be signed for because of their worth or couriers with entire trays of the freshest sushi neither could afford. Pansy was often too busy plotting ways that someone working on cross-society economics mastery would need to visit the greenhouses and interrupt a particular magical plant sciences and pharmacology PhD. candidate to care, but that was not Hermione’s business either.

So, they made it work in their flat, grateful for the months when one of Hermione’s fans paid the entire rent and shared the caviar that was sent over on ice so it wouldn’t go bad. All in all, it was a lovely arrangement. And truly, not all the men were terrible.

Take NotSoLucky. He was funny and sweet, never sending crude or vulgar compliments. He liked to book private sessions where he asked Hermione to keep most of her clothes on and talk about her recent findings—entertaining her ramblings about transcribing fragile crumbling books and replacing varnish on paintings to help them survive longer. He even pretended to understand her when she left all the wizarding details out. He always asked thoughtful questions and once even suggested she look at a particular piece at the Scottish National Gallery, raving about magic in the brushstrokes and in the subject’s eyes.

Eyes that reminded him of Hermione.

He’d even paid for her train ticket up there, wiring her money to stay in a lush suite so she could see Lady Agnew of Lochnaw in person. She remembered straining her neck to look up at the glamorous portrait of a noblewoman, chewing her bottom lip until it was raw while examining every detail. Her heart beat wildly in her chest the whole time because NotSoLucky was right. Lady Agnew was most definitely a witch, smirking and full of fire, just like Hermione. Some glutinous part of her heart wondered if maybe he knew she was one, that he was a wizard and was finally her ticket out of touching herself on camera. That she could tell him her name and finally be herself.

Instead, she packed her bags the next morning, thanking him profusely via the app’s messenger function, using a cold, industrial-looking font, unable to send a handwritten thank you note. All of it was a reminder that she was GoldenGirl, and he was just NotSoLucky, her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach at the sight.

Like today, that same itchy anxiety returned, shuddering at the number 342 in the top corner of her screen. Three hundred forty-two men and women worldwide watched as she played with the green lacy strap of her bra. A matching silk robe pooled around her feet, discarded much earlier in today’s show. Taking her clothes off wasn't the issue. It was just a body. It was the fact that none of them really cared. Most begged her to get to the “good part” quicker. Telling her how hot she would be if she used a bigger toy or moaned louder, demanding she fuck herself harder, and complaining if she wasn’t perfectly bare. It was exhausting doing it for them, but not NotSoLucky.

NotSoLucky🌹: Always so beautiful, but green might be my favourite, just glowing. Is that why they call you the GoldenGirl?

NotSoLucky🌹: Are there any green things I can buy for you? Send a list just for me, sweet girl. Anything you want.

The words made her hot, a flush working across the top of her cheeks and down her neck, bright pink spreading over her nose and chest as she tried to respond. It shouldn’t be like this, it was bad practice to become attached to faceless men on the internet, but sometimes she swore she could hear him. Imagining all the posh boys of her youth or maybe some of Pansy’s wealthy pureblood friends, whispering deep and low in her ear when he typed. As if he were right behind her, whispering all the things he liked about her, as generous with his compliments as he was with gifts. It was a silly schoolgirl crush, but some days, that hope was all that got her to turn on her camera and make the extra cash she needed.

The only parts she had seen of him were his hands—a large palm wrapped around a crystal glass, a cigar hanging off his fingers, a shiny gold ring glinting in the camera’s flash—all positioned against his thigh, with a tux jacket hanging open and legs spread wide in a tiny square frame. It was not even a quarter of his body, but it was enough to fuel the fire of fantasy about who NotSoLucky was.

With expansive hands like that and thick thighs, she imagined him as handsome, with tanned skin and maybe dark hair, towering over her and guiding and shielding her wherever they went. She’d fit perfectly standing between his legs, fixing his tie for him while he trailed that cold condensation-coated glass up her thigh. Dangerous daydreams of him lavishing her with attention took over her mind when she should be working, a coy smile on her lips as she built their fantasy.

The other thing, and most important for their current connection, was that NotSoLucky was undeniably wealthy—if the deposits and gifts he sent her meant anything. Viewers sent all types of gifts, but most maxed out around a few hundred pounds, begging for free access to her before too long. But not him. He was so generous it almost made her feel guilty, but the payments cleared.

Once, after spotting a mere chip in the paint of her bed frame, barely noticeable in the livestream, he’d sent her a 2k pound tip and told Hermione he didn’t want to see her live again till she was sleeping in a safe bed. It should have bristled at her that he judged her setup so harshly, but the investment had paid off. The posts on her new custom bed perfectly fit handcuffs her size. He’d noticed that too, always complimenting her more adventurous tastes, rewarding her when she tried new things for him and him alone. She had a whole armoire drawer full of toys only he saw her use.

But besides knowing he loved to see her with an emerald-coloured heart-shaped gem in her bum and the image, NotSoLucky was a mystery. She wondered if she was as greedy as Niffler for such petty things to be what snuck into her thoughts when she was alone, dying to know more about him as she teased herself. Or that it was a faceless man bringing her to the edge and helping her fall into ecstasy over and over again when Hermione finally had the chance to come for herself and not an audience.

“Thank you. I don’t usually wear green, but if you like it, maybe I’ll do it more.” Other names typed away frantically and tipped what they could in the chat, but she only saw him. When he responded, a little rose next to his name marked him as one of her highest patrons.

NotSoLucky🌹: I would love that. Can I have you alone, in a private session just for me?

“I don’t know. There are a lot of lovely people here today who want to see me, too. What do you guys think? Should I stay or let NotSoLucky take me away?” Painted fingernails, filed to points, dark maroon and glossy, teased the lace edge of the cups. The motion made her nipples pebble and harden, pressing against the rough fabric, the sight making comments and tips pop up left and right.

BigRugby69: Stay please +£10

MacInManchester: Give us a show gorgeous +£15

BeekerBreaker: Not fair you do this every time! +£3

DragonTamer: I’d love to see more of you +£25

HighlandsAlphas4U: Two is better than one 😉 +£30

A timer started in her head, every tip from others like a grain of enchanted sand in a time turner, each one pushing NotSoLucky closer and closer to spending so much that she would have no choice but to be alone with him. The thrill was intoxicating, the only place where she could gorge herself with attention. Her mother would have said it was gauche to behave this way, but Helen Granger and all her wisdom and financial support were gone, and now Hermione had to take care of herself. Who was to say she couldn’t get a little confidence boost while she did it? She wasn’t like this in real life. This was her chance to be someone else. Pansy’s friends often called her a prude, and Pansy would just roll her eyes over whatever glass she was sipping on, keeping Hermione’s rapacious secret safe.

It didn’t take long, maybe 250 pounds in tips, before NotSoLucky had enough. Pixelized falling roses covered the entire screen as he tipped another 1500 pounds. “I only have time for one session this afternoon, guys, and it looks like NotSoLucky won this time. Maybe next time, and if you want to book a private session with me, send me a direct message! Thank you for all the tips today!”

Slender fingers and delicate nails wiggled at the camera as the last few goodbyes and tips rolled in, promises they would message her, but few would. They always talked a big game but never delivered, unlike NotSoLucky. Finally, when the last left, with one quick button to lock the room, Hermione smiled up at the camera, looking into the round black circle, the red blinking light reflecting in her eyes as she spoke directly to him.

“That was an awful lot of money, NotSoLucky. You didn’t have to spend that much.” Part of her means it. The guilty part wonders what he really looks like and likes speaking to him. The part of her mind that pushes out the reminder that she’s never heard him speak, always talking to a screen like a puppet.

NotSoLucky🌹: You’re always worth it. How are you? Are classes going well? I was thinking about you during a meeting earlier.

“Classes are going well, mostly just independent study and dissertation prep. But your day sounds more exciting!” Her lips pulled back in a lascivious, excited smile, hungry for any sliver of information he might share. Trying not to shiver when thinking about how lax she’s been with her own information as of late. “What kind of meeting? And only the most distracting thoughts, I assume?”

There was a short pause, longer than usual, and Hermione twirled a chocolate curl around her finger. Nerves worked up her spine, worried maybe she’d finally pushed him too far.

NotSoLucky🌹: It's not as exciting as one might think. Lots of financial statements and reviewing documents, and not quite as fun as your pieces sound.

A giggle bubbled up in her because he was probably the only person who thought that. Most of her friends believed her days were dusty and dull—or maybe he just said that, so she’d pay him more attention than the others. But it worked, so she indulged him by letting the dainty chantilly scalloped edge strap fall down her shoulder.

NotSoLucky🌹: Stunning as always, a little tease too. But we were making a large purchase today, a piece for the main office. Circe Indiviosa, I’m sure you’ve heard of it?

“John Williams Waterhouse” escaped her lips, each syllable imbued with awe and wonder as he sent a matching message. She’d always wanted to see it, but Australia was too far away, unsure how she would even get the time off work to go and see such a piece. A different kind of awe filled her veins, putting together how NotSoLucky even came into ownership of it.

NotSoLucky🌹: I thought you might like it. We’re unveiling it at an event. I know this isn’t customary, but I would be honoured if you came and saw it. You wouldn’t even need to speak with me. I’d love to see you look at it like you are now.

A treacherous thought popped into her head that he bought this for her. He knew her interest in depicting witches in art. Had he put together her why? That she sought every opportunity to see them and connect the dots on whether the painters were witches and wizards themselves. It was her life's passion to know how many muggle-born magic folks lived in the world, weaving enchanting pieces for everyone to enjoy—just like Lady Agnew and Sargent, Circe and John Williams Waterhouse held her heart and attention captive.

Swallowing nervously and staring at the chat screen, she debated how to respond to such an offer. It was more than pounds deposited or free bottles of champagne and dinners. It was a dream come true.

NotSoLucky🌹: You don’t have to, sweetheart, but I just wanted to offer. I do hope you’ll consider it, but it doesn’t change my mind. Hell, maybe I’ll just open the doors to the public, and you could come whenever you want. I didn’t mean to make you upset.

“No, no, no,” she rushed out, afraid of upsetting him, and the sheer overwhelming awe at the extravagant gift raced through her veins. “I want to see it, I do,” she tried to steady her trembling fingers, wringing her hands as she made the riskiest decision of her life. “I’d love to come see it, but maybe I could bring a friend? And I would like to meet you if you want to meet me.” Her heart rattled against her rib cage as the dots alerting that he was typing continued on the screen, waiting to see if he accepted.

NotSoLucky🌹: I’d love that. I’ll make sure to send you all the details and enough for you and your friend. The event is in London. If you are comfortable, I can send a car. And how does the Savoy sound? Or would you prefer the Ritz? I don’t want you going back too late.

NotSoLucky🌹: Excuse me, I’m getting ahead of myself. I just can’t wait to see you. I’ll send you everything you need to arrange it. No expense spared, alright? And if you’d like, I’ll share my assistant's information in case you need any help, alright? And square your details away for the invite. I can’t wait.

Her words were a weak whisper. Adrenaline and disbelief made her lightheaded, as she admitted, “I can’t wait either.”

NotSoLucky🌹: Good, good. I apologize, but I have to run. The tip should arrive soon, darling. I will see you soon. I can’t wait.

As he left the session, the sterile sound of a computer-animated door closing echoed through the room, and Hermione continued to stare at the screen, gobsmacked by what had just happened. In the corner of her vision, she could see the tip roll through immediately, the number making her head spin again, and she had to hold onto the computer desk to steady herself.

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£5,000

Hours later, around a crowded club table, one Pansy demanded was absolutely necessary to celebrate their trip to London. Hermione leaned across the bottle-covered table to explain to her. “I mean, he’s going to know who I am! I’m going to be there in person! I mean, he’s technically already seen me!”

“YOU SHOW YOUR FACE?” Pansy screeched at her, stiletto nails digging into Hermione’s shoulder as she tried to shake some sense into her. The brunette was surprisingly strong as they lurched forward and back with the movement, with Pansy’s blunt bangs swinging, too. There had been a plethora of questions since Hermione came running into her room earlier, throwing open the door unannounced and exclaiming they were going to London. Somehow over predrinks, every detail about Hermione’s double life spilt out of her to Pansy, relief filling her veins as quickly as the martinis loosened her blood to finally not be so alone with the details.

Pansy knew most of it or guessed it—the witch was too observant. She’d also bounced a pillow off Hermione’s head for not telling her how lucrative it was, that she too wanted in on this action. A reminder that Pansy grew up with her own silver spoon till it was ripped away after her parents made a few bad investments years back.

“THATS HOW YOU MAKE THE BETTER MONEY!” Hermione yelled back over the thumping bass, the pounding music reverberating off the ground through the heels Pansy shoved her in. Claiming it was practice for their trip, she had no idea when she accepted it was just a few days away, and now the two were scrambling to get ready. Pansy was most excited for the private car service that would take them downtown on Saturday night, claiming riding the train in cocktail dresses was pedestrian.

“Who’s making better money?” Blaise, more Pansy’s friend than hers, asked as he reentered the booth, a familiar flash of platinum blonde hair behind him. The liquor in her gut warmed at their return, or rather his presence. They were her old classmates, too, if Hermione was being technical. She could call them friends now, but it still felt strange. They grew up with Pansy and at once ridiculed her for her supposed dirty blood and teeth, things that were wildly out of her control. Blaise had been the first to apologize; truthfully, he had never really made fun of her like the others. It was easy to forgive Blaise, but Draco, the blonde whose eye always seemed to catch hers, was a different story.

He’d corned her and tried to apologize the first time their paths crossed in the shared flat. A terribly awkward and fumbling experience, the usually smooth and posh, often sneering boy of her childhood nightmares now towered over her. He nervously fidgeted with the back of his head as he tried to get the words out. When they finally did form, her gut reaction was not to accept. She acknowledged he’d said sorry with a slow, confused nod and ran out the door to a waiting Ginny.

But he was a regular in Pansy’s friend group, always lingering around to apologize again or share some story about how he worked with muggle companies and donated to muggle causes to make up for his father’s prickish raising of him. He wore her down, and after the first year, she finally forgave him, a tentative truce that allowed civil conversation and a shared love for art to form. His appreciation stemmed from his mother and uncle and hers from constantly wanting more, wanting proof and to feel seen in great works.

It didn’t hurt that watching him try muggle things gave her a good laugh. In three years, though, he mastered chopsticks and didn’t scratch her vinyls when playing them. Each time he learned something new or sported a current muggle trend, things shifted, and she saw him in a different light. One with less red-tinted vengeance and the need to ridicule his pointy face as she dreamed of in third year, shifting to resemble her embarrassing self-deprecating crush on him in fifth year.

That crush was a secret she planned on taking to her grave—choking it up to hormones. She lied to herself that it didn’t matter that he was her bully back then, that all witches had fawned over Draco Malfoy with his seeker’s body and classic good looks in school. Now though? That he’d transformed into an Auror who still played pick-up quidditch and had a biting sense of sarcastic humour, she was weak again. He was no longer mean to her—now, she was part of his dry jokes, enjoying the sly observing nature whenever he spoke. He pulled her into his orbit and caught her attention whenever he was around, a surprising amount, claiming he never wanted to be around his childhood manor.

“Hermione! She’s got a hot date!” Pansy yelled, jumping up and down and throwing her head back, giggling.

“A date that makes her money?” Blaise looked Hermione up and down suspiciously, eyes catching in on all the ways Pansy enhanced her appearance for the night before Draco said, “I don’t think the Weasel could afford you, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to avoid the truth in words, the same question Pansy asked when she told her over getting ready drinks, “Are you going to fuck this guy for money?” “Merlin! No, Pansy, what is wrong with you?” “What is wrong with a man who pays five thousand pounds for a girl and her friend to hang out?”

All the vodka in her veins cooled in fear, making her a bit nauseous because what if she was right? Was NotSoLucky expecting more from her? Were his sweet messages just a ploy to lower her guards and get Hermione close? Pansy’s voice cut through the anxious memory as if she were performing wandless legitimacy, seamlessly rerouting the conversation. “Where are your friends, Hermione? You said he was coming!”

“Who is coming?” Draco scoffed before pouring another drink, sniffing the bottles around them randomly, trying to decide what he liked. That was probably the first sign that he had changed, or all of the Slytherins she knew in school might be different. Pansy and cohorts loved this club despite it being mostly muggle. The occasional wizarding group popped in, but the music, the drinks, and even the lights and entertainment were all of the highest muggle quality. Truthfully, it was too nice for her without the support of her fans, but Draco knew someone, and Pansy’s name was always on the list, and well, Hermione couldn’t say no to nice things, now could she?

Blaise chuckled from beside Pansy, shoving her shoulder playfully, “You know who, Draco, the groundskeeper.”

“Neville is getting a PhD. that will allow him to brew healing potions. Knowing about herbology is an important part of that!” Pansy snipped, and all of them, Hermione included, laughed—covering her mouth with her palm to hide from Pansy’s ire.

“Did you invite Weasel King too? Since he’s taking you out? I thought you two already did that.” Draco groaned as he landed on the couch nestled into the tight corner. A flash of silver on his finger caught her eye. Apparently, she was now a fiend for men with jewellery on their hands. Developing new tastes in sex work wasn’t uncommon, but a ring kink had to be a new one. It reminded her of the one in NotSoLucky’s photo, gooseflesh covering her overheated skin, wondering what the cold press of metal might feel like.

Ice-cold vodka and a suspiciously sweet white substance that Pansy promised was legal made her braver than usual, plopping down onto the couch beside him. Mixed with the high of finally seeing Circe and NotSoLucky, Hermione leaned close to him and, if she didn’t know better, would have sworn his Adam’s apple worked harder when she spoke. “I’m not dating Ron. I’m not dating anyone. For someone who doesn’t want to date me, why do you care so much?”

A mischievous glint flashed across Draco’s silver-grey eyes, leaning close enough to share a breath, the smoky taste of scotch on the air, “I never said that.” It wasn’t the closest they’d ever been, shoving themselves in the back of a muggle cab after one of these nights before. But this was different as if Draco could sense the excitement in her veins, flashing brilliant white teeth at her and tongue gliding across them as he challenged her.

“Oh, claiming not to care anymore?” The corner of her mouth curled into a matching smirk, triumphant that she could finally play his games, proud of the quip she’d levelled against him.

Draco shook his head, blonde hair falling in his eyes before he leaned in close enough to whisper, even as the music grew louder, and blood roared in her ears. His lips brushed her cheek as he spoke just for her, “No, I never said I wouldn’t date you.”

“Finally moved past my giant teeth, have you?” He pulled back briefly, stunned by the ease at which she levelled the old taunt before his eyes slipped down to her mouth and kept going to the loose, low cowl neck of her dress, tongue pressing against his cheek as he took in the sight of her chest from above.

Just like the men who logged in to watch her, he didn’t hide his hungry gaze, but there was something appreciative in how he roved over her curves, licking his lips as he took in every detail of her, pupils blowing wide at all of her on display. His slow perusal felt more like the reverent reading of some holy book than a need to consume her whole.

Like NotSoLucky, Draco’s attention filled her stomach with butterflies, making her desperate to keep it. She used the few tricks she’d taken from other girls online, brushing her hair back, letting her knees fall open, and then crossing, a flash of what could be underneath her dress just for him. “I think you’ve changed quite a bit since school,” was all he managed at her games, swallowing his drink in one large gulp.

It hurt how hard she rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull back, riding the high of NotSoLucky and now Draco panting after her, brushing her knee against his, the tip of her heel drawing circles around her ankle. She’d never been this bold in real life, dull and dusty Hermione long forgotten in the piles of papers on her desk. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Too busy in your books, Granger. Why don’t you let me show you how to have a little fun? Since you aren’t dating anyone?” He held a hand out towards her, dangling the offer in the small space between them, and for the second time that day, she took a risk. The stakes were lower but still exhilarating to her newfound obsession with adrenaline. Her soft, much smaller palm slid against his, long pale fingers wrapping around, engulfing hers, and tugging her off the couch and toward the stairs. Both ignored Pansy’s eyebrows, disappearing behind shiny black fringe and Blaise's smug shake of his head as Draco led her to the dance floor.

Her hips swayed as she walked out of the booth, the slit of her dress was dangerously high, and she caught Draco looking back. Molten silver irises, glowing in the neon strobe lights, snagging on the expanse of the exposed thigh up past her hip, no knickers possible with what the dress Pansy poured her into. She debated, doing a little wandless magic, a breeze in the humid, sticky club, to cut the heat burning in her as they wove between bodies, but Draco beat her to it.

Considerate and talented, he whispered the charm against the shell of her ear. Pulling her in close as they began to move to the music, his fingers wrapping around her hips, positioning her just as he liked, and she relinquished all control, relieved not to be performing and just simply enjoying the moment. She’d never really noticed how he towered over her, the back of her curls nestling in the centre of his chest, his already hardening cock pressing against the small of her back as they continued to roll their bodies. Draco’s lead put her into a trance as they melted into each other, her arms around his neck as she relaxed fully into him.

Hot lips tasted and licked the sweat off the side of her neck as one song blurred into another, shots passing by as the alcohol in her system and the giddy high of getting everything she wanted took over. Draco’s lips travelled from her neck to her chin, and she briefly wondered if he was marking her permanently. The pull of his teeth on fragile, tender flesh made arousal pool between her legs, pressing her thighs together for relief. She never imagined her first kiss with Draco Malfoy to be a sloppy drunken thing under flashing neon lights and through hazy vodka glasses, but their hands are in each other’s hair, and she’s pulling him down to her roughly.

Everything around them disappeared as his thigh slotted itself between her legs, and their dance went from racy to downright indecent. She’d imagine the firm press of his slacks against her throbbing, needy cunt whenever she rode her pillow for subscribers from now on. The soft luxurious material brushed up against her clit as her nails scratched at his scalp in return, the pain and pressure stealing a moan from his lips.

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, seeking the high of release that would never come on the dancefloor before a flash of red hair grabbed and pulled her away. Everything blurred between dizzy and stumbling steps, drunk off the taste of Draco and the euphoria of being who she pretended to be behind closed doors. The sudden distance between them left her mouth raw and cunt throbbing as Ginny tried to pull her away and yelled that they needed to leave. Time had evaporated, and Hermione was unaware her friends ever arrived.

The words were pathetic and needy, sloshing around and tangling with her tongue as she reached out to Draco, the blonde giant following after her, “Come back to my place,” she begged.

Draco paused, concern etching across his features as the club lights started to come on and the music ended. She looked a mess, hair all over the place, every curl undone and frizzy, and her dress hanging on with limp straps stretched by Draco’s exploration. He shook his head no, disappointment chilling her chest. He was unsteady on his own drunk feet, leaning down and capturing her lips one last time, “I’m not going to fuck you like this. You deserve much better.”

“I don’t want better.” She pouted, lips pursed against his, torn between letting him swallow her whole and throwing a tantrum.

“Yes, do you, too golden and pure for what I would do to you now. Let me take you out after your big fancy London date. Let me show you what I can do.” His barter was slurred, but it still made her heart stammer, excitement spurring her giddiness. Hearing him call her golden made her skin tingle and flush, so different from how it usually looked when she read it in messages and tip notes.

Fingers grasped and tugged at the front of his shirt, crinkling and fisting the soft cotton that cocooned her moments ago. Images of her just wearing one of the overpriced button-downs made her smirk, “You think you can fuck better than a fancy London date?”

“Ohhh, Hermione, I’m taking you on a better date and fucking you.” He laughed, deep and raucous, and she joined him. Their friends watched with concern as the laughter poured out, wondering who replaced these former enemies with foreign alien imitations.

“If you say so, Draco.” She stumbled a bit, and he tried to catch her before Ginny guided their group towards the door. Blaise leads him in a different direction, like a modern interpretation of Romeo and Juliet, still reaching out to each other as their friends finally separate them.

“Next weekend, Granger!”

Pansy squinted at her, eyes bouncing back and forth from the blonde to the brunette as she hung off Neville’s neck, strappy heels in his hands. All Hermione could do is repeat herself—sing-songy and high-pitched, “If you say so!”

Chapter Text

Her head had barely hit the pillow when the alarm started ringing, pulling her from a fitful drunken sleep. Her palm smacked around the blankets, the ones she fell asleep on top of last night, still in the glittery party dress, searching for the obnoxious sound. Eventually, glass and metal met flesh, and she turned the offensive sound off before rolling face-first into the lush down feather pillow, a gift from a subscriber, and screamed into it. The taste of stale alcohol on her tongue and a raging headache made her gag.

One eye slowly popped open, crusty and foggy, black specks of mascara in her vision as she checked the time.

7:15 a.m.

Fuck.

She had to be in the restoration lab by 8:30, all the way across town and the far side of campus. Even if she floo’d into the building, she’d still have to fight to take the elevator or run up five flights of stairs to make it on time. In a feat of laziness that would break her dentist parents' hearts, Hermione performed every cleansing and hygiene charm she could think of, dry heaving as magic worked through her mouth and sped through getting ready. It felt in juxtaposition to the excess and partying of the night before, but she had no choice— she needed this assistantship, and the art needed her.

Pansy groggily stumbled into her room, looking just as worse for wear but still eyeing the new jeans Hermione pulled up over a matching red lacy set. It would be a shite day at work, so she might as well make a little extra in the bathroom on her break, hoping the lingerie might garner more attention than her average post. Whatever compliments she’d receive might offset the anxiety of the impending hangover and get her through the day.

Two little bottles flew at her, Pansy’s wand levitating the tinkling jars her way. “Neville’s brew, something special he said like an extra strong hangover drought. Those twins asked him to work on it for their little shop.”

She could see Fred and George wanting something more potent, a remedy for whatever catastrophe in a jar they sold these days. The caps were easy enough to take off despite her slow movements, throwing both back at the same time, but their foul herbal taste threatened to come back up the second the syrupy liquids passed her tongue. Scrunching up her nose in disgust, she eyed Pansy. Pansy rolled her eyes, “Yeah, I know they taste horrible, but I swear it’s already working.”

Hermione grimaced as she heaved, keeping the mix down by sheer force. Her eyes rolled back in relief as the potions started to work their magic. Warmth spread down her throat, coated in whatever mix of semi-legal and hard-to-find herbs Neville had brewed. Her stomach went from tight and frigid to relaxed, and her muscles loosened as she finished throwing on a new cashmere jumper. Cringing, she ripped the tag off, searching for scissors was a lost cause.

“Gahhh, the aftertaste is going to stick around all day, isn’t it?” she groaned while stomping a pair of trainers on and looking at the clock on the wall.

7:37—she needed to leave now.

“Probably, maybe it’ll be gone by this afternoon. Does three still work? We can shop a bit and grab tea after? You have some explaining to do.” Pansy’s long fingernail pointed out at her, pinning her in place. The dark-haired witch’s lips were smeared in red gloss, and multiple crimson and purple blemishes were not yet touched by healing charms, still visible on her neck, but Pansy held firm. A cat-like smile was on her face as she waited for Hermione to admit all she’d done the night before.

“What do you want me to say, Pansy? I had a nice evening that you demanded if memory serves me right.” She brushed past her, moving through the bedroom doorway, catching sight of a shirtless Neville in the kitchen. The wizard held her periwinkle kettle over his chest as if to hide the fact that he was half-clothed. Hermione looked over her shoulder, raising one eyebrow at Pansy for the sight, and she just rolled her eyes again, shooing Hermione along with the flick of her wrists.

“Get moving. You’ll be late, and I don’t want to spend all afternoon hearing you complain about it. But we are not done talking! Everyone saw!”

“Saw what, Pansy?” Hermione laughed, feigning blissful ignorance. A shriek of annoyance followed her before it was drowned out by the roar of green floo flames sending her across Oxford to the humanities building. Running and taking the stairs two at a time, the motion making her brain feel like scrambled eggs, Hermione barely felt her phone buzzing in her pocket, only pulling it out to check the time while skittering through the door to her cramped graduate assistant office.

7:58 a.m.

A whooshing breath flew from her lips, panting and raged. She took a brief moment to cool down. It didn’t matter that Professor Gorski didn’t need her there until ten every morning or that her work agreement only required her to be in three days a week and not the six she sometimes showed up. Heavy wheezing breaths rattled off as she relaxed into her perfectly absurd schedule. The entire time, she contemplated picking up and running again, despite the lack of hours, because of how winded the jot up the stairs made her while scrolling through her phone, the reason for the eternal buzzing now obvious.

Lion Pride

Ginny

MIONE WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?

Harry

Gin is screaming the words while she types. Please respond soon. I want to go back to bed.

Ginny

HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER WHAT DID YOU DO?

DID YOU SHAG HIM?

MIONE

MIONEEEEEEEEEEE

I WON’T STOP

MIONE MIONE MIONE

Harry

Please, Hermione, I’m begging. I think she’s woken my parents up, broken the silencing charm and everything.

Dad and Pads will never let me live it down if it's because of you.

Ron

What the bloody hell is going on? And gross Harry don’t text about my sister being over there.

Ginny

I’M GROSS? HELLO DID NO ONE SEE WHAT MIONE GET UP TO?

OR GOT INTO?

LET IN?

A PALE POINTY DEMON

A THIEF OF HER HONOUR

Ron

No? Are Mione are you okay? Do you need help?

A text from Draco interrupted the invasive species she called friends. The flash of his name made her lips press into a line and roll between her teeth, giddy embarrassment flooding her chest, excited to see his name and nervous for whatever damage she might have done.

Malfoy

Next Friday 6 pm? That’s if this hangover doesn’t take me out.

Her feet kicked against the linoleum tile floor, giggling like a schoolgirl before typing, erasing her responses and trying again, finally landing on something she hoped matched his cavalier confidence.

Hermione

Is that enough time? You seemed pretty confident in your abilities to woo me last night.

I believe it was taking me on a better date than some swanky London art party and shagging me?

Draco

If our schedules allowed, I wouldn’t even need a week.

She tried to think of a response but was too caught up in how to play this game with him when Ginny continued. Her name flashed repeatedly, stacking at the top of her screen until it was all she saw.

Ginny

OH SHE GOT HELP

LOTS OF HELP VIA ORAL DELIVERY FROM

DRACO

MALFOY

WHY DID YOU AND HARRY MAKE US GET THESE THINGS IF YOU DON'T RESPOND

After that, the chat was a blur of texts—Ron and Ginny went back and forth, Harry silent as the siblings bickered over her life. She blew out a long breath, her fingers trembling and slow as she carefully crafted her deflection.

Hermione

I can’t help that your girlfriend has a flare for dramatics Harry.

Don’t the three of you have work today?

Go ask Malfoy at the ministry. I have nothing else to add.

Ginny

Nice try. Pansy invited me to tea last night and said you had some big secret.

No practice today, either. See you in a few hours.

Ron

Are you actually okay, Mione? What secret?

Hermione did not feel the need to dignify Ron’s redundant question with a response. He could do his own reconnaissance with his coworker. Thinking of Draco, though, brought back memories of his hands on her ribs, her dress riding up as he pressed against her. Even though the hazy memories while trying to parcel her night back together, she could remember that Draco was an excellent dancer, smooth and attentive as he moved them. His lips were very soft, and he tasted of mint and scotch when he devoured her. It was hard to tell how long he ravaged her on the dance floor, but there was no mistaking the way it made her heart skip. Her waist wiggled in eager excitement at finally having what she denied herself for so long, her bones lighter at the realisation.

The memory of his hand playing with the slit of her dress, the cool metal of his ring pressing against the bone of her hip, caused a shiver to break out across her skin. She’d dreamed of Draco fucking her from behind deep into her mattress long before NotSoLucky, and last night it was almost a reality. The sting of his rejection was only soothed by his promise of good next weekend if he meant it. Annoyance at having to wait made her needy and impatient. She scanned her desk quickly, looking for signs of new projects or reports that needed starting immediately, unsure if Professor Gorski had left anything while she was out. When she found nothing, Hermione stood and practically skipped towards the private witch’s lavatory.

It was almost always empty, with only a few magical folks working in this building. Most of the other witches and wizards were in the tomes and library section of the Humanities Department, only visiting when needed. Only she and Professor Gorski were working on magical paintings right now, and occasionally Ernie, the other graduate assistant, when he wasn’t hiding from her. That left the witch’s lavatory entirely to her.

The door clicked shut behind her softly, and she placed an extra locking charm on it just to be sure. Taking off your clothes in a public restroom was slightly repulsive, but it wasn’t totally public, she reasoned with herself, and her viewers loved it. Her most paid-for photos were ones she snuck up her skirt at her desk, and a copy was downloaded almost daily. They were the ones that helped her profile shoot up in popularity.

Sweet, innocent college girl. So horny and helpless. She just had to touch herself at work.

They ate it up. And now, as she pushed her jeans down to sit just below the curve of her arse, the tight denim making her bum look larger, and pulling the lacy thong up higher in the shape of a y, she could already see the comments coming, wanting to take a bite out of her or give it a few smacks. It was so predictable, the need to show dominance to her in a few typed words. Most of them are full of narcissistic musings disguised as being for her pleasure. It bored her the hidden need to be pleased and control under the facade of her happiness when they didn’t have the faintest idea what she liked.

But it paid the bills, and a few quick photos over her shoulder did the trick before she debated how else she might pose herself.

The next took a bit more work: a few sticking charms here or there, levitating her phone while holding her sweater up over the frilly edge of the bra. This one was utterly sheer— no need to pull the cups down, but she took a few that way for good measure. Images of her dishevelled and messy were always hot commodities. There she was, holding her sweater in her teeth and pulling the cups down, tugging on her nipples while her eyes rolled back like a doll.

She was about to put herself back together when a spur-of-the-moment idea hit her. At the last minute, she took a few extra. A split-second decision, less of her exposed, soft sweater falling off her shoulder and a hint of lace. There was barely even any cleavage but plenty of wild curls. All of it framed the pink and red marks left by Draco’s mouth, her concealment charms undone just for this set of photos.

All in all, it took about fifteen minutes to get a nice little array for all audiences. She returned to her desk and quickly worked through the lot, selecting about five to go to the site. Hermione considered them a little mid-day surprise and a thank-you for having to end her stream early the day before. She promised that Friday night, she’d do a full show. NotSoLucky would get to have her on Saturday, so it was the least she could do.

She spent a bit longer on the last few, though, cropping them down just right. Her heart felt like it might explode from her chest as she worked up the courage, a heated blush travelling down her neck as she sent them.

Hermione

Any idea where I got these? They look new and sharp, like they were made by something pointy.

The photo was demure and looked casual despite how she posed it just right. It was as if you were looking down the front of her sweater when the love bites snagged your attention. Draco’s name appeared and then disappeared. Her lip bitten raw as she awaited his response. Finally, after a few long, arduous minutes, he responded.

Draco

I think I’ll need to take a closer look at you for this investigation, Granger. Field first aid and all that. Maybe next Friday is too far away. How about tonight?

Hermione wasn’t sure what came over her. In a heady rush of euphoric success, she found a picture she hadn’t used for her page. Similar to the others, her sweater was between her lips, but her chest was less pushed together, and the cups were in place. Something innocent in its slightly awkward nature, no straining her body to show every curve and smiling just right. It felt almost candid. Like she snapped it too early, it made her pause. The look of happiness and not faux sensuality in her eye seemed fitting for Draco. She sent it off, stomach flipping at the newfound boldness.

Hermione

It doesn’t seem to be spreading to my chest. I don’t think the DMLE or Mungos will need to be involved, so there is no need to rush our date. But I will let you know if anything changes.

Of all the possible things he could've sent, she hadn’t expected Draco to respond in kind. She felt like she was playing with fire. His dry smirk visible in the selfie from the DMLE training space. Blonde locks looked wet with sweat, a quidditch practice shirt sticking to and riding up the smooth planes of his stomach. Muggle athletic shorts barely hid the length that filled her dreams and made her roll her eyes in fanciful want. A much shorter cut than she’d ever seen and broad thighs that would frame her perfectly on display. Zooming in till her nose touched the screen to see the faint shape of a serpentine tattoo on his right upper thigh.

She was going to faint. Hermione was certain of it, especially when she read the accompanying text in his sarcastic tone, poncey and spoiled, but all of making her shiver.

Draco

Two can play this game, Granger. I wasn’t aware you had it in you but consider this round one. We’ll see if you last till next Friday.

Draco had her cornered, and unsure how to respond, she sought a different way out, deciding he could play the waiting game for a bit, guessing whether she liked his tactics or not. She checked the rest of her photos were live—comments already starting to pop up and that the clock read 8:29 a.m. before tossing her phone back into her purse and moving around the department. Not stopping for hours, trying not to vomit as Ernie ate some disgusting onion-filled sandwich, till she banished him from the archival restoration lab, saying the fumes would ruin the pieces. The work wasn’t complicated. Sometimes, she played around by layering cleansing charms and experimenting with how she used magic to manipulate the varnish-soaked brushes to make the thinnest, most even layers possible.

But all in all, it was easy to get lost. Pop music blared in the background, and she hummed along to some song about heartbreak while working. It was strangely poetic that she was giddy about both a wizard and a man while she listened to the saddest bits of music she could find. But it kept her calm and focused as she worked on the last few layers of old yellowed oil sealant off a piece. She was almost ready for Professor Groski to come and reactivate the portrait charm, hopeful he might let her try it this time.

Ernie’s head stuck through the door’s opening, his low, annoyed drawl calling out to her, “Your friends are here.” Hermione’s eyes darted to the clock, already reading 3:46 p.m., grimacing about the berating she would receive if both Ginny and Pansy had come to get her. And to her utter dismay, they stood in the small entryway of her department, arms crossed over their chests, ready to scold her as if she’d come home after curfew as a teen.

“Sorry, work got away from me!” She called out, rushing into her office to grab her bag.

“And you couldn't check your phone? We’ve only called a hundred times.”

“Well, Gin, you also texted me about a thousand times this morning, and I managed to avoid those, so I guess it is possible.” She sounded petulant. Hermione was very aware, but this wasn’t the best time or place to be scolded, not with Ernie looking on like a guppy who’d never seen a witch before. She was already fraying at the edges that she would tell Gin the truth, and Pansy’s excitement around the secret wasn’t helping.

Ginny didn’t respond, instead grumbling under her breath, “She’s spending too much time with you, Parkinson. She was never this way before.”

“Yes, she was. She just only had you lions and your boisterous need for unnecessary honesty and transparency as an example. Isn’t that right, Granger?” Pansy’s response was smooth, drawing out her half-hearted insult.

Trying to ignore their playful bickering, having grown used to the snips and eventual camaraderie once the wine was introduced between the three, Hermione led them towards the floo, “Truthfully, I’m not sure I like how much either of you gossips about me, but we have things to do.”

“And discuss.” Ginny tacked on.

“Yes, Ginny, and discuss.”

Ernie stepped before them, suddenly blocking their path. Hermione didn’t mind Ernie. He did his job brewing the cleaning solutions and solvents they needed for restoration and was quiet enough. If she could remember correctly, a Hufflepuff decent at potions in school. He was kind and gentle-spoken, clever and organised, even if he ate the most disgusting lunches known to man. “Anything you need from me before you leave Hermione? Can I finish that project for you?”

She eyed him carefully. Ernie had never taken credit for her work, per se, but he was more than happy to help finish, presenting all her restoration as if it had been a group project the entire time. He was too kind-hearted and pure to actually steal her progress, but just enough to annoy her when it came time to present.

“No, I don’t think so! I was on a particularly tricky bit earlier, but I’ll let you and Professor Groski know once I've figured it out!” He nodded solemnly at her diversion before letting them pass. Pansy called out for The Leaky as green flames licked at their heels.

They weren’t even a few steps out of the pub when the dark-haired witch turned on her, eyes slitted and glowing gold like a black cat when she spoke, “Nice pictures today, Granger.”

The comment made her stop in her tracks, auburn hair whipping around to watch the interaction. “What pictures?” the freckles on her nose wrinkled as Ginny narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, her nose shifting in confusion.

“Thank you, Pansy. I thought I could explain this over champagne, my treat,” she lowered her voice, not quite seething but annoyance dripping like venom, “you know, with the money from those pictures, but since you like to jump the gun, let's just get this over with.” Hermione started at a brisk pace, Ginny looking at her with unscrupulous suspicion while Pansy rolled her eyes as they kept up on the empty sidewalk. Still early in the workday and not a quiet holiday season yet, too early for people to be out shopping on a Thursday.

In an abundance of caution, she cast a quick muffilato around them to dampen the noise for anyone who might pass by. Deciding her best option was to rip the plaster off, Hermione told Ginny the truth point blank: “I take my clothes off on camera for money.”

“YOU WHAT?” Ginny screeched while Pansy complained simultaneously, “Really? That’s how you’re going to describe it? Come on, have some fun with it.”

“Yes, really, Pansy. And Ginny, I don’t know how to be more direct. Men and women log onto a website to see me naked. They pay to do it. It pays for school and things.” She tried not to let her voice get too sharp or linger too long on the word things. The implied luxury was obvious in just about everything she owned these days. Ginny had just never noticed all the muggle things going over her head. Hermione worried her lip between her teeth, briefly concerned that Ginny might have inherited some of her mother's judgment and that she might need to be obliviated.

Ginny was quiet and contemplative for a few steps, looking ahead, her eyes squinting as if doing mental arithmancy gymnastics, trying to figure out what was or was not being said. “Does Malfoy watch them?”

Pansy cackled at the question, and it took all of Hermione’s strength not to disapparate on the spot. Instead, she loosened a steadying breath, relieved Ginny hadn’t run away and was more intrigued with her happenings last night than Hermione’s extra income. “No, Draco does not watch them. Or if he does, he’s never said anything about it. That’s all you want to know?”

“Do you make a lot of money?” That one made Hermione laugh, and Pansy answered for her.

“Oh, for Salzar’s fucking sake, she does. It pays for everything. Just tally up today, you’ll see.” Pansy’s snickering and smirk only made Hermione want to reach and give her a friendly smack, but again, she refrained, turning to face Ginny, expecting the worst, and holding her breath that this wouldn’t be the last time she saw her.

Ginny’s brown eyes narrowed as she examined Hermione back, the corner of her mouth tucking back into her cheek, crossing her arms over her chest before she spoke. “They pay you in galleons? Are they wizards?”

“I don’t know them,” Pansy coughed a “yet” under her breath, but Hermione trudged on ignoring her, “but it’s a muggle website, so no, I get paid in pounds and convert it to galleons.”

“And you made all this money and didn’t want to tell me? You know it’s my dream to be in PlayWitch!” Ginny’s smile spread across her face, laughter in her crinkling eyes as Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

“I didn’t tell anyone, Gin. Pansy just turned a blind eye.” Hermione tried to sound sympathetic and grateful that her secret had been kept so well over the years.

Pansy scoffed, reaching for the handle of the shop’s door, “She acts as if I’m dense like we all didn’t go to Hogwarts together. I just assumed she had a sugar daddy or something. But I guess that I’m right now.”

“What? You have a boyfriend? And you call him daddy? What about Malfoy?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend or a sugar daddy, thank you, Pansy. I’m not dating anyone, including Malfoy. I’m just trying some things out. And that's why we're here.” She lowered her voice while waving to the shop girls at Twillfit and Tattings before she continued, “One of them invited me to an art showing, and Pansy is going to come with me. We need things to wear.”

“So, is this a business expense? Like James always says, quidditch stuff is when we train but he’s actually bribing me to marry his son?”

“Ohhhh, no, it’s not Red. Can I call you Red? It doesn’t matter.” Pansy waved herself off, moving toward a rack of fine wool outer robes, inspecting them intensely as she spoke. “He sent her money for clothes, shoes, and accessories, enough for both of us. And get a driver and hotel room. She’s the business expense.”

“Thank you, Pansy, that was very lovely. I appreciate being described as such.” Pansy just shrugged, her fingers trailing over fine silk and lush velvets of a different section, all feeling too wizard for a muggle event. Pansy indeed must have been a legillimens because not even 10 minutes in the store, she hadn’t pulled anything off the rack, instead just scrunching up her nose before turning to the both of them, “This won’t work. We need to go to muggle London. I’m thinking Selfridges, yes? We can do it all and have a bit of champagne?”

It was a whirlwind of hurricane Pansy as soon as they apparated to a hidden spot behind the department store, Hermione and Ginny doing their best to keep up with her. Pansy waltzed in confidently as if her name were on the wall. She spoke French with the salesgirls in Dior and rapidly asked about Himilayan cashmere and bias-cut Mulberry silk dresses until they were ushered into a private room, where racks and racks of cocktail dresses and high-heeled shoes were rolled in.

The sight of it all made any lingering traces of Hermione’s hangover disappear, and the bottles of champagne that appeared left and right didn’t hurt either. All three witches started a fit of giggles and made cheeky jokes in between trying things on. Ginny lusted after a particularly lush velvet dress, and Pansy proclaimed that Hermione’s skin glowed in navy and she should have been a Ravenclaw. After their second or maybe third bottle with shoes and their accompanying empty boxes scattered around them, Ginny found herself with a few more burning questions.

“Soo, you use that little device you made me get? The itelly? And you make all this money and talk to all these men in there? I’m in the wrong business.”

The bubbles from the champagne worked their way into her veins, making her lightheaded and excited to once again finally feel free and tell her friends about what she spent so much of her time on. Hermione pulled her phone from her purse, smiling at all the notifications, a perfect example to show Ginny. She leaned close, trying not to let any of the assistants see. Thankfully, they were off pulling more garments when she turned the phone to her friends and started scrolling through.

“Your iPhone, but yes. Look, these are the pictures I posted earlier.” There in all her glory was Hermione’s arse with a thin strip of red lace on the small screen for her friends to see. Ginny squealed and snatched the phone from her hands, holding it close to her face and examining it.

“Merlin, is this what you keep hidden under your clothes? I’d pay to see this, too.”

“Yeah, and if you look in the corner of the photo, you can see the hearts and the roses. The hearts are just likes and boosts. They let me know my subscribers and followers liked the picture and would want more. The roses, though, are tips. Each one is at least a pound. How many are there?”

“283? And do some tip more than a pound?” Ginny’s words were filled with awe and surprise as Hermione pulled her phone back and changed screens, showing some of the recent tips from NotSoLucky. She simultaneously felt giddy, excited, and embarrassed, a rush of nervous adrenaline to show Ginny how much he spent on her. She quickly pulled up the transaction log, flipping her phone around, the screen’s harsh blue glow against Ginny’s pale pink freckled face as her jaw plopped open. First, there were the messages from just that day, NotSoLucky’s gentle words always making her cheeks heat, Ginny reading them out loud like it was Shakespeare.

“Good morning, Golden Girl. Don’t forget to eat today.” She looked up briefly to judge Hermione. “You definitely did. Ernie ratted on you.”

“Love the new photos. Can I get you a similar set? Maybe in green? Send the link whenever you are free.”

“Busy day? I miss hearing from you. I can only assume you are getting ready for Saturday or deep in research. I love the idea of both, don’t hesitate if you need more. Godric, is he always like this?” Hermione nodded before she continued.

“Five thousand pounds? Merlin, that’s for just this weekend?” Her mouth opened and closed like a fish, her eyes wide as saucers as she tried to comprehend how much he sent Hermione. “What’s that in galleons? And how much to shag you?” Pansy slapped her hand over Ginny’s mouth, the room going eerily still at the question Hermione was too afraid to ask.

How much would it cost to fuck her?

Could she even pick a number? Would it be more if he disappointed her? Wasn’t as handsome or smooth as she imagined? Did she even get to decide? She wasn’t a virgin by any fragment of your imagination. That had been lost many years ago in the castle, and she had been with plenty of wizards who did not meet her standards, but the thought of making it a transaction made her nervous. It’s not that she was above such a sale, she was technically a sex worker herself, and she’d never judged a woman or witch who did what she could—but something about the fantasy she’d built up around NotSoLucky came crumbling down with the idea of him paying to fuck her. Even if it were good or the best sex of her life, it would still be a solemn reminder that she was a commodity in his life. A shiny toy or pet to be fed and watered on the internet so he could use her as he wished.

“He hasn’t asked to do that yet. He actually sometimes talks to me with my clothes on.” Admitting it felt silly, desperate to try and save whatever dignity she held onto in the situation, her flippant attitude towards the whole thing now seeming sterile and empty.

“Oh, Mione, I didn’t mean like that. I just want to make sure you charge a fair price. You looked so bloody hot in those photos.” Ginny’s hand found hers, and she caught Pansy's eye, the usually harsh witch smiling softly, both looking at her with pity.

The attention made her start to ramble, all her fantasies beginning to crumble around her, “It’s silly, really, and god help me if Draco finds out he’s going to be—”

“I’m going to stop you right there. In all his prickish comments and snobby ways, Draco Malfoy is not like that. He’s had his own go of it. Don’t count him out yet.” Pansy’s statement brokered no argument, but Hermione couldn’t help but shoot back, confused how someone could be so sure with a topic that would upset most. She had kept it secret for a reason. She wasn’t a fool to not know that, for all the ways men wanted her, they would also judge her for it.

“Did you tell him?” Hermione’s voice turned sharp, accusing, and Pansy let it roll off, unphased by the daggered words.

“No, I didn’t, but he has no place to judge. It’s not my business to say, just as yours isn’t mine to spread. But I’ve known him since he was in nappies, and he will be just fine if you want to tell him. It’s not his business, anyway, if you don’t want to tell. We all have a number. He doesn’t need to know it.” Crimson lips wrapped around the edge of her glass, dark eyes lingering on the newest racks that entered, and a sign that Pansy was done with the conversation.

“That’s true, Mione. Harry doesn’t know my real number. I told him two, but you know it’s higher than that, and that does not even count witches.” The admission broke the quiet hurt that settled over them, all three girls laughing tipsily again as the assistants came back, and Ginny told them about how she was working on letting Harry bring a witch into the bedroom with them. More racks of clothes and bottles of champagne appeared, and laughter and stories filled the void. Through it all, Ginny still held Hermione’s hand and gave her a squeeze.

Pansy was up sorting through and pulling things to try on when Ginny leaned close, whispering in her ear just for her, like they would on dark nights in the Burrow over summer hols growing up. Ginny could read her like a book and could sense the concern that lingered in the back of her mind, just as she did when they studied for OWLs and NEWTs or when Hermione was ready to break up with Ron.

“I love you, Mione. It’ll all work out. It always does, like magic.”

Chapter Text

Cloudy grey Oxford skies melted into a glittering black starry canvas of London nighttime as their car rolled towards an older-looking building, what looked like an abandoned manor,l. Some ancestral home where the duchy had run dry when London grew around it, swallowing whatever this estate had been whole. The address had been deceiving when it was initially delivered: a deeply embossed and gold detailed invite for her and Pansy to bring to the event. A courier brought the weighty envelope to their front desk, and the doorman commented he’d never seen such a lovely wedding invitation.

Pansy wasted no time, adamant that she would not die on this little excursion, and made her way straight to the door, a small line forming as guests waited to enter. Quick research told her the former lavish home had been restored into an expansive art gallery on the first two floors and offices and such on the upper levels. Now the home of some kind of financial conglomerate, where wealthy people went and made more money, investing and trading, purchasing and selling, British Pounds becoming Swiss Francs and other currencies before returning to them tenfold. There were claims of philanthropy and being patrons of the arts, but judging by the lavish fur jackets and large gems weighing down dainty fingers surrounding them, it was a show of wealth more than a good deed.

Embarrassment coloured her cheeks when Pansy described how the money moved, and it was a strange occurrence for the details to go over Hermione’s head. She’d always been the smartest in the room, fighting in every classroom since primary school to be the best muggle or magical. But Pansy Parkinson grinned at her like a mad woman to finally explain something to her. Hermione spent hours after that learning what she could about it, reading articles and listening to two audiobooks at double speed while working to catch up. Her parents had been dentists, successful, yes, giving her dressage lessons and lavish birthday gifts, but she, like most, circled this level of wealth from outside. Close enough to look inside, maybe a friend would invite her on holiday growing up or listen to her classmates gush about purchases, but never entrenched enough to understand how it worked.

Pansy rolled her eyes as Hermione spouted facts back at her while they got ready, even crooks meowing in the corner, annoyed with information reciting. Pansy curtly reminded her that NotSoLucky wasn’t interested in a business partner. He wanted to gawk at a pretty woman and maybe a shag if Hermione had enough red wine.

She wanted to hex her for such a joke, but her hands were tied, literally. The two of them tried to secure the soft navy silk of her dress when she said it, the fabric wrapping around her curves like water rushing around the bends of a river, stopping around mid-thigh. Now, the ripples and waves of the inky fabric caught the streetlights outside the venue, highlighting the curve of her hips. The navy was almost onyx, inky and indigo against her warm olive skin, the high neck tied around her throat with a bow, and the majority of her back exposed. From the front, it was demure—a necessity, Pansy explained, to offset the low back, but Hermione knew all about that. Not giving everything away when you were selling yourself—just enough for those interested in tasting but insufficient to savour or satiate their need. Just like a photo with only half her clothes or innocent sentences whispered into the microphone with low, drawn-out words.

Pansy had just grinned and proclaimed she was a miracle worker after working enough sleekeasy’s into her hair to drown the average witch. She had declined to tell Harry why she needed such a supply from his father, Ginny and a suspiciously observant Lily Potter watching the exchange. It worked. Her chocolate curls smoothed down her back, shining like they never had before, and all of her caught the light like a midnight ocean pool.

However, as she looked up at the large building, her feet seemed stuck. With only a few people before them in line, dwindling down to the last few on the marble entry steps, Pansy offered her one final out, “We don’t have to do this, Hermione. I mean it. I know I said we had to, but if you are nervous and want to leave...”

Wide, gentle eyes met hers. Gone was their normal heat and pique, replaced with concern she rarely saw from the witch.

“No, I want to do this. Even if just to see Circe.”

“That’s fine, and if you see her and want to leave, then we will. We won’t stay at the Savoy either. I’ll even take the train at night just this once, or I’ll force you to side along with me despite that sensitive stomach of yours.” Despite the disgust displayed in her curled lip, the earnest support in Pansy’s eyes made Hermione’s feet move again, straight into her for a bone-crushing hug. Pansy scoffed as she returned it, faking indifference in her voice, but her hands told the truth. Pansy’s fingers laced with hers and led them to the door.

A large bouncer held his hand out, signalling to wait, while a short blonde woman greeted them, pressing her finger into the large earpiece adorning her face. She was all smiles, chipper and friendly when asking to see their invite. Her face gave nothing away as she took the impressive piece of gilded cardstock and told them to enjoy their evening.

The first few moments inside were overwhelming. Heads turned to look at them, eyes sharpening, when many realised they didn’t recognise either of the newcomers. An attendant took their coats, gazes sharpening at the outfits that now felt much too skimpy. Hermione could feel every eye on her bare back, unsure if it was her nerves manifesting the attention and uncertainty if he had found her yet or if they really did stick out in this opulent group.

Drinks helped, skipping over wine when the bartender asked if they would be interested in something stronger, only turning his nose up slightly when she asked for vodka instead of gin and an extra lemon twist. More art than imaginable filled the room, her eyes frantically bounced around like a snitch trying to take it all in. Expecting just to see Circe, but instead, she found the gallery full of pieces that felt curated just for her. Her heart led them from piece to piece, grateful for the distraction of attempting to absorb it all. Room to room they travelled over plush Persian rugs, works of art in their own right, set against most glistening marble floors, all of it framing the paintings and sculptures like a well curated frame in one of these businessmen’s study. She was so lost in the pieces and the atmosphere, almost forgetting why she was really there.

To her credit, Pansy looked at each piece with her, able to say if she did or did not like it, knowing on sheer gut what was more expensive and older, but not reading every placard as Hermione did. Pansy’s snarky commentary made them chuckle, earning ire-filled looks from more refined patrons but keeping her spirits high as the minutes ticked by. They were about halfway through when Pansy released a squeal, “You didn’t tell me this guy was a wizard!”

Hermione spun to look at her, eyebrows narrowing, “He’s not, or at least he’s never said anything. Why, what's wrong?”

“Nothing wrong, if anything, this is good. Okay, you see that guy over there? With the dark curly hair? Looks like he’s dealing with a doxie infestation, not at a party. Would rather be anywhere else and loathes who he’s speaking to? Some would say handsome, classic looks and very tight genes, I’d wager.” Hermione scanned the room, finding the focus of Pansy’s attention. There was something familiar about the man: sharp cheekbones, dark, curly black hair, and objective handsomeness, even if a bit short. He gripped a glass tumbler with such force one wondered if it offended him. His eyes were different, though, silvery blue against pale creamy skin, strikingly familiar, but she couldn’t place them. Thankfully, Pansy could.

“That is Regulus Black.” Hermione turned to look back at her, waiting to see the relevance of his supposed wizarding status. Pansy huffed before moving them away from an approaching group, finding a small corner under a headless Roman statue, “Did you not pay any attention during the sacred twenty-eight history part of Binn’s droning.”

“No, I didn’t. I found the whole thing a bit incestuous and rather elitist. One might even say prejudiced.”

“Oh well, yes, that is true, especially for what I’m about to tell you, but I figured you ate every class up like your cat does that disgusting food you feed it.” Hermione opened her mouth to counter against Pansy’s critique of Crookshanks, but she beat her to it, “Now isn’t the time to defend the beast. But Regulus Black is the heir to the House of Black. You know, like, Draco’s mother is a Black. Or you might know his disowned brother, Sirius Black. I believe he’s a boy-wonder’s godfather.”

Images of a very different man with near-matching features popped into her head. Much longer obsidian wavy hair, the same pale skin covered in black tattoos, stubble-covered cheeks and a bit rougher from years of smoking and partying. Most telling was the matching pale blue, almost grey eyes. Her mouth popped open in shock, and Pansy nodded excitedly, ready to gossip at the drop of a hat.

“Is he a squib? What is he doing at a muggle event? In muggle clothes?” Hermione pondered out loud.

“No, he is not a squib. Salazar Granger, don’t be so dense. He wouldn’t be heir if he were.” Pansy levelled her with an unimpressed, “But my guess is he dabbles a bit to keep an eye on muggle things as most families do. Make a little extra money off them and hope the ministry doesn’t catch on or pay them off if they do. I haven’t seen him in years, but he was always close with Cissa, Draco’s mum. I don’t know if he’s kept in touch with Draco after everything. I’ll do a walk-by and see if I can slip in. Do you mind entertaining yourself till I can find out more?”

Pansy didn’t give her a chance to answer, walking away instantly, leaving Hermione standing in front of the relatively large and well-endowed sculpture alone, her head just as empty as the headless marble before her. Pansy gave her no indication of how long this walk-by would take, so Hermione busied herself, wandering around the frame-covered walls, trying to slow her vodka consumption and take everything in.

Her restless mind always wondered if somewhere NotSoLucky was close, waiting for her as she did him.

That was how she found herself floating through the rooms. The sound of partygoers was a hum in the background. Her feet guided around different display walls and coves of masterpieces directly to Circe. Her neck strained as she looked up, the painting nearly two meters tall, hanging on the wall above her head. Deep teals and blues, vibrant and lush in their intensity, the strokes blending together like the pouring water depicted. The turquoise water blending in with the lush navy made her lean closer, the glow of the vibrant green basin dripping through the image and landing at the feet of the most famous witch herself.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, lungs empty and breath stolen, when she felt it—the subtle workings of magic. The painting was not enchanted to speak or mimic personalities like many portraits, but enough time around magical art allowed her to feel the signature of something. It was deep under layers of oil paint. The hidden magic woven into the innermost strands of the canvas, pulling you toward it from its core. The look of loathing rage burning in Circe’s glare to the creeping, lurking presence of the sea monster Scylla, all of it speaking to her. It was hypnotising as she tried to place what exactly stole her breath—so lost studying every millimetre that she didn’t notice the man sliding beside her.

He could have been there for an hour when he finally spoke, whispering not to interrupt her admiration, “A magnificent piece,” His deep voice was the only sound she could make out in the roaring chatter of the room. The words rumbled against her skin and sank into her bones. Hope bloomed in her chest that it was finally him, but too afraid to turn and look at the stranger. Scared of what she might find, worried about shattering the illusion built in her head.

It may or may not be him, but as they stood shoulder to shoulder, she couldn’t help but hold her breath and wonder. “I’ve never seen or felt anything like it,” the confession was for both the painting and him. The space between them felt electric. Sparks of the unknown skittered across her skin, making the hair on her arms stand on end, waiting for the moment to finally come.

“I find it hard to believe someone as beautiful as you hasn’t experienced all the wonders of the world,” out of the corner of her eye, she could see him shift and angle towards her, much braver than she was.

It pained her to tear her gaze away from Circe as if the witch and her victim below followed her every move, waiting and judging as Hermione turned on her heel. Soft blue eyes awaited her, sparkling like the vibrant blue waters of Circe’s cove, deeply set in tan skin. Chiselled cheeks frame an aristocratic face, looking like he’d spent a few weeks in the Mediterranean sun. Hermione couldn’t help but smile, relief filling her chest as she took in the handsome stranger.

“If only that were how the world worked,” nervously tucking a loose curl behind her ear, she continued her exploration of his features. Her stranger didn’t appear much older than her, 22, maybe in his early thirties, but even that seemed like a stretch.

He offered her a hand, a glinting gold ring catching her attention, making her breath catch. The only real clue she had was that it was him. It could be a long shot. She’d never seen the engraving on the small profile picture, only the shape visible to her, but now she could see all the details. A large flat sapphire is set in gold, with a crest engraved into the stone. The different facets reflect the colours of the painting before them. She knew lots of men wore rings, thoughts wandering to Draco and his silver, square-shaped crest. Any thoughts that this was not NotSoLucky were banished with his introduction, “Theo Nott, it’s a pleasure to meet another art lover such as yourself, Miss?”

The leading question left her little time to consider options, an impish casualness to his tone flustering her. The memory of Pansy’s nails on her shoulders shaking some sense into her kept returning, clearing the fog his presence created. She placed her hand in his, the lie heavy and awkward on her tongue but powering through. “A pleasure to meet you. Ophelia Potter,” the fake name didn’t create any reaction—a relief that her lie worked but disappointment that he didn’t recognise the wizarding name swirled in her chest.

Her unease and disquiet slipped away when Theo lifted her fingers to his mouth, warm lips pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. Playful crystalline eyes followed her reaction as he did it, a smirk on his lips when he caught her surprise. His thumb traced the ridges of her knuckles before continuing, not letting go of her, “The pleasure is all mine, Ophelia. Tell me, are your parents also lovers of the arts? Does your name carry thespian roots, or has pre raphaelite art always been a part of your life?”

The question made her smile in return. The memory of her parents always brought joy. With age, her grief at their death became nostalgic, and she never turned down an opportunity to speak of them. “It is Shakespearean in origin, but when they heard there was a painting of the same name, they ordered a print for my nursery. Not the happiest painting now when I think about it, but the memories of visiting the Tate to see her are.” Half lies seemed to be her crutch because her parents had loved the flowery work, soft greens and pinks on the falls and in the linens, and framed copies of classics littering their home and thus her childhood.

“That was going to be my next question, but I should have assumed an expert such as yourself has been in every museum and gallery on this island we call home.”

“This is my first time here.” Teeth tugged at her bottom lip, flushing as he smiled indulgently at the statement—the fragile thread of why they were both in the space dancing between them.

“And I’m so happy you are here.” The words were like a sigh of relief, blowing out a calculated breath as he released them.

“As am I, Theo.” His name rolled off her tongue perfectly, and Hermione found herself wanting to say it more and more, a bit jealous she wouldn’t hear hers from his lips.

There was a boyish flash in his eye, a mischievous tug at the corner of his mouth as he tackled the remaining elephant between them. She expected it to feel like ice water dumped over her head, but instead, his self-deprecating laugh was like warm honey on her skin, soothing as it coated her, making her want more like a child with sticky fingers, “You know I like the sound of that much more, and I feel very lucky right now.”

Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from proclaiming all the giddy emotions fluttering behind her ribs, she tried her hand teasing back, “I could imagine. Much easier for me to say, you know, as the one burdened with having to read it over and over again.”

That pulled a deeper laugh from him, chest vibrating while shaking his head and running his fingers through loose brunette curls. “Would you like to have a drink with me? See if I can erase the memory of that horrid username from your mind? If I have not scared you away yet, that is Ophelia.” The name made her want to cringe and roll her shoulders in, but she did her best to bury the regretful but smart decision in the back of her mind, occluding the lingering bit of embarrassment at its permanency before accepting.

“Yes, I’d quite like that, Theo.” They weren’t going far, the bar only across the room, but still, she accepted his proffered elbow and found her hand fit quite perfectly in the crux of his arm. Their steps were in almost perfect unison, leading her around the room with a fresh glass and describing why he liked and chose each piece. His attention to detail made her as dizzy as the cocktail in her hand, memories of being drunk on Draco’s touch flickering in her mind. His expertise and attention to detail for each piece made the room disappear around them. Not even the looks of other guests or the previously deafening conversation could pierce the bubble they had built.

But out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Pansy looking elegant and coy as she swooned, who Hermione assumed were the few wizards in attendance—wanting to make sure her friend was still okay. Theo noticed her staring, answering one of her most pressing questions.

“A few investors of mine, does your friend know them? I can’t say I recognise her.” His admission whisked away any hope of Theo being a wizard. Pansy had seamlessly slipped in with her usual pureblood crowd, looking nearly identical to her Fawley mother, another pureblood socialite, even if slightly disgraced now. Despite Hermione’s lack of knowledge of Regulus, any pureblood child would be able to recognise Pansy in a heartbeat for who she was. Theo’s discerning but unsure stare was all the proof she needed before finding another half-truth to fill the void.

“I believe she said from her childhood. I don’t know them, though,” as disappointing as it was, at least it was not another lie to Theo.

Theo led her towards another piece, away from staring and back to their little bubble, “Ahhhh, that is how those things go, isn’t it? You either know everyone, or you don’t.”

“And do you know everyone?”

“Enough, but I'd like to know more about some. I wouldn’t mind knowing everything about you.” She didn't think she was this starved for attention, but the simple interest made her chew the inside of her cheek, trying to remain flirtatious while melting for him.

“You flatter me—” Theo started to cut her off, but the short blonde woman from earlier hastily walked toward them. She wasn’t angry per se, but she levelled Theo with a knowing glare, brows flattened, and lips pressed as she stood before them.

“Theodore, you have other guests and investors to entertain this evening.” The condescending tone made Hermione tense, embarrassment colouring her cheeks as others nearby looked on.

“Ophelia, this is my assistant, Daphne. Daphne is very passionate about the work we do. Isn’t that right, Daph?” the blonde nodded, rolling her eyes as if she were talking to a sibling and not her boss. Theo looked sympathetically at both women. His smile slightly forced for the first time as he locked eyes with Hermione and continued, “And thus, she doesn’t mean to offend anyone with her directness. But I fear she is right. I wish to spend the entire evening with you, but duty calls. Are you and your friend all set for the rest of the night? Is there anything else you need? Daph would love to help make sure you are taken care of.”

To Hermione's surprise, Daphne nodded emphatically, excited she’d gotten what she wanted from Theo. Hermione relaxed just a little that there was some truth to what was happening before saying good night as gracefully as she could. “No, we are all set. It was great, wonderful actually, to meet you.”

It was Theo’s turn to flush a bit, just the lightest dusting of pink on his cheeks while lingering close to her for as long as possible, hesitating to leave and prolonging the last remnants of conversation. “You have no idea. But good, I’m glad you’ll be safe this evening. I’ll message you?”

The question was the first awkward moment between them all evening, the first tangible reminder of who they would turn into tomorrow when the clock struck midnight—the sickly reminder that this was a modern version of Cinderella’s pumpkin. For all the safety of her fake name, the fear of turning into a pumpkin pushed her to do the hands down the most reckless, foolish thing she’d ever done. Her voice trembled as she offered, unwilling to return to the app when she had a taste of what Theo was really like.

“We’re staying at the Savoy. The Ritz was booked,” the extreme luxury of it all made her laugh mid-sentence, His brows tightening in concern momentarily, “but if you have time after all your schmoozing and investing, maybe you could join for a nightcap? I could give you my number then.”

His eyes blew wide, and eyebrows raised in disbelief before he acted—leaning close to grab her hand again, bringing it to his mouth, and whispering the words against her skin. “It would be an honour. I’ll be there.”

There's another quick kiss, this time to her palm, flipping her hand over as if he owned every centimetre of her skin. The sensation travelled across her skin. Goosebumps popped up across her forearm, and nipples tightened at the gentle press of his mouth, making her needy for more. Her promise was a dangerous game, but as she spilt the details with Pansy on the short ride to the hotel, no regret haunted her—just adrenaline and excitement pumping in her veins.

Pansy sat with her for a while, the two effortlessly finishing a bottle of champagne between them. Other businessmen and travellers at the bar watched with eager interest. Hermione knew little about freestyling; her preferred line of work was purely digital. Just as Pansy wooed her with tales of stock trading, she held her interest with tips she’d seen other girls like her share for finding top clientele in bars like this.

A few sporting attempts were made to seduce the men who sent the occasional drink over, but Pansy grew tired, proclaiming it was too much work to guess if they had any real money, flirt with everyone, and try to enjoy the drink before her. As Pansy went up to their room, Hermione found herself with a deeper appreciation for the women and men who found clients like this regularly.

The American Bar was almost empty when the bartender asked if she was still waiting for someone. Hermione was nearly ready to close her tab, shame creeping up her spine as he eyed her from across the bartop, privy to all the salacious things she and Pansy had said. Judging her as he took away another empty drink she hadn’t paid for, eyes darting to the empty seat next to her as if it were a beacon for her loneliness.

She reached into her purse for her room key, planning to charge whatever bill she had to her room and scurrying away with her tail tucked between her legs, when again she felt a presence by her. Someone stood above her stool, a now familiar gold and sapphire ring adorned hand placed on the bar top, and Theo’s voice rang out over her head, “I’m so sorry to have made you wait, sweet girl.” His tone changed from light and relieved when he spoke to her to sharp and arrogant, disdain dripping from his lips when addressing the bartender, “A Manhattan and another of whatever she is enjoying.”

The bartender nodded solemnly before hustling away, the clink of metal spoons and ice mixing as he prepared another round of drinks. Theo didn’t move from where he stood, his other hand resting on the back of her neck and shoulder, thumb tracing the curve where they met. Long soothing strokes, his caress smoothing away the anxiety that built in her. Slowly, she turned to look up at him, wild curls falling back and found him waiting for her attention.

Theo watched her with concern, soaking up all the details of her appearance but speaking directly and unable to hide his frustration at what transpired with the bartender. “Do you want to stay here at the bar? We could sit anywhere else or even at a different bar. Anything you want.”

“You keep saying that, and sooner or later, I might take you up on it,” the words were imbued with brittle confidence, voice cracking at the end of the sentence—hoping she might trick herself into believing the interaction had not affected her.

He shook his head in jest, grinning at her flirtations, “Ohhh Ophelia, if only you knew how much I wished you would.” The movement, paired with the gentle pressure of his thumb at the base of her skull, thawed the nerves tightening around her spine, leaning closer to him like a puppet on a string. It felt a bit like playing with fire, how eager she was to be close to him, basking in the warmth of his attention while he seemed to make every fantasy of hers burn brighter.

“I wouldn’t mind sitting somewhere a bit more private. " Her eyes scanned the open bar, patrons thinning out, but her seat at the bartop made them the centre of attention—not the ideal space she wanted for getting to know Theo.

He worked quickly, grabbing their drinks and standing to the side, following close behind her. Again, his steps mirrored hers, her head sitting beneath his chin as he seemed to encompass all of her. Eyes across the room averted away when they tried to linger on the pair, and she had a feeling Theo’s sharp glare was to blame. He let Hermione lead them to a new spot, a corner tucked away with a plush velvet couch and low lamp light. Her knee brushed his while settling into the space beside him on the corner bench, and some foolhardy part of her didn’t pull away.

The minutes they spent talking felt like seconds, two hours dripping away like candle wax beneath a flame. Theo spoke of growing up with just nannies, entertaining her with stories of how he terrorised them and telling her wild tales about his time at a boy's boarding school far up north, on Norwegian and Swedish borders. He mimicked the headmaster, who scared him enough to pay attention to more than just literature and classics. The mocking tone made her cover her mouth to contain the merriment he pulled from her.

She had him in stitches describing the voracious sweet tooth she developed after her parents wouldn’t allow her most candies growing up. She covered up the few details she could when describing the refillable trays of Christmas puddings around the holidays at Hogwarts. Her secrets weighed heavy on her soul. She wanted to tell him everything as if they’d known each other their entire lives, but instead, she was caught dancing around answers due to the statute of secrecy. Theo made it easy to talk and twirl around the more complicated topics, bringing out something vulnerable in her. Even during a vibrant and heated discussion over the overconsumed and under-performed varieties of Shakespeare they both had endured in their lifetimes.

At one point, a waitress came by, telling them they would be closing soon. Theo just shook his head, informing them they could speak to the concierge and he would generously thank them for their time later.

“You don’t have to do that. I don’t want to keep you all night if you’re tired. It is getting late.” She tried to hide her face, a few curls falling free from behind her ears, camouflaging her chagrin at making such a scene. Theo surprised her again, not afraid to touch her but doing so with tender hands and reverent brushes. Long fingers dusted over her cheeks and moved the hair from her eyes. Her pulse roared at something so soft and tender. Different from the worn callouses on Draco’s hands just days prior, not better or worse, but something just for them. A tenderness that made her nestle into the touch.

“What a few years on you, and you think I need to go to bed by a certain hour like some old man?” He was leaning closer then, the boldest he’d gotten thus far. A heady spice blend of cigars and woody vanilla filled her senses, wrapping around her mind and memories of him like a toasty blanket by the fire as she bantered back.

“No, I definitely don’t think you are some old creep or something,”

“I don’t believe I ever said I was a creep. Is that what you think I am? That sounds like a slip of some kind. Maybe I should prove it to you.” He didn’t give her a chance to answer, lips pressing against hers, simultaneously taking what he wanted and giving her everything she desired. His gentle approach sweetened the harsh taste of rye, the lingering sweetness of a cigar mixing with the floral champagne on her tongue. It was almost chaste how he pressed against her, not greedy or demanding, instead savouring her, taking whatever she would return. And Hermione returned the gesture with fervour.

She’d kissed plenty of boys, muggles, and wizards. Some she remembered and some she didn’t, most barely leaving a mark on her memory. But none of them were like Theo. None of them commanded her presence with his words and quips, touched her like she was his, adoration in his fingertips, but at the same time let her lead. Allowed her the chance to scoot closer till she was practically in his lap. Encouraged her to set the pace at which she broke through the seam of his lips, teasing and touching his tongue with hers.

It was exploratory how Theo’s hands held by her thigh, fingers pressing against soft flesh and tugging them closer, hungrily consuming anything she gave him. She only pulled back for air out of need, breathless and panting between them. Her fingers brushed raw lips, and eyes shined with excitement when she found him looking down at her, matching enthusiasm in his stare, both suspended in the disorienting magic they shared.

Breathy fervent words came as soon as she could speak again, “I would stay up late for that.”

“Is it too bold to ask you to stay up with me? Even for a bit longer? If only to learn more about you, no expectations.” His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up to look at him, scanning her face for resistance, but he wouldn’t see that. Her thighs pressed together desperately, the only thing to stop her from crawling across the booth and shagging him right there in public.

She wasn’t sure how she accepted or what she said, but just moments later, she was standing in a private penthouse elevator. Theo’s hand was on the exposed small of her back, stroking her spine, keeping her as close to him as possible. Her arms were wrapped around his waist, hands under his suit jacket, and long nails teasing through his shirt as they sped by floor after floor.

The ride had been quiet, shared apprehension about bursting the effervescent champagne-filled bubble they found themselves in. Still, as the elevator dinged one last time and the doors rolled open, Theo broke their silence, following her path into the expansive suite. “Anything you want, I’ll be grateful for. I’ll take anything you give me in this moment.”

Chapter Text

Hermione stepped away for a second to breathe, mind overwhelmed, only able to comprehend how desperately she wanted Theo. The earnest want in his eyes made her pulse roar in her ears. She trailed a finger over the edge of a shiny mahogany entry table, heels clicking against checkered tiled floors as she entered the expansive room. The space was covered in large windows and overflowed plush couches littered with dreamily soft linens. It was nicer than any hotel room she’d been in. All of it much too pristine and crisp, much too lovely and formal for what she wanted Theo to do to her in it.

“I mean it, Ophelia, anything. I’ll fill an entire bathtub with the most expensive champagne here just to watch you smile as the bubbles tickle your skin.” The feel of his eyes on her skin now was more intoxicating than any bottle he could buy. Making every hair stand on end as if his gaze covered her like dew on a foggy morning. Coated in tender adoration and desperate need.

When she reached the far window, looking over the sparkling hustle of London below, she turned to find him still by the elevator doors—waiting to see if she would invite him closer. She reasoned he’d always been a perfect gentleman when asking for things. Never demanding or begging, paying without question and sending more than she imagined being worth, but the way his eyes appreciated every inch of her now, that was worth its weight in gold. “I don’t think what I want is that extravagant.” Theo cleared the room in a few strides, looking over her head at the skyline.

If the feel of his kiss had been magical earlier, then the press of his lips against her shoulder now was intoxicating. She leaned back into the touch, letting his hands steady her hips, his body casting a shadow over hers but not pressed as Draco’s had been. No, Theo seemed to like the teasing edge of what-ifs, toeing the line and making her beg. Where Draco touched, took and marked, Theo appeared to study and memorise, spent their time whispering affections, desperate and needy for her to jump after him.

“Oh? What is then? Is it soft and sweet like honey? Something decadent and sticky just for you. Or maybe you want passion? Intense and fiery, a need to burn with your pleasure.” His fingers were pulling up the hem of her dress, sensuous centimetre by centimetre. Her thighs felt the cold air of the room—not long before he had the garment up around her hips, the ruched edge of emerald green lace she’d worn just for him revealed. She’d been on display for Theo plenty of times, but hearing his breath catch now, seeing her in person, made her stomach flip and mouth dry out.

He let the fabric pool around her waist, thumbs moving to trace the edge of her knickers, featherlight almost ticklish. It made her buck back against him, wanting to feel more. “Don’t like to be teased?” a pathetic whine was all she could muster, and Theo’s fingers didn’t stop their perusal, dipping just below the seam over the curve of her arse, following it till his fingers pressed against the soaked gusset.

“Or maybe you do? Tell me what I can have, Ophelia. I need to hear it.” The only sign of his unravelling was the way he nipped at her ear, punctuating each word with teeth tugging at the sensitive lobe. Every inch of her felt ablaze from the touch and his proximity. He’d been right. Holding back from her made her crave him more.

“Everything, Theo, everything, please.” It was all it took, the simple ask before he twisted her in his arms and stole her breath. Gone were the gentle kisses replaced instead with a man starved, licking into her mouth, tasting everything he could, while his hands found her arse. It wasn’t domineering, though. The squeezes on her bum were teasing and taunting, and the nips at her lips were playful, making her lean in more. All of it pulled her in with the graceful magnetism that rolled off him in waves.

They worked as one, Theo lifting and Hermione jumping into his hold, banding his arm around her waist and her’s his neck, and blindly walking them into the bedroom. There was a loud thud, making her shriek and laugh as Theo kicked the door wide, her giggles unending as he tossed her onto the bed. She felt alive, more raw and intimate than anything she’d done before. There was no concern about how it might look from a certain angle or wondering if whatever fellow student she brought home would actually make her come.

There were no doubts about what Theo could and would do to her as he towered at the end of the bed. For all the fire that simmered in his eyes, his movements were crisp and smooth, shucking his jacket off and working on his cufflinks. Hermione took a moment to watch, leaning back on her elbows to take in the show for once as the fine-pressed cotton stretched over a svelt chest. As his shirt fell off his shoulders, she thought of the boys she knew growing up who played sports like polo, athletic and quick, muscular but not overwhelming.

He caught her appreciation, smirking as he was finally free of his confines, “Like what you see? Tell me, do you like to watch?” He stroked himself over his pants, and Hermione’s hands drifted towards the rucked-up hem of her dress.

“Maybe, if the view is nice enough. I could look at this room all day,” A haughty chuckle followed her words before he leaned down to kiss her again, leaving his trousers behind. The realisation that she was more clothed than him hit her as odd, but when her fingers went to pull her dress over her head, his hands stopped hers.

Growling between kisses, “Let me take it off. I’ve seen you do it enough. Let me take it off and take care of you.” The ask left her stunned, the final piece of the puzzle of who Theo was and what he wanted.

She relented easily, dropping the fabric as he dipped his head to kiss her thighs. Not removing his mouth from her burning skin as he worked up, taking the silk with him till she was raising her arms, and he was kissing her neck as it fell to the side. Theo leaned back on his heels, taking all of her in, “Hmmm, I remember telling a certain someone that I quite like green.” Finger pads slipped beneath the waist of her knickers, distracting her as his mouth descended on her breast. His tongue worked in slow, meticulous circles around her nipples. Taking time to pay each attention it deserved, her stomach fluttered with desire as her head rolled back, and shivers racked up her spine at his attention to detail. Covering her chest in the gentlest lovebites she’d ever received.

She only found her voice when he leaned down to kiss the soft skin just below her belly button, trailing towards the now near-black, soaked green knickers, which had grown uncomfortably wet with need. “Hmmm, have you? That sounds familiar now that I think of it.” Her finger pressed against her lip, faux consideration.

“Oh, don’t tease. I can barely keep it together. Imagining you put these on, hoping I would see it. You absolute tease of a woman.” Those were his last words before his mouth covered her. Kissing and licking through the thin lace, the heat and friction of the action cause her arms to give out under her. Her head hit the pillow just as he pulled a loud moan from her.

Theo didn’t stop, finding her clit through the rough damp fabric, speaking directly against her, “Fuck you sound so good, taste like heaven like heave too, I can never hear it recorded again. You sound like a hymn from angels, a siren in real life,” the vibration of the words made her cry out but not enough to lose it all. Not until he was pushing the gusset of her knickers to the side, a frantic string of pleases and more falling from her tongue as he moved one and then two fingers inside her.

It was almost too much. Nothing about her toys at home could compare to how Theo worked his fingers in and out of her, stretching her with every little movement, unsure how she would take his cock if this were just his hands. He curled and twisted till they hit the spot she could never reach, scissoring and stretching, making her feel full. His lips wrapped around her now exposed clit, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. All of it made her lightheaded, her moans mixing with the wet obscene sounds of his mouth against her cunt as she saw stars. Her vision went black as the London sky, velvety euphoria exploding behind her eyes with every flick of Theo’s tongue, making another star flash across her vision.

He didn’t let up, kissing and sucking, adding long, languorous licks through her as she trembled from her orgasm. The overstimulation was too much, thighs attempting to close in around him, large palms, sticky with her release, covering the backs and spreading them open again, continuing to drink from her as if she was made of sugar.

When he’d finally had his fill, he only pulled back to rest his head on her stomach, shiny lips leaving wet kisses on her lower belly and watery ocean-deep eyes looking up at her. He looked as relaxed as she was, grinning like a child on Christmas. He was euphoric from having just tasted her, his smile stretching to nearly his ears. Her fingers carted through his hair, instinctually scratching at his scalp, and Theo leaned into them like a cat, moving his head to make her scratch deeper.

It had not been her intention when she started petting him. She was desperate to touch him, eager for whatever would be next and to feel the same closeness he sought in holding her tightly. She never imagined that the gentle strokes of her nails would lull him into a softer slumber, arms wrapped around her waist, head rising and falling with her breath.

Pulling her phone out, leaning towards where it was discarded on the bedside table, was a risk, but she wanted to remember this in case Theo disappeared in the morning, grateful to have purchased his one night with her and not looking for more. She wished it was magical, that she could capture the serenity of how his eyelids softly twitched or the peaceful puffs of air from his lips.

The image was hard to make out in the dark hotel room, with only the lights from the city outside and the clock flashing nearly 4 a.m. on the nightstand beside her. Still, it soothed away her worries, allowing sleep to take her—a smile reminiscent of the ones he continuously sported, playing at her lips.

Fingers trailed across her hairline, pushing wild curls off her brow. The gentle touch expelled the last few dredges of sleep lingering in her system. Eyes fluttered until they shot open, surprised to find Theo still in bed with her. He sat up against the headboard, glasses over his eyes, a cup of tea in his other hand.

“Look who decided to join the land of the living. Would you like a cup? I had room service bring a selection, but it is Sunday. If brunch is more your style," She wasn’t sure how long he’d been awake, apparently watching her sleep, but there were still some remnants of groggy sleep in his voice. The sound was deeper and rougher, groaning in relief as he sipped. He eyed her, waiting, smirking over the cup as he took in her confusion. “It’s not poisoned if you are concerned about that.”

“I’ll take a cup, yes.” She moved to push her feet off the bed, body slow to move, the orgasm he’d given her persistent like a deep tissue massage. Before she could, though, spry as a pixie, Theo was up, whistling slightly, making his way toward the silver platter-covered cart.

“Milk and sugar?” he called over his shoulder, and Hermione had to shake the awe from her voice to respond.

“Honey and milk, but yes, please,” light seeped into the room through gauzy curtains, the entire space dusted in the warm glow of morning—an ethereal scene, dream-like, as she watched the smooth plans of Theo’s shoulders and back work. Sharp nails found the edge of her thigh, pinching herself to see if this was real.

Theo didn’t disappear with the sharp pain, instead turning to look at her over his shoulder, shaking his head at the sight of her laid out across the mountain of white hotel linens, “Should have expected that.”

“Oh, and why is that? You seem very chipper this morning.” she teased when he returned, gingerly handing her a cup. He looked younger, boyish even as he crawled back into bed in tight boxer briefs. Wild sleep-mussed hair stuck up in different directions, the beginning of a shadowy beard on his chin. Theo plopped back down into the spot beside her, waiting as she took the first sip. Only speaking after she nodded her approval of his brewing skills.

“Waking up next to you does that to a man, and what does that mean, chipper? Are you calling me old again? Not very nice of you, especially not when I just made you tea.”

She took a long, slurping for effect, head tilting side to side as if judging the quality, “Not bad, but I’m inclined to say you delivered it from half a room away versus made.”

“You are a little ball-buster, aren’t you? A minx and a swot, I assumed, but this sass. I must say, Miss Potter, I quite enjoy it.”

“I’m sure stimulating conversation can be hard to come by in your old age.” He threw his head back, laughing at her boldness.

“You wound me. Striking my twenty-eight-year-old heart with your arrows.” Theo’s hands flew to his chest, flattening himself on the bed, faking death as she giggled. The whole thing made her feel effervescent, free as a swallow, flickering around the room like their shared laughter.

It was natural, letting Theo consume her as if they’d known each other for a lifetime. She didn’t flinch when his fingers found her ribs, squealing and squirming as he tickled her, and she weakly fought back. She once had smacked another man for such an assumption, but with Theo, she found herself wiggling closer, even as she gasped for him to stop.

Hermione didn’t believe in love at first sight, but being with Theo now wasn’t first sight, was it? He’d spent over a year wooing her with gifts and caring for her in all the little messages he sent. Being thoughtful in her needs and had been a sounding board for her academic rants on more than one occasion.

The reality of being there now with him was like shedding a woollen winter coat, sheared down raw like a sheep in the highlands. Bare as the day she was born, literally and figuratively, naked in bed with a man who made her feel unburdened.

Eventually Theo relented, releasing her only to kiss her again. Gone was the taste of cocktails and desperation. Now, it was the lazy exploration of lovers, pecking and licking as he tasted her. Hermione couldn’t stop her body from rolling towards his, thighs falling open for him to slot between them perfectly. It was a mystery how she had gone the entire previous night without feeling him, but now she could—hardening under the soft cotton of his briefs, pressing heavy and long against her inner thigh. The sheer length of him made her gasp, and Theo swallowed the sound with a chuckle, rolling his hips against her, bumping the still-hidden head of his cock against her clit.

Her fingers were reaching for his waistband when she heard it. The unmistakable screeching yell that she was victim to at least once a week. Pansy’s voice rang through the suite, making both of them freeze, her threats harsh enough to make even the most veteran Azkaban prisoners pale, “I have a gun, and if there is a single curl out of place on her head, I will use it.”

They moved quickly, Theo rolling off her and Hermione grappling for the blankets, pulling them up over her bare chest as Pansy marched into the room. How the demon she called a roommate made it into their hotel room was a mystery, but there was no mistaking the determination in her glare. Dark near, black eyes landed on her first, a perfectly painted red mouth curling up into a smirk at the sight. “Well, good to know you aren’t as dead as your phone. Housekeeping will be happy to hear there isn’t a crime scene to clean up.”

Hermione held the crisp and thin cotton sheet to her chest as she stomped across the room, rage boiling her blood just thinking about what had been interrupted. She corralled her friend into the next room, waiting to hiss her frustrations till the door clicked behind them. “What in Circe’s fucking name are you doing here.”

“Ohhhh, I’m sorry! Should I have just assumed you were safe? You sent all those updates, letting me know you weren’t dead at the bottom of the Thames. I was just guessing here! Silly me that I didn’t think you were getting shagged out of your mind! I was just supposed to assume some strange man on the internet who sends you enough money to buy people and hunt them for fun wasn’t murdering you up here?”

“I think a murder would have been a little loud, and I had my wand.”

“OH YOUR WAND? Where in your missing knickers? Up your cu—” Hermione’s hand slapped over her mouth, shutting her friend up. Pansy only caught the dropping of her sheet, pulling back out of reach to comment.

“Yeah, I can understand paying for them, they do look great.” She might have appreciated the compliment any other day of the week, but now was not the time for such a scene.

“You need to leave. This was going well before you barged in. And you need to be quiet. He is not a wizard, and I don’t want to erase such a great night from his mind.”

“A great night, you say? You look pretty put together still….” Her eyes trailed over Hermione’s features, tallying the blooming love bites on her neck and chest and the charms from the night before thinning but still in place.

“Not the time Pans! I will tell you on the ride home. Just charge another night to my card, and I’ll come get you when we are done.”

Hermione was about to turn on her heel and waltz back into the room when Pansy burst what was left of her happy bubble, “And what? Take the train back to Oxford? Our driver is going to be here in 30 minutes. Don’t be so easy, Granger. Make him work. Grab your knickers and tell him you want to see him later.”

“I want to see him now.” She snarked, sounding more like a petulant child than the brazen witch she’d been the last 12 hours.

“And you need to play hard to get. He’s already seen it all. What did you say about those giant animals? Free cream or whatever? Don’t be a cow.”

“That was mean.” the words were disenchanted, grumbled and hard to hear, but Pansy ignored the sentiment. Shooing her back to the room.

“It was the truth. We are leaving. You’ll thank me when he chases after you all week. Now go say goodbye.” She hated that Pansy was right. She hated that she had things to do before lab and classes the next day. She hated every step she took back into the room, finding Theo tapping away on his phone as if she hadn’t just been there.

Luckily, he caught sight of her quickly, looking up with a giant grin she was beginning to learn was his signature before it fell, reading the disappointment on her face. She cut to the chase, her words dull and whiney, “As loathe as I am to leave, Pansy, my roommate, if you couldn’t tell, is right. We both have classes and things tomorrow.”

She stood at the edge of the bed like a child, limply holding her sheet in one hand, and Theo took the other, listening to her lament the situation. He nodded his head and kissed her fingertips, just letting her vent. “I don’t want to leave. This feels right. I can’t really explain it, but it does.”

“I completely understand. I would never want to get between EITHER of your studies.” His eyebrows wiggled at the emphasis, raising his voice just enough to indicate he knew Pansy was most likely listening on the side of the door. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, but Theo stole it from her when he tugged her towards the bed, letting her stumble and fall on top of him. “No gloom, you hear me? I’m not letting you go now that I’ve had you, but I’m not planning on chaining you to my side. If you’d let me, I’d like to get your number and see you later this week.”

“I’d like that. It might have to be in Oxford. I’m unsure if coming to London two weekends in a row is feasible.” Large palms stroked the back of her bare thighs, smiling up at her as she entered her number into his phone, saving it under the fake name that was certainly too late to change now.

“That’s fine. I’m sure I can find a plethora of reasons to be over there. You being the most important.” She allowed him to touch and kiss her wherever he could in their drawn-out goodbyes. Perturbed sighs in the background be damned, not willing to waste the last few moments they had. Until she begrudgingly watched the elevator doors close again with Pansy.

The drive back to Oxford was quiet, Pansy indulging Hermione’s pouting and, for once, not pressing for more details. The only time she seemed to pay Hermione any mind was when the vibrating on her phone continued to sound throughout the tight cab. Theo’s number popped up on her screen before they had even finished their ride down the elevator, the messages not having stopped since then.

Theo Not (Very Lucky)

Already thinking of when I can see you again. Is tomorrow too soon?

Hermione

I fear I may be covered in varnish tomorrow, but no, not too soon for me.

Theo Not (Very Lucky)

Were you not already? As a work of art yourself. I distinctly remember you resembling the birth of Venus on my bed last night.

But if tomorrow does not work or is too soon, a friend keeps hounding me to guest lecture on acquisitions and such. Daph says I could make it work Thursday or Friday.

I have a few investors who might want to meet on Saturday evening. If you wanted to be my date? Even though they are older than me, they aren't as geriatric as you seem to assume.

The message made her chortle, Pansy leaning over the middle seat to glance at the glowing screen. Hermione didn’t even try to hide it from her invasive nature. Now that she knew about Hermione’s extracurricular activities, there was no stopping Pansy. Pansy’s vested interest in her success could be choked up by their shared expenses, but Hermione sensed it was something deeper. That for all the mischievous mirth that danced in her eyes when storming into the hotel room, it had come from a place care too.

Their facade of just being roommates and friends by chance was long gone, and Pansy cared more than her little jabs or coyish aloof nature let on.

“Hmmmm, that was quick. I guess I was right.” She added before pulling away, expectantly looking at Hermione.

“I never said you weren’t right. I just didn’t want you to be right.”

“Salazar, you Grynfindors, for all your bravery, you can be a bunch of whiners. Well, you’ve got what you want. When are you going to see him?” Pansy tapped away at her phone, and just barely out of the corner of her eye, Hermione could see a picture of a few potted plants pop up.

She debated deflecting with pressure about Pansy’s avoidance of a title with Neville but decided against it, “Both, I supposed? Sandwich Draco between dates with him? Godric, does that make me greedy?”

“It’s the only thing you’ve ever been greedy about, Granger. You even share your food with the beast. I think you’ll be fine going on a few dates in a row.” Her fingers tapped quickly, and the soft sound confirmed that she agreed with Pansy.

Hermione

That’s quite a bit of my time this week. I think I’ll be able to pencil you in between work and classes.

Theo Not (Very Lucky)

Direct funds Transfer +£1000

Is that enough to lower the stress of seeing me again?

“Oh, he’s good. You didn’t even have to ask for that.” The approval in Pansy’s voice set Hermione on edge.

“I wouldn’t have asked him for anything. I like being around him.”

“Okay? You can like being around him and getting paid. What’s his name? I want to look him up. I can’t believe you stayed the night without looking him up.” Concern overpowered the condescending quip, and Hermione tried to keep her need to bite at bay, thinking of all the ways she might have busted the door down if Pansy or Gin had been in the one missing.

“Theo Nott, and well, sometimes we make reckless decisions for—”

Any hope she had at relating to Pansy's snarking concern evaporated when she cut her off, her voice rising a few octaves, “Nott? Theodore Nott?”

“Yes. Is that an issue? Oh, Godric, he’s not that guy who flashed girls on campus last spring, right?”

“What? No, they never caught him. Nott is most definitely a wizarding name, though. An old one, you know, the guy who wrote that silly Sacred 28 book you are boycotting? I swear, it is the only book you won't read, and here it is following us. There was a Thoros Nott, the same age as my grandmother at Hogwarts. Are you certain he’s not a wizard?”

“Well, he didn’t tell me if he was, but honestly, no. I don’t think so. There weren’t any of the usual slip-ups. I think he even said god at one point. And well, I called myself a Potter, and he didn’t even baulk. He didn’t recognise you either.”

“You called yourself Potter? What does that mean?” Pansy leaned forward, eyes like slits, shrewdly watching her.

Straightening her shoulders, proud of how it had worked so well, she added, “I used a fake name. Ophelia Potter, it was Ginny’s idea.”

“Oh, brilliant. I'm glad someone else was thinking about your safety besides just me. I’ll send Red a cake for that genius idea. So this guy thinks you're Ophelia Potter? And he didn’t recognise that at all? He looks like he’d use sleakeze.” Images of Theo’s curls between her thighs flashed in her mind, making her shift uncomfortable against the leather seat. It had been a lost cause finding her knickers in the mess of hotel linens, and now she regretted not looking harder.

“Hmmm, I can’t remember if Thoros had children. Strange ones, those Notts. The wife was a Dolohov way younger, like younger than my mother, and from out east….” Pansy droned on about the Notts. Hermione could not pay attention, her fingers working rapidly, and she told Theo about her predicament.

Hermione

Thursday and Saturday work. I have plans on Friday.

But I have a bit of an issue now.

Theo Not (Very Lucky)

Issue? With your driver? Is everything okay?

His name flashed on her screen, calling her when she took more than a few seconds to respond. She hated silencing it but typed quickly to lower the risk of another one.

Hermione

The driver is fine and lovely, nothing like that.

It’s my knickers. They mysteriously were nowhere to be found this morning.

Theo Not (Very Lucky)

Huh, that is strange. I’ll have to make sure housekeeping doesn’t find them.

But I do love the image of you being without them.

Hermione

Maybe I won’t wear any this weekend.

But that is not the point. I find myself terribly uncomfortable without them and thinking about this morning.

Theo Not (Very Lucky)

I’m not sure I’ll be much use to investors if you do.

A terrible predicament. If only you had stayed I could have alleviated you some more.

Hermione

A shame. Are you saying I should wear them?

To keep this discomfort at bay of course.

Theo Not (Very Lucky)

Direct funds Transfer +£500

Buy all the knickers you want. Wear them or not, so long as I see you.

And for the record, I said nothing of the sort. Just won’t be able to keep my hands off you.

Hermione

I don’t think I’ll mind much.

“Could you please stop sending raunchy trollop messages for five minutes, please? I think I’ve figured it out.” Pansy’s dry voice cut through the heat, licking at her cheeks, before throwing open the car door and hustling her out. Chattering on about her theory, the two hurried down the chilly street. “I think he’s a squib. I mean, really, the Notts are a bit of a mystery just disappearing after the Blood Purist party dissolved, taking their money out of Brittian and I know they had kids, but I can’t remember much else. But the Malfoys stuck around after everything. And so did the Blacks, so I think that's the only reason.”

Pansy’s speech didn’t stop as they moved up the steps to their building, words growing frantic and pitch rising as she wove her theory together, “Despite being purebloods, they had a squib and didn’t want anyone to know. It makes sense if he knows Regulus if they are the same age or something. You should see if Boy Wonder and Red can ask Sirius, but he’s older, so I’m not sure. It might alarm those saviour Gryffindors about the company you keep, but I bet he is the middleman to their muggle endeavours. Salazar I am a genius!”

Hermione gaped at Pansy’s clap of achievement as the doorman welcomed them in. “You figured all that out? In what? Ten minutes?”

“What? It’s not hard most of that is deductive reasoning.” Hermione didn’t get a chance to continue, the doorman stopped them again, waving them toward the front desk.

“Ladies, wait! A few packages came,” He looked them both over in their day-old dresses and lingering party makeup. Pansy ignored it, holding her hand out to sign while Hermione looked over the assortment. Most of it was the usual shopping and necessities that shipped automatically, but on top of it all was a brilliant Murano glass vase, purple blooms overflowing.

Pansy judged it carefully, curling her lip as she spoke, “Violets? Seems awfully simple. I know they mean enchantment, but it’s a bit plain.” She stroked one of the purple petals, eyes darting to Hermione, trying not to offend.

It struck Hermione then that the flowers weren’t about the meaning. They were about her. “In Hamlet, Ophelia’s violets represent devotion. They wither up when her father dies, but she wants to give them to show her appreciation.”

‘Huh, a bit morbid, don’t you think?” Pansy quipped as they gathered their things and made their way up to the flat.

“It’s a morbid play. But to know that much about Shakespeare, it couldn’t have been his assistant. She was fine but didn’t strike me as someone at the theatre often. He had to request these.”

“Well, it’s thoughtful, I will say that. And quick. He must have had his assistant do it the night before. Smart.” Pansy emphasized Daphne’s presence as if to remind Hermione not to let her illusions grow too grand. That for as thoughtful as Theo could be, he still probably did little himself.

“I can’t tell if you are impressed or annoyed we have to carry this stuff up.”

“Both.”

Chapter Text

Theo felt as if he could run a million muggle marathons when he finally entered the peculiarly dark townhome. The bright morning sun and his excitement from just moments ago disappeared as the door slammed shut. The sound reverberated down the hall, eerily calm and quiet—unlike Draco, who usually puttered around talking to himself and occasionally humming as he went about a lazy weekend day whenever he was home.

That's what this was: their home. Every corner of it carved out with details of them, dark parquet wood floors and matching moulding extended up the wall, rich emerald paint and heavy leather couches. Hogwarts and Durmstrang memorabilia littered about, moving pictures in all different coloured and sized frames all over the walls. Each one depicts their travels, Monaco and Cairo, a whole month in Osaka and more than one spent on a beach somewhere secluded, even the occasional still muggle one interspersed too, taken by whoever was close enough for them to ask. Theo’s notes and books covered half the side tables, and Draco left his numerous wand harnesses on the counter. The wizard probably owned too many, but Theo couldn’t help but love the sight of him shirtless and only the harness across his chest.

The scent of muggle cigarettes lingered in the air, a nearly half-empty bottle of firewhisky on the kitchen counter, the burning scent of the alcohol and the itch of smoke blending with the warm smells of the home he had spent years building. It appeared Lotty hadn’t been through yet to tidy up, or Draco had sent her away wanting to be alone, brooding over whatever struck his fancy. Theo loved him like that, contemplative as he lingered in the brick back patio, a cigarette from his lips and amber-filled glass in hand, waxing poetic about their future or ranting about whoever had set him off at work, usually the poor red-headed idiot who his partner called a best friend.

It wasn’t an uncommon smell. The two enjoyed a drink with a nightcap and a cigar together most evenings, even if he wasn’t bemoaning something— however, this felt different. Theo didn’t expect Draco to be some kind of monk when he wasn’t around, but it struck him as odd that Draco had slept well into the afternoon and the near ancient and expensive bottle was no longer dusty. The scene brought his cheery mood down a bit, overshadowing images of Hermione finally spread out like a feast just for him in real life. It made his heart race, blood pumping to his cock at just the unbelievability of it all, the whiplash of concern for whatever mess Draco found himself in after a long day at the ministry and the memory of Hermione’s supple skin and delicate moans. Shucking off his outer robes and made his way toward their bedroom on autopilot, trying to grapple with the reality that she was real and wanted him, wanted both of them.

He could still taste her on his tongue, the shape of her etched into his skin, and Theo wanted nothing more than to tell Draco about how perfect it had all gone. Draco was everything, make no mistakes, but Theo had known from their first date that they both had more to give than just what they shared with each other, and his heart raced with excitement to tell him it would work out.

Toeing off his shoes on the first floor, Theo remembered the first night Draco caved and stayed over. Their clothes and shoes were strewn about the entryway and kitchen, priceless art and ugly family heirloom vases shattered on the ground as they grappled at each other. They were nothing more than a whirlwind of lust and freedom. Theo was the first wizard Draco had ever kissed, and Draco was a beautiful, magical thing Theo had coveted for months. He spent hours worshipping every pale, creamy inch of Draco’s body, discovering and cataloguing every random freckle and scar, plotting them like the constellations he was named for. Whispering devotions into his back and licking runes over his muscular chest and stomach, marking him with every piece of magic in Theo’s soul.

That night, Theo truly understood magic. He could finally comprehend the power and spark that lurked inside both wizards, Draco was kerosene to Theo’s flame. Making him see colours he didn't know existed, sparking to life with every press of their lips and nip of their teeth. It made Theo want to give until Draco was boneless and pliable before consuming him whole. Steal every orgasm Draco freed and devouring it in a greedy frenzy.

After that, Draco never left, moving in the next day, and Theo didn’t stop giving, whether in the bedroom or all the little luxuries that made Draco smile and blush, 10 custom-enchanted wand harnesses and counting. Theo could have blamed it on him needing to escape his father and the manor he was shackled to, or maybe Draco knew a good opportunity when it presented itself, but it didn’t matter now. It had only taken one month with Draco to start chipping away at the cool, aloof exterior he held onto so tightly. He was a bit like a white Persian cat, his blonde hair everywhere but also in how he started claiming little nooks of the home, making himself comfortable and relaxed till finally, he confessed to Theo that despite the near perfection they found in each other, he had a crush on a certain witch.

Theo rounded the corner of the second-floor stairs, shaking his head, remembering Draco's nervousness, the shake of his voice and how he swallowed between every word. After a long day of Auror training, tired and wet from the extended hot shower, they had shared, so anxious he hid his face in Theo’s chest as he admitted it—sharing that guilt ate at him, that it was why he took so long to move in. Theo shook his head now at the memory, the same as he had then, relieved that Draco was so open and excited, thinking of how he had described her brilliance in such great detail. Struck dumb by how lucky they were to find each other.

As he looked across their bedroom, Draco sleeping face down on Theo’s pillow, he thought of that luck and what they agreed upon—that Theo and Draco would always have each other, and if another witch or wizard fit into their lives, they were more than welcome.

It had taken Theo longer to admit his little fascination with the beautiful girl on the livestream. Draco was supportive but still too young to shed his pureblood, raising entirely. The website's homepage made him flee the office at first, the bright flashing colours and images of half-clothed men and women challenging the doctrines of his childhood a little too much. Eventually, Theo coaxed him back, letting Draco sit on his lap and lean back against him, cock hardening in Theo’s grip. It had been a good thing in the long run because Draco nearly fell from their chair when a wild set of curls and soft pink lace appeared on the screen.

It had been a perfect coincidence, almost as flawless as Draco’s ruddy cheek this morning, heated from a deep sleep as Theo sat on the bed beside him. It was serendipitous, an act of the fates weaving their threads together, that Theo’s obsession was a witch and also Draco’s childhood crush. Now, with fingers still covered in the memory of Hermione, he brushed silvery blonde strands away from faint fluttering eyelashes, the corner of Draco’s mouth tucking back at the motion.

Theo felt light as air, letting Draco continue to feign being asleep and debating how he might put into words how exceptional his evening had been and how close they were to having everything they wanted. Wizards didn’t pray like he knew muggles did. Some built altars and brewed in the name of witches and wizards of old, but most used their names in jest. Now, Theo debated, offering some kind of thanks up to the fates.

He had known with Draco the first moment he saw him sulking in the corner of some pureblood fundraising ballroom. Hearing his dry, sarcastic laugh when Theo poked fun at his father sealed the deal that Draco and his prattish ways were his forever.

He had known with Hermione the first time she’d lit up talking about her studies. Even in the grainy camera, he wanted to make her feel that way over and over again. He could and would listen to her describe paint drying, just to watch her cheeks turn pink from excitement and eyes sparkle at the chance.

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve woken me up looking punchdrunk? Did she take you for a few rounds? Couldn’t make it home to me.” The subtle huffing whine at the end of the barb illuminated Theo to precisely what was happening.

Theo pressed his rough, stubble-covered cheek to the smooth skin on the back of Draco’s neck. How the wizard managed to be so soft and tender despite rolling around in training or in the field most days would always fascinate Theo. Like clockwork, Draco tried to push him off. The tickling sensation made him groan and wiggle away. It was a defence mechanism for Theo, making those he loved laugh and driving away whatever inky dark thoughts or feelings might linger on the edges of their happiness.

He usually did it with a joke or a gift they couldn’t refuse. An ugly trait he stole from his mother, who used to crawl under the covers with him and hide from his father under the guise of putting Theo to bed. She’d spoil him with toys and sweets the next day, laughing away the memories of whatever drove her to hold him closer.

He was sure a mind healer would have plenty to say about his tactics, but Theo had no plans to taint his memories of Anya Nott and thus focused instead on waking Draco. Another pass of coarse morning whiskers, and Draco sharply rolled over, his eyes moving just as intensely as his shoulders. Huffing while smiling the entire time, Draco flopped onto his back, their faces close enough to share a breath. Theo used the opportunity to kiss him instead of answering his prissy question.

Draco tasted of firewhisky and muggle cigarettes, the sensation making Theo want more—hungrily pressing closer till their teeth bumped, and Draco gave him a little shove. “Care to explain why you taste like a muggle pub? And are extra grumpy this morning?” Theo kissed along Draco’s chin as he pestered him, ignoring the eye roll Draco gifted him.

“Care to explain why you taste like champagne and cherry lipgloss?” Draco countered, sitting up till the sheet fell away, his half-hard length bobbing against his thigh, stark against the tattoo wrapping around it, the one Theo, in particular, liked to lavish upon. Theo knew they had much to discuss, but the sight of Draco hardening and waiting for him made all the blood rush from his head, words nearly impossible to form.

Theo tried to lean forward and take him in hand, a few strokes and Draco would lose the insolent demeanour that held him this morning, but Draco was faster. Even a hangover couldn’t keep his auror skills at bay, grabbing Theo’s wrist and giving him a deadpan stare.

“What if I tell you in the shower?” The wiggling of his eyebrows was mostly for comedic effect, but it worked. Draco released a long sigh before nodding his agreement. Theo couldn’t help but chase Draco into the large marble-covered bathroom. There was something to be said for muggle ingenuity. The warm stone tiles under their feet were proof enough for that. Without it, he would have needed to find his wand wherever it was with his clothes and cast a charm and hope it lasted long enough, but now it was just ready for them as if the home knew what he and Draco needed.

Draco maintained his flippant attitude, turning the water to the boiling hot he loved. With just the first few droplets, his skin turned pink, steam rising around him like some kind of cherub and cloud filled painting.

The sight of Draco’s skin reddening was always Theo’s favourite, whether it be him tipsy by a fire during their ski trips over the holidays, no reason to stay in London without family. Or when Theo’s hand found his arse when Draco talked back a bit too much, it made something deep and needy spark to life in his chest. Draco tried his best to remain nonchalant, tone low and dry as he spoke, but Theo could see him hardening, going from pliable and delicate to rigid and stretched, curving upward towards the silvery hair that ran up Draco’s stomach.

So distracted by the image, he almost missed Draco’s question, “I take it you got to shag her then?”

There it was. The petulant tone of a spoiled child rang out through the shower stall, bouncing off the glass till Theo looked up and met Draco’s eyes.

“Is that what this little morning troll performance is all about? Last I remember, you came home very tipsy the other night, raving about how perfect her breasts felt in your hands. Was I supposed to wait?” Theo couldn’t help it, coming up behind Draco again and pressing him against the shower wall. No amount of inner heating would ever cut the bite of cold stone when lava-temperature water rained down on you.

Draco pushed back, tight muscular arse pressing against Theo’s cock, his length slipping between Draco’s arse cheeks. Draco threw his head back at the sensation, subconsciously pushing harder, seeking all of Theo.

“I just want her so bad,” the whine was sweet and needy on Theo’s tongue as he swallowed it. He loved Draco’s desperation, the bite of his words, and high expectations, and how all of them together made him prickly and begging simultaneously. A spoiled man, Theo loved to indulge, but sadly, he couldn’t deliver this luxury. They were stuck earning it on their own.

Theo nipped at Draco’s neck, his hand following the dip of his hips and abdomen to fist his cock, “I know you do love, so impatient though. But no, I didn’t fuck her, just tasted. Should I have?”

All Draco could do was moan in response, his words lost to Theo’s strokes, letting the older wizard talk in his ear, “She’s so sweet, almost like you. I wish you could taste her, made an absolute mess of herself and let me lick it clean.” Draco’s head knocked back against Theo’s shoulder, his thighs trembling as Theo grasped harder, moving his wrist in circular motions as he pumped. “Soaked the bed and my chin, Drake. I fell asleep right between her thighs, high as a bloody kite. Her warm thighs wrapped around my ears, and Salazar she played with my hair. I about came in my pants like a schoolboy.”

Something about the last bit sent Draco spiralling, whispering the lubrication charm and keening back toward Theo. Theo would be a fool to deny him, his cock still painfully hard from the early hours of the morning. Draco needed more prep, and Theo usually loved opening him up. Using his fingers and tongue to make Draco melt into the bed till he was boneless before fucking him, but neither had the patience today.

Theo lined himself up after just a few minutes of work with his fingers, Draco’s precum leaking all over his other hand, alerting Theo that he was close. “You tell me if it’s too much, love.”

Draco could barely even respond, pushing his hips back again as Theo thrust up. Both of them called out as he drove past the tight ring of muscle. Draco wrapped around him like a vice, tears in his eyes as he begged for more. Giving his love everything he desired was Theo’s favourite thing to do, and now it was no different. His Achilles heel was when Draco panted and pleaded, and all Theo wanted to see was him crumbling against the shower wall in ecstasy.

It had been the same with Hermione, holding her thighs open as she squirmed and took everything he gave her. The mirror images of her and Draco overwhelmed with euphoria made his chest swell. The space behind his ribs was filled with dancing wild leprechauns zipping around like he’d won the Quidditch World Cup.

Only a few more pumps of his hips and strokes of his hand and Draco melted. Gone were the smug and dry nips, and replaced instead with the smiley loose version of his star. The one who let Theo towel him off, tousel his hair, and bring him to the tufted bench of their kitchen window nook. The same Draco who wore Theo’s old Durmstrang quidditch jumpers and leaned his head against the frosty window and smiled into his coffee while Theo peppered him with kisses between refills.

It appeared not all of his contempt was gone through. As Draco pulled his feet up on the bench, he asked, “Are you going to tell me more besides the fact that you shagged her and I didn’t.”

Theo bit back the laugh that was in his throat, Draco’s annoyance at having lost whatever competition he’d built in his head still a sore spot even after getting fucked. He took the opportunity to set a plate of bacon, potatoes and eggs, one of the few meals he could make without Lotty, down in front of him before responding, shaking his head at the memory, “Yeah, she introduced herself as Ophelia Potter.”

“Yeah, I think the she-weasel knows about the whole thing. Potter said something about shopping and sleakeasy yesterday at the Leaky.” Draco mumbled the last bit into his mug, and Theo shook his head.

“I should really send them a gift basket. Your friend Pansy was there. Does she know who I am?”

“Her uncles killed your father years ago. Seems a bit late now. And Parkinson?” Theo nodded, waiting for him to continue, sucking on his cheek, thinking about the brashy witch who did have a care in the world about interrupting them this morning. Relieved someone was busting Draco’s balls since he rarely did. “I haven’t told her. She can’t keep a secret, and I’m not telling her before mother.”

“That’s probably best. I’m not sure my other investors would appreciate hearing through the grapevine.”

Draco scrunched his nose. The unnamed mention of his father and godfather made him twitchy, forking, spinning in his fingers. Theo tried to rekindle something between the head of House Black and the disowned but not revoked Black heir, but it was a lost cause today. Draco moved on quickly, “But what else? Stop making me wait.”

Theo turned from the stove to look at Draco straight on, head resting on his knees, eyes wide and bottom lip between his teeth, “When have I ever made you wait? But she’s funny and sweet, smart as a whip, and knows more about art than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Anyone?” Theo knew the unasked question, did she know more than his mother? And Theo considered that maybe for once someone did. Perhaps he was more like Draco than he thought, skirting past the probing and seeking out the distraction of a game.

“I think so, yeah, but do you want to hear the best part?” Draco leaned across the table, like a puppy hungry for scraps, and Theo decided two could play his teasing game, up the ante on whatever little competition he’d concocted in his head and didn’t bother telling him about. “I’m seeing her on Thursday anddddd Saturday.”

It took Draco a minute to realise, “That’s great, we know she likes me, it's you she—” he paused a rasher of bacon halfway to his mouth when his eyes narrowed, realisation washing over his face, red climbing up his neck. Molten silver irises sparked when he cracked, accidental magic shaking the glasses on the table, “BEFORE AND AFTER MY DATE?”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Theo’s week was not going as planned. Monday started as it always did, a quick workout in the basement, kissing a sleeping Draco goodbye on the younger’s off days, and swallowing the coffee Daphne procured while listening to whatever update she scrounged up in the pureblood gossip pools. Sometimes, it felt like he lived a lifetime before sitting down and digging into what he was really there for. He wouldn’t say it was hard or easy work, just tedious. Numbers ran together after a while, accounts all starting to look the same, losses blending into gains, and trying to remember if it broke even or if he came out on top.

Even conversations with his uncles, the ones who lurked around the offices nagging him like flies on the once decaying remnants of their familial wealth that he saved, didn’t set him off. No, he faked nice, told them how well Saturday went and smiled through their ill-informed suggestions and ideas about misusing muggle funds for whatever they deemed necessary.

Their muggle investments were what kicked off the sour mood he currently sported. He’d looked at the Coutts & Co. reports multiple times, and everything appeared normal till he saw it out of the corner of his eye, a subtle ripple. A small glamour charm was placed on a page, the magic making it a little too white, almost blue and wavy, like you were looking out across a hot desert. It was the type of thing most people would miss, the same things that the statute of secrecy aimed to avoid. If you weren’t looking for it, you would skim past and assume everything was fine, but a quick tap of his wand showed Theo a different story than he had previously assumed.

There were little changes, nothing too noticeable even revealed, but a few galleons or muggle pounds here or there added up, and the two monthly statements before him equalled nearly 10000 galleons and upwards of another 50k in pounds. It took everything in his body not to throw the papers across his desk in a rage, nerves rattling about what and how long this had been happening. It wasn’t the most someone could steal, hell his uncles had swindled more than enough from their family vault before Theo took over from his late father, but he would stew until he knew who had done it and how long this had been happening.

With a long, steadying breath, he tried to think through a plan, wondering who he could even trust to look through all of this with him. The only option was Daph, the only person besides Draco he let glimpse into his personal life and his right-hand witch for the past 4 years. He debated calling in her sister, who was some kind of cursebreaker, and her boyfriend, another friend of Draco’s, to see if they wanted to dig around a bit. Still, whatever was happening, there was no way he could trust anyone else who dealt with the accounts.

In the quick search he was able to do that morning, the muggle accounts appeared to have taken the biggest hit. Every single one, Coutts and Co., JP Morgan, Barclay and Santander, all of it adding up as a headache formed between his eyes. Daph gave him a confused raise of her eyebrows and annoyed narrowing of her eyes when he asked for a pain tonic and told her to schedule an extra one-on-one for that afternoon around lunch. But then his day went from bad to confusingly worse when his phone lit up. The pink logo of the cam website alerted him that Hermione was live. Normally, surprise peeks at her would make his day, but his attention was torn elsewhere, and confusion as to why she was going live when he knew she was most likely working made his mind spin with worry.

There he was, his phone propped up on his desk, loading a screen full of brown curls and amber skin as his eyes darted back and forth between her in a sheer black piece and a pile of papers that were taking more and more finites to remove the glamour charms. His eyes throbbed as he continued to cast and cast, growing more agitated as the missing sums grew with each increasingly difficult charm. He practically growled when some of them were unable to be opened, and the only thing keeping him from spiralling entirely was the quick math. Even if this had been happening since the day he took over, the numbers were small enough that his assets would be fine.

The principal of it all chafed him and made it near impossible to focus and find relief in her. That some of the few people he trusted or was forced to keep around to save wizarding face had grown too greedy for the large dividends and salaries he already gave them. He shook his head, trying to clear the anger that boiled in his veins and spine, landing instead on honey-coloured eyes.

“I hope no one minds the change of schedule again today!” Hermione cooed towards the camera, more and more gifts popping up. Normally, the gifts didn’t bother Theo. Well, that was a lie. They did grate at him just a bit, but he usually offered more to distract from whatever paltry 15 pounds someone else sent. Today, each flashing in the chat was like a poisoned dart straight into his throbbing eye.

It didn’t help that Hermione’s tone was different, another weight on his heaving chest—the need to fix everything before him eating at the edges of his consciousness. She was always a bit nervous and shy on camera. It was what drew him to her, but today, she looked anxious, a large display of garish purple flowers behind her head. Casting an odd-coloured shadow, looking almost like a bruise against her usually vibrant skin. “I won’t be around Thursday or Friday, but I wanted to make sure you all knew how much I appreciate you!”

A burning sensation filled the space behind his eyes—the muscles holding them in place cried out in pain as they rolled at all the thank yous pouring in. His morose mood kept him from responding, guilt gnawing at his already uneasy stomach that it was his fault she was live today when she had dissertation meetings and work. Unsure he was capable of not snapping at every single person watching. Hermione’s smile stretched tightly across her cheeks as she pushed her hair off her shoulders, fingers toying with the straps of her top.

MacInManchester: Come on, lovely, you can do more than that. Give us a real show if you won’t be around +£25

She usually ignored the more forceful comments, but today, Hermione didn’t tease back, almost immediately pulling down her top to reveal the perky breasts he teased and licked at just days ago. The ones that bounced when he tossed her on the bed, and she giggled for him.

Hermione wasn’t his—yet—she hadn’t even told him her real name yet, and he and Draco were maybe possibly, sort of, okay, most definitely teetering on being liars and internet creeps, but that didn’t mean they weren’t perfect for each other. They would find a way to explain that later.

Seeing her now bend to the demands made his skin itch, teeth grinding and adding to the blooming migraine, as he tried to process why she was live and seemed to be going through the motions so aggressively. It was obvious to him now how carefree and blushed she looked when she came for herself at his hand, but instead, as she spread her legs wide and pressed two fingers inside of herself with little preamble, a forced moan falling from her lips, he could see the charade for what it was. The others didn’t seem to care, though, paltry offerings littered among their demands.

BigRugby69: Can you fit three? What about your arse? One in there please +£15

BeekerBreaker: Smack your tits and arse +£5

BeekerBreaker: and cunt +£3

Theo thought he caught a glimpse of surprise in her eyes as if her brows were frozen or, more likely, a glamour charm worked overtime to keep her brows in place from scrunching. Draco said she was a prodigal at charms, but he could see how they kept her hair exactly where it belonged and eyes bright even as they seethed at the command.

The blood in his veins felt like lava, burning as she didn’t quip back, just rolled over on all fours, smile plastered on overly sweet, looking over her shoulder as she landed a smack against the soft heart-shaped flesh on display for them.

MacInManchester: Harder +£25

When Hermione’s hand pulled back as if she were going to land another blow, that was the final crack in Theo’s composure. He started bombarding the chat with gifts, uncaring what they added up to, anything to make it ding and bring her attention back to him. She was a grown witch and could do whatever she liked, but he was at his wit's end—not wanting to watch something that felt so removed from the real her. Like a child tugging on their mother's skirts for attention or Draco stomping around the townhome when he didn’t have the newest broom, Theo kept pounding his foot and hitting send.

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

NotSoLucky🌹 sent you +£500

The genuine look of shock on her face as she scrambled around, crawling across the small pillow-covered bed, made Theo chuckle. Relieved to see real emotion on her face, he didn’t even mind her momentary annoyance, too lost in the flash of excitement in her eyes, realising it was him sending the gifts to care and wondering how he could get her into his much larger bed relaxed him.

“Thank you, Th– NotSoLucky, that is very generous of you, but I promised everyone else something special today to make up for later this week.” There was something pure about the way she scolded him, the same heat that built on his spine when Draco said thank you for gifts or pushed Theo to his limits with the petulant snark that came as naturally as his blonde hair. Hermione’s treatment of him as if he were just another viewer had him hardening against his thigh, stretching the fabric of his trousers, imagining how it would feel to see that playful dismissive gleam in her eye while she rode him, or better yet if she rode Draco and made him watch.

He wasn’t sure when he became such a voyeur, but she brought it out of him. There was no doubt about that. He sent a few more deposits, not challenging her demands. Grateful, she focused on him and stroking himself over his slacks when she went back into her position, a soft smirk playing across her face now. Her lips twisted and pursed as if to keep from giggling as two fingers pressed into her cunt. Her face lost to curls and smooshed into her mountain of pillows as others did their best to match his tips. He enjoyed watching them try, most barely cracking 100 pounds as her moans grew louder.

Her prowess with unspoken magic had him finishing on his desk, overwhelmed with how much he wanted to feel it skitter across his bones when they finally came together. It looked flawless, the sheer concentration and strength she possessed to do such a thing, manipulating muggle technology wordless and wandlessly, she zoomed the camera in, close enough to watch the gush of release trickle down her wrist and thighs, moving to catch her damp hairline and glowing face, smiling into the camera for him. He knew it was. That defiant glimmer was back, a spark of personality that he didn’t think anyone else in the chat could cultivate from her.

Channeling Draco to the best of his ability, thinking of all the photos he sent him when they did spend a few days apart for work, Theo snapped a picture of the mess he made. Ropes of white sticky come covering the edges of his desk, dripping onto the floor and now softening cock hanging from his fly, all of it feeling a bit much, but with a nervous swallow, he sent it to her anyway. Adrenaline pumping through his veins at the memory of her performing just for him when the others thought they could have her, intensified by how powerful she was.

Theo Nott

Look what you do to me

He laughed to himself before scrambling for his wand and vanishing the mess away, watching the little dots next to her name appear and disappear before she finally responded.

Hermione

Did you like it? I’ve never done that on camera before.

Theo Nott

I adore everything you do, but that was spectacular. I would love a repeat performance sometime.

Hermione

I believe that can be arranged, unsure if Thursday would be the best day for that.

A bit of post-euphoria shame crept up his neck at the unwritten ask in her text. His mind tumbled over why she might not want him on Thursday. He hadn’t meant to imply it was required every time he saw her, but he worried she felt obligated to entertain him. Theo had meant what he said to her in the early hours of Sunday morning. He wanted nothing more than to watch her drink champagne in a tub or sip tea with all her clothes as much as he wanted to make her drip down his chin till she couldn’t think.

Theo Nott

I’ll be happy just to see you smile on Thursday, even if it’s for five minutes.

Hermione

You’d come to Oxford for five minutes with me?

Seems a bit much.

Theo Nott

You underestimate me, is it my age again? I thought we were past that.

Nevertheless, I’d come for one minute, pun intended.

And I have you all day and evening on Saturday, correct?

Hermione

That is what I have in my diary.

Theo Nott

Good, bring your passport.

And in case you need new knickers

Direct funds Transfer +£1500

He didn’t have time to see what she responded, unsure if he could handle the rejection of her not wanting to go somewhere with him, but there was a knock on his door. One of Daphne’s sister's classmates, some Sphinx branded school-aged crush or whatever it was they used at Hogwarts, but he couldn’t remember. The kid helped around the office and had poor timing. Theo tried not to take out his frustrations on the out-of-breath and sweaty young wizard or snap when he mentioned bloody quidditch scores so much during the workday, even though it seemed like every bloody Hogwarts student he knew was pulling his attention away from Hermione.

Chapter Text

“Honestly, Hermione, I’m not your assistant. I can’t be at your beck and call welcoming your guests all day.” Ernie's voice drawled from the door, sandy blonde brushed to the side, his eyes following the overparting as he rolled them. She looked over at the large clock overhead, nearly half past six. The intrusion made her yelp, scolding herself that, nearly every day that week, time had slipped away from her.

“Sorry, Ernie, I didn’t know anyone else was still here!” She called, tugging her wand from her hair to quickly magic everything back into its place, offering him the most uncomplicated smile she could muster. His picking at her was reaching an all time, and her ability to ignore it was at an all-time low. It was like a pack of ghouls had taken root in his head the past week, and he was destined to take it out on her.

His huffs were filled with annoyed indignation as she cast the last few preservation spells on the piece she’d been working on, closing the containers of new solvents he’d supplied earlier. It was a project she was particularly thrilled about, a donation from Harry’s godfather Sirius, an old portrait after some ancient relative he didn’t know or care about, just that Hogwarts had given it to him and not the estate, telling her to handle it with as little care as possible. But the magic on it was layered, runes hidden in brush strokes, and even the threads of the canvas were dipped in some kind of potion— it would take her weeks. Another sigh from Ernie, though, had her moving as quickly as possible, trying her best not to fulfil Sirius’s request for handling.

Ernie was incredibly talented at potions and a bit nosey, but this newfound gruffness wore on her, “I mean it. Every day I have to find you for some visitor. Last week, your friends were practically screaming in the front office, and don’t even get me started on the muggle wandering around yesterday where he shouldn’t be.”

Her back molars worked and ground together, making her jaw ache at his flippancy. She tried to keep her mouth shut so as not to snap at him. She did more for him than he would ever admit and, as of late, thanked her with his constant complaints. She let him watch her process, testing solvents when Professor Groski was so against trying new and unstable things on the older works. How did he repay her? By whining, so much bloody whining.

“And now you have the police here. Honestly, this is getting out of hand.” With any normal person, she might have searched for a hint of humour in his comment, but that annoyed huff and wimpy delivery proved that Ernie was the most unfun person in her life. And that was saying a lot because outside of the few times Pansy dragged her out or Ginny kidnapped her for dinner, most of her life was spent in that corridor with him or performing for very unfun men online.

“You act like the muggle police are raiding us,” she tried to joke, moving around the room quickly to grab her things, eyeing him with equal annoyance when she approached the door, “It’s Auror Malfoy, you know the same one we both went to school with?” she punctuated the sentence with a raised eyebrow. Ernie just huffed, moving his tall, lanky frame to the side and letting her out of the room after a prolonged pause. If this was how he wanted to measure wands so let him.

She waited a few moments for him to shut the door behind her, for all Ernie was allowed to do and things she was willing to push Professor Groski on, him being in the restoration lab alone wasn’t one. She would not be responsible if he made a mistake, and sometimes, he seemed just a bit too willing to test out stronger solvent concoctions.

Once she heard the door click, she nodded to him, casting the last locking charm with more flourish than needed, the one that only she and Professor Groski could undo. Ernie eyed with her shared suspicion before following behind down the short hallway to the front of the humanities offices. “What are you still doing here anyway? Don’t you have fun Friday night plans?”

Ernie seemed to stutter, the sound of heavy feet shuffling before he responded under breath, “I would if you didn’t keep me at your beck and call here all day when you don’t disappear early. Shouldn’t I be asking the witch who’s here past six every night why she doesn’t have fun Friday night plans?”

“My Friday night plans are here, remember?” She bit out instead of turning on him and letting him know what she thought of his recent behaviour change. Sure, he had to take the call that Theo was in the lobby waiting to take her to a very long lunch that melted into an afternoon coffee in a tiny little shop, but it wasn’t as if he covered any of her work while she was gone. He did whatever it was down in the mixed potions and chemistry lab while she and Theo tucked into a different tight corner, giggling and talking about anything and everything. It had been terribly sweet and utterly chaste when she let Theo walk her home, kissing her on the cheek and leaving her at the doorstep. All in all, Ernie didn’t do the same job she did, and he definitely didn’t need to micromanage her. She was months ahead on all the department’s current projects.

But even with that work, she still needed to play nice. Ernie was usually fine when he wasn’t infested with doxies, and they would work together for the foreseeable future. “And again, I’m sorry about yesterday, Ernie. I sent a text. You don’t have to hover. Technically, I’m your superior.” She attempted to brush it off as friendly and concerned, but the interaction still left her raw. There was no time to say anything, a flash of platinum blonde hair as they rounded the last long corridor.

Malfoy’s head whipped around to find her at even the slightest squeak of her trainers. Despite their orbiting proximity for the last few years, Hermione rarely saw Draco look so relaxed and casual. Usually in Auror robes or when visiting Pansy before they went out, it was usually slacks and a pressed shirt, but here he was in all his presumed imitation muggle glory—dark jeans and a sweater that looked incredibly soft and mirrored the cool grey fo his eyes.

Draco grinned down at her, long legs carrying him across the lobby faster than she could ever move. He met her over halfway across the room, practically at the threshold, to lean in and kiss her cheek in greeting. She wasn’t sure when she began embracing Draco Malfoy, but she had a feeling it started somewhere between letting him grope her on the dance floor and sending him photos of herself every day since.

“Hermione, you look lovely as ever.” There was something instinctual about leaning into Draco’s touch, letting him push a curl that escaped the overworked and bursting clip in her hair.

She snorted at the comment, taking a moment too long to step away, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Malfoy. But give me a second, and I’ll change. Still not telling me where it is we’re headed?”

“You could just wear that, and you’d be fine.” Her gaze narrowed, doing her best to pin him on the spot. He’d made a lot of promises in the drunken haze of the club and the subsequent days, and Hermione had a hunch her day-old jeans and giant Weasley jumper just weren’t quite cut out for what he planned.

“So I shouldn’t put on the dress Pansy lent me?” Something dark flashed in Draco’s eyes, and Hermione liked it. Enjoyed having him one step behind with their quips.

Their little tete-a-tete was interrupted by Ernie, another high-pitched whine making her tense, “Really, Hermione, I have to stay here while you get ready?”

Something ticked in Draco’s jaw, and Hermione worried she didn’t have much time before the childhood bully she once knew reappeared. “Malfoy’s fine waiting right here. I’ll just be a minute, and you don’t need to wait up, Ernie. I can close the office myself.”

She grimaced, awkward and apologetic, at Draco before running into her office to change as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the muffled commentary Draco was supplying Ernie. Delicate silk wrapped around her waist, tying the deep maroon dress with a bow. No one would ever deny Pansy Parkinson had great taste based on the fabric choice and price or modesty with how the v of the neckline skirted over the floral lace edge of her bra. There wasn’t time to change it, and Hermione didn’t entirely trust her mending or sticking charms with something so luxurious.

The poor clip that held the monstrosity of her hair back all day finally got some respite, shaking her head as the mess bounced free. She was nearly out the door, slipping on a pair of shiny black, red-soled boots, a recent purchase with Theo’s ever-increasing daily gifts, when she caught her reflection. She looked and felt incredible, unsure when the transformation had occurred, but like a completely different witch from the girl she was when starting this program, she was fresh-faced and wide-eyed straight out of Hogwarts. Now, with enough practice taking photos for business and faking confidence, it felt instinctual to who she was while snapping a few photos before slipping out the door.

It was reckless and concerning, actually, her attempt to constantly live a double life as she sent the text to Theo, not even waiting to see his response. She could read it later when she needed the answer, a strange sense of deja vu between the two men as if everyone in her life was intent on keeping the details of their plans from her. Attached was the shot of her—right leg crossed over the other, making her hips look fuller and curvier. The barely there hint of delicate pink floral lace against her tan skin was something he was more than used to. But it was the way her hair fell to the side, the faintest little trace of red still on her neck she knew Theo would love. One of the few memories of him she hadn’t healed with magic or bruise balm following last Saturday. She’d caught him staring at it more than once yesterday, and he would laser-focus on it now.

Hermione

Thoughts on this dress tomorrow?

Will you tell me where we are going now, or should I pack my entire closet?

She silenced the device quickly just as a barrage of vibrations started to roll in, a tiny pang of guilt low in her gut for double dipping. Her stomach tightened, and the butterflies both men gave her turned into wild sparrows with nerves, thinking about what they might say if they knew about the other or how people who loved her would react to learning the entire story. She was walking a fine line and hoped Ginny and Pansy were as mindful as she was about the potential backlash to it all.

When she walked into the small reception space, her anxiety evaporated, all those nervous birds took flight elsewhere when she looked up— finding Draco waiting with a cheeky grin all for her from his post. Leaning against the door frame, his sweater stretched against his broad frame— being an Auror had done wonders for him evident when his silver-grey eyes traced every inch of his investigative attention to detail.

Heeled boots clicked against the floor as she approached. A warm blush crawled up her neck and cheeks as Draco’s gaze snagged on the lace trimmings. Whatever he saw or thought caused him to swallow and cough. Blonde locks, shaking back and forth before offering her his hand. “Ready, Granger? You never told me, do you like surprises?”

“Would it matter if I didn’t?” He pulled her quickly out into the hallway, and the momentum lured her close to him. The rumble of his chest, laughter ringing in her ears, distracted her just enough for him to surprise aparate. Colours and images spun around them, his response nearly lost to time and space, just a faint, “Not at this point.” before they were deposited somewhere in muggle London.

The streets were already dark, the November sun leaving the city early and a deep chill on the air. She caught sight of a smooth leather harness under the sleeve of his sweater when he quickly cast a warming charm before her teeth could mutter their first chatter. Draco seemed to anticipate everything she needed as he worked through the damp streets and alleys. She’d never been to this part wherever it was, but every corner seemed to twinkle and glow, bars and pubs full of people laughing. Restaurants smelled heavenly, and young people stumbling and laughing in the streets. Their quick movements blurred some of the pieces together, all of it feeling like the scene from a movie or a fast-moving dream, the kind you never wanted to end.

It was dizzying to follow him as they navigated. Her breath caught as she tried to take everything in. Every so often, he would stop and say hello, greet a hostess forced to stand on the street or shake hands quickly with a bouncer at a pub. The camaraderie of it all left her with a sense of wonderment and a million and ten questions about where and how he spent his free time.

“Do you live around here?” She asked, blown away by how familiar he seemed with the winding streets and people inhabiting them. She had never assumed where Draco lived before but hadn’t expected such a lively muggle neighbourhood. Blaise lived in Diagon, according to Pansy, and most Aurors stayed close to the ministry, but Draco inhabited something she could never have conjured in her mind.

Draco spun to walk backwards, looking down at her with boyish excitement she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before. “I don’t live far. Why? Trying to get in my knickers tonight? Want to see what colour my sheets are, Granger? Very forward. Don’t you want to wine and dine with me first? I expected a bit of decency from you.”

His hands pressed to chest in mock offence, and she tried to lean forward, hopeful to interrupt his smooth drawling monologue. Her much shorter legs attempted to catch up to him and give him a playful shove. But he slipped from her grasp, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down one last side street. On the far end, she could see a low neon glow, a deep crimson awning with vibrant golden lights that read Matador, loud music and the scent of something rich like saffron cooking wafting in the air. “Tell me, Granger, do you like dancing? Or are you just naturally talented at it?”

The question gave her pause, thinking of the last she saw him. There was no doubt she liked dancing then. With a suspicious raise of her eyebrow, she nodded her consent, unsure where he planned on taking the night. “Come on, kneazle got your tongue?”

“I do like dancing. I’m just not sure what you plan on doing with that information.” She feigned annoyance, but one smouldering look from Draco made her crack. Her own smile pulled at her cheeks as he led her inside the tight restaurant.

“Dragon! Dragon!” A large Spanish man called out, moving quickly across the restaurant to hug Draco, large palm smacking his back. A show of affection that left Hermione stunned for a moment. The Draco she knew was stand-offish, even when with friends, he was full of biting sarcasm and dry looks. But here, he seemed carefree—no harsh words and deadpan stares.

Draco found her hand again, having lost in the shuffle and pulled her close. The warmth from the bodies milling around and hot food moving throughout the restaurant enveloped her, but nothing was as scalding as his arm wrapped around her shoulder. Long fingers gripping and holding her closer, her traitorous mind wondering how they might feel elsewhere when he started speaking.

“Hermione, this is Carlos. Carlos, this is my friend Hermione. Carlos owns this place.” If Draco’s hands were large and calloused against her lower back, then Carlos’s would be considered giant and weathered with age as they grabbed hers, and she could only imagine countless dances the older man had with open cooktop flames. He and the entire restaurant smelled of fresh olive oil, salt, and spices, warm and rich as she took a deep breath. At that moment, nothing could have bothered her as she watched the excitement on Draco’s face as Carlos welcomed her with vigour.

“Welcome, welcome, Hermione! You are magnificent, the most beautiful person Draco has ever brought around.” Deep olive tone, like he was perpetually suntanned, and wrinkled skin winked at Draco’s playful annoyance, and the roll of the r in her name was smooth across her skin. Her cheeks ached from how hard she smiled at the antics. A grumbling, coughing groan from Draco only made her smile harder. “Anything you want to try, please tell me! Don’t let him decide. He has a weak stomach.” Draco scoffed, harumphing and faux wincing as Carlos heartily patted his stomach and continued, “I mean it! No room for spice or heat, I swear. That moon skin of his will be as red as floors!”

Hermione caught the deep terracotta and maroon tile floors in her peripheral, laughing in agreement, even as Draco pinched at her shoulder, a silent plea to give him attention. Carlos led them to a table front and centre, a far cry from the nooks and corners she was often in with Theo. “Did you find this place because it’s local?” she asked, eyes roaming all over the room, neck craning to take in the details of the ceiling, old bullfighting posters pasted over each other and old liquor bottles near empty towards the low hanging cover.

“Sort of, after well school and everything with my parents, I took a trip to Spain.” There was a nervous pause to his words, some of that glittering confidence dulling just a bit as he spoke of that time. Pansy had said he would tell her in time, and so she waited, nodding along, eager to hear whatever he wanted to share. “I went to Madrid with uhh— a friend. And it was just so free, bright and hot, unlike dreary old London. I felt alive for the first time since I’m not sure forever?” Blonde hair shook in the low light, shadows dancing across the faraway smile on his face. “It was actually on Potter and Potter Sr.’s suggestion actually, don’t tell them I told you that. I like having this place to myself.”

A familiar hint of shrewd judgement, the one he carried from childhood, was back. Not malicious or mean as it had been back then, just shrouded and jaded, as if unsure how trusting he could be with her. It was terribly unSlytherin of him to share something as personal as this restaurant apparently was, and she couldn’t blame his lack of trust. “I’ve never been to Spain. Growing up, my parents took me to Mallorca in a fancy resort, so I didn’t see much.”

That was apparently enough sharing for Draco because the next thing out of his mouth was asking her if she liked to travel. Hermione did her best to skirt around the fact that most of the travelling she did was either with her long-gone parents or on Theo's dime, and that didn’t seem like a proper date conversation.

Before she knew it, food ran out of the kitchen, their table overflowing with copious small plates and large pitchers of sweet and tangy red sangria constantly being refilled, barely able to get a word in as the scene unfolded. She wasn’t sure what to expect in the raucousness of it all, but it was not for Draco Malfoy to laugh as he fed her the tentacle of the most delicious octopus she’d ever eaten. His smile was bright, prefect white teeth on display, and there was a slight sheen to his skin from the warm, humid kitchen air and the bodies rapidly milling around. With every sip of sangria warming her blood, something else ignited in her.

Maybe it was coincidence or fate, more likely her subconscious acting on its own, but as he placed the bite on her tongue, she couldn’t help but capture his thumb with her lips. Teeth grazing the pad as he tried to pull away, just the barest of suction, but Draco caught it. There he stood, dumbfounded as she rolled her eyes back, a barely there moan, hard to hear over the sound of live music. But she knew he caught with his auror senses honing in on her. All of it made his hand fall to the table in dumbfounded surprise.

She’d only seen that look on his face a few times, once when Harry had beaten both him and her in potions during sixth year. A strange truce fell over the two who never spoke unless it was to hurl insults and outperform the other, agreeing they could not allow Harry to be any better than them. Another had been when she accepted his desperate apology two years ago, sick of being cornered and looking at his empty, sad eyes when she said no. She’d cracked one morning, hungover and more miserable than usual when he tried, and she relented. Draco switched in an instant, going from moping vagrant to shining with astonished excitement.

Both of those were different from now. Now gone was the smug smile he usually sported, and there was no relief or determination, replaced with something kin to reverent awe. His eyes were trained on her lips, and reverence was morphing into something darker and possessive as she flicked her tongue once more. She thought he might kiss her. She had missed the rough way he took and took and the memory that his teeth had left on her for days. Hermione prayed he might do it again, right there in that tiny, crowded restaurant. The name lost to her as she tasted sweet red wine and bright oranges on his breath.

She was wrong, but not disappointed. The music seemed to pick up in time, with the blood racing in her veins and her heart pattering. Wholey unprepared and unexpecting Draco to snatch her hand and pull her from their seats. As if they were in a movie, chairs and tables seemed to move and scratch out of the way as Draco led her into a hoard of moving bodies.

The scene was reminiscent of the club but without the foggy haze of vodka and flashy lights. Now, firm hands held hers under a warm glow. Orange and red light bounced off the tiles from flickering candled and stained glass, all of it like a halo around him. How he knew each step perfectly was beyond her. She tried to ask him at one point, but the music was too loud, and the din of people celebrating the weekend made his answer impossible to hear. All she could make out was how his usual smirk transformed into something vibrant. Sweat worked down her back as Draco led her movements, giddy laughter bubbling up her throat as he spun and spun her. His hands splayed across her belly and back, hips pressed against hers till suddenly he was spinning her away, a gasping chuckle on her lips as she twirled back into him.

It could have been one song or hours' worth of not-so-innocent touches and the brush of Draco’s lips on her neck before they finally stumbled off the dancefloor, nothing but desperate need thrumming in her chest. What started as his hands on her waist had transformed into holding her hips tight against his waist, swaying them as they rolled in time with each other, the overwhelming need for each other driving them to act. It was a strange sense of Deja Vu holding onto Draco’s hand as he led her, laughing and following closely towards the exit. Two days in a row, she watched a black muggle card clink against the hostess stand, only this time, he told her he would pick it up in the morning.

The chill of November British air should have made her skin shiver and teeth chatter, but she was too busy leaning into the warmth of his arms, pulsating blazing need deep in her lower belly licked at her veins kept the chill away. They barely made it around the corner, into a tight alleyway she hadn’t remembered from earlier when he was pushing her up against the wall.

Sharp teeth and gentle lips nipped and sucked at her neck, breaths coming out in ragged mist in the cold winter air. But Draco’s breath was blistering against the redding skin along her jaw, every scrap and suck marking her just for him. It was an uncontrollable haze as he ravaged her in that dark alley, and she gave it back with just as much fervour, the low light casting shadows across their bodies. She felt herself opening up for him, body pliant as every kiss made her mewl. It was instinctual, simple as the desperate want in their feverish kisses to let his thigh slip between her legs and grind against him, begging for more between moans.

He was saying something, how much he liked or hated her dress, petulant demands for more of her that she was all too willing to give, when he pressed harder, nearly lifting her off the ground. She stood on her tiptoes, and her elbows rested on Draco’s shoulders, unable to stop undulating her hips and core against rhe the firm muscle wedged between her thighs. A muscle she wanted to see unclothed and lavish upon the tattoo she didn’t know he had till recently, desperate to see where it ended on his hips. Her fingers were about to run through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, Draco’s mouth having travelled to her chest, pushing open the wrap of her dress and nipping at the edge of her bra when she saw it.

Someone at the end of the alley, blocking most of the light from the street, standing just outside the mouth of their oasis, watching them. Embarrassment flooded her veins, gut flipping with unease and hands flying to close the hanging open front of her dress. Draco’s movements faltered, stuttering to a halt when he noticed her rapid change. Gone were the loose-flowing movements that followed them from the dancefloor—replaced with a frozen still stance, and Hermione’s eyes darted from her fumbling fingers to whoever had caught them.

“Am I going to fast? Fuck Hermione, I didn’t mean— are you okay?” Draco’s usually fair appearance turned sallow, shame working across his features as he took in her frantic movements, “Shit. Do you need space? Was this too much? Oh, Salazar, the Potters are going to kill me.”

The moment the knot was tied, she snapped back into the world, practically crying out from the confusion and pulling him close to cover her shame, “No, no, no, no, it's someone watching us.” The last part was a hissing whisper, and all the pale shame morphed into a reddened blind rage. Like the flick of a light switch, Draco spun, arms wide, pressing her back against the wall, wand slipping into his hand as he scanned the alley.

“Hey! Who’s there?” he called out, the words reverberating against the narrow walls, but when Hermione peeked around his shoulder, the figure was gone. A strange anxious mix of self-doubt and unease stirred in her gut, nibbling her lip and picking at her cuticles, arms crossed over her chest as if to hide herself when Draco turned back to look at her, furrowed brow and harsh lines around his mouth. Concern etched into the very fibre of his being, from his rigid shoulders to the white knuckles gripping his wand.

“Are you okay?”It was tender and deep, dripping with concern as he cupped her face. But the question made her blank, was she? Sure yes. There was no harm done. He was probably just some guy who stopped for a brief moment at their very public display. Hell, she took her clothes off for men all the time. But still, no, it wasn’t okay. It made her uneasy, unaware she was shivering or really shaking, till Draco pulled her into his chest.

“I'm fine, I just want to–” the words died on her tongue, unwilling and unable to say she wanted to leave because a part of her didn’t. A part of her wanted to get back to basking in the scorching glow of their night, but the other part was riddled with unease, which made her pause.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” there didn’t seem to be any frustration in the words, but as aparition pulled at her navel, she couldn’t help but feel like she’d ruin the whole evening.

Hours later, after Draco had left, very adamant that when he finally had her, it would not be in a college flat in a double-sized bed with a witch who was constantly looking over her shoulder, that Hermione finally relaxed. He took great care to clarify and remind her repeatedly that he always got exactly what he wanted. The occasional concern-filled message from Draco lighting up her screen—asking if she wanted to make a report to the DMLE, made her smile, but the thought of Harry or, worse, his father and godfather knowing what happened caused pause. Instead, she directed him elsewhere, focusing on recanting all the things he had enjoyed about the evening.

With each message, her concerns slowly melted away, focusing instead on packing the last few items needed for tomorrow in a new, very well-made leather tote bag, a gorgeous bouquet of giant white garden roses that had been delivered. It had taken her a minute laughing at how close Theo might have been at her real name, but while she loved the giant ruffly petals and luscious fragrance, she was Hermione, not Hermia or Ophelia.

Chapter Text

The town car had been plush, the seats preheated and waiting for her, her coffee order in the cupholder—the driver had even gotten out of the car to open the door and help her inside. But something in her felt uneasy without Theo’s presence. Hermione felt like an interloper. Even in her new clothes, a steady stream of anxiety thrummed in her veins. She’d slept okay, considering the unknown that awaited today, and the unease of the evening with Draco ended. She’d even gone on a run that morning to try and clear her mind, but the streetlamps and chilly air calming her were not nearly enough.

The drive was smooth. Her head pressed against the cool window. She took in the images flying by. The sky was dark, and rain dotted the window as they pulled directly onto the tarmac. She’d never seen anything like that before. The plane sat there waiting for her, large and ominous, stark white against the dark slate of the British early morning sky.

She didn’t even have to leave the car at first—an agent entered the vehicle to look over her passport, smiling and asking about her day. It was so wildly different from the few times she was with her parents, waiting in security lines even with priority and first class. Attendants and gate agents didn’t actually care about you, not like this.

It was over in a few minutes, and then the driver helped her out of the car, calling her Miss Potter and thanking her for her time. She scrambled, trying to return the pleasantries, but flight attendants and assistants whisked away her things. Watching everyone work in perfect unison around her was dizzying, leaving her with only one task: walking up the small staircase toward the plane.

Night slowly drifted away, the sky still dotted with stars as she entered the aircraft, taking one last look. She would still see it from the windows of the plane and wherever she was landing, but as Pansy had so eloquently told her, this might just be signing her own death certificate, leaving the country with a man who sent her pounds for literally no reason at all.

She ignored those nagging thoughts, channelling the breathing techniques from the earlier run when entering the small chamber. The ceiling sat lower than the average aeroplane, with seats and couches on only one side, a few rows instead of endless ones to squeeze down. And there was Theo tapping away on his phone. He looked every bit put together in a freshly pressed suit at 7 in the morning. Anxiety melted into something different, something much warmer, when she noticed the first few buttons of his shirt undone, brown curls obscuring his eyes as he continued to work.

Taking him in for a moment, she tried not to get too excited to balance Pansy’s eloquent warning with the memory of Theo’s mouth between her thighs. The memory had been on her mind everyday that week, playing behind her eyelids like a movie, magnified when he had been so chaste at lunch. It had taken a monumental amount of effort not to say his name on camera like she did when alone in bed. And here she was, trying to comprehend how they would most likely do it again, if she was lucky. Gooseflesh pebbled across her skin, thinking about what kind of lover he would be. A man who seemed more than happy to satisfy her couldn’t be bad. And then there were the memories of feeling him, thick and hard, as he whispered to her in that cafe but didn’t have time to return to her apartment.

The image of what he looked like completely bare made her breath catch, and Theo noticed. His head whipped up, and sapphire eyes landed on her. A large mouth, one she knew had soft lips and wanted to taste again, pulled back into a grin. It wasn’t a smirk, no, but it was playful, as if maybe he, too, felt the giddy excitement washing away all her other concerns.

He was up in a flash, covering the small distance in a few steps—ducking to avoid the ceiling before dipping lower to grab her free hand. She assumed he would kiss her knuckles, something gentlemanly, but instead, did something much more distracting. He flipped her palm, placing a kiss on the skin there, warm breath skating across to her wrist, and she stifled a whimper in her throat.

If Theo saw her struggle, he said nothing, grinning laviciously, “Welcome abroad, Ophelia. You look lovely today.” The flattery turned her cheeks and ears pink, biting her lip to contain the breathy giggle that wanted to escape her.

How did he do it? Just a few words and the simplest actions melt her down to her core. “Hello, Theo. Thank you for having me.” The words were meant to sound sexy or at least grateful, but they were filled with too much awe to portray her as anything other than naive.

”Oh, the pleasure is all mine. Please take a seat.” His arm extended wide, and she found herself overwhelmed by how many large, expansive chests she was pressed against as of late. Memories of Draco covering her completely as they danced and in the dark alleyway played in her head while moving past and into a plush oversized chair. The leather felt more like butter than the carpet in a usual aeroplane, and she couldn’t help the relaxed moan that left her lips as she settled into the pillowy chair.

Theo chuckled and settled across from her. It felt too far away, but when he placed his phone back down on the table, she understood that this was business to him, not just a mini unknown vacation. “Are you going to tell me where we're going?”

The stewards had already brought them drinks, and two bubbling glasses of champagne had replaced the coffee cups between them. Theo’s grin was wide, brilliant and white when he found her gaze again. There was something playful still dancing in the spark of those blue eyes, and it shouldn’t have surprised her when he hadn’t answered fully. “Tell me, Ophelia, do you like to gamble?’

Monaco was not what Hermione expected. Sure, there were expensive, fast cars and beautiful women everywhere, but the breeze off the ocean, even in the fall, was warm and salty, making her feel alive.

Theo made sure to take her around to the luxurious designer stores littering the city, buying her something to wear that night while he sat on a chaise. The domesticity of walking around from shop to shop banished the transactional part of the trip, and the two laughed as she came out in pieces that would make even Pansy gasp. Another issue arose the longer she paraded around in things of his choosing. With each dress, Hermione found it hard to pay attention and not straddle him right then and there when he traced every neckline and slit like a man starved.

He did, however, precariously hold her upright, his hand hugging her close to him, sitting low on her hip when she nearly fainted in a small jewellery store. Hermione had thought nothing of it, assuming they were there for something Theo needed, her eyes dancing around the glittering cases until the salesman placed two sparkly tennis necklaces on the velvet tray—and Theo told her to pick whichever she liked best.

“Theo, this is too much,” she tried to protest, her stomach flipping, uncomfortable at the excess. Theo had probably spent thousands of pounds or so on her over the years, but these necklaces had to be worth all of that or more. It felt like there were a million eyes on her, the sensation of being watched last night morphing into something real and tangible as she gaped at the assortment; she tried to pull away, her heart stammering in her chest with unease till Theo spoke.

Words that settled onto her skin like heavy winter snow, like the ones he described from his youth in boarding school. He cooled the burning shame that crept up her at the gift, his face leaning close to her. Kissing her cheek gently, he decided to be the one to hold up the necklace around her neck, “You know I have a thing for stars. They glitter and hang in the sky so perfectly. Won’t you let me adorn you with a few?”

The dreamy romanticism of it all made her swoon, unsure how to counter the way he pleaded with his eyes, and his words commanded and eased her into the idea. She swallowed, rough and uncomfortable, her gaze flitting around the mirror the associate held from the necklace at her neck to the reflection of Theo’s burning gaze. Not even the middle ground of the mirror could temper his want. Her mouth and throat were still too dry to speak when he kissed her cheek again, placing the necklace back down and reaching over to another on the platter.

“Is it diamonds that make you uncomfortable? What about sapphires? I think you look stunning in blue.” That time, his thumb stroked the back of her neck, where he held the piece in place.

She knew sapphires were less expensive, but the vibrancy of the deep blue stones was just as brilliant. She nibbled at her lip as Theo’s thumb pressed harder. The pressure slowed her rapid breathing and racing heart. That time, when her eyes flicked around the mirror, the necklace seemed to match his eyes. Pear-shaped alternating sapphires that looked like ocean blues flashed with desire when he looked up from between her thighs.

Ghosting one last kiss against her jaw, where her ear met her neck, she conceded, “I like the sapphires.”

She could feel his grin more than see it, and she leaned into the sensation of his breath against the sensitive skin behind her ear when he chuckled, “Good, we’ll take the whole set.”

Despite the ache between her thighs and the practically throbbing need for release, Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon alone. Theo had whisked her back, kissing her till she was breathless and saying he had a few business errands to run. There was something sweet in the commands to relax and focus on primping for the evening. Winking at her as he requested that the dress he’d bought her would probably look best with nothing underneath. It was a terribly teasing thing today, and she hadn’t quite figured out how to get back at him about it.

She tried to ignore the burn he kept stroking by getting ready in a swanky hotel room. The need for his little touches flamed in her was almost enough to ignore the loneliness of being alone. It should be a compliment that he trusted her with all the gifts and whatever else was scattered around the room, but something about being kept in a shiny hotel room chipped away at the fantasy she’d built about what they were doing. She banished the thoughts with a few texts to Pansy and Ginny, hoping the distraction would keep the spiral thoughts plaguing her at bay.

Hermione

Want to see something excessive and going to put our apartment at risk, Pansy?

Ginny

DID HE BUY YOU A GUN

Hermione

There is something wrong with you. Why would that be your first guess?

You’ve been watching too much muggle TV with the Potters.

Pansy

Don’t tease Granger. Show me what you got.

Ginny

That's rich from someone pretending to be a Potter.

Hermione could vividly imagine their shared but different scoffs. Pany’s was dry and clipped, annoyance lacing her tone, unbothered but not uncaring for any slight or teasing. And Ginny’s, she thought, would be loud, over-exaggerated and whining. A shove would probably accompany it. She wished she could feel those right then and there, nerves eating at her for what to expect gambling in the most expensive casino in the world.

She sent a picture of the very large navy velvet box atop the shiny marble countertop of the bathroom. The light was low, catching the sapphires just right and making them flash against the walls, all their pear-shaped facets glimmering. The matching diamond and sapphire earrings were no different. Toi et moi style, the jeweller had explained, had to be the size of her thumbnails, reflected little rainbows and sat heavy in the padded display case. Their response was instantaneous.

Pansy

Holy

Fucking

Shit

Ginny

ARE THOSE REAL?

Pansy

Show us them on. I need to get a better idea of size. Lucky bitch.

Amber eyes rolled at Pansy’s odd way of showing affection. Hermione laughed at the aggressive responses but did as she was told, something she felt much too accustomed to as of late in Theo’s presence but shoved that thought down for later. She was still in the fluffy white hotel robe she’d put on to get ready, hair and make-up done, killing time before putting on the buttery smooth iridescent silk dress Theo had selected, afraid to wrinkle it. And now, to fill the time, she was half naked, sending her friends pictures of giant boulders in her ears and weighing her neck down. It was so ridiculous she couldn’t help but have the doubts creep back.

Hermione

This is too much, right? He can return them, can’t he?

Pansy

Shut the fuck up if you don’t take them home and let me borrow.

Hermione

You don’t even like wearing blue.

Ginny

Not to sound exactly like Pansy, but shut the fuck up, omg wait, are you just wearing those? That’s so hot. I bet he’d pay good money for that. Maybe that’s why he bought them?

Pansy

Astute observation Red.

Pansy and Ginny continued to bicker in their chat, but the thought sparked something in Hermione. Theo didn’t ask for that, and the idea of doing it just for him, because she wanted to, not because he asked, made her belly warm. It was more a test for her than him, trying to prove she was not just grateful for the gifts but appreciated them—wanted to share them with him. With only about 30 minutes till he was supposed to return and pick her up she acted. It only took another 2 minutes to scramble the idea together.

With a little concentration and holding her wand behind her back, the phone levitated above the bed, danging above as Hermione crawled into the centre of the overflowing cloudlike bedding. The robe fell open as she arranged her limbs, exposing the curve underneath and the valley between her breasts, one of her thighs slipping through the gap to show there was truly nothing underneath the luxurious fluffy material. It was unfathomable to be posing there in a tuition’s worth of jewellery for someone she barely knew and to be this excited.

It made her laugh, and at the last second, another timed burst from the phone’s camera flashed. Those photos are unlike any others she has sent him. She looked happy, light and carefree as a broad smile pulled pink cheeks back. The long line of her neck exposed with her curls and head thrown back. They are nothing like the contorted ones, where she focuses on making every inch of her look more toned and perfect. Maybe it is a test for him to see if he really likes this side of her, but she’s not sure. She sends that one instead of the more pouty, sexy versions in her camera roll. The phone vibrates with his response before she’s off the bed.

Theo

Beautiful

It’s just one word, but it makes her flush deeper than any touch or kiss he’s bestowed, a hot blush creeping down her chest at the singular compliment. One she doesn’t hear very often. It’s not hot or sexy. There’s no degradation or expletives. It’s just a simple truth. She can’t think too long, rushing to slip on the silvery liquid-like dress he picked for her. They had plans, after all, and she couldn’t be the reason why he missed them.

The casino isn’t quite as dark as she imagined. It’s large and luxurious, chandeliers bouncing off marble pillars, crystal vases, and mirrors illuminating the gamblers, but the private room an attendant leads them into is. The smell of cigar smoke and dark liquor floods her senses immediately, and she’s unsure how the muggles keep it out of the entire building, but it all makes sense when she feels what is under that heavy atmosphere.

It prickles at her skin, having grown overly sensitive to wards and protective charms since starting grad school. The sensation is almost overwhelming as he leads her to a long craps table. There are already a few other men seated and similarly dressed dates standing next to them. The sight makes her slightly uncomfortable. Pressure from the wards, their pointed stares, and the fact that none of the women are sitting makes her slow.

Theo doesn’t miss a beat, walking through the bubble and guiding her through with a hand on her lower back. The weight lifted as soon as they were through, and it felt like her ears popped. The men, or maybe they are wizards, she can’t be sure, stand to great Theo. Some pull him close, kissing his cheek like they are family, with thick accents ranging from French to Russian filtered around her, some even speaking in languages she doesn’t know. None of them noticed her until a distinctly British voice broke through.

”And you must be what had Theo distracted all evening, Miss?” Grey eyes pin her place, cloudy grey that looks terrifyingly similar to the silver that she was in close range with the evening prior. Grey that she has just a few too many mutual connections with the Potter family Christmases and birthday parties to lower her nerves. It’s the way he says it, too, pointed and expectant. He’s not much taller than her, 160 cm or so, but he’s easily the most commanding presence in the room, everyone turning to look at him as he speaks. And here he is, looking down his nose at her, waiting for an answer.

Theo knew what to do, though. His hand slipped around her waist to tuck her into his side. He felt safe, smelling like clove and citrusy, and she breathed it in, trying to relax while he spoke, “This is Ophelia Potter, a friend of mine. Ophelia, this is Regulus Black. A long-time business associate of my family.”

”A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Black.” She chirps back, ignoring the way his eyes flash at her name. He knows it, and she tries not to squeak in fear when he turns back to her. She feels it then, a different type of magic, like a needle in her eye. He bares his imaginary teeth. Trying to poke into her mind without her permission.

She flashes a smile that can only be described as saccharin, overly sweet and gushing, as she shoves back at his overstep with her own magic, something Sirius had taught Harry and she had forced him to teach her. She’s less skilled, a little clumsy in her shove, wrapping her magic around his touch. The needle-like precision is slippery and hard to grasp, but she does it. Even as it slices her through like a razor, she pushes back, holding that smile as her eyes water.

He doesn’t expect it, his eyebrows raising just a tick, not nearly in as much pain as her. Theo notices the shift, his thumb rubbing her hip, and she can’t tell if it’s a warning or to calm her down. Thankfully, Regulus doesn’t push back again, smiling out of the corner of his mouth as he speaks, “ Hmmm, I knew a Potter or two back in school, James and Lily. You wouldn’t happen to know them, would you?”

She really should have taken Ginny up on getting Harry or Lily’s permission on all of this, but the grave has been dug, and Theo seems interested in her answer, so Hermione blends what she can, hoping the lie isn’t too obvious. “Those sound like distant cousins my parents have spoken of, but no, I don’t know them.”

Regulus cocks his head to the side, studying the words as she releases them, “Distant cousins, huh? Well, if you remember, do let me know. They were very good friends of my brothers. It would be a small world if you did, wouldn’t it Theo?” and she’s not sure if he’s admitting defeat or retreating to attack again, but his eyes have finally shifted to Theo. The way he says Theo is pointed, like a dart, the unspoken threat lands, and Theo stiffens. Gone is the gregarious and friendly man she spent the morning with, replaced with someone possessively moving her quickly to his seat—his grip on her wrist firm and consistent in turmoil.

Theo says nothing else about it, and she’s unsure if he’s aware of the minefield she’s caught herself in. She really should have listened to Pansy better when she was rambling about Regulus after that party. Her only relief comes when Theo pulls her into his lap to sit, saving Hermione the embarrassment of standing. Still, everyone continues to watch them, and eventually, they fall into table conversation. The dealer offers her no cards or a chance to play, and she notices that none of the female guests are allowed.

Eventually, another female guest, blonde with the fairest skin Hermione has ever seen, speaks to her, breaking up the monotony of trying to ignore all the male conversation and gambling talk around her. “Are you having fun? You two look like a real match,” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There's something loaded in the question, and Hermione feels a bit like she’s been left out of a private joke. Theo doesn’t turn to help her, but she can feel the brush of his thumb again.

”Yes, Monaco is beautiful. I’ve never been before, or gambling in general.”

The blonde makes eye contact with Regulus, and Hermione feels a bit like she’s swimming with sharks and is the chum in the water. Theo had looked so cool and relaxed at the art opening, and now she could feel his heart race against her shoulder.

She can barely hear the blonde’s response, so distracted by the sensation of Theo leaning forward to place his chips on the board. Hermione almost misses the laughing tone. Yes, she is definitely not on the joke. “Ahh, it's an interesting place to bring a first date. It's very private, romantic even.”

Regulus’s retreat was much too short. Jumping in to join her newfound friend, he turns on them again, looking at Hermione when he speaks to Theo, the unspoken clear this time. “Theo, I was unaware your previous engagement had ended. Tell me where did you find Miss Potter? And what happened with my cousin?”

Theo’s touch is possessive, squeezing her hip as he answers, but if Regulus’s question rattles her, Theo’s non-answer leaves her woozy. “I’m not sure if this is the best place to discuss how and who I spend my time with Reggie.”

The nickname is a warning, one that Regulus does not heed, laughing to himself while finishing an amber-filled glass. Hermione finds herself doing the same, choking down champagne, trying not to choke when Regulus lands his blow, “I don’t blame you, Theo, it’s always nice to have a little something on the side. She’s pretty, if a bit dumb, I’ll give you that. Just don’t flaunt it around family.”

She feels sick. The champagne turns in her stomach, sloshing around as stars dance in her eyes. It makes sense, it makes terrible, horrible sense, and she needs air. She excuses herself quickly, ignoring Theo’s protests and ripping her wrist from his grasp as he and Regulus continue to bicker at the table. The wards sizzle and burn, making her yelp as she pushes through them.

The tears start in the lobby and keep coming as she stumbles down the stairs, looking for air. She finds it the moment she steps outside, but can’t stop walking, unsure what streets she’s even turned down till she’s leaning on a railing sucking in the ocean air that rolls in from below her. She follows it down a pier, ignoring the oversized boats and parties happening them around. Stumbling down to the end of the dock till, she finally sees her moonlit reflection in the water.

She’d been so foolish, the money, the gifts, it was all to keep her quiet. She was so naive. She hadn’t even imagined that Theo was in a relationship. That he was probably married to some perfect pureblood woman, and that was how he got to keep all these relationships. Nausea rolled in her gut. She wanted to vomit off the edge of the pier and moved to pull her hair back when she felt the clasp of the necklace. It burns icy and frigid against the pads of her fingers, and she debates for one painful moment, ripping it off and throwing it to the bottom of the ocean when she hears him.

“Hermione, please, fuck, are you okay?” She whips around, looking absolutely mad, mascara running down her face. She just had to use the muggle kind. The black stains follow splotchy, reddened skin down her cheeks and neck, pooling on her chest. It must be a site because Theo pauses a step away, scared of the animal she’s become. The worst part is all the ways she feels wronged by him, tricked into whatever kind of form of hazing and ridicule. She’s more mad at herself for not seeing it sooner.

It’s just like in school, silly, stupid, muggle-born girl doesn’t know anything. Do anything she can to get ahead, thinking anyone, especially someone pureblood or rich like Theo, would like her if she wasn’t doing their homework or taking her clothes.

He holds his hands up as if to calm her and repeats himself, “Hermione, love, are you okay?” She hears it that time, the air going still as her name, her real name, tumbles off his lips.

She doesn’t even realise she’s slipped her wand out from her dress and is pointing it at him till his eyes dart to the motion, “How do you know my name?”

”I don’t want to have this conversation here. I promise I don’t think you’ll be this mad once we explain.” He swallows nervously, and he should. She was the best in every subject but took a particular liking to charms and defence, and now she’s internally running through all the options of what to hex him with.

She flails her wand at him, shrill and screaming, ”Oh, who’s we? Your wife? Does she give you a hall pass to entertain dumb little girls with? I should obliviate you and walk away.”

Theo moves then, a wand of his own slipping out from the sleeve of his jacket, and her breath catches at the sight, “You’re a wizard?” she practically screeches.

“Yes, and this country has a statute of secrecy, too. Please, love, can we just go back into the hotel and talk?” He sounds so sad and defeated, and she wants him to be afraid. The unease in his eyes is unsatisfying, only adding to her confusion. If he gets any closer to her or she’s forced alone with him, she’s not sure she’ll even remember to breathe.

”I’m not going into a room alone with you. Circe Pansy was right. You are going to kill me in my sleep.”

”Merlin, do not listen to her. She tells Draco the most absurd things.” Theo dares to laugh as he bemoans the state, and Hermione takes her chance, moving close and pressing her wand against his neck.

He looks excited for a split second before the wood digs into his flesh, swallowing as she grinds out, ”How do you know Draco?”

“Just let me explain, please. Let us. You’re stuck here with me anyways,” it makes her push forward, relieved when he yelps from the pressure.

She spits, her mind running rampant. Was he there last night? Was it him watching them? Is Draco okay? ”That’s not reassuring. You are just another creep, aren’t you.”

”No, I don’t think it is, but I’ll even let you take my wand, make an unbreakable vowor give you a wizard's oath or whatever you want just to hear me out.”

She studies him for a long, hard moment, her heart feeling like fragile china shattered on a kitchen floor. She doesn’t answer him, just holds her hand out of his wand and only releases a shaking breath when the cool wood lands in her palm.

It’s a dumb decision to let him walk them back to the hotel room, but she’s not exactly sure which room it is and how to get there. She spends the entire time stroking the wands hidden against her thigh again, trying to remember the self-defence lessons one of Harry’s aunts gave them one summer holiday. The walk seems to take forever, and the elevator ride is tense and quiet. Theo tries to start talking at one point, but she silences him, throwing his comment about secrecy back at him.

The first thing she does when in the room is head to the vanity, throw her things back in her bag, and think about how far she can get back to London, at least. She’s gripping the countertop so tight her hands hurt, knuckles white, And she’s glad she does because when she looks up, she realises they’re not alone, her knees crumbling at the sight. She finds Theo first watching her like a kicked puppy, and right next to him is Draco, sitting on the same bed where she had taken photos earlier.

The memory is the final straw, every bubble and drop of the champagne coming back up all over the floor.

Chapter Text

Hermione really, really hated being sick. The feeling of acid and bile tearing at her throat and the smell of sweet champagne mixed with salty caviar smelled rancid, threatening to make her do it again. Thankfully, Draco quickly vanished the mess away, and she shrugged her thanks. It’s all she could do, the pads of her fingers pressing into the counter for support so hard she wondered if there would be indents in her wake.

The sharp press of the counter’s edge stung, but it grounded her. The pain was enough to allow her to press on with all the angry, confused thoughts, and desperate to know more, but the concerned look on Theo and Draco’s faces churned up more anxious nausea by the second. “So is anyone going to tell me what is going on?”

Theo opened his mouth first, and for once, the man, or apparently wizard, now, she’s known so intimately, stuttered. He looked confused, messy and distraught. Rage flashed in her chest, at who thinks he is to be distraught.

She’s the one who's been played for a fool.

Draco stepped up again, and Hermione’s heart cracked in a different, deeper place, watching him take Theo’s hands in his. Pale moonlight-coloured skin stroking tan sunkissed knuckles. It was a perfect contract, as magical as some of the art she studies every day, how they seem to blend so perfectly. It makes what he says next all the more believable, “Theo and I have been seeing each other since I graduated, and I was disowned.”

Something strange and frigid clicked into place. Like ice filling the keyhole of a lock, making sure everything staid in place as she steadied a shaky breath to ask, a fear she had never considered formed, “So this is what? A game? Go out with pretty girls who don’t know better? Is it a facade, a well-trained manipulation? I thought the wizarding world was more accepting of love.” Disappointing dripped from each word, feeling like she was scolding Ron and Harry again.

Her scoff at the end made Theo smile—she supposed he’d rarely seen that side of her. Usually, she was pliant, like putty in his hands. Draco knows this side, though—the one who put a first through his nose in childhood. What a fool she was to do that, how it’s paid her back.

“Some ways yes, for those not needing to carry on their familial lines it’s quite normal. But for those of us who have an expectation to create heirs, it’s—well, a problem. So while paramours and flings of youth might be ignored by the right bride, what I feel for Draco isn’t accepted by most.” Theo’s addition was soft, caring and gentle in describing what they have–as if the stigma is just a second thought for him, light and airy in his love. She hated how his voice dropped when he said Draco’s name. It’s filled with so much love and caring. Maybe at one point, he had said her name in the same way.

That wistful thought seemed silly now, like the hopes and dreams of a spoiled child.

“Is this fun for you two? Just string along daft witches? Or do you usually do this with muggle girls? How’s a mudblood to know the difference.” The word was like a bomb being detonated in the hotel room. It doesn’t hurt Hermione, but Draco looked like he’d seen a dead body, and Theo started hammering on about not saying those things. It’s pointless really, she’d heard it all before.

Draco pulled himself together first, Theo still shaking his head and muttering about stupidity and bigoted arseholes, “No we don’t you’re the only witch we’ve ever both dated.”

“Lucky me.” She deadpanned, interrupting him, not entirely sure she wanted to hear the rest of his story. A small part of her felt guilty, she knew the hurt of being shunned by society, but it didn’t give her the right to string along unsuspecting girls. The sympathy was like a flash of water in a hot oily pan, bright and attention grabbing, but it doesn’t last. Something angry and bitter slinks through her veins, remembering how she became battle fodder for their love.

Draco breaks through the heavy thoughts, “Hermione, I know the optics here aren’t the best, but this isn’t some passing game as you so eloquently stated. I’m not sure what even happened tonight, but in all the ways we planned on telling you this wasn’t the way I envisioned it.”

“Your Uncle decided to do the right thing by blood and defend your honour.” Theo filled in, and despite his abhorrent behaviour, Hermione respected Regulus a bit more with the cards on the table. The only one she does at this point, he was an ass, rude and crude to her. But he apparently was honest and cared for Draco.

Still, she longed for the bubble of ignorance she had frolicked in earlier. With her head filled with boozy thoughts that she had it all, that the tough decisions would come later. Her next words are like a needle to a balloon, popping the last of her hope with their sharp intentions.

“How did you two envision this then? Oh hey, Hermione!” Her hands flailed for emphasis, mimicking the both of them with a cheery tone, “You know how we strung you along for years and paid you to fuck one of us.” The shame of admitting it out loud made her voice crack, hoarse with weakness and embarrassment. “That was all an act, sorry about it! Was I supposed to just keep it up? Take the money and smile like some brain less porcelain blow up doll?”

“No, no no love, let me explain. I think Draco has left out something important here. We do like you— separately we liked you before we knew what we wanted together. Fuck I found you having no idea that Draco even knew you or had some silly classroom crush.”

Theo’s words pulled a new level of anger out, indignant and horrified at the implication, palms slapping against silk-covered hips in outrage, “Are you two even happy with each other? It doesn’t make me feel better that you found me on your own to cheat with each other.”

“We are really buggering this, aren’t we. Draco is my everything,” the words stung, making her shoulders hunch, like an arrow straight to the gut. She wanted to leave and staunch the flow of blood as it poured out of the proverbial wound, but Theo just kept going, firing arrow after arrow. “I knew I loved Draco from the first moment I saw him. And I’ve never been happier than since knowing him.”

Molars ground together as she tried not to interrupt again, it was impossible, as something petulant and hurt took over, so she struck again. Saccharine and pointed like with the men who watch her with their fake compliments and demands, “Well, I am just so happy for you. Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”

What she hated the most was how in tune they appeared to be with each other and how much of an interloper she felt. Across the room from them, she was on an island, all alone and under constant attack.

Theo managed to look a little embarrassed, and Draco ploughed on for him. “But even though I feel the same way, I think we both have more or need more. To feel complete. And Hermione, Salazar, it sounds insane, but it’s always been you. I think I had a crush on your 3rd year, even with the bloody punch.”

The words made her head whip, and confusion scrawled across her face. “I don’t get it.” She can’t remember the last time she said the words. She prided herself on knowing everything she could about work or school. Now, her head felt full of sloshing water, and she was unsure how to drain the pressure building.

“I mean that we both like you. We think as much as we like each other. We planned on telling you, seeing if you were open to it, just as Theo said, not like this.”

“I don’t get it. What do I give you two?” The words were brittle, tumbling off her tongue and were the final straw. With palms pressed against her eye sockets, till they burned, and tears started to pour out of them and down her wrists. It was all too much, every single good thing she thought was going in her direction, upending itself all at once.

Theo filled the gaps in again, but it was too surreal. Before he even finished, she knew it was too good to be true, “You just make sense, Hermione. I can’t describe it perfectly, but you fit so well next to me talking to me. I know Draco feels the same about last night–”

“I’ve felt that way for years, every time I saw you at the flat, and after you started talking to me, Salazar forgave me. I just— you're brilliant and beautiful.”

Theo laughed, kissing Draco’s cheek, before finishing, “I love beautiful things, Hermione. Please consider giving this a shot.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Do you want me to date you both? I’m not really in the mood for jokes.” She hedged, even with the booze out of her gut, she was still drunk, overcome by her emotions, anger flaring with muddied confusion. Embarrassment slinking around in her veins like a snake, striking at her fragile sense of self preservation. Even with their eager nods, her clinical mind can’t comprehend what they want or why.

“Is it really that hard to believe? I think you’ll find Theo has a knack for collecting people.” Draco said with such tenderness, but the burn of his childhood mockery was too close to the surface. In just a few short moments, Theo had twisted into every other faceless man she messaged and with Draco at his side, she wasn’t sure who to trust anymore.

The words felt like half a mistake the moment they were released into the world. The needy part of her, with her parents gone, just wanted to ignore the blaring warning sirens and say she was sure. She debated stopping the sentence halfway through, but she needed them. Holding them close to her chest with the crumbling dignity she had left, “I need to think about this if I want this.”

The worst feeling of it all was the little voice in her head. The one that sounded exactly like a chorus of voices from school, Draco’s sneer the loudest, people she would now call her friends or acquaintances chanting like a monk’s chorus, you got ahead of yourself, Hermione. You were too happy, Hermione. Did you really think it could all be real?

She had, and it was a near fatal flaw for her psyche. Damn her and that Gryffindor courage and bravery, the risk of a few weeks of fun and the extra zeroes in the bank account had failed her.

Warm hands grip her shoulders, and she can hear them talking above her. His touch is the only sign that time has passed. Hermione had finally succumbed to her tears and overwhelming emotions, crying like a drunken girl outside of a pub, heartbroken and ashamed.

She just wanted to be quiet and go home, crawl into her stupid bed that would remind her of Theo and clear her mind, but she felt neither of them would let her. She wanted to hate how soft the touch was, how her heart craved to nuzzle into the hands that stroked her shoulders and the cooing sound from the other side of her. The one trying to calm her by rubbing her back.

Time seemed to stretch and bend as the weight of the unknowing washed over her. At some point, she collapsed too tired to grasp her threadbare lifeline of self-preservation and dignity, and someone scooped her up. She was too exhausted to protest the movement, so she let them lay her in bed. The cotton was no longer cloud-like, and the comforter was as heavy and weighty on her body as the day on her mind as sleep pulled her under. Someone pressed a kiss to her head, curls brushed away but still in the glittering dress. It would have been sweet to anyone else.

It’s how she woke, twisted in its train, eyes crusty and dry, still burning and face chapped and raw. There was a strange moment where she almost forgot all the bad parts of the night before. Her eyes were still closed, and she could imagine she fell asleep in the dress because they had too much fun. That her tears are from the laughter Theo pulls from deep within her chest, silk strands tied to her ribs, weaving something delicate and intimate between them—a love for art and secrets between the pages of books. But the moment the light hit her and she had to roll away, it all returned.

A wave of nausea descended upon her again. The type of rolling stomach that only an utter fool feels. Shame crept up her throat again, a bottomless spit churning acidic waves to spur on poor and rash decision making.

A strange disorientation took over. Muscle memory led her to the bathroom, diligently ignoring every mirror possible, unwilling to see the pathetic mess she’d become. Even with the hottest shower in Europe, she was still confused. No amount of steam or muscle-bending heat could undo the knot her brain was in.

Draco’s words rang in her ear, “We both like you,” and then her response, the one voiced by 11-year-old Hermione with only a few friends and even those were feeble, “What do I give you two?”

In the light of day, she came to terms with what she does give. As the water soaked her curls and her nails scratched and scrubbed her scalp raw, she unworked all the knots inside and out and decided. She’d made herself this object in their eyes, every time she slipped from her clothes or smiled for the camera. Every coy tilt of painted lips when she accepted a tip and childish gushing when Theo sent her on that first trip. She hated that they tainted it for her and that she couldn’t give it up even with the sour feeling—she needed the cash. It was then she made the decision when realisation settled onto her shoulders, understanding rolling down her spine with the rivulets of water.

When the water turned cold, and she forced herself out of the safe, tiled confines, there was only one thing to do. Still, in a towel, frantic hands moved and rummaged through an overflowing bag of half-thrown together things to find her phone.

She sifted through a barrage of messages from people. The group chat with Pansy and Ginny was active, but the one solo message from Pansy without Ginny sealed the deal.

Pansy

You okay?

If Theo’s pleas had been arrows, Pansy's admission to knowing felt like a bullet wound. Wide and gaping, she wouldn’t be able to ignore it. Her friend knew, and while Hermione hoped that Pansy believed the fairytale Draco spun, it still hurt. Memories of little lies popped into her head. Her mind connected dot after dot of how pathetic she must have appeared. Without the proper time for another shower to untangle that piece, her response felt rushed, but in the end, it was all part of the plan, piecing together with every tap. The click of nails against the glass phone screen was the only sound in the room, a jilted lullaby as Hermione put to bed who she was before the night before. She does it every day, but now, instead of a camera, it would be for everyone else. She would fake it.

Hermione

Yep! Everything's great!

Pansy sent something back, probably tried to call her on the bullshit message, but Hermione was too busy pulling up other text threads and swiping through the motions quickly to block both Theo and Draco. She didn’t forget the cam app either, the loss of income would be tough, but she had other regulars she could take more time with, now that she’d have it. At least she knew what she was to them.

She’d barely finished scrubbing them from her life, going as far as to block accounts she wasn’t even sure were theirs on Instagram, when a knock reverberated against the door, disrupting the eerie calm of her actions. With trembling fingers, she opened it, mimicking Theo and Draco, and slipped a mask into place. The smile hurt, forced and stretched, and when she found Theo standing on the other side of the door, he seemed surprised and then confused by its presence.

Good. She was sick of being the only one confused, and he would need to get used to it when he figured it all out.

Welcoming him in was easy enough though, when she thought of all those cotillion lessons from her childhood, for a split moment wanting to curtsey, serve him to drive home that she had it all together again. Theo instantly spotted her bag on the bed when his eyes left her, scratching the back of his neck as he studied the gift. And she pounced, feeling a bit like herself again.

“If you’d like it back I can—” Cruel words that made their mark. She knew he didn’t want it back. The guilt was obvious on his sunken, bruised under eyes. The gloom of the entire situation tempered any petty satisfaction in watching the disappointment land.

“No, it was a gift. Please keep it. I just wanted to see if you had time to think about what Draco and I spoke about last night.” He seemed hopeful and tentative while smiling and regret claws at the back of her ribs, screaming that maybe she could have it all.

But her heart worked quicker, sewing up the wounds as they formed, “I did, but I think I need more time.”

“It’s not a no?” He gasped and took a step towards her, his eyes crestfallen when she stepped back on instinct. Silly, just 24 hours ago, she would have stepped in the opposite direction, right into his arms.

Lying was the hardest part, the previous subtle avoidance and letting that hope balloon was contagious and now she deflated both. “It’s not, but it’s a lot. I need time to think if this arrangement works for me.”

“Hermione, it’s not. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything because of the money.”

Unsure why she does it, why she still felt the need to make Theo feel better when she felt pulverised, but she did— touching his arm through the soft dress shirt. She hadn’t even noticed how casual he looked, different from any other time. Pressed shirt still, but paired with muggle jeans, he looked handsome and pulled at the fraying edges of her will, the only thing keeping her decision to herself. “It’s not, don’t worry I just need to process what I want.”

A classic, it's not me, it's you, and it worked like a charm. The last piece slid into place, like a blade through silk, when Theo finally stopped trying to fight her. She wanted to scream that the threads were at their end, that he could cut them to dust, but he didn’t. Instead, he respected her wants, and the salt of his words cauterised her wounds. “That’s fine. Draco got you a portkey. It will take you back to your place. It has two activation times. We are going to go to breakfast. If you want to join, ask more questions, or it’s set for about 15 minutes from now.”

She shook her head. No, even if she faked the questions and seemed interested, they could figure out they were blocked between now and then. She can’t speak and not spill her guts for a second time that weekend.

Theo nodded understanding and kissed her cheek as he left, his lips fragile and almost trembling on the raw skin. Some small hopeful part of her tried to savour it, but when she saw the shadow of someone else outside the door as he left, it shrivelled up.

The pull of the portkey was much less enjoyable than the feeling of a private aeroplane, but she was grateful there was no man distracting her in the cabin. Her feet wobbled again when she landed, and her thoughts immediately travelled to Draco on Friday. How he intuitively supported her through the apparition, how right it had felt at the time. It’s a cruel joke that things have flipped so much since then—not even a minute home, and thoughts of them continue to bombard and plague.

Without him there and the weight the night before bearing down on her, she crumbled. Instead of soft carpet, though she expects to land on the cold wooden floors of her flat. Hard and unwelcoming, a representation of what she wanted her heart to be.

It was as if the moment her knees hit the floor time seemed to warp. The silence between Pansy’s knocks on her door that first night felt like eons, stretching far and wide, as regret mounted in her gut. Minutes slowed into hours, as she found little reminders of them. Her hangover melted what was left of her sanity, finding herself stumbling around the bedroom, trying not to think too hard about the potential she’d left behind without so much as a word. She lied and coddled herself that she felt guilt over not saying anything, that it had been the cowardly thing to do—but as her fingers trembled over the sapphire stones, now hidden deep in the armoire, she had a feeling it was the unknown eating away at her confidence.

Sometimes, in the days that followed, as she replayed the supposed options over and over again in her head, she thought there were signs. Blaring sirens and flashing lights acted like divine beacons of intervention, pointing her in the direction of undoing all the work she’d spent distancing. Like how she was confident Draco’s voice was in her living room one night, hushed and low, sharp and biting as she knew it, but as if pleading with Pansy–but a second later it shifted, the tenor deeper and softer and Hermione realised it had been Neville all along.

Or when she went for a run from campus to downtown to clear her mind after work, slowing down at the coffee shop Theo had taken them—swearing he was there again, waiting for her. She’d nearly run right into a man cutting through the side alley to stop and gawk at the curly dark hair and broad-shouldered, suited back. Brushing off the guy as he tried to ask if she was okay, hands cupped around her eyes peering through the glass front.

Other times it was less obvious, like when half her laundry went missing with the dry cleaning and all left was the scraps of lace she’d brought to show Theo. She hated that he plagued her even underneath a drab lab coat and jumper. At one point, she’d been so distracted at work that she’d snapped at Ernie till he cried, unable to find her headphones where they usually sat next to her work station, accusing him of moving them without her permission. Pansy had been doing it too, the expensive lotion and perfume she’d made Hermione buy was absent from the bathroom.

Her lack of necessities didn’t last long though. The gifts started halfway through the week, her avoidance of Pansy only adding to the stress as she tried to carry up shopping bags, ribbon adorned boxes and grand bouquets. Half of her wanted to avoid the witch because she knew something, but the other half wasn’t ready to hear her call Hermione dramatic for cutting everything off. Pansy would probably call her childish. She’d definitely judge her like a scared toddler for slipping all the cards that came with all the personalised and thoughtful gifts, and even the extensive (and well informed if the state of their fridge before and after) grocery delivery in a bedside table drawer. The fact that Pansy helped them know what she needed reinforced the need to keep her away.

No matter how many times she looked at the full drawer, she just couldn’t bring herself to break the seals. It didn’t matter if they both wanted her as they claimed, the whole situation was too raw. Even if she could believe it, she’d always wonder if they were telling the truth, her head on a swivel, constantly looking over her shoulder. It was only on those runs where she could pretend to relax for a few moments, tire herself so she wouldn’t toss and turn in her sleep.

Hermione had gotten into the habit of avoiding the little cafe and downtown Oxford altogether, choosing instead to apparate out to Farmoor Reserve where she wouldn’t be forced to see anyone and wouldn’t feel compelled to check all the details and every corner for their presence.

All good plans had flaws, though, and that rarely worked either. Her heart would leap whenever her phone buzzed, hoping they’d gotten around the brickwalls between them. But every time she’d be disappointed, the typical barrage of messages staring back at her, stark in the screen's blue glow. After a particularly long stretch of path around the reservoir pond, when the pulsating of incoming messages was near constant, Hermione found her speed picking up as if every vibration was a different set of eyes on her propelling her forward. Feet pounded and drove through the motions harder, the chill of never being alone making the baby hairs at the base of her skull stand on end.

She’d grown so paranoid in her teenage heartbreak that even the snap of a twig in the distance made her jump. It didn’t help that she liked to run immediately after going live, always on edge. It was supposed to clear her mind but instead the orgasm she’d forced made her anxious.

Nearly five kilometers in, she decided to take a break. Her chest heaved from exertion, and sweat dripped down her brow. Hermione found a bench secluded away from the path. Not many people liked this path around dusk, but the low light and lack of people were a break. It also allowed her to open the app and not fear who was around her watching over her shoulder.

Settling in, with the sun starting to dip below the horizon, Hermione frowned at the screen for the third time that week and started responding.

DoubleOnIce: New Subscriber +£50

MacInManchester: Coming back soon? +£25

DragonTamer: Personalised Video Request +£100

DoubleOnIce: Personalised Video Request x 2 +£200

BeekerBreaker: Missing you beautiful, looked golden today +£3

There were more. The increased live shows were attracting more attention, and by the time she finished, the sun was completely below the horizon. With her breaths coming out in a dense fog, she called it a night. Another snapping twig in the distance alerted her that the evening wildlife was also coming out to play, and Hermione disapparated home, having had enough of being watched for the day.

Chapter Text

She was torturing them. It could be the only reason she hadn’t come to lunch, the fall sun warm on his neck as Draco finished another glass, too much liquor for the hour, but her absence ate at him.

He wasn’t an idiot—he knew she was hurt, not unfairly, but she always wanted more. Hermione was arguably obsessed with understanding the why of everything. The voracious hunger for knowledge drove him mad in school, having to put up with her incessant questions in class and challenging everyone on everything. But now, well, Draco quite liked watching her mouth twist to the side and try to put together the pieces of whatever puzzle dominated her mind that day.

But this? Not a single perfunctory question from her, and no desire to study the subjects that made her the offer? It struck him as odd, too peculiar to relax as Theo recounted the dramatic evening. No, this wasn’t right. The Hermione he knew, if she planned on taking their offer seriously, would be here with a list, adding more and more questions to it as the conversation continued. It would probably be an endless discussion—the complete opposite of what he and Theo had been.

In those early days, when Draco was so scared and forced to be alone for the first time, Theo offered him the world, and Draco, with eager, greedy hands, accepted. He didn’t care where the galleons in his Gringotts account came from, and Theo never pushed to establish any expectations. It had been an ideal arrangement, the two of them gorging themselves on what the other offered. Theo loved seeing Draco morph into the wizard he was now with no strings attached to his behaviour, and Draco liked having a safety net. It was not to say that Draco didn’t push Theo, stretching his limits and talking back any chance he got, flipping every idea Theo had on its head till they couldn’t help but love each other, every quirk and all.

That was not Hermione, though—she wasn’t desperate for love and alone in the world. She’d grown up with loving parents and friends who wanted her to grow and shine. He never understood why she’d started doing the shows, but that wasn’t his business. As their lunches were cleared, Theo leaned back in his chair, almost wistful in his excitement, looking around the busy streets of Monaco, the dread mounted in Draco’s gut. He had spoken to Hermione, said their joint goodbye, and come out of that hotel room hopeful. So confident that the years they’d spent spilling their secrets through that bloody website made him understand her. It dawned on Draco that most of their time together had been spent through blue-tinged screens. Theo didn’t know her, not in the familiar way Draco did. He saw the curated version she presented. Even when she showed the cracks in her porcelain exterior, he’d only seen a fraction of what Draco witnessed over the years in school.

Theo was a gullible fool.

Draco’s fool, make no mistake, one he wanted to share with Hermione, one he was certain did truly adore the witch who was ghosting them. But he was an easy sell to people he cared about. A broom salesman loved to see Theodore Nott coming. Not his uncles, but if Daphne wanted the day off, all she had to do was cough. Or if Draco wanted another wand holster, all he needed to do was tug on whatever one was wearing, and Theo would have a new one ordered in a moment.

Hermione had played him.

The realisation filled Draco with sinking dread, his stomach plummeting as if filled with lead. His skin felt cold to the touch, dread working through his veins until he felt paralysed. Draco picked up his phone with shaky fingers, a dull roar drowning out whatever it was Theo said in the distance, probably asking why he looked so aghast. He tried to keep it casual, hoping that his gut was wrong.

Draco

No questions? I expected more from you.

But it rarely was, a skill the DMLE praised him for regularly—Draco Malfoy was a human lie detector. And once again, he was right.

Granger

Undeliverable

The phone clattered against the table, glass cracking at the sheer force, and the heels of Draco’s palms went to his eyes, his head thrown back as he pressed till stars danced in his vision. Only one word on his lips at that moment, “FUCK.”

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The metal of the flat’s door stung his hand, but Draco didn’t really care. Floo access had been cut off, and he had a feeling she probably wouldn’t appreciate him just showing up, apparating inside unannounced. Outside was perfectly acceptable, not because it was his only choice, and he couldn’t think of any better ideas. Not because his mind was too slurred from the bottle of Ogden’s he’d knicked from the cellar, Theo had forgotten to ward him out of yet. “Definitely not that”, he whispered hoarsely to himself, his palm slapping at the door again.

She could choose not to open, but he hoped she would. Warm and slushy, the emotion swelled in his gut, or maybe that was the liquor. It didn’t matter. Theo had forced him home from work while they tried his way of doing things, which was epically failing if you asked Draco. So here he stood, attempting to handle it how he saw best, with as much liquid courage he could muster, hoping that she would take a moment and think about if this was what she actually wanted.

Bang

Bang

Bang

Again and again, in a rhythmic motion, “It’s me! Hermione, open up, please!” The stench of old firewhiskey and cigarette smoke clung to his breath as he said the words. His slow churning mind debated lighitng up another, sluggish hands only stopping when Draco remembered she’d probably scold him for it when she answered. If she answered.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime and was probably only a few minutes, the lock on the other side clicked, and Draco felt that bit of hope in his chest catch fire, ignited by the firewhisky till he grinned ear to ear, ready to plead his case. He rode the high, watching the handle twist, only for a head of glossy black hair, not the warm brown curls he was hoping for to douse it all to soggy ash.

Immediately, a groan escaped him, and Pansy hissed in response, “What do you want?”

“That's not a very nice greeting for your friend Pansy, a childhood friend if I might add.” His hopes might be dashed, but the bravery he’d stolen from the bottom of the bottle lingered, and he tried his hand at being endearing.

She hadn’t opened the door all the way, a chain lock above her head, a tall shirtless figure mumbling behind her. “Everyone in this apartment is preoccupied, Draco. What do you want?”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your weekly shrub trimming.” His fingers pressed into his cheek to keep the laughter bubbling up contained. Pansy didn’t respond, a large hand gripping her shoulder as she sucked in a cheek. So Draco continued, “Or was that what you did before Longbottom came over?”

“Watch it, Malfoy,” The lumbering shadow threatened, but neither Pansy nor Draco paid it any mind.

A bright pink hex shot out from her wand, catching Draco’s ankle and making him jump and yelp. “Oh? A bloody comedian, are you? I haven’t spoken to her in days. She sneaks in and out of here and puts up wards on her room every night. All after your sorry arse came crying to me on Saturday afternoon. So keep your stupid pub jokes to yourself.”

The confession sobered him. The world seemed to unblur, and he caught the haggard look on Pansy’s face, bloodshot eyes and thin pressed lips. It startled him, the sense of dread that had hung over his head like a storm cloud since Sunday returning as he tried to clarify, “What do you mean you haven’t seen her?”

“I’m not sure how to make this any clearer. She’s avoiding me and looks like you, too. Thanks for that, by the way. It was lovely trying to get rent paid.”

“Pansy, it’s been days since she left Monaco, and I know Theo called in and paid the rent. You're telling me you haven't seen her once? How do you even know she’s okay in there?” The anger was misplaced, but as his voice rose, he couldn’t help but flush red with indignation. Was everyone just oblivious to what she needed?

Pansy cut him off, a perfectly manicured hand rising to stop Neville from pushing past her, “Well, unlike you, I am friends with her friends, and she has plenty of time to text Ginny Weasley. And I can hear her moping around, sniffling as she leaves at all hours of the day. So I’m well aware she’s alive, but she doesn’t want to speak to me. Any idea what’s that about?”

“It went poorly, I think.” He confessed, scratching at the sweaty scruff at the nape of his neck.

On a short huff, she couldn’t miss her chance to remind him of the poor condition she’d caught him when Theo’s patronus interrupted their Saturday evening. “Well, I told you it would when you told me what you had done.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. Theo handled most of it.”

“Salazar, you sound like your mother. Not saying anything is the same in her little Gryffindor brain. She’s fine.”

“Let me in to see her. I just want to explain better, in a way she would understand.” Gone was all the humour of earlier. Deflated, he kicked at the ground and felt like begging.

“Absolutely not! I want her to talk to me again!” She shrieked, shattering his attempts at allegiance, turning to blame just as he had all those years ago when he first met Hermione.

“You aren’t doing anything to help her!”

Pansy had changed, though. She blew out a long breath, arms crossed over her chest. “Some people just need time, Draco. Patience was never your strong suit. You’ve always been a spoiled prat. That explains a lot of this situation if you ask me.”

“I think I was doing an excellent job at sharing. Thank you very much.” The words were sullen, a poor attempt at humour that she ignored.

“That’s the problem, you idiot. You wanted to have your cake and eat it, too. Well, guess what? Granger isn’t pie or cake. She’s a witch, and you’ve hurt her feelings enough that she’s giving Red the one-word answers and spending half her time on that website. I’m not going to fix your problems. I already set you up with her once. Not my fault your secrets ruined it.”

How she managed to slam the door with only a few centimetres of give was out of his comprehension, but its rattle shook through his bones, leaving him to look at the pale white paint before him, head spinning and the burn of firewhisky on his breath. Fuck.

His head swelled in a foggy mess as he apparated back into the townhouse. It was half quiet, not a sound, except a Nott family elf making a dinner that he was certain neither would eat. They’d been moping around, going through the motions since the realisation hit. Theo spent most of his time at work, cursing about missing galleons under his breath and ranting about Blaise and Astoria being so touchy while consulting, grinding his teeth about a lack of professionalism that Draco knew he didn’t care about. But when Theo wasn’t dead set on finding something to whine about, he was doing this.

Locking himself in the home office, eerie blue light seeping underneath from the computer’s glow, watching her. It was pathetic. He’d bitch over a pushed around dinner later that she’d blocked him again. But Draco couldn’t find it in himself to point out just how pathetic they’d become, a simple rejection, and here they were weeping. The only time they didn’t seem so glum was when they tumbled into bed with each other, frantic and rough, not at all that they had been imagining as of late with her.

As if to twist the knife, the memory of her dancing against him, the heat of her on his thigh, the taste of her sweat-slicked skin on his tongue invaded his mind. He’d do anything to have it again, knowing Theo had indeed tasted her, chafed at him. Little fissures started popping up in the foundation they’d spent so long building, and while he’d never admit it out loud, it made Draco pissy. Pansy had been right in her not-so-delicate wisdom–he was a spoiled child and needed a distraction.

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Her hissing words and those grating, angry memories followed him till he cracked. Every time he tried to run from the inky, barbed emotions, they haunted him. His eyes caught on another returned gift on the counter, and before Theo could see it, Draco lit it on fire, the sparks on the paper’s edge catching something in him that could not be pushed down. Even after a long day of duelling practice he’d begged Auror Black for, which included more alone time with Weasley than was natural, but it hadn’t forced him to sleep. Not even convincing Theo to let him fuck him into the sheets harder than ever before had done it. The forlorn look in both their eyes made his blood pressure rise again. His veins felt ready to pop as his pulse raced for hours.

No, he was wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. Theo passed out beside him, a soft snore whistling into the pillow. Just another thing that Draco felt a strange flash of jealousy for, that he could sleep unbothered. Sure, the damn elves had been slipping him dreamless sleep, and Draco wasn’t going to challenge them on it, but he still felt a wave of annoyance.

Guilt wrapped its hands around his neck like a vice for such a betrayal, and as the large clock in the hallway ticked on each second, he made the decision. Without a well thought out plan, their last few had been shite anyways, he made his move. Fingers tapped quickly and aggressively against the dimmed screen, as long as it could go so as not to disturb Theo, making the quickest profile he could.

He didn’t care that the name was stupid, the first thing that came to his mind. Draco could only hope that maybe she couldn’t sleep either. It was pointless, he realised, once logged in, and there was no green dot next to her name. But he paid the subscription fee anyway, turning on every alert available—and breathing a sigh of relief, grateful to see the transaction go through. Theo had whinged all day about how the app was starting to block his accounts. Apparently, Hermione was trying to keep them out in any way possible and had reported Theo for being a little too obsessed.

He imagined her shrill complaint now, the haughty tone and the way her voice would rise when she knew she was right. She would turn her nose up, and her lip would curl as she seethed out the words, saying they didn’t respect her wishes. The image didn't scare him away. If anything, he wanted her teeth bared and to bite back. Draco was desperate. The itch to talk to her had grown into something living and breathing in his chest. She had no interest in their apologies, and he had no interest in her cold shoulder. He knew the notes on their gifts had gone unopened, and the enchantments on them to let him know their reception had never been enacted.

So yes, this was overstepping, but Theo hadn’t figured it out. Who was Draco to deny himself anything? Yes, Pansy was most definitely right. He was a spoiled little boy, and he wanted to see Hermione’s disgust with them if he was to get nothing else. He needed to know she was okay.

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Hermione did not appear that night or the next, and Draco hadn’t told Theo of his new half-worked idea or messaged her, too afraid to cross the line again or ruin his chance before he had it. The secret clung to his teeth, making them ache whenever he spoke to Theo. But finally, on the third day, a late Wednesday afternoon, once again in the DMLE locker room, his phone dinged. The notification made him freeze, the unknown tone ringing throughout the room like a siren. He stood there staring at his phone as if it were a cauldron bubbling over and ready to explode, towel slung low on his hips, eyes darting around nervously to see if anyone else was in the room. It was an odd time to work out, his hours all over the place after begging for more, and it worked to his advantage.

Draco’s body moved before his mind caught up, grabbing his phone and making a direct path to the steam room. No one ever used it except the older Aurors, and they all had meetings that afternoon. He whispered a quick notice-me-not charm on the door and a light locking spell before settling on the wood-planked bench. It wouldn’t stop anyone from coming in, but it would give him barely enough time should he need it. All the self-loathing coursing through his veins shifted to a new one, replaced with buzzing excitement as he settled.

He splashed more water on the rocks in the corner, the billowing white cloud of steam growing thicker. The heat rose, sweat dripping down his back, and the cloud would serve as another camouflage should someone interrupt. Despite how much he wanted to put both headphones in and immerse himself in the scraps of attention he was stealing from her, he knew better and settled for one.

As soon as the little white pod was in his ear, he started the feed. Hermione’s soft laughter was the first thing he heard, like a knife twisting in his chest. He placed his palm against his sternum, working the heel in firm circular motions to calm him down. It took a whole minute of her tittering as if nothing had happened before he could look at the screen. The image of her on her bed assaulted him further. Hermione sat perched on her knees, a giant smile plastered across her face as she spoke to the camera. She greeted everyone who came in, and Draco felt a strange sense of pride when she spoke directly to him.

“Hi, DragonStar,” there was a minuscule pause as if the words were foreign to her, and he prayed she hadn’t put them together yet. “So happy to have you here! New subscribers get to vote on what happens today, so don’t forget to do that!” She winked and moved to the next person, responding to comments with a breathy laugh that sounded much like how she had at Matador. A part of him hated that he had sunk this low, but even hearing her, despite how strained her voice was, made the risk worth it.

Looking at her in the pale pink lace, sheer enough to see a perfectly trimmed line of hair around her cunt made him feel wild. Even if her tan skin looked a little sallow, he could at least see her breathe, chest rising and falling, rosy nipples pressing and straining against the little rose pattern on the fabric. Did she like roses? He knew Theo had sent over more bouquets than they knew what to do with, but he couldn’t see any of them in the room—just a very large purple orchid in the background, clashing against the warm white walls and soft afternoon light.

He was so wrapped up in studying her that he nearly missed that things had shifted. He’d only been in her room a few times— but Draco remembered little trinkets and books everywhere. Maybe she’d moved it to film, which made the most sense, but he found it odd that she wouldn’t just disillusion the bookcase behind her but instead empty it of random magical titles. Seeing her on the giant white bed with just one potted plant behind her felt sterile.

His cock hadn’t gotten that memo, though, straining against the towel, tenting the heavy fabric as her fingers brushed over the plethora of toys laid out on the bed. Comments were rolling in, and she entertained all that she could. She teased back and forth, stroking them like he wished she would his cock as she showed the offerings. When someone named Macinmanchester asked her to use the biggest, she laughed, picking up a flexible silicone dildo that made even his eyes grow wide.

She pressed it against her lip, just as she would a pencil in school when she drove him insane secretly for years, considering the request for a moment. She couldn’t even wrap her whole hand around the monstrous thing. “Ohhhh, this ole thing? You know it’s hard for me, but I like the idea of a challenge. Any other ideas? Requests from our new friends?”

It was hard to type with one hand, the other having found its way to pump himself, precum pooling at the tip and spreading it down the length of his shaft with each languorous stroke. But Draco did it. He typed as quickly as possible, trying not to misspell anything while fumbling with his right hand, running with the first idea that popped into his head despite how it threatened to reveal him.

DragonStar: What about two at the same time?

The other comments poured in after that, some in agreement, but most tipped and begged for the sight and only the occasional dissent. A name that looked awfully familiar made Draco roll his eyes.

NotNorthern🌹: We only want to see what you are comfortable with +£500

He could respect the fine line Theo toed, but Draco was sick of that. They’d grovelled the pure-blood way—had sent gifts, apologies, jewellery, clothes, wine, and food. Salazar, he was certain Theo had even opened her a new Gringotts account and dumped galleons into it. It didn’t work. So he was doing it his way now, and Draco was confident for one short moment that Hermione understood. Her brown eyes blew wide, pupils eating away her irises as she studied the message. She chewed her bottom lip, the faintest hint of a smile and then a frown on the corners of her mouth before she slipped her mask back on and responded.

“I’ve never done that before, but it seems like everyone wants to see it. Maybe if we get to 5k in tips? How about we make it a game? If we can get there before I come, I’ll try it?” She teased her nipple through the meshy lace as she made the offer, a gentle gasp on her lips to urge them on.

It was instantaneous, more and more tips rolled in after that—pilling up in record time.

Draco wasn’t sure he’d last long enough to see his request come to life, squeezing tightly around his shaft as her voice grew higher and higher, thanking everyone as she crept closer to the amount. It was addictive watching her push the now dark pink fabric between her thighs to the side when they hit 2.5k. The sight of her pink and shiny fingers slipping through plump folds made him stop his motions altogether. He wanted to commit the image to memory and needed to see it in real life.

She didn’t stop, teasing them when the tips slowed, pulling her knickers taught against her cunt and squirming, throwing in the occasional plea till they picked back up again. She ignored Theo’s blatant attempts for attention through all this, and Draco tried not to cringe as he invited her again and again to a private room, telling her she didn’t have to do this. But as she slipped two fingers inside, he wondered if she liked seeing Theo like that. Draco certainly did. Theo was usually so calm and commanding, in charge at work and events, but there was something brilliant when he unravelled, willing to do and give anything to get what he wanted.

The minx was just like him, and Draco wanted to commiserate with her on it. That would have to wait, though. Now, he had to roll his eyes at Theo’s actions.

There was no denying it was him, trying to speak to her in a loving tone while others asked her to fuck herself. Every time he sent another couple hundred pounds, she moaned harder, and the others grew wilder. She pinched and tugged at her nipple one more time, her thighs trembling when the number hit, stars erupting on the screen. Messages turned rampant after that, and Hermione let out a desperate, needy moan to stop herself. Sticking out her bottom lip, she pouted and whined, “You guys love to edge me, don’t you? But a deal is a deal, isn’t it.”

She winked at the camera, her face flush and legs wobbly as she moved. He was certain no one else noticed, but as her fingers pushed her knickers down her legs and she lay back on the bed, he could have sworn she whispered a lubrication charm.

“I think we'll just have to go with a plug today. I don’t want to take too much and only have two hands.” She teased while moving the camera closer between her legs so it looked half down at her, framing her in the curls, and Draco had to stop pumping altogether at the sight. While her knees dropped open, he watched her reach over to a nightstand, pulling out a bulbous-shaped plug, and when she ran it through her centre, laughing for everyone who watched while she warmed it up in her cunt, he was struck by the green heart on the bottom.

It couldn’t be a coincidence—she never wore green. No, that emerald glimmering jewel was her recognition of him, sparkling in the low afternoon light as she pushed it in. He almost missed her speaking again, so distracted by the sight of it between her plump arsecheeks, needing a better view.

“Tell me, DragonStar, do you want to see me take two toys on my back, or would you like me to be on my hands and knees.”

He wished he could talk, that she could hear his voice drop with need and the excitement at his reward, but he would take typing. He hoped what he wanted came across as sincere and not like the shameful creature he’d become, guilt slipping up his chest at the idea of what he was doing. But he tamped it down, trying not to take too long as others voiced their opinions.

DragonStar: I want to see your face

“Huh, that’s a new one, but it's okay. Your wish is my command. Are you a star I can wish on?” She teased while rolling over. Her knees were wide, her cunt on display and emerald gem glinting as she wiggled into place. Her chest pressed down flush against the bed, but her head rested to the side where he could still see her.

He smiled to himself, picking up speed while twisting his wrist, imagining it was her. Draco almost finished when she pushed the blunt head of a crystal-clear toy inside of her. Her eyes rolled back, and her arse cheeks and cunt spread wide to welcome the width.

The sound of her, wet and slick, taking more and more, made his spine tingle. When she started talking, moaning and humping the toy, he was lost. “Oh god, it’s so big.” “Please, I can take it,” she begged, and he couldn’t tell if she was acting or not. He understood how she’d enthralled Theo as her cheeks stained red and hot tears of pleasure rolled down onto the duvet. She was mesmerising. At one point, she shoved her face into the pillows, and while he was saddened to lose sight of her eyes and uncertain, she was just saying damn, a sick part of him wondered if maybe it was Draco, his name on her tongue instead.

Soon enough, she was shaking, the backs of her thighs breaking out in gooseflesh as she gushed and cried out, sputters of release trickling down the supple skin and pooling on the bed. Her face was a wash of bliss as she panted on the sheets and regained her composure. The sight of her smiling and dazed was what did it for him, the image of her wet sheets between her thighs and the glittering emerald plug still her arse that sent hot thick ropes of come all over his belly. He wanted to sit underneath her and let every single hot drop fall on his face. But things wrapped up too quickly, and he was just a faceless name on the screen.

His fingers ached to brush a sweaty curl from her forehead, but soon enough, the sounds of electronic doors closing echoed throughout the chat room, and he realised everyone else was leaving now that the show was over. He opened his mouth as if he might say something out loud, but Hermione beat him to it, crawling back towards the camera, looking like a vision in her blush, waving them all goodbye but speaking directly to him: “Thank you for the idea, DragonStar. I hope you enjoyed it.”

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The arrogant smirk on Draco’s face disappeared the moment he stepped off the elevator and onto Theo’s floor. Every ounce of smug satisfaction disappeared when he caught wind of a sweaty, red-faced Cormac McLaggen leaning down into Daphne’s space. From a few paces away, Draco could see the drops of sweat and spittle on his face landing on Daphne’s lap, and with Theo nowhere in sight, Draco could not have that.

Daphne caught his eye, a huff of relief when Draco crossed the room quickly. His voice was devoid of any emotion except dull annoyance, “McLaggen, didn’t think you’d make it here this long.” Cormac straightened at the sound, his mouth twisting and eyes narrowing as Darco slid up to Daphne’s desk.

He offered her a warm smile, and Daphne got to work messaging Theo that Draco would be in soon. Cormac, on the other hand, was as dumb as he’d always been, opening his mouth, “Malfoy, what business do you have here today? I know it’s not for your family. Are the Aurors finally raiding this place? Couldn’t suck them off enough to keep the Ministry off our backs.” Daphne’s soft gasp followed the lewd comment, but Draco ignored it, turning to face Cormac fully.

He rolled his shoulders back, standing at his full height and peering down at Cormac as he spoke next. “Good one, Cormac. It was even funnier the first time you said it after I was disinherited. Do you think if you keep saying it, someone will start laughing? I know your type is brave, but I didn’t realise it meant idiotically so.”

“My type—” he huffed, condensation pooling at his upper lip, and Draco wondered if he’d run a marathon in the office that day or if the legally questionable potions he liked buying off Goyle were getting to be a bit much. “Speaking of my type. Heard you went on a date with Gryffindor’s Golden Cunt from Weasley. But the funny thing was, she said she wasn’t talking to anyone when I owled her. No details either, just a yes to see me this weekend. Good job on getting quicker. It only took 18 years to disappoint your mother. Congratulations on ruining it with Hermione in a few hours.”

Draco’s wand was yanked from his hand before he could press the wood under Cormac’s chin. Daphne stood perfectly still behind her desk, holding both his and Cormac’s in her hand. Her eyes were squinted with annoyance, coughing out, “Theo’s ready to see you, Draco.”

He couldn’t speak, just snatched his wand from Daphne’s fist before turning on his heel and stomping towards the ominous dark mahogany door. His hand wrapped around the knob when he turned over his shoulder, tongue gliding across his teeth as Draco pinned Cormac in place with his glare. “Why don’t you wait right here, Cormac? I’m sure Theo will love to hear your side of things once I’m through.”

Cormac’s cursing could be heard through the thick wood, slurs that Draco wasn’t even going to acknowledge whispered under the door as he greeted Theo. His smirk had returned despite the itch to put his fist through a wall.

Theo was having none of it, his head banging against the desk in soft thuds as he groaned, “You could have at least tipped her.”

“No, that's your job. And fire McLaggen.” He threw himself into one of the large leather chairs facing Theo’s desk. Grumbling to himself before lashing out and kicking at Theo’s desk. He did not trust himself to sit any closer, still too on edge from seeing Hermione and that shite interaction, he’d fuck Theo or start a fight.

“I can’t. He’s on some agreement with Uncle Tiberius, and I need his vote on the board.”

Draco pressed his tongue to his cheek, unsure he wanted to deal with the fallout of what he was about to say. But it gave him time to avoid telling Theo about his plan to win Hermione back, and that was enough to seal the deal. His mouth opened on a pop, enunciating every syllable he could while speaking slowly. “Gryffindor’s. Golden. Cunt.”

Chapter Text

Things were getting out of hand. Two weeks had passed since her fateful trip to Monaco, and Draco and Theo were most definitely haunting her. As if everywhere she turned, her mind was conjuring images of them together, and now she was going to extremes to try and gain back some semblance of control.

Her paranoia of them keeping tabs on her had grown tenfold since the last stream. She couldn’t prove it was Draco, but something in her gut nagged that there was more than what met the eye to that particular request. It didn’t help that she realised Theo was there as well, till too late. The realisation stung, stealing her orgasm from her as a burst of accidental magic crackled in her room. She hated it, how in such a short time she’d let herself dream such foolish dreams, and now she missed two wizards, in retrospect, realised she barely knew. Hermione forced herself only to allow those she approved to subscribe to her account, flagging anyone who seemed familiar, in order to keep the reminders at bay, even though her accounts were dwindling after her last tuition payment.

A strange, restless melancholy followed her as she made her way across campus, settling like jittery pixies in her gut. The warring emotions that felt like they were about to split her in two popped up whenever she wasn’t busy. On one hand, the way he asked for the act, or rather demanded it, felt like a test of her limits. Reminded her of how he often threw himself into debate with her, or had when he was allowed near her. The repelling charm was working well enough if the flash of blonde hair she saw in the distance the other day was him. Sadly, she couldn’t fashion a charm to repel the memory of how they once bickered till her knickers were damp. Her heart twisted behind her ribs, wistful and confused, missing those moments when he kept her on her toes.

Then, there was the other half of the battle, the one she currently sided with—the logical side of her brain. The one who thrashed and tried to regain control and pull her away from them. She ran over the dates and details time and again, lying in bed at night when she struggled to sleep, staring up at the ceiling and calculating the moment when they knew. Her stomach dropped, full of leaden grief, melting into the bed while her lungs panted to keep up. The sticky and sour realisation that they had known long before Theo ever met her in person. That Draco probably knew how she stayed afloat since he’d apologised to her for their tangled past, a nagging inky voice told her it was the only reason he ever did.

Her disgust for their behaviour coated her tongue and clouded her vision. Making her mind close ino day in and day out just to get by, or else she’d be sucked into overanalysing them again. No, this was best—just cut them off entirely and focus on other things. The left side needed to win.

Removing them from her thoughts posed an entirely different problem because everything else in Hermione’s life seemed to crumble around her. Pansy and she weren’t speaking, but it didn’t stop the witch from slipping into her room to borrow her things. She was used to that with Lavender and Pavarti in their dorm, but Pansy rarely wanted Hermione’s clothes. If she wasn’t going to wear them with Theo or Draco, someone might as well get used to them, but it only made the wedge between them grow further.

Wanting to confront her for the sake of it, but also avoiding the confrontation. Stuck asking herself why Pansy had to take her favourite heels was beyond Hermione’s ability to understand. Maybe she planned on plunging the heel into her back when she pulled the knife she’d left behind out.

And then there was Ernie, the little rodent that had caught her on a bad day while she shuffled through followers' messages, trying to flirt but not beg, convincing but unattainably asking them to spend more money on her. Ernie could smell the sadness on her, throwing pitying looks her way when she cried to herself while working, lying in wait to take advantage. Now, there was a ruined painting, covered in a solvent she could not remove, and of all days and weeks, it happened when Dr. Groski was in office.

She hadn’t even looked in his direction since she’d found the mistake, but the lack of magic left in the canvas felt like a wilted flower, and no amount of apologies from Ernie would bring it back to life. And she’d told him as much, her voice in a harsh whisper, leaning in close as he tried to cower away at his desk that morning.

Even with the subtle scratch of Dr. Groski’s quill in the background, Hermione zoned in on Ernie. Baring her teeth like a wild animal, taking one last moment to give her so called project partner a piece of her mind before marching into his office, “And you listen here. If I lose even one galleon of funding because of your little trick, I will pulverise you till you are nothing more than a mash of decaying stems and limbs, as worthless as that stupid potion you thought to use on my project.”

To her surprise, Ernie flashed hot, his cheeks ruddy and eyes sharpening; although he didn’t say anything, she knew a threat when she saw one. Ernie was sick of her taking out every emotion she couldn’t push down with a run or ignore with blaring music and a lunch of iced coffee and chocolate frogs, on him. She turned on a galleon before he could answer.

Hermione didn’t spare one look back at him as she walked towards Groski’s office. Shaky lips sent up a quick prayer to Merlin, Morgana, Circe, Godric, and even bloody Salazar if it would save her from whatever consequence the loss was going to cost them and that she didn’t throttle Ernie after the reprimand.

A head of pale white wiry hair didn’t look up from his parchment as she entered. He didn’t stop scratching and taking notes until she sat in the surprisingly lush chair across from his desk. The leather was cool to the touch, and she tried not to think about how supple and expensive it felt. She was most definitely not spending any time in nice leather seats anymore, certainly not the ones as nice as Theo’s jet.

Teeth pressed into the side of her cheek, scolding herself for even thinking his name, but it would only get worse, to her utter horror. The second, Dr Groski looked up, a kind, grandfatherly smile on his face. Opening his mouth to greet her, Hermione faltered.

It was a simple enough detail, easy to forget when he spent most of his academic time travelling around the world lecturing and practising his history and charms knowledge as it related to potioneer skills. But now, as his deep and harsh Russian accent carried through, reminding her exactly where he and Theo had gone to school, “Hermione! You work yourself to the bone. Come in, come in, tell me how our trapped friends fare!”

He was too kind, fatherly and gentile as he chuckled. Leaning forward to speak to her, his pupils blew wide, showing how excited he was to hear of her accomplishments. And here she would have to tell him of her failures. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, legs crossing over each other, and Groski clocked the nervous movements. His smile faltered, eyes roaming up and down her. White brows furrowed as his expression grew weary and grave.

After a long, arduous minute, Hermione finally spoke, hoping that ripping the bandage off would be better than leaving it. Her words tumbled out, rambling and wild as she divulged her greatest fear, “There was an issue with one of the paintings. I take full responsibility for it, but I don’t think it can be recovered. I am so sorry, Professor Groski. I have never made a mistake like this before. I am angry and ashamed of myself. I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

A choking sound echoed throughout the room, and the kindly man who had welcomed her into the office disappeared. Instead, the rumblings of shock and disgruntled underbreath curses replaced them, “What happened? What painting?”

“I don’t know what exactly happened. I left for the day and forgot to lock the door. When I returned the next morning, Ernie,” it took every shred of dignity in her bones to not spit his name, her eyes welling up, and voice cracking towards the end. “He had attempted a new concoction on the corner, and I wasn’t here to approve it. Still, it appears the pH was too high and seeped across the varnish. I tried every reanimation spell I could think of, but she’s lost.”

“She?” He breathed a sigh of relief, Hermione’s shoulders tensed and then settled simultaneously. Fully aware that no one trusted her, a muggleborn with the highest of prized donations, portraits of former headmasters and great wizards and that a portrait of a witch would garner far less importance. The realisation was heavy against the lightness in her chest that it could have been worse, but it was all part of a system that she bore no control over.

Hermione’s voice was still pitched high, cracking on vowels as she continued, “Yes, it's of a daughter from a pureblood family. I haven’t reviewed the archival sheet in a while, but the image is still preserved. It's magic, though—it’s as if it’s been wiped clean from every fibre.”

She hadn’t noticed a hot tear had escaped her damp lashes, stinging the corner of her eyes and rolling down her cheekbone. The guilt she felt over losing that poor witch’s memories and her own lonely, macabre existence blended into one. The pathetic depression she’d dug herself deep into blinded her, so desperate for the small fraction of parental affection that she didn’t find it odd when Dr. Groski rounded his desk.

No, it was nice to have someone who cared, who didn’t know all her secrets or ask her questions that only resulted in lies. For one fleeting moment, it felt as if her father was alive again, patching up her knee and wiping her runny nose after a fall. A withered, wrinkled thumb and white age spots popped up in her periphery just as he swiped the wetness away. A twinkle in his eye, reminiscent of Headmaster Dumbledore, met her furrowed brow when she turned to meet his gaze.

The older man’s mouth twisted in a sad smile before patting her head and tipping his toward the door, “Come on, love, can’t have been that bad. Let’s take a look. Pretty little things like you shouldn’t cry over someone else's mistake. I’ll deal with the boy, and we’ll find you a new portrait, yeah?”

All she could do was nod, the knot in her chest unravelling in a way she hadn’t felt in weeks. Relief washed over as she blew out a shaky breath. Offering a timid smile in return, and grateful, he cared enough to give her one last look over to make sure she was okay.

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Hermione rarely found herself in Diagon Alley these days, having grown used to spending all her time in Oxford and enjoying how much farther the money she earned went in the Muggle world, she really couldn’t be bothered to floo. The thought alone made her queasy, but Cormac had been adamant. Claimed it was the nicest restaurant in all of Wizarding Britain and that she would love it.

It was fine.

At best.

The food was marginally better than the conversation, but the wine tasted like vinegar. She wanted a different glass, even going as far as to ask the waitress if she liked one that caught her eye on the menu, but Cormac quickly cut her off, offering to buy an entire bottle of his choosing.

He had bad taste.

That was probably assumed, given that she had been invited out. She was bad company these days, and considering who he kept close from school most of the time. But what Hermione was desperate for was a good shag. And rumour had it that despite his lack of critical thinking skills, Cormac packed a punch. She just needed to survive this meal first, and then he could pound her into his mattress, and she wouldn’t even have to look at him. Hermione was more than willing to do anything, so she didn’t have to do all the work as usual.

It proved harder than expected. The sour red made her lips pucker, her face nothing more than a portrait of absolute annoyance. Cormac didn’t mind prattling on about his job. “Yeah, I think I’m up for a promotion. They really like me, especially the other board members. The CEO is a bit of a cunt, but I can’t put up with that. It’s the board that matters, voting power and all that.”

Hermione tried not to cringe at the vulgarity, she really did, but Cormac caught it. His eyes narrowed to the glass still pressed against her lips, “Wine that bad, huh? Tough date you are!” A dark laugh barked out of him, a little too loud for the nice restaurant, and Hermione grimaced as others around rolled their eyes.

“No, no, no, it’s been a long day with my job. My boss was actually really nice, but it doesn’t make it less stressful. My lab partner Ernie, if you remember him from school, sucked all the magic from my project.” She kept it short, a test she wasn’t even aware she laid before him. Her ribs tightened at the memory of what Theo would do next, how he’d ask her about what painting she was working on or what made it stressful, maybe even if there was any hope.

Cormac failed.

“Oh, that stressful? Aren’t you still in school? I don’t remember you struggling much. Actually, you loved that shite. Always waving your hand, hiking up your skirt. You know what they say helps relieve stress, don’t you?”

The joke was lazy, and Hermione tried not to think too hard about how Cormac grinned at the memory of a much younger her. Her pupils ached at the cheap sheen on the lapels of his sport coat, focusing on the thin weave to keep from rolling her eyes. She plastered on a smile that burned her cheeks, the promise of clenching around something beside her fingers or silicone, stopping her from barking back, “I don’t know, actually, what do they say?”

Surprised by the switch, Cormac flinched before his jaw slowly dropped open. It only took a moment to regain herself and pretend she was staring into the small camera of her laptop. She let her voice dip low, and her shoulders rolled forward as the words dripped from her tongue. Sensuous as they fell from her lips, and he followed them to the generous cleavage of her dress.

A long, pointed nail traced the shimmery lilac material, dipping below the cowl neck, and Cormac’s attention was lost to the tantalising movement. She giggled, forced and saccharine just as she did when people tipped her, making her breasts shake, the lace of her bra peeking out of the neckline, “Cormac, are you going to tell me how to help with my stress?” Hermione was desperate to get to the good part of this date, pulling out the big guns to speed things up.

Her soft teasing pulled his attention back to her face, shaking his head before leaning back and regaining his composure. A smirk played at his lips, and Hermione’s stomach sank; there were no flashing white teeth behind it or aristocratic sharp features to balance it as he spoke, “Let me go take care of the bill, and I’ll tell you exactly how back at my place. Or maybe you can show me,” he curled an eyebrow up in a way that she was certain he thought was more suggestive than cringe worthy, “as the expert. I bet you're positively golden.” He left her with a parting wink, and she tried not to roll her eyes at the strange moniker.

The ice in his rocks glass clanked as he threw it back, winking at her. The combination of the strange statement made the hair on her neck stand up before second-hand embarrassment overcame her as she watched him clumsily throw his chair back and stalk off.

She took a moment to pull her phone and a small mirror from her purse, turning so no one in the restaurant could see her check her curls and reapply her lipstick. She sent a quick text to Ginny, and, ignoring the response, she only saw the first few words. But knew she was not in the mood to hear the other witch act as a mouthpiece against her decisions as of late.

Hermione

Going back to McLaggen’s

Will text when I floo home later

Gin

Really? McLaggen? I get you’re sad, but come on.

At least hit Krum up.

The glossy mauve was barely on her lips when she caught Cormac's return. Surprised, he sat back down across from her, instead of apparating her on the spot. With a snap, annoyed they weren’t leaving right away, she closed the mirror and fluttered her eyelashes while looking up at Cormac.

Except it wasn’t Cormac.

Across from her was a very pointy and smug looking Draco Malfoy. Silver eyes zeroed in on how her teeth ground together and her arms crossed under her chest. He leaned forward, and on instinct, she leaned back in her chair. Hurt flashed in his eyes, and an embarrassed flush covered his pale cheeks, his brows softening at her immediate response—that didn’t stop him from placing his forearms on the table, pressing his hands together as if he were in prayer and pushing the framed fingers against his lips. A wolfish smile spread across his cheeks when he caught her staring, his platinum hair slowly bouncing as he shook his head in disbelief.

Silence hung between them for a few more breaths, and Hermione had had enough, frustration mounting at his audacity. Who was Draco Malfoy to crash her date, and what had he done with him? “Where is Cormac?”

“Really? That’s all you’ve got? You’re a hard witch to get a hold of, Granger. I thought you’d have something better.” He dragged her name out, and she could have sworn he slurred through the mocking tone. Pink knuckles against paper white skin pressed to his lips, and she thought the contrast was too stark to be natural.

However, that was overshadowed by the memory of numerous daily emails she received from her phone provider. How the number of blocked messages grew every single day, she hadn’t taken a look, much like the letters in her nightstand, but she was glad it was working.

“I don’t have anything to say to you. Tell me where Cormac is now so I can leave with my date.”

Draco threw his head back, patting at his chest while he coughed, disdain in his cruel laughter. When he found her again, he looked soft, his lips grinning, but those silver irises told a different story. They burned cold, the anger in them made her shiver, reaching for her wand as he harshly growled, “So what? So you can leave with him? Let’s try that again. Hello, Granger. Long time no see. You’ve been impossible to reach. Was that on purpose? Before or after you lied to Theo and said you’d think about things?”

“When I lied!” She shrieked, and heads at tables around them turned to stare. Her voice transformed into a low hiss, every word angrier than the last. “You have some fucking nerve Malfoy. I’m leaving. I don’t have to do this. Leave me alone, or I’m calling the Aurors.”

“Like I care about that.” He spat, and she wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and smack him. Gone was the wizard who made her feel bright and alive on dance floors.

Hermione couldn’t help but relish that he looked as pathetic as she felt, “Are you drunk? You don’t care about your job? Typical.” Draco’s eyes darted elsewhere, toward the bar, but Hermione refused to follow them. She knew what, or rather who, she could find watching them.

“Theo will take care of it. You should know all about that. Tell me, have you sent any of the money back? Or is that not part of this disappearing act?” His sneer resembled the ones she remembered from their childhood, and it was the final straw. Unwilling to hear him call her a mudblood next.

“Godric, you are a prick. I’m only saying this one more time—no more flowers. No more watching me run or buying my coffee. No gifts or food deliveries.” His brows scrunched, and she wanted to laugh. Of course, he would see no problem with those little things. Having no idea how quickly pounds added up compared to galleons. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Hermione ignored him, “Stay away from my office. And tell Theo, too—no more wire transfers. Stay off my live streams. This is harassment. I want nothing to do with wizards like you two.”

The blow landed, even if it felt like ash on her tongue. Malfoy looked away. With his eyes cast down, Hermione could breathe again. She gathered her things, avoiding looking at the edges of his face for too long—unable to risk taking a real look, afraid all the walls and promises she made herself would crumble. She couldn’t let him see that he’d won either, that her eyes were burning for the second time that day.

She hated how her legs worked against her, how walking away from him felt like running a marathon. But she had almost done it and was about to leave the table when a hand snapped out. Long, pale fingers wrapped around her forearm, hot to the touch, like a brand she was certain would linger later. They weren’t forceful, if anything, the gentleness left her speechless—hating that she didn’t know if it was her desperate need for contact that held her in place or the shock of it all.

“Just stay for another drink, I can explain. Theo and I, please, another chance. That stuff, it’s not what you think—“

“No. You had a chance to apologise. Multiple actually. You’re a spoiled brat and a prick, and Theo is just as bad for enabling you and being a liar. You two think you can get everything you want in this world, and you can’t even say sorry. So no. I won’t stay.” He released her when she yanked away, stumbling a bit, and waved off his attempt to steady her.

It was mean, downright cruel, the final blow she landed. But Hermione wanted him to hurt as she did. Wanted Draco to be able to describe to Theo just how used she felt, even if it showed her hand. Hermione couldn’t be bothered with trying to hide how she still ached. “Where’s Cormac?”

“He got a work call. I told him I’d get you home safely.”

“Of course you did. Goodbye, Draco.” She barely made it past the hostess stand when someone else called out, flagging Hermione down. She wanted to scream and was too short with the poor hostess who stopped her as shame overtook every inch of her.

All Hermione could think about as she handed over her Gringott’s information was that she wanted her apartment's cold, hard floor to knock some sense into her when she landed. She wanted to apparate so messily that she hit her head on the wooden planks and forgot all about how she had to pay for her and Cormac’s meal after Draco ruined her evening.

The poor hostess looked at her with enough pity to last a lifetime, and her tears were in full force when she finally stomped out of the restaurant. Every shred of dignity and confidence was left on the entryway floor. Thoughts of how much she would need to send back to Theo preoccupied her mind, and she felt certain she’d splinch herself instead of landing in her bedroom as the familiar nauseating tug at her navel pulled her away.

In those short, wistful seconds, Hermione is finally relieved, after the long day to land in her bedroom and crumble finally. To let the floor serve as her spine and cry to her heart's content. The wood never comes though. Instead, her fingers squish on something soft and wet, sliding through the sticky and viscous residue all around. They grasped aimlessly at wet scraps all over her floor.

When she opened her eyes, the colours swirled together, the entire bedroom covered in slimy, rotting purple petals, mixed with shades of black and yellow, green and brown as they rotted before her eyes. It was too sweet, musty and overripe. The oppressive smell came next, pungent and fermented so sweet she could taste it on her tongue. Overwhelmed by whatever show of affection this was supposed to be, she tried to shuffle back. Her arms shook violently, confusion and fear clogging her throat, while she kicked at the floor as she slid through the spoiled bouquets. The fear was intoxicating, muddling her brain as she grappled with whatever was happening.

She could hear the laughter of her former classmates, and Theo’s voice joined the cruel outcry as she slapped at the greasy floorboards. Hermione knew she was hallucinating, that none of this could be real, that somehow, during her apparition, she’d cracked mentally. But the pain of a broken, shattered frame, images of her friends crumpled in the remains, sliced through her palm, and the burning sting of nectar challenged that assumption. She steadied her violently shaking head and focused her eyes through the humid fog to survey the bedroom.

It looked like a crime scene, feathers and clothes strewn about, scratches on her walls, and then, there had to be thousands of petals. All the competing textures made it impossible for her to push up, and her shame was embodied with each slip and fall as she tried to crawl to the warded door, banging her fists against the white wood, staining it red and purple, grappling to get a grip and open it.

Pansy must have heard her because the witch threw the door open–Neville behind her, and both looked terrified, finding her flailing on the ground. Grabbing Hermione by the back of her arms, they tugged her out in the hallway, decaying petals sticking to her like slugs. The sight of Pansy brought up all the questions she’d avoided. Frustration and embarrassment filled Hermione at being found in such a state, unleashing it like a lion freed from its cage. A vase exploded in the distance, a bout of accidental magic as she turned on her former friend. Hermione’s hands flung out, pushing against Pansy’s shoulders, leaving the sticky residue that covered all her things behind.

She screamed, angry at the sight of her unharmed friend, at their perfectly fine apartment, everything around her was unscathed, but her “DON’T LET PEOPLE PUT THINGS IN MY ROOM. I DON’T NEED ANY HELP FROM YOU!” Neville leaned forward, grabbing Hermione’s wrists and holding them away from Pansy, positioning himself slightly between the two, blocking both witches from the pungent room.

Pansy’s hand flew to her chest, stumbling back aghast till a cold, shrill twist took over her face, “Don’t touch me! I didn’t let anyone or anything into the apartment, Hermione. Those must have died while you were busy moping around, just like all the shite you leave in the fridge. Holing yourself in your office or running all hours at night.” The long, sharpened nail pointed in Hermione’s direction looked more dangerous than any real blade or wand.

“I just said, don’t put things in my room. I didn’t have those before, or are all your lies running together too?” Pansy’s head quirked to the side, shocked by this side of Hermione, but she regained her composure, aiming to kill.

“Just because your sugar daddy is dating someone else doesn’t mean you get to be a bitch to me, Hermione. I get it, you're upset, but I haven’t touched your shit since you returned. If anything you should be thanking me for putting up with all this hippogriff shite. I’ve been at Neville's and came running back here when someone cared enough to tell me about your little public meltdown. I’m sure Draco sent these as some grand apology. Merlin, you are so thick, you know? Brightest witch of fucking nothing I swear.”

“When did they put those in my room, then Pansy! Is this part of your stupid meddling? Some fucking friend you are, was this a game to you too?” They no longer scream but more a mix of seething hisses and snapping teeth, and from the way Neville’s eyes dart around, Hermione surmised it was just as terrifying.

“Go. Ask. Draco.”

“Nice try! Draco was with me! And from his shifty behaviour, I have no doubt Theo wasn’t far! These weren’t here when I left, it had to be you.” Hermione wanted to gloat, to enjoy the shock at knowing where one of Pansy’s precious pure blood friends was, but there was no chance. The fear that descended upon her face chilled the air.

Pansy stilled, her voice losing all bravado, “What?” An eerie quiet mingled with Hermione’s panting, but she ignored it. Venom coating her tongue as she described her night out loud.

“Yes, he ruined my chance at shagging Mclaggen with his crashing my date drunk, so who did this?” Hermione’s arm flew to the side, motioning toward the room, unsure how she’d even clean it. Her tired mind was a few steps behind Pany’s terrified one, preoccupied with what cleaning charms she’d need to learn.

“We need to leave.” Hermione and Pansy both turned to look at Neville, and the unknowns of the situation clicked for all three of them at once.

Pansy attempted to control the situation, “Yes, babe, I’d like to, but I think Granger is having a real crisis, so I will be staying. It’s not like whoever left those is here.” But Neville was quick to hustle them along, pushing at their shoulders and crowding them down the hall.

“No, grab the cat, we need to leave now.” Hermione wasn’t sure she’d ever heard Neville speak with such force besides during Pansy’s oversharing after a glass of wine, and it made the hair on the back of her neck prick.

“What has gotten into you? And where is —“ Neville was faster, grabbing Hermione’s free wrist and Pansy’s in one hand. Dragging them towards the door, luckily, Crookshanks popped out of the kitchen just as they passed by, and Hermione scooped the little lovable devil up.

With a strength she didn’t know Neville possessed, he shoved the two of them into the building hallway, before spinning toward the word and beginning an intricate set of spells. “Neville, what is going on?” Pansy demanded, her tiny hand smacking against his shoulders as runes lit up in different colours, wards falling into place around them.

“Pansy, call the damn Aurors. Now.”

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The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was the last place Hermione wanted to be at that point, and it was made worse by the swirl of familiar faces looking at her expectantly. There were her best friends, Harry and Ron, who had been indignant with anger when they first arrived at the scene, checking her up and down like you would a child with a scrape. But now they oozed confusion as she once again explained that there may be a small potential likelihood that she had a stalker.

What they could not figure out was how she had missed the signs. What would be a perk for most, befriending the son of the Head of the DMLE and godson of the Head Auror, became a curse for her. Sirius and James scrutinised her, letting Harry and Ron try to flex their just barely no longer rookie skills while they internally tallied all her avoidances.

She’d already spent nearly two hours reviewing the evidence they collected from her room, including everything from her nightstand. Circe help her. The caring idiots she called friends and family had thought the excessive amount of job equipment was suspicious. Because, really, why would Hermione Granger need a drawer full of vibrators, dildos, and plugs? Poor Harry and his father looked faint, Ron was gobsmacked, and she had a sinking suspicion she was the only person to ever shut Sirius Black up.

Despite the shrill humiliation that laced her words explaining those, the worst was going over the letters. Probably 100 of them, blinded in her wallow, she hadn’t noticed or opened them. And her being tired was not a good enough excuse, especially not when all four kept looking over at the box of her belongings that proved she possessed plenty of energy.

No, she felt the same as a 9-year-old she had after failing a spelling quiz, having to dance around, and just never opening the concerningly, graphic and demanding letters. It was enough to pull out the few she knew were from Theo or Draco, but that left another set that contained a level of vulgarity that she couldn’t find on the cam site. No, this level was threatening, growing increasingly intense, and the handwriting grew wild till it matched the one left on her bed that night.

“So you don’t have any idea who it would be, Mione? Someone from school? Nothing?” Ron asked, scratching the crown of his head like an ape. He was sweet, but sometimes she wondered what a younger version of her ever saw in him. She thanked Merlin for Lavander and her ability to work some magic on him over the years, helping the scrawny garbage disposal of a wizard become the competent Auror he usually was.

“Gin said you had started seeing someone we don’t know. Is it that,” Harry snapped his fingers trying to think of the name again, “Theo who signed some of the letters? When was the last time you saw him?” Harry probed, and James gave his son an indulgent, proud smile. A tiny flicker of jealousy saddened her that she would never get to see that from her father, but she ignored it. Choosing to also avoid the stare of Sirius Black as he watched her watch the moment, afraid she would spill every detail she knew of his brother at that moment.

“I’m not seeing him,” she whispered, and Harry pivoted.

“What about the bloke you were with tonight? You said you were out and had been drinking before parting.”

“I don’t think he had time to put them in my room, and he doesn’t even know where I live.”

“And does he have a name? McLaggen was talking at the Leaky the other day about owling you.” Ron nudged while Harry simultaneously asked, “Wait! Weren’t you with Draco the other weekend?”

“Auror Malfoy?” James clarified, and Hermione nodded, the now permanent, embarrassed flush on her face growing deeper. She ran a palm up and down her arm, catching on the spot Draco held her earlier, the memory of his gentle touch, yes, commanding her to stop springing forward. She couldn’t let him get in trouble.

“I saw them both tonight. I don’t think it was them. They couldn’t have had time.” She conceded, and Sirius’s finger tapped on the wooden tabletop. Damn it, he was counting something and she couldn’t be sure what it was. She had a feeling it was each time she danced around, answering.

“And this former intimate acquaintance,” she squeaked at how clinical it sounded, the opposite of how Harry always described Sirius. “Would he have a motive to retaliate? If you could share his full name, we need to bring him in for questioning too.” He sounded just like his brother, and Hermione had to avert her gaze, picking at her nails to answer the question she feared he would recognise.

She drained all emotion from her voice, fidgeting with her nail beds, tugging on a particularly nasty cuticle till it bled when she said, “Theodore Nott.”

The words were so quiet that Ron asked her to repeat them, “Who, Mione? I don’t remember going to school with someone's name. Natt? Wait, are you dating three blokes?”

Shame consumed her—dating was an understatement. The truth consumed her, her stomach flipping and spine taut. “Theodore Nott.”

“A blood purist? Where did you find that one?” Sirius howled, and Hermione shrank into herself. There was nothing left in her stomach, but the thought of having to explain to a room of men she knew and respected that she took her clothes off on camera and for the head of a pureblood house threatened to make her invent new ways to be sick.

“We met online. I didn’t know who was till recently, but he wouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, if he knew you were muggleborn, that would explain all the level 1 poisonous petals. I mean, this is a lot of purple nightshade, rosebay, and foxglove. Does he know about Malfoy?” Sirius asked, and everyone else stared on as the two of them squared off. Hermione was unwilling to let Theo take the fall for whatever this was. Even if he was more of a spectral figure than someone she could trust, this didn’t seem like him.

“No, it’s not Theo. I feel confident about that, and he knew about Draco.”

“Can you be so sure? There was a lot of Narcissus in the piles, and it could be a threat against Malfoy, too. I’m not sure if you know this, but—”

Hermione quickly interrupted, trying to play her one card and throw Sirius off her debauched trail, “His mother is named Narcissa, yes. I’ve learned a lot about pureblood families lately.”

“Weasley, go get Malfoy. I want to ask him about these.”

“I really don’t want to see Draco, please.” She tried to sound diplomatic, but everyone froze at the desperation in her voice. A shade of purply red overtook Ron’s face as he started spewing, “Is it him? Did he hurt you? Harry, we should never have let them dance at that stupid club! I told you to let me step in!”

“No, no, no! It’s just a lot okay! I— Is there a female office I can talk to?” The horror on everyone’s face made her want to crawl under the table, unsure how to fix it as voices started growing louder, talk of getting a mediwitch to come and examine her and writing up arrest warrants for Theo and Draco.

All of it was too much, the past month crashing into her till she threw the words up like the venomous flowers on her floor, “I TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF FOR MONEY ONLINE. IT’S PROBABLY ONE OF THEM.” And in the wake of her declaration, the four wizards who had not stopped hounding her since her arrival were finally quiet.

The next few hours sped by like a snitch, blurring and whipping around her head till it turned into a bludger and knocked her off her feet. The DMLE forbade her and Pansy from returning to the apartment till it could be sanitised and fumigated, and Hermione thought it might be the last she saw of her roommate when she was walked out of the DMLE bullpen, Pansy and Draco talking in angry, hushed tones in a far cubicle. She could feel his eyes on her, and she was grateful for his immature pettiness when Ron stepped up beside her and blocked the view.

Despite her deplorable behaviour and utter lack of common decency, she was grateful that the Potters said she could stay with them. The look of horror on James and Sirius’s faces when they learned of her extracurriculars would haunt her for a long time, but she needed a bed till she was in her right mind again and could rent a hotel far, far away from everyone.

A list started forming in her head as Harry showed her to a guest suite at the end of the guest wing of Potter Manor, and she breathed a sigh of relief to finally be alone and try to put her upended life together. All she wanted was to put the jagged pieces back together and no longer feel as empty and exposed as a purse dumped on the floor.

That would have to wait, though, because three witches met her the moment she walked into the soft, pale blue room. Two redheads with decades between them and one with a short black bob, who looked just as tired as she felt. Falling into their arms felt like coming home, and the words spilt into the universe despite how she hid the details in the DMLE interview rooms, swaddled in the arms of witches she loved so much. Talking till everything in her felt empty and wrung free.

Chapter Text

Hermione had not expected to find herself back at the DMLE so quickly, but with an unrequested forcible leave of absence from work, at least till Groski could procure her a new portrait to work on, and Harry and Ron assigned to her case, she was making frequent trips. She adored her friends, really, but their lack of experience weighed heavily on her shoulders as she answered the same questions over and over again. The two of them, scrunching up their noses and hunching their shoulders at the unflinching answers, made the experience borderline unbearable.

No one had said anything derogatory yet— no, everyone seemed nice enough about it. It didn’t make the entire situation any less awkward. Each night at dinner, she stared at her plate, grateful the Potters invited her to stay as long as she needed, but suffocating under the stilted conversation from James and Harry. Coughs and shivers popped up anytime she spoke about her day or chimed in, the awkward embarrassment that everyone had seen her naked wiped out any appetite she had.

Thankfully, Lily had been a godsend, sweet and kind, she’d stroked Hermione’s curls on more than one occasion when she found her crying. How the witch knew she was in the guest room, overcome with emotion every time, was beyond her, but after a few minutes, Lily would float in and sit on the edge of her bed. “Is everything okay? Is there something you’re not telling us, sweetheart?”

She’d coo the sweet words in Hermione’s ear, and it would make it all pour out again. The first time Lily pushed back, proposing kind alternatives, “If it’s the money, I’ll take care of it. I get it, I wasn’t born into all the pureblood money either.”

But it wasn’t that. She needed the money to maintain her current lifestyle, sure. Everything her parents had left her had long since been deposited into the exorbitant wizarding research and university system, a system she quickly learned was designed for galleons, not pounds. The number staggered higher, multiple times more in fact, than any part of her Muggle curriculum. But she had some savings still–she hadn’t blown every gift Theo gave her. Instead, it was something more, the nagging memory of Draco’s words that she should give it back if she didn’t like them, and her twinging, weak heart hadn’t the truth of the idea.

Lily was observant. The second time, she rubbed Hermione’s arms, soft finger pads, and gently scratching nails, soothing her. She said, “I understand wanting to be independent. James always told me I didn’t need to work, so silly wizards. Does it make you feel fulfilled? Does it make you happy?”

And it really did, if anything, she felt anxious about not going live. Hermione missed the confidence after a popular session, or the relief of seeing extra cash. But she couldn’t possibly do it from the Potters’. She had no idea who from the DMLE accessed her accounts during their investigation, but she would be mortified if anyone who had also used the pale blue powder room on the second floor recognised it if she did upload. So she hesitated, only posting once, when she’d stopped by her office to update Groski and Ernie.

On the third day, Lily eased herself onto the bed with Hermione. Deep auburn hair splayed across the cloud colored pillows, and her hands clasped together, resting on her abdomen, and she finally got it right. If they had once called Hermione the brightest of her age, they must have called Lily the smartest witch of all time, for she had quickly put the truth together. “You must have really liked them, huh?”

Those simple words broke more pieces of her than she cared to admit, but she had to tell Lily. Lily, whose big green eyes, round as a doe, watched her with understanding. “It’s so silly, I barely knew either of them.”

“Oh, that’s not true. You’ve known Draco for years, even if he’s only been a friend for a few. And this Theo? Just because you didn’t see him, doesn’t mean you didn’t know him, or appreciate how much he cared. I can’t imagine how alone you feel right now with those two gone and all this happening.” Godric, she had a knack for hitting the nail on the head. Like a hammer straight to her frontal lobe, Hermione felt herself grow dizzy with regret. Not quite guilt, she’d made a perfectly acceptable choice, but it didn’t stop the burn.

Lily’s words stuck to her skin, unable to shake the nagging reminder that there was something undeniably true to them. Now, in a small interrogation office, forced to look at her son, with his matching green eyes and wonder if she’d made a mistake in this big whole thing. Unsure how she’d even start to backtrack and find a way to speak to them.

That would have to come later, though, because Ron’s voice pierced through her thoughts, his voice nervous and high. For a wizard who had seen her naked in person at one point, he sure did not know how to handle it now, “We interviewed your uhhhh friends.”

Her spine stiffened, only offering a curt nod as she spoke, “I could have told you how that would go.” She couldn’t help the annoyance in her tone, the shame that slinked forward at dragging the two of them into this with her.

“Yes, Mione, but we needed veritas to be sure,” Harry added, and something in her exploded. Appalled at not just the mess but the degradation she’d forced upon them all.

“You used Veritaserum! You got a warrant? Did you even ask them? What a disgusting invasion of privacy!” Her fingers shook, gripping the table. All her emotions swirled in purple magic, sparking at the end of her curls. Harry and Ron had the good sense to backtrack.

Harry’s hands flew up in surrender, palms facing her as he explained, “Hey! Woah, don’t hex me! No, they submitted to it themselves,”

“Oh. Okay. Well, what else?” She slunk back into her chair, her shoulders loosening a bit, but the two of them shared a glance that left Hermione with little hope.

Wide-eyed and gulping, Ron turned back first, saying, “Well, we had an unorthodox idea, but it’s a bit barmy,” and Harry quickly added, “And dad and Pads won’t agree unless you do.”

It hit her like a ton of bricks, the word unorthodox, the nicest way they could finally cast judgment on her. She should have known it would come in small ways, disappointment and disgust overtaking embarrassment even from her friends. She rolled her shoulders back, preparing for whatever emotional battle was in store. “I understand what I do isn’t normal, but I don’t think it's fair for you two to make assumptions about the sanity of—“

Harry’s voice skidded in, eager to fix her emotions, gearing up again, “No, no, it’s the plan. See, I didn't think you’d really want us watching your shows.”

“Correct.” Hermione deadpanned.

Ron grimaced, “I didn’t want to watch them either if we’re being honest.”

And it took all her might not to tell he’d already seen everything, but another voice entered the fray, cool and dry. The newness and the sound of a door handle smacking against the stone wall made her jump when Draco spoke, “You two are great for a witch's ego. Salazar’s sack, you haven’t even told her? She’s been here for hours.”

Even just the sight of him, with that stupid wand holster stretched tightly across his chest and crisp Auror robes framing his jaw, made Hermione tense. She was constantly tense these days, but the glinting grey of Draco’s eyes set her on edge, she felt trapped in a cage with one of the few wizards she knew could be poisonous to her sanity.“What are you doing here? Isn’t this a conflict of interest,” she turned back to Ron and Harry, her own eyes pleading and desperate, hands flailing in Draco’s direction, “and doesn’t Malfoy work with seeking out underground death eater groups? He doesn’t need to be here.”

Her friends didn’t answer, though. Draco’s voice slithered across her skin, condescending and surprisingly unslurring like the last few times she’d seen him, “That’s just the thing. Those plants? They could only come from one place.”

“So what does that mean?” She didn’t even turn to look back at his response, zeroing in on the bodies that continued to pile into the room. Did everyone need to be in the room every time she was paraded around like a circus animal?

James rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, his shoulders shrugging in defeat, and Hermione could only imagine the satisfaction plastered across Draco’s face when he relented, “It means Auror Malfoy is on the case.”

“I plan to join some of your lives from the back end and see if there is anyone worth investigating in the chat.” Her curls whipped around, her head spinning to look at Draco as he made demands as if she were not currently on the brink of exploding with accidental magic.

The only thing keeping the sizzling fire in her veins at bay was baring her teeth at him when she spoke, “I’m not currently performing.” She relished how his face fell just a bit at her announcement. “But I’d be happy to have you join again once I’m back in my apartment. It seems to be a regular occurrence for you as of late.”

Her satisfaction never came, though. He met her snarling with a dark smile curled on his lips, eager and smug as if waiting for her to attack. “Your apartment is an active crime scene and is being mitigated for the next two months.”

“That’s fine, I can find other accommodations.” She brushed a chunk of curls off her shoulders, feigning nonchalance and ignoring how everyone else’s eyes ping ponged back and forth between the two.

“Oh, good, I thought of that too.” The smile only grew, sharper and pointed as Draco’s tongue ran across the point of his canines. He was goading her, rubbing her face in whatever trap he’d set and making her stomach twist. Anticipation built as he moved each mental chess piece closer to her. A game she never consented to playing and now regretted every silly, lovesick thing she’d ever confessed to Lily.

“I’ve already secured a hotel in—”

“Absolutely not.” All heads turned to look at him, Ron’s jaw hanging open at Draco’s raised and near-shaking voice, and Hermione wanted to gloat, hold her small victory over his head and wave it around. Rub it in his face till the edges of the paper cut his stupidly chiselled cheeks.

“It’s not really up to you. The severity of who is interested in you has increased based on the connection to other death eater terrorist cells, and being outside a warded and fidelious protected home isn’t an option.” Sirius added in, almost excited, as if he were enjoying this tête-à-tête between her and Draco a bit too much.

“I can’t do my work at Potter Manor.” A long sigh of relief escaped both Harry and James, and Hermione debated crawling under the table– she could not take any more of it, and could only pray that if she were gone for a few weeks, everyone would forget why she’d been there in the first place.

“That’s fine. I have another option.” Draco added, and she was quick to dismiss it, resorting back to avoiding even glancing in his direction. “Your apartment isn’t warded.”

“No, it’s not. But I know a townhouse that is.” She wondered briefly if she had become some kind of masochist, how, despite her annoyance and frustration, and all the confusion that made her magic feel like an open electrical line, she somehow still found that cruel delight in his appeal.

“No. Absolutely not.” That was all she could offer around her crumbling resolve. Hermione was no fool–she knew the battle was lost, but she intended to put on a good show.

The chuckle that escaped Sirius when he added her third option did nothing more than grate her sore emotions, “It’s that or Grimmauld.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” The claim was for all of them, all the wizards who’d left her with such poor options, but she finally held Draco’s gaze as she said them. The challenge was that whatever plan he concocted would not go as planned, and this peacocking around her case was chipping away at any feelings she did have for him.

“Your ignorance has left us all no choice. Three blood magic-protected homes. Take your pick, love.” Her eyes darted around. The embarrassed look on both Potter's faces narrowed it down immediately. The two remaining cousins shared a similar pureblood grace to their lack of shame. Sirius was playful and smiling. Probably uncaring of whatever debauchery she needed to perform in his home, but it was Remus. One of her mentors whom she would never be able to look in the eye after she worked with. No amount of silencing charms or scrougifys could allow her to explain it to Professor Lupin. The man who had written all her letters of recommendation and had gotten her the internship with Groski. She could not burn that bridge.

Her teeth ground till they ached, sharp pains shooting through her jaw when Hermione relented, all the wind from her sails as she slumped over in her chair and caught her head in her hands. She wouldn’t care, no, he didn’t get that satisfaction, but she wished it were third year again and that her fist could connect with his jaw once more.

Her lips pursed together the entire trip back to Potter Manor. Twisting as she sucked her cheek between her teeth. She’d have a sore spot there in the morning, but she had to take out the frustration flitting through her veins somewhere. Goosebumps and freckles covered arms crossed over her chest, fingers tightening into fists as Hermione watched a whole barrage of house elves collect the meagre things she had with her and disappear with them, back to her new temporary home.

Two months.

And House elves.

She only had to survive for two months, doing and needing to free approximately three elves while hanging on for dear life. But it didn’t feel like survival. Every time she caught Lily’s emerald green eyes, the witch would smile at her. She was soft and understanding, standing next to Hermione while they oversaw the last remnants of her freedom being whisked away.

“You know, you aren’t so different you and I,” Lily whispered the words as James and Draco spoke in a corner. Hermione wasn’t sure if James's acting in some kind of fatherly role was tickling the need she had to punish Draco or making her queasy that she’d probably shattered any disillusioned scrap of hope that he still saw her as such anymore. The impossibility of any of Harry’s guardians looking at her as if she were just Harry’s 11-year-old swotty best friend settled in her gut.

“I have a feeling you’re smarter than me, Lily. You wouldn’t have found yourself in this mess.”

“Ohh, I don’t know about that, James and I were known to have a bit of fun back in our day. What is it Sirius would say? Something about the 70s and free love, well free love unless it was— actually no I don’t think you want to hear that.” Hermione’s head quirked to the side, watching Lily study her husband, her nosy mind working overtime as to what Lily could have been talking about. “But what I mean is, if you need anything, Hermione. And I expect you to still owl me every day. While you're there, I want to know you’re safe and happy.”

“She could just text you if you would get a phone, like Harry’s been asking you to.” Ginny chimed in from her other side, her hair still glistened with post practice sweat, but she’d been adamant she had to be there to see Hermione off. When Hermione tried to clarify, she wasn’t leaving for war, and that everything was fine. Ginny had been adamant that just because it wasn’t combat, she was on her own battlefield, living with two fit wizards.

“No, I think I’ll leave that to you kids. But I mean it, Hermione. Every day, until you’re back in your place. And you can always-always come back here. No questions asked.” Two sets of pale arms wrapped around her shoulders, and in the distance, the sounds of distinctly male coughing rang out, a not-so-subtle sign for her to hurry up.

“I’ll be fine, you two. You can even come over and say hello. Malfoy has promised to add you to the Floo once we arrive. I’ll be fine.”

“We know you will.” Lily offered with one last squeeze, before Hermione’s feet led her across the room, right into the extended arm of Draco Malfoy. He held his arm out toward the floo, a silent demand, and she obliged, even as her skin prickled with gooseflesh, the large palm of his hand splayed across her lower back, and green flames engulfed them.

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Theo hadn’t known what to expect when Draco sauntered out of their bedroom that morning. The typical flash of excitement in his eyes was refreshing in light of the wallowing and pouting that had become them as of late. But Theo was wholly unprepared not to receive a single update from him during that time, and none of his normal taunting and teasing was the absolute spoiled brat Draco was. Not even a single picture dinged on his phone, and the prat loved taking those every second he got, as if Draco was in cahoots with Hermione half the time in the tantalising posing.

But Draco appeared to be a man of action, memories of him slurring something about ideas and a trap coming to the forefront of Theo’s brain as all words left him, because there before him, covered in floo soot and sporting a pout that could rival Draco’s, was Hermione.

A mouth he’d spent too much time dreaming about as of late, turned up like she was sucking on a lemon drop, a pert nose scrunched wiggling in annoyance while she surveyed the room. She didn’t step out of Draco’s touch, though, a detail that elicited a competing range of emotions from Theo. A swirl of jealousy that Draco was able to touch her and had seen her so much more than he had since Monaco, and he didn’t really think watching her from the bar at dinner the other night counted. Not when her eyes were flush with ire at whatever Draco had been saying.

On the other hand, the move made his heart race, greedy, sticky excitement coating his throat as he tried to swallow—anything to calm himself before she finally turned her gaze to him. Draco beat him too it, his pupils blown wide in manic delight at whatever this was as he opened his mouth to speak.

Oh, Merlin help them all, Theo prayed it wasn’t a kidnapping.

“Ohhh, Theo! Look what I found for us! A lost witch, isn’t she lovely? Can’t we just keep her? Nice and safe, where nothing bad can happen to her and she can’t run away?”

Hermione snarled at Draco, her voice an angry hiss when she stepped away, and Theo tried not to linger on how Draco’s arm stayed suspended in the air, as if reaching out to her, pleading for her return. “Godric, there is something wrong with you! You really are nothing more than a vile, smarmy little cockroach!”

Theo knew those words, or a different version of them, the ones Draco recounted when he admitted he had first been smitten by Hermione Granger. He didn’t have the time to dabble on their meaning, because it grew abundantly clear when her elbow pulled back behind her ear and a small white knuckled fist flew through the air. Theo’s feet acted quicker than his mind, nearly tearing the shoulder of his suit as she tried to aim upwards, and he latched onto her forearm.

He hadn’t meant to tug so harshly, but whatever was transpiring, a busted lip wasn’t going to fix it. Hermione stumbled back into his chest, and Theo attempted to steady his breathing as the scent of her wafted off the sparking curls plastered to his chest. The small gasp that escaped her at the sensation did little to clear the confusion in his head, but through it all, Draco’s scoff reminded him that Hermione was not here of her own accord, and with that knowledge, he loosened his hold on her arm. Despite how his mind screamed to band his arm around her waist and follow Draco’s demands and not let her escape, someone had to exert control over this situation, and that was where Theo excelled.

“Drake…” He hedged, his throat dry as Hermione slipped away from him, and he caught images of her in his periphery. She looked tired, with sunken eyes and paler skin. Ruddy cheeks and clumped lashes, a telltale sign that something was undeniably wrong, and it involved her tears. “While I am very excited and happy to have Hermione in our home, do you want to explain what is happening?”

“You didn’t even tell him! You’re bloody impossible, you know that. You say you want me back and then act like this?” Her foot stomped hard enough to rattle a nearby vase, and even as Draco tried to interrupt, she kept going, “Is this because you want the money back? That's fine! I’ll give it to you. You didn’t have to manipulate me into coming here. I had already gathered it anyway.”

She was practically screaming, and Theo felt like his head was on a swivel, trying to follow whatever it was she was talking about. Money back? Did she owe someone money? He would take care of it in an instant.

“Hermione, if you needed money, you didn’t even have to ask.” He offered, and her rage turned on him. Gone was the soft and sad girl who had been pliable in his arms to escape whatever petulant tirade Draco was on. Now all her ire was turned on him.

“Oh, that is lush from you! Sent your attack dog to do your follow-up. You know it’s very confusing to a girl, you say you want me. Then you lie.” Her hands flew back and forth, mocking the emotional whiplash they all suffered from, “Then you keep popping up in my lives, subscribing and sending money. The Draco asks for it back! And now you’ve tricked me, so I had to come here because I can’t work anywhere else. So, where do you fall into this equation, Theo? Are you the mastermind of this whole thing? Maybe I was wrong, maybe it was the two of you who poisoned my apartment. All in some sick attempt to lock me up here.”

The mere mention of her apartment made Theo go rigid, a red haze creeping into his vision at the memory of what the Aurors told him. He did his best to occlude, a cooling sensation branching out across his veins like frost on a window as he dulled away the thoughts. They would deal with that later, after he salvaged whatever plan Draco had put in place.

Hermione’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her breaths coming out in laboured pants, and Theo could only swallow past the sandy dryness coating his throat. His eyes darted to Draco, hard and demanding. He was usually so willing to give the two of them anything, but whatever mess was unravelling before him made it different.

When Draco looked away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Theo snapped. “Drake! What is she talking about? Last I heard, you were going to apologise for dinner and do a pro bono investigation on her case. Explain what the fuck is going on right now.”

Theo tried not to let his own breaths come out in sharp, heaving pants, but it was almost impossible as Draco stalled. After a long, silent minute, Theo snapped again, his hands coming together to clap loudly in front of him, and a small elf popped into the room, clothed in a glittering evening dress that pooled around her feet. It took everything in Theo not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation as she spoke, “Master Theo! Silky lives to serve the new House of Nott. How may Silky be of service today?”

“Silky, will you please set my office for tea. I believe Hermione is partial to something flowering, a Jasmine or a Hibiscus, if you will. Honey and milk on the side. The usual is fine for me.”

The old elf’s eyes narrowed, ears flopping to the side as she looked at Draco and then back to Theo, and Theo answered before she could even ask, “Draco will be happy to drink whatever you provide.”

Draco opened his mouth as if to object, or beg for something sweet, but Theo was certain he was undeserving of it if what Hermione said were true. A theory was building in Theo’s mind, and he wasn’t about to indulge such behaviour.

Silky jumped in excitement, sticking her tongue out quickly at Draco before turning to Hermione. “Silky is happy to serve Mistress Hermione. Silky has heard so much, seen so much,” the cheeky devil said with a wink before disapparting with a pop.

Hermione looked torn between affront at a house elf being in their employ and what all Silky knew of her, and glee at Draco’s thinned, pouting mouth. Good, that made two of them, and Theo was going to need all the positive ground he could find to fix whatever this was. He extended a hand to her, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “If you would like to join us in my office. I would like to get to the bottom of whatever Draco has conspired and welcome you into our home if my hunch is correct.”

Her hand lifted tentatively, with delicate fingers that were much too cold for Theo’s liking, laying gently on his palm. He ignored the subtle tremble in them as he wrapped his fingers around hers, engulfing her entire hand. His skin sizzled with the need to press a kiss to the back of her hand, but he held back, hoping it was disappointment and not panicked relief in her eyes when he started to lead her deeper into the home.

There was not a sound from her as he strolled her through the long shotgun style entryway and the first floor. From the dark wood floors and navy and green walls, everything warmed up by soft fabrics and lush leathers scattered across the living and sitting rooms. Light streamed in from the garden into the kitchen as they turned down the final hallway towards his office. The clinking of tea cups could be heard as Silky arranged the finishing touches before they walked in. He didn’t expect her to say anything else, but after he was forced to drop her hand and open the heavy dark wood door, she whispered. “You remember how I like my tea?”

“I wouldn’t dare forget.”

An achy burn started to form behind his eyes, his brow twitching as he leaned down into his hands. He attempted to alleviate the pressure, pushing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, taking slow, steadying breaths before speaking again. He didn’t look up, unsure which of the two he was more frustrated with.

“So you mean to tell me that it wasn’t just some random man stalking her. Someone who had the means to leave enough poisonous nightshade among other plants in Hermione’s apartment to kill a pack of centaurs, and you had no idea it was even happening, escalating rapidly based on numerous letters you received and didn’t open,” his eyes flitted to her as she stared off at the wall, the weight of what exactly the DMLE had asked him coming to light. He’d known someone was obsessed with her, was threatening her, but he couldn’t imagine the extent of harm.

It made his blood boil that they had been that close.

He snuck a peek at Draco, who looked much too smug for the situation before starting in on his part of this mess, “and Draco has spent his nights bothering you with whatever silly excuse he can to get you to see us. Including outright lies about owing either of us anything,” Draco scoffed, and Theo pinched his nose harder, to the point of pain, to keep from lashing out too much, “but is now part of your case because those plants most likely came from a case he’s been working on for months. A case with such heightened security and scrutiny, they no longer think it’s safe for you to live alone, and Draco, in his infinite spoiled, manipulating ways, found a way to force you here.”

They were quiet for a few moments before Theo noticed her bottom lip start to tremble, his gut twisted, knowing how much of the blame he carried. He’d led plenty of acquisition mergers, made it through years of gruelling work while training to become a Barrister, fought tooth and nail against his uncles on the board with said knowledge, and won over every Goblin he could in Gringotts. But he felt like he was sinking in quicksand when leading whatever conversation they were about to have.

“It’s so silly, I know, but it just doesn’t seem real. Everything is falling apart, and I just don’t even know where to start.” She finally admitted, and Theo could understand that. Leaning across the small settee to hold her hand, waiting for whatever else she wanted to divulge before they got to the bottom of this. It had been too many weeks of agony and wallowing on all their behalfs not to get somewhere.

“Well, while the circumstances could be better, and the execution leaves space for improvement,” Theo forced a cough in Draco’s direction. A pink flush covered his ears at having heard everything laid out, “I do think this is the best place for you. Draco and I’s blood wards are unmatched.”

It was Hermione’s turn to look on with scrunched eyebrows, a strange mix of intrigue and criticism in her watery gaze, “The legality of that is not up for discussion. I do think some expectations from each other would be prudent, though. Draco, I’m assuming the DMLE has some guidance here?”

Theo raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for Draco to speak. His head was tilted forward, encouraging him to join the fray of conversation in a less combative way, but the hard press of his mouth was still a warning sign to the younger wizard. Draco headed the unspoken threat, slipping into the competent Auror that made Theo’s chest tighten. Draco’s voice dropped an octave, squaring his shoulders, and unclenching his jaw. It was akin to all the pure blood lessons of their similar childhoods, a commanding mask of indifference and confidence—and it drove Theo wild with need.

“I and a private third-party contractor will monitor your live streams and messages for any suspicious behaviour and follow up from there. You will need to give us a heads up before you start or post. An hour should be enough, and the other surveillance will be constant, both online and in person, as needed. I’ve stationed a few Aurors at your apartment if you need anything, and you will need to let myself or someone else from the DMLE know when you leave any of the warded spaces we’ve offered. If things progress, we might ask that you not be alone.”

“So I’ll have no privacy? How many people will be going through all my messages? I can’t even go to work alone?” Hermione seethed, her hands shaking as the weight of Draco’s expectations came down on them all. The severity of the situation hung like a heavy raincloud in the room, and not even the pale afternoon light from the garden could cheer the space up.

“It is a very small team.” Draco clarified quickly, “Everything they do is confidential, have worked with some of the best in the world. Theo is well versed in the private nature of their work, when the time comes, they could most likely make any trace of this disappear from the public forever.” When Hermione looked as if she might question that statement, the sheer amount of material about her that was available on the internet seemed staggering. Draco shook his head, “Think of how little you or Pansy could find on him, they’re good. I trust them with my life.” Theo’s eyebrow quirked up at Draco’s inclusion, but it seemed to work on Hermione—a curt nod as she turned back to Theo, waiting for further instruction.

He cleared his throat, trying not to focus on how lovely she looked, while waiting patiently. Visions and dreams of hearing his requests and demands met with such perfect submission would have to come to life later, though, now he needed to make her comfortable and not blow this once in a lifetime chance. “And Hermione, what requirements do you have?”

She looked stunned, irises blowing wide and mouth popping open at the question before composing herself. She slipped into a different mask. Not the coy one she wore on camera or the eager academic when talking about her work. No, this reminded him of Monaco, when she’d tried to go toe to toe with his investors. She was cold and warm at the same time, graceful and feline. Like you were a toy to her, haughty and expectant in her tone, Merlin help him, she was just as bad as Draco.

“I want to be able to come and go as I please and not be interrogated. I will let you know when I’m leaving, but I don’t expect anyone to stop me. I need to get back to work both in the lab and online, and I don’t want interruptions for those things.” Theo spun the flat gold ring on his finger around as she implored just how often she planned to be out of the wards. Draco noticed the motion, one of Theo’s few tells of his nerves. The smooth, cold metal soothed him as he waited for her to elaborate, shocked by how simple the request was. Nervously, she was giving up.

Draco briefly spoke up, and Theo held his breath that they wouldn’t delve into bickering cats in heat. “As long as someone from the DMLE knows where you are at all times, then it won’t be an issue. Potter and Weasel made it very clear that we are not to keep you captive.”

Hermione's slow nod felt like a colossal win, a relieved sigh pushing past Theo’s lips as the dust settled and the two before him seemed to come to an understanding of cordiality. It was then that they both turned to him, silent and expectant. When he didn’t immediately jump to respond, Hermione filled the void.

“Theo, this is your house. What rules and expectations do you have of me?”

A lot.

He could think of a million rules he wanted her to follow. The first to let him take care of her, at least like he had been before she cut off his ability to send and deposit her pounds. That seemed like too grand a wish for now. He would need to start slowly, take the door that Draco had forcibly opened for them, and gently continue stepping inside and prodding around her comfort zone again.

He chose his words wisely, hoping not to spook her, a slight tremble to her hands as Hermione raised the teacup to her lips. “I’d like us to try and get along. Silky makes Drake and me dinner every night if you would like to—“

“I’d hate to impose more than I already am.”

“You’re doing no such thing. If anything, seeing you and not worrying about you up in your room every day would be a relief. And I’m sure Draco could use the time to ask about work and other things for the case? I know things are difficult right now, but I don’t see why the three of us can’t be cordial.” Draco nodded enthusiastically, and Theo tried not to get too excited when Hermione seemed amicable to the idea.

That attempt was for nothing, because the moment she spoke next, his heart pounded like a gong in his chest, an eager thrill buzzing in his veins. “That would be nice, to be friends.”

Theo carried the high of possibly being friends with Hermione through the evening. Friends was the absolute last thing he intended, but he had an in and needed to give Draco his due for bestowing such an opportunity on them in the newly gilded cage they called home.

He planned to do so just then, a spring in his step as he waltzed into his office. Now, moonlight poured through the large floor to ceiling windows that covered the back of the townhome, the pale light overcome by the pink glow of a computer screen. Draco sat sprawled in a chair across from the desk, a glass of fire whiskey already in his hand, the other lazily strumming against his stomach while he watched his friend work.

Blaise Zabini popped in and out of the townhome from time to time, visiting Draco and always down for a dry laugh. Theo had been seeing more of him and his teammate as they dug through the accounting files at the office. And while Theo hated the idea of someone they knew watching Hermione’s shows, it could be worse. He probably would have preferred Astoria—she was sweet and kind, just like her sister, discreet and soft-spoken about what she found when presenting. However, Blaise was better at digging through files and hacking, and Hermione deserved the best, so much so that he didn’t mind footing the bill for the DMLE.

Anything to catch whoever had gotten so close to hurting her.

His molars ground as he remembered getting the news, the occluded memory coming back with a vengeance now. He’d kept the visions away while finishing up Hermione’s welcome, and now he relented. His mind succumbed to the anger that haunted most of his waking thoughts, as he moved towards the bar cabinet and did the next best thing he could to staunch the rage that overflowed at the memories.

As if he were living it again, his mind replayed it like a movie. Two older Aurors stormed into his office and demanded that he come down to the Ministry. Everyone else starred on gobsmacked, his uncles poking out of their rarely used offices to eagerly watch what they assumed would be Theo’s downfall. Their distracting greed was a gift, as it focused more on him than on what was said. No one needed to know Hermione’s name in that office besides him and Daphne.

Details piled up about what Hermione had returned home to the night before made his blood boil. How he had seen her just hours ago and let her leave, waltzing straight into some kind of trap.

Bile coated his throat as the unmistakable Sirius Black, surprisingly more handsome than his brother, though Theo would never tell Draco that, showed Theo photos of the most horrific letters he’d ever seen. The detail someone imbued into the notes, the sinister ways this person described harming Hermione, made it nearly impossible to think. The veritaserum made it easy, though, profanities and demands of figuring out who had done this and what Theo planned to do to them once found poured from his lips. Anger rolled off of him in waves, and the four Aurors in the room flinched away at the sight. The letters were so profane that they made his skin crawl, and he debated having Draco obliviate them from his mind.

And while he had sent plenty of his own signed letters, too, sappy and pathetic as he offered Hermione the world on a silver platter, which the former heir of the House of Black eyed wearily, as if it were unfathomable that Theo could care so much for her, he easily denied the others, though. His anger proof enough that they had not come from him and his innocence.

He physically shook the memory away again, swirling the dark, smoky liquor in his glass before approaching the desk. Hermione’s voice floated from the speakers, grainy and tinny sounding compared to how lovely she’d been in the same room earlier. As soon as she came on screen, Draco was up and moving. The two hovering over Blaise’s back, the poor wizard tried to maintain the nonchalance Theo had come to expect from him, but it was undeniably hard with their obsessive presence. “Do you two recognise any regulars?”

Names flashed on the screen, and sure, Theo did, but they were cheap. Always cheap, and it grated at him. From the very first day he stumbled upon her profile picture, he’d been annoyed by how little others spent on her. Sometimes, they rose to the challenge, banded together to almost match what he gave, but the thrill of winning more of her intoxicating time was too much. No matter what, though, they were all too cheap to afford the sheer mass of poisonous flowers left in her room. Draco described it as needing buckets to contain the wet, sloshy mess, and while Theo didn’t dabble often in that side of his familial dealings, he knew it came at a price.

He kept that too himself, Draco already well aware, and Blaise had surely seen it in the financials. “They all look familiar, but no, no one stands out. Theo’s been watching longer.”

“These guys are the regulars, but besides being a little pissy, they don’t usually stand out.”

Blaise nodded noncommittally. He pulled up a third screen, a black screen with green and yellow text, occasionally accompanied by red and purple, as he began plucking away commands. Theo knew enough about computers to maintain investments, but whatever Blaise did was well beyond his understanding.

“Draco, did those warrants ever get approved by the Wizangamot?” Blaise paused before continuing, one eyebrow raised as he looked over his shoulder.

Draco’s hand flexed around his glass, shaking his head. “No, they didn’t make it to today’s session, and they don’t reconvene until next week.”

Pulling a large money clip from his pocket, uncaring and not counting how many bills were present, he let the weight of it smack against the desk before Blaise. It would always be better to use pounds than galleons for something like this. Blaise didn’t say anything else, merely thumbed the notes before clicking away again at the keyboard.

So distracted by what Blaise had asked, Theo finally stole a look over at a different screen, his breath catching as he watched wild curls that he wanted to tug and run his fingers through bounce through her suite. He wasn’t quite sure what she was up to, but Draco harshly whispered for Blaise to keep his eyes on the two non live feed screens, as they both watched her skip into the bathroom.

Theo’s blood pumped through his veins, thick and needy, as she propped her phone up on the bathroom counter. Her deep brown eyes glittered with golden excitement, gentle apologies on her even softer lips, for being away for so long and promising something especially fun and wet tonight.

She giggled as if nothing was wrong and slipped a pale yellow silk robe off her shoulders, turning so that all he could see was the curve of her arse and the expanse of smooth skin on her back. Theo debated buying her such a garment in every color available.

He nearly fainted when her silky legs slipped beneath the overflowing bubbles, having to raise them higher to overcome the porcelain lip of the clawfoot tub and climb in, a flashing tease at what he tasted weeks ago. Every ounce of occlumency he possessed couldn’t stop the need in him from building when she flashed the faintest of hits of her chest, before he lost sight of her breasts as she slipped entirely into the steaming water. The tips of her curls grew damp and springy as she submerged herself, clinging to the tan skin that glowed against the large white tub.

Theo was going to die right then and there. One of his greatest dreams had come true. Hermione was naked, lounging in his tub, bringing a glass of his champagne to her lips like the princess she was. And he was watching through a fucking livestream like an absolute cunt.

It all clicked then. Every bratty, pushy thing Draco did to drag her to this house. Theo finally understood the switch from reactive apologies to demanding trickery in getting her back. Hermione was in reach, and he would not lose her again.

Chapter Text

Sleep still clung to her lashes as Hermione’s feet hit the cold wooden planks of the floor. She rubbed at them and her forehead furiously, trying to banish the curls that escaped their confining braid overnight and tangled with her sticky lashes. For all the times she’d cried over Theo and Draco as of late, last night, with the strongest silencing charm around her, had been the worst.

Friends.

The word haunted her. What did that even mean? Had Theo always been so cryptic? She wished he’d just yelled or screamed at her instead of being so damn nice when they sat and drank tea like normal, civilised people. Civilised people didn’t barge into people’s homes uninvited and tricked. Civilised people didn’t take all their clothes off before meeting someone—but they had faked a normal, polite, even hopeful conversation. A strange, self-indulgent part of her begged to be held accountable when she had done nothing wrong, guilt at winding herself in this mess eating away at her nerves. Their tentative truce seemed like a start, but it still felt wrong.

And thus she’d cried herself sick after going live, the memory of each touch in their home without them, now made her throat ache and eyes burn behind their hazy, viscous shroud. Relying only on scarce memories of her steps from the night before and shards of light through her lashes, Hermione made her way towards the bathroom. Trying not to play the image of Theo looking so casual in joggers and a t-shirt yesterday evening over in her mind, avoiding distraction that would undoubtedly end up with a stubbed toe or shin banging against one of the very expensive looking chairs around the room. It was his home, of course, he wouldn’t prance around in a suit, but still, it was jarring to see him look so casual. Even mussed in bed the morning after the gallery showing, he looked so composed, each gentle curl perfectly out of place, as if dishevelled and styled with precision.

Even her ribs stung, another reminder of her painful emotions, as she waddled towards the luxurious en-suite. Memories of white marble tile and bubbles piled high from the night before filled her mind—happy, relaxed memories before she slunk into the depression haunting her. It had been for show, not even her own happiness was truly hers anymore, so she shook the pathetic thought from her head and blindly reached over to draw another bath. Maybe she could pretend again, this time just for herself.

Her hand reached out to turn the golden knobs, but when the smooth metal never met her fingertips, Hermione’s eyes flew open. Too late, though, her body already leaning forward, momentum in place as she crashed to her knees against a bathmat where her tub should have sat.

Where it had been the night before, a large empty space now replaced it, a single piece of parchment sitting on the floor. Her knees had been one of the few places on her body that were not sore, but now they ached as she crawled towards the out of place note. Her fingers shook and trembled, a nervous chill running down her spine at who could be leaving her a letter in her new temporary sanctuary.

Time seemed to slow, memories of Theo and Draco promising that this townhome was safer than anywhere else for her, twisted into mocking jeers and chants in her head. It came on so fast, the panic rising and burning her throat with bile. She felt like crawling through mud, thick and heavy, her lungs panting as she kneeled over it, saliva filling her mouth as she tried not to get sick. The heavy paper, finally in her grasp, shook terribly. One thought rang out in her mind.

Had this person found her again?

Her spit thickened in her mouth, her throat working roughly to swallow as Hermione unfolded the missive. She wasn’t sure she had much space left for more threats. It was short, shorter than the others left, with smooth, neat scrawl. Tight letters and lines, inked in dark blue, and just a few words.

Tub was in need of repairs. Silky has sent it off. Please feel free to use the one in the primary suite should you need a bath. Breakfast is served around nine on the weekends.

Before she could read the last word, the paper erupted into flames in her hands. Ash swirled around her, floating on a breeze through a cracked window in the bathroom, and the smell of smoke wafted up to her, carrying with it the realisation that she was not in danger. No, she’d been played a fool, and somehow that was worse.

The tips of her hair sparked with purple lightning as she searched for her robe from last night, lost somewhere in the piles of clothes she was still unpacking. She grabbed a different one, one the colour of the darkest night, navy silk that glittered like a star-filled sky. The soft caress of the fabric was not enough to calm her. No, Hermione was burning up, a mix of shame and pent-up anger that she had not yet taken out on anyone for the situation boiling over.

The pads of her feet smacked against the ground as she traversed through the home. Parts of it reminded her of Grimmauld, with its multi story narrow design. But it was missing all the strange remnants of the wizarding elite that Professor Lupin had not been able to remove during her summer internships. Without all the tapestries and antiques, the sound of her steps rang out loudly as she grabbed her wand out of her hair and rounded a corner to the kitchen.

There in perfect domestic bliss sat Theo and Draco, laughing over cups and an array of breakfast foods. She only had a blink of an eye to act, her best guess being that it was Theo’s handwriting on the note, similar to some of the others he’d penned for her, and she ignored them. But the curve of the H at the start of her name was enough to justify her actions. As he lifted a full glass of orange juice to his mouth, she struck. Her wand arm shot out, and without even speaking, she vanished the glass right from his hand, and conveniently left the liquid.

“What the–” Theo’s voice called out as the cold liquid splashed and stained the crisp white shirt he sported. Good, she thought. If he were to make it impossible for her to take a bath, then she’d make sure he was sticky and needed one every chance possible.

It was not her most well thought out plan—Draco’s wand flying out towards her, with the accuracy and speed of a trained Auror, she was bound quicker than Theo could finish his sentence. Black ropes sprang from his wand and wrapped themselves around her, soft as silk, they nearly blended in with the robe, twinging between her breasts, around her waist like a hug, and over her arms. They applied pressure until Hermione could do more than wiggle, the hem of her robe sliding higher with each press. Gnashing her teeth and moving frantically where she stood, she screeched. “What is wrong with you! Was this another joke?”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up, his arm still stretched out perfectly still as he gazed over at Theo. Theo vanished the juice from his shirt, and a bright yellow stain left behind, even as he scroogified wordlessly and turned to face Hermione. “I noticed last night there was a crack in the porcelain of that tub. Didn’t seem safe if you were going to continue to use it so rigorously.”

Hermione huffed, blowing a piece of hair from her face as she bared her teeth, “How in the world did you even know that?”

“Well, after I spent 45 minutes watching you in it, I had thoroughly memorised the scene. You were the one who decided to take your sweet time in it.” Theo moved to pour himself a new glass, unbothered as he spoke. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks at hearing him admit to watching the entire time. Heat crept up her neck, red splotches giving away her embarrassment.

“Forget the tub! The note, why would you leave a note?” Her voice cracked, and Draco loosened the ropes. They slunk away from her like shadows receding in the distance, and her will followed them. Angry, frustrated tears bubbled back up again, and her legs threatened to buckle. She barely had time to hold the robe tighter around her waist when the familiar embrace of collapse returned—a much too common friend for her as of late.

Theo made to move, but Draco was quicker, striding across the room and around the kitchen island, swooping her up as she crumbled. She was sick of this, mad at herself that she had grown so pathetic in her emotions, she wanted to be angry again, or rather, furious at them and not herself.

Theo was only a few steps behind him, his words a gentle whisper, “I am so sorry, Hermione, that I wasn’t trying to be. I thought you would know my stationery by now.”

The brittle confession burned its way through her mind. She didn’t know, how could she? She only had memories of a stack of letters, all of them blending together with the vile, stained ones Harry and Ron showed her—and that was her fault. She twisted in Draco’s hold, long bony fingers adjusting her and stilling her movements as she tried to look at Theo.

“This isn’t going to work.” She hiccuped, and everyone went still—the air seemed stagnant as they waited for her to continue. “I know I can’t leave, but this isn’t working. There is so much to be angry about, fuck I’m even angry with myself, but you aren’t. All you said, friends, friends don’t steal each other's tubs.”

Theo blinked at her, giving Draco a brief respite to break the heavy mood, “Ginerva would steal a tub.”

“Ginny does not count, but I just, we have to make this work.” Her voice started high and proud, but with one shaky breath, she settled it and added, “And as remiss as I am to admit it, it’s not all your fault.”

“Let’s not be rash, no need to point blame anywhere just yet. How about we sit down, eat some breakfast, and just try? I am sorry about the tub. I just thought you’d have a laugh, and maybe, if I were lucky, you’d use ours.” Theo extended an arm toward the far end of the kitchen, and Draco took the cue. Moving forward, Hermione was still in his grasp.

“No, no, I know. I’m just a bit high-strung right now.” She confessed, and Draco grunted his agreement, letting her slide down the front of his body as they approached the small window nook. A round table by a curved set of windows, a bench with cushions underneath to eat breakfast at. It was quaint, sweet even, and despite the pounding of her head, she imagined the two of them there each morning eating together.

Draco and Theo slid into the seats around her, and Hermione tried not to think too deeply about how her heart stopped racing and calmed with them being near, how the constant ticking anxiety time bomb in the back of her mind that someone somewhere was watching and waiting for her seemed to fizzle out when surrounded by them. This momentary truce was fragile, as crumbly as the scone Theo split before placing it on a piece of china. She watched him and Draco work, silent and diligent, as they prepared each other's food.

She was content to watch them momentarily, internally planning out exactly how she wanted to apologise and maintain her reasoning. She tracked the synchronies and pieced together what she knew about them and where she fit in the puzzle of their lives, whether by choice or force. That was until the plate they had been working on was placed in front of her, accompanied by a large cup of tea. Theo even went as far as to add her preferred cream and honey himself.

She stared at it, slack-jawed, confused as to why, after she’d barged in, and hair ablaze, ready to admit her failures, they were being so kind to her. Theo must have read the confusion in her eyes—he coughed to clear his throat, and there was a tinge of nervousness in his voice. “I assumed there would be bumps along the way with this arrangement. I just didn’t think it would be me. I apologise, it was in poor taste to leave that note. It was not my intention, but it remains the same.”

“I appreciate it, and I forgive you for what it’s worth. There's no reason for me not to know your stationery besides the obvious at this point. If I hadn’t hidden away and confronted how I felt earlier, this could have been avoided. And well, truth be told, I am occasionally known to overreact.”

Draco’s laugh bubbled up from his corner, softening the mood, even as Hermione’s noise crinkled, knowing it was directed at her, “Occasionally? Salazar, you were relentless in your retaliation. You scared a poor girl's forehead in sixth year.”

A gasp tore from Hermione’s mouth, trying to avoid Theo as she remembered how vicious she could be, and how a fifteen-year-old version of her would have possessed much less mercy for Theo this morning. She winced, confessing, “Oh god, not Marietta, please. I already apologised and offered to pay for her to see a Muggle plastic surgeon for it! That is not my proudest moment.”

Theo’s laugh was half scoff, shaking his head and looking down, both surprised and shocked. She realised he knew little of this side of her. Sure, maybe Draco had filled in gaps if what she assumed about their relationship was correct, but he had only ever known Hermione the graduate student. Hermione, without her parents, headstrong and confident, always figuring most things out on her own. If this were to work somehow, she’d have to rectify that. And now seemed as good a time as ever.

“Don’t let her fool you, Theo. She was wicked. She punched me, which is far worse than some spilt milk if you ask.” Draco teased, looking down his nose a bit, sneering proudly with a narrowed, pointed glare in Theo’s direction.

“You deserved that punch, you were being a brat.” She tacked on, grateful for Draco’s quips, as the light shone in from the garden, the air around them lifting with each ray.

He turned towards her, his sneer melting into a smug grin. Leaning back in his chair, he went so far as to place his feet upon the table and hands behind his head, cocky in his tone. “Hermione, I am always a brat.”

“Draco,” Theo warned, and Hermione shook her head, stifling a laugh with her hand.

“No, no, this is your home, act as you would. And it’s fine. I’ve seen Draco at some of his worst,” she paused, gathering her hands in her lap and squeezing for a bit of strength. She turned to Draco as her knuckles went white in her own grasp, letting her cheeks soften and jaw unclench. Silver eyes met hers, a smirk on his lips, but it did not match the fear slowly creeping into his stare, pupils narrowing as the hazy smoke of occlusion spread across his irises. “And I forgave him for that and intend to keep it.”

The sight of him occluding her, but she pushed forward when it dissipated as quickly as it came. She turned back to Theo, the corner of her mouth quirking up mischievously, feeling more like herself than she had in weeks, when she added, “But he’s still a bit of a prat, I won’t deny it.” Draco scoffed loudly, and Theo threw his head back and really laughed.

One hand on his belly as it shook, the other over his eyes, the tension in the room slowly, finally unravelling with him. He still stared up at the ceiling as he spoke, smiling to himself more so than anyone else. “Oh, this might just work out, won't it?”

“Maybe.” Hermione offered coyly, sipping her tea and watching him over the rim.

“I sure hope so, " Draco added, leaning forward again and moving to eat, his shoulders relaxing and his wand slipping back into the holster across his chest.

“Oh, it will, just you see.” Theo finished, turning to look at her, blue eyes sparkling, and a shiver ran up Hermione’s spine under the attention. The words carried a finality to them, a promise.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

“Really, a Saturday? Come on, Granger, it’s not OWL or NEWTSs, why are we here? It’s a perfectly nice day, I’m sure we could be in the garden or anywhere better than this.” Draco leaned against the doorframe, watching as Hermione squared her shoulders, prepping for a fight.

Truly, she made it all too easy, he swore she did it on purpose, that she liked being combative and setting little traps for him to tease her. That their bickering was, at times, half the appeal.

She released a slow breath before turning away from the portrait before her, its sapphire eyes blazing like a storm despite it being rendered practically useless. She’d ranted about that every step through the halls and office corridor before making it into this workshop, and now she was going to do it again.

“If I can fix this, I need to try, and I don’t have time during the week, and I don’t need the reason or you breathing over my shoulder the entire time.” She turned back before even finishing the sentence. The next words out of her mouth were more incantations, a soft, pale blue and white glow emanating from her wand as it swished and swirled over the frame.

Draco pushed off from the wall, his hands behind his back as he strided over. His head cocked to the side, taking in the entire scene. Something was happening, noting the faint threads of magic, like thin washes of paint moving with her, weaving in and out of the painting. He’d only see his mother put memories into a portrait, never the actual magic of enchanting one.

“Who is she anyway that you care this much?” He poked, surprised to see a small bead of sweat rolling down the side of her face.

She didn’t look away from her work, studying the ribbons of magic that flicked from her wand as they touched the surface, wide, hopeful eyes darting back and forth, till they evaporated like smoke. Her mouth puckered in disappointment before she answered him, “I’m not sure, but she doesn’t have to be important for me to care. She’s a witch who wanted her memories preserved all the same, and that was ruined under my watch.”

“Is that your job? To babysit Edward?”

“Ernie.” She snapped the correction, “And no, it’s not, but I didn’t set clear enough boundaries, and this is what happened.”

Draco nodded his understanding, that was an all too familiar feeling for him. Boundaries were not something he grew up with, if someone in his family wanted anything, he was obliged to provide. Sure, he was spoiled with every material desire, but if his father wanted him to stand next to him at a Wizengamot meeting for hours on end, no chairs since there was only one Malfoy seat, then Draco’s 8-year-old legs stood through their shakes.

If his Aunt Bella decided he needed better training in occlumency, she gave him lessons. Painful ice sharp lessons that if he showed even a drop of discontent, resulted in having every precious memory of his pulled with icy claws and displayed and ridiculed for all to see.

He’d set one boundary with the only person who would let him, his mother. He’d evaded that marriage contract, and she’d told him the consequences, to which he gleefully accepted when Theo popped into his life. Astoria was just as grateful, if the whispering she and Blaise did while toiling through Theo’s files meant anything.

This seemed like a particularly worthless consequence for Hermione to Draco, though. He craned his neck to get a better look at the painting. The witch was regal, with dark hair, age having warped the oil paints, some kind of black or brown, pale, grey eyes looking back, framed with high bone structure. A hallmark of most pureblood women, but that meant nothing without some kind of identification.

And this painting seemed stripped of all those. She bore no jewellery Draco could recognise, no hidden family crests behind her or embroidered into tapestries and pillows. No, she just looked faintly familiar to her eyes despite being devoid of magic, and seemed to be tracking him.

Draco shook his head of the feeling, his paranoia for Hermione was rubbing off on him undoubtedly. It didn’t help that every time he looked at her, he faced whiplash he couldn’t even fathom. Guilt spurring him to snark and bite still lingered from Monaco, and then the comfort of her face nuzzling into his chest as he caught her that morning softened the blow, all of it twisted into an undeniable need. Since he’d started indulging in watching through a grainy screen to then watching the ropes, his ropes, wrap around her, did not help.

He could feel the way her soft skin moulded to his magic, down to her pulse as her blood pumped and throbbed in time with the inky black touch of the incarcerous that. It was torture, a torture he would need to avoid until Hermione made a move, their fragile and repaired trust could not be derailed by his cock.

So he stuck to her work, “She looks pureblood.”

Hermione hummed noncommittally, a hint of condescension to her tone, “Most non pureblood witches don’t know or have the funds to access portrait magic. Do you really not know that?”

Draco ignored it, entertaining himself with whatever she would share and working more information out of her that she wanted to keep close, “So what, the magic is just gone? What is it you're playing with then?”

“No, there’s some strands, like a skeleton with no meat.” Draco’s lip curled with disgust, and Hermione chuckled under her breath at his discomfort.

“Do you have a lot of experience with human meat?” Salazar help him. What had he gotten himself and Theo gotten themselves into?

“What? No.” She gasped, “ Why would you think that? It was just an analogy, Dr. Groski used when we talked through options. He thought that since we had some residual trace, we could maybe work a miracle.”

“That's your boss? And he talks about human meat?” He looked sidelong at her, his mouth pressed in a line as the nausea flooded him at the image. He’d seen a fair share of wounded wizards during missions and investigations, but removing muscles from bone sounded particularly gruesome. Something his Aunt Bella would enjoy, no doubt.

“Yes, and the Master on the subject. He sits on both my advisory boards.” She added between the scratch of a quill on parchment, furiously taking notes.

“Can you put it in simpler terms for me?”

“What all those years as an Auror made you all combat spells? I remember you being adept at potions. But Groski is the expert, and it’s his approval I need to graduate. So if he thinks there's something still here, even if he told me not to worry about it, I should probably try to find it. Make a good impression and all that.” She flicked her hands around, emphasising the last bit before returning to her notebook.

“But you’ve already made a good impression. He hired you, didn’t he?” Something in the back of Draco’s mind whirled; he couldn’t place his finger on it, but it struck him as odd. Hermione was brilliant, and Theo raved about her publications all the time. What was she doing grovelling to some random wizard?

A frustrated cough accompanied her next words—despite being seated and below Draco, she managed to narrow her eyes and make him feel small with her response. “Yes, and you just let Mr. Potter and Mr. Black rely on their first impressions of you.”

“Salazar, do you really call them that?” His nose crinkled at the formality of it all, how strange it would be to do so in the field. He, in moments where he was unsure of their reactions to his work, might call them Auror Potter and Black, or maybe chief, but Mr? He shivered as he continued trying not to think of how petulant he’d been when first enrolling in the academy, “but no, you're right. Just seems like a lot on a Saturday. What do you do for fun?”

“You’ve gone out with me plenty of times. You know what I do for fun.” Her response was quick, distracted by her work, and Draco was quite sick of it.

He fired back almost instantly, set on distracting her from the tomes she was copying into the damn notebook now, “Humour me, Granger, we're supposed to be roommates and friends here.”

She stuttered as if she were surprised by the declaration—as if they hadn’t had two whole dramatic conversations about it, “Uhm, well, I work two jobs, so that's a lot. I run, that's nice, and I read you know that.”

“Where do you run? What do you read?” He was fast again, trying to keep her from shoving her nose back into her work.

“In a park right off the moors.” She looked wistful, and Draco noted that in the days since her apartment had been compromised, none of her tails had shared about her running schedule.

“That sounds damp.” He wouldn’t mind joining her, but not around some slippery swamp.

“It’s quiet.” She scolded, and Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring the hidden message for now, till she continued, “ I like just having the time to myself and not darting around people. What about you?”

“What about me?” He asked, picking up a vial from her table, examining the strange green liquid inside it.

Hermione barely sat up from her chair, reaching out to grab it from his hands, “What do you do for fun, Draco? Besides rummaging through my work.”

“I, too, like a run, but Theo and I duel to work out, and that's much more rigorous.” He wiggled his eyebrows as a blush crept across Hermione’s face. Savouring his win, Draco added to relieve her, “Sometimes, when I’m desperate, Potter and Weasley step in. Blaise and I like horse races.”

A bright smile tore across her face, her eyes widening, hair flinging over her shoulders when she turned to look at him, “Oh! I grew up with dressage.”

“You did?” He drawled, excitement blooming in his chest, as if she were a fish on the line, he reeled her in for any information she would give.

“Yes? Is that such a surprise?” Her eyebrow arched up in challenge, hidden behind a wayward curl.

“Well, yes and no, I guess. You certainly know how to ride.” Her mouth popped open in shock, pink covered the high points of her cheeks, and red splotches spread across her chest. In an attempt to avoid the end of her wand, Draco shifted, “and dressage is popular with—“

She cut him off, finishing his sentence with a level of smugness that he hadn’t seen since she’d earned an O on her OWLs. “Posh wealthy mudbloods, who might be close but not quite the same as the precious sacred 28 Pansy is always going on about?”

“Must you use that word?” He scoffed, his hackles raised at her flippancy.

“No, but I like watching you squirm.” She grinned up at him, “But yes, Draco, those are the same types of muggles who I rode with growing up.”

The question came out on instinct, watching her with his head tilted, pondering how something as time-consuming and enthusiastic for her never came up, “I never knew that about you. At Hogwarts, it never came up.”

“Why would it? It’s not as if anyone else would have known. And how do you even know about horse racing? I am sure that is a story for the ages, Draco.” She pivoted her body, hiding her face from him again, to focus back in.

Draco assumed it was a lost cause to distract her from work completely for the day, settling to slide into a chair nearby and digging in on just how much Blaise Zabini liked to win, and how sometimes luck is not quite luck at all for certain wizards.