Work Text:
Atonement, the nightclub, had opened on the third anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. By now, enough time had passed that people no longer felt awkward about celebrating on the anniversary, yet it was close enough for everyone to drink and numb the yearly ache. Ginny barely had to suggest the idea of going out before Hermione had both feet out the door, pulling Ginny closely behind her.
Things were different now. Hermione was different. After the war, Ron and Hermione had given their relationship a shot. Ron wasn’t her first crush, nor her first lover, but he had tried. He listened, he cared, and he genuinely wanted to please her. They had spent seven years as friends, seven years of unspoken feelings buried deep within, but Hermione had expected more.
She had imagined a boom, a spark, something like Fred and George’s fireworks dragon during O.W.L.s in their fifth year, a burst of excitement, a whirlwind of passion. Instead, it was a quiet, slow unraveling, with the silence growing louder as they realized that the connection they had shared as friends didn’t translate into the kind of romance they both needed.
After three months of dating, Ron left, and Hermione was heartbroken... for about seven seconds. Then, without skipping a beat, she grabbed her coat, stepped into Muggle London, and headed straight for the nearest bar. There, she found herself caught up in the chaotic pulse of the night, drinking until the edges of the world blurred. That’s when she met him, a Muggle man with ink covered hand tattoos snaking up his arms.
She’d worn his tattooed hand around her neck like a necklace for half the night. When he leaned in and asked, “Have you always liked to be choked?” she chuckled, shaking her head. “No,” she replied, but what she really wanted to say was, I fought in a war, and less than a year ago, I was held down by my throat while a psychotic woman carved into my arm like I was a Sunday roast. Instead, she let the moment pass and buried the ache a little deeper, pretending for just a while longer that it was all behind her.
By day, Hermione worked at the Ministry as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries (DOM), where her talents and intellect were put to the test in ways that fascinated her. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE) was still investigating the dragon breakout from Gringotts, the Polyjuice impersonation incident, and a host of other unresolved cases, and the goblins were quick to point fingers at Hermione. Meanwhile, Ron and Harry had gotten off with little more than a warning. While Kingsley had promised her that nothing would come of it, the fact remained that she was still the primary suspect in an ongoing investigation, and that was enough to block her from the career she had once dreamed of with the DMLE and potentially Minister of Magic.
She had been offered a position as a Hit Wizard, the Ministry's equivalent of criminal police officers, but to Hermione, that felt like a slap in the face. She declined the offer, her pride unwilling to accept what she saw as a consolation prize. Instead, she chose to remain in the DOM, where she could continue her research into reversing mind altering spells, a field that intrigued her both professionally and personally since her parents were still in Australia with no idea who she was.
By night, Hermione lived a life that felt far removed from the quiet, studious existence she had once envisioned. She drank, danced in high heels and short skirts, and went home with whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted. A relationship with Ron had fizzled out, but Hermione didn’t lack for lovers. It helped that Ginny and Harry hadn’t worked out either, and in their proverbial "divorce," Harry got Ron and Ginny got Hermione.
The two of them had gone back to Hogwarts together to finish their Eighth Year, moved in together after school, and became drinking partners. Being the "Golden Girl" had its perks. For the first year after the war, Hermione barely paid for a drink. Everyone had heard of the Muggle born witch who had stood by The Chosen One’s side, supporting him through the most harrowing battles. They knew of the witch who had walked away scarred, not just physically, but mentally, after an encounter with Bellatrix Lestrange that had nearly ended her life. The stories had cemented her as a legend, and she drank in the admiration, even if it didn’t fill the hole inside her.
In the two years since the war, enough time had passed that restaurants and bars no longer felt compelled to offer Hermione free drinks. That was fine with her, her vault was more than sufficient to cover her expenses. The Order of Merlin, First Class, had come with a hefty reward, and when the Lestrange vault was seized after the war, Hermione had been granted a substantial reparation for her firsthand experience at Malfoy Manor. It was a sizeable sum, enough to carry her through the rest of her life without needing to work another day. But despite the financial security, there was one place where Hermione still never paid: Atonement.
At the grand opening of Atonement, the queue to get into the club wrapped all the way around the building, and Ginny and Hermione had found themselves feeling like they would be waiting for ages. But after only five minutes, a second bouncer appeared, scanning the crowd before spotting them. With a nod, he approached and personally escorted them ahead of the queue, ushering them straight inside.
They exchanged a quick, bewildered glance, both assuming it had something to do with Hermione’s war heroine status, though neither dared to ask. It could have been a mistake, and neither of them was about to call it out and risk being sent back outside. Instead, they followed the bouncer in silence, grateful to skip the queue. As they stepped inside, they were momentarily taken aback by the opulent, dark atmosphere of the club.
The inside of the bar felt like home, like Hogwarts. And it wasn’t by accident. The door leading into Atonement was reminiscent of the cathedral-like doorway to the Great Hall, imposing and grand, immediately making Hermione feel like she was stepping into a familiar world. The ceiling above was charmed to stretch skyward, likely with an undetectable extension charm, and enchanted to mirror the night sky outside, stars twinkling softly in the deep blue. The walls were made of the same cold, grey stone she remembered from Hogwarts, adding a certain nostalgic weight to the air.
The bar itself was designed to resemble the long wooden house tables where students had once sat for meals, the same kind of rough hewn wood that made her feel like she was back in her old seat at Gryffindor's table. It was the longest bar Hermione had ever seen, easily stretching at least six metres in length, dominating the room.
The entire space was bathed in the soft glow of enchanted torches, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls, while a more mysterious, unidentifiable light, perhaps from the moon above, illuminated the dance floor in the centre, providing just enough brightness to guide the feet of dancers without disturbing the atmosphere of the night.
But the true eye-catcher was the wall of Educational Decrees, positioned just behind the backs of the five bartenders hustling to keep up with the orders. It was a stark reminder of those dark days, with framed decrees that resembled the ones Umbridge had plastered across the Great Hall during Hermione’s fourth year.
The decrees were framed in rich mahogany, the gold trimmed edges gleaming softly in the dim light, and arranged in a precise grid pattern. Dozens of them lined the wall, each one a symbol of control, of a time when their lives had been dictated by rules far too rigid. Hermione didn’t need to read them to understand their significance. The message was clear, this was not a friendly bar.
‘Do you want to leave?’ Ginny whispered, her eyes darting to the wall nervously.
‘No. I want a drink,’ Hermione replied, her voice unwavering. She wasn’t 14 anymore, and this wasn’t Hogwarts. Umbridge was locked away in Azkaban for at least another two years, paying for her role in tormenting Muggle borns at the Ministry. Hermione had won that fight, and now, standing tall, she marched directly to the bar with a sense of purpose. This wasn’t about fear or the past. This was about freedom, and tonight, she was ready to toast to it. To their health, their wealth, and most of all, their freedom.
The bar was incredibly full, bodies two and three deep, the air thick with chatter and the clinking of glasses. The smell of alcohol and sweet concoctions filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of smoke that drifted from an enchanted candle. But when Hermione walked up, it was as if the chaotic crowd recognised her presence and the tight knot of patrons parted just enough to make room for her. She was no stranger to moments like this, where it seemed the world shifted to accommodate her.
The bartender, a young man with a quick smile and hands that moved fluidly between bottles, noticed Hermione the moment she approached. He didn’t wait for her to call out her order. Instead, he locked eyes with her, gave a subtle nod and said, ‘What can I get for you tonight, Miss Granger?’ His voice was warm but laced with a hint of reverence, knowing who she was and the significance of her presence.
‘I’ll have a Firewhisky, neat, and an Amazing Amortentia for my friend.’ She placed her hand on the counter, ready to hand over a few galleons, her fingers brushing the smooth wood. She was about to pay when the bartender suddenly shook his head, his face lighting up with a knowing grin. ‘Educational Decree number one,’ he said, motioning to the frames above him. ‘It’s on the house.’
Before Hermione could ask, the bartender reached beneath the eye line of the bar and pulled out a pamphlet, sliding it toward her with a knowing smile. At the top of the page, in bold, official looking letters, was the title: Educational Decree Number One.
Muggle born war heroines named Hermione Granger, aka the Golden Girl, drink free. Always.
‘What the hell?’ Hermione whispered, her eyes widening as Ginny reached across her to grab the euphoric purple drink, which today smelled faintly of parchment paper and apples. A subtle touch of Amortentia was mixed in, just enough to give it a warm, dizzying quality without causing any real concern. ‘Does that mean mine’s free too?’ Ginny called out to the bartender with a smirk. ‘Educational Decree number four!’ the bartender replied, his voice light and casual as he mixed drinks for the growing crowd.
Ginny flipped through the pamphlet to the fourth page, reading aloud, ‘Educational Decree number four. Red headed Weasleys of the female variety are allotted a single free drink during every visit. All additional drinks are half price.’ She raised an eyebrow, chuckling as she downed her first drink in one go. ‘Well, in that case, Mr. Bartender,’ she grinned, ‘I’ll have another one of these at half price!’
Hermione was still lost in thought, her Firewhisky untouched, when Ginny’s voice cut through her fog. ‘Mi-Mi, forget about it! Just enjoy being you!’ With a grin, Ginny grabbed their drinks, the glasses shimmering briefly as they were charmed with anti spill enchantments, allowing patrons to dance freely without the risk of spilling their drinks. Hermione paused for a moment, appreciating the clever bit of magic before following Ginny toward the dance floor. The beat of the music soon swept her up, her hips moving instinctively as the alcohol quickly disappeared from her glass. It never seemed to empty, a subtle but clear sign that someone was keeping an eye on her drink and her.
Between the ambiance of the club and the ability to drink for free, Hermione and Ginny found themselves at Atonement multiple nights a week, with little desire to go anywhere else. It wasn’t long before other war heroes trickled through the doors, drawn in by the exclusivity, the nostalgia, or perhaps just the absurdity of the so called Educational Decrees.
Under Educational Decree number two, Harry was entitled to one free drink per visit in recognition of his efforts in defeating Voldemort. However, the decree stated he could earn more if he publicly admitted that Gryffindor only ever won the House Cup due to Albus Dumbledore’s blatant favoritism toward the House of Lions. All additional drinks were full price.
As for the Weasley men, Educational Decree number five allowed them one free drink every other visit, unless, of course, they were Ronald Weasley. Educational Decree number six made it explicitly clear, Ronald Weasley never drinks free. Ever. That alone was enough to keep Ron, and therefore Harry, out of Atonement, much to Ginny’s satisfaction.
Hermione was indifferent. She loved Harry, and she still had a particular fondness for Ron, but she was not blind to the looks he cast her way, the judgmental flickers across the bridge of his nose whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. He judged her hair, her clothes, her drink choices, how many drinks she had, and where she spent her nights. Once, maybe, his opinion had mattered. But she was no longer his to judge, and if avoiding him meant avoiding the scrutiny, then so be it.
For five months, Hermione worked diligently to uncover the secrets behind the club’s ownership. Connecting dots, analyzing patterns, and pressing for any slip of information that might reveal the elusive figure pulling the strings. But no one knew. Not the bartenders, not the patrons, not even Ginny, who had a knack for getting people to talk. It was as if the owner was a ghost, always just out of reach.
What was clear, however, was that this person knew the Golden Trio intimately. Ron was well liked by most, save for a small handful, which helped narrow her search. The Educational Decrees were enough to suggest the owner had attended Hogwarts during their time, even if they weren’t in the same year. It was also safe to assume they were not a Gryffindor because only non Gryffindors ever complained about Dumbledore’s favoritism in House Cup tallies.
But the most jarring decree of all was Educational Decree number thirteen.
Blood purists pay double. Trust us, we’ll know.
Atonement had been open for over five months, and despite Hermione’s best efforts, she was no closer to identifying the ever indulgent owner. But tonight felt different. It was her birthday, her favorite day of the year, better than any holiday because it was all about her. She was draped in a golden spaghetti strap dress that clung to her curves and barely kissed the tops of her thighs. The fabric shimmered in the low, flickering torchlight, leaving little to the imagination around her chest. It was golden, just like her.
She was ready to celebrate with all her favorite people. Neville had promised to swing by, Luna would “pop in,” and when Ginny asked who she wanted in attendance, Hermione had simply said, “Everyone.”
The bar was transformed. Gold uplighting bathed every wall, the enchanted ceiling sky glowed with the soft gold of a sunset, and even the torches burned with a celebratory hue. The infamous educational decrees were hidden behind floating “Happy Birthday Hermione” balloons, and a specialty “Golden Girl” cocktail had been added to the menu for one night only. “Ginny,” Hermione gasped, awestruck. “You really went all out!” Ginny scratched at the back of her neck and offered a sheepish grin. “Actually, Mi Mi... this wasn’t me. I mean, I booked the time and sent the invites, but the rest...” Her eyes scanned the room. “I don’t know where it came from.”
Curious, Hermione strutted to the bar and flagged down her regular bartender. “Who did all this?” she asked. He smiled and flicked his gaze up to the second floor office, perched on the opposite side of the building like a watchtower. “The boss wanted you to have a good night,” he said. “He sends his well wishes, and a happy birthday.”
Hermione turned and saw the light glowing behind the curtain covered office window. “He’s in there?” she asked, breath catching slightly. The bartender only hummed in response. With her heart thudding and curiosity burning, she fixed her sights on the moving staircase, already timing the rhythm needed to ascend.
Hermione threw the door open, her eyes immediately locking on the singular desk centered in the room. The office was bathed in green, Slytherin green, with sleek silver accents woven into every detail. The lighting was minimal but efficient, just bright enough for bookkeeping. Seated at the desk, head bent over paperwork, glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, was Draco Malfoy.
He didn’t even glance up before speaking. “Happy birthday, Granger.” His voice rolled out like a baseline, cool, smooth, vibrating through the air and straight to her core. Finally, those silver blue eyes lifted to meet hers, sweeping over her with a measured calm. “Welcome to my office.”
Hermione stood frozen in the doorway for a beat, trying to process the sight of him sitting there, unbothered and composed, as he casually removed his glasses and leaned back into the tall, executive chair. The black suit he wore was undoubtedly bespoke, clinging perfectly to his broad shoulders and tapering down his frame like it had been sewn onto him. She watched the way his jaw tensed ever so slightly as his gaze traveled down her body, and the breath he’d been holding was released in a quiet exhale.
“You own Atonement,” she said, not quite a question. Her voice still carried the hint of disbelief. He nodded once. “I’m one of the owners. It’s a group venture, but I handle the day to day operations.” He gestured vaguely toward the paperwork. “The other three, Zabini, Parkinson, and Nott, are more... silent partners. Pansy is the design mastermind, and when Theo decides to be helpful beyond writing checks, he sticks to the drink menu.”
Hermione moved slowly across the room, her heels tapping deliberately against the stone floor. She kept her gaze fixed on him as her fingers traced along the smooth surface of his desk, circling around behind him like a lioness. “And Zabini?”
Malfoy smirked, just barely. “He maintains the Educational Decree wall, and the charms that track everyone’s limits.”
She walked past him toward the small green loveseat nestled beside his desk and settled herself onto the edge like it was a throne. She hadn’t seen Malfoy since roughly eighteen months after the final battle. His family had narrowly escaped Azkaban, his mother, still clinging to her magic under strict house arrest, and his father, wand surrendered, serving a minimum five year sentence magicless.
Hermione had spotted Draco once, in a bar in Muggle London. He’d caught her eye from across the room and walked toward her like they were strangers. Like he hadn’t spent their formative years tormenting her. Like she’d never punched him in the face. Like they were just two attractive people, meeting for the first time.
Somehow, she knew he meant no harm. And if Draco Malfoy wanted to flirt with her in a world where they were no longer a war hero and a war criminal, she’d let him.
She let him buy her drinks. She let him dance with her. She let him rest his hand on the small of her back and trace the curve of her waist. She let him press his chin to the crook of her neck as she rocked her hips against him, matching the rhythm of the music. And at the end of the night, she let him take her home.
Malfoy had spent half the night on his knees, worshipping her like a goddess. His hands, deft and confident, were good for more than wandwork. He coaxed her pleasure from her body like it was a language only he spoke. Three orgasms later, and he still hadn’t left the perfect view between her thighs.
When he finally relented, his lips moved reverently across her skin, hips, ribs, collarbone, shoulder, pressing soft kisses like an apology, whispered again and again between breaths. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he hovered above her, their eyes locking just as his mouth finally met hers for the first and only time that night. He said it once more, quieter this time, “I’m sorry,” as he pushed into her.
Draco was above average in every way, length, thickness, and the kind of control that made it clear this wasn’t about him. Every stroke, every breath, every movement was calibrated solely for her. He kept one hand working steady pressure against her clit as he thrust, never rushing, never demanding. It wasn’t about the finish, it was about unraveling her completely.
Hermione came a fourth time, crying out his name, and when her body trembled in exhaustion, she gave him permission to let go. “Merlin, Malfoy, fuck me. Please.” Her voice was breathless, wrecked, and it pushed him over some internal edge. The growl that tore from his throat was feral.
He pulled out, flipped her effortlessly onto her hands and knees, gripped her arse in both hands, and slammed back into her without pause. “Fuck, Granger,” he gritted through clenched teeth, “I’m going to buy a Pensieve just to relive this moment. Your arse is, bloody hell.” His rhythm grew punishing, wild, until he finally spilled inside her with a deep, guttural cry, collapsing over her back, panting.
After a beat, he rolled off and pulled her close, his hand stroking down her spine. The kiss he pressed to her temple was soft, too soft, almost tender. The kind of kiss lovers shared.
But that wasn’t what they were. After a few moments, Hermione slipped from his bed, redressed in silence as he watched, and let herself out into the night. She hadn’t seen him since, but she had chased the high of that night ever since.
Draco offered her a firewhiskey, which she gladly took. “Atonement?” she asked as her fingers grazed the cool glass of the drink while he poured once for himself. “Interesting name for a bar.” With a wry smile, he took a sip and replied, “Not subtle, I know.”
“Is it about the war?” she asked, not accusatory but curious.
“It’s about a lot of things. Mistakes, regret, trying to find something better after, everything.” He paused, swirling his own drink. “I spent a long time thinking about the things I did. The things I didn’t do. Owning a bar seemed like the least damaging way to keep myself busy and maybe give back.”
Hermione chuckled and raised her glass to her mouth and said, “I know I’ve enjoyed your journey to atonement. Free drinks and orgasms. I’m always happy to help.”
Draco blushed only slightly. “About that night” — he was abruptly cut off when Pansy burst into the office room.
“Draco, you absolute tosser,” Pansy barked, stomping in on clicking heels, her voice sharp enough to cut through silk.
“You told me you weren’t going to—” She stopped mid-sentence as her eyes landed on Hermione, still perched gracefully on the Slytherin green loveseat, a half-smirk tugging at her lips.
“Oh,” Pansy muttered, her eyes narrowing. “I see.” Without another word, she switched to rapid-fire French, clearly assuming Hermione wouldn’t understand.
“Tu as construit tout ça pour Hermione Granger?” You built all this for Hermione Granger?
She gave a dry, incredulous laugh and shook her head.
“J’aurais dû le savoir depuis le bal de Noël. Mes seins étaient remontés jusqu’aux oreilles et tout ce qui t’intéressait, c’était la petite princesse Gryffindor née-moldue.” I should’ve known since the Yule Ball. My tits were up to my ears and all you could care about was the little Muggle-born Gryffindor princess.
Draco exhaled through his nose, glaring at her. “Pansy…” But she waved him off and kept going, her voice like a dagger dipped in honey.
“Tu l’as regardée comme si elle avait lancé un sort sur toi.” You looked at her like she’d cast a spell on you.
Draco didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stood to top off Hermione’s drink and handed it back to her silently. Then, after a beat, he said, “Peut-être qu’elle l’a fait.” Maybe she did.
“Tu la regardes comme un chiot perdu depuis des années, et tu n’as jamais eu le courage de lui dire la vérité.”You’ve looked at her like a lost puppy for years, and you’ve never had the courage to tell her the truth.
Draco retorted, “Ce n’est pas si simple, Pans.” It’s not that simple, Pans.
“Quoi? Tu penses qu’elle va te gifler pour être tombé amoureux d’elle? Franchement, Draco. Elle n’est pas stupide.” What? You think she’s going to slap you for falling in love with her? Honestly, Draco. She’s not stupid.
Hermione had kept her gaze neutral until that. Love?
Pansy noticed, and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned one hip against his desk and tilted her head toward Hermione. “Elle ne comprend pas le français, hein?” She doesn’t understand French, right?
Draco gave a slow shake of his head, casual. “No, I don’t think so.”
Hermione, who had been sipping her drink with silent amusement, raised her eyebrows and replied with smooth precision, “Non, non, elle ne parle pas français du tout.” No, no, she doesn’t speak French at all.
Pansy went stiff. Hermione smiled into her glass. “But she does have a truly excellent memory.”
Draco chuckled, low and proud.
Pansy muttered something vulgar and stormed off with a flip of her hair, and Draco just watched her go, then turned back to Hermione.
“You always did know how to make an entrance,” he murmured.
Hermione set down her glass. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
Draco stepped toward her, his eyes focused, the air between them thick with unsaid words. His voice, a bit rougher than usual, cut through the silence that had hung over them since Pansy’s interruption. “Since when do you speak French?”
Hermione gave a small shrug, her expression unreadable. “I worked as the magical ambassador to France the year after the war. Kingsley used us as political leverage to secure the Golden Accords, those extradition agreements with France, Germany, and Ireland for Death Eaters who fled England.”
There was a pause, heavy, charged. Something old and new flickered in the space between them. Draco’s jaw shifted, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.
“You know,” he finally said, clearing his throat as he leaned back slightly on the edge of his desk, “that night—”
“It’s still fresh in your mind, isn’t it?” Hermione interrupted, her voice low and teasing. She leaned forward slightly, the firelight catching a mischievous glint in her eyes and giving him a wonderful view of her breasts. “Tell me, Malfoy. How often do you think about it?”
Draco huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as though trying to clear it, but his gaze never left her. “More than is healthy, probably.”
“I’m not looking for complicated.” Hermione leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms casually, though her expression held a weight that didn’t match her nonchalant tone. Draco shrugged and replied, “Let’s not overcomplicate it then. I’m not trying to change your name, Granger, but if you want to put a label on it, then I’ve got somewhere you can stay.”
He turned to face her head on, his gaze sharper now, intent. “You can stay for a minute or the next whole month. Call it what it is or call it whatever you want.” The words hung in the air between them, too heavy to ignore.
Suddenly, Draco was crossing the room toward her, the pull of his presence undeniable, magnetic. He stopped just in front of her, his gaze flicking over her with an intensity that made her heart race.
“You know that I want you. You live in my head, and you pay no rent. You’ve taken up prime real estate in my mind.” His voice dropped, sincere but raw, his eyes unwavering. He extended his hand toward her. “I don’t care if you come for a night or if you’re here for the long haul. This is my formal invitation. Let me take care of you.”
Hermione reached out, her hand brushing his, the touch sending a ripple through her skin. He gently pulled her to her feet, his fingers brushing against her wrist, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt through her body.
He vanished her drink with a flick of his wrist, his other hand finding the small of her back. “Bring all your friends. Let them drink me dry. You can pay me back in serotonin. Take every last galleon, steal my clothes, just let me wake up with you in my bed.”
She looked up at him, her heart thundering in her chest, the words hitting her in a way she hadn’t expected. There was something raw in his voice, something real. "You’ll never want for anything again," Draco added softly, a promise hanging in the air.
Hermione stepped closer to him, the space between them closing entirely. “I think I’ll take you up on that,” she said quietly, her voice a mixture of teasing and sincerity.
Without another word, she closed the distance, her lips finding his, pulling him into the kiss that they both had wanted for. Bodies pulsing with need, hands rustling clothing, teeth gnashing against each other with ferocious need. Draco groaned into her mouth, one hand cradling the back of her neck while the other fisted in the fabric of her dress, desperate to feel skin. Hermione’s fingers dug into his hip bones as she gave him full access to explore her mouth. He tasted like expensive firewhiskey, he smelled like a fresh roll of parchment, and he felt like pure ecstasy.
Draco pulled back from Hermione, his breath ragged as he stepped away from her. For a moment, she froze, unsure if she had done something wrong, but her doubts were quickly squashed when Draco strutted toward his desk. He swiped everything off in one fluid motion, papers scattering to the floor in a chaotic tumble. The desk was cleared in an instant, and the sound of it crashing to the ground fell in beat with the pulsing music echoing from downstairs.
Hermione’s breath hitched as he turned back toward her, his eyes dark with hunger. Without a word and just a flick of his wand, the soft click of the lock on the door filled the space between them. The room was sealed. No more interruptions.
His gaze flicked back to her, and with a single, commanding curl of his fingers, he beckoned her toward him. "Come here, Granger." His voice was rough, low with need, and Hermione couldn’t resist. Her body moved before her mind had a chance to protest, her feet carrying her to him like she was drawn by an invisible string.
Draco stepped between her legs, his palms gripping her hips as he hoisted her onto his desk. The wood beneath her creaked softly as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. His mouth found hers again, hot and unrelenting, and his fingers tangled in her hair, dragging his nails across her scalp until a soft moan escaped her throat.
“This hair,” he murmured against her skin, dragging his lips down her jaw and across her neck. “I’ve dreamed about this hair. I want to fuck you from behind and watch it bounce.” Her head tilted back as another moan slipped out, eyes fluttering shut.
“Can I fuck you, Granger?” His voice was low, ragged. “Do I need to get on my knees and beg again?” Hermione tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, choked by the desire pooling low in her belly. She didn’t need apologies. She didn’t need promises. She just needed him.
“Words, Granger. I need words.” His fingers toyed with the hem of her dress, barely brushing the tops of her thighs. She swallowed hard. “Merlin, Malfoy, fuck me. Please.” A deep, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest as she dug her heels into the backs of his thighs. “Deja vu.”
With a flick of his fingers, her knickers vanished. She fumbled at the belt around his waist, working the supple dragonhide free. But when his fingers slid over her slick center, her breath caught violently. Another damn chuckle. “Tease me again, Malfoy,” she warned, “and I’ll vanish every stitch of this overpriced outfit.”
“Do it,” he dared, smug. “I can replace everything I’m wearing before you’ve come once.”
“Rich bastard,” she muttered, and then the belt was gone and her one hand was shoving his trousers down while the other quickly cast the contraceptive charm.
Draco gripped her hips, dragged her to the edge of the desk, and in one powerful thrust, he was inside her. “Fuck, Granger.”
She cried out, fingers clawing at the fabric of his jacket as he pulled out and drove forward again, hitting a spot inside her that made her gasp. The angle was divine, almost too good, and she pressed her heels deeper into him, silently begging for more. She needed his mouth.
She gripped his jaw, pulled him down to her, and kissed him, really kissed him. The night they’d spent together before had been raw and desperate, but almost devoid of kissing. He’d worshiped her with his mouth, whispered apologies into her skin, taken her from behind. It had been glorious. But tonight, she wanted his lips, his tongue, the taste of him. So she took it, and he gave it.
Their mouths tangled as his hips drove into her, but it still wasn’t enough. Her orgasm simmered just out of reach. “I need more,” she gasped into his mouth. “Touch my clit, rub it, do something, anything.” He pulled back, and suddenly there was a cool, buzzing sensation against her clit. Hermione’s mouth dropped open.
“Is that—?”
“My signet ring,” Draco said, smug as ever. “Enchanted. You like the way my pureblood crest feels on your cunt?”
Hermione couldn’t respond. Her body was already reacting. A breathy “Merlin” fell from her lips as her walls clenched around him. “Oh, Granger,” he groaned, driving deeper. “Come on my cock. Give me an Outstanding.” Her vision shattered into white-hot light. Her shoes dug into his backside as she cried out, “Draco!” into his shoulder, hips stuttering against his. And still, he fucked her through it, unrelenting, desperate, wrecked by her.
When she finally came down, Hermione kissed along his jaw, slow and open-mouthed, her breath still catching as he kept bucking into her, drawing out every last ripple of pleasure. “Your turn, Malfoy,” she murmured against his skin.
“Back to Malfoy?” he teased, voice dark and low. “I seem to remember just moments ago—”
“I thought you wanted to watch my hair bounce while you fucked me from behind?” she interrupted, breathless but pointed.
Draco’s grin was feral. “Turn around, Granger.” He helped her down from the desk, steadying her on shaky legs before turning her by the hips. One sharp tap to her arse made her squeal, a surprised giggle slipping out as he nudged her forward.
“Grab the desk,” he said, voice rough with anticipation. She leaned forward, stretching her body over the polished surface, fingers gripping the far edge as if to brace herself for what was coming next. Without a word, a freestanding mirror shimmered into view before her, summoned with effortless magic. Hermione gasped, not at the spell, but at the sight.
Draco stood behind her, lifting the hem of her gold dress inch by inch. Her eyes locked on the reflection, his pale hands on her skin, his face etched with hunger, the sharp lines of his suit in contrast with the sheer need in his eyes.
“I want to watch your hair,” he said, voice hot against her spine as he leaned in. “I want to watch your face. I want to watch your arse bounce on my cock. I can’t choose, so I’m getting all of it.”
And with that, he sank into her again from behind, a groan rumbling through his chest as her cunt welcomed him greedily. He began to thrust, deep and rhythmic, but the second her eyes fluttered shut, he pulled out abruptly and landed a sharp smack on her arse. Her eyes snapped open, wide and dazed, finding his in the mirror. “Eyes on me, Granger,” he growled.
Only then did he begin to move again, the slow grind of his hips building heat all over again. One hand slid up her spine, fingers tracing her vertebrae like a path he already knew by heart. Her core pulsed around him with every roll of his hips. Each time her eyelids started to droop, he spanked her again, firm, commanding, and they started over. Again and again, until her eyes were glassy but obedient, lips parted in a moan she couldn’t quite catch.
The reflection was obscene. Beautiful. She couldn’t look away. Neither could he.
Her second orgasm began to rise within her, her body trembling as she could feel Draco was not far behind. “Touch yourself, Granger,” he commanded, his voice thick with desire. “Get there with me.” Hermione obeyed, slipping her hand between her legs to find her clit, while Draco worked his rhythm into her, driving deeper. His gaze shifted, abandoning hers to focus on their coupling, the sight of their bodies locked together pushing him to the edge.
With a growl, his hands gripped both of her ass cheeks, and he sped up, his thrusts growing more frantic, more urgent. “Granger, can I? Can I come inside you?” he rasped.
“Yes,” she gasped out, and before she could drop her forehead onto the cool surface of the desk, Draco reached his climax, his name slipping from his lips like a prayer. “Hermione.”
That sound, her name on his breath, was all it took to send her over the edge again. Waves of pleasure crashed over her as she fell into the abyss, consumed by the heat they had built together.
A few breaths later, Draco pulled out, casting a quick cleansing charm over them both. He turned her gently toward him, cupping her face as he kissed her softly, tenderly. Her breath was still ragged, her body humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. His hands rested on her waist, steadying her, as if he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
“You good?” he asked, his voice low, brushing his lips against her temple.
“Better than good,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to his neck.
There was a moment of silence between them, comfortable, intimate, and then she broke it, tracing lazy circles on his back as she thought about her next words.
“So,” she said, her voice teasing, “was that part of your atonement program, or just a personal favor?”
Draco chuckled softly, the sound rich with amusement. “Both, I think. Though I might need regular sessions to stay on track.”
Hermione smiled into his skin, a small, contented laugh escaping her. “Hmm. Lucky for you, I’m very committed to rehabilitation.” He pulled back slightly, enough to look her in the eyes. “Come home with me?” Her heart fluttered at his words, a slight hesitation before she answered.
“For tonight?”
“For longer. Or however long you want.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned in, kissing him again, slow this time, unhurried and full of something more. Her lips pressed gently against his, and the way she kissed him was enough of an answer.
One Year Later
On the bottom of Education Decree number one, Blaise Zabini magically carved an update.
Muggle-born war heroines named Hermione Granger, aka the Golden Girl, drink free. Always.
Also answers to: Hermione Granger Malfoy, love, baby, pest, and dearest.