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Hermione rushed through the cars on the Hogwarts Express, her final train ride to school underway. She didn’t have to return for her 8th year, but she wanted to try to finish her schooling the way she wanted to, not the way the war forced her to. Ron and Harry had decided to move on and become Aurors, an offer extended to Hermione (along with a few other Ministry positions), but she decided she needed to experience Hogwarts post-war herself. She needed to make sure it had defaulted back to its former excellence. Otherwise, she would always remember it the way it looked during the final battle—war-torn, in ruins, with loved one’s bodies in the rubble.
Uncharacteristically, she was one of the last passengers to board the train, so every car she passed was already full of other students. She dragged her suitcase behind her down the long walkway stretching further and further back, the train having been extended by several cars for any returning 8th Years. Looking through the windows, she noticed the interiors became less modest the further she went. The benches on either side of the cars towards the end of the train were plushly cushioned with red velvet, and the windows were frosted for privacy.
Headmaster McGonagall must have decided that returning students deserved better accommodations after fighting in a war as children.
With the windows’ new lack of transparency, Hermione had to start sliding open doors apologetically to see if the spaces were already occupied. She spied a few familiar faces strewn about different cars—the Patil twins, Luna, Dean, Seamus, Neville—but all of their cars were already filled to the brim with luggage and students, so Hermione continued on. She was glad she had her hair tied back already, or this manic trip to find a seat would have put it in even more disarray than usual.
There was only one car left. If there was no space here either, she would simply have to sit in the aisleway. She sighed, grasped the handle, and slid the door back.
The first thing she saw was an open bench, and her shoulders sagged in relief. She took a step in, eyeing the luggage rack above the bench. There was already a suitcase on it? She turned to look at the opposite rack and let out a surprised gasp, losing her grip on her luggage.
Draco Malfoy sat on the bench, one leg crossed casually over the other, staring at her. His white Oxford was rolled up to his forearms, one button undone at the top near his neck. The posture was casual, but his eyes were not. Apprehensive surprise clouded the stormy grey of his irises. His eyes darted down to her suitcase, which was now squashing her foot.
She was frozen, looking at the man—yes, he was a man now, not a sniffling boy—that she hadn’t seen since speaking on his behalf at his trial following the war. He had filled out, putting lean muscle onto his gangly form, his pointy features hardening into a chiseled jaw and elegant cheekbones.
When his eyes met hers again with his brows drawn together and his lips flattened into a hard line, she realized she had been staring too long.
She snapped back to reality and reached down to grasp her suitcase, hefting it off her foot. A loose curl had come free from her ponytail in her rush, and she quickly tucked it behind her ear before lifting her luggage over Malfoy’s head. He leaned to the side, pushing as far into the wall as possible to avoid getting hit by her large bag. She grunted and pushed until her suitcase made it over the lip of the storage rack, then slid it firmly into place.
When she stretched her arms up, her sweater had ridden up slightly, so she tugged it back down, her cheeks warming. Her eyes darted to Malfoy, who was looking down at the floor (thank Merlin) before she turned to sit on the opposite bench.
Hermione Granger—the bane of his existence, ultimate swot, Golden Girl, prettiest witch of her age.
Wait, no, that’s not what they called her.
Draco shook his head to clear it. He was still sidled into the corner of his bench with his eyes cast down. He had only looked up for a moment to make sure she wasn’t going to drop that fucking suitcase onto his head when he caught a glimpse of smooth skin right next to his face. Her top had ridden up to reveal a sliver of her small waist above her skirt.
The last time he had seen her was at his trial, and they did not speak. She spoke for him, though, fervently. She had looked haggard then—too thin, tired. Just like him.
Now, there was color back on her cheeks, and her skirt flared out at her hips that had widened lusciously. He always noticed these small details about her; he couldn’t stop. He had a devastating fixation with his academic rival. It wasn’t an obsession or anything; he just thought about her…often.
Especially after his trial.
Especially late at night, when too many thoughts were racing through his head.
He had purposefully sought out the last train car to be alone with said thoughts when she slid into it—stray curls framing her face and a relieved sigh escaping her lips. He wished she would have that reaction to seeing him. Instead, she jumped in fright, dropped her suitcase onto her tiny foot, and gaped at him. Her eyes had flashed a few different emotions in quick succession: surprise, confusion, and then something he couldn’t decipher.
He uncrossed his legs, shifting to straighten his trousers before glancing at the witch again. She sat on the opposite side of her bench, closest to the window and furthest from him, with her hands folded in her lap and knees pushed together as if trying to take up as little space as possible.
How insulting; it’s not like he smelled bad or was going to outright attack her.
She was so quiet now compared to his trial or school when she wouldn’t shut up answering the professor’s questions. Little know-it-all. A slight blush appeared on her cheeks, no doubt from her exertion of lifting whatever the bloody hell was in that suitcase of hers. She probably had dozens of books in there.
Draco was unnerved. Why was she in his car? Someone surely would have scooted over and made room for Granger in one of the other cars. They all adored her, after all. Prideful Gryffindors, not even letting one of their own sit down? Ridiculous. What a pathetic excuse for a House. Improper really. Of course, she could sit with him. He may be a Slytherin, but he was still a Malfoy. And Malfoy ladies can sit wherever they please.
She wasn’t a Malfoy lady, of course, but she was in a Malfoy’s presence, and she was a lady. Not his lady. But a lady.
Draco’s eyebrows scrunched together. What the fuck was he going on about?
Granger was looking out the window so hard he wanted to ask her if she could see all the way to Durmstrang. But he didn’t. They hadn’t spoken in months—why start now? She was sitting so still she didn’t look like she was breathing.
Hermione sat pointedly, staring out the window of the train car. Of course, the only available seat was across from Malfoy. Well, or next to Malfoy, but it would have been odd to sit there when this bench was vacant.
She couldn’t believe he had put his suitcase on the opposite side of the car as if the entire thing was his. Typical pureblood entitlement with his stupid expensive suitcase, his neatly pressed Oxford shirt, his blonde hair perfectly coiffed, his narrowing moonlight eyes, and his damn cologne.
His scent permeated the car. Cedarwood and something spiced teased her nose. It was warm, enveloping, and undoubtedly Malfoy. She had to admit it smelled rather nice. Too nice. She narrowed her eyes while keeping her gaze fixed out the window, unseeing. She didn’t want to breathe too much of his aroma, so she took as shallow breaths as possible.
She heard him shift and couldn’t help it when her eyes darted over to where he now sat with a straight back and legs slightly parted, hands resting on his thighs. His family crest glinted at her from the ring on his right hand. Since she was already looking, she risked a glance up to find him already looking at her. They locked eyes momentarily, averted their gazes, and then locked again in challenge.
His full focus on her was heavy and intense as his grey eyes swirled unreadably. Who was going to break first? Certainly not her. He was stoic, and she masked as well, not letting him see that he was perturbing her with this stare-off. As it prolonged, his jaw ticked. She clenched her hands together tighter and lifted her chin.
Let him look. I’m still here, she thought. I’m not going anywhere.
At that, his eyebrows drew together in a flinch as if he could tell what her proud, lifted chin meant. He let out a harsh sigh and dropped his mask to reveal a curious look that furrowed his brow and softened his gaze.
She widened her eyes at his forfeit and slowly unclenched her hands, smoothing them over her skirt. He tracked the movement, breaking their staredown. But he didn’t stop looking at her. His eyes flitted everywhere—her hands, eyes, hair, cheeks, and if she didn’t know any better…her lips.
But this was Draco Malfoy, and she did know him better.
Didn’t she?
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
What was he doing?
He was enraptured. Confused. Curious? As he took in Granger’s face, really looked at her like he never allowed himself to do, he knew three things for certain.
1: Her eyes were not just brown; they had bursts of gold in them.
2: Her curly hair was not as wild as it used to be; it was actually rather pretty, framing her big, round eyes.
And 3: He was attracted to her. Which was a surprise.
Yes, people always said she was beautiful, but he hated her so much that he didn’t let himself think about it. But after the war, after his trial, he found he didn’t actually hate her at all. It was himself he hated. And without that fabricated hate in the way, his chest grew tight.
He was attracted to Hermione Granger. And not just in a “she’s quite fetching” way. It was in a “the pull drawing him to her felt like gravity and without this newly discovered tether he may float out of existence” type of way.
It was an odd feeling, the sudden connection.
She saw the moment he uncovered this feeling, he thought. Because her eyes grew wide, and she relaxed her hands as if something had passed between them. And it certainly had. Her chin dropped, and her small fingers splayed and smoothed across her skirt.
Damn it, he had broken their stare off.
Since he had already lost, he might as well have a look around. He returned his eyes to Granger’s face, where her cheeks were rosy and slightly plumped. Her dark brown lashes flitted up and down like she wanted to look away or close her eyes but couldn’t back down from this strange interaction. A twitch of her mouth brought his gaze down to her lips, pink and pouted; they looked soft.
He inhaled deeply and moved along. Her nose was dusted with a spattering of light freckles. Did she have freckles on her arms, too? He dared a glance lower but remembered she was wearing a long-sleeved sweater. It was January, for fuck’s sake; of course, she was. It was rather hot on the train, though, which was why his sleeves were rolled up.
At the reminder, he became acutely aware of the Mark on his arm. He usually kept his sleeves down unless he was alone, which he was until she barrelled into his car. Habitually, he moved his hand over and covered his forearm, simultaneously crossing his legs to make it seem as if he were just switching positions.
She caught the motion, and her eyes burned into his arm, missing nothing. He splayed his fingers wider to try to cover the expanse of the horrible thing while looking out the window in embarrassment. The swirling snow as they pulled out of the station was a blur, obscuring the scenic view. But he found he didn’t want to see it anyway when a better view awaited him on the opposite bench.
When he risked a look back with a hard swallow, there wasn’t hate in her eyes, though. Sadness poured out as she stared at his arm.
But then she pushed up her own sleeves, her chin rising again as she looked him in the eyes. The sadness now replaced with—no, not replaced—entwined with strength.
The word carved into her arm was still red and angry; it likely always would be due to the poison Bellatrix used on the knife. He felt like he was going to be sick. Her pale, slender arm—forever marred. She turned her arm to rest on her leg, pointing the word down onto her thigh. On top of her forearm: freckles. He couldn’t help it; one side of his mouth tugged up at the revelation.
Where else did she have freckles?
Hermione didn’t know why she did what she did. She didn’t owe him any comfort. But the way he was looking at her now—softly—she couldn’t help it. When he suddenly changed his position after sitting still, his arm almost reflexively reaching to cover his Dark Mark, Hermione felt pity. Pity and camaraderie. She had a mark, too. So, she slowly pushed up the long sleeves she always kept in place, not looking down to view what she knew was there.
Mudblood.
It happened. There was no place in time where it didn’t happen. But right now, in this time, with Draco Malfoy sitting across from her, she was okay with it. The war was over. They didn’t need to hide their arms. They knew who the other one was and what they bore on their skin. She could accept it. She raised her chin again.
We made it. They did not.
Malfoy’s mouth tugged into a slight smirk as he looked at her downturned arm and then returned to looking into her eyes. Every time they reconnected their gazes, it felt like something would snap inside her. There was a bolt of electricity the instant their gazes met, then an almost tangible current coursing through her entire body from her eyes down, down, down…Oh, sweet Merlin. Heat pooled in her lower abdomen.
She was attracted to Draco Malfoy.
Her cheeks flushed at the realization, and she pushed her thighs together tightly. His eyes darted down and then back up, his pupils larger than before. He noticed.
But if his eyes were darkening, he felt it, too. She let herself take a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth. She could taste his scent. On her exhale, her breath was shaky, and her fingers twitched on her skirt, slightly bunching and un-bunching the fabric beneath her fingertips.
Malfoy’s long legs took up over half of the aisle between them. He had to have grown taller since the end of the war. When she had punched him in third year, they were almost the same height. A small smile escaped her lips at this intrusive thought. He would probably grab her wrist now if she tried to hit him. Stand up and tower over her. Push her back into the seat. That should sound scary…It should. But her pulse quickened.
She needed something to do, something other than ogle at Draco sodding Malfoy. It had been so long since she had felt this kind of rush. She didn’t realize it was something she had missed until it surged through her now. She hadn’t been touched since the end of the war. How long had it been for him? He had been a wreck since sixth year. She doubted he had found time between attempting to assassinate Dumbledore, Voldemort living in his home, and the Ministry onslaught after the war.
It didn’t matter. A little longer wouldn’t hurt—she could allow herself to stare. She could allow herself a minute of indulgence. It was almost like touching; she swore she could feel it. When his eyes landed on her cheek, she felt the warmth of a breath. When they bore into her arm, she felt the caress of a fingertip. When they skated over her lips, she felt—
Her cheeks warmed as she pushed the thought away and glanced at his lips, soft and full. Did he get the same feelings when she looked at him? Could he feel her on him now?
His lips parted in an exhale, and she moved her gaze up to his eyes, which were solely focused on hers. A new expression washed over his face now, a tightness there. It almost looked like desperation. Out of her peripheral vision, his hands flexed against the seat cushion, his long fingers clutching into the plush padding. He had such elegant hands. He always moved with purpose, always had, and that extended to the control in which he gripped his wand, flicked his wrist to cast a charm, and probably—
Oh Godric, she had been watching him longer than she thought. This may be a minute of indulgence, but she had also stolen moments throughout the years. Maybe she just saw those observations in a different light now.
She abruptly cleared her throat and looked away. The minute was over. She had indulged. Time to move on from whatever that was. The train ride would be long, and she had several books to choose from in her suitcase to pass the time. The suitcase over Malfoy’s head.
She stood, avoiding his watchful eye as she stepped in front of him. He didn’t lean away this time; he just sat in front of her, unmoving. His face was at eye level with her ribs, which she tried not to think about as she leaned forward, raising her arms to her luggage.
The train lurched.
Hermione jerked forward, a surprised gasp escaping her as her hands gripped the rack to catch herself. But she didn’t need to…because Malfoy caught her.
Her gasp turned into a halted breath when she felt his hands on her. She looked down at him in surprise, his face mirroring hers as he looked up. One hand was wrapped around her ribcage, his thumb just barely grazing the underside of her breast, while his other was braced against the top of her thigh, half on her skirt, half on her skin.
The heat from his fingers branded her.
Salazar himself needed to come down and smite Draco at once for the thoughts racing through his mind. His fingers gripped Granger’s thigh, his ring finger and pinky pushing into the soft plumpness. And his other hand was…Oh, no. His thumb pressed into the bottom of her breast as his hand wrapped around her ribcage, pushing her baggy sweater taut against her side. It formed around her chest, which was right above his face as she leaned over him.
His cock gave an involuntary twitch in his trousers as he took in her stance above him. Would her open lips look like that if they were parted in a moan? Would her cheeks redden the way they flame now if he kissed her? Would she let him part those pretty thighs and—
His hand tightened a fraction on her leg as his thoughts ran wild. When she inhaled deeply, her ribcage expanded in his grasp, her breasts rising above him. He couldn’t help his eyes from darting to her chest. Merlin, it had been so long since he had been with a witch. His escapades with Pansy in fifth and part of sixth year were more due to boredom or to take the edge off than from true passion. It didn’t feel as it should have; it didn’t feel like…
His heart pounded in his chest.
It didn’t feel like this.
The thought of letting her go sent a sharp uneasiness through his center. He didn’t feel like he should let her go. He felt like if he did, it would be a mistake. Something was urging him to her. Maybe it was fate. Perhaps it was karma. But this was supposed to happen. Why else did she end up here with him? This needed to happen. They had so much bad history that needed to be wiped clean, so much tension that had now morphed and bloomed into whatever this was in this train car. This witch and him…This damned witch that was just trying to grab her luggage, not get fondled by him.
Slowly, he forced his hand to relax, which caused his fingers to smooth and extend out, brushing her skirt and skin softly. Gooseflesh spread across her thighs at his incidental caress.
A small noise crept out between her parted lips, and his eyes found hers again just as they fluttered closed. He froze.
Maybe she didn’t want him to let go, either. When she opened her eyes again, they were heavy-lidded but desperate, staring down at him. She was practically pleading with him with those gorgeous golds. But was she pleading with him to stop or continue?
He swept his other thumb against the underside of her breast while holding eye contact to read her body’s cues. She let go of the rack above her and gingerly lowered her hands to his shoulders.
Oh, yes. His little witch didn’t want him to let go either. Maybe she needed this and felt it as much as he did.
She was touching him.
She chose to touch him.
Malfoy looked at her with wonder when she placed her hands on his shoulders. She glanced away sheepishly. It was almost embarrassing how badly she wanted to be touched right now. Touched by Malfoy. By Draco Malfoy. By Draco.
Her brain never referred to him by his first name; it felt inappropriate. But it rang through her now, sending an illicit shiver across her thighs just as he had relaxed his grip. His fingers were warm against her, and so long, circling her leg and waist. He was so much bigger than her now that it felt obscene to see his hands on her. He was probably big elsewhere, too…
She inched the leg he was holding forward and slid her knee onto the bench on the outside of his own leg, almost straddling it if she lowered herself down. The change brought his hand higher, pushing her skirt to her hip. He let out a heavy breath at the same time she did.
His lack of movement as he dragged his stare from her knee up her thigh to the space lingering between her core and his own thigh made her fingers twitch nervously against his shirt. He looked as if he were trying to do wandless magic to remove the gap with his will, not wanting to force her down himself, instead leaving it up to her.
She held her breath and lowered herself onto his knee, testing his reaction. It was swift. He moved his other hand from her ribs to her hips so he had complete control on both sides and gripped her roughly, snugging her core against his leg. The minor friction had her releasing her breath with a haggard sigh. His eyes snapped to hers, a twisted flicker of confusion and want. She felt the same. She slid her hands from his shoulders up his neck and into the hair at his nape, then rolled her hips.
His cheeks reddened, lips parting. Merlin, he was beautiful like this.
His chin tilted up, and his eyes landed on her mouth. She tilted her head, focusing on his soft pink lips, and leaned down. A hair’s breadth away, she paused, looking back into his eyes to ensure he wanted this. He jutted his chin forward a minute amount, indicating his decision toward her mouth.
When she closed the distance, and their lips touched, the feeling went straight to her core. His mouth was soft against hers, and he moved one arm to wrap around her back and pull her closer. He dragged her body to his, making her center rub against his leg again, and a small noise escaped her into his mouth. His resounding harsh breath was followed by his tongue parting her lips. The mewl that emanated from her when their tongues slid against each other was semi-mortifying, but his light moan that mirrored it assured her the feeling was mutual.
He was kissing her. Hermione Granger. She was in his fucking lap.
The weight of her on top of him and her pliant mouth had his cock hardening instantly. He needed this, needed her. But he didn’t want this to be a rough romp like he always had in the past. He needed a healing experience, something soft, something warm. It wasn’t just his body that needed it; his heart did.
Her knee just barely grazed his groin, and the slight touch made his length twitch. He moved his hand to her inner thigh and asserted a questioning pressure outwards. She answered, lifting her leg and moving it to the outside of his hips so she was straddling him. Her center landed on his, and they both gasped despite the fabric between them.
As if she wanted to say something, she opened her mouth for a moment but then apparently thought better of it. He hoped she wasn’t feeling hesitant now. He wanted to reassure her that she was safe here with him, that this was okay. But if he spoke it may break whatever spell they were both under. Instead, he moved both hands to her face, cradling her jaw and breaking their kiss. He stared at her intently, and she swallowed nervously. Then he swept his thumbs across her cheeks, and she visibly melted beneath his touch.
She reached for the buttons on his Oxford, and he let her. His chest heaved, watching her undress him. But anyone could come in, and he didn’t want to be completely nude, so after she finished and parted the fabric, he didn’t move to slide it down his arms. He reached for her sweater hem and drew it up her body, revealing a cream-colored bra. She didn’t opt to take the sweater entirely off either. Instead, leaving it pushed up over her chest, the swells of her breasts keeping the knitted fabric in place. Light freckles like constellations dotted her skin, and he wanted to kiss each of them. If he couldn’t keep himself tethered, he would stop at every star along the way to oblivion.
The feeling of her skin on his in new places was intoxicating as her fingers trailed a hot line down his chest. It wasn’t enough, though. His lips skimmed across the alluring freckles on her collarbone and drifted down until he reached the cups of her bra. He held her eyes as he reached for the front clasp, giving her time to push him away.
She didn’t. She let his deft fingers flick the closure open.
Her tits were magnificent. They softly dropped without the undergarment’s support, her nipples already pebbled. He couldn’t decide whether he needed them pressed against his chest or his tongue first. But she chose for him, arching and leaning forward so they were at eye level.
He placed his mouth around one nipple and sucked, laving his tongue around it. Her hands tightened in his hair, holding him to her. When he gently bit down, she reflexively bucked her hips and sucked in a sharp breath. He switched to the other breast, giving it equal attention, and she writhed atop him.
His cock was so hard he thought he might finish in his damn trousers.
Did he want to go farther? She certainly did. Outright asking him may sever this careful balance they had struck, though. In this secluded space, words felt both too heavy and too meaningless. On either end of the spectrum, too ruinous.
His practiced mouth working her tight nipples had her knickers wholly soaked. Could he feel it through her panties and his pants? How would it feel to have his fingers slide against her? The pressure and need building within her was going to consume her.
When he ceased his ministrations against her chest and pulled away, she widened her legs and leaned back in silent invitation. His eyes were so dark barely a sliver of silver was left in them as he looked down at her thighs. He ever so slowly pushed her skirt up to her hips, rucking it to reveal her dampened knickers. He looked ravenous as he took in her state, no doubt seeing how much she needed him already.
His lips were wet and glossy, and his hair was a mussed mess from her hands. He was positively undone. She was probably in worse shape.
He slid a finger down the middle of her panties, and she whined at the contact to her sensitive clit. Moving to the edge of the fabric, he paused after hooking a finger underneath, glancing back at her. She nodded her permission, and he pulled her panties to the side.
His groan at the sight made a new rush of warmth surge to her cunt. He abruptly ripped the undergarment from her body, making her jerk and her tits bounce from the force. The display of carnal strength excited her and only made her need grow.
Fiddling with his trousers, he undid their button and removed his cock. Her mouth watered at the sight. As much as she wanted him in her mouth, she needed him elsewhere more. They were both too frantic in this moment; she could feel it in the charged air.
She rose up onto her knees above him so he could position himself at her entrance. Before impaling herself, though, he slid his hand through her pussy lips, eyes widening. He shouldn’t have even needed to check to see how ready she was based on the state of her knickers, but the fact that he did comforted her.
He slid one long finger into her core, and her breath stuttered. Then he slid another in, and the marginal filling of her pussy was welcome but not enough. He didn’t meet any resistance from her end, and that must have been what he was looking for because he removed his digits just as quickly and lined his cock up to her entrance.
The soft head rubbed against her as he slicked it up and down her pussy to coat it, and she began shaking in anticipation. He looked up at her longingly, humming a deep sshhhh to calm her down despite her not making a sound. The shush was to pacify her, to let her know he would take care of the ache. Take care of her. And he did.
He pushed her down onto his length slowly, and the satisfying stretch made them both groan.
Her cunt was fucking perfect. She was fucking perfect.
He filled her slowly, inching into her channel and watching her face as he did so. The eye contact was more intense than he had experienced before. He usually shut his eyes or buried his face into the witch’s neck, but not this time. The connection was slightly overwhelming, and a small wave of panic coursed through him, which was mirrored in her eyes as well.
Was this too much?
His own hands began shaking against her hips, and she lowered the final inch to be fully seated on his cock. They didn’t move; they just sat there for a moment, completely joined. In unison, they breathed deeply, and her eyes fluttered shut as she relaxed around him. Seeing her languid and open for him was a soothing balm to his nerves. He leaned forward and brought her chest to his as he had wanted to do earlier. The sensation of her smooth skin against his made gooseflesh rise on his arms.
And then she moved. She rose up a few inches and slid back down onto him, riding his cock in slow but fluid movements. The drag of her cunt over him was heavenly, and he knew for sure he was catapulting into the abyss. Her light moans ghosted across his face, her brows drawing down in concentration. He leaned his head back against the seat, watching her—her face, her breasts swaying, her cunt swallowing him up with every bounce.
He weaved his fingers into her hair and pulled her in for a kiss. It was broken, and their lips met haphazardly as she moved, their small gasps mingling in the space.
She thought she would have a hard time taking Draco, but she was so aroused he slid in easily.
Draco flipped them without preamble, laying her out across the bench seat without sliding out of her. He looked down at her splayed beneath him and palmed her breasts before moving his hand to the back of her head. His fingers softly played with her curls, and he began thrusting into her with agonized slowness. She basked in the feeling, and whenever he pushed into her fully, she pushed against his backside with her hands to prolong the moment.
Then, he kissed her forehead.
And that simple act made her want to weep.
The emotion was so thick in the air that she felt adrift. He moved one of her hands from his arse and threaded his fingers through hers, placing their joined hands by her head. He reached down with his other hand and rubbed her clit in circles, all while gauging her reaction—checking in with her. He nodded once in question, and she squirmed a little while darting her eyes anywhere else, feeling overwhelmed and biting her lip.
He took her cue, dropped his forehead to hers, and closed his eyes, letting them focus on the feeling and severing the eye contact that threatened to overtake her.
Then he thrust into her in earnest, picking up his pace and swirling his nimble fingers around her clit in the same rhythm. The tension in her body was being wound taut, and she knew it would break soon. Her helpless cries beneath him, mixed with his harsh breaths and low moans, were ecstasy to her ears.
She lifted one of her legs and folded it against her chest, the angle giving him access to penetrate her deeper.
Hermione opened up for him, and he didn’t hesitate to piston into her. The slick feel of her snug pussy wrapped around his cock, sheathing him in heat, pulled him towards the edge quickly. If her sounds were any indication, she was close as well. He wanted them to finish together—needed them to.
Her walls tightened around him in fluttering spasms, and her body tensed. He wanted to see her come undone, wanted to be able to remember what she looked like when she came all over his cock.
She must have wanted the deep connection in this final moment, too, because she grabbed the sides of his face and lifted his forehead from hers a few inches. Her lusty stare and parted mouth made his balls tighten, and she arched her back, keeping her gaze on his as she orgasmed. She cried out, and his breath caught as he joined her, both moaning and falling into each other’s eyes. He spilled into her, filling her with his cum as she milked him with her tightening pussy.
It was like a dam of emotion broke for them both, their eyes wide with shock. But also relief. For the first time in a long while, Draco felt at ease.
He stared down at her as if seeing the sun for the first time. And she knew if she saw her own reflection, she would be staring at him as if first seeing the moon. The borderline soul-wrenching connection they just shared was inexplicable. It felt right, but she felt herself coming down quickly.
He must have seen it the moment she blinked because he slid out of her and immediately sat them up, draping her legs across his sideways and pulling her against his torso. He stroked up and down her arms gently and fiddled around for his wand. Wordlessly, he cleaned them and then conjured her a glass of water. He placed it in her hands, and when she looked up at him, he seemed to be in about the same state as she was. So, she used her free hand to gently smooth his hair in return, sliding her fingers through the fine strands methodically. The reciprocation calmed them both as they caught their breath.
The tender aftermath made her sleepy, and as the train chugged along the tracks for their final year, they relaxed into the comfortable silence of each other’s arms.