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Come Fly With Me	By : flamingmoth Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 4214 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or settings in Harry Potter. I make no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Come Fly With Me
- 1
You’d been wondering why the hell you’d even agreed to come back.
McGonagall seemed amenable if not exactly enthusiastic, and since your mother had done what she’d done, your family wasn’t going to spend the next fifty years in Azkaban. You were free to do whatever you wanted, more or less. But instead of going abroad or trying to start a career as a professional Quidditch player, or something equally entertaining, instead you came back to repeat your last year at Hogwarts -- a place you didn’t really want to see ever again.
Your parents wanted it, out of some crazy desire to prove that you were all still quality and it would take more than being on the losing side of a war (until the last few minutes, at least) to humble any of you. You can't refuse them, especially your mother, anything now. So here you are.
It isn’t as if anybody else really had a proper education last year before the war's end. You aren’t the only one to do this, as your father pointed out when you first objected. “I know you’re of age, my son, but it means a great deal to your mother and I that you return. We would not have it said that a Malfoy could not finish his education, no matter what the circumstances.”
Your father then sneered delicately, “If that Mudblood witch who helped Potter can finish out her last year, surely you can too.”
How could you argue with that logic? But your parents didn’t really understand what they were asking of you. They’re safe in the manor. They don’t have to go out and face the looks, the whispers, the threats and sneers and snubs. They can avoid it all if they choose. But you can’t. After all you’ve seen and done, dealing with the other students’ hostility should be easy – nothing, really. It hasn’t been. It’s a constant reminder that you wanted things to be very, very different.
Not many of the Slytherins from your year came back, but there are some. None of them fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, and for this they too were given the silent treatment at first. But for you especially have been reserved the most contemptuous stares and looks of disgust, even from those much younger who ordinarily would quake in their shoes at one glance from you.
You weren’t made Head Boy again. No one wanted to relive the reign of the hated Carrows, after all. You weren’t even given prefect status. You’d quit playing Quidditch the year before. You’re not the Prince of Slytherin any more. You’re just another student now, so they say with satisfied malice, just loud enough for you to hear.
No. You are still a Malfoy, no matter what. So you ignore the insults. You’ve affected a colder demeanor, a kind of icy and impenetrable silence that wards off most of the disapprobation. After some confrontations here and there, the others eventually leave you severely alone -- even the other Slytherins. You are lonely, but won’t admit it to your parents, or to yourself. Not to mention that you still dream about it all and wake, shivering and sweaty and nauseous, more often than you’d like to think about.
You try cigarettes, try drinking, try numbing yourself to sleep with spell after spell, but nothing really works. You need a distraction. Eventually, you find one, the most unlikely distraction you could’ve imagined.
You’d never taken the time to really see her before. She was just Potter’s Mudblood friend, the annoying swot who managed to top everyone else’s marks no matter what. She’s had quite a bit of attention paid to her since the war ended. She's in the papers all the time -- she and Potter and Weasley, with whom she's apparently just broken up. She’s the only one of the three to come back to school. That makes it easier to notice her, without Potter glaring or Weasley threatening to hex you for throwing a glance her way.
It’s her hair you notice first – thick and unruly, but no longer as frizzy as it was when she was a child. She must be using a hair potion now. It’s different than Pansy’s sleek bob or Daphne’s smooth blonde curls, or the elegant hairstyles your mother and her pureblood friends have worn. She doesn’t dye it or style it, evidently. One day in Potions, you catch yourself wondering if it’s as soft as it looks. You quickly look away, angry with yourself for reasons you can’t explain. You won’t look at her the rest of the day. But that doesn’t stop you from looking the next day, or the next.
She has a big personality – smart as a whip, hot-tempered, and passionate about the things she cares about – so it takes you some time to realize that she’s really quite small. The top of her head barely comes up to your chin. You notice this while walking behind her and her friend on the way to Arithmancy. The Weasley girl is half a head taller, but although the redhead is quite attractive in her own way, you hardly notice while she’s walking at her side.
After that, it’s just a matter of time.
You start taking your time packing up after Potions, just so you can follow her to the Great Hall and watch the way she walks. You begin sitting where you might easily glance over to the Gryffindor table and see her at meals. You look for her in the crowd at Quidditch matches, waving her red and gold scarf on the other side of the stadium as Weasley’s sister chases the Snitch. You make a point of knowing when she goes to Ancient Runes, and what time she comes out of the greenhouses after Herbology.
You like her face – not stunningly beautiful, but expressive and fresh and pretty. You like her laugh too – carefree and open, though it doesn’t come as readily as it used to, even though her side won, even though she’s a war heroine and the toast of the Wizarding world. You’ve heard through the grapevine that things are tense with her parents because she cast a charm of forgetfulness on them and sent them away before the war began, out of concern for their safety, and they haven’t forgiven her yet.
Muggles, you think impatiently. They never understand. She’s too good for... oh, bloody hell! You didn’t just think that! You didn’t.
You did.
You spend that night twisting in your sheets, trying not to think about her. You don’t succeed. Other thoughts come, ones where you’re touching her, kissing those pink lips, tearing off her Gryffindor school uniform. Before you know it, you’re wanking at two in the morning in the bathroom to thoughts of her, shuddering as you come and wondering what the hell is wrong with you.
It gets harder to stop watching her and, of course, eventually she notices. You wait for the inevitable looks of disdain or name-calling. That doesn’t happen, even though instead of minding your own business, you keep watching her. There’s no law against it, and she can’t really do anything or say anything to McGonagall since you aren’t threatening her in any way.
Her initial reaction seems to be impatience, followed by wary curiosity. She begins stealing suspicious glances at you over the tops of her books. It’s actually cute, and you’d smile if you weren’t so dedicated to making yourself seem completely unapproachable. But you act as if you haven’t noticed.
A few weeks go by, and the curiosity’s still there but the wariness is gone. One day, as you come out of Potions after a discussion with Slughorn about your last exam, she’s waiting for you.
“Malfoy,” she begins in that sweet voice.
You tear your gaze from her mouth and look her in the eye. “Granger.”
She moistens her lips and asks hurriedly, as if she’s afraid of the answer, “How are you doing?”
“What?” You stare at her, wondering why she would ask such a thing.
“I’ve noticed that you’ve been…well, alone a lot this year. And you’ve been quieter than I’ve ever known you to be, though I can’t say that’s entirely a bad thing,” she adds archly.
You aren’t fazed by the jibe. “I’ve been busy, Granger,” you say in a cold voice. Part of you wants her to go away and part of you wants her to continue.
She isn’t put off by your attitude, thank Merlin. “Yes, as have we all.” The hall is emptying now and no one has noticed the two of you together. “Look Malfoy, I’ll get to the point. I’ve noticed you watching me lately and I’m asking you again, is everything all right?”
Her meaning finally becomes clear. You think two things. One is that this is the witch who helped bring down the Dark Lord, and she isn’t afraid of you at all – if she ever was. The other is that for fuck’s sake, she thinks you’ve lost your mind! It annoys you.
“I’m fine, Granger.” You say it without any coldness, which sounds strange to your own ears after weeks of hiding behind the walls you’ve erected around yourself. “I’ve not gone mad, nor am I plotting against you, all right? I’ve just been preoccupied.”
“I see.” She doesn’t look as if she believes you, and after a moment she persists. “So why have you been staring at me?”
You pause, wondering what you’ll say, before a flicker of your old self returns. You take a step closer, lower your voice, pleased when she doesn’t move away. “Because I like watching you, Granger. Why else?”
“You like...all right, Malfoy.” Clearly she thinks you’re joking. “Have your fun, then. So long as I don’t have to worry about being surprised with a hex or two if I’m alone in the library after hours.”
She gives you a sarcastic smile that’s almost a reflection of your own smirk before turning to leave. You stay where you are, watching her walk away. Suddenly, to your inner discomfiture, it’s about much more than being distracted from your own thoughts.
* * *

You continue to watch her. Her friends are oblivious. You don’t have any friends left at Hogwarts to notice anything. Thank Merlin you ended things with Pansy the year before – not that she’d likely want to continue, now that your family name has been disgraced. However, nobody has a reason to monitor your comings and goings, nor care what you spend your free time doing.
After a few days, she starts to actively watch you back.
You’re in the library, scribbling away about the dangers of mixing elfdock and phoenix droppings, when you feel eyes on your back. You stop, not looking around, and lower your quill. Standing up, you turn and start walking towards the back of the room as if in search of a book. From the corner of your eye you see her quickly lower her head and pretend to read the large volume she’s got open before her. When you’re out of her line of sight you let yourself smirk.
You see her looking at you in Arithmancy, peering around the Lovegood girl’s back. You catch sight of her observing you at mealtimes. You notice that she too is taking her time putting her things away after Potions, finishing at around the same time you do.
When you inevitably collide at the door to Slughorn’s classroom, she is beet red and apologetic. After you’ve helped her collect her things from the floor, she doesn’t even notice the staring and whispering as the two of you walk to the Great Hall together, parting at the door to go to your separate tables. No one at yours says anything, but they look at you with…what? Respect? Envy? Hostility? You don’t really notice. You’re a bit gobsmacked because she obviously didn’t mind being seen with the likes of you. She’s merely shrugging off the questions from her friends.
Perhaps she’ll come to her senses later. The thought depresses you, but you ignore it. You tell yourself that it’s only to be expected, and that there is no point in getting your hopes up. Not that you have any hopes of…anything, with her. Even if she does invade your dreams at night, and makes you want to push her up against the wall in the hallway and snog the sense out of her. Her! A Mud -- Muggle-born witch! What would your parents think?
Then again, who cares what they think? Because the next day, she waits for you, no accident necessary, and she talks to you in a friendly way as if you’ve never done anything else but get along swimmingly, as if the last seven years hadn’t seen you pitted against each other in increasingly dire ways, as if she actually likes you. Does she? It disgusts you how much that matters.
Her friends won’t acknowledge you at all, except with cold stares. The rest of the Gryffindors sneer openly, but she ignores them, and eventually they let you alone. People don’t go out of their way to befriend you, but they stop glaring -- because of her. It’s a relief (you don’t want to admit this), until a terrible thought occurs: she must feel sorry for you. Her hatred would be easier to bear than her pity.
“Why are you doing this?” you finally ask. The two of you are standing outside in the quad. She’s left a knot of her friends to come talk to you. You hadn’t seen her since yesterday afternoon, and the sight of her is like a cold drink after a long, warm day.
“Doing what?” Her brow furrows. You want to reach out and brush back the curl that’s fallen over her face, but you keep your hands where they are in your cloak pockets.
“Talking to me. Letting people see you talk to me. Is it because you feel sorry for me?” you say shortly. She winces. You don’t let her see or hear any emotion in your eyes or voice.
“Do you want me to feel sorry for you?” she asks.
You blink; you didn’t expect that. “No,” you reply. “I don’t.”
Now she takes a step closer and you suddenly feel your mouth go dry. Her voice is soft, almost caressing. “What do you want, Malfoy?” You could drown in those eyes. The noise of the other students’ laughter and talk melts away and it is only the two of you here, in this moment.
“Shall I tell you right now?” you breathe.
Her eyes grow darker, dilating. Her breath comes faster. You are not touching, but the air between you practically pulses, alive with heat and a magic that has nothing to do with anything you’ve learned at Hogwarts. You feel the ice cracking around you, the frozen shell of your invisible armor falling away at her feet.
“Tell me later.” She smiles almost secretively at you, then turns and walks back to her friends. You see them casting glances your way as they ask what the two of you were talking about.
You take a deep breath and try to regain your poise. The chimes sound for the start of another class session, and you hurry out of the quad, clutching the strap of your satchel in a nervous grip, brain buzzing and body afire with frustrated longing.
During History of Magic, you decide what you’re going to do. The note is easily written as nobody is paying attention – everyone around you is covertly napping, reading something else hidden behind their textbook or staring out of the window as Binns drones on.
Granger,
Come to Hogsmeade with me on Saturday and perhaps I’ll tell you then.
Malfoy
* * *

She comes with you to Hogsmeade, and you spend the afternoon wandering around together, going into Zonko’s and Honeyduke’s and the bookstore, ending up at the Three Broomsticks where you buy her dinner. By the end of the night you still haven’t said anything, but you are fairly sure both of you are aware of where things stand.
Still, you are taken aback when you return to Hogwarts and she stops just as you reach the gates, biting that delectable lower lip. "Malfoy, I..." Her voice dies off before she awkwardly pulls you closer and kisses you.
You recover from your surprise swiftly and before you know it, the two of you are entangled in the shadows, hands clutching at each other, mouths pressed desperately together, while unsuspecting students pass by on their way back to the castle. Her scent and feel intoxicate you. You ache to have her but you sense that it's too soon. Still, you can’t stop smirking after you leave her at the staircase leading to Gryffindor Tower and go off to your own bed, where you lay thinking that her hair is, after all, as soft as it looks.
The second time you kiss her, you’ve just watched a Quidditch game while sitting in the Ravenclaw section, high up in the stands where you won’t be harassed. You sit very close together. She looks incredible and the warmth of her thigh pressed against yours sets you on fire. When the Ravenclaw Seeker catches the Snitch, everyone in your section stands up, yelling and cheering, but you don’t stand because your hand is caught in her hair and your mouth is on hers and she’s sliding her hands up and down your back beneath your cloak.
Unfortunately, someone takes a picture of the two of you, and within two days it’s all over The Daily Prophet: MALFOY HEIR AND WAR HEROINE IN LOVE TRYST! Then the Howlers start arriving for you both from your friends and families, along with scandalized comments and speculation and all that rot from the rest.
Nevertheless, you find her after dinner and ask her to come outside with you. The weather is fine even though it’s late fall, and there is only a slight chill in the air. As the two of you slip outside, you’re pretty sure no one has seen you. Still, you both look round as you make your way toward the Quidditch pitch.
When she realizes where you’re going she drags you to a stop. “Er, Malfoy,” she says, “what exactly do you have in mind?”
“I think it’s a good night for a broom ride,” you answer, taking her hand and tugging her after you. She’s smiling, but her head is moving back and forth in a “no” gesture, and she licks her lips in a way that you now know means she’s nervous.
“I really don’t like flying. Really don’t like it,” she adds as you near the broom shed.
“What’s there not to like, Granger?” You’re needling her because you want more than anything right now to feel her pressed against you while you swoop into the dark air, and you’re selfish enough to use any weapon you can to get what you want. You scoff. “Don’t tell me that you’re afraid of it? You, of all people?”
“I just...don’t...”
You reach the shed and pull the door open, and she stands there watching as you find your Nimbus. You turn around and give her the most dazzling smile you can muster. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Hermione. I promise,” you say softly and hold out your hand.
Her lips part as you call her by her given name for the first time since you’ve known her, and as if in a daze she takes your hand and allows you to draw her near. Inwardly you’re smirking, but you’re careful not to show how smug you feel. You sit astride the broom and motion her to join you. She sits in front of you, and you have to repress a groan as her arse presses against your groin, but she’s shivering with fright.
“I won’t let you fall,” you tell her, and reaching around her you grasp the broom and kick off. It rises swiftly above the ground and you hear her gasp and feel the hitch in her breath. She’s really scared. The thought fills you, not with remorse, but with a strange kind of protectiveness.
Slowly you turn the broom and start flying towards the Black Lake shimmering with the moon’s reflection. It’s beautiful and as the wind rises to catch your hair you lean into her and murmur, “Look, Granger.”
She does, and she’s not shivering so much now, warmed by your body and caught up by the beauty of the night around you. The forest is outlined in silver; the castle is warmly lit within and its imposing towers and battlements seem to sparkle under the star-filled sky. You urge the broom to go a bit faster and feel her tense, and you try to ignore the tightness in your pants as her body presses back instinctively into yours.
To your surprise, one of her hands tentatively moves to cover yours, steering the broom a little ways to the left, towards the Forbidden Forest. You take the hint and turn in that direction, wondering what she has in mind. The lake glows with a thousand stars beneath you as you dip low over its waters, and she gasps again, this time in awe.
“Oh, it’s – it’s gorgeous,” she says, and you grin fiercely, happy that she’s enjoying herself at last.
After a few more minutes of circling the lake and the castle, you hear her say, “Take me back down.” Regretfully, you start to descend. She’s probably about to start in about how she ought to be studying for N.E.W.T.s, which are still months away.
“No,” she says when you would return in the general direction of the broom shed. “Not there. Over there.”
She’s pointing toward the far shore of the lake. You raise your eyebrows, and she turns to look at you, her dark eyes sparkling, and suddenly you understand. Oh Merlin, yes!
You inhale sharply and reply, “As you will,” trying to calm yourself as the broom circles back and over the lake, heading for the far shore. There is a beach there, a very small one, and beyond it the trees are thinner and less foreboding than they are in other parts of the Forbidden Forest. It’s not an easy spot to access except by broom, but it’s a popular place for trysting.
You have been here before, with Pansy and with others. You wonder if she’s ever come here with another boy (Weasley?) and the thought makes you seethe with jealousy. When the ground comes up beneath your feet, however, all thoughts of that nature vanish. You both get off the broom and you lay it on the sandy ground. She’s looking at you with an expression that makes your breath catch.
“Draco,” she says softly, and your heart flips over at the sound of your name from her lips. The moonlight turns her face into something strange and beautiful. Sweet Circe.
She might have said more, but you’ve caught her by the shoulders, and your mouth comes down over hers in a kiss that instantly drives the chill of the air from both of you. She moans, and then her arms are around you and your tongue is sliding against hers. She tastes so sweet and yet you want to taste more of her, all of her, and your cock is so hard you think you might explode.
You’re breathless as you sink to your knees and draw her into your lap, and the way she grinds against you drives you wild. She shudders as your lips trail kisses down her neck, sucking and biting your way down to her collarbone. Her hands slide through your hair, her breasts press against your chest and you can’t wait to touch her.
Clothes come off piece by maddening piece. You throw your cloak onto the sand and fall onto it while kissing her hungrily, your hands all over her body, pinching her nipples, grabbing her arse, sliding between her thighs into the wetness that makes you dizzy with want. She’s touching you too, one hand wrapping around your cock. As she strokes you, squeezing on the upstroke, you hear yourself moan. But you need to taste her. So you slide down her body and begin kissing her stomach, her hipbone, the inside of her thigh, until finally you’ve reached the prize.
You slide a finger into her as you tongue her clit, and her cries make you shiver. She tastes sweet, like musk and honey, and you lick and suck her with pleaasure, growling low in your throat. Before long she’s writhing, begging you, “Draco, please, please...” as she comes, and you know with absolute certainty that your heart will stop if you cannot have her now.
You slide up and settle into the cradle of her soft thighs. Her legs wrap around your waist. You find her hot entrance and slide into her, burying your cock to the hilt. Briefly, you privately mourn the fact that she isn’t a virgin and you aren’t her first, but then her sharp little teeth sink into the side of your neck. You writhe. She pushes her hips into yours and now you’re thrusting into her.
Your pace increases as the heat builds, as her cries and your ragged breathing fill the night air, as her delicious silken tightness drives you insane with lust. You’re slamming recklessly into her, more aroused than you’ve ever been in your life. You don't want it to ever end, but it's going to, and soon.
You reach blindly down and rub her hard little clit, once, twice and she stiffens, her nails digging into your back. Her scream rends the air. She bucks wildly beneath you as you thrust deep into her body and explode, your eyes rolling back, your voice rising with hers. Yes. Oh, yes.Together, you gasp and shudder through the last aftershocks of pleasure, sense returning slowly as your heartbeats slow. You wind up on top of her with your face pressed into her wild hair.
Gradually, you become aware that she’s humming something you recognize as a tune, but you don’t know it. “What’s that?” you mumble, easing off her to lie at her side.
“What?”
“That song.” You lift your head to look at her. She’s still on her back, her forehead sweaty despite the coolness of the air, and you reach up and brush her hair back from her face, just like you wanted to before.
“Something my mum listens to,” she says, smiling as you pull the cloak around your bodies. She rests her head against your shoulder. As she starts softly singing the words to the song, you close your eyes. Come on fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away...
“I thought you hated flying,” you say.
“I might not hate it so much now,” she murmurs, and you laugh for the first time in -- how long has it been? Months? Years?
Your parents think you’re mad. Potter and Weasley think she’s mad. The rest of the students at Hogwarts think you’re both mad. Maybe you are. But you don’t care. And not caring is, for the first time since you can remember, easier than falling off a broom.

A/N: Lyrics to "Come Fly With Me" are by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen
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Come Fly With Me