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In Fond Remembrance	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 22794 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the very witty and very rich JK Rowling. I do not make any make any money - from this story. I do own the computer this was typed on.

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Based on her memory of their beginnings, Hermione couldn’t blame Draco, really. If she hadn’t mistaken a close friendship for love she’d never have stumbled into the first of several defining moments.

If she were honest, and Hermione generally was with herself, Ron’s complaints about her workload contributed mightily to the constant state of siege in their home while they called themselves married. That didn’t, to her way of thinking, give the ginger git permission to pack Pansy, Pavarti and Padma into her oversized soaking tub (the one she’d worked months of overtime to purchase) to apply their “cures” to his particular “problem”, cures Hermione labelled “adultery”.

No…

Absent that singularly large failure, the former Gryffindor Princess would never have found herself in the exclusive wizard’s club “Votre Désir” - the name “Your Desire” should have been a dead giveaway that being there turned a questionable consideration into a distinct disadvantage. Again, had she been in her right mind and not rebounding emotionally from her recent annulment (thanks to Harry’s interventions — she and Ron had been married barely a year) she’d have quickly realized that the sight of Draco Malfoy, leaning against her Ministry desk in his tailored robes (like a gourmet meal dressed for table presentation) brought impending disaster directly to her door.

“C’mon, Granger. Let’s celebrate the end of your shackling to the Village Idiot.”
“Don’t call Ron that, Malfoy! It… it wasn’t meant to be is all.”
“And it took a year-long engagement and another of marriage to the ginger git —”
“Don’t —”
“Ah-ah-ah… I heard you call him that yesterday when Potty came to check on you. Come with me — we’ll both celebrate our freedom from self-inflicted torture.”

Away from the need to get back to productive work, she’d have given the invitation the attention it deserved and not acquiesced while distracted by his seductive smile and unblinking gaze. He’d just shed Astoria Greengrass who ranked just behind Pansy, Pavarti and Padma as her least favorite Hogwarts alums.

She’d come home with her head spinning, off-balance and hazy in her recall of her time with Draco. Pretty upsetting since she’d nursed a single glass of zinfandel all evening. Draco Malfoy was that ride at the amusement park that exceeded your wildest expectations and made you want to ride over and over and over to get that feeling of being alive — except it scared the living shite out of you and you never wanted to go near it again.

Hindsight would be kinder, reminding her that she did nothing halfway — even committing life-altering mistakes (of which this wasn’t even the first).

When he’d suggested they spend a fortnight at his property on Crete, she’d thought she’d handled the polite response effectively and gracefully. Blaming her refusal on her workload, she’d invoked the “Evil Shacklebolt monster” — the boss who must be obeyed. In no way, she lamented, would he spare her.

For this reason Hermione prepared no backup plan for the interoffice memo that zinged through the halls and crash landed in her inbox. The Minister’s seal prominently displayed where the pages closed over each other tamped her irritation that the pompous memorandum cared not a bit that it had disturbed — as in sent flying, involuntarily — weeks of neatly piled-up work ready to be delivered.

The memo was short:
“Hermione —

Draco’s idea has merit and the costs are affordable. I’ve approved his plan to perform research on the protection schemes used for Crete's magical creatures — it will make our case for bigger budgets.

I’ll see you back in the office in a month and have the report on my desk two weeks after your return.

Thanks for taking Draco on in your department. I think you’ve turned a corner with him. Well done!

Kingsley”

She also should have expected the arrival of the snake-in-her-department on the heels of the memo.

“It’s Tuesday. I’ll send a list of items to pack; everything we’ll need for the survey is waiting for us there in my cottage. We’ll leave on Thursday.”

His list arrived at close of business and included a bikini bottom, sunscreen, a hat and her wand. Hermione’s shock at the assignment could be blamed for her willingness to travel without clothes, shoes or a bra for a one-month stay. He really did provide everything.

From the moment they apparated in Crete, Hermione concluded, everything that followed could be blamed on Draco Malfoy. Her choices in Crete were driven by his — under less luxurious circumstances they could be deemed a form of harassment. His mouth, hands and… other parts went places and did things not previous encountered in her experiences with Ron (most hadn’t been “entertained” since). Every part of her tingled when he touched her as if she held both ends of a low-voltage wire.

The pensieve’s replay left no doubt of his promise and his delivery of that result…
Leave it to the albino ferret to start his seduction at apparition. While her luggage landed in the Malfoy “cottage”, Hermione landed at the water’s edge of the private beach to a sunset that scorched the azure waters alight in golden-tipped waves.

Hermione sighed… just sighed at the absolute perfection of Draco’s sabotage of her planned opposition to his seduction; she’d had no intention of falling prey to the Mafloy mystique.

So much for that plan of resistance…

Standing there, shedding stress like it was a nest of ant crawling all over her, she ignored the tickle that meant her clothes had been carefully removed. After the months of endless work from Kingsley and endless adultery from Ron, she deserved a bit of unconventional behavior — she was only 21, after all.

When Draco gathered her small hand in his own and encouraged her towards the water, she complied. What tight arse wouldn’t want to sink into the aquamarine warmth of the Aegean Sea a mere ten steps in front of her and what woman — hetero or bi- — wouldn’t jump at the chance to swim with the alabaster god whose tight muscles and trim bum walked naked ahead and a bit to the left of her. People — meaning: women — paid exorbitant amounts to vacation on this island on this coastline to have this experience.

When he laid her over himself as he back-floated in the saltier (and therefore more buoyant) sea, she flexed in a full-body stretch one time and used him like a recreational flotation device. The feel of his hands massaging shoulders that hadn’t dropped to their birth position in years instructed every one of her muscles to “stand down” from their “RED ALERT” status. The casual touch on her own bum of his flaccid member, as it floated underneath her, proved he had no sexual attraction to her — their sexual banter, like their fussing, was just that: banter. His massage trailed down her sides, across her midriff, onto her stomach and as far down her legs as his long arms could reach, avoiding her erogenous zones. He did for her what any well-meaning friend would do to comfort someone undergoing a particularly trying time in their life.

So, to her own way of thinking, Hermione should get a pass for ending up facing the Slytherin sex machine and Magical Britain’s Most Desirable Wizard, legs wrapped around his waist, breast pressed against his chest and quim working his stiffie until her thighs burned despite the seawater moving over them.

Gods! After months of enforced celibacy — as Ron’s sex calendar seemed always filled with other women — Hermione decided that all sexual hiatuses should end this way. There was too much: too much kissing from those soft and talented lips, too much closeness as he near squeezed the breath from her body, too much touching as every part of her felt almost every part of him, too much heat from a man with a perpetual fever — especially from that Malfoy poker imbedded deep within her, stretching her in a good way with fire that burned her oh so deliciously from the inside out. All while standing/floating in the most romantic spot on Earth.

Then the prat had to go smug and teach her about her own body. Hermione never orgasmed from penetration; Ron had almost convinced her to see a doctor as he’d commented in frustration that he’d “ridden brooms less time and got there quicker”. Somewhere in the hazy mental state of life-altering sex that very first time, she thought she’d tried to warn Draco. All she remembered (and she’d pensieved this particular encounter many, many times) was a look of surprise, a smug grin and words to the effect of “You will with me, kitten…”

First came the tingling that stoked a hunger she found impossible to deny; she’d have raped him if he hadn’t taken her first. Then came sensations she’d only read about — not able to achieve them with Ron or her own hand. Finally (and repeatedly, thanks to Draco) came a long, drawn-out series of hard, pleasurable and imperative contractions to muscles she’d not known the use of — and all from his cock buried inside of her. Sunset remained more than an hour away when he’d placed his large, supple hands under her armpits and raised her sufficiently to impale her. Now they continued, bathed in reflected moonlight, and he’d yet to let go.

“You’ve been cheated, Hermione. You’re a beautiful, sexual being… Let me prove that to you…”

And — Oh. Mogana’s. Tits. — did Draco Malfoy know how to make amends for her suffering with that git of an ex-husband of hers…

Malfoy declared his intent daily, insisting she would benefit from his “plan” and return to the world a “new woman”.

That much — the “new woman” part — he kept his word on; she had to write the final report.

Author's Note:
Yet another plot workshop for the story "The Best Of..." that got abandoned. Made me grin so I finished it up on its own.
Some of the ideas here have made their way into the bigger story so consider this a preview. - TWO
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In Fond Remembrance