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The Best Of...	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 13808 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: I own nothing of HP nor do I profit in any way from these missives. I almost own the laptop I'm writing this fanfic on, tho'.

Chapter List
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Much was required to satisfy her “punishment” for injuring the head of Malfoy Enterprises while investigating the interactions of the spells laid on the broom.

When not in the kitchen producing mountains of his favorite French peasant foods — like:
Croque-monsieur (a baked ham-&-cheese sandwich with the cheese on the outside) that she added nutritious pineapple to (the roquefort salad holding no appeal for him with all those raw vegetables and Hermione lacking any leverage to force it on him after the beating she’d put his body through),

Tarte flambée (veggies and pork on a handmade flatbread crust),

— and enough chocolate mousse to make her teeth ache from the sugar,

— the penitent Princess straightened his parchments from the first term, filled in notes he’d missed through boredom, reorganized his underwear drawer and generally ran around like a house elf fetching and retrieving for the spoilt brat. She’d worked up a sweat and had returned from a quick shower wearing an old t-shirt and denim shorts (Draco having raised the temperature in their tower to tropical levels to ease his aches).

The last of their soiled plates had been washed, dried and put away when Draco left his bedroom wearing nothing but spandex biking shorts — his visible skin covered in nasty-looking cuts, rips, scrapes, scabs, burns, bruises and skin rashes all caused by his flatmate — and demanded she apply her healing skills to his battered body. Wielding her ever-present bottle of dittany, old habits from her year on the run improved the look of him.

“Time to pay up, Granger. Bring your homicidal arse back over here and see to my pain with a massage.”

A massage of his shoulders, back, arms and legs (after he’d lowered himself painfully to the lush Persian carpet) would go a long way with him to atone for her torturous testing.

“I apologized to you. I cleaned for you. I waited on you. I fed you. I have packing to do if we’re still going to London — I don’t have time for this, Draco.”

The scented body gel he Accio’d barely missed whacking her in the head as the clay jar whizzed by; she twisted her noggin out of its path in the nick of time.

“Malfoy!”
“If you want me back on a broom before graduation, you will see to my needs.”

Proximity over the last week made his “needs” clear.

“I’m not the one who ‘needs’ to have this broom in stores by September.”

You’re an amateur at this, Gryffindor…

“You need me on that broom, Granger —“ he sneered, “unless you want Pansy and my father to know you failed.”

3… 2…1…

“That’s a LIE!”
“Prove it. See to my needs.”

Of the punishments Draco Malfoy could inflict on her, this seemed mild by comparison to those her imagination created.

“Fine! On the sofa.”
“No. I’m comfortable here. Straddle me and work the gel into my back.”

That demand morphed a mild punishment into a major one. If she acquiesced, sitting on his arse rubbing his body with her bare hands, he’d immediately feel her reaction to all that touching.

“You go too far, Draco.”
“Would you prefer I go further? Beaten body and all?”

He had her on that one.

“Let me change my outfit —”
“So you can change into that flannel death shroud? No. I prefer what you’re wearing. Stop stalling, Granger; I’m in severe pain down here and you’re the reason.”

Guilt and Gryffindor both started with “G” for a reason.

“You’re still hurting?” she meekly inquired.

Raising up, groaning and grunting in genuine discomfort, Draco shot her a glare over his shoulder before said shoulder (which took the brunt of his crash into the lake) gave way and he fell flat on his stomach once again — faceplanting into the deep pile fibres.

Focused on relieving his obvious aches (and not on discerning his intent with that “you failed” ploy), Hermione made haste — situating herself on the saddle made where his tight back met that gorgeous arse of his — and immediately realized she was in deep, deep trouble.

Parts of her were touching parts of him and producing heat (which should have been a good thing given his soreness). The sexual escalation she fought like a Tasmanian devil all week reared its ugly head.

Placing a hand in the earthenware tub, she scooped up a handful of the jelly and slopped it on his back. The pungent aroma of mint floated up, stinging her nose sufficiently to make her eyes water. Smoothing the glob across his back set a tingling in her fingers and palms that she hoped came from the gel. Leaning her weight onto her arms, she studied and memorized the sinews and shape of him with her hands.

“Um… What is this?”

Her additional weight pressed him down and trapped his cock against the thickly carpeted floor underneath.

“Secret Quidditch formula. Made with mint, goldenseal, myrrh, scotch bonnet powder and my special solvent. I heard about it in an interview Krum gave during the Tri-Wizard tournament.”

Vibrations from her chuckling rubbed her nether region into the small of his back. Less and less broom-riding pain worked its way to Draco’s brain.

“Did I say something funny?”
“No. It’s… I’d never been to a ball. I enjoyed it; Victor’s a good dance partner.”

Pleasure grunts from Hermione’s “patient” accompanied her rocking motion as she pushed her small hands up his spine and down the ridges of his ribs. This had the consequence of rubbing her crotch (in those shorts) up and down the small of his back. Catching her off guard, Draco rolled over "face up" — which placed her swelling secret flower smack dab on top of his fully engaged (or engorged, depending on your perspective) happy parts.

“I have better moves than Krum, as you’ll discover,” he crooned, softly growling his thoughts and desires.

For the first time in her life, the sheltered genius experienced the exquisite pleasure stimulation of that area produced. Behind the thin fabric that kept her virginity intact, reactions beyond her conscious control shut down bank after bank of processing power in her head — her brain refilled with memories of the playful teasing and flirting he’d bombarded her with all day.

More familiar with the escalation of arousal than his partner, Draco overcame her haze by flopping more of the lemony-licoricey jelly onto his chest and nestling her hands firmly in it.

“Still need relief, Lioness. You owe me.”

Hermione’s feeble attempt to argue came out in a low, chesty moan she’d had no intention of releasing. Her hands stopped the chest massage when her brain reassigned those movement-controlling little grey cells to her sexual pleasure center.

“If I’d known this would keep you quiet, I’d have allowed you to pummel me weeks ago — keep rubbing,” and he lay his hands with light pressure on her hips to synchronize her movements to his.

The stretch fabric in his skimpy shorts barely covered his erection; in fact, the tip of that particular Malfoy asset peeked out at the waist of his compression pants — leaking clear fluid which her shorts absorbed in each forward slide.

“What are you doing to me, Dragon?”
“Shush! You’re interrupting my satisfaction. And yours.”

Every few minutes Draco’s hands increased the downward pressure on her hips and the upward pressure of his hips until his cock pressed her shorts and lingerie snugly against her swollen nub.

“You’re so warm, Lioness. Do you know how good you feel right now?”

Their pace increased. So long as her hands stroked the analgesic balm into his chest, Hermione’s distracted thoughts kept her from fully reacting to her flatmate’s (roommate’s???) subtle seduction.

For his part, an unattended portion of Draco cerebral center celebrated his approaching orgasm — especially the fact that his own hand wasn’t involved. If they were going to spend days together away from this tower, he definitely wanted her familiar with what they could enjoy together. After missing out on Christmas Eve due to her poor head for wine and Boxer Day due to his impulsively spoken platonic pledge of “No Sex”, this opportunity would not be wasted.

Seating her a bit more securely over that hardened cylinder of flesh (with its own pulse) stole more of her resistance away, allowing Draco to slide his hands under her shirt to stroke her skin with a ghost-like touch. He confirmed almost immediately that she’d omitted her bra when she’d changed clothes. Ever so cautiously his thumbs “accidentally” skimmed the sides of those pert little pods poking from her breasts (and got a whimper from her that nearly yanked the spunk out of him). In premature celebration of his anticipated success, Draco tented his knees upward to provide a brace for her back —

— and the abrupt change of position broke the spell. Hermione spooked, overwhelmed by what she’d been willing to do only seconds ago, and retreated.

“You sh-sh-should pack tonight.”
“Lioness, wait! We’ll stop — I promise! I’m not trying to —”

Stuttering out an incomplete apology, the very confused war heroine tripped and stumbled away from her more confused Slytherin flatmate — taking the stairs to her room two at a time and thus falling up the incline several times.

“We won’t go if you’re feeling poorly in the morning.”
“Hermione, please… Don’t run away from me!”

His attempts to calm her only accelerated her fumbling sprint in the opposite direction.

“Goodnight, Drag— Malfoy…”

— and the door to her bedroom slammed shut. The audible *click* from the lock echoed for minutes.

“FUCK!” a young man (who hadn’t met his orgasm quota since he’d met the real Hermione Granger) yelled to the room.

Imprisoned in revisions to his plan for relieving his week-long priapism, Draco missed the floo’s activation until a large, arrogant, orange puffball of fur forced itself onto his chest where he lay and stared at him with thinly veiled threat.

Crookshanks, tired of waiting for Hermione’s nightly visit, introduced himself to Draco.

Receding from its readiness at an alarming rate, Draco’s cock wept like a baby at the state of affaires.

Hermione awoke before dawn to pack and floo their bags to her parents’ home. Sneaking out of her room got her a snarl and a lick from her four-legged guardian. Crooks lay fat and happy outside her door and protested being disturbed during a dream where all his “pet” people fed him treats while those he disdained dangled from ropes, allowing the lazy “k-at” (half judgmental Kneazle; half some kind of furr-ocious feline) to swat and scratch them at his leisure.

“Oh, Crooksie! I should have fed you earlier, shouldn’t I?” and bending in an unbalanced way she made to scoop up the walking dust mop on her way downstairs.

Crookshanks, having other ideas in mind, twisted himself free — landing like a water balloon on the step. A stare, a shake and an aristocratic exit followed as he made his way to Draco’s bedroom door where he plopped down and began grooming himself.

The k-at wasn’t hungry; he knew where the kitchen was in the tower and at her parents’ place and he knew how to operate any floo Hermione charmed to let him through. Perplexed at the temperamental k-at’s weird preference for Draco’s door, Hermione lightly danced down the stairs, in the firelight from the banked fireplace, to join her true owner.

“Did he see you?”
“Meow,” came back curtly.

“Please tell me you didn’t attack him!”

“Me-ow!” got barked at her in indignation.

“You do have a habit of intimidating anyone who… you know…”
“Anyone” at this point could only be Ron and “you know” could only be snogging.
“Me-UH,” escaped from a long lick by the k-at to his exposed genitals, an unmistakable indication of his opinion of the Weasley boy.
“That’s disgusting, Crooks. Is Dragon feeling better? Should I check on him?”

“Meee-ow!”

Hermione understood this one perfectly: it translated to —

Yes, my slow-witted but lovable human pet.

Taking that answer (and the fact that Draco wasn’t shrieking in pain under the k-at’s vicious claws) as an indication that the most accurate “profiler” in her life found Draco acceptable (the k-at always hated Ron and his shape-shifting rat; the feelings were mutual), Hermione waved her wand to remove the wards on his door (a trick Draco was unaware she’d mastered). To her further befuddlement, there were no wards on the door of a man hunted by his former friends and his former enemies.

The well-oiled door handle turned silently as Hermione stole her way into his lair and over to his bed — to discover Draco slept naked.

Used to extravagance and space in bedding, the man-child sprawled on his stomach and twitched in the grips of some dream that captured his active mind. In the moonlight, a young woman still learning to manage strong physical attraction let herself safely take in her fill of him.

Being petite in stature, Hermione liked her men tall — a natural attractant she’d first noticed in Ron the summer before sixth year — and fit. Ron almost "fit" the description; Draco personified it. Neither Ron nor Harry (both of whom she’d seen naked often enough while living in that tent) presented the eye candy Draco did. Taut like the ropes used on freighters, definition on his back and legs stood out like the bas-relief frieze surrounding the podium of the Albert Memorial. Graceful lines of musculature braided themselves in mirrored diagonals down towards what Hermione considered his finest asset —

— that tightly muscled, perfectly formed arse of his.

It took seeing him one too many times dressing in their Commons for the level-headed girl to realize what a gift his arse was. Never had she had to exercise so much discipline, often failing to keep from staring as he sauntered or swaggered down the corridors of the school. Nothing about Ron’s physical makeup affected her the way Draco’s butt in a pair of tailored pants — or Quidditch leathers — did and she lacked a strategy for what to do about it.

Whatever the dream, it left an unguarded smile on his lips. Those long, white eyelashes flickered as his eyes moved behind closed eyelids, watching the movie inside his head. Long, soft fingers — not a surprise for a young man who’d accomplished not a day of manual labor — joined in the reverie, his right hand clutching the pillow to grasp an invisible object and his left trapped beneath but possibly active in an unseen way nonetheless.

Everything in Hermione’s body associated with lovemaking or reproduction either contracted or moistened; she remained transfixed by the sight. Curiosity drove her more logical thoughts — What is he dreaming about?… Who is he with?… Then he relaxed and snuggled his pillow.

Draco Malfoy… a cuddler?!?!?

His beautiful skin contrasted starkly with the dark mark he’d been unable to remove during the trial. The tattoo gave him nightmares; she’d heard him screaming and witnessed his efforts the next morning to bandage the weeping disfigurement after another failed attempt to cut it out of his arm. But for tonight — this morning — his dreamy happiness deflected its effects.

Draco called himself a coward but Hermione decided he’d never be a victim. He’d survived, playing Voldemort’ crazy game every day of the war. In the teeth of the monster, he’d refused to identify them to the snatchers and save his family at the cost of the Golden Trio’s lives.

She’d really have to get to know this Draco better, if she could figure out how to solve Problem #1 — her fear that he’d leave once she gave her body to him. Problem #2? She wanted to give her body and heart to him.

Her feet moved so that she lingered at his bedside, stroking his overlong fringe with a finger. Lost in thought, the methodical click of toenails on the bare wooden floor got by her. In a single leap (and a slight rear-footed scrabble to embed claws in the discarded comforter and make it onto the bed) a roly-poly personality barometer planted its lazy self on the pillow Draco cuddled and head butted the sleeping Slytherin’s arm until it hugged the annoying animal and the pillow.

“So you like this one, huh?”

Snatching up Draco’s bag (which had been packed since she made the offer) completed her actions for the time being. As careful as before, she closed and warded Draco’s door then left him and the k-at to their rest.
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