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What Happens in Bulgaria...	By : jadedust Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 12205 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters and make no money from this story.

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The next few weeks were filled with snogging and groping, frottage and orgasms reached with varying degrees of skill. During the day they’d make their excursions to wherever—Draco hardly cared where, although he was especially pleased when, one day, Hermione took him someplace called “the movies,” and they were able to sit in the back and snog—and in the evening they’d dine and, after, get down to the day’s real activities.

Even whilst roaming the stacks of the library (for the hundredth time), sitting at the café, or walking down the street with her, Draco found it hard to keep his hands off Hermione (and somewhere after the first mutual orgasm she had become “Hermione,” at least in his mind). He’d begun slinging his arm around her waist or shoulders, nuzzling at her neck, playing with her intimidating (but fragrant and soft) volume of hair. Clinging to her like some firstie. And Draco Malfoy did not cling.

But, there was no one around to see. At least no one he knew.

He just wanted to touch her all the time.

He’d also begun talking to her differently. He was still snarky but less defensive. They got into debates, but he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t trying to get back at her all the time.

Also, he was desperately trying to convince her that they should shag, and he figured he should stay in her good graces for that. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten into them in the first place, but he’d do all he could not to wreck it.

His plan of “good behavior” was put to the test the very first day after their initial liaison. He received an owl, as promised, with an address, and when he showed late morning, it turned out to be a respectable-sized house (nothing approaching the grandeur of Malfoy Manor, but certainly one of the larger homes he’d seen in Sofia). Hermione met him at its gate, looking sheepish but returning Draco’s eager kiss easily. She led him around back where, to Draco’s delight, there was a private Quidditch pitch.

“Go ahead,” she smiled, gesturing to an equipment shed. “It’s all yours for the day.”

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a broom, what with the Triwizard Tournament interfering with Quidditch the past school year. The day was perfect for flying, sunny with some cloud cover so he wouldn’t be blinded, and a light breeze.

He took her by the waist and bent his head conspiratorially, as if they were surrounded by onlookers. “Granger, are you trying to get into my pants? Is this some sort of bribe? First the cake, now Quidditch?”

She lifted a hand and brushed some of his hair back from his forehead. “Honestly, must it always be a bribe or a conspiracy when someone does something nice for you?”

He kissed her temple, then down her cheek to her mouth. “What do you expect?” He let her go with one last peck and shrugged. “Slytherin.”

He spent the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon chasing and catching the Snitch while Hermione sat on a blanket reading. Eventually he grew quite hungry and decided not to practice the defensive drills with a charmed Bludger as he’d planned, flying down and hopping off the borrowed broom to find lunch spread out for him.

“You are the most prepared person who has ever lived,” he declared as he settled beside her on the blanket. “No wonder Potter and Weasley keep you around.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said dryly, pelting him with a grape.

He removed his gloves and shin guards, retrieving the grape from the blanket and popping it in his mouth. “True, we did establish other reasons Weasley might want you around,” he munched, lying back on his elbows. “D’you think Potter wants into your knickers, too?” he mused, tilting his head quizzically.

“Quit it, Draco,” she warned, but there was no real venom in her voice. She unwrapped some cheeses.

“I bet he does,” he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “D’you think they talk about you, the two of them? About what they would do to you? And then go off to their beds and—”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to mention Harry and Ron,” she cut him off, shoving a bowl of something at him. Her skin was flushed all the way down her neck.

He smirked. “Just making conversation.” He contemplated pushing her further, especially knowing how much she was into dirty talk, but decided against it for now. Maybe he’d tell her about how he’d tossed off to fantasies (and memories) of her later. You know, to get her in the mood. Instead, he ate a few forkfuls of salad and peered around, examining the nearby house.

“So whose house is this?”

She froze mid-bite. Putting down her slice of cheese, she uncapped her bottle of water and held it before her lips. “Viktor’s,” she said, gulping the water.

“What?”

She swallowed some more water, then wiped primly at her mouth with a napkin. “This is where Viktor and his family live.”

Draco shot up from the blanket, heat rising to his face, his sore muscles protesting. “Granger, are you staying here?”

She looked up guiltily but set her jaw. “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

His mouth gaped a moment before he clamped it shut. “You’re a total slag then,” he growled.

“What?!” She rose to her feet and clenched her fists. “How dare you! And what are you even talking about?” Her voice had grown thick with frustration, the embarrassed flush from earlier now an angry red.

Draco pointed his finger at her. “You tell me you broke up with him. Then you bake me a cake and practically shag me in an alley?”

She put her hands on her hips and took a deep, shaky breath. “I did break up with him. He’s off at some training camp, and his parents went with him. His family likes me and allowed me to stay in their home while they’re gone. And it wasn’t an alley,” she scowled.

Draco considered her a moment. She was probably telling the truth, knowing her stupid forthright, Gryffindor nature. Although…

“So you’re staying in your ex-boyfriend’s house? Isn’t that a little…odd?”

She sighed again, dropping her hands. “Yes. It’s why I evaded the question last night. I also suspected you might overreact like this. But the Krums insisted, and one of their house-elves is attached to me, and—”

“All right, all right, fine.” He smoothed back his hair, calming himself. He believed her; now it was time to forget about the whole thing. And take advantage of her guilt.

“Can you show me where the loo is?” he asked innocently.

“Oh, of course,” she said a little quietly, probably hoping there’d be a more decisive (and happy) resolution to their spat. They walked across the pitch to the house, where a spritely house-elf greeted them at the back door, fawning over Hermione and eying Draco suspiciously until it was explained that he was a classmate and “friend.” Hermione pointed Draco to the bathroom, and when he was finished, he let her show him around some of the ground floor rooms as the house-elf busied itself clearing their picnic things.

“And where are you staying?”

She bit her lip, hesitating. “This way,” she finally said, and he followed her up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, and into a large bedroom.

Draco shut the door behind them, just for the feel of privacy, of intimacy, and went to sprawl on the small sofa near the fireplace.

Hermione glanced at the door then looked to him, waiting.

“I know how you can make it up to me,” he said, eyes trailing up and down her body to make his implications clear.

She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted from one foot to the other as she stood before him. “Make what up to you? I haven’t done anything wrong,” she protested, stubborn.

“I see you’re wearing my favorite top,” he nodded, indicating the sheer, floral blouse from the week before. “Don’t pretend you didn’t choose it on purpose.”

“I didn’t know it was your favorite. I didn’t know you had a favorite.”

He couldn’t tell if she was lying or evading the issue of whether she’d chosen to wear it for him. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she wasn’t stomping off, rolling her eyes, or sending him home.

“Why don’t you take the—what was it? Camisole?—off.” It wasn’t a question. Draco’s heart raced just saying it, though he was quite sure he appeared calm and confident.

Hermione’s arms loosened from her chest but didn’t drop. “Um, well, it’s just that, the camisole’s got a built-in bra, so…” she trailed off apologetically, as if this settled the matter. Where was the aggressive girl from the night before?

“Granger,” he growled, annoyed. “Come here.” She took a few steps toward the sofa until he sat up and yanked her onto his lap. She yelped and gripped his shoulders.

“Stop playing the fool. You know I would’ve asked you to take off your bra, too, if you were wearing one. Now what’s the problem? You were the one who threw yourself at me last night, and now you’re acting like a skittish ice princess.”

“Don’t you think you’re exagger—”

“Whatever,” he interrupted. “Explain. I really want to see your tits, and you’re holding things up.”

She glared before looking away to survey the room, gnawing on her lip. “It’s just…this is Viktor’s home, and—”

“Come off it. What did you think was going to happen when you invited me here?” He leaned closer and sucked at her earlobe, hands travelling up her thighs. “In fact, I bet you find it as much of a turn-on as I do.” He raised his hips, letting her feel his rapidly growing erection through his trousers.

She gasped. No denials.

He pulled back to look her in the eye. “Now, take the camisole off.”

And she did.

XXXXXXXXXX

A/N: Next we return to the present (pun intended)! I anticipate two more chapters. I'd love to know what you all think as I continue to work on this. :)
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What Happens in Bulgaria...