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Mudblood	By : sjansons Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 6646 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Mudblood
- 1
Warnings: Sex during menstruation & pre-marital infidelity.

...

Mudblood

He’s sick of blood.

Pure blood, impure blood, mud blood...

He’s seen too much of it.

And you know what?

It’s all the fucking same.

...

Five years later

“Fucking hell!” Draco Malfoy hasn’t taken two steps into The Leaky Cauldron when a clumsy bint stumbles into him and splashes something cold and wet over his dress robes. “You stupid...” He looks up from the sodden mess. “Granger! Why am I not surprised?”

“Sorry,” she says, dumping her wine glass on a table. “Let me have a look. It may not be too bad.”

“Not too bad?” He’s incredulous. “What the fuck are you on, Granger? I look like I’ve been castrated!”

“No, you don’t,” she insists. “Trust me, Draco, I’m an expert on stains—lots of godchildren! I can probably...” She crouches before him, and examines the front of his trousers.

And now it looks like she’s giving me a blow-job! he thinks, grabbing Granger’s hand and pulling it away from the goods.

“Yes,” she says, looking up at him from down there, and flashing him the most embarrassing smile, “I’m sure I can fix this. Come on.”

She scrambles to her feet and, seizing him by the wrist, pulls him towards a door he’s never noticed before, and it takes him a moment to interpret the brass sign, which reads, WITCHES.

“Granger,” he growls, digging in his heels, “I’m not going in there!”

“Oh, don’t be such a wimp! It won’t take a moment.”

A wimp. Draco groans. But time is short. “Only because it’s tonight,” he says, and lets her drag him through the door.

...

Compared to the Wizards’ loo, the Witches’ is a palace—well-lit, lined with mirrors, and full of complimentary lotions, and boxes of tissues, and little bowls of spicy pot pourri. Draco decides he’ll complain, next time he sees Hannah Abbott.

Granger, meanwhile, has checked that all the cubicles are empty, and she’s sealing the door. “Take your trousers off,” she says.

“What?”

“With red wine, Draco, it’s best to lift the liquid with a Siphoning Spell, then Scourgify the fabric. And that’ll be much easier if you take your trousers off.”

“All right...” he says, persuaded by the stain’s close proximity to his family jewels. He unbuttons his fly, and drops his trousers—

“Um...” says Ganger.

He looks up.

Her face is a deep, burning red. “You’d—er—you’d best give me your shorts as well,” she says.

Draco looks down at himself. His silk boxers are soaking wet, and clinging in a way that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. “Turn around,” he growls.

He hears Granger’s clothing rustle as she moves. “So,” she says, obviously thinking that the situation calls for small talk, “what’s so special about tonight?”

Draco dumps his trousers in one of the basins. “What d’you mean?”

“You said,” she says, examining the stain, “‘Only because it’s tonight.’ So what’s so special about tonight?”

He peels off his sodden underwear. “I—er—I have a date.”

“Ah.”

“What d’you mean, ‘Ah’?” He works the wet silk, Twisted like a double fucking tourniquet, down his thighs.

“Tergeo!” Granger’s wand lifts a big gobbet of wine, and drops it into the basin. “Are you planning to ask her to marry you?” she asks, quietly.

Draco straightens up and, forgetting his partial nakedness, stares at the back of her bushy head. “How d’you work that out?”

“Well, everyone knows about you and Astoria Greengrass, Draco. Scourgify.”

“Witch Fucking Weekly!” He gets his boxers off, at last, and tosses them into the basin, snatches up some tissues, and sets about drying himself.

“Not that I read it,” she says, keeping her back to him as she picks up his underwear. “Tergeo.”

“No, of course not.”

“But the girls at work follow all the stories—Scourgify!—so I do tend to know what’s going on.” She folds his clothes, and lays them on the little shelf beneath the mirrors. “There,” she says. “All done.”

Draco reaches for his boxers; Granger, her back still turned, moves out of his way, and he catches a breath of her warm, coppery scent, and instantly recognises it.

It’s an intimacy he’s never expected to share with her.

And, the strange thing is, it doesn’t disgust him.

Not as it should.

No, in fact, it...

Oh, fuck!

His hands drop to cover his embarrassment (though, mercifully, Granger isn’t looking at him).

Suddenly, he’s intensely aware of her body; suddenly, he knows that, beneath all that sensible tweed, she’s ripe, and fertile, with full breasts, and a slender waist, and a taut, rounded arse; suddenly, he wants to spread her over the washbasins, and bury himself deep—

“I’ll leave you then,” she says, oblivious to what’s just happened. “I’ll charm the door to unlock when you touch it.” She pauses, one hand resting on the door handle. “And—um—I do hope all goes well tonight, Draco.”

...

Draco splashes cold water on his face.

And when that doesn’t work, he ducks his head under the tap and holds it there, until the position becomes unbearable, and he’s forced to straighten up.

As a boy, he’d always sort of fancied Granger—especially once her teeth had been fixed—but the war had made them enemies, and it had only been recently, whilst he’d been serving as an External Member on the Ministry’s Committee for the Welfare of Magical Creatures, that he and Granger had tacitly put the past behind them, and developed a surprisingly comfortable working relationship.

Not that in Committee meetings—or even in The Leaky afterwards—he’d ever wanted to fuck her brains out...

“Merlin,” he says, to the wild-eyed madman staring out of the mirror, “it’s nerves, Draco—that’s what it is. You’re worried because marriage means you’ll have to stop playing the field.” He rubs his forehead, then rakes his fingers through his long, wet hair. “That’s the only reason you’re lusting after Hermione Granger. Believe me.”

...

The grand salon of André’s is the perfect setting for a proposal.

Crystal chandeliers cascade from the high ceiling, their candles—reflected in the ancient wall mirrors as a thousand points of light—cast a soft glow upon elegant tables, where couples, their voices hushed by subtle Muffling Charms, talk and laugh and share intimate secrets.

Draco takes Astoria’s fur coat and hands it to the doorman, then offers her his arm and—leading her like the prize she is—he follows the maître d’ to their table, where he pulls out Astoria’s chair and seats her himself.

A single red rose lies waiting for her upon the snowy linen, because his mother’s trained him well.

Draco orders for both of them, selecting Astoria’s favourite dishes, and good, but not ostentatious, wines and, throughout the meal, she gazes at him adoringly, acting her part to perfection.

She’s pleasant enough—not particularly bright, not terribly stimulating, not in the least interested in his business dealings, but—like him—she’s been raised to play by the rules. She’ll be a good pure-blood wife and, though she isn’t much fun in bed, the ideal mother for his son. Once he’s done his duty, he’ll find himself a lusty little mistress—

An image of Granger dances before his eyes.

He banishes it, with a sip of wine.

And, as they wait for the coffee, he reaches out, and takes Astoria’s hand...

...

Later the same night

The door opens at his second knock.

“Draco!” Granger’s obviously surprised to see him. (It’s taken some detective work to find out where she lives but, once he’d decided what he wanted, he’d been a man on a mission). “What’s happened?” she asks.

“May I come in?”

“Um... Well... Yes. Of course.” She steps aside to let him pass.

Her flat, at the unfashionable end of Diagon Alley, is small and cramped, a riot of flowery fabrics and striped cushions, stained-glass lanterns and piles of books.

Draco wonders how anyone can live in it.

Granger gestures towards a couple of chintz sofas. “Can I get you a drink?”

He sits down. “A glass of red would be nice.”

“I’ll see what I have...”

She scuttles into her tiny kitchen and, impolitely, he watches through the door as she rummages in the cupboards and finds a tray, two glasses, and a bottle.

“I only have white...”

“That’ll be fine.”

She sets the tray on the coffee table, and he’s about to do the manly thing and uncork the bottle for her, when she picks it up and, horror of horrors, unscrews the top. “It’s Muggle,” she says, apologetically, and pours a little into one of the glasses, so that he can taste it.

To his surprise, it’s good—crisp and dry, with just a tiny hint of grapefruit. He holds out his glass, and hears her release the faintest sigh of relief as she fills it.

“Did something... Um... Did something go wrong? Tonight?” she asks.

He knows her well enough to be cagey. “Depends what you mean by wrong.”

She pours a glass for herself. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh.” She sits on the other sofa, and eyes him, shyly but curiously. “Then why did you...?”

He gives her one of his intense, burning stares, a ploy that seldom fails with women. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says, softly.

“Draco...” He doubts she’s had much experience, but she’s far too bright to mistake what he means; the expression that flits across her face tells him that she’s been thinking about him, too, and reminds him of the way she’d ogled him in his wet underwear.

Granger blushes, and looks down at the glass in her hands.

“I’ve been wondering what it would be like,” he purrs. “With you.”

“Oh, Draco...” He can practically hear her heart pounding. “But... Astoria...” she says.

That’s a line of thought he doesn’t want her pursuing.

He sighs and, bringing up a hand to rake back his long hair, he poses as a man consumed by hopeless passion. “I know I made your life miserable at school, and I’m sorry for it. I know I chose the wrong side during the war, and I wish I hadn’t. But I’m a reformed man now, Hermione...”

She doesn’t try to silence him, so he carries on: “If I could just convince you how much I—you’re the most interesting woman I’ve ever met, Hermione—clever, and strong-minded, and feminine, and... And so beautiful...” He raises his eyes, expecting to see her turning to mush but, being Granger, she’s watching him, shrewdly.

He smiles inwardly, and switches to Plan B. “You think I’m bullshitting you,” he says.

“Aren’t you,”—she bites her lip—“a bit...?”

Plan C. “I know I’ve never been your type...”

He lets the silence stretch out into infinity.

“You’re very attractive, Draco,” she admits at last, adding, oh so softly, “I’ve always liked you.”

And he’s surprised—not so much by her response, because his technique’s pretty reliable, but by the pleasure her confession gives him. Genuine pleasure. In his chest.

As well as in his groin.

He moves in for the kill, thinking of all the things he’d like to do to her, and letting them smoulder in his eyes, and throb in his voice: “I need you, Hermione.”

“Oh...”

He can see that she wants him—she’s practically wetting herself—but, for some reason, she’s still holding back. “You don’t want...” he probes.

“No! I mean,” she stammers, “it’s not... It’s just...” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It’s my period.”

He smiles. “I know.”

“You know? But doesn’t it... I thought men found it disgusting.” She frowns. “How do you know, Draco?”

He can’t tell her he can smell it (and that the smell’s driving him crazy). “A woman has a certain glow,” he says, “when she’s... You know.”

“That’s pregnancy, Draco,” she says, and it’s so Granger, so all-knowing and so bossy, he finds himself chuckling.

“It turns you on,” she says.

Clever girl. He nods.

“I always knew you were a pervert, Malfoy.”

But she’s smiling at him now, and blushing prettily, as though they’re sharing some private joke, and—Fucking hell!—it’s unbelievably sexy. “You don’t know the half of it,” he says, depositing his glass on the coffee table as he rises and moves to sit beside her.

Her hands come up and, feather-light, settle on his chest, whilst her eyes search his face, telling him that she’s just dying to uncover his other perversions.

Oh, thank you, Merlin!

...

Their first kiss is clumsy, all bumped noses and fumbling hands. He pulls back. “Let me take the lead, will you?”

They both grin.

But Draco’s never had much time for foreplay—his reputation’s based on staying power—and he wants to get down to it.

Now.

“Bedroom,” he grunts.

“Mmm.” She twists in his arms and scrambles to her feet, backing away and drawing him by his lapels, and he follows, still kissing her, until they reach the bed and fall onto it, tearing at each other’s clothing.

“We should,” she gasps between kisses, “we should—ah—use a towel...”

Draco’s no time for niceties. “Scourgify,” he says. “Afterwards.”

“Mmm.” She wriggles onto her back and, quickly vanishing her underwear, opens her legs for him.

A woman after my own heart!

There’s no sign of blood, which disappoints him a little, but—rock hard and ever eager—he rips open his buttons, frees himself and, positioning himself with his hand, sinks into her in one long, slow stroke.

Merlin, it’s fabulous!

She’s small—amazingly tight—and lusciously wet. He pulls back and, looking down at where their bodies join, he sees her blood on his shaft, thick and red, and he slides back, balls deep, savouring the added sensations—the glowing warmth, and the subtle, teasing friction.

Happy as a sandboy, he rears up on his hands, withdraws, and thrusts again, arching his back and grinding. The feeling’s intense; his every move feels masterful; the sense of power sends shivers of pleasure shooting through his body.

Fucking hell...

Granger suddenly tenses her muscles and squeezes him hard, and—dimly—he realises she’s telling him to get on with it.

He obliges, looking down at her—at her bright eyes, and flushed cheeks, and her moist, red lips—as he fucks her—in and out, in and out, in a strong, steady rhythm—and she fucks him back, meeting his thrusts and gasping out his name each time he rams the air from her lungs, “Dra-co-oh, Dra-co-oh...”

She’s bold and eager, and as far from a good pure-blood wife as it’s possible to be.

And, fuck, does her tight little pussy make a man want to come!

He stops abruptly and, head bowed, holds himself still, breathing hard.

“Draco?” Her voice sounds small, and uncertain.

“Shhh,” he whispers.

He has that strange, warm feeling in his chest again, and he leans in, and kisses her mouth. “It’s just too soon,”—kiss—“I need to calm down...”

Granger smiles.

Then she wraps her arms and legs around him, crosses her ankles (digging her heels into his arse), and rocks, and—

Draco loses it, pounding into her until she’s climaxing beneath him, jerking and writhing and wailing like a banshee. For him, the world has shrunk down to nothing but his own frantic need to thrust, and—suddenly—he’s there; pleasure’s spreading in waves from his cock and his balls, pushing out into his belly, his arse, and filling up his thighs, and he knows he’s going to come; he’s going to come—

Fuck, he’s coming.

...

Draco rolls onto his back and, savouring the feeling of triumph that always follows the planting of his seed, looks down at himself. His cock, still half-hard, is covered in Granger’s blood, Like a lethal weapon, he thinks, proudly—and, immediately, it’s locked and loaded again.

“The average man,” says Granger, in that Head Girl voice of hers, “needs half an hour’s rest before he can get another erection.”

“I’m not an average man, Granger.”

“Obviously not...” She leans over him—one of her nipples brushing his cheek—and retrieves her wand from the bedside cabinet. “What happened to ‘Hermione’?”

“It doesn’t sound right.” He pushes himself up on his elbows to see what’s going on.

“Aguamenti.” Granger’s got a cloth from somewhere, and dampened it and, as he watches, she starts sponging the blood from his hard-on, in long, firm strokes.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps, sinking back onto the pillow. “Fuck. Ing. Hell.” His hips rise up to assist her.

“At school,” she says, working on that spot, just where his foreskin joins the rest, apparently oblivious to the effect she’s having on him, “—Draco!”

“What?”

“Keep it still.”

Like he wants to control it!

“At school,” she repeats, wiping with determination, “I never believed all those rumours about you.”

“Mmm? What rumours?” Conversation’s not exactly his top priority at the moment.

“What rumours!” she laughs. “Now I know you planted them yourself.” She starts on his balls, her careful sponging sending wayward spikes of pleasure between his legs and into his arse. “But I have to say,” she continues, seriously, “that you are very good at it, what with all your energy, and your Quidditch-toned thighs.”

It takes a few moments for that to penetrate. “My Quidditch what?”

“Romantic heroes always have Quidditch-toned thighs, Draco.” She lifts his sac, sliding her cloth underneath, and rubs his legs clean. “Women like muscular thighs, you know. And yours are—well, yours are gorgeous, actually. Your whole body’s beautiful...” Her gaze travels up his torso, coming to rest on the swell of his pectorals, and Draco—who likes to pretend he’s indolent but, in fact, works hard on keeping himself fit—basks in her frank admiration.

Suddenly, she leans in, and nuzzles his package, and tendrils of her bushy hair tickle his belly.

Draco’s cock responds with urgency and, biting back a groan that’s almost a whimper, he grasps a handful of her mane. “I haven’t played Quidditch in ages,” he says, trying to persuade her to use her mouth.

“You should. You’re a good Seeker.” She licks his length, teasing him with her tongue, but doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he reminds her, twitching himself hopefully.

“Modest, too,” she says, giving him one last kiss before she Scourgifies the cloth and puts it back on the bedside cabinet. “Now you’re ready again.”

“Willing and able,” says Draco.

Granger grins.

With a business-like efficiency that’s maddeningly exciting, she lifts her leg over him, and straddles him, lowering herself onto him and rubbing her wet pussy along his erection, a cock-teasing combination of school marm and whore.

“Where did a bookworm like you learn to be so sexy?” he says. “Is it true that Muggles have a textbook that tells them how to do it?”

Still grinning, she comes up on her knees and, leaning on one hand, reaches down and lifts his cock.

Draco watches her, mesmerised.

“There are lots of sex guides,” she replies, wriggling her hips into position. “My parents had a copy of The Joy of Sex hidden on top of the wardrobe.” She sinks down and, with a deep, guttural sigh, impales herself upon him. “I had to climb up on a chair to read it.”

“I knew there had to be a book involved, somewhere,” he mutters, loving the feel of her pussy engulfing him, warm and slick with blood. “What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve ever read?” He lies back, hands behind his head, and lets her do the work.

“Well,” she says (rather huskily), “some nineteenth century brothels, apparently, had railway carriages.”

He closes his eyes to better enjoy the luxury of being ridden. “To ferry in the punters?”

“No,”—Draco offers her a few shallow thrusts—“fake carriages,” she says, the sudden crack in her voice showing that his effort’s being appreciated. “To have sex in.”

Her pace quickens, and Draco opens his eyes to find her leaning over him, tits bouncing, and he reaches up, and palms two good handfuls.

“They’d have,” she groans, “have servants, standing outside, rocking the thing back and forth, to make it feel—ah—more realistic, and—no, wait!” She pushes his hands away and, slowing right down, sits back on her heels, putting her own hands on her hips, and—breasts jutting proudly—she grinds.

Fuck. Ing. Hell! He clutches at the bed sheets and, fighting an almost murderous urge to throw her onto her back and rip into her, watches a bead of sweat run down her throat, slip between her glorious tits, and...

It drops onto his own belly—

Draco grabs her arse, thrusting upwards and fucking her like a madman.

“I’ve always,” gasps Granger, riding him like a bull, “always thought—the servants—oh God—the servants—they must have torn—must have torn—each other’s clothes off—you know—after—oh after—Oh God!—Oh God!—Oh yes!—Oh pleeease!”

“You Transfigure the bed,” cries Draco, his hips bucking frantically, “I’ll hire a couple—and we can be the servants!”

“Does that mean—does that mean—are we together now? Draco?”

...

A few moments later

“Get OUT!” She jumps off the bed, stark naked, and—incandescent with rage—gets as far away from him as her cramped little bedroom will allow.

“Granger...”

“You came here, pretending that Astoria had turned you down—”

“What? I never said—”

“You made me think...” She grabs a jar of something, and throws it at him; he snatches it out of the air. “And, all the time, all you wanted was a final fling.”

“I’ve told you what I want.”

“A mistress,” she cries, screwing up her face as though the word tastes disgusting. “A Mudblood mistress! Fine when you want a quick shag, but not good enough for a proper relationship!”

“It’s not about blood, Granger—you know it’s not about blood—fucking hell, haven’t I proved that?” He throws back the sheet to display his blood-smeared cock.

“I should have hexed that off, when I had the chance!”

“And missed tonight?”

“I thought it was—aaargh!” She grabs another bottle and hurls it; he ducks. “I thought this was something REAL!”

“It was—it is something real! If you’ll just...” He crawls across the bed, one hand protecting his head, the other reaching out for her.

She shrinks back. “If blood doesn’t matter, Draco, and you don’t love Astoria, then why are you marrying her?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! It’s class, Granger. It’s all about class. Your parents may be important in the Muggle world—”

“They’re not.”

“And they’re not here, either. You’re not one of us, Granger. You... You don’t play by the rules. You want your independence, you want a career, and—” He clenches his fists in frustration. “It’s just not an option, Hermione. Not for the wife of a pure-blood. But as my mistress, you can have it all. Merlin, I’ll even finance you—”

“Just go, Draco,” she says, turning her back on him.

He wonders how a naked woman, bloody, sweaty, and thoroughly shagged, can possibly look so noble.

If this were Astoria, he thinks, as thick as two short planks but well-trained, she’d be negotiating with me: ‘Give me the villa on Capri and twenty-five thousand Gallies a year; agree to support any kids; seal it with the Unbreakable Vow, and you have yourself a deal...’

But Granger wouldn’t dream of doing anything so tawdry.

Merlin, the woman’s impossible.

He gets up, and Scourgifies himself, enjoying—for once—the intense prickling sensation.

He has a massive hard-on, of course, because Granger’s the toughest woman he’s ever known, and the thought of mastering her makes him so hard it hurts. But he’d learned the difference between fantasy and reality during the war, learned—Second hand, thank Merlin—that forcing a woman wasn’t his kink.

He pulls on his clothes, making a few minor repairs, and glances in the mirror.

A quick rake of his fingers through his long hair and you’d never know he’d spent the night shagging his soul mate—not unless you looked deep into his eyes.

And who’s going to do that?

“Just think about it, Granger,” he says, wearily.

“I don’t need to think about it.”

He pauses at the bedroom door. “Please,” he says. “If you feel anything for me at all—”

“Are you still here?”

He gives up. For now. “I’ll be back,” he says, opening the front door. “Because, in the end, I’ll make you change your mind, Hermione.”

And, as he’s closing the door behind him, he hears her quiet reply: “I know you will, Draco.”

THE END
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