Chapter 11: The Bathroom Confession
The kiss broke only when the bathroom door next to them opened with a squeal of hinges.
A burly wizard in dragon-hide aprons stumbled out, blinked at them pressed against the flocked wallpaper, Draco’s hand still cupping Hermione’s jaw, her fingers clenched in his shirt. The man mumbled an apology and shuffled past, the smell of the floo powder clinging to his clothes.The spell shattered. Reality rushed in—the murmur of the pub, the sticky heat, the absolute insanity of what she was doing.Hermione’s breath hitched, her mind catching up to her body’s betrayal. She tried to pull back, but Draco’s grip tightened fractionally, his grey eyes searching hers.They were dark, dilated, utterly focused.
“Not here,” he said, the words gruff.It wasn’t a suggestion.
He released her jaw, his hand sliding down to capture hers. He didn’t wait for agreement, just turned, pulling her behind him down the short corridor. He shouldered open a door marked with a simple brass ‘L,’ yanking her inside and locking it with a sharp snick of the bolt.The bathroom was tiny, cramped. A single, age-spotted mirror over a porcelain sink, a toilet, walls of dark wood that seemed to absorb the weak light from a single, flickering bulb overhead.It hummed softly. The air was closer, warmer, carrying the faint, clean scent of lemon soap undercut by something older, muskier.Before she could speak, before she could think, he had her again. His back met the door with a thud, his hands coming to her hips, spinning her and walking her backwards until the cold edge of the sink dug into the small of her back. His mouth found hers, more urgent now, a direct continuation of the kiss in the hall. There was no finesse to it, only a desperate, driving need that she matched instinctively. Her hands flew to his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons.The fine cotton was damp with sweat under her palms.
“This is a terrible idea,” she gasped against his mouth, even as she popped the third button open, her knuckles brushing the hot skin of his abdomen.
“The worst,” he agreed, his voice a rough scrape. He kissed her jaw, her throat, his teeth grazing the pulse that hammered there. His own hands were busy, sliding under the hem of her blouse, skimming up her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. She arched into the touch, a low sound escaping her.She got his shirt open, pushing it back over his shoulders. It caught at his elbows, but neither cared. His skin was pale and smooth in the dim light, marred by the old, silvery scars she knew were there but didn’t look at now. She pressed her palms flat against the heat of his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. It matched her own.His hands slid down, over her hips, grabbing handfuls of her skirt. He hauled the fabric up, bunching it around her waist.The cool air hit her thighs. His fingers hooked in the lace of her knickers, and she jerked against him, her head falling back with a soft thud against the mirror.
“Draco.” It was half-protest, half-plea.He stilled for a second, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. His breath was hot and ragged against her skin. “Tell me to stop,” he muttered, his lips moving against the cotton of her blouse. “Tell me now, Granger, or I swear to Merlin I won’t be able to.”
She didn’t tell him to stop. Instead, her hands dropped to his belt, the buckle cold under her fingers.The click of it opening was loud in the small space. He made a choked sound, straightening up to look at her. His expression was stripped bare, all sharp angles and raw want.There was no smirk, no artifice.Just need.
He helped her, shoving his trousers and briefs down just enough. He lifted her then, his hands under her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, the cool porcelain of the sink a shock through her thin knickers. He fumbled between them for a moment, his grip firm, and then he was there, pressing at her entrance. She was wet, ready, the weeks of tension coalescing into this single, unbearable point.He pushed inside with one smooth, inexorable thrust.
She cried out, a short, sharp sound swallowed by the humid air. He buried his face in her neck, a groan ripping from his chest. He felt bigger than she’d imagined, stretching her, filling her completely. For a second, neither moved, locked together, breathing harshly in the dim, humming quiet.Then he moved. Slowly at first, a deep, testing withdrawal and surge forward that made her nails dig into his shoulders.Then again, faster, finding a rhythm. It was all momentum, a frantic, driving pace dictated by the cramped space and the sheer, overwhelming pressure of wanting him. The sink rattled against the wall with every thrust, the mirror shaking behind her head. The sound was obscene, metallic, mixed with their ragged breaths and the soft, wet slide of their bodies.
It wasn’t gentle.It was possession.A claim. And she claimed him right back, her hips meeting his, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs to pull him deeper. His mouth found hers again, the kiss messy, off-center, all tongue and teeth. His hands gripped her tighter, holding her in place as he drove into her, over and over, chasing something just out of reach.
“Hermione.” Her name on his lips was a broken thing, a prayer and a curse all at once.It undid her.The coil inside her, wound tight for weeks, snapped. Pleasure, sharp and bright and shocking, tore through her. She shook with it, her internal muscles clenching around him, a silent, seizing wave that left her gasping against his mouth. His rhythm faltered, grew erratic, and with a final, shuddering thrust and a muffled shout against her skin, he followed her over.
For long moments, there was only the sound of their struggling breaths and the persistent hum of the lightbulb.The world swam back, pixel by pixel. The cold sink against her back.The rough wood of the wall under her splayed fingers. The heavy, satiated weight of him against her, still buried inside her, his heart hammering against her own.
Slowly, he loosened his grip, letting her legs slide down until her feet found the tiled floor.She was unsteady. He wasn’t much better, bracing a hand on the sink beside her, his head bowed.He pulled out.The loss was abrupt, physical. A shiver ran through her.Silence stretched, thick and awkward now. The heat of the moment was cooling, leaving behind a sticky, complicated residue. She slowly pulled her skirt down, the fabric clinging unpleasantly. He turned away, a fluid, practiced motion, dealing with his own clothing.The rustle of fabric was loud.He cleared his throat. “So.”
“Don’t.” Her voice was hoarse.She couldn’t handle post-mortem wit. Not yet.He turned on the tap with more force than necessary, splashing cold water on his face. He didn’t look at her in the mirror. “Right.”
She fixed her own clothes, her fingers trembling as she tried to re-button her blouse.One of the buttons was missing. Torn off.She stared at the empty thread.He saw her. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding particularly sorry.He was watching her now, his gaze assessing. “I’ll replace it.”
“It’s fine.” It came out too sharp.
He leaned back against the door, crossing his arms.His shirt was still open, hanging loose.He looked… unraveled. “That was…”
“A mistake?” she supplied, finally meeting his eyes in the mirror.
A ghost of his old smirk touched his lips. “I was going to say ‘inevitable.’ But ‘mistake’ works too.” He pushed off the door.“We should go. Before someone tries to break the door down.”
He unlocked it, the bolt loud in the quiet. He opened the door a crack, peered out, then gestured for her to go first.The corridor was empty. The return to the pub felt like walking into another world. The noise, the light, the smell of fried food—it was all too bright, too much.
They didn’t speak as they collected their things from the booth.He threw some Galleons on the table, far more than the bill required. They walked out into the evening, the city heat a damp blanket after the cramped intensity of the bathroom. The neon from the gym across the square painted his profile in pulses of garish pink and blue.
At the edge of the square, she stopped. “I’ll apparate from here.”
He nodded, his hands in his pockets.The familiar distance was back, but it was fissured now, fragile. “Granger.”
She looked at him, waiting.
He seemed to struggle for words, an unusual sight.“The poem,” he finally said, his voice low. “It’s still shit. But I’m working on it.”
A unexpected, almost hysterical laugh bubbled in her chest.She suppressed it. She just nodded, turned on her heel, and vanished with a soft crack.
Draco stood there for a full minute, staring at the spot where she’d been. Then he looked up, across the rain-slicked square, towards the building that held his flat… and hers, just opposite.He let out a long, controlled breath.
Back in her own living room, Hermione leaned against the locked door, her eyes closed. She could still smell him on her skin—lemon soap and sweat and something else, something uniquely male. Her body ached in the best way.Her mind was a chaotic storm.
She walked to the window, slowly, her legs still feeling unsteady.The lights were on in his apartment across the way. He was standing at his own window, a silhouette against the warm glow, looking right back at her.He didn’t wave.He just stood there, watching.
After a moment, she let the curtain fall.She went to her desk, where a draft of her latest research memo lay unfinished. She picked up her quill, then threw it down in frustration.She couldn’t focus. All she could think about was the feel of the cold sink on her back, the rattle of the mirror, and the broken way he’d whispered her name.
With a sharp, decisive motion, she Summoned a fresh piece of parchment. She dipped a new quill in ink and began to write, her script fierce and rapid.Your meter is atrocious.The rhyme scheme is juvenile. And if you ever use the word “throbbing” in a line addressed to me again, I will hex the parts of you that actually throb.But. The imagery of the second stanza was… acceptable.Yours,
H.G.She walked back to the window. His silhouette was gone. She tapped the parchment with her wand, watching it fold itself into a precise, elegant paper bird. With a whispered command, it shot across the narrow alley, tapping softly against his darkened windowpane.
Inside his flat, Draco caught the bird as it slipped through a crack in the casement.He read it, once, twice. A slow, real smile spread across his face, the first of its kind all evening. He walked to his desk, pulled out his own parchment, and started to write.