Chapter 18: The Unexpected Visitor
The memory of his release, the proof of it stark on his window, was a ghost on her skin as she stood under the shower’s scalding spray the next morning. She scrubbed at herself, but the feeling was internal, a humming in her blood no soap could reach. Steam billowed around her, thick with the scent of her rosemary shampoo. She was methodically working conditioner through the ends of her hair when the sound cut through the water’s drumbeat.A sharp knock at her door.
Not the tentative tap of a neighbour.This was deliberate, assertive.
Her heart gave a single, hard thump against her ribs.She turned off the water.Dripping on the mat, she listened. Another knock, more impatient this time.She knew. With a towel, she briskly dried her body, not bothering with her hair. The damp strands dripped cold trails down her back as she pulled on her robe, a simple terrycloth thing she belted tightly. She didn’t look in the mirror.She padded barefoot to the door, the hardwood cool under her feet. She didn’t ask who it was.She turned the knob and opened it.
Draco Malfoy stood on her welcome mat, looking like he’d stepped out of a different, more polished universe. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the dark ink of his Dark Mark, faded but present, a history he couldn’t scrub away. Tailored grey trousers that fit him obscenely well. In one hand, he held a small paper bag, grease spots blossoming on the bottom, the rich, buttery scent of croissants weaving into the hallway air.
His grey eyes swept over her, a quick, comprehensive inventory: damp, tangled hair, bare legs glistening with droplets, the robe clinging where she hadn’t fully dried off. A smirk played on his lips, but it lacked its usual arrogance.It looked almost like relief.
“I thought you might be hungry,” he said, his voice lower than she remembered from the night before, roughened by sleep or something else.Hermione’s throat was dry.She stepped back, a silent invitation. He crossed the threshold, and the space in her small furtive hallway shrunk instantly. He smelled of clean linen, crisp autumn air, and faintly, of the bakery downstairs.
“Kitchen’s this way,” she managed, leading him past her bookshelves, acutely aware of the gap at the back of her robe with every step.
Her kitchen was sunlit, cheerful in a way that felt mocking. He placed the bag on the small wooden table and leaned against the counter, watching as she fetched two plates.The silence was a live wire. She could feel the phantom press of her own fingers from last night, the echo of his arrested gaze.They sat. The pastry bag sat between them like a failed peace offering.She pulled out a chocolate croissant, flakes scattering on the table. He took a plain one.
“So,” he said, after a too-long sip of the tea she’d wordlessly made.His eyes held hers. “Last night was…”
His voice trailed off, not from uncertainty, but as if searching for a word grand enough, terrible enough. A million words flashed in her mind: illegal, dangerous, brilliant, insufficient.
She didn’t let him finish.
Leaning across the small table, sending a shower of pastry flakes to the floor, she kissed him.It wasn’t gentle.It was a collision.A capture. The taste of him—black tea and something inherently Draco—flooded her senses. A low noise vibrated in his throat, and his hand came up, not to push her away, but to curl around the nape of her neck, damp hair and all, holding her there.
The kiss deepened, turned consuming. It was all tongue and teeth and the frantic, shared rhythm of their breath.The chair legs scraped loudly as he stood, pulling her up with him. His other hand found her waist, fingers splaying possessively through the thick terrycloth.
Then he was lifting her, effortlessly, and she was straddling his lap as he sat back down in his chair, the hard line of his erection pressing against her through their clothes. She ground down, eliciting a sharp hiss from him. His mouth left hers to trail down her throat, biting at the tendon there.“The flats are against us,” he muttered against her skin, his breath hot. His hands slid under her robe, palms rough on the smooth skin of her thighs. “Let’s get out of here.”
She didn’t ask where. She just nodded, her forehead resting against his.He held her tighter, his grip almost painful.
The world twisted, compressed, and tore itself inside out.The suffocating squeeze of Apparition vanished as quickly as it came. They landed, stumbling, on a thick, dark carpet.Hermione’s robe fell open. Cool, fresh air, smelling of pine and stone, washed over her.
They were in a vast, high-ceilinged room. One entire wall was glass, looking out over a dramatic, misty valley nestled between rugged mountains.The other walls were rough-hewn stone. A huge bed dominated the space, along with a fireplace where flames leapt to life of their own accord, casting dancing shadows.
Draco’s apartment.But not the one across the alley.Somewhere else entirely.
He looked down at her, his eyes reflecting the firelight, grey turned to molten silver. “No windows for the neighbours here,” he said, his voice a rough promise.
And he kissed her again, backing her towards the waiting bed.