The Malfoy-Granger Guide To Fake Dating

12

It was four o'clock in the morning, a time at which the stars stood out against the night sky like silver thread embroidered into rich, navy fabric. An owl hooted from somewhere in the grove of trees just beyond the property line, and the still crackling fireplace filled the room with the scent of lingering smoke.

His mattress was soft, his sweatpants warm, freshly washed, and non-scratchy against his skin.

He was comfortable.

And yet, he had not closed his eyes once since climbing between the sheets.

Because...fuck, well because a mere few hours before, he'd had his face buried between Hermione Granger's thighs, and he could hardly recall how in Merlin's name he'd ended up there.

He remembered walking into her office.

Saying something about her receptionist. The Prophet. Interviews. Questions. And strangely, his mask—

His next inhale stuttered, and he blew out a sharp breath as the moments blurred together in his mind. But honestly, he could have cared less about remembering the conversation that had let up to the moment in question.

Just that it had led to, and ended with Granger coming with his name on her lips.

Merlin, was he stuck in some sort of alternate reality? One in which he might actually have a real shot at something more than a fake relationship with the only witch who'd ever made him feel something.

He raised both hands and dragged them down his face with a groan, recalling their following conversation with perfect clarity.

When reality returns, it returns quickly. Like the tide sweeping away all evidence of footprints. The moon stealing the sun's place in the sky.

He stands with aching knees, breathing shallowly as he smooths out his hair and wipes any remaining evidence of her arousal from his chin and lips. Granger watches him carefully through it all, her lips still slightly parted as her deep brown eyes dart over him from head to toe.

And he wishes, more than anything, to be able to read her mind. To know what she's thinking. How she feels. If she regrets, even the tiniest bit, allowing him to touch—taste her in her most vulnerable of places.

But if she does, she doesn't say as much. Just continues to stare, even as he slides his hands into his pants pockets and attempts to feign indifference. But it's difficult, of course, to remain unfeeling when you've just heard the woman of your dreams scream your name as your tongue traces letters against her clit.

Draco shifts his weight from one foot to the other, feeling the physical effect of the prolonged silence like something heavy slung over his shoulder.

It's overwhelming. Suffocating. And he wants to put an end to it just as badly as he wants to take care of the straining, painfully-evident erection tenting his trousers.

But Granger just keeps staring at him. Like he's the one who should be held responsible for speaking first.

It was him that initiated things, after all. Him that backed her into a corner with questions of how she felt about being fucked by a man who represented everything she'd fought so hard to defeat. To overcome.

And suddenly, he isn't so concerned with the silence any longer.

Instead, he feels an overwhelming wave of disgust and shame crest over him from behind, knocking into the back of his head like a brick against his skull.