Macabre Musings

Hermione lazily opened her eyes, leaning back against a cushioning towel on the ledge as she watched the steam from the natural hot-springs-fed pool rise into the cool late winter air. While she had been reluctant to take a break from her current project, which she felt was on the cusp of a breakthrough, the combination of Ginny’s incessant pleading, Luna’s persuasive arguments, and Pansy’s downright unwavering snark has been more than enough to convince her that the research would still be there after a weekend away in Avon. Admittedly, Hermione thought with a nagging sense of shame it had been far too long since she had indulged in an honest break and longer since the group had been able to get away for a well-deserved round of girl talk.

At first, Hermione thought it would have been awkward to be so close and speak freely with a former intimate partner and their current paramour without filters. But despite the initial misgivings, Luna was as welcoming and effortless to open up to as she had always been. For all her sharp edges and abrasive nature, Pansy was surprisingly easygoing about the entire situation. Over an awkward tea one afternoon, Pansy had been the one to smirk and offer a handshake in peace with the irreverent uttering of: “I suspect you taught each other a lot, from which I am now benefitting. Besides, I know you have a thing for blonds. They are very hard to resist.”

Ginny had also been able to join them, away from the hectic pull of the upcoming Quidditch season. It was at Ginny's insistence that the topics for conversation had slowly swayed deeper and deeper into the sharing of sordid experiences, laughing over absolute triumphs and abysmal failures alike. Luna, always the open book, is more than willing to share. While Hermione and Pansy have been liberally plied with libations throughout the weekend, to the point where a pleasant buzz had them contributing tidbits and secrets that they feel might help Ginny find a way to scratch the itch she wasn’t quite able to pin down.

"Honestly, for all his innuendo and sass, Blaise is unnervingly sweet and gentle. Not as awkward as Harry was. Bless that man for trying his best when it turns out I wasn't on the right team for him. But sometimes I wish he would just take charge instead of being so deferential!" Ginny ground out with a frustrated sigh, and her hands splashed the water for emphasis.

Hermione hoisted herself up a little more, reaching behind her to pull her hair out from behind, piling the riotous curls on her head and muttering a sticking charm as she moved through the water, closer to the others to join more fully into the conversation.

“Have you tried having an honest conversation with him, Gin? Telling him honestly and precisely what you want him to do, what you are open to, and finding common ground where you’re both comfortable?” Hermione watched as Ginny bit down on her lip, sinking to her chin in the water. Her bright red hair spread across the water, and Hermione tangled a hand in the strands, gathering them into a single bunch.

“I’ve tried encouraging him while we're in the moment. But it’s like he’s afraid he’ll hurt something. I’d think it was sweet if I wasn’t already fully cleared and back on the practice roster.” Hermione sighed and nodded, Ginny’s pre-season injury had almost called into question her ability to play for the Holyhead Harpies, but with talented healers and a good physiotherapy regime, she was back to fine form. Blaise should have known that since they had reconnected while Ginny had been attending daily sessions at St. Mungo’s where he worked as a healer.

“Then screw talking. Edge the bastard. Tease him and tempt him until he’s so wound up he throws you over his shoulder and doesn’t stop until you either can’t see or can’t walk. Preferably, both.” From where she lounged nearby on a half-submerged step, Pansy laughed as she took a quick sip of whiskey, waving her hand dismissively towards Hermione.

“That’s not very nice advice, Pansy. I expect nothing less from a brat. But Ginny, you could try tying him up and doing what you want to him instead. Blaise seems like the very open-minded sort.” This came from Luna, who swam beside Pansy, one hand sliding up to encase her girlfriend’s throat, her thumb and forefinger bracketing Pansy’s jaw. Slowly, the blonde leaned in as if to kiss Pansy, only to let her hand slide away and her lips brush past with no contact at the last moment. For her part, Pansy pouted at the lost chance.

“How would I even broach that topic with him; ‘Hey darling, just put your hands up here for a quick second, I’ve got these cuffs for you?’” Ginny let out a giddy laugh at that, and then something flashed across her face. Embarrassment, perhaps? More likely, curiosity, Hermione thought. 

Luna. Ephemeral, vibrant, airy Luna swam over to Ginny, slipping in to sit beside the suddenly nervous redhead, grabbing Ginny’s hand between hers and squeezing gently.

“Cuffs, ropes, a quick sticking charm . . . All are acceptable options. I prefer to use soft leather with Pansy, but Hermione was always more inclined to rope. Draco would use whatever was on hand, but during Eight Year casting spells was easier than having actual equipment around. Being straightforward also often works quite well. The first time can be frightening when you don’t know how the other person will react. That’s why trust is important. Hermione is quite right though, about the having a conversation part. And Pansy does have a point, it doesn’t hurt to go after what you want and be firm in your demand. The right person should be very pleased just to have the chance to try something new with you.” Luna cast a pointed look across the water to Hermione; Pansy seemed unperturbed by the sheer ease and openness with which Luna discussed her pas lovers, and Ginny looked decidedly pale. Hermione felt a blush rise on her cheeks that was not caused by the alcohol or the water. She remembered her first Post-Hogwarts encounter with Luna, who most certainly had had no qualms in approaching her one evening with the suave opening line of;

“Hermione, I couldn’t help but see you working on a single-column tie. I think we could have a lot of fun together. You should come out with me this weekend.” This had led to an exploration and discovery of a new relationship style that, while ultimately had not been Hermione’s full preference, had been an unforgettable year and a half of learning more about herself and her wants and desires than she had ever thought possible. It had also, oddly enough, opened the doors to where she currently found herself, exploring the possibilities of an actual relationship with Draco Malfoy, who had been Luna’s doorway into the lifestyle. Luna had been the one to casually drop the hint that had led to Hermione giving Draco a chance when he had shown interest in her. After so many failed relationships with wizards and muggle men, the exhaustion from having to hide or obscure one aspect of her life or another to make it work, Hermione had been about ready to retire from relationships and learn to live with only herself as satisfaction.

It had come as a surprise when Luna had casually mentioned that Draco had asked about Hermione, wondering what she had been doing abroad for so many years, out of the spotlight of the doting Wizarding press. He had asked if she was seeing anyone. If she still enjoyed reading historical non-fiction and still had an orange fluff ball of a half-kneazle. While their first meeting had been fireworks and tension, his earnest apology for his actions against her, for his wrongdoings, had extended a bridge between them. Then Luna had casually dropped the weight that Draco tended to like being in control and was excellent at developing and holding trust. Hermione’s curiosity had peaked, and she had agreed to meet him for a coffee in public. Which soon turned to dinner and a very long night of open conversation. Hermione had recently begun to suspect Luna frequently played matchmaker with friends and acquaintances.

Suddenly feeling somewhat too warm, Hermione closed the rest of the distance between the others, reaching out of the water to grab her glass of whiskey and throwing most of it back.

“Or, you can just show up at his manor wearing nothing but a jacket and a rather fetching . . . what was it Granger, a Hishi harness with? And tell him that he’s going to tie you down and fuck you sideways, and see if that gets his primal instincts going. I hear it’s just the thing to cause a proper pureblooded man to just about have an aneurysm and derail an entire weekend.” Pansy’s cackle echoed off the walls as she threw her head back.

“No!” Ginny’s eyes shot to Hermione, brows raised impossibly high on her forehead.

“I'm sure Draco appreciated the initiative. That must have taken time to tie.” Luna cast an appreciative glance at Hermione before she looked at Pansy and cocked her head to the side as if envisioning something, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“I am going to kill, Malfoy,”  Hermione muttered under he breath, sinking a bit further in the water, her cheeks blazing from more than the heat. She would never live this down now that Pansy knew about it.

It was another late evening for Hermione and Draco; he at the cauldron mixing away, Hermione perched on her usual stool surrounded by open tomes about magical herbs and ingredients as she took over the research needed to ensure the brew would be stable and not cause any unnecessary interaction. They were working on improvements to the Pepper-Up potion, an idea brought to them by Blaise Zabini, who often had a nose for great ideas. If it is successful, it could do much better at offsetting the fatigue of late nights of research in the Department of Mysteries or the Archives and perhaps to better support Aurors in the field on long missions and stake-outs. For the right price. It was a corner of the market almost devoid of competition, or so Blaise had imparted when he brought the pitch to the pair; "No one has changed the Pepper-Up formula in ages. Such a travesty! Frankly, what we have pales in comparison  to a decent espresso, but you try and find a decent coffee shop this side of Magical London. There’s money to be made, my instincts never lie. You two would bear the brunt of the work and the reward. I’ll just negotiate a small percentage when the potion is successfully out to market. Another excellent collaboration for us, wouldn’t you say?”

It had been impulsive, swiping the heavy signet ring off the potions table and slipping it on her finger, but Hermione had done it anyway. Draco worked with his back to her at a cauldron on the opposite side of the room, distracted by the intricate steps involved in the latest brew he was working on. Hermione had been trying to get more comfortable with impulsiveness, with letting her hands fidget while she worked. In letting go and just doing, without any reason for it. Plans were well and good, but sometimes they kept her trapped in her head, second-guessing and locked in a cycle of analysis paralysis, as Luna had once called it, where she would overthink each tiny choice and action so much that nothing would get done and she would spend hours trapped in the same place. It has been a remnant from the war, she had said, from that survival need to make all of the plans and be in control of all outcomes, to mitigate anything and everything into the perfectly distilled plan, unable to fail. The habit had not been detrimental when the fate and safety of others depended so readily on her meticulous plans and knowledge. It had gotten so bad after the war that it hindered Hermione's ability to live in the moment. Now, she tried to act more often when the moment seized her. Especially when the outcome of any given choice was not the end of the world. So when the thought to take the ring had taken hold, seizing at the corners of her curiosity and desire, she had leapt at it without a second to stop and think of the consequences. Or, perhaps, because she knew the consequences could be in her favour. Draco was rather possessive of his things; from quills to candy, he would glare at anyone who dared think themselves entitled to touch or handle anything Draco considered his. He would scowl, his perfectly manicured eyebrows knitting together before he strode over to snatch back whatever someone was touching, before placing it pointedly back precisely where it had been taken from. There were a few minor exceptions; he would begrudgingly let Hermione sip his coffee on long afternoons, provided it wasn’t the last in the cup. He would let her steal his quidditch jersey when it got too cold while she was reading, so long as it was not a match day.  And when she decided it was much easier to slip into one of his button-down oxford rather than finding her scattered clothing around his apartment, his eyes would track her across the room intently. But the Malfoy signet ring was an absolute no-go zone. It rarely left his hand, and he certainly never allowed anyone else to handle it when he wasn’t wearing it. She wondered what he would do about it. The large silver ring dwarfed her slender finger, settling loosely at the base of it, half over the first knuckle. “The base of the proximal phalanx,” Hermione reminded herself as she ran her thumb along the smooth metal. The firelight of the lab caught on the ring and reflected, dancing as she turned it slowly until the Malfoy Family crest was facing inward to her palm. The silver is an odd change against her skin tone. She wore gold most days. The few necklaces and the ring from her grandmother that she wore frequently were all gold. It always seemed that gold was the colour that she purchased, or that was given to her, or gifted. While it worked well with her skin tone, she had to admit that, in this moment, there was something enthralling about the silver. Something is undeniably alluring about the contrast.

“It looks good on you, you know.” Draco’s voice in her ear is low and deep, and Hermione is shocked out of her contemplation. She hadn’t heard him come up behind her or even noticed him leaving his space across the room. His lips were so close to her ear, his breath warm, sending a thrill of goosebumps rising down her arms. She’s still looking at the ring on her hand as he reaches up with one hand and moves her hair away from her neck, feeling the arch of his nose ghost over the column of her neck as his other hand slips around her waist, pulling her back against him.

“I can see the appeal. But, I don’t know. I still think I like it better on you, especially when … well, you know. I suppose the scions of the most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy are rolling in their pristine marble mausoleums, aren’t they?" Hermione’s voice is low as she turns her face slightly towards him, their lips temptingly close, but still too far away for her sudden liking. Draco’s answer laugh is low, as his lips brush over the corner of her mouth. Dangerous.

Draco Malfoy, master of the smirk and deliverer of cutting snark, could only stare, mouth slightly open,  as he watched the woman across the table carefully remove the cherry garnish from her gateau chocolate and pop it into her mouth, carrying on a lively conversation with none other than Pansy Parkinson as if she was not on the verge of bringing him to his knees in a public place. It had started as a conversation about Pansy’s obsession with Paris Fashion Week and had rapidly devolved into a back-and-forth about the history of various Parisian Ateliers. Then Ginny Weasley had whimsically waxed poetic about her dream wedding undergarments. The whole thing had quickly traversed into a mind-bending, detailed discussion about the merits of various pieces, cuts, and materials used for lingerie, headed by Hermione Granger. All while Luna, with dreamy eyes, looked between Pansy and Hermione as they exchanged their vast knowledge about the benefits of each piece.

Draco would never know how he had wound up in the middle of such a conversation between the two and how Hermione Granger, of all people, seemed to be the authority about something as niche and intimate as the history of the trousseau, only that the whole thing made him feel decidedly lightheaded. One moment, everyone at the table had been discussing the travesty that was the colour palette of Blaise Zabini and Ginny Weasley’s engagement party and the expected dress code for Milan in spring and the next Pansy and Hermione were bonding over  Runways and Atelier shows. For their part, Blaise and Ginny were nodding along, whispering to each other behind wine glass rims and exchanging knowing glances at Draco. Much to Draco’s chagrin, neither Blaise nor Ginny seemed inclined to put a stop to the rather detailed and description-heavy conversation occurring across the table, not even when  Pansy and Hermione started mentioning Demi-cups, high cuts, and suspender belts, and Luna encouraged them to consider the merits of undercuts corsets over bustiers. Draco would never have thought that of all the things she could speak at length about, one of Hermione Granger’s niche hyper-focus topics would be the role of high-class lingerie in women’s fashion or that she could have a marked preference for custom-sewn pinchers rather than mass producer shaping hosiery.

Under the table, Draco felt the telltale tap of a pointed shoe against his shin and glanced up and beside him, where Ginny caught his eyes, her expression mischievous.

“This is payback, Malfoy. I’m not above using your secrets against you. Time to feel the pain.”

The blond grunted, his brain half absent and lost for words as it groped through the details dripping from Hermione’s painted lips about barely present lace.

“What did I ever do to you, Red?”

“For all those times you walked on us in while I was trying to have my way with Blaise, and decided that you simply couldn’t just leave and let us finish.” Next to Ginny, Blaise smirked as he leaned into his fiancee but offered no further input.

Leaning casually against the side of the low partition between her open living space and modest kitchen, Hermione watches as Malfoy speaks to Crookshanks. Malfoy is leaning close to the orange cat and whispering conspiratorially,  oblivious to her presence. To her chagrin, the great ball of fluff paws at a length of thick jute that the impossibly tall, impeccably, and insufferably attractive man is dragging back and forth across the countertop in front of him, entirely too kitten-like for his advanced years.

It was already quite late; Hermione had been in bed reading when the floo had roared to life, signalling that someone was stepping through the network directly into her home without any forewarning or invitation. She knew her floo was only open to a select few, and not hearing anyone calling her name in panic, she had taken her time leaving her room to discover who was visiting at such a late hour. As no one was sobbing, cursing the universe, or drunkenly knocking things over, the possible list of visitors was much shorter than the total of all who had an open invitation to come and go as they pleased. It became a list of one when she heard the telltale sound of expensive shoes clicking across flagstone, then hardwood, and finally to tile as they made their way to her kitchen.

Malfoy, or Draco as he continues to insist she refers to him as in their daily dealings, had been added to her privileged personal floo access barely two weeks before this unannounced intrusion. He was adamant that it was for the simple reason that it would make consulting with her on their shared curse-breaking research much easier, as owls were notoriously slow in relaying urgent messages, such as they would need during this particular project. Despite her best efforts, Draco was not persuaded to use a muggle cell phone, as the man’s ancient wards made it impossible to guarantee the messages would reach him with any reliability. So far, this had led him to stop by almost daily with meticulous notes, rare reference texts, enough expensive coffee to drown a small village, and enough treats to have won over her aged familiar.  Work on their current project, an artefact locked behind an obscure ancient curse, had kept him over for hours on end, discussing and debating the minutiae of facts and methods, ordering in meals, and keeping late hours as they unravelled the complicated nature that kept the artefact in question beyond reach. He had thoroughly, without apology, inserted himself into her personal space as if he belonged in her orbit on the sole merit of his existence.

“Yes, that’s quite right. This is prey most noble for one such as yourself. Intelligent beast, aren’t you? A chaser to the bone.” Draco keeps his voice low, speaking to her familiar with in a voice barely above a whisper, and yet it carries well through the space; it is soft and deep, sending a not-unpleasant tingle through Hermione’s nerves as she watches him. Next to where he stands in a new stack of what appears to be ancient scrolls, possibly his reason for such a late visit. A discovery that apparently could not wait for the sun to rise. His platinum blonde hair, almost white, sweeps down across his forehead. His forearms flex almost imperceptibly as he keeps the end of the jute length just out of reach of sharp claws. His shoulders stretch the fabric of his white Oxford in ways that make her bite her lip, imagining the expanse of skin and the muscle beneath it. Hermione wonders briefly how warm his skin is. Would there be any resistance?  How would it feel to run her nails along his spine, and would she be able to differentiate the notches between them? All in all, Draco Malfoy has thoroughly ruined her without even touching her.

“That’s not a cat toy, I’ll have you know Malfoy. Honestly, it shouldn’t even be out here in the first place.”

Briefly, Malfoy glances up and away from the cat, cutting his eyes to Hermione and back to the jute cord in his hands as Crookshanks triumphantly catches its end. He does a double take so fast it looks almost painful. Hermione can see the second his jaw goes slack. She registers the slight dilation of his pupils. There is a hitch in his breath, and Hermione swears she hears his brain crashing. It is precisely the reaction she was hoping for. She watches as his eyes scan slowly down from the crown of her head downward from her hair, plaited carefully out of the way, to the slightly parted silk robe she wears, offering a calculatedly teasing view of the lace basque beneath. As she leans, she notices him pause in his appraisal again, further down, taking in the hint of her exposed thigh just above her bent knee. 

“Where should it be then, Granger?” She watches as the pink tip of his tongue darts out, wets his lips, and he reaches his other hand to the jute rope, coiling it slowly as he keeps his eyes on her, his voice low and coaxing. Hermione crooks a finger at him, beckoning, and uses her hip to push off the partition, turning around to begin her walk back down the hallway from which she had previously come. A few steps later, Hermione again hears the sound of expensive soles on tile, and then they transition onto the hardwood floor of the hallway as he begins to follow behind her.

An Obvious Lie

“That could not be further from the truth, Pansy. We’re only just at the point of being civil with each other.”

Draco casually took a sip from his firewhiskey, the ice clinking against the rim of the glass. He cut his eyes briefly across the room, catching a glimpse of riotous brown curls in the sea of other guests, before looking back at his friend.

For her part, Pansy Parkinson looked utterly unconvinced, one well-shaped eyebrow raised above her eyes, which sparkled with mischievous delight.

“That’s not what Nott says. Swears that saw you as, let’s face it, you’re the only pale, blond, posh bastard in a three piece suit here, and Granger getting rather entangled just before the speeches. Be honest, do I have to worry about  being upstaged at my own engagement party?”

“No, Pans. Nothing to worry about. Theo must be going blind, spending a bit too much time in his own company. Someone should truly intervene for his well being.” 

Draco smirked as Pansy’s nose wrinkled as an involuntary frisson worked through her shoulders before she downed the wine in her glass. He took another sip of his drink, feeling the cool condensation of the glass slide over his hand. Pansy set her glass down, cast her eyes across the room at their friends, her guests, and reached out to Draco, patting him on the chest before moving to step past him to head back to her fiancé who was now busy in the centre of the gathering, attempting to draw more guests to dance. Drawing even with Draco’s side, Pansy leaned in, her shoulder brushing his, her weight leaning ever so slightly into his body as she raised hersel up to get closer to his ear, speaking low so only he could hear.

(via Sea of Trees: The Japanese Suicide Forest (The Show Notes))