#gintor

‘Draco securely closes their bedroom door; Hermione lazily tilts her head against the lip of the big claw foot tub, as he brings in the refreshments to the ensuite bathroom.  

“Have they settled down, do you think?” she enquires, as Draco sets the crockery and tumbler to magically hover beside the bath. Passing her two tablets of ibuprofen, he watches approvingly as Hermione ingests and washes them down with water.

Efficiently stripping off his suit and shirt, Draco bundles all the garments onto the vanity. Hermione watches avidly, her waning energy receiving a boost from the sight of all that creamy, muscled skin. He is (as ever) supremely unselfconscious in his nudity, pacing about the bathroom with an economy of movement and unstudied grace.

“Who, Lilliputian Romeo and Juliet? I truly hope so, Granger.” Draco seems unconscious of her lascivious regard as he lobs his footwear near the sink. “I should have specified ‘no sugar’ before we left for the Gala – the little devils took full advantage of our absence to run amok.”

Hermione draws up her legs in the hot, perfumed water, expecting Draco to join her; instead, he kneels on the side opposite the floating tea and biscuits.

“Have a sip, and a chocolate-dipped shortbread, ma petite,” he encourages, wetting her special soap and diligently beginning to wash her feet. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Won’t you join me? In the bath proper, please,” Hermione purses her mouth into a beseeching little moue, pouting properly when he merely smiles and continues lathering her calves.

“I want to be a solicitous, caring boyfriend – and take proper care of my sore, tired, brave little witch,” he explains. “And don’t give me those bedroom eyes, sweetheart… you’ve been running on fumes for the last hour, and you need to relax and regenerate.”

I won’t admit that he’s right… but I am starting to flag. Hermione sighs, reaching a hand to collect and sip at her chamomile tea. She dips a biscuit into the hot beverage, nibbling contentedly. Draco moves his attentions to her thighs, assiduously soaping her stomach and paying particular attention to her breasts, his eyes unblinking.

“You’re very thorough, Draco,” Hermione murmurs, as he makes yet another swirling pass around her nipples. He never fails to arouse me, though I’m too tired to do anything about it, she sighs to herself.

“Attention to detail – it separates the good from the great,” he replies….’

‘Astoria Greengrass pushes past Ginny at the counter; the petite blonde makes a big production of checking her flawless maquillage, her candy-pink long nails pulling a thin cylinder of lipstick out of her silk purse. Her elder sister Daphne silently follows. She looks uncomfortable, but at least greets the quartet of women with a slight nod.

“Well… isn’t this cosy? Tell me, are the wizards at your table running some sort of competition to see who can bring the most pathetic witch?” Astoria goes on the offensive immediately, her snobby tones dripping acid.

“Astoria, please– there’s no need to start trouble– ” Daphne mutters quietly.

“Shut up, Daphne. If I wanted your moronic opinion, I’d ask for it,” Astoria snipes, as Daphne’s face falls.

“What’s your problem, Astoria? You should listen to your sister – you don’t want to get into it with us,” Ginny warns. “Walk away while you still have the chance.”

Scoffing, Astoria finishes re-lining her pursed lips before she turns around to face them properly. “My problem? The Ministry’s woefully low standards for admission to what should be an elite event – that’s my problem. Look at your ragtag bunch: a notorious slut, a penniless jock, a tragic lunatic… and a jumped-up Mudblood,” Astoria points to Pansy, Ginny, Luna, and Hermione in turn.

“Draco’s clearly just amusing himself with a bit of common strange before he settles down – there isn’t any other plausible explanation as to why he’s bothering with the likes of you,” Astoria continues mercilessly, her elegant finger stabbing perilously close to Hermione’s irate face.

“As if you’d ever be welcomed at Malfoy Manor… Lucius would just as soon tar and feather you as grant you admittance through the front gates,” she sneers. “You’re as cheap as your knock-off dress, Granger. And you’re not half as smart as you think you are, since you can’t see that Draco is just using you for temporary sexual gratification. I feel sorry for you, truly,” Astoria remarks triumphantly. “He needs a Pureblood wife, not some bushy-headed guttersnipe whose dopey parents gave her a name as obnoxious as her face.”

Oh, bitch… you didn’t. Hermione rises off the velveteen stool, cold fury replacing her hot indignation. She waves off her three friends as they move in.

“Guys – I got this,” she assures…’

“Oh, really? Tell me, Malfoy… do you accept cash… or kind?” Hermione licks her lips excruciatingly slowly, taking care to seductively trace the outer borders of each vermilion-daubed labium. Draco watches raptly, entranced by the impromptu show.  

“Hunnnhhh… what? Kind – I accept payment in kind,” he gabbles, as Hermione leans close enough to kiss him… but doesn’t.

“Did you enjoy the lamb?” she enquires coquettishly.

“The lamb?” Draco repeats insensibly.

“Your main – the slow-grilled leg of lamb with minty yoghurt and salsa verde,” Hermione nods to the nearly empty plate before him.

“Yes, yes – the lamb was delectable… but I’d much prefer to be nibbling the leg of a certain two-legged curly-haired creature right now,” Draco decides to fight fire with fire. Hermione’s mouth gapes at his salacious intimation.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t wriggling helplessly in your chair every time you think about what I told you I intend to do to you tonight, Granger… I bet if I were to slide my fingers beneath that maddening slit in your superb dress, and run them up to the juncture of your thighs… slip my fingertips betwixt your smooth skin and hot little knickers… I’d find you wet and needy for me… wouldn’t I, sweetheart? Would you like me to demonstrate?” Draco quickly arranges the draped edge of the thick white tablecloth to better cover both their laps, his breathing already shallow and irregular.

Hermione turns the tables on him before he can set his lascivious plan into motion; Draco freezes as her agile little fingers scurry beneath his black outer robes and unerringly locate the buttoned fall of his trousers. She rubs the hefty bulge beneath once, twice, before her hand scrabbles at the buttons and undoes the top two, slipping inside his pants and cupping him tightly through the last layer of his fitted cotton boxers.

Gripping the edge of the table for dear life, Draco can do naught but vaguely stare straight ahead; Hermione’s incendiary words are a warm torment in his ear.

“Try to look natural – there you are, breathe, mon chéri,” she murmurs huskily, her clever fingers finding and opening the single button on the boxers, until they are skin-to-skin. “You’ve been quite the tease tonight, Draco… whispering your filthy sweet somethings in my ear, riling me up until I am indeed antsy with the need to be with you… to claim you too, my handsome, sexy wizard…”