It's WIP Wednesday, and the good people on twitter voted to see a sneekpeak of an unpublished bodyguard-Dramione, feat. Hermione as Minister and Draco as her PPA (Personal Protective Auror).
Vibes are political thriller meets rom-com. No TWs.
Draco wakes in inky darkness at the sound of metal banging to the ground. The echo of the clanging hasn’t even faded when he’s already out of bed and through the door, his wand in hand, ready to investigate. A cursive glance at the foe-glass beside his bed showing mere silhouettes gives some reassurance, but Draco is nothing if not thorough.
He leaves his room, years of training and routine kicking in. Silencing Charms eradicate the faintest possibility of sound as he sneaks down the hall soundless as a ghost.
Through the moonless dark (it’s the new moon, he realises), he’s barely able to make out the doors leading to Granger’s bedroom (to the left) and the bathroom (to the right). Both are firmly shut.
A non-verbal detection spell confirms three magical beings in the house. Usually, that should account for one Minister, one Auror, and one half-Kneazel. But with the faintest possibility of the cat being out and someone else in, Draco proceeds with securing the premises.
He finds her bed empty (the blanket’s still warm, so she can’t be gone long). Not anything to worry about per se, but now he’s got to be extra careful not to accidentally overpower her.
The bathroom’s vacant as well, so he checks the downstairs next.
As he flies down the stairs, he keeps his ears peeled for any indication of what might have caused the disruption. The hallway is just as pitch-black as the upstairs, but six weeks of spending almost every single day (or night, rather) in this place means he has no issue finding his way around. He goes from the sitting room, to the library, to the study.
Granger’s nowhere to be seen, neither is her cat, nor the cause for the disturbance. Last is the kitchen with the backdoor to the gardens. Draco’s just about to open the door — his hand is already pushing down the handle — when something materialises out of thin air, rushing towards him with the speed of a comet, and hitting him square in the chest. Draco has barely time to realise that the Something, which is really a Someone, is pushing him back, causing him to fall onto his arse, from whence he’s forced to the ground, his arms pushed over his head.
Draco’s intention of casting a Stunning Spell is rendered pointless as his wand sails off into the dark. It clatters uselessly over the tiled kitchen floor.
But Draco’s got no time to be frustrated.
A wand digs into his throat.
He mentally prepares himself for man-to-man combat, mapping out five ways to evade the wand and overpower his rival — a witch, he notes abjectly—when an incredulous voice tears through the tension and shocks him into faltering.
A heartbeat later, several orbs of warm light materialise, dancing around Granger’s face. She looks shocked.
‘What on earth were you doing there?’
Her tone is restrained, not at all matching the emotions mirrored in her large eyes. And she’s not getting up either. She keeps him pinned to the ground, his torso squashed between her thighs. His arms remain stuck to the floor above his head, which isn’t exactly the most relaxing position.
‘I heard a noise. So I went to check the premises.’
Draco wiggles to gain some leg room, but all it does is to cause Granger to squeeze her legs even harder.
‘I was looking for you, too,’ he adds, wheezing slightly. ‘Your bed was empty.’
‘Yes,’ she says slowly, peering at him suspiciously. ‘Because I did the same. I was checking for intruders.’
‘And you didn’t think to wake me first?’
This has her surprised. She blinks. Then, she narrows her eyes again. It dawns on him she’s unsure if he’s actually who he says he is. This is partially reassuring as it signals she’s finally taking the situation seriously. On the other hand, Draco feels a bit put out by the fact she doesn’t immediately recognise the real him.
‘For Merlin’s sake,’ he curses. ‘It is I, Malfoy. Your favourite ferret.’
At that, her eyes begin to shine and the ghost of a smile tugs at her lips.
And yet, she does not budge.
As she sits atop him, her wand digging into his throat, her thighs squeezing his sides, the shape of her bum rubbing against his downstairs, two thitherto unknown facts of life reveal themselves in sharp clarity:
one: Granger is resolutely not the sexless personification of the state he’d grown accustomed to imagining her to be.
two: he’s got a thing—a sexual thing—for powerful witches in control.
Latter revelation results in a third extraordinarily inconvenient fact of life that now comes roaring to life, in its full, uncompromising, unbidden, indisputable glory — all made worse (or better, Draco is starting to grow very confused about this point) by Granger’s ample chest heaving under the strain of the exertion, as well as her usual flimsy nighttime attire (a scrap of fabric masquerading as a nightgown, as Draco likes to call them). The satin (or silk, Draco can’t be entirely sure from their too-brief encounter, desperately grasping as he does at the edges of his sanity, his work ethic, and all the things that still mean something to him, to fight the urge to run his hands up her sides to thoroughly check again), anyway, the smooth cloth strains against her nipples which the nightly draught rendered prominent peaks.
The light orbs hovering around them give her face an eerie glow. For a moment, Granger looks like one of those faeries of old; the ones his mother had warned him about, those luring unsuspecting strangers into the depths of the forest with their beauty, before they cursed them into toadstools.
That moment, the full, weighty, devastating realisation that Granger might’ve finished him off there and then hits him.
His treacherous cock twitches.
‘Auror Malfoy,’ Granger whispers into the quiet and smiles (her lips are shaped like “fuck it” and “consequences be damned”), ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, you seem awfully pleased to see me.’
‘Just the adrenaline,’ he responds in a tone that is matter-of-factly, and not throbbing with passion. Draco’s feeling additionally pleased with himself that he manages to keep resisting the temptation to pull her against the length of him. ‘I only hope you’re not too out of sorts from feeling a man’s passion—possibly for the first time. Virgin Minister, is it?’
She laughs at that, her eyes dancing with mirth.
A few more heartbeats pass during which the tension in the air grows and thickens, just as the tension in Draco’s body does.
At long last, she stands, releasing him from this sweet torture, and extends a hand to help him up as well.
