Summary:

Draco and Hermione go see a play.

Chapter Text

Saturday

He put down his pen and tore the six sheets of paper from the white legal pad. Then he put the pages in an envelope, labeled the envelope "For Sunday," sealed it, and put it next to the television.

Ice cascaded into his stomach with each breath. When he took a sip of water, his mouth dried out again immediately. This must have been what he felt like as a teenager. This was, of course, better. For one thing, he didn't have to worry about getting Granger home to her parents on time. More importantly, he didn't have to worry about blushing like a fool when buying a pack of rubbers at the convenience store.

His encounter with Granger last week had certainly proven something to him: he must have been somewhat experienced with women in his past life. He hadn't felt the least bit self-conscious or perplexed when it came to pleasuring her; he simply read her body language and adjusted his approach accordingly. That sort of confidence could only come from practice.

She was at his door exactly one minute early.

Hello, Ms. Granger," he said.

"Hello, Mr. Malford."

She walked into his flat and set her bag on the floor.

"I'd offer to take your coat, but I suppose we should be going."

"Yes."

They smiled strangely at each other.

"Let me just get the tickets. They're in the kitchen."

"Of course."

He licked his lips. He didn't even turn towards the kitchen.

"I'm having a bit of a dilemma here."

"Oh?" She arched her eyebrow a bit.

"Yes. You see, on the one hand, I'd really like to go to that play with you, but on the other, I'd really like to lock us in here and not leave for several weeks. Months even."

"That sounds rather impractical." She attempted to look stern, but the corner of her mouth curled into a smile.

"Perhaps."

She took a step closer to him. She smelled like apples. "Where are the tickets?"

"Kitchen table." He regretted telling her, because she used this information to break the enchantment between them, walking into the kitchen and retrieving the tickets.

When she returned, she put the tickets into her bag and smiled broadly at him. "Shall we?"

"I suppose you mean go to the play, not lock ourselves in here?"

"I do."

"If we must," he sighed.

As they walked down the block towards the theater, she took his hand in hers. Even that small touch sent heat through his body.

"So how was your week?" she asked.

"You get to read all about it on Sunday."

"That bad, eh?"

"How was yours?"

"Busy."

"So how many other, er, clients do you have?"

"A half dozen or so." She was looking straight ahead.

"And how do they stack up against me?"

"In terms of what? Baking skills? You win. No contest."

"That's not what I meant."

She stopped walking. "Are you insinuating," she said, pulling her hand from his, "that I snog with all of my other clients?"

"No." Actually, that idea had never even occurred to him.

"Because I'm not sure you actually realize how wrong this is for me to be doing, and yet, here I am, doing it." Her eyes flashed darkly.

"What I was actually asking," he said, voice with more edge than he had intended, "was whether I was the craziest bastard you've got."

"Oh." They resumed walking. "For your information, that question is also inappropriate. I can't discuss my other cases with you."

"My apologies."

They walked in silence for a while. When she took his hand once again, he decided it was safe to begin asking questions again. He started with: "So where do you live?"

"Outside of London." Her palm started to sweat.

"Where outside of London?"

"South of London."

"Is there a reason you're being so maddeningly vague?"

"What do you want? An exact address?"

"Why not?"

"Because."

"How is that an answer?"

"It is an answer by virtue of its being what I have said in reply to your question." She took her hand back.

"What is your problem, Granger?"

"My problem," she said, walking faster, "is that what happened last Saturday was incredibly unprofessional of me. What is happening right now is incredibly unprofessional of me. I'm basically doing the exact opposite of what I should be doing when I'm with you. And yet here I am, doing it."

She stopped walking again. She balled her fists and perched them on her hips.

"Well why are you here then? If it's such a terrible idea?"

"Because I want to be here. Because I like spending time with you. Because, God help me, I like you, Drake Malford. And for some bizarre reason, I have decided that being with you is more important than doing what 99.9% of my brain says is the right thing to do. So you will excuse me if I am occasionally reticent with certain details about my personal life." She was shouting, but there were tears standing in her eyes.

He swallowed dryly and willed himself to come up with a scathing retort. Nothing. She was poised, foot tapping, eyes blazing at him. Still nothing. "Alright then," was all he managed. She blinked, sniffled a bit, and then resumed walking.

"You look very beautiful this afternoon."

"Thank you." She returned her hand to his.

They finished the walk in silence.

When they got to their seats, he scanned the crowd quickly, hoping against hope that no one from his office would actually show up. So far, so good.

As the house lights dimmed and the actor playing Orsino took the stage, she leaned her shoulder against his. He could smell her shampoo and feel her body's slight shifts as she breathed.

Soon, however, the play caught his attention. The actors were far better than he had ever imagined they would be, considering the size and location of the venue. Even the gulling of Malvolio was pitch-perfect: funny, but with just enough cruelty for the audience to pity him. Well, perhaps not this audience, he mused to himself. This lot of Philistines hadn't even laughed when Sir Andrew addressed Maria as "Good Mistress Accost." Hermione had laughed, of course. And when he stole a glance at her during Viola's "A blank, my Lord" speech, he caught her silently mouthing the lines along with the actress. He had watched her lips instead of the stage, transfixed by the way they soundlessly shaped the words. Something sharp lodged itself in his throat, but he swallowed it down into his stomach.

When Feste had finished his last song and the lights rose again, they stood and applauded. He turned to ask her how she had enjoyed it, but she had tears running down her cheeks.

"It's a comedy, Granger," he said, unable to keep the mocking tone from his voice.

"I know." She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

When they left the theater, he suggested that they walk through the park. It was still relatively mild for October, so she agreed. They didn't say another word until they got to the bench and sat down.

"Thanks for taking me, Drake. It was beautiful."

"You're welcome. Did you enjoy it?"

"Of course," she was almost aghast at the question.

"Good."

They watched the water ripple in the slight breeze. There were no ducks this time of the year.

"Do you think," she said slowly, "that Orsino knew all along that Viola was really Cesario?"

"Not a chance. I don't think he was particularly bright. Never quite got what Viola saw in him, to be honest."

"At the end, then, why did he call her 'Cesario'? Why didn't he want her to change into women's clothes?"

He started to offer an idea about Orsino's latent homosexual desires, but instead said "I think he just wanted her to be the person he knew."

"Not the person she was?"

"Maybe they're the same." The wind scattered dead, brown leaves across their feet.

"So the clothes and the fake history didn't actually change anything about her?"

"Maybe not," he said quietly.

"So you're saying that he loves the person she is, not the person she pretends to be?"

"I'm saying that those two people might not actually be any different."

She looked out over the pond and then up at the bare branches that were quickly growing blacker as night gathered. "Drake? There's something I have to tell you."

"What's that?" His heart began to beat faster. Blood rang in his ears.

"I ... you ... I ..." tears began to gather in her eyes again.

"What is it?"

"You're ..." She looked down, began to smooth out imaginary wrinkles in her skirt.

"What?" He turned her chin so that she had to face him.

"I'm ... I'm .... so sorry."

"You're sorry? You're sorry for what? Make some sense, Granger."

"I'm sorry that ... I'm sorry that I've made such bad professional decisions."

"Are you bloody apologizing for last weekend?"

"Not just that."

"Granger ... you're definitely not following the social worker code of ethics. I get that. And your job is important to you. I get that too. But look, I'm obviously not you're your typical client."

"But that's not your fault. And it's ..."

"No," he interrupted. "Let me finish. When you first started coming to me, I utterly loathed the idea that I needed to be visited by a bloody social worker. Your visits screwed up my routine. I didn't know what to say to you. I didn't want you in my flat. I didn't want you in my life. Because you knew. You were the only person who knew what a fucking ridiculous situation I was in. I could pretend with everyone else. I could get away with not talking, with not telling anyone anything important. But not with you. And that made me profoundly uncomfortable ... but in so many ways, it was a huge relief, because you were the one person I didn't have to pretend with. It got to the point where I started actually enjoying our visits, even if you thought I was acting like an arsehole. And look, Granger, if you were 40 years older than me or some hairy fellow named Herman, maybe last weekend wouldn't have happened, but as it is, you are absolutely lovely, and I'd been thinking of kissing you since that day you got caught in the rain. So don't ever apologize about that again. Ever. Because you have helped me more than you know."

"What if," she said, swiping at her eyes with her sleeves, "I were indeed a fellow named Herman, but I wasn't particularly hairy?"

"I suppose it would depend on how nicely you filled out your suit."

She laughed and leaned against him. He circled her with his arms and pulled her closer.

"We should probably get out of here. It's getting dark."

"Would you happen to have a gourmet repast prepared in your flat?"

"Not this time. But the tub of frosting is still there."

"Mmm. But what will you eat?"

"I suppose that remains to be seen."

"I can share the frosting. Or we can go and get a bite somewhere. Or I can make you my famous tofu marsala."

"You know, I really enjoy that little curry house down the block that we visited once."

"Fine. But one day, you will taste my tofu marsala. And it will blow your mind."

"Is that a threat?"

"Prat." She punched his arm. He captured her fist in his hand and kissed it. "Shall we?" She took his arm and they began to walk out of the park.

"Do you remember," he began, "when I told you that I felt like I didn't belong here."

She stiffened slightly. "Yes."

"I still feel that way. Every day. Except when I'm with you."

"Drake ..."

"It's true."

"That's probably just because you're honest with me, Drake. Everyone else you meet only knows a fraction of you."

"Granger, I only know a fraction of me."

"Well," she said, "your fraction is bigger."

"That's highly comforting."

"I tried."

"I'm going to spoil something you will read about on Sunday."

"Alright." Her voice was calm, but he felt her body stiffen slightly. Why was he volunteering this sort of information now? Why was he intent on making her think that he was even more of a lunatic than she already did? Was it because he wanted to see what she would do? Was it because he thought she could help him? Or was it just because he wanted her to know who he was--whoever that person might be? Because it was not just about being lonely; it was that he had no past selves to provide context for his current experiences. This wasn't merely confusing or troubling; it was maddening.

"I'm having a new dream."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I'm on a train. You, me, and the man with black hair that I saw at Sparky's."

"Where is the train going?"

"To school, of course," he said quickly, his voice a bit impatient. "Oh ... wait ... did I just say 'school'?"

"You did." She stiffened slightly.

"Hmm. That's odd. I never know where I'm going in the dream. Ah, it must be the robes."

"The robes?"

"Yes. I'm wearing some sort of graduation robe in the dream. We all are. That must be why I assume it has something to do with school."

"Of course."

"Do you think these dreams are memories in some way?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know," he said, opening the door of the curry house, "of my past life. That they are memories that bubble to the surface of my subconscious when I'm sleeping?"

"Well," she began, "that wouldn't make sense if I were in the dreams, would it?" The waitress smiled at them and gestured for them to sit at a nearby table. They thanked her as she handed them a pair of paper menus.

"Yes, that's what I've been thinking. But maybe my subconscious is just inserting you into them? You and the black-haired man? The two of you are really the only people whose faces I can clearly see. I mean, I get a general sense of the man on the tower—the one with the long beard ... him and the ... other one ... but in terms of actually being able to see people, it's just you and Black Hair."

"That's interesting." She was engrossed in her menu.

"Yes. But now that I think of it, you know the work dream? The one with the ancient runes on the computer screen?"

She looked up from her menu sharply. He recognized that look; it meant that he had said something she would regard as "confusing or troubling." "What did I say?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me, dammit."

"Ancient runes?"

"Yes?" He blinked at her. "Isn't that what they are?"

"You've never called them that before."

He hadn't? That seemed silly. That was obviously what they were. "Well, at any rate, sometimes Rick or Clem or Tad the Insufferable Wanker is in that dream. So that dream can't really be a memory."

The waitress returned and they placed their orders. Hermione began to fiddle with her paper napkin. "What makes you think the other dreams are memories?"

"I don't know. It's just a feeling." He began to fiddle with a napkin too, folding it in halves and triangles, trying his best to recreate the roses she had made in his kitchen last week. "Aha!" He handed her what he'd made. It vaguely resembled a cross between a decapitated swan and a paper airplane.

"What is this?"

"A napkin rose."

"Oh?"

"You can't tell?" He feigned dismay, resting his chin in his hand.

"Uhm. No. Well ..." she turned it upside down, then ninety degrees to the left. "No."

"That's the last time I give you flowers."

She nodded in mock seriousness and tucked the napkin into her bag. "I guess I should save this, then."

"Very prudent of you. Anyhow, here is what I wanted to tell you: in that train dream, you absolutely loathe me."

"Is that so?"

"It is. You look like you want to punch me in the mouth."

"Interesting."

"And you know what else? My hair is all slicked back in the dream. Just like you said it would be."

A ghost of a smile flicked across her lips. "I guess your subconscious is very open to the power of suggestion."

"Well if that's the case, maybe you can tell me what my friends looked like? I'd like for them to have faces."

"Your friends?" Her brow furrowed slightly.

"Yes. They stand behind me on the train."

The smile left her lips. "I don't know what they look like."

"Come on," he said playfully. "Just make something up. Tell me one is tall and one is short. Tell me they're both grotesquely sweaty. Tell me they look like lizards or that they've got a mouth full of gold teeth or that they're wearing shoes on their hands."

Their food arrived. He dug in hungrily. She pushed her chana masala around on the plate a bit.

"Better yet," he continued, "tell me one is Rihanna and the other is Selma Hayek."

This got a laugh out of her. "Alright. Fine. One of them is Rihanna and the other is Selma Hayek. Sweet dreams." She began to eat.

"Much obliged. Say, do you think crab is okay?"

She put her fork down slowly, dabbed at her lips with a napkin, and gave him a look that seemed to bore straight into his brain. "What did you say?"

"Crab. To eat. I know you're a vegetarian, but do you eat fish? Because I make excellent crabcakes."

"Oh. Um. No. No, I don't eat fish either."

He put his half-eaten piece of naan back on the plate. "Why was that weird for me to ask?"

"It just seemed ... out of context."

He tried to replay the conversation in his head, but he kept losing the thread. "We ... we weren't talking about crab?"

"No." Her voice was low and stern.

"Huh." He picked up his naan again and began to eat. "You know, Granger, I've said far stranger things. Don't know why that one shook you."

"Me either." She attempted a smile and returned to her dinner.

--------------------------
She was quiet on the way back to his flat. He, on the other hand, was in a rather good mood. After all, she was headed back to his flat with him. She hadn't even attempted to offer a weak excuse as to why she should really head home.

"Do you think Malvolio ends up taking revenge?"

She hadn't said anything in so long that he was taken aback by her question. "What?"

"At the end of Twelfth Night, his last words are a promise to be revenged on the whole lot of them because they all played such cruel trick on him. So do you think he actually does come back for revenge?"

"Well," he said, opening the door to his flat, "Shakespeare obviously wanted us to be in suspense. That's why he didn't write Thirteenth Night."

"It's not quite a happy ending then, is it?"

"Sure it is. Everyone but Malvolio is happy."

"But he could come back and ..."

"And what? Kill them all? Not bloody likely. He's a buffoon. Anyway, why does the nebulous possibility that something bad might sometime in the future make it an unhappy ending? If you think that way, then no story has a happy ending, because every character could get run over by a bus as soon as the last page is turned. You want some tea?"

"Yes, thank you." She followed him into the kitchen. "Anyway, even without Malvolio's final words, how happy is the ending, if you think about it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Orsino has married someone who's been lying to him the entire time."

"When he agrees to marry her, he knows that she was lying. And he loves her anyway."

"So you think they end up happy?"

"Except for the dreadful bus accident that occurred on Thirteenth Night." The kettle whistled. He filled both of their cups. "What's the matter, Granger?"

"Hmm?"

"The matter. With you. You know, if this is how you react to Twelfth Night, remind me never to take you to a production of King Lear."

She stared forlornly at her tea.

"That was a joke."

"I know. I'm sorry, Drake."

"What is it?"

"Nothing." She stirred sugar into her tea. "I'm just ... kind of stressed about work."

"Do you regret this, Granger?"

The stirring became slightly frenzied. Tea spilled over the sides of the mug. "Regret what?"

"This. Me. Last weekend. Is that it?"

"No. That's not it at all," she said, mopping up the spilled tea with a napkin.

"What if you lost your job? Would you regret it then?"

"No." She seemed surprised at how quickly the answer came. She locked eyes with him. "Drake. I didn't expect this to happen."

"But it did."

"Yes it did." She took a sip of tea.

He couldn't read her expression. Her eyes were hard, her lips set. Was she saying she was glad it happened? That she didn't want it to happen again? "Look, Granger, can you just please spit out whatever you're going to say? This is driving me even more insane than I already am."

She didn't actually say anything. Instead, she clutched his shirt in her hands and drew his face close to hers. Her lips were warm and tasted like tea. She pulled him against her, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He pressed his body into hers, dug his fingers into her hair. Her hands were already up his shirt, already desperately trying to tug it over his head. Suddenly, the fact that she had not answered his question mattered very little. Her hands roamed over his body, frantically caressing his chest, back, and stomach.

As his shirt hit the floor, a low groan echoed in her throat. The sound seemed to make all of the blood in his body instantly pool in his groin. Her shirt soon joined his, and he began to suck wildly at the sensitive spot on her neck. She sighed, let her head fall back, fluttered her fingers through his hair. He kissed down her neck, across her shoulders, nudging her bra straps aside with his thumbs. She wrapped a leg around his waist, thrusting her heat against his erection. He ran one of his hands up her calf, her thigh, to the sides of her knickers.

She took one of his hands in hers and pushed them away from the counter. Her eyes were sharp, hot; her face and throat was flushed rosy pink. She led him by the hand out of the kitchen. He assumed she was going to pull him down on the couch, but she kept walking, intent, it seemed, on getting them into the bedroom. She stopped just outside the doorway and began to undo his belt.

"Granger?"

"I don't want to talk now." Her voice was low and husky. She unclasped her bra. He obliged her wishes, instead using his mouth to engulf one of her stiffened nipples. She moaned, still fumbling with his belt. He unbuckled it for her and stepped out of his jeans as she shimmied her skirt down over her hips. Her hips, God, her hips. He loved how round they were, how they sloped and crested beneath his hands. He knelt in front of her, grazing her skin with his teeth, tugging at the sides of her knickers until she practically ripped them off her body for him. She entangled her hands in his hair and began to drag them both toward the bed. When her legs touched the mattress, she collapsed backwards. He slid her knickers over her knees and growled softly, a guttural testimony to how delicious she looked was just then, sprawled out before him.

But before he could begin to pleasure her, she sat up.

"What is it? You don't ... you don't want me to?"

"I do. But more."

"More?"

"Yes." Her lips were red and swollen. A purplish love-bite was blossoming on her neck. Her hair had freed itself from its bun, spilling in soft waves around her shoulders. A thin layer of sweat glistened over her body.

"You are so fucking beautiful, Granger."

She leaned forward and kissed him tenderly in response.

"Are you sure? About the more?"

"Yes."

"Alright." He went to the small cabinet next to his bed and opened the top drawer. He retrieved a package of rubbers, tore one from the strip, and put it next to her on the bed. Then he resumed his former position on his knees. He pulled her closer to the edge of the bed and ran his tongue along the inside of her left thigh, stopping just before the juncture between her legs. She sighed and shivered. He repeated this with her right thigh, this time moving even slower. Then he used his thumb to give her clit the gentlest of strokes. She whimpered and bucked her hips against his hand.

He pressed his tongue inside her, savoring her sweetness, her saltiness, her moisture. At the touch of his tongue, she gasped sharply; he felt the muscles in her thighs tighten and tremble.

He moaned into her sex and inserted two fingers inside of her. As he licked her clit, she began to thrust herself against his fingers. He had meant to tease her a little, to draw back before she climaxed, but he couldn't help it; he pushed his fingers in deeper and began sucking on her clit in rhythm with his fingers. A cry tore from her body as she crushed his head against her.

When she lay back down on the bed, he climbed up next to her and kissed her cheeks, her temples, her forehead. She swallowed thickly and ran her hands over his back. He was now impossibly hard, and he wanted to fuck her so badly that he was almost dizzy, but he waited for her to be ready.

They locked eyes. Without saying a word, she pushed his boxers over his hips and handed him the condom. He took it, kissed her hungrily, and put it on.

He hovered over her. Sweat dripped from his forehead down into the space between her breasts. She parted her legs, took his cock in her hand, and gently led him into her.

The heat, the wetness, the tightness ... "Fuck, Granger." He shut his eyes and drew in his breath sharply.

She wrapped her legs and arms around him like a spider, pressing his skin against hers, his chest against hers. Neither of them moved, not even to draw breath, savoring the seamless jointure of their bodies.

He opened his eyes; she was looking straight at him. Her eyes were soft, but intense, peering into his as if she were searching for something. His throat tightened as he returned her gaze. Her right hand traced down his face's angles, wisping across his lips, down his neck. She kissed him hard, invading his mouth with her tongue, seizing first his lower lip between her teeth, then his upper lip, grasping as much of his hair as she could hold in her fist.

Slowly, he began to thrust into her. She groaned against his mouth and arched her back, pulling him in deeper. He broke their kiss and pressed his forehead against her neck, trying to concentrate on the rhythm of her pulse instead of the overwhelming desire to lose all control. Her legs contracted tightly around his hips, encouraging him to pump faster. He lost himself in the motion, rocking his body against hers, acutely aware of the swells of her body beneath him, matching her soft groans with his own. Suddenly, he stopped moving, willing himself not to finish before she did.

Sensing the nearness of his climax, she whispered: "Come for me, Draco." That simple command was more than he could handle. He clutched at her hips, burying himself inside her over and over again, until he couldn't discern her moans from his, until lights began to explode behind his eyelids, until he lost all sense of time, or place, or self.

And when the world became solid around him once more, when he could hear something besides the rush of blood in his ears, he carefully slid himself out of her, anchoring the condom with his thumb and forefinger. He got up, threw it in the trashcan, and returned to the bed.

They lay next to each other in a sweaty, panting heap.

"Sorry ... not much stamina," he said between breaths.

"Shh." She stroked his head. "Amazing."

"Granger ..."

"Mmm?" She snuggled into his neck.

"Stay here? Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Good."

She turned on to her side, hair cascading across the pillow, arm draped across his chest.

"Granger?"

"Mmm?"

"I sort of like that I can't remember having sex with anyone else."

She hugged him tightly.

"Granger?"

"Mmm?"

"I think I might be in ..."

"Shh."

"Ok."

"Goodnight, Drake."

"Goodnight, Granger."

She seemed to fall asleep immediately. He kissed her head and listened to her breathe for a while before finally drifting off himself.