Chapter Text
“Divine, isn’t it?”
Hermione glanced up from her wine glass. Nathan Wallace was smiling at her, his teeth blinding, a single strand of hair falling perfectly in his eyes.
She made a note to ask him about his hair products at the end of the night.
There was an aura about Nathan that screamed, “This man fucks.” Even if Hermione hadn’t known his reputation, she could feel it in the confidence of his every movement. The man had clearly seen his fair share of bedrooms— and supply closets at the Ministry, if Ginny were to be believed.
Nathan lifted a brow at her, and Hermione blinked. “Er— yes. Absolutely.” She took another sip of wine, letting it roll around her tongue. “It’s— it’s very—”
Overpriced, she thought.
“Light and balanced,” said Nathan smoothly. “Crisp on the palette, with a sustained citrus finish.”
“Precisely.” Hermione hummed around her next sip. “It’s exquisite.”
Brushing her curls back, she watched Nathan’s eyes fall to her bare neck. “I take it you have an interest in wine?”
His eyes gleamed.
Hermione refused to think about the indignity of her present circumstances as Nathan launched into a monologue about the nuances between French and Spanish varietals, boasting about his lavish trips all the while.
It was all Malfoy’s fault, really. If he hadn’t humiliated her last weekend, she wouldn’t have cried to Ginny about it, who then wouldn’t have hatched a plan to hook her up with one of the Ministry’s biggest skirt chasers.
Getting Nathan to invite her out had been simple—she’d ignored his lingering glances and flirtations for months. It took only a dropped file in a Ministry lift, a wink, and a generous view of her backside to secure an invitation to a new French restaurant in Covent Garden.
The hard part had been forcing herself to show up.
She’d tried to back out at least a dozen times over the last week, but Ginny had been relentless. Just two hours ago, she’d shown up at Hermione’s flat, ripped the covers off the bed Hermione was hiding in, and practically tossed her into the shower. She’d commandeered Hermione’s hair and makeup, coaxed her into a matching lingerie set, and strong-armed her into wearing the sexiest dress in her closet.
Hermione’s grumbles had been drowned out by lectures about lubrication charms and Ginny’s cheery reminiscence of the time they heard Alicia Spinnett talking to Parvati about how Nathan had made her come for a minute straight.
In the end, Hermione had still wavered—in the literal sense as well, as her heels were far higher than she was used to—but Ginny had anticipated her. With a hand on her shoulder and a brusque reminder that “needing a good fuck was the root of all her problems,” she’d wished Hermione a happy shag and shoved her through the Floo.
So here she was. Listening to Nathan wax eloquent about his—connections to famous winemakers in the French Riviera, apparently.
He had better make her come for a minute and a half.
A pause brought her back to the present— Nathan had stopped talking, and was staring at her with an expectant look.
“That sounds incredible.” Hermione snatched up her wine glass, holding his eyes as she sipped. “And where is your next trip?”
Nathan grinned, and continued.
Hermione forced herself to pay attention for the next ten minutes, resisting the urge to summon the waiter over so she could deliver her order already, scarf down two-thirds of her overpriced dinner, and receive her promised orgasms at Nathan's flat within a decent hour. If all went well, perhaps she’d even be back in her own bed before midnight.
Because that’s all that this was: a need to get fucked.
She refused to lose her nerve when the opportunity was right in front of her, and her need was apparently overpowering enough to drive her into temporary insanity. After all, that was the only explanation for the fiasco last weekend.
Which she would decidedly not think about.
The waiter drifted over again, and Hermione gave him an encouraging nod, cracking open her menu.
“Right," said Nathan. "Suppose we should order at some point. Keep up our energy, and all that.”
Hermione blushed in spite of herself, and Nathan winked at her before turning to ask for the evening’s specials.
There was no question that Nathan Wallace was fit. On a purely physical basis, Hermione supposed she was flattered by his interest. She might have even paid him mind sooner if his flirtations hadn’t begun right on the heels of her broken engagement with Ron. Unfortunately for Nathan, and her poor sex life, Hermione had sworn off all men and entered a committed relationship with her vibrator for two years. Until she'd made a colossal misjudgment in the form of a pointy-faced prick, that is.
Not that she was thinking about him.
Nathan cracked some joke to the waiter, and Hermione smiled weakly when he caught her eye.
She tried to imagine what he'd sound like when he came. He clearly wasn’t a selfish lover, but given how often he cycled through people, his dedication could only go so far. In all probability, he shared some similarities with the kind of man she was well-accustomed to—one who would give her a perfunctory kiss to the forehead once he was through with her, roll over, and pass out before his head hit the pillow.
The thought left her surprisingly cold.
“Hermione?”
She blinked, focusing on Nathan’s laser-blue eyes. He tilted his head at her.
“Thoughts on the Terrine de Foie Gras?”
“Ah. Sorry, let me just—” She peered down the menu. “Yes, that looks excellent to start—”
“Malfoy!”
The word sucked the air from the room.
Hermione's heart thudded dully as she froze, uncertain whether she’d just been thinking too loudly. She dragged her eyes upward, following Nathan’s cocky grin to the front of the restaurant— where Draco Malfoy was standing with the Belgian ambassador. Staring directly at her.
Her head felt light.
He was in a black coat, his posture tall, his hair tousled. His mouth was hard as she met his gaze, and her lungs refused to expand until he looked away.
“Wallace.” Malfoy gave him a crisp nod.
A chair dragged somewhere—Nathan, standing to greet them. Dazed, Hermione followed. Hands were shaken, and Hermione dimly registered herself saying hello to Matteo Peeters, and Malfoy. She thankfully only had a second to feel nauseous before Nathan interjected.
She focused her energy on smiling as naturally as she could while voices washed over her, exchanging pleasantries and clipped replies. When it was finally over, she sank back in her chair, her face on fire and her pulse racing.
“How about that table?” came Malfoy’s drawl.
Hermione could only turn to watch as the hostess nodded and changed directions, ushering Malfoy and Peeters to an empty table just several yards away. Malfoy’s eyes found hers, and he held them as he passed his coat to the attendant and took the chair facing the window—facing her.
She jerked back to her place setting. Mercifully, Nathan was still engrossed in dinner options.
By the time the waiter returned, Hermione had drained her wine glass, and considered bolting at least three times. She tried to order off the lunch menu twice before Nathan rescued her by suggesting the Halibut. The moment he opened his mouth to order, however, they were interrupted by a familiar drawl.
“I strongly recommend the Escargots à la Bourguignonne, Matteo. It’s spectacular—”
Nathan paused. Hermione's eyes narrowed.
“It's the best in London,” Malfoy said loudly, as other patrons shifted to look in his direction. “Honestly even better than I’m accustomed to in Paris—”
Hermione's lips pressed together, and she snatched up her just-refilled glass of wine.
“I was erring towards the baked lobster, but”— Nathan shrugged and snapped his menu shut— “I think I’ll have the Escargots instead.”
Hermione grimaced a smile and drank deeply, her fingers twitching to strangle the wanker and end whatever sick game he was playing at.
Twenty minutes later, Hermione learned that the only solution to being stuck in a small restaurant with one man that was walking sex and another man who had just rebuffed her for sex was to get sloshed.
Very sloshed.
Unfortunately, Nathan seemed to be eyeing her alcohol consumption like a hawk, and as much as Hermione appreciated his attempt to respect her mental facilities, it couldn’t have come at a worse time.
She tried to distract him with an incessant stream of questions about his hobbies, and vacations, and work— anything to keep his attention from the level of her wine glass, and the way Malfoy’s eyes were still boring into them.
Her efforts seemed successful in keeping him off Malfoy's trail at first, but by the time they finished their salads, Nathan’s head swiveled in his direction.
“The two of you work together, yeah?”
Dread twisted in her stomach, but she kept her features blank. “On occasion, yes.”
Nathan rolled his shoulders back. “I meant to ask you about the lifted embargo on Sicily. The two of you headed up that deal, didn't you?”
“I suppose." Hermione shrugged. "Malfoy represented the DIMC’s interests, and I represented the DMLE. But we were hardly the top leadership on the team.”
"Ah. Well, congratulations, at any rate.” Nathan scratched his jaw. “How was Sicily?"
“Short," she said lightly. "I’m itching to go back. I don’t know if you ever been to any of the other islands, but Panarea is supposed to be stunning—”
Fifteen minutes later, Nathan had waved away the waiter twice when he tried to refill her wine, Malfoy was still staring, and Hermione was just about ready to tear her painstakingly-styled hair out by the roots.
She was also just about ready to grab her water, storm over to Malfoy, and dump it on his head for having the audacity to reject her just twelve days ago (not that she was counting) and then proceed to sabotage the first date she’d been on in two years.
The utter tosser.
Worse yet, Nathan had clearly noticed the tension. He'd started glancing over his shoulder, and Hermione drew a steadying breath when he finally leaned forward to interrupt her mindless prattle about work.
“Hermione”— he lowered his voice— “I don’t mean to make assumptions, but is something going on between you and Malfoy?”
Hermione scrunched her nose, forcing a thin laugh. "God, no. Why would you think that?”
Nathan cast a surreptitious glance across the room. “Well, he keeps looking over here. A bit unnerving, really.”
“Ignore it. We had a disagreement in Palermo about our joint strategy, and he’s still sulking about it, I'm afraid. Thankfully, the deal still passed.”
At least it wasn’t a complete lie.
“I see.” Nathan’s shoulders relaxed.
She smirked, as if the idea were impossibly absurd, and Nathan’s eyes dipped to her mouth. “He and I aren’t involved in the slightest, believe me.”
"Good. Well, sorry for the disagreement, of course— but good.” He tossed her a lazy smile and leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head—
—and knocking right into the waiter who had just arrived to serve his dish.
Hermione could only stare with slow-dawning horror as the plate splashed down his front, sending snails and sauce flying into his lap. Nathan yelped and shoved his chair back, stains blooming over his shirt and trousers.
“Shit! ”
His shirt was drenched and smoking as the waiter babbled apologies, fumbling for his wand.
“Fuck— you’ve scalded me!”
Nathan threw his napkin on the table and rushed from the room. It was only when her knees almost buckled that Hermione realized she'd gotten to her feet.
The room began buzzing, the distant shouting grew in pitch, and an overwhelming stench of garlic began to permeate the room— doubtless the reason for Malfoy's enthusiastic recommendation of the Escargots. Hermione spun to face the culprit, and found Malfoy barely containing his laughter— his face red, his shoulders shaking.
Her blood boiled.
She yanked her clutch and shoved her chair in, tossing him a murderous glance as she stormed from the dining room. She followed the sound of the noise, bursting into the kitchen just as the Floo erupted in flames.
Hermione gaped at the empty fireplace until a hand-wringing maître d' rushed over, explaining that they'd taken Nathan to St. Mungo's out of an abundance of caution. He'd asked them to tell her that he'd Owl her later, once he was home.
A dry laugh burst from Hermione's throat, and she didn't care how unhinged she looked. She shrugged off the maître d's ramblings about free gift cards and strode quickly for the exit, barely pausing when an attendant ran after her with her coat. The door banged open as she escaped, wobbling in her heels as she rushed onto the cobblestones—
—and directly into the rain.
Of course.
The sky was dark and streets were empty, the rain glimmering amidst the lampposts. Hermione could have Apparated home, but she needed to walk off this complete disaster of an evening. Needed to clear her head, and forget the way Malfoy had ruined her plans, just like he'd ruined her mind, and heart.
The man was quite literally the worst thing that had ever happened to her. She couldn't believe she'd been stupid enough to sign up for the Sicily project, knowing he'd be on it, insisting to herself that she could shag him out of her system. Couldn't believe she'd been foolish enough to think he'd ever agree to have sex with her in the first place.
She should have known that he'd clear his throat and shift away from her every time she drew closer. That he'd ignore all her hints, and respond to her best attempt at bedroom eyes with a slammed door in her face.
Him witnessing the disaster with Nathan tonight was only the humiliating cherry on top. The problem was that it wasn't just the refusal of sex from Malfoy that stung—and it was only Malfoy she wanted, she could admit that now— it was the refusal of all of him. The way he snarked so subtly and cleverly that others might never catch on. His indifferent demeanor, and the way it belied his careful, painstaking work. The way a held look or brush of his fingers could make her breathless for hours.
She wanted more— all of him, really. As much as she'd be inclined to quit her job and flee the country should he ever find out.
She was almost at the end of the street and not at all on the verge of crying when something brushed her elbow. Hermione startled, and her lungs constricted when she whirled around.
"Granger."
Malfoy's eyes were bright, his face flushed. He'd been running.
"Listen—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry about Wallace, all right? I shouldn't have laughed."
"No, you're not."
His face grew stony, but he didn't deny it.
She opened her mouth to tell him she had no interest in his games, and wished him a pleasant evening. A harsh laugh came out instead.
"God knows what you meant to accomplish tonight by sabotaging my date, but you succeeded. I hope you're happy."
"How is it my fault that he's an oaf?"
"You know perfectly well that you were staring. It was enough to put anyone on edge—"
"Perhaps I was just fascinated by your terrible taste in men—"
"And that affects you how, exactly?"
There was silence, apart from the rain against the cobblestones.
She watched Malfoy's jaw tense, his fists clenched at his sides. He was angry about something, and in all probability, finding out why would do her more harm than good.
With a final scowl, she turned and kept walking.
"Granger—"
"Bugger off!"
“Bloody woman—”
He used his long legs to cut her off, and she snarled up at him. "I suppose you're in the mood to get your bollocks hexed off tonight—"
"If you'd have just answered any of my owls—"
"—already apologized for my poor judgment, you have no right to speak to me outside of work—"
"—fucking impossible! Why do you think I said no?"
The question knocked the air from her lungs.
Hermione turned to the pavement, struggling to tamp down her emotions. The rain was falling harder, quicker, moisture dripping from her ruined curls.
"I don't know," she finally said. "And I don't care. Please just leave me alone."
"No." Hermione whipped around, and found Malfoy's gaze icy on hers. "The reason I said no because of what you were doing. You're too transparent for your own good—"
"Oh, my apologies for thinking you'd be amenable to having sex with a Mudbl—"
"Don't you dare." He stepped into her, his eyes flashing as she jutted up her chin. "You came onto me in Sicily because you wanted to keep this there. Keep this hidden."
"Keep wha—"
"Us. You, and me."
She blinked, her lips parting.
"Tell me I'm wrong."
Her head jerked. "I don't—"
"I won't be hidden, Granger. When I kiss you, everyone is going to see it."
"Malfoy—"
"When I fuck you, it's going to be in your bed. In your sheets." He stepped closer as her stomach somersaulted. "This is no one-off, and unlike you, I have no interest in lying to myself."
She wanted to tell him that he was wrong. And right. But the world was spinning, and thunder was rolling, and none of it mattered anymore as Malfoy closed the last bit of distance between them.
Shivering, Hermione closed her eyes.
There was no sound beyond the drumming of her heartbeat as a warm hand lifted to cup her chin. No feeling but the drag of a strong thumb on her lips as the rain fell around her, through her, washing away her devastation and heartbreak.
Her lashes fluttered open to find Malfoy staring down at her, his pupils blown black as he drank her in.
"Say it," he whispered. "That you want this."
Hermione's coat was soaked, her hair plastered to her neck. But she wasn't cold.
"Yes." The word escaped her in a sigh, and she pushed up on her toes as he pulled her into him, pressing his lips to hers.
