Chapter Twenty: Friday Morning

The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic, and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

Beta credit: bunnyhops and CoquetteKitten.

 

The next morning Hermione woke before the sun with a smile on her face, which was quickly replaced with a frown as she recalled what had happened in the commons the previous evening. Was he always headed in this direction?

 

She was glad she had left quickly, although the Gryffindor in her winced at what might be perceived as cowardice. On the contrary, in that blood-boiling moment she had physically bitten her tongue to keep from standing her ground and confronting Ron with his behavior. For a second, she’d wanted to show him the beautiful dragon on her hand and tell him everything. Then that same strong instinct had arisen – not yet, it had said with finality, and then she’d met Harry’s eye and they’d exchanged that silent communication of strategy. It wasn’t the right time for that conversation. When it did happen, it would most likely end a friendship – possibly two, if Harry took sides with her – forever.

 

Last Thursday I accidentally changed the course of my life, and now, here I am thinking what a lucky thing that was. Hermione would have dallied under her coverlet until her usual rising time, but she caught sight of the beautiful grey gown hanging from the door of her wardrobe. That was enough to have her springing out of bed and scrambling for her robe and shower caddy.

 

Half an hour later, she was back in her room carefully drying her curls with her wand. It was a fussy process but worth the effort, especially when she took the time to add a healthy dollop of Sleakeazy’s Hair Potion (which she bought by the case). The end result was a silky head of spiraling curls that cascaded past her shoulders.

 

Satisfied with the resulting mass of ringlets, Hermione took off her robe and slipped into the set of underthings she’d bought to wear under her bottle-green dress. Ginny had insisted that every witch needed pretty knickers and a matching bra, and so Hermione had blushingly picked out a set in dark green satin. Wizarding lingerie styles were a bit behind those of the Muggle fashion world, and there was really nothing to blush about, when she thought about it now. The knickers covered her adequately, and the strapless demi-bra was lacy but certainly not naughty. It lifted her small round breasts up and pushed them together just enough to deepen the small valley between them, and she caught herself palming her breasts experimentally. She snatched her hands away at once. Let’s not start that again!

 

Finally, she took the grey silk dress from its hanger and stepped into it. Hermione looked into the mirror and saw a beautiful young stranger. She was garbed in an empire-waisted gown that hung from her shoulders by thin straps. The simple cut dipped just low enough in the front to reveal the tops of her breasts, which looked lush and full because of the bra’s shaping. It ran like water down her torso to hug the curves of her figure and then flowed to her feet in undulating waves. It’s like wearing river-water. Hermione turned, and the mirror-stranger’s dress rippled and dappled in the light. She took a few steps, watching the way the heavy silk followed her movements in a delayed manner, making it seem as though she were moving through water. I look lovely. And sexy. I want Draco and Lucius to see me in this dress.

 

She needed to show someone immediately, and ran to Ginny’s room in hopes of finding her there. After much urgent knocking, the redheaded witch finally opened her door while rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Mindful that the dorm was full of waking witches, Hermione tried to keep her voice to a loud whisper. “Oh, Gin – I’m so glad you’re here! I was afraid you’d be in Harry’s room.”

 

Ginny hadn’t opened her eyes enough to notice her friend’s splendor. She said quietly, “Mmm-mmm. Ron pitches a fit when I sleep there, so Luna keeps Harry company most nights.”

 

Hermione had had enough waiting. She shook Ginny to get her attention and twirled in front of her. She whispered, “Draco gave it to me! Isn’t it gorgeous? He asked me to wear it today for the visit!”

 

Ginny was immediately awake and suitably impressed. “Gorgeous is right! Mother of magic.”

 

She was looking at Hermione critically. “You need to put on a bit of makeup – but just a bit – so that you’re wearing the gown and not the other way around. Can you manage that on your own?”

 

Hermione thought she could.

 

“Good. Oh, and-” Here her friend looked up and down the corridor and then dragged Hermione back to her own room. “You’re going to have to glamour that just a bit unless you’re going for full and immediate disclosure of the courtship.”

 

“Yes, I know, but not until I have absolutely have to. I feel like a princess.”

 

Ginny smirked. “That’s because you’re wearing a gown that probably cost as much as my parents’ house.”

 

Hermione gave her friend an impulsive hug. “Thank you, Gin, for everything. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

 

“You’d be a wreck, believe me, I know. And you’re welcome. Now hurry up and disguise that thing before someone sees it!”

 

When the two girls met Harry and Luna in the commons, it looked as though Hermione was wearing her school uniform under her robes, but she had a little more makeup on than usual, and her chocolate-colored curls were elaborately piled and pinned up by her silver hair comb. Luna noticed right away. “Look, Harry! Hermione looks like a princess in disguise today, doesn’t she?”

 

Harry glanced at Hermione and responded, “’Mione always looks like a princess.”, but he looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. She smiled and shook her head. It had been enough to share her secret with Ginny. She was looking forward to keeping it to herself now until the glamour came off for the visit.

 

Her friends dropped her off at the Headmaster’s office on their way to the great hall. The sound of Molly Weasley’s strident laughter met her ears when she entered. As she closed the door behind her, she processed the distinctly girlish giggle of Astoria, followed by an exclamation from Minerva. Great and Merciful Merlin, no good can come of those three together in one room. Hermione approached the table with trepidation.

 

Molly was in the middle of an anecdote involving her, two of her husbands, and a garden swing. Hermione decided to take control of the conversation immediately. “We are absolutely not discussing anything even remotely capable of making me blush this morning.”

 

Astoria argued, “But Hermione, Mrs. Weasley has a wealth of information regarding sex!”

 

“Which is something I’d rather not talk about!” At least, with these two listening in.

 

“Good morning, sweetheart! Let’s get you some tea and something to eat. That should shake you out of that grouchy mood!” Molly’s voice had taken on the tone one would use with a petulant child, and she was filling a plate as if Hermione were indeed five years old.

 

“Errr, thank you Molly, but I can do that myself.”

 

“Nonsense! How many more opportunities will I have to coddle you, Hermione? Next week you’ll be married off to Lucius and Draco and the next I see you, you’ll be all grown up.”

 

“I’m quite grown up now, thank you.” Hermione looked up, eyes narrowed, ready to say something she knew she’d regret later, but noticed tears in Molly’s eyes.

 

All fight left her, and she asked in concern, “What’s wrong, Molly?”

 

The motherly witch tried to smile even as her chin trembled. She leaned forward to pat Hermione’s hand. “This was supposed to have gone differently – or at least, I thought it was. You were going to be my daughter, and be married to Bill and Charlie and Percy, or Fred and George and Ron. Arthur and I were taking bets on whom you’d choose.”

 

Molly laughed tearfully as she said, “I was sure you’d end up with Bill and Charlie. They’re both such wonderful men! Arthur leaned toward the twins. And the oldest two sat the twins down two Christmases ago to talk about a possible merger.”

 

Hermione thought back to her conversation with Ginny, and her initial question about the possibility of having to marry six husbands. I can’t believe I thought that was a possibility – of course there’d be a split! More than four husbands would be ridiculous, and actually two is perfect.   She realized how far she’d been stretched in the past week. I remember how appalled I was at the idea of two husbands not that long ago – and now listen to me!

 

Molly continued, “I imagined a lifetime of meals just like this one. Now we have a little more than a week before you’re gone. Please, Hermione – please let me take care of you until then, sweetheart.”

 

Of course Hermione relented. However, Molly’s idea of taking care of her involved keeping her plate and cup constantly full and worrying that she looked a bit on the thin side. After the fifth such comment and the eighth offer of another scone, Hermione fell into the older witch’s clever trap. At least, that’s how it seemed in hindsight.

 

It started with Minerva remarking to Molly as an aside that Ginny would probably need more underthings soon, as Harry had a habit of tearing off her knickers and leaving them wherever they happened to land. Molly laughed behind her hand and started to reply, then turned to Hermione with a contrite look. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I completely forgot about your topic rule!”

 

Hermione was feeling generous because Molly had forgotten to refill her plate, and said, “Please don’t mind me, Molly. I was being over-sensitive.”

 

That was all it took for the conversation to, in Hermione’s opinion, devolve. One Harry story led to three, Minerva added whiskey to her coffee, and her new blonde friend showed exactly how uninhibited she truly was. Apparently things were progressing far more quickly within the impending Nott household, and by things she meant acts which she considered to fall under ‘perversion’. In fact, Hermione mentally dubbed the three wizards the Notties, and several minutes later amended that to the Kinkies.

 

“Wait! Astoria, I know I said I didn’t mind talking about . . . errrrr . . . sex, but I honestly don’t even think most of what your wizards seem to enjoy is mainstream. Could you, ummmmm, stick to talking about normal sex? I cannot believe that asking that feels like the safer choice with these three.

 

“Oh! Of course, Hermione – I sometimes don’t think about how different our wizards might be,” her friend giggled, and then asked Molly for advice on oral sex. And, of course, Molly wanted specifics.

 

“We started a few days ago. I asked Theodore if I could do something to please him especially, and he showed me how to take him in my mouth. I like doing it, but no matter how many times I try, it seems like I’ll never get it right.”

 

Molly was very sympathetic. “Oh yes, I remember how I struggled with that. Septimus taught me oral sex – I think it’s a very fitting lesson for the eldest husband to teach. You just keep practicing. I’m sure Theodore knows you want to please him, and will be patient. Don’t forget, dear – wizards enjoy a blow job regardless of the skill level – it all feels good!”

 

I don’t want to know. Hermione was blushing so deeply that she could feel the heat rolling off her face, but Molly and Astoria were relentless.

 

“I can’t help but gag a lot. It’s not the message I want to sent to my wizards!”

 

“You’ve got to relax your throat, sweetheart. It takes practice.”

 

Oh, sweet Circe, please don’t . . .

 

“I can with Theodore, but Nick and Theo thrust so deep and fast right away!”

 

Too much information!

 

“They’re boys, that’s the difference. This is all new to them, and they’re eager to enjoy your services. In time they’ll find their control, and then you’ll be able to take them down like a pro.”

 

Please let that satisfy Astoria! Please, let’s talk about something – anything – other than blowjobs!

 

Astoria was indeed satisfied, but now wanted to know what Molly thought of sex toys and light bondage. That was enough to send Hermione bolting from her chair. “Oh, look at the time! Sorry, but I must get to my first class immediately. Minerva, would you mind . . .?”

 

Minerva reluctantly left the table, practically dragged out of the room by Hermione. The lack of erotic conversation seemed to bring the professor out of her haze, and she remembered to remind the young witch that there would be a visit after dinner. Not that she’d forgotten – Lucius’ note had been tucked in her pocket since she’d received it yesterday, and every so often she ran her fingers over its shape in anticipation.

 

Hermione felt Draco’s eyes on her wherever she went. In Herbology, he made several trips past her table to the storeroom. Each time he passed, his gaze traveled over her and lingered on her hair and robes, and she knew he was wondering about what she wore. It seemed like the stretch of air between them crackled with heat and magic. She’d never seen such an intense look on his face, and felt her body responding to it. Sweet Circe, my knickers are completely soaked and he hasn’t even touched me.

 

Hermione wondered how he managed to navigate the classroom without ever watching where he was going. On his fourth trip, Professor Sprout reminded him kindly to bring a pot back with him to his station. On the way out of the classroom, Draco bent to her ear as he passed and asked quietly, “Are you wearing my dress?”

 

She blushed and called out, “Yes!” to his already retreating form.

 

 

Ron was really an arse at lunch. He had begun to take offense to every thing Hermione did, said, and wore. She ate her meal as quickly as possible, keeping her marked left hand in her lap the whole time. I’m not afraid to tell him in the slightest – but with the way he’s been acting, he doesn’t deserve to know! Besides, he’ll only be a troll about it. Only he could be so completely clueless. What did I find attractive about him? She knew that Draco was listening, and tried her best to avoid eye contact with him. It was impossible, and when she finally caved and glanced his way he winked at her and smiled. That was enough to carry her through the rest of Ron’s horridness.

 

She, Harry, and Luna left the table as soon as they could, leaving Ginny with her brother. Hermione was tempted to feel badly about that until Harry reminded her that, really, they were doing Ginny a favor – it was the perfect opportunity for her to screech at someone without having guilt later.

 

 

The afternoon dragged on, and Hermione was relieved when her last class was dismissed early. She decided to pass the time with a nap. In the haven of her room, she flopped down across her bed and stared at the ceiling for a long while. Eventually she fell asleep. Her dreams were vivid. In them, she danced with Ron at the Slytherin house party as Draco watched from a short distance. She felt Draco’s eyes burning against her skin, and in her dream-state it felt rational to control the searing heat of his gaze by removing her dress. It dropped to the floor and she saw Ron’s gaze turn predatory and his hands shoot out to grope her bare body, just as she felt the cool rough fabric of a robe falling over her. Large, gentle, familiar hands wrapped the fabric around her and scooped her up like a baby. Then she was in a dark forest, and it was night. The savage calls of Death Eaters rang around her, and she was running for her life. Suddenly there was a shadowy man-shape standing between her and the enemy, and the shape was pulling her behind it protectively.

 

“You shall not touch her!” The man-shape called out in a soft husky voice, to which the Death Eaters responded by questioning its authority.

 

There was another man-shaped shadow beside the first one now. It answered the Death Eaters in a rich baritone. “She is ours. Do you not see our mark on her skin?” At this, the robe was pulled from her bare form, and two sets of large hands kept her from covering herself. Dream-Hermione looked down upon herself and saw a strange mark, like a rune, on the soft skin above her right breast. The Death Eaters screamed out in frustration and then in their place stood Ron, his face curled in a sneer that was both hateful and lascivious.

 

“Take your hands off her! She’s mine!” The Ron in Hermione’s dream raked his eyes over her figure lewdly, and the shadow men draped the robe back around her.

 

“You made no claim, Pureblood, and now she is the prize of another House.”

 

“No! She was meant to be mine! My brothers placed war-stakes on her; I am the only one of my family who has not. I will not until it is the last option!”

 

Dream-Hermione gasped at this admission, and Ron’s face morphed into horror as he realized what he had said in front of her. The shadow-men stood on either side of her now, towering over her diminutive size. Their hands came to rest on her shoulders, and she felt comfort and strength trickling down through her skin and into her entire body.

 

You do not want her for yourself, yet you would keep her from those who do. You are the lowest of men. Leave and do not trouble us again.”

 

Hermione woke slowly, and the dream played about in her head over and over. She thought of the years she had waited for Ron, and the many girls he had pursued and enjoyed openly while stringing her along with occasional smiles and hand holding. How many nights had she left the house common room crushed that it was some other girl, and not her, snuggled up with him before the fireplace?

 

Then she thought of Draco, of his solemn care and courtesy, and of the many times he had hovered nearby and yet just out of her line of sight. She remembered him taking the firewhiskey from her sternly at the Gryffindor party, and intercepting her attempts at flirting with Ron. Both times, she realized now, he had been acting out of concern for the witch he already considered his own. She had never seen him with another girl, never heard any rumors about one, either. He had given her his first kiss. They had only just met, really, and yet their relationship seemed . . . bespoke. Each kiss he had both taken and given came to mind, and replayed over and over again for a long time. Once again, Hermione found her heart racing.

 

Draco was exactly the sort of man she’d wanted Ron to be – passionate but tender, protective and proud of her. The fact that she was marrying him next week might be an accident, but it was a happy one. And Astoria was right – Hermione knew in her heart that this was meant to be, and that she would never have rejected the war-stake in the end.

 

She wanted this young wizard in a way that was new and slightly terrifying. She wanted to kiss him and touch him – and to be kissed and touched in return. She could imagine them wrapped passionately around each other in a large bed, in a shower, on a table, on a couch -Harry’s sexcapades were proving useful, as she re-cast each of them with her and Draco in the lead roles. Hermione felt a burn of desire wash over her. I want to finger feed him pudding and lick his mouth. And take him in my hand and bring him to climax at the lunch table. And feel his fingers slide inside of me, teasing me until I beg for- She shook herself from that course of thought. It would only wind her up.

 

Lucius came to mind. The thought of marrying a man nearly twenty years her senior had unnerved her at first, especially one as sophisticated and confident as him.   Yet from the first time he’d sat her on his knee, his large hands had been warm and gentle on her waist, and his beautiful voice had been quiet in her ear. His solicitude extended to the attentive way he listened to her conversation, and to his teasing manner, which he used to keep the more intense side of his personality from frightening her away.

 

She had been caught and held captive at Malfoy Manor toward the end of the war. The Death Eaters had thrown her to the ground before Lucius and left the room at his command. As she had lain there, bleeding and sure of her impending death, he had frowned at her, and in the moment she thought he was plotting her torture. But then he had placed a disillusionment charm on her and whisked her to the deepest dungeon possible beneath the old house. There, cold and hungry but blessedly untouched, she had waited out her rescue. Even then, it seemed that he been concerned for her safety, because Hermione was certain that by sentencing her to such misery, Lucius Malfoy had saved her life.

 

And three years ago, when she had escaped from his dungeon, he’d left the subterfuge of being a double agent. He (and Draco) had cast a war-stake for her and openly joined the fight against the Dark Lord merely because the opposing side – the good side – was willing to promise her hand to the House of Malfoy in exchange.

 

He would make an excellent husband. She was sure of this even though they had only just met. He would be the sort of man who cared for her needs and wellbeing; who sought to make her comfortable, even though, for now, that meant tempering his own personality. He would love her, and she would most certainly learn to love him. And she wanted to do all the things she had just imagined doing with Draco with him, as well. The thought of being with him sent a frisson of desire through her body.

 

Lucius was a dominant wizard, and Hermione knew without a doubt that she would submit to him at times. He would, no doubt, teach her the kinds of things that Theodore was teaching Astoria. ‘He taught me how to take him in my mouth,’ her friend had said. Here in her room, without the embarrassment of voicing these private thoughts aloud with the likes of Molly and Minerva, Hermione found that the idea of pleasing Lucius in such a way was incredibly arousing.

 

Lucius and Draco are my wizards. Mine. It’s time to tell Ron, and time to stop hiding my betrothal from everyone else as well. It’s time to call Draco and Lucius by name, and to stop being so embarrassed about everything. It’s time to be the witch I was meant to be.

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