Title: Maybe This Is Home
Author: blackorchids
Characters/Pairings: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: back to hogwarts!!!
Other Warnings/Content: established relationship, pre-HBP, oral sex, head boy/head girl tower
Word Count: ~3500
Summary/Description: They definitely have been getting along better this year than years earlier, but Hermione really doesn't think it means Malfoy fancies her.
Author's Notes: wow, shocking news about the move, guys! title from the song this is home, which I used for a title for a fic more than six years ago omg




It’s almost too-hot on the crowded Diagon Alley street, families poking out of their shelters to do school shopping with a determination to be cheerful that is almost inspiring. There are young kids running up and down the streets, older ones daring one another to poke at particularly disgusting ingredients at the Apothecary, and families crowded around Florean’s ice cream parlor, reopened by his two nieces.

Like always, there’s a group of kids pressed up against the window of Broomstix’s Broomsticks, gazing with reverent awe at the newest Firebolt HP, a name that had Harry flushing with embarrassment every time someone brought it to his attention. Across is Eeylops’, their owls well groomed and roosting proud, waiting for families to come around to purchase one, and next to the owl emporium, Sugarplums’ is overfull with third and fourth year-aged students all trying to stock up on enough sweets to vomit before the first Hogsmeade visit in October.

Hermione and Ginny are stopped a few times for people to gawk and thank them, and after they each pick up two sets of new robes from the illustrious Twillfitt and Tattings, a too-expensive clothing shop that Ginny had insisted on, now that they could afford it with their ministry payout for services to the community, they take refuge in Obscurus Books, one of the emptier shops on the street.

“I’m not saying Parvati and Lavender haven’t become vastly more tolerable since they started dating—” Ginny’s saying in a much-too loud voice for the public venue they’re at. Hermione is only half listening because she’s trying to decide if buying the newest publication of Hogwarts, A History is worth six of her hard-earned galleons, just because it has a new chapter about the Chamber of Secrets and Harry in it.

“But it is incredibly unfair that, while I get shuffled off into your old dormitory, you get a single in the Heads’ tower when—”

On one hand, the book is routinely the most unbiased source of information Hermione’s ever seen in the wizarding world. On the other, she already has two copies.

“And I do not believe for a second that you haven’t the slightest idea who might be Head Boy—”

Hermione pictures Harry’s embarrassed flush when Ron had teased him about the new chapter a couple weeks prior and, with a smug twist of her lips, drops the new copy into her cauldron. Just in case.

“I hope it’s McLaggen!” Ginny says meanly and Hermione lets out an indignant huff.

“Bite your tongue!” she scolds, rolling her eyes when Ginny snorts at her phrasing. “Don’t even joke.”

“He’s nice to look at, for sure,” Ginny muses, grabbing a handful of quills and giving Hermione half of them.

“All of the abs in the world don’t make up for that personality,” Hermione scoffs.

“Oh look, Draco,” comes a voice on the opposite side of the shelf they’re standing in front of. “I think someone is talking about you.”

Ginny’s eyes widen and she begins to turn red with the effort of not laughing. Hermione’s face feels a little hot.

“Can it, Zabini,” says Draco Malfoy, as the pair of Slytherin-alumns step out of the Arithmancy aisle and into the main landing where Hermione and Ginny are still stood, pretending to study Care of Magical Creatures textbooks.

“Granger,” Malfoy says politely as he passes by. “Weaslette.”

“Malfoy,” Ginny and Hermione say in unison. A thousand lines of embarrassing small-talk bubble up in Hermione’s brain, but, fortunately, the boys don’t stick around long enough for them to sneak out past her lips.

“I changed my mind,” Ginny says thoughtfully, later, as they’re paying. “I hope it’s Malfoy.”

The rest of the week passes in a blur, Molly hugging all of the Hogwarts-bound kids many more times in the days leading up to departure.

She and Arthur still accompany Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny to the platform, even though they’re all definitely old enough to floo there themselves, and, after hugging Hermione and Harry and squeezing Ginny so hard her eyes look seconds from popping out of her skull, Molly moves onto Ron, pulling him down so his face is at her height and pressing kiss after kiss onto rapidly-reddening cheeks.

They get on the train with seconds to spare, the goodbyes having taken more time than expected, Ron grumbling when some of the Gryffindor boys make kiss-y noises at him for the display. Hermione follows the growing group to a cart near the back of the train, stows her luggage, and then she and Ginny and Neville head towards the prefect cart for the meeting and to find out who the new Head Boy is.

Of course it’s Malfoy, Hermione is hardly even surprised, and she definitely doesn’t react the way he’s clearly expecting, but Hermione is hardly the same bossy little girl as she had been when they were all ickle firsties. In that same manner, Malfoy has changed too, because his sneer is basically polite, and he lets her push past him into the prefect cart without comment.

He keeps rushing her explanations, though, turning a meeting that she’d expected to be nearly two hours long into a brief forty minutes, and she’s a little more visibly annoyed with him, seething by the end of it as the prefects file out, talking about everything except their long list of duties and responsibilities.

“Malfoy!” Hermione shrills—she knows it’s shrill, but that’s just the tone of voice she’s stuck with when she’s annoyed. “It’s our job to prepare them for the year ahead, especially the first-time prefects.”

“We all got the same prefect letter, Granger,” he says mildly, still lounging in his seat with one leg crossed over his knee. He’s reading now, some book that Harry would definitely want to accuse of being full of dark magic, and Hermione can feel her eye twitching already, which definitely bodes well for the rest of the year.

“That letter only barely begins to explain the minute details—”

Here, he looks up, disbelieving. “I know you’re used to a slower-sort of person,” he says, maddeningly, “But even the Hufflepuffs are sure to figure out how to patrol an empty corridor. Eventually.”

Hermione takes a deep breath and expels it too-noisily, gives him a mocking look when he looks at her in fake alarm. She very distinctly does not engage, had made a secret pledge with herself to get along with any head boy, even if it was—

—Malfoy. She’d be sharing the heads’ tower with him, after all, and she’d be better off picking her battles.

Or something, she reflects ruefully, ten minutes later when they’re arguing too-loudly over something asinine. It was worth a try, and, like her aunt and dieting, she could always try again the following day.

The welcoming feast is as luxurious and gluttonous as it always is, and Hermione eats a little too much as she always does. Not as much as Ron, though, who looks a little pale and sleepy when he finally finishes eating, patting his belly and seemingly unaware that anyone sitting near them is staring at him in disgusted awe.

Too soon, though, it’s time for Hermione and her friends to separate at a fork in the corridors, Ginny and the rest of them wishing her good sleep and swell dreams before they head up the final flight of stairs that would take them to the Gryffindor tower, leaving her to turn left and climb a few steps into a seemingly empty foyer-style area.

Recalling her letter from McGonagall, Hermione strides over to the window on the right and counts four bricks from the sill. When she reaches out to touch the brick, her hand glides through as though it’s not there, and her fingers grip a cold, metal doorknob. Turning it causes the rest of the bricks on the wall to shift and spin out of her way, not unlike the Leaky Cauldron’s entrance to Diagon Alley.

On the tall, ornate door that hides the staircase that will take her to the heads’ tower, gold and silver detail work shimmers and dances, changing from pretty little vine illustrations into a line-art image of Morgana Le Fey, who asks Hermione a historical question in exchange for entrance.

It is twenty one steps in a tight, spiral staircase, and then the space opens into a small common room with two couches and two arm chairs, decorated in soothing creams and beiges instead of some glaring interhouse combination of red and green.

On one of the couches is Malfoy, writing steadily on a long piece of parchment, his long, extravagant peacock quill bobbing and twisting with each letter.

“I assumed you were lost,” he comments, their earlier argument apparently forgotten. “I’ve been here for nearly half an hour.”

“So nice of you to worry after me,” Hermione says smoothly, trying not to laugh when he shoots her a look of displeasure. She ignores his presence to explore their quaint little shared space, studying the books left on the bookcase near their dormitory doors and admiring the masonry of the little fireplace near the couches that she was certain they’d appreciate come winter.

There were more windows than Hermione knew what to do with, with sturdy, thick sills that she could picture sitting on and wasting entire days, reading, and the view of the lake was nice enough, even though she couldn’t see the giant squid in the distance because of the late hour.

Further back, the sight of the tiny orange spots of Hagrid’s cabin windows make her smile, and Hermione is so unbearably, completely glad to be home.

When she yawns for the third time, she closes her book and leaves it on the table between the couches and takes her leave, civilly wishing him a pleasant evening as she goes.

Her bedroom is a little more similar to the Gryffindor tower, her duvet and the drapes both a deep, lush maroon, little golden detail work embroidered in the fabric, and painted on the furniture. There’s a second bookcase between two more windows, and a strangely shaped desk that is accomodating of the roundness of the room. At the foot of her bed is her trunk, and lounging across the pillows is Crookshanks, who barely opens one eye to acknowledge her entrance.

To the right of the door to the common room is a matching door and, when she opens it, she is taken into a clean, beautiful loo, with a large soaking tub and a separate shower and gleaming blue tilework everywhere. There are two sinks and, with a sinking feeling, Hermione looks from the double sinks to the door across the room, which she assumes will lead to Malfoy’s bedroom.

She makes quick work of her nightly washing-up routine, determinedly does not think about what squabbles and privacy invasions the morning might bring. It’s a little later and she’s already almost completely asleep, when she hears the familiar noise of a shower turning on. Hopefully, that means it will be all hers in the morning.

And then she rolls over, drifting off to the peaceful noise of water hitting tile and Crookshanks’ purring.

In the morning, Hermione wakes a little earlier than usual, to try and ensure long enough time alone in her and Malfoy’s shared bathroom that she can properly wash her hair. The water pressure is a dream, though, and she gets distracted with the magical soap dispenser that has as much of a variety that she had remembered having in the huge prefect’s bathroom, and so she’s still very much naked and wet when Malfoy comes strolling in through his door to start his own morning routine.

She thinks, later, if the mirrors weren’t magical, they’d have definitely shattered with the pitch of her scream.

Malfoy is sitting on the couch when she finally inches her way out of her room, dressed and uncomfortable, and Hermione, in lieu of discussing such a horrible start to the school year, tries to pass him without talking.

“You could have warned me,” he accuses at her back, and she whirls, disbelieving.

“You could have knocked!”

“I did,” he tells her, any discomfort gone in the face of her indignation. “Several times, in fact. What were you doing in there, Granger, that had you so…distracted?”

There were, unfortunately, several different ways Hermione could have answered that would have been calm or suave or anything better than her stammering, flushing mess of, “I—you—would never—PERVERT!” before storming out, her saddle bag of books smacking against the entryway as she goes.

“So that’s why I need to move back into your tower,” she tells Ginny later, after recounting the whole, sordid thing, and Ginny looks close to laughter.

She’s better than any of her brothers, though, because she takes several soothing breaths and says, in a calm voice that only occurs because she’s looking at Hermione’s forehead as she talks, “That’s not so bad at all.”

Hermione mouths not so bad and watches Ginny take a break from being a confidant to give two separate Quidditch hopefuls high-fives and eat three quarters of a hastily-made breakfast sandwich in four bites.

“He’s flirting with you,” Ginny insists later, as the pair of them walk down to potions. Slughorn greets them cheerily when they get there, but Hermione barely notices because they’re sharing the classroom with the Slytherins and it is definitely too soon to face Malfoy again. “Lavender and Parvati agree that he’s totally an eligible date again!” her red-haired demon of a friend hisses at her as they join Harry and Ron at their table.

Potions passes without much fuss, and no one makes a peep about Hermione being naked, which must mean that they’re waiting for a better, more embarrassing moment to mention it. That, or—

—or Malfoy hasn’t told, because it really was an accident.

It seems impossible, but Hermione thinks maybe his father going to prison might have snapped Malfoy out of whatever racist little shithole path he had been headed down. Maybe it really had been a mistake, but that didn’t mean Ginny was right also because he definitely was not flirting.

Except that he definitely was, Hermione reflects that evening, when yet another argument has somehow, impossibly, turned into kissing in the middle of their little common room.

She lets him push her gently onto a couch, wrapping her arms over his broad shoulders as soon as he moves back on top of her, boxing her in and kissing her more deeply than she’s really been kissed before.

Idly, she bends one elbow and gets her fingers in his hair, soft and fluffy ever since he stopped using that atrocious styling gel, and she drags the other down from the nape of his neck, over the strong muscles of his back, to his trim waist, where she starts absently trying to untuck his now-rumpled white school shirt.

They kiss for an awfully long time, her fingers digging into his back and his hands cupping her face and her neck, at once hot and gentle.

“I really expected this to take more time,” Malfoy mutters in her ear before he starts nibbling on her earlobe in a really interesting way. He bites down her neck, too, totally unapologetic about his utter manishness of marking her up for everyone to see.

“Now, I know you’re not implying I’m a tart,” Hermione says at the same time she arches her neck to give him better access. She abandons, briefly, his buttons so she can get at her own and clear the way for his mouth to travel further down her chest.

He pinches one side in reprimand for her stupid comment, and then his long fingers drift a little further down to dive under the waistband of her skirt, toying with the elastic of her panties.

He’s smarter than the other boys she’s done this with, though, because he abandons that thought process very quickly in favor of going up her skirt instead, pushing it so the thick grey wool pools around her hips and her center, protected by only a pair of thin white knickers, is exposed.

He goes further down her chest with his mouth, laving at her nipples through the sheer fabric of her bra for a good long time and leaving them peaked and hard, getting delightfully cold beneath the moistened lace after he moves on. Below her belly, her shirt has not totally been untucked or unbuttoned, so he glides over it, shifting on the couch until he can reach the apex between her legs where Hermione stills him with one hand in his hair.

“What are you—” she gasps, watching him with hooded eyes and trying to clear her thoughts.

Fortunately, he seems to understand where she’s going. “You’ve never heard of it?”

Not outside books, she doesn’t say. She’s friends with enough blokes to know that most of them don’t exactly fancy this particular activity, and it’s common for Lavender and Parvati to joke about the real reason they’d started dating.

“Are you—sure?” she manages instead, which is not quite what she meant but good enough to get the meaning across.

Malfoy looks up at her from between her thighs, dark grey eyes blown by how big his pupils are, mouth already a little shiny from so much kissing. He arches a brow. “I’ve thought about it for years,” he confesses quietly, voice a little rough, and Hermione feels her stomach swoop and tighten in anticipation.

Too slowly, he drags her knickers down her thighs and past her knees, leaving her the one to wiggle them the rest of the way as he settles back down and rubs a little soothingly over the delicate skin of her pelvis where the elastic had dug a little too deep.

Hermione can tell she’s already quite wet, and him staring at her the way he is only makes that more evident, but they do not talk again before he gently takes two fingers to spread her open and blow cool, gentle air against her already sensitive clit.

Malfoy starts with little kitten strokes against her, easing her into it now that he knows she’s never done it before, goes at her clit until her tensed thighs relax a little and her fingers regain their grip in her hair. When he glances up, he sees her watching him, cheeks flushed and mouth a little open, and a hot rush goes shooting down his spine.

He gets a little more intense, broadening his strokes and angling two fingers inside of her, bending and twisting until he finds her sweet spot, putting constant pressure against it as he takes her clit between his lips and sucks a little, feeling smug when her breath hitches on a moan.

Granger pulls him up by his hair, kissing him and licking into his mouth when she realizes she’s tasting herself on his tongue and he groans against her bottom lip with how turned on he is, and her hands grapple with his waistband, fumbling the button of his slacks open and pulling out his cock with ease.

He’s hard and aching and her too-light grip doesn’t help, but when he looks away from the sight, he sees her smirking a little and he can’t help but growl, making her squeal.

It breaks the moment, soaks the seriousness from the room and suddenly it’s surreal and fun and playful and so, so good as he bites down along her jaw and she tugs too-hard against his hair and guides him towards her entrance so he can sink, slowly, slowly in.

Granger’s long exhalation almost covers his own hitching groan and he settles for a second, her thighs tight around his hips, her hands grappling for his own. He laces their fingers together, pushing her arms up around her hair, and starts to withdraw, pumping slowly and steadily until he’s easing sweet little hitching noises from her lips with every thrust.

He starts to move a little faster and she lets go of one of his hands to scrape his hair away from his face, a move so tender that his heart kind of stutters in his chest and he powers through, using his now free hand to get his hand back on her clit, thumbing at it rhythmlessly, his thrusts getting erratic as he chases the tightening, rapid-growing pleasure curling down to his toes.

Granger’s expression cracks and her head tilts back, eyes falling shut as she finally comes, his name falling from her lips and sending him chasing after her, hurdling into the void, his vision whiting out for a second.

When he comes back to himself, her fingers are stroking through the shorter hair at the nape of his neck, patient and gentle, and it’s all he can do to mumble, “Go to Hogsmeade with me?”

She says yes.