Work Text:
“I hate this song.”
Hermione appeared to say it to no one in particular, but as Draco was the only other person in the room, it seemed plausible that she was, in fact, speaking to him.
He frowned down at his notepad. “What do you have against ‘The Holly and The Ivy’? I’m given to understand it’s a classic.”
“It’s repetitive and dull.”
“All Christmas music is repetitive and dull, Granger.”
She scoffed, and Draco looked up to find her visibly annoyed. “Yes, but some of it is charmingly repetitive. This is just…” She clicked her teeth in annoyance, circling the aluminum table between them.
The testing room was a white, tile shoebox, with just enough space for Draco and Hermione, the aluminum table, and the golden object at its center.
“At least they’re not playing the one you hate yet,” Draco offered.
Hermione’s gaze went unfocused, staring into some horrific middle distance, if her expression was anything to go by. “Oh god, the Mariah.”
“Say what you will, I like that ‘Baby Please Come Home’ one.”
Tossing her head back, Hermione groaned. “Please spare me and start the damn clock, Draco.”
Grinning, Draco plucked up the time turner at the same time that Hermione—oh, fuck him, she was pulling her hair up.
“You know,” he said, trying to keep his tone arch as he fiddled with the dials, “they make these contraptions called hair ties. Wonderful invention.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Sorry, but I don’t need my wand to do magic and I don’t feel as precious as you do about using it for other things.”
The present in his pocket suddenly felt like it had its own gravitational pull.
“Bookmarks, hair pins, a stirring stick—”
“It doesn’t hurt the core, so I don’t see the harm—”
Placing his hands flat on the aluminum table, Draco sighed. “It’s a magical instrument, Granger, not a spoon.”
Her brows pinched. “I wouldn’t pull my hair up with a spoon.”
Exasperated—and horrifically fond—Draco shook his head and began to speak. “For the record, this is Draco Lucius Malfoy, Unspeakable in the Time Rooms, on the 21st of December at 7:17 PM, working with his partner.”
He paused, giving Hermione a significant look, and she pursed her mouth around a smile before chiming, “Hermione Jean Granger.”
“Thank you, and we’re running a third and final test loop, set to last for twelve and a half minutes.” He turned the knob on the side and then looked up at Granger to add. “Or approximately three Mariah Careys.”
Hermione glowered. “Fuck off, Malfoy.”
Smirking, he let the Time Turner activate.
A whirlwind of sound and light blurred around them, Draco reaching in to extract his pocket watch as the object did its magic.
“I do hope there are still pies when we finally go up to the office party,” Hermione muttered, pulling out her notebook and beginning to take notes.
“Granger, if there’s not, we can just—” He mimed turning the time turner’s dial again.
“Draco!”
“What?” He gave her a crooked grin and delighted in watching Hermione try not to smile. “It’s true.”
She drew up her shoulders, which meant that she was about to be incredibly swotty. “That would be an inappropriate use of a time turner, Malfoy.”
“Arguably, all uses of time turners are inappropriate, since they were outlawed after your little midnight tête-à-tête with my father in fifth.”
“Yes, how is Lucius doing this time of year?”
Draco leaned in as the world started to right itself, lifting his brows in impish glee. “I hear the dementors like to jazz up the place with mistletoe.”
Hermione snorted.
How Draco came to be partners with Hermione Granger had been something of a series of surprising events.
The Head Unspeakable, Dara Saengkaeo—a short, squat, stern Thai-Brit wix, with hair they kept cropped short and pretty, brown eyes—often told him that they had hired him to Mysteries based purely on the strength of his cursebreaking.
From there, he’d tried out several of the departments in the Department of Mysteries, giving the Death and Love rooms wide berths, before getting invited to work on the time turner team with Granger, Michael Corner, and his own childhood friend, Theodore Nott.
To, perhaps, everyone’s great surprise, he and Granger got on great. They were similarly swotty, similarly intellectual. She was the faster, bolder of the two, whereas Draco preferred to hang back and observe or test from a distance. She forced him to jump in, he helped her rethink her angles when she got stuck.
In short: they were complementary. A little bit of a yin and yang situation. Tea and biscuits. Fish and chips.
Maybe Draco was hungry.
“I suppose I don’t have much room to talk, what with abusing those repeated use portkeys to avoid McLaggen,” she said, sounding distracted.
(It was hardly a surprise that Draco had fallen hopelessly and disgustingly in love with her after six months.)
Draco nodded. “Watch out for him this year: I think he’s trying to catch folks under the mistletoe.” He pointed at Hermione with his pen. “Just one more thing he’s got in common with the dementors.”
“Maybe I’ll catch Padma’s twin under the mistletoe instead,” Hermione mused, and as much as it pained him to imagine it, Draco could hardly blame her.
He sighed, “Fuck, Prem’s gotten hot since he started taking T.”
This, apparently, was a Very Good Development, because Granger gave him that smile he loved best: the one when he had surprised her to the point of endearment.
“Your discovery of your latent bisexuality has got to be one of my favorite things about becoming your partner this year.”
With a dip of his chin, Draco gave a bow. “Yes, please do extend my thanks to Longbottom when next you see him.”
Hermione pushed herself back up to standing, circling the turner and casting a wandless diagnostic. “Course. I still think you should have shagged, but a cheeky New Years’ blowjob never hurt anyone.”
“We didn’t shag because of the cheeky blowjob; I saw his cock and my arsehole sealed shut.”
“That’s funny: if I saw his cock, I’m pretty sure my legs would fall wide open.”
Draco leaned down to the turner, lowering his voice into a sultry whisper. “Please let the record show that Unspeakable Granger wants to shag Neville Longbottom brainless.”
With a snort, Hermione picked up her pen and chucked it at him.
The task Head Unspeakable Saengkaeo had set to Hermione and Draco at the beginning of the year was to install some new, stricter boundaries on the remaining time turner. Was it possible to make the devices solely for situations like Hermione’s in third year? Could they imbue the time turner with enough magical sentience—a bit like the Sword of Gryffindor—to only serve the better interests of all people involved?
So far, they had only managed to restabilize the thing: they had spent the last three months slowly extending out the turner’s length and had it up to a grand twelve minutes.
Granger summoned her pen back as she studied the turner. “Stability looks good.” She had the nerve to cast a wandless status spell, reading the runes as they floated. “Reckon we’ll be able to go for fifteen minutes by the new year.”
“A whole quarter of an hour: think of the possibilities.”
Trying not to smile, Hermione gave him a look. “How’s the containment field?”
Twelve minutes passed with arithmancy and runes and charm design and charm diagnostics. Who could resist falling in love with the witch when she was so bossy? So godsdamned intelligent? Workdays went by in a flash because she was brilliant and a joy to work with.
Probably why the closing of the turner window always took him by surprise: Draco didn’t just want more time with Hermione Granger—he wanted all of it with her.
“Alright, fifteen seconds to reset,” she said, scribbling a few notes.
“We’ll return just in time to hear another chorus of ‘The Holly and the Ivy.’ Aren’t you excited?”
Hermione cut him a look, even though her eyes twinkled with amusement. Grinning, Draco opened his pocket watch and counted down—
To nothing.
They both frowned—first at the turner, then at one another, then at the turner again.
“Huh.”
Draco gave the turner an experimental nudge. “That’s… not right?” He looked at his pocket watch again. “We’re over the intended loop end by twenty seconds.”
Hermione edged up to the table, pulling her wand out of her hair, a gorgeous waterfall of curls draping over her shoulders. Her diagnostic spell glowed between them, a pinch forming between her brows.
“Nothing looks off about the charm matrix…”
Stepping closer, Draco leaned over her shoulder, getting a sanity-threatening hit of Granger’s sweet honeysuckle perfume. He may or may not have taken a deep, cleansing breath—to help himself focus.
“Yes, and your runes look right.” Shaking his head, he looked down at his watch again.
“I don’t understand what—"
The expected whirl, the blur of color and light—
Draco’s watch had reset to 7:17 PM.
They spent ten minutes arguing about whether or not Draco had operated the turner wrong, an accusation with which he took extreme umbrage.
“For the last time, I’m not an incompetent twat, Granger: I know how to use a time turner!”
She twisted her hair up again, jamming the wand back in after an irritated battery of diagnostic spells; Draco felt another strand of his tenuous sanity fray away as a single curl fell into her lovely face.
Perhaps he should just march down the hall and walk himself through the Veil? Save everyone some time?
“Evidently you don’t, given that we were delayed by two and half extra minutes.” She shrugged, her eyes wide with innocence. “Maybe your thumb just nudged the dial because you were too excited thinking about shagging Neville.”
He cut her a flat look. “Enough about Longbottom.”
In a stilted, tense silence, they both opened their notebooks, both cast diagnostic spells, and both began to double-check everything. Charms, arithmancy, if testing protocols had been appropriately and consistently followed…
All to come to one disturbing conclusion: there was no discernible reason the turner had malfunctioned.
Hermione shook her head. “It doesn’t make any sen—"
Blurring colors. Flickering lights.
Draco looked down. His watch said 7:17.
Again.
They spent the next loop arguing about whether or not the time turner was involved at all.
Granger got so passionately insistent that it was the center of the loop that Draco was seconds away from pinning her to the test table and snogging her about it.
She did this thing, you see, when she got really animated—her hands gesticulating wildly, eyes sparkly-bright—where she would repeatedly brush her hair out of her face. It was maddening. It was charming. Draco wanted to volunteer to brush her hair out of her face for the rest of all time.
Anyways, he had the enormous pleasure of proving her wrong by spending the second (or, he supposed, third) loop with the turner under a Faraday spell of his own design.
His smug smirk when the world blurred around them earned him a flush on those gorgeous cheeks, a two-fingered salute that he wanted to suck into his mouth.
So when the next cycle began, Hermione’s hands were on her hips.
“Alright. It’s not the turner.”
Draco leaned against the wall with a small smile. “Go ahead and say it.”
She cut him an irritated sidelong look. “You were right.”
“Thank you.”
“Which means that something else in this room is setting it off.” Her gaze went keen. “But this is a testing room. There’s nothing new in here besides our clothes and anything in our pockets?”
Dread began to sink him down, weights in his stomach, his arms, his legs. The sun at the center of this nightmare appeared to be in his left breast pocket.
“Oh.”
Above them, the music broke into a boisterous rendition of “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” Hermione gave him a sharp look. “Oh?”
Draco rubbed at his forehead, hoping to stave off the reality that was beginning to dawn, and repeated, “Oh.”
It took him three tries to get the damn patronus to coalesce into its embarrassingly nervous shape.
“What the fuck, Theo,” Draco hissed. His leggy pony patronus gave two hops, a high-pitched whinny, and then galloped out of the room on its knobby legs.
(Of course his patronus couldn’t have been a beautiful, majestic stallion. No. He got a magical guardian who occasionally tripped over their own spindly limbs.)
In an absolutely unsurprising turn of events, a small cardstock note tumbled onto the table with a quiet clink clink.
Draco snatched it up and read it before promptly incinerating it.
“Draco–”
“Don’t.”
Draco had never been very good with anger; he understood shame much better. Anyways, this body was currently converting oxygen into carbon dioxide and fury into pre-mortification: the miracle of life.
Impatient, Hermione planted her hands on her hips.
“Just—” He swiped his hands through the air. “Give me one loop to summon my courage.”
It was the most awkward fourteen and three-quarter minutes he’d ever experienced.
And he had lived with Voldemort.
His watch said 7:17 again when Draco prepared to ruin his own life. (Not the first time. Probably not the last, either.)
The green velvet box was heavy in his hand as he pulled it out of his pocket and set it on the table. Turning the box towards her with a grimace, he opened it and gestured with something that could have been a flourish but looked more like an exasperated flap.
Hermione frowned, looking up at him from under her brows. “It’s a hair clip.”
“Yes.”
Now her brows lifted. “It’s…” That pretty, swotty mouth somersaulted into a wiggly line. “Beautiful?”
It was. Twenty-four karat gold, twisted into honeysuckle, the pistils made of tiny yellow diamonds.
Draco nodded. “Yes.”
In a move that made his heart crease with affection, she prodded at the box. “Who is it for?”
He dropped his head into his hands. “Fuck’s sake.”
“What?”
“Why else would I need to summon my—” He blew out a breath and looked up at her. “It’s for you, witch.”
Hermione pointed at herself. “Me?”
“Merlin, fuck, yes.” Draco threw his hands up. “Every time you use your wand to put your hair up, I lose another year off my life. I’ve had to use more erection-hiding charms in the last six months than I did all of year six at Hogwarts!”
Distracted, Hermione bobbed her head from side to side. “I should think that having a murderous dictator threatening your life would make things drastically unsexy.”
Draco let his mouth fall into a flat line. “Unhelpful.”
“Sorry, it’s just that banter is sort of our thing.”
“Yes, well.” He gestured to the hair pin. “Less banter, more touching the cursed object to get us out of this loop.”
Instead of putting him out of his misery, however, the witch hummed, her expression thoughtful.
Draco adopted a warning tone. “Granger…”
She was frowning at the pin. “Two loops ago, Theo sent you a note.” Brown eyes lifted to look at him. “What did it say?”
Yes, he was afraid this might happen.
It was just that, well… Draco had sort of been hoping that he might be able to just show Hermione the gift and end the enchantment. He didn’t really want to explain that Theo had clearly done this to bully Draco into asking her out: a doomed endeavor.
But Granger was a red cap with a bone when it came to mysteries she wanted to solve, and apparently Draco Malfoy and the Case of the Hair Pin had tragically fallen onto that list.
He sighed. “It said Time to change your testing parameters.”
“Huh.” She stared at the box, reaching up to trace her lips with her hand. (Salazar, just kill him.) “I suppose it makes sense.” And then, with no further ado, she reached out and closed the box with a quiet snap.
Dragging his eyes up to hers, Draco made a face of abject misery. “I was really rather hoping you would touch the pin and spare me any further humiliation.”
“Why?” Her face was pleasant, but Draco felt like Caterwaul charms were going off in his skull. “I told Theo I wanted to shag you senseless not two weeks ago, and he’s clearly delivered an opportunity here.”
The Caterwaul charms morphed into white noise, a high-pitched ringing in his ears.
“Shag—you—”
Brisk, Hermione nodded. “Yes, I think we should consider testing different parameters, like Theo suggested.” Walking slowly, she made her way around the other side of the aluminum table. “Don’t you?”
Draco was having trouble making his mouth work. Or his brain. His throat.
His eyes were doing a brilliant job, though: they were darting up and down Granger’s body, trying to assess whether or not he was in trouble, whether she was having him on. She didn’t appear to be taking the piss?
Also, gods her dress today. Dark green silk, flirty fit through the top, delicious drape through the hips—he wanted to bury his head in it.
“I—”
Hands landed on his chest and Draco could finally gulp down some air; he was panting like he’d just ran a 500-yard dash.
The edges of Hermione’s mouth tilted up, amused. “Have you ever wondered if arousal would persist across time loops, Unspeakable Malfoy?”
Had he ever wondered—
Merlin, fuck.
“Gods, yes,” Draco told Hermione’s mouth before promptly leaning down and slanting his lips over hers.
Were there probably better, more romantic ways to have their first kiss? Yes. Definitely.
But what was a hopelessly devoted bloke meant to do when the witch he loved suggested spending multiple time loops getting each other off? Insist on romance?
Nah.
He’d make up for it later. Six or thirteen orgasms later, ideally.
Fuck, her lips. Draco cupped her face in both his hands, just relishing in the feeling of her lips on his—the plush give of them, the way they tasted. He swept his tongue into her mouth, and she opened so beautifully for him that he could cry.
She’d made short work of getting his shirt untucked, helping herself to his torso. Her fingers traced the shape of his abdominals, the curve around his hip, and made a soft sound of appreciation that went straight to Draco’s dick.
Well. Since they were taking liberties.
His right hand sloped down her side, riding the slopes of her waist, her hip, her bum. He pulled the skirt up, in search of skin—
And Draco groaned, collapsing his head onto Hermione’s shoulder as his hand drifted up her leg, thumb brushing against leather. “A thigh holster.” He lifted his head up and gave her an accusatory glare. “You’re killing me.”
Her smile was deceptively sweet. “Because you want to feel it against your ears?”
“Yes.”
He spent a long, luxurious handful of minutes just snogging the living daylights out of Hermione while he toyed with the holster. Threading his thumb under, he stroked the strap between his fingers. He indulged in feeling the soft skin under the pad of his thumb, tracing the line of Granger’s thigh. He wrapped his hand around the firm muscle, squeezing it with relish.
She broke away with a husky laugh. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely.” He leaned in and gave her another kiss that melted into a heated snog. “I think I’ll spend two loops like this.”
“I was rather hoping you’d spend a loop on your knees, actually.”
He knelt before her so fast that said knees stung.
“Wow.”
“Shh.” Draco nuzzled into her midsection, deftly pulling down her panties as he peppered kisses over the silky green material painted on her stomach. Sliding his hands up her calves, he leaned back to watch the skirt rise, revealing brown, freckled skin. “Leg up, darling.” He looked up at her and Hermione’s mouth was slightly agape, her lips shiny from their kisses. Giving her an encouraging smile, he held up the bunched silk. “Hold this for me?”
He must have genuinely surprised her, because she took the skirt and draped her leg over his shoulder without a word, her eyes sparkling as he pressed a reverent kiss to her thigh.
“Thank you.” He kissed a little higher. “You are too—” Licked a stripe up firm muscle, enjoyed how she gave a little quiver. “Kind to me.”
And, turning his head, Draco took his first taste.
Oh fuck, she was—
Draco groaned. “You cannot imagine how much I’ve—” Distracted by the lovely, shining lips before him, he dragged his tongue along the shape of her, sucking away something sweet, sticky. “Better than I dreamed.”
“Draco—”
That made him require a break, the tremulousness in her voice. Winded, he leaned back, giving his aching cock a harsh squeeze to the point of pain.
“Not going to make it very far in our experiments if you say my name like that,” he said with a laugh, and Hermione had the gall to tangle her fingers in his hair and tug him, face first, into her luscious cunt.
“Don’t care. Make me come.”
Something wet and hot spilled in his pants, and Draco moaned as he began to fuck her with his tongue.
It was better this way. They would find out if his cock would reset to hard or if, as the ones bearing the object under a tempus reverte, his oozing tip would stay in its current state. Much to consider.
She tasted glorious. Sweet, tart, earthy.
Hermione’s legs clamped tighter around his head and Draco did indeed love the feeling of the leather against his ear, the way her fingers were twisting in his hair.
Fuck, he’d do anything she wanted.
“Ah—”
Pleased, Draco redoubled his efforts.
Hermione whined, “Noooo.”
He was a little too distracted to ask No? with any real intention to stop. She just tasted so good.
“The loop,” she panted, pushed his face deeper into her cunt, “It’s about to—”
Draco dropped back into his body, the turner sitting on the table before them. Across the aluminum divide, Granger was breathing heavily, her eyes dark, hot.
She licked her lips. “Still hard?”
Draco tilted his head to the side with a half-smile. “Still wet?”
They collided.
This time, Draco didn’t fuck around: he reached under her skirt and checked for himself, fingers stroking over the damp gusset of her panties, groaning in both despair and delight.
“Fucking gorgeous, Hermione.”
She retaliated by rubbing the heel of her hand where his trousers struggled to contain an absolutely obscene erection.
“I need it.” She kissed him and it was brutal, ferocious. “In my mouth? Or cunt? Both?”
Pushing what felt like very flirty pants aside, Draco ran two fingers along her slit, groaning into Hermione’s mouth when they sank in without resistance.
“Fuck, you can have whatever you want.”
“Yeah?”
“Gods, yes. Including and not limited to my fortune, my flat, and my life force.”
He started to pump his arm, tasting Hermione’s pleasure, the build of her ecstasy in the mind-altering kisses she gave.
She meant, Draco thought, to get her hand inside of his pants, to start making him whine—
Only he curved his fingers and gave an experimental rub that made her knees give a little and that seemed to distract her sufficiently from her task.
“Draco—”
“Come on, darling, let me have one.” Licking along her mouth, he smiled as he pressed his thumb to her clit. “I’ll let you make me come in my pants.”
She did him the enormous favor of shouting his name as she shook in his arms.
On the seventh loop, Draco lifted her in his arms the instant they reset, pinning her to a wall as he rutted against her with speed.
“Fuck, I think you might kill me,” he moaned when she tugged one side of the top of her dress down, offering him the loveliest rose-brown nipple he’d ever seen in his life.
Hermione hummed, giving him an approving look through her lashes as he started to suck, nip, lick her tit. “Just make sure you get me off before you shuffle through the Veil, Malfoy.”
“Gods, yes. As many times as you’ll let me.” He kissed his way to the other one, pulling the fabric out of the way with his teeth. Fuck, this one had freckles in the shape of a constellation on the side. “Merlin, these are perfect?”
“Thank you.” Hermione rolled her hips against him and his higher processing powers shorted out. “I’ll take that cock now, please.”
“Yes, darling.” He did his best to undo his trousers whilst still pinning her to the wall, worshipping those lovely tits.
She promptly yanked him away by the chin, her face stern. “Let me see.”
“Hm?” Draco was vaguely aware that there was saliva glistening on his lips and chin.
Hermione gave a pointed look down.
“Oh.” He leaned back, fisting himself for her inspection.
Hermione’s answering oh came out in a soft gasp.
Trying to see himself through her eyes, he gave his cock an appraising look.
Draco was no Longbottom, of course, but he was a respectable length, a good girth. The shape was pleasing and he had always liked the vein that meandered up the left side, the swell of the head.
A first-rate prick, in his opinion.
Biting her lip, Hermione raised her eyes to his—and smiled. “That’s lovely, Draco.”
Unfortunately, her words did make heat rise to his cheeks, the back of his neck. Her expression took on a dangerously knowing slant.
Reaching down, she guided him where she was gloriously, filthily wet. “Now, be a good boy—” (Draco’s ears started to ring again.) “—and try not to come.”
Every thought in Draco’s head eddied out.
So far today, he had kissed, gone down on, and now was actively fucking Hermione Granger, the love of his life. The witch was flushed, impaled on his cock, tits spilling out over her dress, and pinned against a wall with her hair forming a corona of curls around her beautiful head.
As far as Draco was concerned, new Christmas tales should be written about this night.
“Oh.” She had the nerve to work herself on him, as though testing out the feel of him. Her eyes were dark with lust. “You fit me just right, don’t you?”
The twitch that resulted from that suggestion was harsh enough that they both groaned.
“Draco,” she warned, and he shook his head, grabbing her hips and pressing them against the wall to keep her still.
“Don’t tease if you want me not to come, Granger, you’ll sully the results of the experiment.”
With a moan, she pulled him into a messy kiss. “Pest.”
“You’re gorgeous,” Draco retorted, drawing his hips back, pushing them in with a perilous clench of his abs, “Your cunt is so fucking perfect.”
Somewhere above them, Mariah started again—they only had two more minutes before—
“Don’t—” Hermione’s teeth closed around his lip and they both froze. “Oh, I hope she never hits that final note.” They both moved—Draco out, Hermione up—and he slid back home. Gods, she was snug. Warm. Deliciously tight.
He pulled back again and she was already beckoning him back in. Every stroke was wet, long, good; bending his knees a bit, he was able to swivel his hips to brush against Hermione’s front wall until she whined.
Fuck, he wasn’t going to last. Draco thought about potions ingredients. Time turner elements. The safety protocols for running a test loop. How long they had argued about whether Charm and Check sufficiently communicated that this was a test and adjust period for the turners and whatever else they ended up working on.
Around his cock, Hermione’s cunt closed in. Around their excellent shag, Mariah’s high note threatened to do the same.
“I’m going back in time to stop this song from being written,” Draco swore, “That way she can’t interrupt—”
They were both panting. Both flushed.
Draco’s cock was so hard that it was becoming painful, and Hermione’s lovely, lush tits were diamonds hidden beneath her dress.
Reaching in his pocket, Draco extracted the velvet box once more and opened it.
“I’m prepared to beg you to end this, Granger.” He never took his eyes off her as he walked around the table, sliding the box under his hand as he moved. “Fourteen and three-quarter minutes at a time isn’t enough. I need hours. Days. Potentially the entire Yule hols.”
Hermione didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She just watched Draco’s advance, her chest rising and falling with short breaths.
He stepped until the toes of their shoes touched. “I need you to free us from Ms. Carey’s reign of terror.”
The edges of those beautiful lips tipped up. “No one can end Mariah’s reign of terror over Christmas, Draco.”
His hand was already tangling in those curls, thumb tilting her chin. “Going to immobilize you and just chuck the hair pin at you. Then drag you back to my lair for orgasms and spoiling.”
Her brow wrinkled adorably. “Is there a threat in there somewhere?”
Delighted, so turned on he could cry, full of love, Draco leaned in—
She stopped him with a hand to his chest. “What about the Solstice party?”
Draco shook his head, smiling all the while as he leaned in, his words spoken into a kiss, “All I need for Yuletide is you, Granger.” He bit her lip. “And possibly a long series of kink-oriented experiments in your flat.”
Hermione’s grin slanted into something mischievous as she picked up the hair pin. “Let’s bring the time turner.”