Never Again

**see part one for notes and disclaimers**

Section 3:

Hermione determinedly did *not* allow herself to think about that first night in the flat while she rushed through the end of her shower. The last thing she needed was to get distracted all over again and slip back into fantasies. Harry couldn’t snap her out of them this time; they didn’t have a floo connection in the bathroom. Hopping out of the shower, she cast a quick, haphazard drying charm at her body and her hair before wrapping herself up in her towel, racing back to her room, and throwing open the closet to find something appropriate to wear. She froze for a moment as she took in the sight in front of her before beginning to curse, more heatedly than ever, in English this time.

Nipsy had been at it again.

Although S.P.E.W. had died a slow, painful death years before, Hermione had held on to her personal, fervent belief that elves were mistreated and misunderstood for quite some time. But that was all before she had to deal with Nipsy. Nipsy’s life purpose was the care and maintenance of the Malfoy family laundry. From what Hermione understood, it was a position that ranked fairly high in the elfish household hierarchy. Since clothing was the path to freedom for unscrupulous elves, only the most trusted elves were selected to handle that task. Nipsy had been the Malfoy laundry elf for nearly thirty years and was *very* proud of her post. Her entire life revolved around keeping Master Draco’s wardrobe in perfect condition at all times. This was not as simple as it sounded, especially since the majority of Draco’s clothing somehow ended up in Blaise and Hermione’s flat. Nipsy popped in at all sorts of improbable times to collect the dirty clothes and deliver the clean ones. (It was pointless to store Draco’s clean clothes at the manor when he woke up in Blaise’s bed over half of the time.)

The problem was, the stubborn elf couldn’t be convinced not to take Blaise’s and Hermione’s laundry along for the ride. It wasn’t done out of spite; if anything, Nipsy seemed to be prodigiously fond of both Blaise and Hermione. It was simply that Nipsy, with all the pride of a house elf, didn’t believe clothes could be truly clean unless they were elf-cleaned, and had no scruples about removing piles of perfectly clean clothing from Hermione’s closet to wash them all again. No matter how many times Hermione protested, all she got in return was a look of doting condescension, a lying promise to leave Miss Hermione’s clothes alone, and an empty closet at the most inconvenient times. Such as right then, for example, when she was running horrifically late, anyway.

Continuing to curse up a storm, Hermione dashed into the living room, still dressed in only a towel, and began digging for suitable Quidditch-viewing wear through the perfectly-folded pile of clean clothes left in a bin. (They *had*, after considerable effort, managed to convince Nipsy that they did not want to be disturbed when they were sleeping by her coming in to put away the clothes. If she truly felt in her laundry-loving heart that the clothing absolutely *had* to be delivered in the middle of the night, she was to leave it in a bin in the living room instead of delivering it to each bedroom.) A quick dig found a pair of panties, socks, and jeans, but that was where her luck ended. Her bras were, no doubt, in there somewhere, but she couldn’t have said where, and the only shirts that she was able to positively identify as hers were far too thin to wear in an outdoor Quidditch stadium in uncertain weather. Finally, with a growl of frustration, Hermione simply grabbed the first warm-looking top she could find; a soft gray sweater; and hoped to high heaven that it was Blaise’s.

She didn’t even want to *think* of what Draco would do if she accidentally borrowed his clothes. The two of them got along well enough, having cobbled together a peculiar sort of friendship since she’d moved into the flat, based primarily on spoken insults and unspoken mutual respect, but she knew better than to think that mere friendship gave her the right to mess with his hair products or his clothes. Draco had to be *devoted* to someone before he’d let them touch his things.

Throwing her clothes on as quickly as she could, she grabbed her cloak, her wand, and her purse and apparated to Harry and Ron’s flat with a loud crack. The living room was a sea of noisy, constantly moving Weasley siblings, Weasley spouses, and Weasley spawn filling the small living room to overflowing, laughing and talking and eating large quantities of breakfast standing up. (The kitchen table was far too overloaded with the food Mrs. Weasley had brought to allow people to actually *sit* at it to eat.) Hermione hadn’t been there five seconds before she had a fully-loaded plate stuffed into one hand, a glass of pumpkin juice shoved into the other, and four different Weasleys (and a Potter) asking what on earth had taken her so long.

Fortunately, they didn’t wait for an answer, and between the hustle and bustle of gathering everyone’s cloaks, chomping down the last few bites of breakfast, and Mrs. Weasley practically frisking Fred and George searching for any prank products they might be sneaking in to the match, everyone was far too busy getting out the door to concern themselves overly much with Hermione’s uncharacteristic tardiness. Caught in the tide of departing Weasleys, Hermione followed along quietly, not noticing any real change in the noise and chaos and motion when the portkey turned the world topsy-turvy for a bit before settling into the Chudley Canons stadium.

It wasn’t until they were settled in their seats and all the boys had gone to buy every tacky Canons-labeled object that they could wave about in the air that Hermione, seated between Ginny and Padma, was finally able to think in complete sentences and take full breaths again, while chatting with the girls about the upcoming game. There had been quite a media blitz about the Canons securing Ron as their Keeper. With the fame from his role in the fight against Voldemort, practically every team in the Quidditch League had made it clear that Ron could write his own ticket, but his old loyalties had shown through. All the wizarding newspapers in Britain had shown up for his first team practice, and an enormous crowd had turned out to see his first game. Ginny and Padma were bursting with justifiable pride as they looked over the packed stands and saw signs already prepped with Ron’s name and team number. Frustration at Nipsy and annoyance at herself finally faded away from Hermione as she caught some of the infectious excitement pouring off of her friends while they waited for the match to begin.

They didn’t have long to wait. Not ten minutes after they arrived, the announcer came on and began calling out the line-up of the players. Harry, sporting a brand-new Canons cap and shirt and waving a large Canons pendant, slipped into the seat next to Ginny just in time to pull out his six-year-old omnioculars (flashing a wink at Hermione as she pulled out her identical pair) and scream like a madman as Ronald Weasley was announced. Hermione couldn’t help but feel a bit teary-eyed when she zoomed in on Ron’s face and saw that his ears had turned Chinese-Fireball-red while he grinned so wide that it probably hurt. She didn’t like Quidditch and probably never would, but at that moment, she was just so unbelievably happy for Ron, knowing without a doubt that this was the best day of his life. She was so thrilled that she could be there for it. As the balls were thrown into the air and the crowd went wild, Hermione sat back in her seat with a contented sigh and a soft, nostalgic smile.

The smile shifted into a puzzled frown as she felt something pricking at the skin of her back. Twisting around, she examined the back of her seat, but couldn’t find anything that would account for the odd sensation. Shaking her head and trying to shrug it off, she turned back to face front . . . only to feel that pricking again, this time at a different spot on her back, as if someone was poking her gently but persistently with a sharp needle.

Hermione squirmed in her seat, trying to get comfortable while avoiding drawing attention. It didn’t work. Oh, no one noticed what she was doing; everyone was far too busy watching the game; but no matter what she did, she just couldn’t get comfortable. Every way she turned, she could still feel something pricking against her skin. Her skin was starting to feel awfully sensitive and somewhat itchy. Hermione’s analytical mind quickly processed it as an allergic reaction to *something*, but she’d never had any kind of reaction to the cleaning agent Nipsy used before, which meant—

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she pulled rubbed the hem of the sweater between her fingers, grimacing as her suspicions were confirmed. Cashmere. She should have known. She hadn’t worn the material since she was ten years old and her parents made her wear the cashmere sweater Great Aunt Elsie had given her to the family Christmas party, but she still remembered her skin’s reaction. Hermione felt her stomach sink as another realization kicked in. Blaise was allergic to cashmere also, which meant that the sweater belonged . . . As inconspicuously as she could, Hermione lifted a sleeve to her face, testing the texture and the scent of the material against her cheek. Yes. It was most *definitely* Draco’s. That strong, sweet, utterly seductive smell that clung to fabric (and skin, and furniture) even after it was washed was a Draco Malfoy trademark. Hermione would have known it anywhere, even if she had never truly expected to find it wrapped around her body.

Well, that decided it. Bad enough to spend the rest of the game in a sweater that made her break out into hives. To add the distraction of Draco’s scent into the mix was just asking for trouble. Determinedly setting her jaw, Hermione gathered her purse from where she had shoved it under her seat, and leaned over to get Ginny’s attention.

“I’m going to go see if I can buy a t-shirt from the vendors,” she yelled once she finally caught the witch’s eye.

“Bored already?” Ginny replied, clearly amused, without taking her eyes off the game. Hermione managed a weak smile that Ginny didn’t see as she shifted around past the others to get out into the aisle.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she promised. Ginny nodded absently in acknowledgment, still focused completely on the game.

Fortunately, it didn’t take her long to find the souvenirs vendor. Unfortunately, he was utterly and completely out of t-shirts.

“Sorry, miss,” the man said, trying to look apologetic while he gleefully counted the money he had made, “but I’ve never seen such a rush on shirts. I’ve been cleaned out for the past twenty minutes. It’s that Ron Weasley’s first game, you know, and—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Hermione interrupted impatiently. “But do you really not have *any* shirts left? I don’t care about size. Or possibly a robe? Cloak? Anything, really.”

“Bad luck, miss,” the man replied cheerfully. “All I’ve got left are a few pendants and some hats that light up. Could I interest you in—”

“No,” Hermione stated firmly. “You couldn’t.”

“Suit yourself,” the man shrugged before returning his attention to his over-stuffed cash registered. Muttering to herself in Arabic, she started following the signs to the toilets. She had a handkerchief in her bag; she could probably transfigure it into a semi-tolerable shirt to change into in the toilet stall, even if that would stretch the linen rather thin. She didn’t dare attempt transfiguration on Draco’s sweater; he’d skin her alive if she did any damage to it.

The signs led her to turn down a corridor, and she frowned in bewilderment at what she saw. Instead of a large sign showing the entrance to the loo, there were two small doors next to each other, and a sizeable crowd of women congregated in one cluster, with a few men along the side. Shrugging off her confusion, Hermione approached the nearest woman, an elderly witch who had just pulled a pair of knitting needles out of her voluminous bag.

“Excuse me, could you direct me to the ladies’ room?” Hermione asked, as politely as she could.

“Join the queue, dearie,” the woman responded, gesturing in front of her. Biting back a groan, Hermione realized that what she had mistaken for a random crowd was, in fact, a long, snaking line of people waiting for their turn in the loo. “Only two stalls, it would seem,” the woman continued. “Shocking, really, for a stadium of this size. I suppose they never really expected it to fill up.”

Hermione sighed, trying to decide whether or not it would be safe to just duck behind a corner and try to transfigure a shirt and change into it there, when she heard a voice calling out her name.

“Hermione! What luck. Give us a hand, then?” Turning toward the voices, Hermione spotted Fred and George overloaded with every type of food the concession stand had to offer, holding the items close rather than risking a floating spell in the crowd.

Hermione’s eyes lit up at the sight of the thick, bulky sweater Fred was wearing under his cloak, and the t-shirt she could see peeking out from underneath the collar. Borrowing that sweater would be *much* better than dealing with the paper-thin shirt that was all she’d be able to get out of her handkerchief, and the t-shirt he was wearing underneath it seemed a reasonable guarantee that Fred wouldn’t get *too* angry with her for stripping him of his clothes. Rushing over to join the twins with a brilliant smile on her face, she almost didn’t notice the way they slowly backed away from her as she approached.

“She’s *smiling* at me, George,” Fred stage-whispered. “It’s scaring me; make it stop.”

“Coward,” George replied, bumping shoulders with his brother. “This is a historic event; Head Girl Hermione Granger, She of the Disapproving Scowl for Anything Regarding Either One of Us, is showing signs of *pleasure* at our approach. The world will never be the same again.”

Ignoring their nonsense, Hermione cut straight to the point. “Fred, give me your sweater.”

“It’s not really Hermione,” Fred insisted, addressing George. “It’s an evil clone attempting to molest me. Or perhaps it’s polyjuice. Angelina, is that you? I told you, no more sex with you now that you married George. Wearing a Hermione-face doesn’t change that rule.”

“I grabbed this sweater by mistake this morning; it’s cashmere, I’m allergic, the vendor is out of t-shirts, and I need something to change into. Now give me your sweater and find some way to hide me while I change into it, or you’ll be learning first-hand just how irreversible that hex is that I used on Tom.”

“Well, when you put it that way . . .” Fred began, but was cut off by George.

“Best not start stripping, either of you. Haven’t you noticed all the security guards around?” Hermione actually *hadn’t* noticed, but once George pointed them out, she saw them stationed in practically every corner of the hallway. “Worried about keeping control over this big of a crowd, I expect. Anyway, I don’t imagine you’d get too far out of your sweater before they had a thing or two to say about indecent exposure. This the line to the loo?” he asked, gesturing to the large cluster of people waiting nearby. Hermione nodded. “You could be here upwards of an hour before getting a chance to go in and change in private. I’d say your best bet is to just come back to the stands, and hope the game is over soon.”

Hermione groaned, but nodded her head. “You’re right,” she admitted, grabbing hold of one of the trays precariously balanced against George’s shoulder. “We might as well go back.”

“See? I told you it was a historic day,” George stage-whispered as they followed Hermione back to the stands. “She said I was *right*. Remind me to mark this day on my calendar when we get home. And to owl the ‘Daily Prophet.’”

Fortunately, all it took was one good glare and a movement of her hand towards her wand holster before the twins got the message to keep their mouths shut.

Fighting their way through the crowds, they finally managed to get back to their seats where Hermione slumped, itchy and miserable with her head in her hands, and prayed that the game would be over soon.

She inhaled deeply, trying to calm down and relax, and felt herself shiver as she breathed in Draco’s scent off the fabric. Damn, but it smelled good. She breathed in again, even deeper, until she could actually taste the scent on the back of her throat, savoring it at the same moment that she felt an itchy prickle of the cashmere against a certain spot on the side of her neck which had always been ridiculously sensitive. To her shock, the combination of the itch against such a tender spot and Draco’s scent in her nose and her throat made her feel a little . . . tingly.

Instinctively, she squirmed a bit in her seat, and had to bite back a moan. The tingles were spreading now, sharpest where the cashmere rubbed against her skin, but drifting into the lower parts of her body as well. She squirmed some more, clenching her thighs a bit, and heard herself whimper slightly. She wanted to keep her eyes open so she could make sure no one was noticing her, but her eyes got heavy-lidded with pleasure, and in spite of herself, they slipped closed.

Her back arched in pleasure, and she was abruptly reminded that she hadn’t been able to find a bra when she felt her nipples start to tighten, increasing their sensitivity and rubbing them up against the cashmere of the sweater. She gripped the hem of the sweater tightly, and started tugging on it deliberately, increasing the rub of the fabric against her all-too-sensitive skin. The prickling, electric sensations left on her flesh after the brush of fabric started to make her think of the feel of hands against her, fingernails scraping over her skin, teeth nibbling at her gently, teasingly, never giving her as much as she wanted, leaving her aching for more.

There was no cashmere between her legs, so there was no explanation for the sensations pulsing there, but she couldn’t bring herself to give it much thought when it felt . . . so . . . *good* as she wiggled around some more, grinding deeper against the hard plastic seating. She found herself panting for breath, taking in more of that overpowering Draco-scent that made her feel so hot and melty, and squirming in response which made the cashmere rub up against her skin while her hips thrust hard into her chair and waves of pleasure washed over her that stung and tickled and tingled in all the right ways.

Hermione could feel herself starting to sweat, making the material stick even closer to her skin, and her breathing was ragged and short as she felt the pleasure build and build and build into what she knew would be an unbelievable release in just a few . . . more . . .

WHAM!

The roar of the crowd was so overpowering loud that it literally hit Hermione like a slap in the face. Eyes flying open, she saw that the entire stadiumful of people were on their feet, screaming at the top of their lungs. It wasn’t hard to see why: Trevor Clintock, the seeker for the Canons, was zooming around the stadium with a grin on his face and a snitch in his hands. The game was over, and the Canons had won.

Dazedly, she rose to her feet, though she couldn’t bring herself to jump up and down as the rest of the Weasleys were doing. Her body was humming with arousal on hold, and anything that caused her breasts to bounce up and down against the material of the sweater would be *bad* right then, when she was barely holding on to her sanity and self-composure by a thin (itchy) thread. She managed to force her lips into a smile, but behind them, her teeth were clenched as she frantically calculated the best and quickest way to get *out* of there before she quite literally exploded.

Mrs. Weasley was saying . . . something . . . Hermione wasn’t quite sure *what* she was saying; but it was probably something about going out to celebrate with the rest of the family. They’d be expecting her to join them; of *course* they’d be expecting her to join them; and the excuse that she absolutely *had* to go frig herself to orgasm over Draco Malfoy’s sweater would not have gone over well. She tried desperately to come up with a plausible reason to leave but her brain was still buzzing around thoughts like ‘nipple’ and ‘clit’ and ‘hot, sweaty Slytherin fantasies’ and couldn’t be swayed into thinking logically. Just when she had resigned herself to joining the Weasleys wherever they chose to go and ducking away for a quick, humiliating ten minutes to off herself in the loo, rescue came from a most unexpected source.

“See there, Hermione,” George yelled over the noise of the crowd, throwing an arm over her shoulders, “I told you the game wouldn’t be long! Now you can pop home and change your sweater.”

“She didn’t want a sweater,” Fred yelled in response, playfully knocking George’s arm away from Hermione to wrap his own around her. “She just wanted a chance to molest me, didn’t you, love?”

“Lies, all of it,” George insisted. “Why would she want to molest you when everyone knows that I’m the good-looking twin?”

They continued noisily teasing each other to their mutual delight, but their banter had caused at least *one* positive result: Mrs. Weasley, always tuned in to any signs of her sons making mischief, had overheard them.

“Problem with your sweater, dear?” she asked, her voice not sounding the least bit strained in spite of the volume she had to use to be heard over the crowd. (Doubtless raising her children had built up her ability to raise her voice.)

“Grabbed the wrong one off the laundry pile, I’m afraid,” Hermione confessed. “It’s cashmere and I’m allergic.”

“Run along home, then, and catch up with us later,” Mrs. Weasley advised. “If we’re not still at the Burrow, we’ll leave a note for you telling you where to meet us.”

Smiling gratefully, Hermione grabbed the chance for a quick exit and started weaving her way through the crowd to the apparition point. The edge of her arousal that had faded since the game ended came back with a vengeance as the massive crowd crushed around her, shoving arms, legs, shoulders, and elbows against her body and her hyper-stimulated skin. By the time she finally reached the apparition point, she was literally shaking with need, and not even the fear of splinching herself in her distraction kept her from apparating straight into her bedroom.

She landed with a thump on her bed and immediately began stripping, unclasping the cloak first, and then barely managing to kick off her shoes before she dragged the jeans off her legs, pulling her panties and socks off with them. Her hands were shaking by the time she pulled the sweater off, hugging it against her chest with one arm while the other reached down between her legs.

She shrieked when her trembling fingers brushed against her clit, sending a spark through her system that was so powerful, she was surprised the bedding didn’t catch on fire. Shifting the other arm, she started rubbing the cashmere against her torso, feeling it all the way down her body from her neck to the top of her public hair and glorying in the prickling sensations while she pumped her fingers into her soaking wet folds.

Spots were flashing in front of her eyes and she was pretty sure she wasn’t getting enough oxygen, but she didn’t care, she didn’t care about anything as long as nothing came to interrupt her rising climax. Dragging one sleeve of the sweater up to her face, she breathed in Draco’s smell while rubbing it against her lips and tugging the end of the sweater against her *other* lips, which was more than enough to push her over the edge.

With a blood-curdling scream, she came. And came. And came.

Floating back to reality was a gradual process. First, she became aware that she was breathing again. Then she realized that her leg was bent under her body at an awkward angle, but that she didn’t have the energy to move it. Then—most unexpectedly—a voice rang out from next to her dresser, snapping all her body to attention by the end of the first drawling word.

“Isn’t that my sweater?”


To be continued . . .