The Shirt

A/N: To all my readers, the next chapter of 'Freedom' will be up shortly, I just had to get this plot bunny to stop jumping around in my head first.

Enjoy!

The Shirt

Hermione Granger had always loved the word ‘Catharsis.’ Whenever any of her professors had talked about the word, she had always wished that it could happen to her, that she could have some cathartic ritual in her life to emotionally and spiritually cleanse something from her life.

She never knew that her moment of catharsis would be shoving all of her boyfriend’s—ex-boyfriend’s!—clothes into the rubbish bin, piece by piece, and when the bin got too full, casting an ‘incedio’ on them and starting over.

She was angry, so angry with him. Angry at him for leaving. Angry at him for staying in the first place. Angry at him for being him.

And what made her the most frustrated is that she really had absolutely no right to be. When they had started this relationship—ha! Like it could be called that!—he had said that it couldn’t work out, it wouldn’t work out, it wouldn’t be long term, she couldn’t fall in love with him.

But she had. She had absolutely, positively done everything that he said that she shouldn’t do. It was completely and entirely her fault, but she didn’t care about that as she shoved another outfit of his into the bin.

She wanted to cry but found that she couldn’t. She tried and tried but to no avail as no tears would fall. So she was frustrated and angry and absolutely loathed the evil little cockroach that had made her fall for him.

So close was she to breaking down that she was nearly ripping every single piece of clothing off their hangers and throwing them right into the bin; his trousers, shorts, pants and socks had already been charred beyond recognition. Her magic was so crackly that she was almost setting things on fire before they were in the bin. His shirts were now being offered up to whatever god reigned over fire.

Then she stopped.

Through the red haze of anger in her eyes, the tears trying to overflow, she saw the shirt. She should have remembered that it was here, in her closet. He had bought it for her after all. It was made of the finest pink silk that she had ever felt. Running her hand along the sleeve now, she remembered the happier time in her life when he had worn it for her.

It was on her birthday the previous year. He had taken her out to dinner—not something he did very often because the Prophet liked to find them and take pictures and proclaim things like “Hermione Granger the next Mrs Malfoy?”—and had handed her over a box with a smirk.

They had been out shopping a couple of weeks before in Diagon Alley, picking up some items from the Apothecary for his booming potions business, and Hermione had walked into Madame Malkin’s, eyeing the beautiful silk shirt in the window. He had followed her in, looking disgusted at the colour of the shirt. She smiled though, and had held it up to him, saying that it would look perfect on him. He replied with a sarcastic comment of him always looking perfect and had put the shirt back on the rack, leaving without even a backwards glance.

So when she had opened her birthday gift from him, she had been confused and surprised when she found the pink silk shirt lying in the box. She had looked up at him in curiosity. “It’s for you,” he had said. “For me.”

She had still been absolutely baffled and confused by the gift until they had gotten back to her flat and he had stripped off all of his clothing, putting on only the pink shirt. “Well does it look perfect?” he had asked.

And it had, it had looked absolutely fucking perfect on him. It had looked perfect on him while it was still buttoned up the first time he taken her that night, slowly and sensually. It still looked perfect when it was halfway unbuttoned and slightly dishevelled the second time, when he fucked her right proper, her legs over his shoulders as he thrust deeply into her. The third time had been after a couple hours of sleep, and she only saw the rolled up sleeves as he slid into her slickly from behind, but even that had looked perfect. The next morning, when he had had it thrown over his shoulders like a towel as he took her roughly on her kitchen table, it had also still looked fucking perfect.

She brought the silky fabric up to her nose and took a deep breath. It was probably her imagination, but the soft textile would probably always smell of sex. Sex between them. Something that she had missed incredibly in this last week since he left.

It had seemed like they were doing well. He had said that it wouldn’t be long term at all, but it had been almost a year that they had been shagging. He came to her flat almost every night, took her out more often, had clothes at her flat for when he stayed the night. He ate breakfast with her most mornings. It seemed like it had been a pretty perfect, thriving relationship with amazing sex thrown in as well.

She didn’t even really know how they had started. They had been at a Ministry party and she had had enough champagne to agree to him taking her home—to her flat, of course. Being the trusting woman that she was, she let him, not thinking he was being sneaky. That was, until he helped her take off her dress (which she was having trouble with due to the amount of alcohol in her system) and he began caressing her breasts, saying that they were gorgeous and he wanted nothing more than to taste them. Dazedly, she had let him. Then his hand had slipped into her knickers and started doing wonderfully wicked things down there and before she knew it she was lying on the bed with him between her thighs as she screamed his name.

The next morning had been a little awkward, he had made them both coffee and gave her a kiss on the cheek before leaving. She never thought she’d see him again but he showed up the next night and even against her better judgement she had let him in, only to find that the sex was even more incredible when she wasn’t half-drunk.

Of course, her friends didn’t care much at all for her choice in a man. When she had told them about him, they had given her an ultimatum. Them or him. She had been so angry with them that she had chosen him out of spite. She still talked to Ginny once in a while, but she was on strictly only-speak-when-Molly-makes-us with Ron and Harry.

And apparently it had all been in vain. She had chosen him, abandoned her best friends for him, and he had just strung her along for a year before disappearing without a trace—no note, no owl, no anything, no nothing. Gone.

She stood up as the tears that had been waiting finally began to fall. She got up off the floor and put the silk shirt on the bed. She growled as she tore off her clothes in frustration, nearly throwing her shoes across the room, ripping off her trousers, pulling her t-shirt angrily off her head. Finally she was naked. She was sobbing almost uncontrollably by the time she draped the pink silk over her shoulders and buttoned it up. It was big on her—it was made to fit his body, after all—but she loved the way the material felt on her skin. Her tears began falling again and she was renewed with her hate for him for letting her become this kind of mess over him.

She walked angrily out of bedroom and into the kitchen, grabbing the bottle of champagne that was supposed to be for their one-year anniversary. She popped it open with some difficulty and downed some straight out of the bottle. She then grabbed her largest wine glass and splashed the bubbly into it.

She collapsed onto the sofa, breaking down into sobs as she gulped down the fizzy liquid. Tears were sliding over her cheeks as she thought about how he had just left her. There had been absolutely no warning—no fight, no cold shoulder, nothing. He had just left. He obviously didn’t need anything that he had left here since his potions company brought in more galleons in the last year than she would make in her entire lifetime.

Nursing her glass, she thought of all the good times between them. The amazing things. The fucking mind-blowing sex. He was so sweet to her, so nice, so perfect. But apparently she wasn’t good enough for him. Apparently, she didn’t mean to him what he did to her. If he could walk away without so much as a word, then she had obviously meant less than the dirt on his shoes. Of course, she surmised sarcastically, he would never have dirt on his shoes, the Pureblood bastard. How could she think that she had fallen in love with him when he could just walk out like that?

Her tears were flowing at full force now and she wiped the sleeve of the silk over her eyes and nose, getting eyeliner and snot all over it. She didn’t care anymore though. As soon as she was over this fit, she would burn it with everything else. She just needed to get this out. She needed to cleanse herself of him forever. It was cathartic.

She raised her glass to gulp down more of the champagne. It was making her feel lightheaded, and she liked that feeling, even if it did remind her of their first night together. Maybe, though, it would help her get the sleep that had been eluding her for the last six nights.

Her glass was pulled away from her face suddenly and a sleeve was wiping her eyes as someone asked in a soft voice: “Merlin, Hermione, what’s wrong?”

“What the hell are you doing here?!” she asked angrily, her tears making it difficult to see, even though his perfect, even, aristocratic tone made it perfectly clear who was in her sitting room. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Breathing in to yell some more, she stopped suddenly as she took in his appearance.

He looked terrible. His hair was a right mess, dirty and sticky, looking like he hadn’t taken care of it for the last week. His robes were a mess and he was missing one of his shoes. He looked completely dishevelled, and not in a good way. A million things ran through her mind at what could have happened to him. Was he kidnapped by ex-Death Eaters who tortured him? Did he get in a terrible accident and have to walk all the way here because he lost his wand? What happened? She met his eyes, his beautiful silver eyes that were looking at her with adoration and worry. Worry for her.

“What the hell happened to you?” she almost yelled.

He looked confused. “I…” he started. “No, you don’t want to hear what happened to me. What happened to you? Why are you drinking like a grindylow? Why are you sobbing? You never cry.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them back up just to make sure that he was truly there. “I thought you left me!” she yelled, embarrassed at the volume, quickly lowering her voice. “You disappeared for a straight week without even a word, what else was I supposed to think?”

His face softened. “Oh, Hermione,” he murmured. He got up on the sofa beside her and hugged her close. “No, I didn’t leave you. How the hell could I do something like that?”

She sighed, looking away as she said: “Because I’m not good enough for you.” She almost started crying again. “I’m not even pretty,” she mumbled, playing with the hem of the silk shirt, realising that she was completely naked except for it; luckily it was big enough to modestly cover her.

“Ha!” he let out a laugh. “And for the last seven days it’s been your best friends trying to convince me of the opposite.”

“What?” Hermione asked, looking up into his perfect face.

He shook his head. “Your friends are insane, by the way. I didn’t know that they had it in them. But I got an owl telling me that Potter needed to talk to me about some urgent business and when I got to his office, he stupefied me! I woke up in some dirty little basement room where he and Weasel tried to convince me to break up with you.”

“Wait…what?! They kidnapped you!?” Hermione asked in outrage. Of all the ridiculous possibilities, even her mind would not have come up with this.

He chuckled. “Yeah, they did. Idiots.”

“Oh, I’ll kill them,” she murmured. “How could they? The little snot-nosed prats.” As she tried to look seriously into his eyes though, she couldn’t help but break out into a huge smile. “Merlin, they’re idiots.”

“Hermione, it’s okay,” he said with a smile, brushing her hair away from her face and giving her a kiss. “I told them I was never letting you go.”

She looked shocked into his eyes, wanting so much to believe the words. He gave her a gentle smile and kissed the tip of her nose. “So this is no longer short-term?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“It will work out?” she asked.

“Yes,” he smiled.

“I’m allowed to fall in love with you?”

He smiled broadly. “Well, I certainly fell in love with you.” He shook his head. “I tried not to, you know. I tried to make this short-term and not want to keep coming back to you every night. But you’re one of a kind, Granger. And even your snot-nosed friends can’t keep me away from you now.”

“Oh, Draco, I love you, too,” she smiled, attacking him with her mouth.

They kissed deeply, Draco dragging her across the sofa so that she was lying across it with him beside her. He ran his hand down her body, playing with the hem of the shirt. “You’re wearing the shirt,” he said with a smile.

Oh, shit, she forgot about that. “Er…well, when I was, ahem, burning you clothes,” she said the last part very quickly, “I found it.”

“When you burned my clothes?” he asked incredulously.

She nodded glumly. “I thought you left. I was angry.”

He laughed. And laughed. And laughed. He could do nothing but laugh. He had tears in his eyes by the time he had finished, wiping them from the corners. Finally, he sobered up. “I’m sorry that you thought I left you, Hermione. But next time I’ll try to give you warning before I leave for a week.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

He kissed her again, his arm moving around her small body, bringing it flush to his. She started giggling, and he stopped. “What?”

“I think you need a shower.”

He groaned, trying to run a hand through his hair, but failing miserably. “You’re probably right.” He got up off the sofa and downed some of Hermione’s champagne. “I’m going to go shower, and I want you in the bedroom waiting for me when I get out, wearing this shirt,” he slid his hands down her shoulders and to her waist, pulling her against him. “And I’m going to shag you silly.”

She could only nod breathlessly. She gulped down the remainder of the champagne and grabbed the bottle off of the counter to bring into the bedroom. She poured some more into the glass and set it on the bedside table. She quickly cleaned up her mess from earlier, putting the not-charred clothes back in the closet, and bringing her bin into the kitchen to clean later on.

She quickly went back into the bedroom, and it wasn’t two minutes later before Draco walked into the bedroom, completely naked for the towel that he was rubbing over his wet hair. He saw her sitting nervously on the bed and dropped the towel, walking toward her with a look that she could only describe as predatory.

She whimpered. She hadn’t seen that look in his eyes in a while. The “I’m going to shag you until you can’t move” look that she loved. She fidgeted nervously as she leaned against the headboard, not sure what he would want to do with her, what he would want her to do. Was this make-up sex? Or was this after-out-of-town sex? Or was this romantic we-just-proclaimed-our-love sex? She had no idea.

He stood at the edge of the bed and slowly climbed up it until he reached her ankles. He grabbed them in his smooth hands and pulled her roughly down the bed, so that she was lying with her head below the pillows and her feet hanging off the end, and he was kneeling between her thighs. “Oh, Granger,” he smiled. He shook his head. “If you thought I looked perfect in that shirt, you should see yourself.”

She smiled as he called her Granger. It was an endearment for him. He barely ever called her Hermione, but instead of that making her angry, she instead loved that he called her by her last name. It was sweet when it came from him. She had the feeling that even if they got married (a happy idea which popped up with much more frequency since he had declared his love for her), he would still call her Granger. She also blushed a bit at the compliment. She wasn’t used to getting them from him. He knew that he was perfect. She knew that she was not. They had both lived with that. “It can’t look at all the same,” she murmured shyly.

“No,” he said, and she started nodding her head. “It looks better.”

Hermione went to argue, but found it difficult as he finally leaned over and kissed her fully, settling his body onto the bed on top of her, his hips fitting perfectly betwixt her thighs, his cock rubbing against her naked body. He kissed her like she had never been kissed before. He was loving and yet hostile, taking her mouth, sucking, laving, biting, but it was perfectly smooth and incredibly erotic. Her hands were tangled in his short hair before long and he was caressing the side of her breast through the soft material of the shirt.

He pulled away from the kiss, to her intense displeasure, only to make his way down her neck and collar bone before coming to stop at the collar of the shirt where it had slid off her shoulder. He looked up at her and smirked that incredible, heart-stopping smirk before lowering his mouth to one of her nipples, sucking and laving at it through the silky material. She moaned and writhed on the sheets and she didn’t think that she had felt anything as good as that felt. He switched suddenly and started licking and sucking her other nipple through the textile. “Oh, Draco,” she moaned softly. One of her hands detangled itself from his hair to squeeze the breast that he was not currently occupied with.

He stopped his ministrations and moved back up her body, his forehead against hers as he looked into her eyes, some wetness from his hair sliding onto her forehead. He smiled as he reached down between them, sliding his fingers through her soaking slit, slipping two fingers up inside to caress her g-spot before groaning: “I’m sorry, love, but it’s been far too long since I’ve been inside you, I need you now. I need to feel your amazing body against mine, your perfect cunt around my cock, I need to come so deep inside you that I forget where I am.”

She moaned out loud and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him against her for a sultry kiss. He groaned into her mouth and she responded by spreading her legs. Pulling away from his mouth, she looked mischievously into his eyes: “Then do it.”

He plunged into her body, pulling out slowly but then thrusting hard back in. He kissed the side of her neck and played nonchalantly with a nipple as he took her. He took her hard, but like his kisses, it was also somehow loving and cherishing at the same time. The way he looked into her eyes, the way he told her to look, look how erotic it was as they came together, the way his hand softly caressed her cheek and the way his tongue laved across her collar bone. His thrusts were strong, sure, rough even, just the way she liked it, but everything else told her that this wasn’t short-term. This wasn’t just shagging. This was forever.

He grunted as his thrusts became less rhythmic and more erratic. He was getting close, and every time his cock filled her it brushed past that soft spot within her that made her moan. Not to mention his fingers pinching and rubbing at her nipple. It was when he tugged the hem of the shirt down to rub it against her clit that she was torn apart. Her body exploded with her climax, one of the best she had ever experienced.

Feeling her clenching around him, he doubled his efforts, four more hard thrusts and then he buried himself so deep inside her that she felt his hot seed splash against the end of her channel as he came hard, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm.

His sweaty body collapsed on top of hers, his arms barely able to hold him up, as if all of his strength was being spilled into her body. He tried to roll off of her, but she held him still. “No,” was all she could murmur, loving the feeling of his body on hers, in hers.

He opened his eyes and smiled a lazy, contented smile. “I love that shirt,” he said drowsily.

“Me, too,” Hermione said with the same well-fucked smile.

“I’m glad you didn’t burn that one.” And then his eyes slipped closed and she felt as all of his weight was on her. He had fallen asleep.

She regretfully had to push him off of herself, since she knew her body couldn’t handle his larger, masculine body atop hers for the whole night. She grabbed the duvet and pulled it over them, snuggling into his sleepy side.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The next morning, as he fucked her thoroughly against the ice box, her chest bared and bouncing and the shirt hanging limply and horribly dishevelled off of her shoulders, he decided that he loved the shirt. It looked absolutely perfect on her. Perfect last night, even when she had been crying. Perfect when he had made love to her. Perfect when he had woken her up and taken her again. Perfect this morning as she cooked him breakfast. Perfect now, even hanging limply from her sides, for it framed her magnificent chest beautifully.

He grunted happily as they reached their climaxes, groaning each other’s names and words of love.

And the shirt was just big enough that it would look perfect on her when she was glowing and big and pregnant with his child.

/story

A/N: Please review. :)