we were in screaming colour

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/43364068.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy
Additional Tags: War, Mutual Masturbation, Accidental Voyeurism, Exhibitionism,
Masturbation, Whiny Draco Malfoy, Order Member Draco Malfoy,
Bossy Hermione Granger, Researcher Hermione Granger, Alternate
Universe - Roommates/Housemates
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-12-01 Words: 2,268 Chapters: 1/1
 we were in screaming colour
by librain

Summary

It was disconcerting at first, trying to lay down to sleep and knowing he did the same mere
feet away from her in a room directly mirroring hers, separated by a wall that by all accounts
(of logic and reason and science) should not exist.

Notes

happy birthday to the love of my life, my muse, my person. I love you so much and I hope
you enjoy this fic that I wrote in one sitting while at work bc I was possessed or something.
thank you for terrorizing people on twitter with me with our hyper specific characterizations
of dramione and our incessant need to analyze everything. here's to many more years of
proving the allegations right.

title is from out of the woods by taylor swift pretty much because it was the song playing
when I opened the doc for this fic and also bc it feels wrong to celebrate anna without a taylor
swift reference.

thanks as always to kate for dealing with my spam messages regarding plot and for making
sure I don't embarrass myself writing smut. ur the best beta I could ask for ily. pls read her
fics bc they're so good.

see you both in the gc.

The walls in the safe house were thin. It was a side effect of their magical remodelling; the
walls weren’t part of the home’s original structure but were added seemingly at random,
splicing rooms in halves and thirds to provide the image of privacy for inhabitants. They
looked like walls and felt like walls but, as all things magically conjured, were just slightly
different than muggle-made.

It was basic science — matter could not be created or destroyed. Hermione knew that, but
magic had never cared one way or the other. So the walls stood, composed of an imposter
element Hermione had yet to discover.

The home had once belonged to the family of a Muggleborn who was sympathetic to the
Order. No one had told her if the family had left willingly, nor if they were even still alive,
and Hermione hadn’t asked.

The room she claimed was formerly a modest-sized dining room, with crown moulding still
outlining her half of the ceiling, now interrupted by the wall. Though tiny, it possessed all of
her earthly belongings. The small dresser that housed only a few clothing items, the tiny
bookcase that had stacks of books she had deemed useless for their mission, and the cot
where she slept, pressed against the wall, were the only pieces of furniture in the room. When
she discovered how thin the walls were, she tried to rearrange them, but this was the only
way they all fit.

Though appearing barely lived in, it was where Hermione spent most of her time — endlessly
researching for missions, and avoiding most of the Order, who deemed her unfit for battle
after one too many slip-ups after Malfoy Manor.

The colloquial term was Crucio Cricks . Involuntary muscle spasms caused by prolonged
exposure to the cruciatus curse. Heightened by stress, they made her spell-casting unreliable,
inaccurate.

Her new assignment was also a consequence of the events at Malfoy Manor: babysitting
Draco Malfoy.

It was never communicated to her as such directly, but it was very much implied. She was to
research Horcruxes from the safety of the house while monitoring the comings and goings of
Order members and the house’s inhabitants. Being that Malfoy was the only permanent
resident, her objective was clear.

Malfoy, in a fit of what she could only assume was terror and the ever-cunning, house-
defining trait of Slytherin self-preservation, had grabbed Hermione’s arm at the last second
and was whisked away to Shell Cottage with the trio and Dobby. Hermione was told (by a
rather giddy Ron), that after sobbing on his knees and begging for asylum, Malfoy was given
a Calming Drought and a round of Veritaserum. Once Kingsley had interviewed him
extensively , the youngest Death Eater was sent, wandless, to the safe house. He was meant to
be accessible to Hermione to provide any information he had on Voldemort.

So he was in the room next to her. Separated by the thin wall.

It was disconcerting at first, trying to lay down to sleep and knowing he did the same mere
feet away from her in a room directly mirroring hers, separated by a wall that by all accounts
(of logic and reason and science ) should not exist. She could hear his every move; the woosh
of breath when he blew out the candle on his dresser (one difference between their two rooms
as Malfoy had a strong distrust of electricity), the creak of the cot when he retired for the
night, every toss and turn in his sheets, and his light snoring.

She brought it up to him once, the snoring, bitter and exhausted after a night of lost sleep
because of the sounds of his breathing.

“It wasn’t a problem,” he retorted with a sneer, “until you savagely hit me in third year,
fucking with my sinuses. As far as I’m concerned you’re just going to have to deal with the
consequences of your own actions.”

The next night when she heard him snore it brought a wicked smile to her lips. The evidence
that she had caused permanent damage to the prat became a lullaby for her slumbers.

Hermione also heard his whimpers, his cries, sometimes even his shouts, which startled him
into consciousness, the springs on his cot loud when he sat up quickly, gasping. She never
asked him about the nightmares; she knew Malfoy could hear hers as well.

And after too many close calls — people sleeping through emergencies and pseudo-healers
not waking for injured fighters until it was almost too late — silencing spells had been
banned from the safe house, no exceptions. With time she adjusted, the ambient noise more
comforting than the prospect of total silence. She’d become attuned to his routine, his
behaviours, much like she assumed he’d become used to hers. Until something changed.

It was late. She had already gotten into bed for the night and was close to asleep when she
was woken by the sound of the door next to her slamming. She listened closely as Malfoy
stomped around the small room, huffing as articles of clothing hit the floor. The cot creaked
loudly in protest as he flopped his full weight onto it dramatically, then silence followed.

Malfoy, she learned after many hostile encounters, was very particular about his routine. Part
of which included a shower before bed at the exact same time almost every night. Knowing
when to pick her battles, she simply started showering in the mornings. There were a few
other Order members, however, staying in the rooms upstairs, and judging by how much
earlier Malfoy had returned to his room, his shower must have been cut short, if he managed
to have one at all.

Hermione evened her breaths, not wanting Malfoy to know she witnessed his tantrum.
Moments passed as she laid therefeigning sleep. His room remained silent, far too quiet for
him to have fallen asleep and his tell-tale snores remained absent. It was the kind of quiet that
she was familiar with, the kind that meant he was likely listening to her (just as she had been
to him, she noted with a twinge) to see if she was asleep.

This, unfortunately, had the opposite effect, igniting her paranoia and leaving her more alert
than ever.
Once he decided enough time had passed, she heard him move, the rustling of his sheets as
he readjusted his position. Then, she heard it. Malfoy’s breathing was heavy, almost panting.
A muffled groan. Rapid skin-on-skin contact—

Oh my god. Malfoy was wanking.

Blood rushed to her cheeks. It wasn’t as if she was unaware of what teenage boys did when
they thought they had privacy — she did live in a tent with Harry and Ron for months. But
instead of the mild disgust and irritation Hermione felt when she overheard one of the boys in
the tent, she didn’t have the urge to cover her ears with her pillow. No, she felt something
much, much more concerning.

She was aroused.

Hermione’s body had been through hell over the years and the chronic issues it left behind
meant her low sex drive was the very least of her concerns. She had masturbated before,
mostly out of curiosity, then as a way to pass the time, but not at all since she had been
staying in this safe house.

Her pulse quickened and she felt it, lower, between her legs. The noises he made painted a
vivid image in her mind. Malfoy lying in bed, completely naked, his pale cheeks going pink,
maybe sweating a bit at the exertion. She could picture it, the hairs lightly covering his body
as blond as his head. His sinewy arm flexing slightly with each movement, maybe the vein in
his forehead that came out whenever he was angry was visible.

Is this what he’s been doing every night in the shower?

Almost against her own volition, Hermione's hand slipped under the covers. Her fingers
trailed down her torso, sneaking under the waistband of her pyjama shorts into the wet heat.
As soon as her fingers brushed her clit she bit her lip, forcibly biting down her body’s urge to
make a noise, to betray her secret and expose her actions.

She arrested her movements momentarily, listening to see if Malfoy had heard anything, but
he continued undisturbed. Gaining confidence, tingling slightly at the prospect of doing
something so wrong , Hermione slid her fingers lower to gather her wetness and bring it back
to her clit.

She circled her clit, sighing quietly at the relief. Building a rhythm, she allowed herself to
become lost in the sounds coming through the wall. She felt her orgasm build slowly, sweat
beading behind her neck causing her baby hairs to cling to her skin. She didn’t even notice
the way her breathing became more laboured until—

“Granger?”

Shit . Hermione’s fingers froze on her clit and the orgasm she was on the precipice started to
fade. She refused to be humiliated, though. It wasn’t like she was the only one getting off in
this confined space.

She continued her ministrations and responded, her voice lower and raspier than normal.
“Don’t stop.”

“Oh, fuck ,” Malfoy groaned.

Hermione’s chest swelled with satisfaction knowing that he was similarly affected.

He started again, the drag of his hand against his cock loud through the silence, but he didn’t
stay quiet for long.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he grunted.

“ What ?”

“Oh don’t act all shy now. Talk to me, tell me how you’re touching yourself.” His voice was
strained, not demanding, but almost like he was pleading, a tinge of desperation igniting a
warmth deep within her.

“Okay, um,” she swallowed, staring at the ceiling in minor disbelief. “I’m touching my clit.
Rubbing it, sort of, in circles. I, uh, I’m wet, which makes it easier—“

“What are you wearing?” He cut her off.

She rolled her eyes. “Pyjamas. You know the matching ones with kneazles all over them that
you made fun of.” Malfoy hummed in response. “What about you?”

“Nothing.” Her imagination was right; she closed her eyes and let out a shuddering sigh.

She didn’t respond, sitting with the image her mind had conjured and quickened her pace on
her clit.

He interrupted her again. “Touch your tits with your other hand.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, Granger.” The sound of his hand sliding up and down didn’t change pace when he
spoke.

“Over or under my shirt?”

She heard him audibly gulp, choking out, “Under.”

Deciding to humour him, Hermione narrated her actions. “I’m undoing each button one by
one.” Her voice took on the same tone it did when she lectured her friends about homework,
but unlike them, Malfoy didn’t complain. “Three… two… one.” The two sides of her t-shirt
fell apart, exposing her torso to the empty room, nipples pebbling in the cool air. Mimicking
the actions of the hand that was now down her shorts, she trailed her other hand up her torso,
drawing up goosebumps.

“My nipples are hard.” They were, she lightly traced them with her fingers. Malfoy groaned.
“They’re very sensitive when I— oh!”
“What? What did you do?”

“I pinched my nipple, and it felt good. ” She did it again, moaning as she did so.

“Are you still touching your cunt?”

“Haven’t stopped.”

He moaned, too, and Hermione grinned at the beautiful noise, deciding the sounds she
elicited from him in pleasure were even more satisfying than those that came from pain.

She kept going, alternating between her breasts with one hand and furiously playing with her
clit with the other. Occasionally, she’d slide two of her fingers deep inside, thrusting as she
ground the heel of her hand into her clit.

Hermione let out small gasps, harmonizing with the groaning on the other side of the wall.

“Are you close?” He forced out.

“Are you not?” She snapped back, intending it to be biting but it came out in a small whine.

“I have been for a while, it’s only my amazing self-control that’s let me last this long.”
Somehow he still managed to sound like a pompous arse even on the verge of climax. “Say
my name. When you come. Say my name.”

Her breath hitched, surprised at the request but not at all opposed. “Malfoy,” she whimpered.

“No,” he panted. “My real name.”

She paused and a strangled noise sounded through the wall. “ Please .”

Hermione pictured him once more, his pale, naked form, desperately fucking his own hand,
begging her to call his name so he could find release. The image pushed her over the edge.
“Fu-fuck, Draco .”

Her hips bucked, a shudder running through her, but she didn’t stop. Hermione continued,
circling her clit slower and slower as she rode out her orgasm, the occasional whimper
slipping from her lips when she reached a sensitive spot.

Malf— Draco gasped, choking on her name as he followed her over the edge. “ Hermione.”

She listened as he collapsed back on his bed, breathing heavily. Hermione laid there on her
back, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. Smiling up at the ceiling, she let out a small
disbelieving laugh. Draco did the same.

“That was…” she trailed off.

“Unexpected,” he finished.

“Uh-huh.”
Hermione didn’t know what else to say. The wall between them felt thinner, but somehow
like more of a barrier than it ever had before, like a real wall cut from wood and covered in
plasterboard. Her gaze traced the crown moulding, focusing on the spot where magic
overtook Muggle, splicing the design in two.

“So,” Draco broke the silence. “Same time tomorrow?”

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