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She’s been left waiting in the disused bedroom for what feels like hours but what can’t have been more than one or two.
The placement of the moon hasn’t changed much, from what she can see of it through the magically-barred window, nor is her stomach complaining about missing dinner yet. She’s accustomed to missing meals while out on missions, but even in the third year of the war, things aren’t so dire that she often wants for food. Her body is nourished. Strong. She can withstand a missed meal or two, if that’s their tactic.
But it appears that it isn’t. She’s just finishing another round of defensive spell recitation when the door handle jiggles.
They haven’t bothered to silence the room – something that worries her if she lets herself think about it, for the implied futility of her screams – so she’d heard their feet coming down the hall. The magical mechanism of the lock being unlatched is loud in the otherwise silent room.
Without her wand, she hadn’t been able to get the door open but after she’d first been dumped in the room and left there, she’d pondered the feasibility of breaking through the window. The gilt-framed painting she’d tugged off the wall and tried to smash through the glass had done nothing but thud dully off of protective wards and she’d been forced to acknowledge that undetected egress was unlikely. It rests on the floor against the sill now, the pastoral scene strikingly similar to what she can see through the pane, down to the woeful, lonesome peacock.
As the door opens, she doesn’t let herself react beyond a slow turning of her head when two broad men enter the room, both dressed in Death Eater garb complete with full-face masks.
The sight is to be expected, given that she’s currently being held in Malfoy Manor after a disturbingly capable band of Snatchers snared her while she was, idiotically, out alone on a foraging run, but over the course of the war, the masks have lost the heft of their foreboding presence. She’s struck too many down to think them undefeatable; if anything, the regalia makes them easier targets. Silver glints under the moon and sun alike.
One of the Death Eaters lifts his mask and she finds the face of Draco Malfoy inspecting her, a sight that finally manages to elicit a reaction from her, eyes widening in surprise.
She hasn’t seen him for months, not since she’d aimed a slicing hex at him across a meadow of heather the prior spring. Right after she’d shot it at him, she’d thought it had been a miss but as the pull of Neville’s Apparition had begun to tug her away, Malfoy had clapped a hand to his bicep, right where her magic had flashed by.
Not an entire miss, she’d thought with vindictive delight as the meadow disappeared. Perhaps just a near one.
Now, watching as he pushes his mask up to rest on his hair, she wonders if he has a scar from her.
“Hello Granger,” he drawls, lazy and familiar. “Comfortable?”
She gives him a falsely sweet smile but doesn’t reply. A ripple in his cheek speaks to his irritation at it.
“I’d be compliant if I were you,” he warns. His voice is harder now, as if there’s anything he could ever do or be that would actually, properly scare her. “You might be famous but it won’t spare you. You’re highly coveted by the Dark Lord.”
Coveted.
The word does manage to send a flicker of fear through her. It suggests she’s still nothing but an object; a symbol. Potter’s Mudblood, and nothing more than that, despite her oft-exhibited cunning and newfound ferocity.
But it’s only Malfoy standing before her, after all, and whoever is beside him, still masked, doesn’t appear to be a superior. So she offers him an excessively patient expression in lieu of verbal compliance.
Malfoy confirms her suspicion by snapping his fingers at his companion, the gesture demeaning even with the way the leather of his gloves dampens the sound.
“Show her.”
The Death Eater withdraws a folded bit of parchment from his robes, fingers clumsy as they work to unfold it. There’s something incredibly familiar about the inexpertise with parchment, like he’s trying to sort out his essay supplies while she sighs and tries not to judge from across a classroom.
Is it Goyle? The height is right, and the shoulders, though everyone looks bigger swathed in heavy cloaks. The idea that even now, Malfoy is tooling around with Goyle – still playing as Death Eaters but now in fancy dress – makes inappropriate humor rise in her chest.
She wonders what they’ve done, in the name of their side, to be chosen as the emissaries sent to extract information from her. The thought sobers her enough to not bark a laugh, something she’s certain would raise Malfoy’s hackles.
Malfoy snatches the partly unfolded parchment impatiently, unfolding it with a deft shake as he strides over to stand in front of her. She’s sitting on the floor with her back against the wall – small and trapped – while he’s looming over her, but she still doesn’t feel a lick of fear toward him. She can think of at least three ways to take him down without having to stand; even wandless, she is not helpless.
“See here?” Malfoy holds the parchment taut for her to see.
It’s a hand-drawn map of the United Kingdom, dotted with green in places she instantly recognizes. They’re plotting the location of the Order’s safe houses. She keeps her expression neutral as she looks at it for another breath before lifting her gaze to his. Waiting for him to make his point.
His jaw flexes again, frustrated.
“Here’s the deal, Granger,” he says. “If you indicate which safe houses are abandoned and which are occupied, I’ll let you go.”
She has to try, quite hard, not to audibly scoff. Partially at the premise that he has any sort of power to grant her freedom, but predominantly because giving up the locations of active safe houses is an ask beyond anything she’d ever willingly do. By a large margin. Personal sacrifice is more Harry’s style than hers, admittedly, but she’s not above dying for the cause.
She’s a goddamned Gryffindor too, after all. She can be brave and take risks as well as any of them. Her’s are just slightly more calculating than entirely impulsive nowadays.
Malfoy reads her face well enough that he doesn’t wait out her silence for more than a few seconds.
“I’m serious, Granger. If you don’t comply, there will be consequences.”
She lifts her eyebrows in an expression of mild interest.
He’s going to grind his teeth to bits. It’s intensely gratifying to know she goads him so easily just by existing. But then again, that’s always been her sin.
He squats down in front of her, getting eye to eye. His hair has grown out and the ends that aren’t tucked back under his mask fall forward to brush halfway to his jaw. He ignores the disobedient strands but she can’t, not with the way they’re drawing her eye to said jaw. She’s been strengthened by the war, mentally as well as physically, and though it appears his mind is just as closed as ever, his body has changed. Somehow, he’s become a man.
It could be fear that dances up her spine, except that it isn’t.
He’s a twenty-one year old man, young and strong. He could do anything to her and no one here would stop him. But even as his eyes drop to flick down the length of her body, it doesn’t make her nervous like it does with other men.
There’s something distinctly performative about it, like he’s following a script of what ‘bad men do’ because that’s what he’s supposed to be. It’s inauthentic, and therefore wildly confusing.
“Either you give me the information I’m demanding, or…” He pauses, eyes finding hers again. “Or, you fuck me.”
Behind them, the other Death Eater sniggers in a very Goyle-like manner, but she barely pays him half a mind because those three words are the most interesting thing Malfoy has ever said to her, because it seems he means them just as little as all the rest of what he’s hurled at her across school courtyards and spell-ridden battlefields. Like it doesn’t matter if he means it or not, because it won’t be relevant — she’ll make it irrelevant, as she’s always made all the things he’s said to her.
It makes her already-easy choice not a choice at all.
She considers his hair again, giving him the taste of a pause, then meets his eye; holds it.
“Fuck you.”
It’s the first thing she’s said to him in a year that isn’t a spell, and it feels good that it’s still some form of a curse.
Seeing him misunderstand it feels even better.
He sighs, like he’d expected insolence. “You always were a stubborn little thing. This is your last chance, Granger. Tell me, or—”
She interrupts him because she can, and even with years of war between them, he still lets her.
“I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear,” she says, tone indicating she’s not sorry a bit. “For a moment, I’d forgotten how stupid you are. Let me spell it out for you: I choose option two. I’ll fuck you.”
His shock freezes him for a breath, and then his brows twitch together.
“What?” he says.
“Your deal was either I give you information about safe houses, or we have sex,” she says, tone balancing on the line between patient and patronizing. “Shockingly, I choose sex.”
He stares at her. “Sex?”
It’s like he’s never heard the word.
“Sex.” She’s very familiar with it but isn’t sure she’s ever said it so many times in a row. “Despite you making it a consequence of noncompliance and therefore perhaps not something you pride yourself in, I still consider it the better of the two options.”
Malfoy pushes to his feet, taking a step back from her. She stands up, too, not looking away from him because his face is going tense and pale. His fear is like a shot of Firewhisky. She savors the heat of it all the way down to her toes.
He clenches his jaw, attention careful on her like she’s about to attack him with her bare hands, and so she crosses her arms over her chest, both a defense for her and a nonverbal sign of passivity toward him. His eyes drop to the motion, and linger. Belatedly, she realizes it’s brought attention to her breasts, but it works toward her goal of goading him and so squeezes her arms a little tighter. He swallows.
The other figure shifts on his feet and Malfoy’s attention snaps to him, as if suddenly remembering he’s there. Something unspoken passes between them and being left out of it makes Hermione twitchy.
“Do you want him to stay?” she asks, tone generous. “I don’t mind, if you’d feel safer.”
Malfoy side-eyes her, a blink and it’s gone, then jerks his chin at his companion.
“Leave,” he says, and the other figure goes to the door without comment.
“Was that Goyle?” Hermione asks when they’re alone. Malfoy doesn’t reply, so she takes it as a yes. “That’s lovely you’re still so close.”
He finally turns toward her. “Listen, Granger.” His voice is hushed and on the way to urgent. “You don’t have to do this.”
Her reaction should be gratefulness, or even a piqued curiosity at the weakness he’s exposing, the hint at something to manipulate to get herself the hell out of there, but inexplicably, what she feels is the flare of deep-seeded rage.
“Is the prospect of shagging a Mudblood so foul that you’d risk whatever the consequences are for letting me go?” she asks, voice purposefully measured to bely her flash of fury.
She doesn’t want to have sex with him either, obviously, but the suggestion that she’s so repugnant that even in the middle of war, where she suspects his pickings have been slim, she’s not enough to tempt him irks her.
She decides not to unpack why she’d want him to be tempted.
“It’s not that.” He fiddles with something on his hand, dragging her gaze to where his black leather glove is stretched over a bulge on his smallest finger, the gloved thumb toying absently with it. It’s a blatant showing of nerves, to worry at his signet ring, and for no good reason it makes her all the more determined to see him shamed. Hopefully while wearing his Pureblood family’s ring.
“So you want to fuck me, but, what? Don’t want to cheat on a girlfriend?” She jerks her head toward the locked door. “Or boyfriend?”
“I don’t–I’m not with anyone.” He’s staring at the door and for a fleeting second she wonders if he actually is in love with Goyle but then he turns away and strides over to her, getting right up into her space.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” he says, very quickly and very quietly, and then he grabs her.
She’s been handled roughly before, in bed and on forest floors, but no one’s hands have ever held the intensity of Malfoy’s. She squeaks, and his grip immediately softens.
“Sorry,” he blurts. His lips are right by her cheek, head bent over her so that his hair tickles where it falls forward.
It means his mask is inches from her, something that immediately repulses her. The knowledge that he, an active Death Eater, is apologizing to her for something he’s brought about sizzles hotly at the base of her skull. He’s putting all his weaknesses on display and she can’t choose which to poke at first.
His proximity is getting her heart rate up, fight or flight kicking in, and she finds she definitely wants to fight him more than she wants to run. She wants to beat him at his own game.
His mask is smooth and cold under her palm as she pushes it off the top of his head. She’d half expected anger at the disrespect or that the mask itself would be spelled against impure bloodlines, but nothing happens beyond the sharp clank it makes as it strikes the floor behind him.
His breath is picking up, the gusts of it brushing over her face at an uneven cadence, and the suggestion that he’s wary of her is too delicious to ignore. He’s taller than her, broader and stronger – they’re standing in his family home, the stronghold of his side of the war – and yet he’s cautious of her.
Awareness tingles through her, magic but not the controllable sort, the sort which imbues her with a rigid will and a mind to see things through. She’s honed her useful skills on the whetstone of war but her bull-headedness has yet to be worn down. Her stubbornness and inability to leave things well alone.
With her hands still raised from shoving his mask off, it’s natural to rest them on his shoulders and push. He steps back, away, but she follows him, not letting him get far. If she’s going to be somewhat coerced into fucking him, she’s going to do whatever she can to hold the reins. Malfoy is predictable in many ways, and she’s not keen to find out if his nasty streak extends to how he treats people in bed, because her bossy streak absolutely does.
The backs of his legs bump into the foot of the bed and he stumbles back, sitting on the edge of the mattress. It gives her the height advantage, and therefore a secondary wave of authority. The way he’s looking up at her, grey eyes wide and watchful, only furthers the effect.
His reticence makes her curious, given the several forms of innate power he actually does hold over her. She’s not sure why he’s not wielding any of them.
“You were really so sure I wouldn’t fuck you?” she asks, looking down at him from where she stands between his spread thighs. “That I’d rather risk the lives of people I love than let you touch me?”
His head twitches to the side in a half-shake, eyes not leaving hers. “Yes. No. I…I don’t know.”
She wonders what his choice would have been, had the situation been reversed. The idea that he sees sex as a consequence or, at the very least, something undesirable (to her? in general?), makes her brain fizz with questions.
Perhaps her thoughts play out over her face, or perhaps he finally gets his wits about him, but the next moment she’s no longer looking down on him but is flat on her back on the bed, looking up at Draco Malfoy caging her in. Her first thought is blank surprise. Her second is that she wants to hold his hair off his face for him.
“Shut up,” he says, though she hadn’t said anything else out loud. “Stop thinking, just…shut up.”
She opens her mouth – because she’s contrarian, and because being told to shut up by him is an intolerable request that she’s sick of hearing – but before she can make a sound, his lips are on hers.
It’s not so much a kiss as it is a smothering, a silencing, and so she works his bottom lip between hers and bites.
“Fuck!” He tears his mouth away, eyes flaring and a hand flying up to press over his lip. His fingers come away clean of blood but his lip is scarlet now. “What the hell was that?”
“I said sex,” she snaps. “Keep your mouth off me.”
For some reason, the comment does something to his eyes, darkening them as the grey pushes to the edges by the expansion of his pupils.
“Okay, Granger.” The words are quiet but not soft. They vibrate in the scant space between them. “If that’s how you want it.”
“I don’t want it at all,” she reminds him, because it feels like the right thing to say.
He ignores her – which is fine, she’d still make the same choice between the two evils every time – and works his left hand between them to open her jeans. His glove feels smooth against the bare skin of her abdomen, his knuckles brushing against the top of her knickers as he pulls her fly open.
There’s a flicker in her chest again, the not-fear. It’s not bloodlust but it might be something close. She’s fairly certain she doesn’t actually want to kill anyone, or him, specifically, but lying beneath him feels the same as standing over the people she’s taken down in a battle or a scuffle or a scouting mission, when her magic is surging up to her throat, dying to break free beyond what she’s already allowed.
She doesn’t want to kill anyone but she’s very certain she wants to destroy Malfoy.
She doesn’t help him undress her but he manages well enough on his own, leaning back to strip her jeans down her legs before straddling her thighs again. He still has his Death Eater garb on, even the heavy outer robe, and while having sex with Draco Malfoy is one thing, fucking a Death Eater may be slightly more than she can bear.
“Robes off,” she tells him. “Shirt and trousers too.”
He flashes a sharp smile down at her. “Just say you want to see me naked, Granger.”
“Get naked, Malfoy,” she says dryly.
As usual, he’s more easily baited than her. His jaw tenses as he undoes the buttons holding his cloak together over his chest, then climbs off the bed to toss the heavy garment to the floor. It reveals a white Oxford, which he unbuttons to reveal his pale chest. She gives him as much privacy as she expects he’ll give her, which is to say, none at all. By the time he’s down to his pants, he’s blushing under her scrutiny.
She was right. His body has grown. Ridges of lean muscle comprise his chest and abdomen, rounding his shoulders and curling around his sides and over his hips like belts. The toll of war is evident in the myriad of scars over his torso and – fuck yes – across his bicep. Whatever he’s been doing these past three years, it isn’t sitting about with his feet up.
She likes a functional man, one who can do things with his mind and body alike, and so she doesn’t overthink the way that seeing his capable body makes her warm where it shouldn’t. If she licks her lips while looking him over, it’s entirely subconscious.
He mumbles something incomprehensible under his breath and pauses with his thumbs under the waistband of his pants. They’re black and snug, accentuating his pale skin and the paler, silvery scars that span out across his stomach and curl around a thigh.
She still has her jumper and knickers on — her socks, even — while he’s a thin piece of fabric away from being naked.
She likes the dynamic it suggests. The imbalance of power, finally skewed her direction.
Black fabric does a decent job concealing what lies underneath but when he works them down and kicks them away, it’s impossible to miss how hard he is. She doesn’t look at his cock right away, even though her eyes are burning with the restraint, because there’s a starburst scar exploding out from the cradle of his hip, just to the left of his groin. It’s a dead-hit and the way the tendrils of it flare over his pelvis and wind around his upper thigh, she guesses it hurt like hell.
She wants to ask who did it to him, so she can buy them a drink later, but before the words are out, he’s shifting on his feet and she can’t ignore his cock any longer.
Despite the surrounding scars, it’s perfect. Unblemished and unmarred, and so hard that his foreskin is stretched tight around the ridge, the tip flushed and eager. His interest is flattering, given she’s not yet showing him anything beyond her legs and certainly not a docile, willing attitude.
The mattress dips as he climbs back onto the bed to settle between her thighs, an act she watches with her gaze distinctly south. Even his balls are perfect, snug in his sac and strangely tempting. She wants to cup them; wants to see how tight he’ll let her squeeze.
When she finally trails her gaze up his body, his eyes are on hers.
“Can’t fuck me with my knickers on,” she points out and he takes the cue, fingers curling under the waistband of her plain blue knickers. She lifts her hips and then lifts her legs up so he can strip them off. Once her feet are free, she plants them on either side of him, knees bent and hugging his sides.
He’s taking an awfully long time with it all, so long she suspects he’s waiting for her to try and stop him. She won’t.
Sex has always been a form of escape for her. It’s often the only thing she has in common with the handful of blokes she’s slept with, but it’s never been quite so literal as this. She won’t be the one to back down.
Very slowly, she parts her thighs for him.
The cadence of his breath is visibly elevated, his entire torso expanding and contracting with each cycle. His chest is flushed down to his nipples and she swears she can see the throb of his heart pulsing at the surface.
His hand drops to his cock, fingers wrapping around himself and dragging from the base to the tip, bringing with it a bead of precum. He smooths it over the head and then finally drops his gaze between her legs.
If it were anyone else, she’d be preening at the visible effect her body has on him – the new ooze of precum, the hard clench of his jaw, the flare of his eyes – but it’s Malfoy and so his reaction is inscrutable.
“Come on,” she prompts, tilting her hips meaningfully. It irritates her that, in a roundabout way, he’s continually making her ask for more, but she’s worried that if he’s allowed to set the pace, she’ll be here for hours.
“Right.” He clears his throat and then shuffles forward on his knees.
He uses his thumb to press his cock down and she averts her eyes, craning her head back just slightly to look at the painting hung above the headboard so that she doesn’t see his face when he enters her. But then his cock presses at her arsehole insistently, and she sucks in a breath and jerks her chin down, eyes flaring with alarm.
“Wait–” she blurts, suddenly awash with anxiety that she’d not specified where he can fuck her, but he’s already fumbling with his cock, bringing it back up.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Is…? Here?”
His uncertainty melts away her anxiety and replaces it with a nagging question. Surely he’s…?
He presses against her cunt and she’s filled with a warming shame at how wet she’s gotten. His jaw goes lax as he teases the tip of his cock around her entrance, eyes going a little unfocused as he coats himself in her.
“Yes,” she confirms, brows knitting together as she inspects him. “There.”
The word brings his eyes up to hers and in the end, she is forced to watch what it does to him when he pushes inside her. The thick ridge rests just beyond her entrance and the pressure of him makes her pulse spike. He swears under his breath again and then draws back half an inch before pressing in to the same depth.
He repeats it several times, fucking her with just the tip of his cock, until she can’t fucking stand it. The tease is driving her insane.
She wraps her legs around his hips and digs her heels into his firm arse, forcing him to sink to the hilt. The suddenness of being filled steals her breath for a moment, and in the space between it and her next, she forgets who’s inside her. It’s been a while since she’s slept with someone – it must have been Dean last, just after the New Year, and it’s the end of August now – and so her body isn’t used to sharing space.
She clenches around Malfoy reflexively and he can’t hold his swears inside any more.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh god.”
He buries his face in the crook of her neck and his next exhale is distinctly whimper-like. She wonders how long it’s been for him, to be behaving like this, and is about to ask when he draws his hips back and then pushes in deep, definitely whimpering against her neck at the glide, and it all snaps together in a single realization.
The uncertainty of how to do it, the resistance to his own deal, the deal itself – it suddenly all makes sense. He thought she’d never choose to fuck him because sex had never been a genuine option for him before.
“Malfoy…” His name is caustic on her tongue but the question is too delicious to swallow down. “Is this your first time?”
The thought delights her. To finally be taking something from him, and something he doesn’t necessarily want to give her, feels like justice. She’s been robbed by the Malfoys and their kind since she was eleven, in one way or another, and it feels better than it should to finally take something in return. What would Lucius Malfoy think, to see his son spoiling himself with her? The thought fills her with heat, potent and powerful.
His breath on her skin is damp and warm, and she realizes that his mouth has been on her, panting against her throat, while he’s been losing his virginity to her.
She thinks to scold him for it but decides in this, she can give him a concession. Virginity is a social construct but she suspects it’s more than that for him. And for once, she’s more curious about his answer than goading him.
“Why?” His voice is strained but she hears the note of derision in it. “You gonna feel bad for me? Say sorry and stop?”
She scoffs. “No. You offered yourself up. I’m just showing you that words matter, Malfoy. Don’t barter with something you don’t want to give.”
He doesn’t respond except for a measured exhale. His hips are flush with hers, cock thick inside her and vaguely throbby. If this truly is his first time, she suspects he’s about two pumps away from losing it.
She tries another angle.
“Were you saving it?” she whispers conspiratorially. “Seeing how long you could keep yourself pure?” The word choice isn’t lost on him, given the sort of woman he’s currently buried in.
“No,” he grits out.
He doesn’t seem particularly talkative at the moment, which, fair enough. It doesn’t mean she’ll take it easy on him, though.
“So how does it feel?” she queries, voice as sultry as she can manage. “Being inside someone?”
His blush gives him away, as does the quick flick of tongue over his bottom lip and the way his expression softens into something almost yearning. She hums a low sound of acknowledgement.
“Yeah? I feel good?” she purrs and his jaw hangs open slightly as his hips jerk forward into the invitation of her words. She grins, catlike. “Your cock is dirty now, but maybe that makes it hotter, hm?”
His eyes go hard again. “Stop saying that.”
She won’t.
“Your first time,” she muses. “What a shame it’s under these circumstances. You could light some candles, if you want.”
He ignores her, hands curling into fists in the bedding as he holds himself still inside her. She wonders if he’s waiting for permission to move again and though the thought sends a thrill down her spine, she refuses to give it to him. This is the most vulnerable she’ll ever get him, and it’s beastly of her, perhaps, but she intends to milk it for all it’s worth.
“You feel good, too,” she murmurs, squeezing her inner walls around him, and doesn’t care about the truth in it. “Despite not knowing what on earth to do with me.”
Inexplicably, this is the taunt that gets him the most riled up. He looks angry suddenly, like she’s told him he’s actually a very poor Seeker or makes for a shitty Death Eater (which, actually, is accurate considering he’s supposed to hate her and yet is fucking her unbearably carefully with the hardest cock she’s ever felt).
“I know what to do with you,” he retorts.
Given that he almost fucked her arse on accident, her laugh is instinctive and sarcastic. “Sure you do.”
“I do,” he hisses, and then he’s pulling out and shoving her knees up, sliding down her body.
“Malfoy—!” she starts but then his tongue is licking through her and she loses the second syllable to a squeak. “Oh!”
He eats at her like he loves it — loves it but hates her.
She tries not to enjoy it, just to spite him, but he’s relentless, almost mean in a way she secretly adores. The suction is endless; strong, fluttering pulses that have heat surging down between her legs so rapidly she feels a little dizzy. Just when she thinks to push him away, he changes it, tongue soft and slow over her, keeping her from getting overstimulated and numb. It means she feels all of it.
He’s definitely not a virgin in everything.
She tries to distract herself with pondering where he learned how to eat cunt with such obvious passion but despite her best attempts, she can’t focus on anything but the slide of his tongue and the suction of his lips on her clit and her folds and the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
He’s making a mess of her, getting her wetter with saliva and arousal than she can ever remember being, humming and groaning as he does it, and it’s so hot she wants to scream. When he works his lips around her clit and sucks, she finally can’t hold her keening moan. Her hands jump down to hold herself open for him, pulling taut so that he can suck her clit until his cheeks hollow.
His hair brushes over the backs of her hands. His cheekbones bump into her knuckles.
His eyes lift to touch hers and he breaks the suction to smirk at whatever idiotic expression of agonized pleasure is on her face, but she doesn’t care. She wants his fingers inside her, filling her up and stroking where she needs pressure. She wants his stupidly perfect virgin cock. She wants to get him on his back and grind and grind and grind.
The heat of her orgasm is building, her walls contracting discordantly so that on the stronger ones, her hips lift up toward his mouth without her control, seeking the end that, unbelievably, he’s about to bring her to.
It’s in the middle of one of these strong contractions that he pulls back and sits up. She can’t help the bleat of despair as the second half of the contraction fades away, leaving her pent up and shaky.
The sound makes his jaw clench so hard his cheek ripples.
“Fuck,” he swears, giving his mouth a quick swipe with his hand before he curls it around his cock and aligns himself.
He’s back inside her with a singular, strong push and she can’t stop her body from hugging around him, holding tight as pleasure floods through her. Her orgasm is right there, so close she’s certain that if she thought hard enough, she could come without another single bit of friction.
“Fucking Merlin and the Four fucking Founders,” he mutters, then drops his chin to his chest, staring down at where he’s buried. His abs tense and relax, and she feels as much as she hears his slow, measured exhale.
She’s not sure what he’s waiting for until he heaves an inhale then licks the pad of his thumb and drops it between them, finding her clit.
Oh. God. He’s waiting for her.
“Fuck,” she whimpers, walls fluttering, and he swears.
His thumb feels good on her, the pace measured and the pressure just enough, but it’s the intensity in his stare that’s doing her in. He wants to watch her come. He wants to feel it.
She grapples with everything she has left to try and force him to fail; to make him come before he can make her.
“Feels so good,” she moans, only exaggerating her breathiness by the smallest measure. “God, you’re so good at that.”
The hollows of his cheeks are a deep rose and she can see the tension in his chest and neck, the irregular flexing of his abs in a staggered cadence she’s intimately familiar with, given that her cunt is doing it too.
“More,” she moans, and rocks her hips against him. “Please, more.”
“Fuck, Granger.” He has to look away, up to the ceiling. His throat bobs on a thick swallow and she wants to praise him for hanging on, except that in this case, he’s being bad by resisting it.
“Please, Malfoy.” The longer he stays motionless inside her, thumb worrying her clit with alarming proficiency, the more real her words become. The pressure in her pelvis is becoming unbearable, her orgasm taunting her from just out of reach. “Please move.”
“I can’t,” he pants, face still averted. “If I do, I’ll come.”
The thought makes her heat surge all the way to the top of her head and her crown presses heavily into the mattress under the weight of it.
“Oh fuck.” She wants that so badly; wants her own even more. “You can come, just move, I need you to move. Please, I’m so close. I’ll come when you do, I promise. I–God, please.”
He hisses a harsh inhale through his teeth. “I can’t…not inside. Just…just come and then I’ll…finish myself off.”
The image of him slicking his fist over his cock and then coming on her belly, or on her tits, nearly sends her over the edge. She holds it back, sweat beading down her spine, not ready to let him win.
“Fuck me and I’ll come,” she promises.
He groans brokenly. “Granger, I’m not allowed to—”
But what they’re doing is already so far beyond what she expects he’s allowed to do that she interrupts.
“You want to, don’t you? You want to fill me up?”
His whine is uninhibited, uncontrolled. He does want to – she can feel the way he’s throbbing inside her. His thumb presses harder on its next circuit over her clit and she nearly goes over.
“So do it,” she begs. “Do what you want. I won’t tell.”
It’s a ludicrous statement (who would she tell? About any of this?) but it’s enough.
He falls over her, bracing himself on a hand beside her head while the other grips her hip, fingers spanning to press into the flesh of her arse, holding her still while he drags his hips back and then drives forward.
The burst of friction after so long without it sends goosebumps radiating across her body. Her nipples tighten inside her bra and as his hips pound against hers at an increasingly frenetic pace, she can’t help but start to come. She muffles her moans with a hand but she knows he can feel what he’s done to her and so she doesn't overthink the pleasure. It’s so infrequent nowadays, she’s determined not to be choosy from where she derives it.
“Oh fuck.” His head hangs heavy, eyes downcast to watch where she squeezes around his cock. “That’s…oh my god, that’s…oh god–”
The words are lost to another desperate whine and then his hips are practically bouncing against hers with the force and frequency of his thrusts, his entire torso flexed tight, all the way up to the tendons of his neck. He holds himself deep a moment later, forehead pressing to her shoulder as he drops to his forearm and comes with a wretched groan.
Draco Malfoy is coming inside her and not only is she letting him, she’s enjoying it. Her cunt flutters with intermittent aftershocks, the satisfaction of feeling them around his cock making her wish she were naked, just so she could feel his skin on hers, and his hot, wet tongue on her nipples.
She’s so wet already that she can’t feel the difference he makes inside her yet, but she will as soon as she stands. Or perhaps in an hour or two…he’s coming so deep it might not drip right away.
She throbs at the thought and wonders if he can feel it; her heart pounds under his and she wonders about that, too.
“Never thought it’d be you,” he mumbles as he stills. “Fucking unbelievable.”
The sentiment of the words make sense but the delivery of them, the soft reverence, confuses her.
She drops a hand to the back of his head, patting him like she would a dog before getting it together enough to run her fingers through his hair, stroking him properly. He makes a soft sound against her skin.
The aftermath of sex has always followed a pattern for her: a moment or two to savor the pleasure, a rapid parting and independent dressing, and then a jerk of the chin or a wink or a lopsided smile, some variation of a farewell that conveys thanks and good one, Hermione and again sometime? without having to muddy the experience with words and all that they entail.
So when Malfoy slowly lifts himself to hover above her, not rolling off or letting her up, eyes heavy with words, she’s not sure what to do.
His face is pink and his eyes are bright, hair an absolute mess, but she’s only given half a second to admire his destruction before he’s closing the distance between them.
“I know you said to keep my mouth off you,” he murmurs, so close she can feel the way his lips form the words, “but you didn’t have complaints before, so could I…?”
He’s still inside her, not fully soft yet, and the idea of having his mouth on hers while he’s buried makes her heart stutter.
But despite some evidence to the contrary, Hermione is not cruel. It seems wrong to not be kissed after giving a part of yourself and so she lifts her chin and whispers, “Just once.”
He makes it count.
The pressure is soft at first, a question and an invitation, and when she responds by opening her mouth, he doesn’t punish her for it this time. Instead he lets himself in, lips parting and tongue darting out to taste her. It’s instinctual to meet him, to hold him close with the hand already in his hair. He groans into her mouth as her fingers scrape over his scalp.
They don’t break the kiss so it does count as once but it goes on for so long that she feels his cock thickening again, pushing against her walls to make room. His hips undulate once and she nearly bites his tongue in half at the burst of pleasure.
But fuck, she can’t let it happen again, no matter how much her traitorous body wants it.
She’s lying in a bed in Malfoy Manor and even if it’s with the heir apparent, she can’t trust that she’ll be safe for much longer. How long can he be gone before someone comes looking? Or, oh god, is Goyle standing in the hall, keeping watch?
Both thoughts disturb her enough that she finally breaks their kiss, tugging his head back with the grip she has in his hair. He looks thoroughly fucked now, destroyed beyond belief. It fills her with pride, and something else she doesn’t have time to examine.
“Get me out of here,” she demands in a harsh whisper.
A flash of something conflicted flits across his features and fear spikes, enough that she narrows her eyes up at him, fist tightening in the soft blonde strands.
“Malfoy,” she warns. “That was the deal. You have to let me go now.”
He tilts his head into her fist and swallows. “Yeah. Okay.”
But she won’t feel relief until she’s outside, so works his sex-drunk haze to her advantage, manipulating his body until he’s off her and sitting at the edge of the bed. His cock is shiny with her and red at the tip, lifted up against his abdomen by its own sturdiness. She makes herself stop looking at it as she finds her knickers and jeans and shoes.
He’s still sitting on the bed, naked and hard, eyes tracking her hands as they button and lace.
“Malfoy,” she says again, standing in front of him fully dressed and buzzing with anxiety that he might finally be realizing the position he has her in. A person’s word was next to meaningless in war and their deal was made of straw. “Get dressed and get me out of here.”
He catches the shirt and pants she throws at him, finally animating. She has to fully turn away when he stands, the bob of his cock utterly obscene, and so stares out the window until she hears the heavy drape of his cloak.
When she turns around, he’s a Death Eater again, mask in hand.
He steps toward her and her muscle memory instantly activates, her wand hand coming up in defense and her feet taking her a step back.
“What are you–?” she starts but he rolls his eyes and shushes her, snagging her empty raised hand with his and then pulling her into his chest, securing his other arm around her back.
“Just doing what you said,” he says, then Disapparates them out with barely a sound.
The squawk of a crow announces their arrival and the scent of leaf litter and damp decay lowers her anxiety a degree. She looks around quickly. He’s brought her to a copse and just beyond the tree line, the full brightness of the moon hints at a clearing.
She’d seen only open fields around the manor, so knows they are far enough away for tall trees to have grown.
But…how? Even wandless, she could feel the magical cage of the room around her.
“How did you do that?” she demands. “The house was thick with wards.”
He smirks down at her, looking supremely pleased with himself. “As you like reminding me, I’m a Malfoy. The wards don’t restrain me.”
How convenient for him. She wonders if his ease of egress is intentional or if it’s a loophole he’s exploiting in secret.
He lets go of her, even going so far as to give her a light shove in the opposite direction from him.
“Go now, Granger,” he says, stepping back again. “Just…go.”
He’s never said those words to her before but the sentiment registers as something familiar between them. They haven’t crossed paths frequently but she’s suddenly certain that on the occasions when they do, he hasn’t aimed his wand at her – not for years.
His imminent departure makes the lack of her own wand suddenly stark. She’s as good as helpless without it, given she has no idea where he’s brought them. She can’t Apparate without a wand, can’t defend herself or cast Aguamenti to keep herself alive while she tries to find her way back to anywhere that’s safe.
“They have my wand,” she says. “The Snatchers took it when they brought me in. I can’t…where are we?”
He raises the hand holding his mask, index finger extended toward the meadow. “Ottery St. Catchpole is half a mile that way,” he says. “I’d have brought you closer but I don’t know what sort of defenses are in place.”
Ottery St. Catchpole. The Burrow.
It hasn’t been used as a safe house in years, not since the start of the war, but there are Portkeys hidden around the house and property which will bring her somewhere closer to safety; somewhere that will flag the Order of an intruder. Someone will come get her.
She doesn’t want to process how he knows any of this, and therefore who else might, so stores it in the back of her mind for later analyzing.
“Thank you,” she says.
His hand flexes on his wand, the leather of his gloves creaking slightly, but he nods once.
He should already be Disapparating. She should already be running.
They stand, staring at each other, while the crow squawks again.
He knows a lot. He can come and go into Malfoy Manor undetected. And he’s looking at her like he doesn’t hate her at all, not even a little bit.
She’s not cruel, but she’s calculating. She’s fighting for her own damn survival and that of her people; she’ll use whatever resources present themselves until the world is a modicum safer.
“Yorkshire is vacant.”
She hopes he understands the fullness of what she means: that no one would disturb them there, in the abandoned safe house. No one would have to know if he exercised his freedom of travel, and she hers. If they found pleasure in one another, an escape, and then gradually - though as quickly as she could manage - cultivated a common enemy. If she can use Malfoy to bring it all down, she will.
His eyes search hers for a moment and then he nods and hope flares in her chest.
“Yorkshire,” he repeats quietly.
She licks her lips, an act she doesn’t notice she’s done until his eyes drop to watch. “I hear it’s nice in the autumn,” she says after a moment.
He wets his lower lip, teeth catching on it. His hand shifts on his mask, now hanging limply at his side. “Your birthday is in the autumn.”
She knows when his birthday is too – knows most of her classmate’s birthdays – but him knowing hers surprises her. He inspects her once more, mouth opening and then pressing into a hard line. It looks like he wants to say more but instead just nods once and takes another step back.
“Maybe I’ll bring you a gift.”
His Disapparition is quiet but leaves a lingering swirl in the air, translucent but not invisible. His words linger too, though just in her head.
A gift.
If he means her wand, she might very well let him do whatever he wants to her.
Even if he doesn’t, she still might.
It’s the end of August. Her birthday is only a few weeks away.
Hope is dangerous in war, she thinks. But it might be the only thing worth fighting for.