Chapter Text
As the warm, magical glow of the silver locket faded, Hermione’s bedroom went pitch-black. She blinked, startled to find herself in the dark. For hours, her focus on the magic had been so intense, she hadn’t noticed the sun going down.
Flicking her wand at the lamp in the corner, she focused once more on the tiny, oval locket on her desk. It seemed to glow from within, still sparkling from the magic she’d performed.
A sense of accomplishment warmed her chest at the sight.
Finally. She’d spent a over a year tinkering and researching, just to reach this moment. Of course, it would still need testing and further alterations, but Hermione felt sure she’d done it this time. The charm felt…right. Something had clicked into place this time. Now all she would need to do was put the locket on and open the catch.
She’d found the necklace at a tiny resale shop in Diagon Alley, deciding to buy it the moment she’d realized it was a Manifestation Locket, an object purported to fulfill the wearer’s wishes whenever it was opened. While they weren’t known to be particularly effective, its magic would be perfect for what she had in mind.
A nervous flutter worked up her stomach as she thought about opening it right now. It was getting late, but maybe she had time.
Hermione stood, stretching her arms high in the air to relax her tense shoulders and looking around her dimly lit bedroom. Empty boxes littered the room, all proclaiming the same thing on the front: Patented Daydream Charm! Enjoy thirty minutes of a highly realistic, completely safe daydream! (Not for sale to under-sixteens.) The flashy text was accompanied by a picture of a man and a woman on the deck of a pirate ship in a romantic embrace.
When Fred and George had invented them years ago, Hermione had told them how remarkable she’d thought it. And ever since then, she’d wondered if she could try her hand at replicating the charm and, just maybe, make it more…adult friendly?
It was only a little side project of hers, involving plenty of research and picking apart complex spellwork, which were two of her favorite things to do, so she hadn’t minded how long it took.
There was only one real problem with the charm: she couldn’t know exactly what each daydream would entail before she entered it. That part of the magic was up to the manifestation abilities of the locket, which she hadn’t quite mastered yet.
Hermione checked the clock on her nightstand, biting her lip as she considered it. She should probably go to bed.
Her eyes wandered back to where the locket was resting on her desk.
Thirty minutes really wasn’t long at all, on second thought. She could sacrifice half an hour of sleep to sate her curiosity. Besides, sleep was out of the question now, given that any one of her most secret desires could be brought to life with the simple click of a locket.
And there were just so, so many to explore.
These days, no one would ever believe this about her, but Hermione Granger had all sorts of fantasies. Sweet ones, dirty ones, jaw-droppingly nasty ones. But the drawback to being famous (famous in the wizarding world, at least) was that her privacy in such matters was of utmost importance. She needed to maintain an image, one that would garner the respect she deserved. If anyone were to learn that she found the idea of getting passed around an entire Quidditch team breathtakingly hot, well…all that respect she had tried so hard to earn would go right out the window.
She’d almost told Ron, back when they’d still been together. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered. He’d certainly seen to that.
There was also the matter of safety. One didn’t help take down an immortal fascist dictator without making a few enemies in the process. Some of the things Hermione fancied trying involved a level of vulnerability that was simply too risky to consider.
But daydreams were safe. Private. And now that she had figured out a way to dive into them as if they were really happening, she could finally live out all her fantasies with virtually no risk. That was the hassle of finding a new boyfriend sorted! It was the perfect solution.
Making her decision, Hermione snatched the locket off the desk and marched over to her bed, stretching out on top of the covers. She considered her pajama-clad legs for a moment, wondering if the daydream would keep her in these clothes or change them.
Well, she would just have to find out. It was a test-run only. She could make improvements tomorrow.
Unfurling the delicate, silver chain in the air before her and allowing the small oval of the locket to wink in the lamplight, Hermione reconsidered once more. It was strange magic, extremely complicated. True, the locket should be able to anticipate the kinds of things she would like, given its wish-fulfillment properties, but it wasn’t an exact science. There was every possibility she would be tossed into a nightmare, rather than a dream.
But she had been very careful to replicate the timed portion of the twins’ charm. If it was a nightmare, she would only have to endure it for thirty minutes.
Hermione brought the chain over her head to settle around her neck, and, with a deep breath in, opened the locket.
Her lamp winked out of view.
It felt like sinking, like her consciousness was drifting away from her body, down into some in-between ether where everything was different. Slowly, a new world started to form around her.
The first thing she noticed was that her soft bed had been replaced with a firm, rubbery surface. She was lying flat, arms above her head. When she tried to move, restraints around her wrists held her in place. Only the barest sliver of weak light made it through the blindfold she was now wearing.
Cool air kissed her skin, puckering her bare nipples. Apparently, the blindfold was the only thing she was wearing.
Hermione’s heart sped up.
Was she about to be dominated by some unseen person? The thought, while frightening, was also unbearably hot. Perhaps he was already here in this room, watching her. Her toes flexed.
Suddenly, Hermione felt nervous. She didn’t have her wand here, and though her legs were unrestrained, the ties on her wrists would keep her from being able to fight someone off or run away. She was completely vulnerable, splayed out as an offer for whomever the daydream charm saw fit.
How intoxicating.
The magic really was incredible. It was like she was really here, living out a dream she’d had for so long. She could feel absolutely everything in perfect detail, from the tight, silky ropes at her wrists to the leathery surface of the—she supposed it was some sort of table—underneath her. And hopefully, when it came time, she would feel every bit of pleasure (and even pain) that was in store for her as well.
Footsteps, light and slow, met her ears. Someone was here after all.
Hermione desperately wished to see who it might be. Was it someone she knew? Or some dangerous and handsome stranger? That she couldn’t see him was already a kind of delicious torture.
The footsteps stopped on her right. She could practically feel their gaze sliding over her body, taking in every bare inch of her. Perhaps they were considering what to do with her first. The idea made her want to squirm.
“Hello?” she called out. “Who’s there?”
No answer.
Instead, a touch so light it could be nothing other than a feather began to sweep down her body, starting at her throat and travelling swiftly down to her core. She gasped, shivering at the intense feel of it.
Whoever was holding the feather must be an artist, Hermione decided. They used it like a paintbrush, stroking it over her skin and leaving not paint, but fire in its wake. Every tiny brushstroke left her electrified, sensations magnified times a thousand. All over her body it went—over her puckered nipples, her sensitive abdomen, down her trembling thighs. When it reached her feet she shifted, prepared to kick the tickling feather away, but it stopped at her ankles, circling each one before moving back up to tease at her inner thighs.
A whimper escaped her. She was already hopelessly wet and aroused, and no one had even touched her yet. Horribly, Hermione wondered if she’d made a grave mistake. Thirty minutes was far too short a time limit. She should have made it at least an hour.
The feather came up to circle her right breast before heading downward again, making her back arch up off the table. If someone didn’t touch her soon, she was going to explode!
Hermione opened her mouth, but before she could tell the feather-holder to touch her, a deep voice met her ears.
“Spread your legs.”
Three short words, that’s all they were. Yet they sent a thrilling mixture of fear and excitement straight to her core.
The voice was familiar in a way she couldn’t place. Certainly not Harry or Ron, thank god. She wasn’t sure she could handle the awkward feelings that might come from that.
Licking her lips nervously, Hermione did as the voice asked, moving her legs as far apart as the narrow table would allow.
“Is that the best you can do?” the man scoffed. Before she could answer, he spoke again. “Incarcerous.”
Ropes wrapped suddenly around her knees, jerking them apart, forcing her feet off the table. She gasped, realizing that not only were her legs now spread wide open, but her knees were bound to the sides of the table.
Hermione gaped. Who was this? Clearly he was a wizard, or else the daydream charm was able to give magic to anyone. Whoever he was, he obviously enjoyed having control over her. As if to confirm this thought, he spoke again.
“Comfortable?” he said, a note of mocking in his tone.
With a gulp, Hermione assessed herself. She wasn’t hurt, just a bit shocked. And, if she were honest with herself, more than a little turned on.
“It’s fine,” she gasped, unable to hold back a squeak of surprise as she felt the feather return, swiping right down her newly exposed center. But as soon as it had arrived, the sensation left.
If her body had been on offer before, she was now an outright gift, forced open wide and ready for the taking. She hardly had a choice in the matter now. Whatever he wanted to do to her, he could, and she could do nothing to stop it.
Her cunt pulsed at the feel of his gaze there. He could see how wet she was, there was no hiding it. Suddenly, she felt a bit embarrassed. It had taken only a feather and a rough, sarcastic voice to get her to the point of dripping. Would he judge her? At first, she hadn’t thought to worry about such a thing, but now his mocking voice had infiltrated her mind, lighting up her nerves.
“Mmm. Eager, are we?”
Hermione shivered. That voice was dangerous. Laced with poison and spice, smooth as expensive liquor. Something deep inside her had awoken with the sound, sparking a frantic need to hear it again.
“Yes,” she said. “Please….”
She trailed off, unsure what she was asking for.
A finger replaced the feather, lightly drawing a line up her chest to the base of her neck. Hermione couldn’t breathe.
“Please what?” he rumbled near her ear.
“Touch me. Sir. Please. I need it.”
Begging was the only leverage she had left. Everything else was in his control. This faceless man with the devilish voice had complete power over her.
Other fingers joined the first, until his whole hand firmly wrapped around her throat. When he spoke again, he was so close to her ear that she could feel his breath.
“Sir? You really can’t tell who I am?”
Under the blindfold, Hermione blinked in surprise. She did know him, then? But that voice, she was certain she would recognize it if she knew this man.
“N-no?” she said.
The hand disappeared. Hermione cried out with loss, missing his touch, only to feel it once again as his hand came to rest on one of her thighs, squeezing a bit.
A tickling sensation brushed somewhere above his hand, so close to where she most wanted to be touched. She thought it was the feather until the decadent feel of his lips indicated it was his breath. Hermione let out an involuntary sort of gasp-cry and the feeling of his mouth there, just an inch or two away from her aching cunt.
“So I can do whatever I want to you, and you’ll never find out who it was?” he said.
A thrill of fright shuddered through her at his words.
“Yes.”
His kiss became a stinging bite. Hermione jerked at the pain, held in place by the tight ropes. He chuckled against her sensitive skin, soothing her with a brief lick before retreating again.
“I feel I should warn you; I’m tempted to do some things you wouldn’t enjoy,” he said.
“Like what?” Hermione asked automatically.
His fingers trailed down her leg, dancing along the sensitive skin behind her knee, toying with her.
“You’re so soft,” he whispered, so quietly she wondered if he hadn’t meant her to hear.
Hermione waited. Her mind was going wild, imagining what his hands would feel like running all over her body. Imagining what his answer to her question might be.
Finally, he spoke again.
“I could hurt you,” came the half-whispered reply. “Hex you. Humiliate you. Fuck you, although judging by the state of your wet little cunt, you might like that one. Even if I was as rough as I’d like to be.”
Hermione’s chest was heaving. She couldn’t help it. His threats should have frightened her—and they did—but they also had the opposite effect. Being at the mercy of this stranger was so arousing, he could probably do anything to her and she’d like it, ask for more.
“Do whatever you like,” she breathed. “Just…please touch me.”
His hands left her skin. A moment later, a new feeling pricked at her abdomen. Too hard to be a feather or a finger. His wand, she realized.
“What would you give me?” he said.
“Anything,” she gasped.
The point of his wand dragged over her skin, digging in hard. She tried not to shiver at the feel of it, but his threat of using magic against her took over her mind. He brought the tip of his wand down to her hips, stopping to poke hard into the skin just above her clit.
“Would you beg me for it, Granger?”
The stabbing sensation of his wand tip increased, making Hermione whimper at the pressure.
“Would you cry?” he asked. “Would you plead for my mercy, beg to feel my fingers in your pretty cunt?”
“Yes,” Hermione ground out. “Anything you want.”
He gave her a low hum of approval.
“I like the sound of that,” he said. “Go on then, little pixie. Beg.”
“Please!” she said, her voice ragged and desperate. “Please touch me, sir! Bite me or hex me or hurt me or whatever you like! Just please let me feel your fingers inside me! Please touch me.”
She waited, every part of her consciousness focused on the tip of the wand that was digging hard into her flesh, just above her swollen, slick bud.
“As you wish,” came the silky voice.
Relief and anticipation flooded her at the sound. Finally! He was going to touch her!
The feeling of his wand disappeared.
Then, so did everything else. The ropes, the blindfold, the table—everything dissolved into a kind of dark void. She was floating, rising, returning to her body. Soon, Hermione felt the soft surface of her mattress beneath her once more, and her bare skin was now confined by cotton pajamas.
On her chest, the locket lay flat, now closed.
“No!” she moaned, rolling over and planting her face into her pillow.
Just a bit more time! Another minute, even!
Frustratedly, Hermione plunged her own hands down the front of her pajamas, wincing as her fingers met a veritable puddle. She was soaked, ready for a man whose fingers were much longer and stronger than hers. What a poor replacement she made.
She could practically still feel him. The way his hand had wrapped around her neck, firm but not yet violent. The threatening dig of his wand, gliding across her skin. And god, his voice. She might have come just from hearing him speak for long enough.
And now she would possibly never see him again. Her locket had been magicked to send her into all sorts of different fantasies. There was a possibility it would never return her to that one.
Hermione groaned again, slamming her head against her pillow.
Right. She would have to fix that little time flaw immediately. The thirty-minute limit had been a huge mistake.
Other than that, however, the charm had worked. Too well, perhaps. Everything had felt fully and completely real. The detailed textures, the provoking sounds, the visceral pleasure she had felt—it surpassed even her most intense daydreams. It was like stepping into an alternate universe where you could be or do anything you wanted, all with perfect clarity. For a moment, she had almost forgotten it was a dream at all.
In particular, the man had seemed entirely real. The locket had truly outdone itself with that bit of the fantasy. Hermione’s body responded again at the mere thought of him. Whether he was fictional or a fantastical version of someone she really knew, Hermione was going to try to see him again. No matter what magic she had to perform to make the locket bring him back, she would do it.
She had to see his face. She had to learn his name, if he had one. She would never know peace until she did.
Draco came to his senses all at once, returning to his body at last.
His drink had spilled on the floor at his feet, the shattered glass and amber liquid winking in the candlelight of his office. He couldn’t recall dropping it.
In fact, he couldn’t recall doing anything for some time, apart from teasing Hermione fucking Granger with a bloody feather.
One moment, he’d been in his office having a nightcap, and everything was normal. The next, she was just…there. In a room he’d never seen before. Bound, blindfolded, and begging for him, her too-perfect body on display like a feast set out just for him.
Merlin, he was even hard! His trousers were uncomfortably tight where he sat at his desk, his dick screaming to go back to wherever he’d just been and finish the job.
Putting that frankly disturbing fact aside…how had it happened? He can’t really have been there. As far as he could tell, there was no evidence he had left his office at all. But that didn’t make sense, because he distinctly remembered wrapping a hand around Granger’s throat.
She’d felt real.
Extremely real.
Bloody hell.
Draco pushed to his feet, stepping over the mess on the floor. Shakily, he ran one hand through his hair, trying to figure out what had just happened.
It couldn’t have been a dream. For one thing, he’d been fully awake when it happened. He’d just poured his drink and had been about to take a sip.
Was it poisoned? Draco eyed the crystal decanter on his desk with suspicion. Perhaps someone had slipped some sort of hallucinogen in it. He didn’t even remember drinking any.
And of all the people to hallucinate about! Hermione Granger! What sort of schoolboy wet dream had that been? He hadn’t fantasized about her in years, not since he was a hormonal teenager with a secret thing for swotty muggle-born girls. And even then, the fantasies had been completely different.
Well, alright. One or two of them might have involved her being tied up. And more than a few of them had involved her begging. But it was still different.
Apart from the how, the why of it all was what really bothered him.
Why her? Why now? Why like that? And why, why, why had he been so eager to do it? For Merlin’s sake, that was Granger! Why hadn’t he taken one look at her, seen her splayed there on that table for him, and immediately run in the opposite direction?
Because the thing was, Draco remembered making decisions. It wasn’t a normal dream where things were outside of his control. There had been a sort of nudge, a magical tug here or a subtle spark of an idea there, prompting him what to do next—but he’d retained full control over himself. He remembered the exact moment he’d decided to lean down and bite the soft skin of her inner thigh. And the sounds she’d made…
Fuck! His erection had only just started to go down, and now it was back up again.
Draco stormed out of his office, heading straight to his rooms where he intended to take an extremely long shower.
Whatever that was, it could never happen to him again. He couldn’t be having random, uncontrolled, sexually-charged hallucinations about a woman he hadn’t seen in years.
As he charged down the hall, he pulled his sweaty shirt off over his head, feeling too hot and confined to spend another second with it on. His locket bounced against his chest, the cool metal of it soothing his overheated skin. It was an old Malfoy heirloom—one of a pair, in fact, though the other piece had been lost long ago. It wasn’t really his style, but he kept it on under his shirt anyway, as it was supposed to host strong protective magic.
Fat lot of good that had done him tonight.
Right. Tomorrow, he would test that drink for illicit substances. Perhaps he would pay a visit to Mr. Borgin. Yes, an expert in matters of dark magic might have some answers for him.
For now…Draco gritted his teeth angrily. For now, he was going to have to take care of himself. Perhaps several times. Whatever it took to get her out of his system.
With everything else going on, this was the absolute worst possible time to suddenly start dreaming about Granger again.