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It hadn’t meant to become anything—certainly not the obsession it had turned into. It started harmlessly enough. Draco sat behind Granger in a few of their eighth-year classes, bored, tapping his foot. He kept noticing the way she’d readjust in her seat, how her blouse would ride up to the small of her back and reveal the lace trim of her knickers. He thought it wouldn’t hurt to probe into her mind, just a touch. Her Occlumency was weak. There was no wall, no defense, and Draco was a very skilled Legilimens; he’d have sensed a barrier. Whatever went on in the Golden Girl’s head was likely just a never-ending list of studious answers or ways to be even more insufferable.
What he didn’t expect was the image that would change him indefintely: Granger, chewing the base of her quill and fantasizing— fantasizing about his cock, pacified in her mouth beneath the Quidditch stands, while she played with herself. The shock of it nearly made him jolt upright.
Blood rushed to his groin, leaving him sweaty, disoriented, and suddenly desperate to see that scene play out in real life.
What rattled him more was the sight of Weasley leaning over to touch her, trailing his fingers over the exposed skin of her spine, tugging at her skirt as they flirted endlessly. A smugness ravaged in Draco’s chest, a trophy of victory.
Hermione Granger wanted to fuck him. What a depraved little slut.
After that, he couldn’t help himself. Almost every class, he slipped into her mind. Her fantasies became filthier with each passing day. Granger on her hands and knees, panting while he pulled her hair and took her from behind. Granger riding him while he sat, the entire class watching—he liked that one, replayed it on a loop as he came into his own fist.
Draco started pushing boundaries in the real world. Arrogant quips that made her blush violently. A hand lingering too long on her arm when he asked for her notes. A brush in the hallway. Each touch seemed to fluster her more—until Weasley returned to her thoughts.
It was horrifying to dip into her mind and witness her trying to convince herself that Weasley was enough for her. Up until then, Draco had gone unnoticed. He loitered, yes, but never pushed. This time, he pushed. He pulled himself forward in her memory, reminded her of what she’d fantasized about. Reminded her that she wanted his cock. She must have felt him because a weak wall slammed up, and she tensed, glancing anxiously around the room. Draco dropped his eyes and retreated.
How would she know it was him?
It wasn’t until he was stalking down the corridor, textbook tucked under his arm, that it happened; he was yanked into an empty broom cupboard.
Hermione’s eyes were more feral than he’d ever seen them, and Draco was quite sure the grin that spread across his face rivaled that of the Cheshire Cat.
She was furious. She shoved him against the wall and berated him with accusations—saying she knew it had been him in her thoughts. She poked at his chest, prodded for answers, wiggled her index finger in a way that was more distracting than it should’ve been, and demanded to know how long he’d been invading her privacy.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he pinned her against the splintered remains of a old wardrobe, tore her knickers clean off her body, and fucked her glorious, dripping cunt while she clutched at him, crying out his name like a confession. Her moans haunted the cramped walls, and he swore he felt her come undone around him twice before it was over.
Afterward, she slapped him across the face and stormed out without another word.
That was, essentially, when the game began.
The next day in class, he skulked into her brain once again and noticed a feeble barricade. He snapped through it. She turned in her seat, eyes narrowed in irritation. He didn’t pry. He just wanted her to know he was there.
That afternoon, it was her turn. In a decaying old Herbology tunnel, she had her legs wrapped around his neck like a necklace, cunt pulsing around his cock making his head spin.
Hermione Granger had become a drug. She was in his bloodstream, a slow-working poison eating him alive. He didn’t even want the antidote. He’d take it all, overdose on her until his heart gave out. Until death came in the form of her hands, her mouth, her cunt. Until the last thing he saw was her espresso eyes and that damned smile. He started inventing excuses just to see her, just to touch her—to shag her.
He told her he’d teach her Occlumency.
She was reluctant, insisting she could teach herself, that she didn’t need him. But Draco kept poking at her mind every chance he got, like smoke through a crack, until she finally relented.
But that wasn’t the real issue. The real issue—the one that had Draco in a mental knot —was Weasley. Their relationship, or whatever the hell it was. One moment, Draco would have her legs spread, soaking his face as he licked her clean. The next, she’d be sitting on Weasley’s lap in the Great Hall, wearing his bloody jersey at Quidditch matches, or snogging him against the stone walls as if Draco hadn’t made her squirt hours before.
It made him insane.
It wasn’t until he edged her into oblivion—held her on the brink, trembling, pleading for release— that she broke, panting and red-cheeked, promising she’d stop sleeping with Weasley. Stop sleeping with him —she said it twice, as if she needed to convince herself.
And yet… apparently, she couldn’t just end it. Couldn’t walk away clean.
She begged for more time. Begged for patience.
She was angry with him, with herself, for developing the same sick, tortuous obsession that had already wrapped its fingers around his throat and refused to let go.
“You snuck out last night.”
“Is that a crime in your world, Zabini?” Draco drawled, gulping coffee.
“No, but it might be in yours. I haven’t brushed up on your probation terms lately.” Blaise smirked.
“Piss off.” Draco snapped.
“Someone’s moody,” Theo sing-songed.
“He’s always moody,” Blaise added with a laugh right as she strode in like she hadn’t ruined his life.
Draco’s eyes locked onto her the moment she stepped into the hall. Then he saw the fucking Weasel, yawning, and slinging an arm around her shoulders like he had a right to. Topping it off with a casual kiss doted to her temple. As if nobody would notice.
Draco noticed.
And she noticed that he noticed because her eyes flicked to him, even for a second.
His jaw clenched so rigidly that it felt as if he might snap bone. He was certain he was steaming from his ears.
Hermione averted her eyes the moment they met his, pleating her skirt between her legs as she sat down. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, fingers drumming lightly against the pulse point on her neck, the same spot Draco wanted to sink his teeth into and suck until she wore his mark.
Ron slid in beside her, far too comfortably. Leaning in and whispering something directly into her ear. She shifted away, just a bit, and Draco clocked it immediately. She was giving Weasley distance.
But was that for him or for her?
What did they do behind the closed doors of their precious Gryffindor tower? Out here, in front of him, she’d flinch. But later? Later, she'd tuck into his lap on some forgotten couch, mumble that she didn’t like public displays. Bullshit e. He should’ve cum on her face last night. Marked that perfect mouth, that perfect skin—the same beautiful face Weasley was now brushing against with his stubble and stupid grin.
“Something catch your eye?” Theo asked, all mock innocence. Hermione stood, snatching a piece of toast and tossing rushed goodbyes over her shoulder. She glanced at Draco— again —before she hurried toward the Entrance Hall.
Draco stood. “I’ll see you both later,” he waved.
“Stalking now? Is that what you’re resorting to?” Theo called after him.
Draco flipped him off without breaking stride, straightening his tie as if it were his armour. The crowd of third and fourth-years instinctively parted for him as he picked up his pace, eyes fused on the swish of hair vanishing down the corridor.
Just as she rounded the steps near the Alchemy corridor, Draco caught up to her. He grabbed her wrist, spun her hard, and dragged her behind the nearest tapestry. The world muffled, stone against her spine as his hand clamped over her mouth. She stomped against him, trying to push back, but he slotted his body against hers, pressing in until there was no space left to fight in.
“What the fuck was that display?”
Her toast hit the floor as she wrenched her mouth free. “Get off of me, ” she twisted against his grip. “I’m trying to create space between Ronald and me.”
She shoved at his chest, but Draco didn’t budge.
His hands were shaking from the effort of not tearing the fucking walls down. “Space?” he spat. “Letting him touch you? Kiss you? Curl around you like he has the goddamn right?”
“I didn’t let him,” she rounded. “And I didn’t kiss him.”
“You didn’t stop him either,” Draco growled. “Not until I was already watching.”
“You agreed to time, and I agreed to stop sleeping with him—” Hermione started
He cut her off. “You also said—while my thumb was on your clit, begging me to let you cum—that your lips and your mouth were also mine .”
He was towering over her, all anger and want but she didn’t shrink. Hermione straightened, her spine iron-rod straight, her eyes sparking.
“Did you see me kiss him?!”
The lust in his veins was pumping thick and fast to his trousers.
“Mine, Granger,” he gritted out. His hands gripped her curls like a tether. Fingers threaded through the strands, tugging just enough to tilt her head, his lips hovering so close to hers it burned. He wanted to devour her. Wanted to shove his cock between her thighs and feel her soaked knickers against his zip. He wanted proof that no matter how she played this, her body still answered to him.
“I’m late,” she quipped, capitalizing on the moment to slip from his hold. “Where did you want to meet for our Occlumency lesson?”
He caught a whiff of her arousal, heady and honeyed. Grinning widely, e lated that she had brought it up first.
“The Boathouse,”
“The Boathouse?”
“No one goes down there. It’s quiet. Tranquil. The wading of the water might help clear your mind,” he added smoothly, watching her eyes shift, understanding falling into place.
“Time?” she asked, brushing her fingers down the buttons of her blouse.
“Just before curfew.”
She bit her lip, eyes crawling down his disheveled state. Then she gave a single nod, spun on her heel, and disappeared out from behind the tapestry toward her first class.
Draco’s eyes were trained to find her in any crowd. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of the Great Hall or just a fleeting glimpse in a corridor—if Hermione was nearby, he would seek her out.
She was seldom alone, which only served to piss him off further. He could never make the first move, because everywhere she went, there was always a bloody Weasley, or Potter, or Lovegood, or Longbottom.
His body moved sluggishly toward Potions, disassociating throughout the day, ignoring the half-hearted jeers that followed him down the hall. He was rounding a corner when he heard a shrill voice— all too familiar. It made the blood in his body pool.
“Nothing is wrong, Ronald, I told you.”
Hermione stood near a row of portraits and a bench, shaking off an enlarged hand. Weasleys.Of course. Draco flattened himself against the wall, just out of sight, watching as students buzzed past, too wrapped up in their schedules to notice the argument he was riveted by.
“You're mad at me. Just tell me what I did and I’ll apologize, but you’ve been avoiding me,” Ron said.
Draco swallowed the acidic rise burning its way up his throat.
“I told you I’ve been busy,” Hermione huffed. “But you can’t seem to stop clinging to me.”
She stepped back into the stream of students, trying to disappear. But Ron followed, louder.
“Clinging to you? Sorry for wanting to spend time with my girlfriend,” he said, arms crossed, chest puffed up with righteous indignation.
Draco ground his teeth. Girlfriend. It was the first time he’d heard that term applied to her.
“I’m not your girlfriend. We talked about this,” Hermione said, slinging her bag onto her back.
“Right. We just snog, and shag, and you sleep in my bed, but you're not my girlfriend. Got it. Thanks for the reminder.”
That was enough.
Draco made his presence known with a deliberate scuff of his boot on the stone floor. Hermione whirled, cherry red lips pursed. Behind them, Slughorn stood holding the Potions classroom door open, motioning impatiently for them to enter.
Hermione shoved him as she entered the classroom. Draco followed and felt Ron stomp in behind them. Hermione took her usual spot, still not sparing Draco a glance. Acting on impulse, he dropped into the seat beside her before Weasley could even think to.
“Get up. That’s my seat,” Ron loomed over Draco with all the subtlety of a troll.
“We don’t have assigned seats, Weasel,” he drawled, stretching his legs out further under the table just to be petty.
Ron inflated like he might try something stupid. “Fine. ‘Mione?” he asked, turning to Hermione with a hopeful look and gesturing toward the last row, the only one still empty. Putting her in a stalemate.
Hermione hesitated, fingers twitching toward her bag, no doubt weighing her options.
Draco struck before she could move.
“Don’t even think about it, Granger,” he pointed. “I need your notes.”
His gaze slid to her face just in time to catch the rush of colour blooming up her throat.
“You can’t have her notes,” Ron stepped in again.
“Actually, I can.” Draco leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “She is the designated eighth-year Potions tutor, is she not? And isn’t it part of her role to assist other students with their studies?” He tilted his head, playing innocent, though his smirk said otherwise.
A few students nearby slowed their steps to watch, sensing the rising tension.
Ron looked like he was about to blow a gasket.
Hermione exhaled through her nose, ignoring both of them. She opened her textbook with a crack.
“As if she’d help you, ” Ron scoffed, making one last, desperate attempt to reclaim some dignity.
Hermione didn’t glance up from her book. “Ron, he has a point. I have to. I’ll see you after class.”
Draco’s grin stretched wide as he locked eyes with Weasley and then casually jerked a thumb over his shoulder—right toward where Potter was sitting, looking visibly uncomfortable as he tried to pretend he wasn’t listening to every word.
Ron muttered—“Bloody mental”—and stormed off.
Draco leaned closer to Hermione, letting the silence between them grow. She didn’t look at him, but he didn’t miss the slight curl at the corner of her mouth.
“What are you doing?” Hermione muttered just as Slughorn launched into the day’s lesson.
Draco shifted his chair back enough to shield Hermione’s lower half with his torso. As if engaging her in innocent conversation, he leaned in, letting his hand settle on her knee before drifting to the hem of her skirt, toying idly with the mesh. A trail of goosebumps rose along her neck at the brazen touch.
“ Girlfriend? ” he whispered, lips near her ear. “Don’t think for one second I didn’t catch the entirety of that enthralling conversation, Granger.”
His hand crept higher, gliding up the tender skin of her thigh until she tensed, muscles locking, trying to squeeze him out. A cough behind them startled her, and she spun her head.
Theo sat one row back, giving Draco a look that said your human shield isn’t as good as you think.
Draco stretched his neck lazily, pretending to scan the room, and caught Weasley’s glare burning a hole through the side of his skull. The twat looked like he was mentally committing dozens of scenarios of Draco’s murder.
His chair creaked as he adjusted again, interrupting Slughorn’s droning monologue for a moment, yet his hand never moved. It stayed right where Hermione’s thighs were holding it hostage.
“You’ll be working with the partner beside you…” Slughorn continued as flames sparked beneath their shared cauldron.
The firelight mirrored in Hermione’s eyes. Draco watched the hard swallow travel down her throat before she whispered, “If you were listening, you heard me correct him.”
“Open,” Draco wiggled his fingers.
Hermione gave a shake of her head in a ‘ no ’.
Draco chuckled unbothered, picking up her stirrer with one hand as if he weren’t sliding his fingers closer to her apex with the other. He traced one fingertip over the mound beneath her knickers—just one taunting stroke. A gasp snuck from her lips before she could stop it.
Instead of retreating, he doubled down. His body curved with hers like a lock around a key, one hand fumbling through parchments while the other went beneath the elastic band—lace, always lace.
“What colour are these, love?” he questioned so low it barely existed, buried under the hum of burners and the chatter of students.
“White,” she whispered.
“I wish you weren’t wearing them.”
One finger slid through her folds, brushing her clit. Hermione’s legs parted of their own accord, permitting him.
“That’s it,” Draco murmured. “Let me remind you —my cum’s still in this tight cunt, isn’t it? I emptied deep, just for that reason.”
He slid another finger in, and Hermione bucked forward with a mewl. She nodded, scrunching her face as she stirred the cauldron faster.
“Draco… not here …” she breathed.
“Then you’d better cum quickly and quietly ..”
He kept working her open at a pace just shy of a squelch, his thumb rolling circles over her clit. Over his shoulder, he checked again—Potter and Weasley were both nose-deep in the chopping of ingredients.
Good.
He slipped in a third finger. Hermione winced, gasping with a hand flying to grip the table's edge. A few students glanced over. Draco rolled his shoulder, cracking his jaw, as though he weren’t knuckle-deep in the Gryffindor princess.
“You bastard— ahh —” she choked, biting down on the rest of her sentence.
He smirked. “Whose is it? Give me a little moan.”
“No,” she rasped, defiant to the end.
“Whose. Is. It?”
She shook her head, her legs shuddering around his hand. He could feel the slick of her coating him, could see the way she was falling apart under the pretense of control.
“We need to finish this, ” she whispered, nodding down at the potion that was brewing.
Draco’s lips grazed her temple. “You need to finish. I’ll let you cum, but only if you say it.”
His fingers worked faster, the wet sound now unmistakable between them, and his flexing arm wasn’t exactly discreet—not to Zabini, not to Theo, who were both trying to look uninterested from their seats behind them.
Hermione’s posture faltered, her stifled moans growing harder to hide. Draco wanted her to cry out his name just loud enough for Weasley to understand exactly why she was sitting too close to the boy who had no right to her.
Sweat beaded at her brow. She unfastened the top button of her blouse, cupid's bow between her teeth.
“Yours,” she gasped, nearly inaudible. “ Draco —please—…”
She bucked, the chair screeching on wood while she raised her textbook to cover her face. Hermione’s inner walls clenched around his fingers in synchronicity.
Draco withdrew, watching the way she quaked in her seat. He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, one by one. Hermione’s eyes bounced between his eyes and his mouth. Releasing them, he reached forward and re-opened their textbook.
“You missed adding the Flobberworm mucus,” he said with a grin.
“Fuck you,” Hermione hissed, still flushed. She spun the book toward her and began chopping furiously, pretending like nothing had happened.
“You can,” Draco replied, licking his lower lip. “Later. Once you shake off the ginger.”
Draco walked the path, the sun already hidden behind the mountain beyond the lake. An orangey hue pasted on the horizon. A cigarette hung from his lips, and with a flick of his wand, the tip flared to life. He inhaled, letting the smoke waft out from his mouth as he continued along the cobbled trail. The boathouse was far from his dorm, nearly a fifteen-minute walk from one end of the grounds to the other, yet he welcomed the solitude. The quiet let his thoughts spiral.
Gravel crunched under his boots. Leaves drifted from the trees above, the decay of autumn in the air. When the boathouse finally came into view, it looked abandoned, ominous in its isolation. A single flame danced in the window. He stepped onto the wooden boards, the thud of his boots clunking over the water. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his dragonhide. The hinges groaned as he pushed the door open.
And there she was.
Lying back on one of the docks, sweater beneath her like a makeshift blanket. Her eyes were closed, her breathing meditative. The last shreds of golden light played across her face. Draco paused, hand still on the doorframe, chest contricting in that maddening way she had only ever managed to trigger.
He stood still for a moment, closing his eyes and stretching forward with his mind. He eased into the space between them, testing the edges of her thoughts, brushing lightly against the surface.
He waned the strength of his intrusion, softened his mental touch until it was nothing more than the sensation of a presence nearby, as if he was standing in the doorway of her mind, waiting for her to let him in without even realizing it.
When the boundary gave, he stepped in.
His mental footsteps padded through the corridors of her memories. He skimmed the surface of her day, fingers grazing her thoughts as if they were spines on a shelf.
And then— red. The flash of it was immediate. The hue of the sky, yes—but it bled into the walls of the Gryffindor common room. Weasley. Always fucking Weasley. Grabbing her wrists. Tugging her toward him, trying to pull her into his lap.
Draco felt the wound of jealousy puncture his heart, but he tamped it down. He needed to stay focused. Invisible. He couldn’t risk her noticing he was there.
“Come on, ‘Mione, you need to go to the library now.” Weasley tugged at her sweater like a needy child.
“I need to finish this Alchemy paper,” Hermione replied, jerking away. Draco felt the lie curl in her gut and knew it had unsettled her.
“I thought you said you finished that,” Potter called over his shoulder.
“I looked over it. I wasn’t happy with it in the end,” she lied again.
“If it’s just final touches, you can do it tomorrow,” Ron coaxed. “My dorm’s empty… let's go upstairs.”
Draco seethed. His hands clenched at his sides. It was unfortunate that he couldn’t hex Weasley through a memory. Couldn’t drive his fist into that freckled face.
“I can’t. I need to go,” Hermione said firmly, wriggling out of Ron’s grip. “I’ll see you both later.”
She left, and with her exit, the cord snapped back into the present, and he found himself standing directly over her.
Hermione’s eyes were owlish.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
“No,” he added flatly.
“I can’t shut you out. It’s the faintest pull—I barely felt it… until you saw Ron. Then I felt it. Your anger. I knew you were there.” She sat up, leaves clinging to the back of her blouse.
Draco walked to sit across from her, the wooden boards complaining under his weight. He crunched forward until their heads were almost level, trying not to let the irritation at himself show. He should’ve hidden it better, he should’ve locked that rage down when he saw the Weasel in her memory.
“Try again.” He nodded.
Hermione wiggled into place as if burrowing deeper into the boards would anchor her better. It was endearing, cute even . Draco didn’t want to think of Granger as cute. He wanted her wet, hot, and begging . Her eyes fluttered closed, breath evening out. He could feel her building the barrier—flimsy, just like it had been the other day. Draco surged forward mentally, shoving it aside.
Hermione flinched.
"Fuck! ” she pressed a hand to her temple.
Draco knew that feeling. A spike through the skull.
“Want me to stop? Take the barrier down,” he offered cooly.
“No,” she bit out.
She tried again, cobbling together a sloppy attempt at a shield. He hit her with another mental thrust. She cried out, pain flashing through her as the wall tore apart. Draco immediately retreated, drawing back from her mind like a wave pulling off the shore.
Hermione was panting, blinking up at him.
“Why’d you stop?”
“I was hurting you.”
Hermione scoffed. "Christ, and when have you ever cared about that, Malfoy?”
“Is that what you want, Granger? You want it rough in every part of your life?” he taunted. “I can make it rough, but if you want me to stop, you're going to have to beg. I was giving you an easy introduction.”
“I don’t need an easy anything,” she snapped.
Gone was the cute, curled-up Hermione with her sweater under her spine.
This was the hot, wet, feisty Granger he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Obsessively.
He didn’t give her time to reset. He drove back in, mind slicing forward. This time, he hit stronger a wall. He shattered it anyway and began digging. She was clever; though he expected that. He landed in a harmless scene: her and Ginny, sitting on a dock, licking ice lollies and laughing at something he couldn’t hear.
He pawed deeper.
He was looking for something that hurt.
A jagged rawness.
And he found it.
Hermione crying, sitting alone, a letter trembling in her hands. Her face was flushed, eyes puffy, the ache behind them so crisp he felt it in his chest. The letter was from a healer, yet Draco couldn’t make out the words—
He reached for it, only for the memory to vanish in a violent swirl.
Replaced.
Ronald Weasley.
It had to be his shoebox bedroom at the Burrow, with its low ceiling and posters peeling. It looked like summer. The air was heavy with humidity. Sweat clung to Ron’s shirt, his underarms were stained, and his stupid ginger hair was curling damp at the edges.
Hermione was nearly bare. Her bra vanished, and Ron was dragging his hands down her sides as they dry-humped on the bed, snogging like it was the last night on earth.
“Now? Did you want to do it here? Like this?” Ron was eager.
Draco’s pulse was in his throat.
She’d shoved it in his face like a blade to the ribs.
The evil witch was trying to force him out. But even in that, she was showing him a memory meant to provoke. This wasn’t something she wanted. This wasn’t something she fantasized about. So Draco didn’t retreat. He struggled forward until Hermione was on her back, legs awkwardly parted, her face scrunched—not in pleasure, but in discomfort.
Weasley’s thick, clueless hands were fumbling uselessly at her folds, nowhere near her clit. Just a boy blindly pawing at something sacred. Ron scrambled on top of her, his body sweaty, movements graceless. He aimed his pitiful excuse for a cock at her entrance and thrust in, no warning, no preparation.
Hermione cried out, clawing at his shoulders.
“Sorry, sorry—it’s the first time—we knew it’d hurt,” Ron babbled.
This was who she was trying to push him away for?
A clueless moron who hadn’t even had the decency to warm her up? Draco could feel Hermione recoil in real time, her consciousness flinching from the memory as he continued to carve through her thoughts as if they were his to claim.
Blonde.
He yanked it forward like a rope, dragging the memory to the surface with all the force he could summon. Hermione— his beautiful Hermione—was spread across one of Slughorn’s desks, fingers gripping the wood as her body arched, her thighs shaking as she squirted around his cock like the bloody trevi fountain.
Draco's grin was wolfishly triumphant.
Hermione was weakening. He could feel it.
She was in pain now.
It was intensifying.
Draco felt the fracture coming, her mind quaking at the seams. He knew he needed to pull back. But Gods, he wanted to keep digging, to flick through every hidden drawer in her brain, to see what else she’d buried, but he wasn’t going to break her.
He’d promised rough. Not ruin.
Although she hadn’t begged. Not yet. But the guilt, that soft, stupid thing, still furrowed in his core and won. He retreated. When he came back to himself, his arms were vibrating from the effort to keep himself braced above her as if he were in a mid push-up.
Hermione was beneath him, her pupils so black they devoured most of the brown, the whites of her eyes shot through with red. A thin stream of blood trickled from one nostril. Her hair was a frizzled halo, like she’d been struck by lightning.
She looked radiant. Unholy. Unbreakable.
“I didn’t beg,” she rasped.
Draco's face hovered just above hers, every inch of space between them stuffy. “I’m not going to turn your mind into mush just to prove a fucking point, Granger,” he snarled. “Are you sadistic? Is that it? Showing me that— that fucking shit?”
They were nose to nose now. Rage was the only thing holding them together.
“I knew you’d hate it,” Hermione dared.
“Almost as much as you hated it?” Draco growled. “Don’t forget—I felt how useless he was with you. Rough in all the wrong ways. None of the bruising you like —none of the ache you moan for when it’s me. ”
“Does it feed into your superiority complex, Malfoy?” she purred. “Knowing only you can make me cum?”
She crashed their mouths together, scorching. Draco fell into her as if finding the salvation that she was. His hips ground down against hers. She whimpered, her body already yielding, as the total absence of sunlight told him it was well past curfew.
Draco tore away first, the need in his pants almost blinding. He wanted to fuck her just as roughly as he’d just fucked her mind — wanting Hermione to lose grip on where he ended and where she began, to nest into her body and soul.
“On your hands and knees,” he ordered.
Her eyes were still bloodshot, a darkness pulsing through her as if she were possessed, and the fact that it mirrored his possession only made it more exhilarating.
She scrambled to comply, bracing her palms against the dock, adjusting her knees but they were still tied primly together.
Draco snarled. His hand fisted into those untameable curls and yanked her head back so he could see her face. His forearm flexed, veins visible under pale skin, and Hermione keened at the tension.
“Spread your legs.”
He had the upper hand now.
And he was going to use it.
Draco forced his knee between hers, knocking them apart with zero gentleness. He bent her forward until her cheek pressed to the dock, keeping one hand tangled in her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted her. With his free hand, he unbuckled his trousers, dragging them—along with his briefs—down to his knees. His cock jumped free, and weeping at the hem her school skirt. He folded the fabric up, revealing her pert, tight arse and a black thong cutting between her cheeks, tempting him to snort along the line.
Draco groaned, running his fingers down the seam of her knickers— soaked, absolutely drenched, like she’d dipped them in the lake before pulling them on. He pushed the thin scrap aside, his cock nudging at the first point of pressure.
“How much longer do I have to endure this nonsense with Weasley?” he grunted with disdain.
“Time,” Hermione gasped. “More time.”
Draco thrust in brutally. Just like he had with her thoughts, he fucked through the resistance. Her back curved as if it hurt, a cry ripping out of her throat and echoing through the boathouse and spilling out over the lake.
Draco clamped a hand over her mouth, the other strained to the bend of her back to keep her down.
“Quiet,” he growled into her ear. “Keep quiet unless you want to get caught creaming all over my cock because I’m not stopping if someone interrupts.”
His palm muffling every whimper and moan as he drove into her.
“Or,” he hissed, pulling his hand away to grab both her hips, “scream for me. Perhaps your boyfriend will catch us.”
“ Harder, Draco— ” Hermione begged, and it broke him clean in half.
He slammed into her, dragging her body back onto his cock with every thrust. Not a single inch of him left untouched by her heat. He angled deeper, hitting that spot again and again until a creamy ring built around the base of his length.
“You have me in pieces, Granger,” he grunted, snaking an arm around her waist and pressing his thumb to her clit.
She was so wet, he kept slipping, so he added a second finger, then a third—stroking in time with every ruck of his pelvis. She was loud again, her cries bouncing off the lakewater outside, the acoustics of the boathouse betraying every wet slap, every grunt and groan.
“I can feel you tightening up,” he grunted. “Cum for me.. be the whore I know you are and cum for me”
Hermione bit down on her tongue, trying to collapse as she screamed out her orgasm. One arm held her up, the other kept him angled, pounding into her, hammering against her g-spot until he felt the fire tearing through him from scalp to toe.
He emptied his rage, his need, his obsession into her stretched raw cunt. He groaned, hips stuttering as he held himself there. He slumped lower, breath ragged, his cock still twitching inside her as the high began to fade.
“Your mind needs more work,” Draco muttered. “Occlumency doesn’t come naturally to you.”
He reached down to brush the damp hair stuck to her lip. Hermione lay forward, her body boneless, his cock sliding halfway out.
“Obviously I know that, Malfoy,” she flipped onto her back with effort. Her skirt was still bunched around her waist, knickers stretched and torn, barely covering the mess between her thighs. Draco knelt between her spread legs, eyeing the view with reverence.
“You’ll need rest,” he said gruffly, tucking himself back into his trousers and refastening the buckle. He stood, stretching out the ache in his back and legs. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Hermione didn’t move. She lay on the dock as if gravity had tripled. She looked up at him, trying to get a read on him.
“Time,” she rasped. “Just… a bit more.”
Draco exhaled. “A week? A month?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Fuck’s sake, Granger—yes, you do.” His frustration flared again. “I need an end date. You know he’s going to try to get you back in his bed.”
“Two weeks,” she shoved her ruined thong back into place and flapped her skirt down. “Give me two weeks to figure this out, alright?”
She stood, wobbling slightly before stomping toward the entrance.
"Two weeks," Draco repeated, louder this time. "I’m holding you to it."
“Fine!” she barked over her shoulder, then battered the boathouse door open and stormed back toward the castle, shoes crunching furiously on the gravel path.
Draco stood alone now, bathed in moonlight, watching it reflect across the black water. As the chill settled in and the reality of the late hour hit, Draco sighed and called after her, though she was already long out of earshot.
“Goodnight, Granger.”