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Hermione glanced at the dagger in her hand, the silver gleaming a bright emerald from the light filtering in from the Black Lake. She twisted the hilt, eerie green hues from the ever-shifting depths dancing along the blade until it caught her warped reflection.
She was met with the same wild curls and lightly freckled cheeks she’d come to expect from her own visage, but there was an excited, slightly maniacal glint in her eyes tonight. She was practically vibrating with anticipation.
Hermione pressed her index finger to the tip of the blade and watched as a single drop of blood beaded where it pierced the soft flesh. She inspected the weapon for a moment longer before nodding, satisfied that it would serve its purpose.
Sheathing the dagger, she hid it beneath her warm woollen jumper, tucking it securely into the waistband of her jeans. Once it was properly concealed, she turned on her heel to gaze at the solitary four-poster bed in the room.
She wasn’t sure how Draco Malfoy had managed to secure his own dormitory once they’d returned to Hogwarts, but it worked in her favour tonight. She approached the bed on silent feet, head tilted and gaze fixed on his surprisingly coiffed head of hair.
Had he styled it before bed?
She wouldn’t have been surprised if that were the case. He had always been too vain for his own good, which was exactly what she was hoping for tonight.
Hermione stood at the foot of the bed and whispered, “Malfoy.”
He didn’t wake, didn’t twitch, merely continued his peaceful slumber, mouth slightly agape with a hint of drool running down his imperious chin. Merlin, he was stubborn even in unconsciousness.
“Malfoy,” she hissed louder this time.
When he still didn’t wake, she jabbed the end of her wand into his leg. He jolted up in bed, incoherent and frazzled as he looked around the darkened room for the source of his fright. She might have also cast a stinging jinx, and by the stunned look on his face, it might have been too strong.
Whoops.
“Salazar’s tits! Granger?!” He grasped the covers to pull them up to his chin like he was scandalised and in need of protecting his modesty. “What are you doing here? What time is it?!”
“It’s half midnight.”
Malfoy looked around the room in confusion as if searching for the reason she was standing at the foot of his bed, watching him sleep in the middle of the night.
“And pray tell, what brings you into my bedchamber tonight, Granger?” he asked, his aristocratic nose tilted toward the ceiling. “Wait—how did you get into the Slytherin common room?”
She shrugged, waving off his questions. “I overheard a couple of Second Years using the password earlier. ‘Signum Serpentis?’ Really? That’s terribly unoriginal, and I would’ve expected the great and noble Slytherins to have better security protocols than ‘Snake Password’.”
“I thought it was quite funny. We are snakes, and we needed a password.” He lifted his nose higher. “But what about my room? How did you manage to get in here?”
Hermione pointed to her wand as if that were explanation enough. She was a witch. She possessed magic. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. Bless him.
“I can explain it all later, Malfoy, but I need you to come with me.” She twirled her fingers in a gesture that was meant to hurry him along while also conveying a sense of urgency. When he stared at her blithely, she hissed, “Now.”
“Alright, Granger. Don’t get your hair in a tangle.” He laughed, delighting in his own joke, but she rolled her eyes.
If she had a galleon for every time some prat had made fun of her wily, untameable curls, she’d have more money than all of the vaults at Gringotts combined.
“I’m going. But this is terribly out of the ordinary. If you wanted a middle-of-the-night shag, you should’ve scheduled an appointment.”
She snorted, but remained silent. The pompous prat probably would insist on scheduling such things.
Malfoy swung his legs over the side of the bed, slipping into a pair of deep blue velvet slippers—did they have his name embroidered on them?!—before turning toward her with his arms splayed wide. “Can I at least change into more appropriate attire?”
“If you hurry up. I don’t have time to waste on whether a blue jumper or a grey one best brings out the colour of your eyes.”
“That’s a ridiculous question,” he muttered, pulling open the door of his rather large armoire. “It’s the blue. Obviously.”
Inspired by her words, he grabbed a powder blue jumper from its velvet hanger. It was probably something that would send her into hysterics if she knew the cost. He also selected a pair of dark grey trousers and matching socks. Hermione rolled her eyes with an impatient huff, her foot tapping out her rising frustration. They’d be lucky if the moon was still visible at this rate.
“Now, now, Granger. I can’t be seen looking dishevelled in the middle of the night accompanying the Golden Girl. What will people think?”
“Probably that you were trying to lure me into the woods to kill me.” She smiled to herself at the irony of that scenario.
“Could you imagine?” he chuckled, his hands moving to the buttons of his black silk pyjama set. “Look away, would you?”
She met his gaze with a stony expression, defiantly refusing to heed his request. It was nothing she hadn’t seen before. Well, not from him specifically, but once she’d seen one naked man, she’d seen them all.
He tried to hide his body from her view, his hold on the jumper strategically shielding his chest.
What a prude.
Once he was dressed in more appropriate attire, she moved toward the door but halted when Draco failed to follow her. Instead, he approached his armoire a second time.
“What now?! You’re already dressed!” Her irritation was getting the better of her, and she had to remind herself that her plan hinged on his cooperation. She took a deep breath, forcing a honeyed lilt into her tone despite her rising annoyance with his dawdling. “You look positively dashing. Can we go now?”
Without looking at her, he said, “You flatter me, Granger. Just one more minute, and you can lead me into any dark corner of the castle to ravish me.”
To her unending dismay, he proceeded to restyle his already perfect blond locks in the mirror. She bit her lip to stop herself from scolding him. Was he pulling her leg, or was he actually that obsessed with his damned hair?!
“Who said anything about ravishing?”
The look he levelled in her direction oozed haughty, male smugness, challenging her to refute his statement. She stayed silent, though, because ravishing was kind of the point of their little excursion, but she doubted he’d be so eager if he knew the specifics.
Hermione tapped her foot again, and Malfoy tsked at her impatience. The sound had her reaching for the dagger at her back, but before she could threaten him properly, he closed the armoire, giving his reflection a cheeky wink before it disappeared.
Yes, Draco Malfoy was the sort of wizard who winked at himself. Apparently, his vanity knew no bounds.
He flicked his wand in the direction of his head to cast a sticking charm over his hair. Absolutely insane. She should’ve chosen someone else. Godric, he was insufferable.
When she’d made her list of gullible, easy-to-seduce men at Hogwarts, he’d been squarely at the top. She’d planned the night perfectly down to the last detail. The only thing she hadn’t accounted for was actually interacting with the annoying twat.
Malfoy nodded his head. “Ready.”
“Perfect,” she said with an eyeroll. “Follow me.”
He clutched his heart, eyelashes fluttering. “Anywhere, Granger.”
She led him out of the thankfully deserted common room and through the winding corridors of the castle, her eyes scanning ahead for anyone out after curfew.
“Honestly, Granger. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
She whipped her head in his direction, afraid he’d caught on to her scheme. “What do you mean?”
“A nighttime romp. That’s what this is all about, right? Sounds kind of kinky.” He waggled his eyebrows, and a rogue curl fell over his forehead. She knew the move was carefully choreographed for her sake because he’d just cast a sticking charm on his hair.
Men.
Hermione answered him flatly, relieved that he wasn’t suspicious of her actions, “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
Malfoy kept up an incessant line of chatter until she stopped in the middle of the corridor that led to the entrance hall.
“Will you be quiet?” she hissed. “I don’t need anyone seeing us together.”
His smile slipped into a pout. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“No,” she replied. “But people will ask too many questions. Much like you’re doing right now.”
He sulked, but ceased his talking, so she counted it as a win.
Once they’d made it into the brisk Autumn air, she breathed a sigh of relief. The chances of them being seen together were far lower outside of the castle, and soon, they’d be lost amongst the dense trees.
As they trudged on, the chilled grass crunching beneath their feet, Draco pestered her with more idle chit chat, and she once again questioned her decision to lure the Malfoy heir into her clutches.
“So what exactly will we be doing in the Forbidden Forest? Alone. At night. Alone.”
She decided that honesty was probably best, and if he tried to run, she could always turn his legs into jelly.
“Well, if you must know, I spent a rather large amount of time wandering around London after the war. Something about immersing myself in the mundane after so much turmoil. Blah blah. You get the idea.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Malfoy’s intent gaze, clinging to her every word.
“I stumbled into a muggle bookshop specialising in rare and antique books, and came across a curious sort of grimoire. It’s mostly just a lot of gimmicky pagan buzzwords, but there was one spell that caught my eye…”
She had the ancient tome safely tucked away in the beaded bag slung over her shoulder. She’d had to shrink it down because it was actually quite large and cumbersome. The pages were weathered and flimsy, the handwriting smudged in certain areas where candle wax or fluids of a questionable nature had stained the pages.
At first, she’d thought that it was all complete nonsense. She couldn’t think of a single witch in their right mind who would ever use chameleon saliva as a way to attract a lover, but the more that she read, the more she realised that a lot of the magical theory was quite sound.
The herbs used in the potions and rituals were mostly correct—rosemary for remembrance and white cedar for purity—but the execution was slightly flawed. As a well-read witch of her calibre, she could easily remedy such problems. So she’d made small notations in the margins, correcting whoever had crafted the original spellwork.
Hermione suspected that they’d probably been a muggleborn witch or a squib. It had to be someone with enough knowledge of the magical world to concoct the spells and potions, but not enough to be formally trained and privy to the details. The result was a smattering of almost right rituals, ones that she could tweak for her own purposes, especially when she’d seen a promising spell about bolstering one's innate well of power.
“...And well, I needed a virgin to complete the sex ritual.” She gestured at Malfoy walking beside her. She hoped her blunt delivery wouldn’t spook him, but at this point, she was well past caring about such things.
“But I’m not actually a virgin. Won’t that matter?”
“Wait, someone actually slept with you?!” Her steps halted as she cocked her head to the side, pondering the sudden wrinkle in her plans. “That complicates things a bit, I suppose.”
She tapped her chin, weighing the options ahead of her. Tonight’s full moon offered the perfect magical surge for the ritual, and she’d hate to have to wait for the next one. Drat.
Why couldn’t he have been a lousy fucking virgin?!
She tilted her head back in exasperation, taking in the temptingly beautiful glow of the moon above them. The conditions were perfect.
“Fuck it. We’re doing the sacrifice anyway.”
There was no harm in at least trying the ritual. It could be a sort of test run. The worst possible outcome was that it simply wouldn’t work…and well, Malfoy would be dead. No real loss there, though. But if it did work, even partially, Hermione would walk away with a nice boost to her magical core.
Malfoy put his hand out to stop her when she made to continue their trek. “Sacrifice? I thought it was a sex ritual?”
“...It is.” She watched him nervously, her wand hand twitching.
“Right then. Well, let’s get cracking. Moon looks great for it, I think.” His eyes tipped toward the starry sky before canting in her direction. “The lighting really highlights my magnificent bone structure. Don’t you think?”
“You still want to do this? You’re not worried?”
How could he possibly have heard her slip up and say sacrifice and still want to continue with this farce?! Surely not even Draco Malfoy was this naïve.
“Should I be?”
“...No.” Her gaze skittered away from his.
“There you have it, then! After you, Granger. It’s time for a midnight shag under the stars.” He held his arm out, ever the purebred gentleman, even when being unknowingly led to his death.
This was hands down the most bizarre night of her entire life, and she was counting that awkward night in the tent that Harry had walked in on her and Ronald. Draco Malfoy never seemed to react the way she expected him to, and if she ever tried to confess the events of tonight—not likely!—she didn’t think anyone would believe her.
They were in the heart of the forest by now, but she’d scouted the location over the course of the Autumn term to ensure that any creatures, critters, or lurking beings wouldn’t disturb them. When they came to a small clearing, just large enough to let in the bright light of the moon through the spindly branches above them, she turned in a circle, casting a long-range Revelio.
Her spell indicated a small doe wandering a short distance away and a herd of mooncalfs basking in the moonlight to the south. Perfect. Her stomach swooped in anticipation. There was nothing left to do but shag and slaughter the far too trusting wizard beside her. A gratified smile pulled at the corner of her lips.
“Sit here while I get everything set up,” she commanded him.
He walked toward the centre of the clearing but hesitated, lips pursed. “Granger, these are puffskein-lined wool trousers. And this jumper, which does bring out the colour of my eyes by the way, is cashmere. Do you know how many galleons I’m wearing? And you want me to sit? On the ground?”
Hermione sighed, willing herself to remain composed. She wanted to ask him if he’d still care about his precious clothing once he was dead, but she bit her tongue.
“It’s just a bit of dirt. I’m sure your trousers will make it through the night unscathed.” She couldn’t say the same for Malfoy, though.
“Fine, but I'm sending you the bill if anything gets damaged.”
With a fair amount of whinging, he finally sat. His hands flailed comically at his sides for a moment, but the uppity prat was careful not to let any of his bare skin touch the ground.
“Will you be alright by yourself while I prepare?”
“No guarantees, Granger. All of this for a romp? Couldn’t we have stayed in bed? My sheets have an excellent thread count.”
“I’m sure they do,” she stated, walking away before he could complain about anything else.
Wand in hand, she opened the tiny bag at her hip, summoning seven large blood-red candles from its vast depths. With a flick of her wrist, they formed a circle around them.
She approached the nearest candle and muttered, “Incendio.”
Once the wick was lit, she rummaged in her bag until she found the sprig of thyme she was searching for. She brought it to her nose, inhaling the familiar scent as she focused on her intentions. Thyme represented inner strength and courage, and would surely aid in her ritual tonight.
She lifted the herb to the flickering flame and watched it catch fire. Letting it burn for a few seconds, she extinguished it and placed it into a stone chalice she’d also grabbed from her bag.
The tendrils of smoke curled into the night air, the fragrant aroma surrounding her as she moved to the next candle and repeated the process, but this time with a bergamot orange.
“Sectum.” The citrus split in half, and she squeezed a few drops of liquid over the flame before burning the tough outer rind. The fruit would help strengthen her magic, both during and after the ritual.
She added the charred bergamot to the chalice, making her way around the circle counterclockwise. Dried acorns for harnessing personal power, evening primrose to enhance the moon’s effect, and mandrake root for strengthening the spell she’d speak.
To herself, she muttered, “There really are quite a lot of herbs to strengthen one’s power.”
She wasn’t as quiet as she’d thought, though, because Malfoy called out to her. “Is that what you’re trying to do with the ritual? Gain more power? I thought magic could only be transferred between vessels?”
Hermione hid her surprise. “That would be correct…”
Hoping he wouldn’t pursue the line of questioning, she quickly continued lighting each candle. She pulled out a damiana bloom and removed the stasis charm that had kept it fresh. While the yellow flower was a common ingredient used in various sex magicks, she didn’t think it would be necessary given Malfoy’s apparent eagerness. She wasn’t taking any chances, though, so with nimble fingers she lit the soft petals and added the now withered bloom to the rest of the herbs.
Finally, she approached the last candle.
“What’s the ingredient for that one?” Malfoy asked, his curiosity echoing through the surrounding wood.
“The grimoire suggested hibiscus, and I have some in my bag, but…”
“But?”
“Hibiscus is used for cultivating love,” she deadpanned. “I think we can skip that one.”
A devious idea took hold. She turned and paced toward the centre of the circle where Malfoy sat eyeing her. Unsheathing the knife, she crouched down to meet his eye.
“Perhaps, instead, I’ll use something a little more personal.” She brushed the dull edge of the blade along his cheek.
“Knife play, Granger? I kind of like the sound of that.”
Before he could stop her, she leaned forward and sliced off one pale lock of blond hair. Smiling, she righted herself, skittering out of his reach.
He gasped and clutched at his head. “I take it back! You witch! You’ve disfigured me!”
Chuckling to herself, she ignored his apoplectic rage and lit the last candle. The aroma of singed hair wafted up to her nose, but the acrid smell was worth tormenting Malfoy for his earlier vanity. Although, as she added the hair to the chalice, she realised with growing awareness that she’d have to ingest the burnt hair along with the other herbs.
This prat better be worth it.
She returned to his side, all of the ingredients for the elixir in the chalice. Kneeling, she summoned the grimoire and spread it beside them to review the next steps of the ritual.
“That seemed wholly unnecessary, Granger,” Malfoy groused. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him anxiously petting his hair as if it would make the shorter locks grow back.
“Guess we’ll just have to see about that,” she shot back, her attention returning to the grimoire instead of the second coming of Gilderoy Lockhart seated beside her. She still couldn’t believe she’d ever had a crush on that buffoon of a con artist. She blamed her pre-pubescent hormones. It was the only explanation.
Hermione pulled out the remaining supplies for the ritual from her bag. Then, she grabbed a pestle and carefully ground the charred ingredients into a thick paste, the bergamot juice acting as a binding agent for the dried herbs. Her finger ran down the weathered parchment until she found the next step, and she uncorked a bottle of aged elf wine.
She poured the blood-red liquid into the chalice and watched it cover the paste. The instructions had been vague when detailing how to ingest the herbs, but she knew elf wine was frequently used in magical tinctures.
She handed the mostly full bottle of wine to Malfoy. “Drink this.”
He complied, taking a large pull from the bottle. “Is this part of the ritual? I thought I’d be drinking that appetising goo.” His chin tilted toward the chalice.
“No, the chalice is for me. I gave you the wine because you’ll need it for the next part.”
Hermione read the directions, deciphering the ink-smudged words on the page. She muttered under her breath as she recounted the number of rotations needed. Seven repetitions of thirteen stirs, alternating between clockwise and counterclockwise.
“Why would I need elf wine for the next part? It’s not a very good wine, is it?”
“It’s not the most expensive bottle of wine, but it’ll do just fine.”
He sniffed but took another sip despite his misgivings, and she noted the bottle was now less than half-filled. Good. Perhaps, he’d be more pliant and less annoying once inebriated.
She summoned a glass rod and charmed it to stir the contents of the chalice, taking care to include the number of circuits needed in her charm. The rod sluiced through the concoction, and she smiled a gratified grin. It was almost time.
“What’s the next part, Granger?” Malfoy asked, his voice insistent. She wondered if his seemingly non-existent survival instincts were finally surfacing.
Reaching for her dagger, she levelled him with a flat look. There was no getting around the next part. She only hoped, for expediency’s sake, that he could handle a little pain.
“I need to carve runes into your hand.”
He blinked. “Come again?”
“The ritual requires some of your blood. Most sex magicks do. The hand is easiest, but I’m more than willing to carve them into your chest instead. It’s your choice,” she said with a shrug, the knife dangling threateningly in her grasp.
“I think I’ll stick with the hand. Yeah, that seems like the best bet.”
“I thought so.” She gestured toward him, but when he placed his right hand in hers, she shook her head. “I need your wand hand.”
“You’re awfully particular tonight, Granger. And bossy.” His lower lip pulled into a pout before he rested his left hand in her open palm. “I can’t decide if it’s arousing or emasculating.”
She grinned facetiously. “Why can’t it be both?”
“Touché. Alright. I’m ready.”
Hermione lifted the dagger, the cool silver of the blade gleaming in the moonlight as she placed the sharp tip to his porcelain skin.
“Wait!” he cried out.
Hermione paused, wondering if this was the moment she’d have to subdue him. Her eyes scoured the ground for her wand in case she needed it, but Malfoy merely snapped the bottle of wine toward his mouth and downed the rest of its contents.
He tossed the empty bottle away and shook his head. “Okay. Now, I’m ready.”
“I can stun you if you’re not up to the task.”
She started to reach for her wand. It wasn’t a bad idea. Stunned wizards couldn’t talk. Or complain.
His chest puffed out, indignation clear in his posture. “I can handle it.”
“Are you sure? Because you just threw a tantrum over a lost lock of hair. That didn’t exactly convince me of your manhood.”
He sniffed. “I’ll have you know that my masculinity is perfectly intact. Let’s get this over with so we can get to the fun part.”
“If you insist.”
“You’ll at least be naked, right? I’ve had this particular fascination about your tits for years, and now seems like a great time to leverage that fantasy in my favour.”
The sigh that left her was more defeated than annoyed. Who was she to deny a dying man’s last wish?
“Fine,” she sighed. “I’ll be naked.”
His hands came together in an obnoxious celebratory clap. “Splendid.”
“Peachy,” she retorted.
“Wonderful.”
“Shut up.”
“Just admit you’re hot for me,” he quipped. “There’s no need to pretend otherwise.”
She jabbed the tip of the dagger into his skin, and the echoing yelp that followed was immensely satisfying. “Who says I’m pretending?”
“Oh, please, Granger.” He rolled his eyes. “Have you looked at me? Who am I kidding? Of course you have.”
“You’re amazingly self-assured for a man with blond hair,” she muttered.
“That’s incredibly rude of you to say.”
“I know. Now, shut up before I silence you.”
The kinky bastard probably would have liked that, judging by the way his eyes heated. Typical.
The tip of the blade hovered above his palm, and Hermione closed her eyes, focusing on the runes. Othala. Perthro. Gebo. Uruz. She’d chosen them herself because the grimoire hadn’t specifically called for the inclusion of runes. She thought it was a nice addition, though. It couldn’t hurt to add a bit more intention and direction for the magic.
Moving with a sure and steady hand, she carved the first line and then the next, crossing her path until a diamond took shape just below his index finger. A glance at Malfoy told her that he was handling the pain better than expected, his only reaction a sharp intake of breath and the subtle tightening of his jaw.
Perhaps his masculinity was intact after all.
She added two smaller lines to the diamond, completing the first rune. Most translated Othala to heritage or legacy, but in this context, she was using it to call upon the old goddesses.
The next rune created a series of connected zigzags below his middle finger, and this time, a small hiss escaped his lips. Perthro. Magical destiny.
Third was a simple set of two intersecting perpendicular lines at the base of his ring finger for Gebo. Generosity. A gift freely given.
She carved the fourth and final rune, the three lines of Uruz resting just below the signet ring he wore on his pinky finger. It was quite poetic for a muggleborn witch to be carving a strength rune next to his family crest when she intended to steal his and his family’s magic.
After centuries of purebloods feeding their children misinformation about muggleborn witches and wizards trying to steal their precious magic, she was finally doing it. If she was going to be accused of something, she might as well reap the rewards of actually following through.
Hermione placed the dagger in the cold, hard dirt, well within her reach, and inspected her handiwork. Small rivers of red dripped from the incisions in his hand, and as they pooled at his wrist, she placed his hand over the chalice. A few drops of blood clung to his skin stubbornly before falling into the chalice, the crimson and burgundy swirling into one deep red draught. She relinquished his hand to lift the chalice.
“You’re sure I won’t have to drink that?” he asked her, face contorted in disgust.
She shook her head. “No. Only me. You just sit there and look pretty.”
He leaned back on his palms, movements indolent and unhurried. His mouth curled into an arrogant, roguish smirk as he looked at her from behind the curl that had once again fallen from his magically coiffed hair. “Done.”
Hermione ignored him and the fact that he did look quite attractive like that. She refused to give him the satisfaction of confirming it. Instead, she lifted her face to the moon, basking in its light.
“Goddesses of old, hear my plea. Accipi el magus sanguis donum de in permutatio cum potestate de virgo mortem.”
“Mortem? Like ‘la petite mort’?” He tossed her a saucy wink.
“Something like that.”
Before she could contemplate the ramifications of ingesting Malfoy’s blood—and hair—she lifted the elixir to her lips. Surprisingly, the taste wasn’t awful. The thick liquid coated her mouth with the various spices, the metallic taste of blood nearly drowned out by the sweetness of the bergamot and elf wine. It was earthy and smoky, and underneath it all was the slight coppery tang of Malfoy’s blood.
She drank until all that remained was the muddled rind of the bergamot at the bottom of the goblet, the pale green flesh of the fruit still coated in red wine. Licking her lips clean, she caught Malfoy staring at her, his eyelids lowered. She watched as his tongue slipped out of his mouth to mirror her movements.
A spark of arousal pooled low in her belly, catching her off guard. He looked entranced, ravenous, and judging by the noticeable tightening of his trousers, painfully turned on. By her. Drinking his blood.
She wrenched her gaze away, not wanting to dwell on her rising lust even if it would make this final part easier. She stood, dusted dried leaves and dirt from her jeans, and began to undress.
Her fingers slowly drew the jumper over her head before working on the button of her jeans and toeing off her boots. Her movements were perfunctory, efficient; this was not a striptease for his enjoyment. Still, his hungry eyes raked over her exposed skin.
Hermione shivered, and she blamed it on the chill night air instead of his all-consuming gaze. Unclasping her plain, black bra, she let the fabric slide down her arms to join the rest of her clothing. Her nipples pebbled in the breeze, but she continued, removing her knickers until they pooled at her feet. She was completely bare with nothing but the cool light of the moon kissing her skin.
She let him look his fill as she stood before him without a stitch of clothing on. He drank her in, his eyes roving over her ample curves. She noticed his gaze return to her chest every couple of seconds, and supposed he must’ve been telling the truth about being obsessed with her tits.
She reached for her wand and relieved him of his clothing with one quick swish. Malfoy gasped. She guessed being naked outside in October wasn’t nearly as much fun when it was his bare arse on the cold, hard ground. It was payback for insisting on her nudity. Turnabout was fair play.
Like he’d done to her, she catalogued his body. His pale skin gleamed in the darkness, the moonlight indeed highlighting his features just as he’d said. He was lithe and toned, and it was clear he kept his body in excellent shape. His muscular thighs, borne of countless hours on a broom, looked perfect for riding.
His precious clothing had collected in a rumpled heap next to hers, and once his shock at the temperature had subsided, he glared at it balefully.
His tone was shockingly put out when he voiced his displeasure. “The way you treat cashmere is practically criminal, Granger.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Hermione stalked toward him, pushing him into the dirt as she straddled his hips.
He waggled his eyebrows, a clear taunt twinkling in his silver eyes. “You’ve finally gotten me right where you want me. Now what will you do with me?”
She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “I’m going to fuck you and then, I’m going to kill you.”
“Gods, Granger. You say the hottest things.” Malfoy groaned, and without preamble, she sank to the hilt.
Then, they were both groaning, their twinned pleasure echoing through the clearing.
He was decently endowed, though she was loath to admit it, even to herself. The stretch stung as she adjusted to the size of him, and she rocked her hips back and forth to ease the bite of pain.
Malfoy’s eyes rolled back into his head, and his hands shot to her hips, stilling her impatient movements. “Merlin, Granger, give a man a chance to savour it.”
“It’s not my fault you can’t keep up.” She arched a brow at him. “Performance issues, perhaps? Pity.”
His jaw clenched when she rolled her hips again. “You’re a mouthy little witch. You know that?” He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, and it was her turn to moan.
“I have—” she gasped, “—heard that once or twice before.”
He chuckled, but kept up a punishing rhythm as she writhed on top of him, and she finally had to admit that he was quite good at this. One particularly hard thrust had her clenching around him, her fingernails digging into his skin and leaving crescent-shaped scratches across his chest. She dug deeper when he hissed.
Godric, it had been a long time since she’d been properly fucked. She’d missed it. The way he swivelled his hips every now and then did delicious things to her. It was a shame that this had to be a one-time thing.
Speaking of…
She reached around blindly until her fingers met the cool silver of the dagger near her knee. Curling her fingers around the hilt, she raised the knife.
Even in his distracted state, Malfoy caught her movement. “Oh, you really weren’t kidding about the murdery bits, were you?”
Hermione rose on her knees before sliding back down onto his cock with a casual shrug. She struggled to form a coherent thought through the lust clouding her senses.
“Not. Really.” Her words gusted out of her, harsh and laboured.
“I guess that puts the kibosh on…a repeat performance,” he gritted out, breathing just as hard as her.
“Yeah. Sorry, buddy.”
One hand left her hip to wave away her apology. “Nothing to worry about, I suppose. Just a smidgeon of death, right?” He pinched his fingers together.
“Now that I know you can actually fuck, I’m rather miffed that I have to kill you. I really am sorry it had to end like this, Malfoy.”
His brow was covered in sweat now. He was a mess beneath her. A glorious, writhing mess.
“That’s incredibly kind of you. Do you actually mean it?”
“No.”
“Fair enough. Well, I guess we'd better get on with it.” He grunted when she clenched around him. “No, wait. I haven’t even touched your tits yet. I can’t die without touching them.”
She huffed, her breath clouding the cold air around them. “Go on, then. And be quick about it. We both need to orgasm.”
“I’ll try my best,” he said as his hands snaked up the slick skin of her body to cup her breasts. He kneaded them reverently, running his thumbs over her peaked nipples. Over and over, he drew his fingers across the puckered flesh, teasing her.
Hermione shivered, and it was definitely not because of the chill this time. She leaned over him, pressing her body closer to his heated skin, hoping he’d take the hint. The move brought her chest closer to his face, and he eagerly took one bouncing breast into his mouth.
Perhaps he wasn’t as dumb as he looked.
Her hands rested on either side of his head, the knife still clutched in one as her fingers dug into the dirt. His tongue swirled around her nipples, alternating between each one with decadent licks. When he bit down, hollowing his cheeks with a fierce suck, she saw stars and moaned his name. “Malfoy! Yes!”
He hummed his approval but didn’t let up. Malfoy worshipped her breasts while his hands guided her over his cock. The back and forth movement pulled at her breast, and he nipped at the skin to keep it from escaping his hot mouth.
She was nearly there, perilously close to the edge. She just needed a little something more. As if he could hear her thoughts, he spanked her arse and twisted his hips, sending her toppling off of him. Instead of falling, though, she was turning. In a flurry of limbs, he reversed their positions until he hovered above her, hips still pistoning furiously.
He bent to reclaim her breast, breathing his demand into her slick chest. “Go on, Granger. Come for me.”
Malfoy sucked one nipple into his mouth while he pinched the other. The pleasure and pain together were the perfect hedonistic mix to send her flying off the cliff she’d been teetering on and into a blinding orgasm.
She gasped, groaned, and mumbled incoherent words, lost to the ecstasy. Her body went lax as endorphins flooded her system. She felt fantastic.
Distantly, she was aware of Malfoy still thrusting into her, chasing his own peak, but before he could climax, she blurted out, “Kiss me, Draco.”
She wasn’t sure what possessed her to make such a demand. Maybe it was the fact that this was her last—and only—chance to kiss him. Or maybe she needed to know if he kissed like he fucked. Either way, he obliged her.
Their lips clashed, teeth gnawing on flesh and tongues twisting together. It was hot and fast and wild. It was a violent fight that spoke to their basest urges, wanting and needing to inflict pain that could rival the height of their pleasure.
Merlin, he was good at this, too. She fell into the kiss, one hand delving into the blond hair he loved so much. The sweat-slick strands wound around her fingers, and she tugged hard. She chased his answering groan with her tongue, swallowing it down.
His hips faltered, stuttering with the force of his oncoming climax. The moment he broke the seal of their lips to groan, she lifted the knife with her other hand and placed the edge against his throat.
He looked so pretty like this, with his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and mouth parted in rapture. The silver dagger glimmered against his skin, only adding to the beauty of the moment.
When his hips stilled, buried to the hilt inside her, she pressed the blade into the side of his pale, fragile throat, slicing across his neck in one fluid movement. She made sure to nick his carotid artery for a quick death. She might be a murderous witch, but she wasn’t a cruel one.
He whimpered in agony as red marred his skin, blood flowing from the wound in never-ending rivulets. It painted his skin and hers, covering them both in his sacrifice. He looked down at her with hazy eyes, the pain now outweighing his pleasure.
“At least…I got to shag the Golden Girl,” he gasped.
She nodded.
His blood-stained palm cupped her cheek, and he ran his thumb over the smooth skin. “Take care of the cashmere for me.”
With that, he slumped against her, his head buried in her curls. She lay there for what seemed like ages, listening to the quiet sounds of his ragged breathing. She felt the slow thud of his heart as it slowed and eventually stopped.
Heaving his limp body off of her, she rose to inspect the scene. Flickering candles and beams of moonlight lit the area. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the quiet teeming of the forest at night. Their clothes lay discarded a metre away, haphazardly thrown to the side in her earlier haste.
Her entire chest was painted with his blood, and he hadn’t fared any better. Blood pooled around his lifeless form, crimson seeping into the dirt beneath him and staining his now mussed hair.
Hermione sighed, glad to have it over with. She looked down at her fingers. What a mess.
Walking toward her pile of clothes, she paused before lifting the blue cashmere into her hands. It was quite soft. She rubbed the material over her skin, clearing away the blood and grime. The powder blue steadily disappeared in favour of a deep sanguine red.
When she’d cleaned the majority of the blood from her hands and chest, she tossed the ruined cashmere away. There would be no saving it now, not even with magic.
She couldn’t believe his final words had been about cashmere. Vain prat, up until the very end.
Hermione dressed quickly, relishing the warm feeling of being clothed once more. She found her wand, quickly extinguished the candles, and gathered what was left of her supplies. The heavy grimoire was next, and she shrank it back to a manageable size before placing it in her beaded bag.
The last and final item was the dagger, still covered in blood beside Malfoy. Snapping it up, she charmed it clean and placed it in the waistband of her jeans. She contemplated cleaning him up as well, but knew there were creatures lurking in the depths of the forest that would be happy to do the job for her.
As she walked out of the forest, leaving Draco Malfoy behind, she thought about how much of a hassle he’d been from the second she’d woken him up.
“Godric,” she muttered to herself, her steps heavy with exhaustion. “I hope that wasn’t all for nought. Really don’t want to have to do it all over again with some other clueless wizard.”
Her footsteps slowed as she mentally sifted through the list of potential victims at Hogwarts, discarding name after name until one flashed brightly in her mind.
She was pretty sure Harry Potter might still be a virgin.