Part 2
The Dark Lord likes to motivate with threats. There was another vial of memories that arrived with today's morning post. Recently, he's begun receiving them several times a week. They almost always depict his mother suffering the Cruciatus. Once, it was a memory of his father shivering in Azkaban while dementors lurked outside the cell. In this sense, Voldemort is right - the threats provide ample motivation.
He manages to sleep an hour, maybe two, every night; usually in the Room of Requirement, slumped over the broken Vanishing Cabinet. He shouldn't, doesn't have time to, think about what passed between him and Granger in the restricted section alcove. Since Pansy broke up with him, he's been doing their patrol shifts alone, giving his mind far too much time drift. Before the incident, all he could think about were ways to further his assigned missions - kill Dumbledore, fix the cabinet, obstruct the Order. Now, he finds himself circling back to the restricted section multiple times a night, heart quickening each time in anticipation of... what?
When he passes Granger in the Great Hall, or in their shared classes, she barely spares him a glance - as if it never happened. But he vividly knows, constantly replays the feel of her curves as she fought against him, and her mouth so wet and hot around his cock. The bloody swot - only she could kneel before him and make him feel like the one who's lost control. He never liked her much, but now, that dislike has sharpened into something that cuts deeper, aches more, lingers longer.
He isn't stupid. He knows Hermione Granger didn't put her mouth on his dick just because. If he were a better servant to the Dark Lord, he would have chased after her and put eyes to the book she was willing to blow him to hide. Regardless, it certainly serves as justification to continue patrolling the restricted section. Each time, it's been empty as he walked by, as it should be in the middle of the night.
Tonight however, he sees the soft glow of Lumos emanating from the warded alcove. He softens his footsteps and steadies his wand. His heart thuds harder as he nears, and he forces himself to slow his breaths in preparation for the duel to come.
Despite his caution, he treads on a creaky floorboard and immediately the light goes out.
"Lumos," he lights his own wand, and advances quicker.
He turns the corner, and scowls when he sees that there's no one there. He's long suspected that Potter and his friends have access to an invisibility cloak, a sophisticated one impervious to heat and motion detection charms.
Thinking quickly, he swishes his wand and casts a flurry of spells across the room.
"Stupefy! Stupefy! Incarcerous!"
The force of his magic shakes books from shelves and sends the lone ancient table in the room careening to the far wall. He has a lot of clean up to do, but it's worth it. The last spell casts a net of flesh-seeking ropes that tighten around a writhing, invisible figure.
"Mmph!"
Gotcha.
"The ropes will only tighten the more you struggle," he notes smugly as he steps closer.
"I know how Incarcerous works." The discombobulated voice definitely belongs to Granger, who despite her snappishness, does take his advice and ceases fighting against the bonds.
He guesses at where her face is and reaches out to unhood her.
"Hello, Malfoy."
It's clear from her wet lashes and tear-streaked face that she's been crying, but her voice is clear and stern, rearing for a fight.
"Hi, Granger," he replies.
"Miss the mudblood, have you?" she says, with far more superiority than anyone in her position should have.
He scowls at her self-inflicted slur, and doesn't reply. This is the moment that he's been waiting for, but now that it's here, he doesn't know how to proceed. There's what he should do to secure his family's safety - impassively interrogate her and relay the information back to the Dark Lord - but that's not what he's been hungering for.
"I see you come by, you know," she continues. "Couple times a night. It's sweet really, how I've been on your mind."
He hopes the dim lighting hides the heat creeping up his face. He frowns and steps closer. Keeping his wand trained on her, he uses his other hand to pull apart the invisibility cloak. Beneath, she's wearing pajamas - cream-colored cotton patterned with blue blossoms. He runs his hand down her sternum, her abdomen, and pats down the length of both legs. There, on the ground, still partially obscured by the magical fabric, is her book bag.
"Draco," she says softly. "You did like it, didn't you?"
He ignores her, bends down and picks up the bag. "Now what have you got tucked away in here?"
He ruffles through the sack. There are far more books than its outer appearance would suggest - some kind of extension charm he isn't familiar with. Other than their requisite textbooks, the remaining works all pertain to memory modification.
"Draco," she says again, this time with more urgency. "Please. I can... again."
He thins his lips and keeps his expression neutral, the way he does when scrutinized by Voldemort's Legillimens.
The paths are clear, aren't they? On one hand, he can turn the book bag over to Umbridge; surely the information it holds is valuable if Granger is willing to barter her body for it. On the other, he can help himself to what he's been fantasizing about relentlessly. If he's a real bastard, he can do both.
But maybe the real choice here is between self-preservation and being able to live with himself.
"Right," he says coldly. "Like I'd want your dirty mouth on me again."
Her eyes flash in irritation, and he feels his cock engorging.
"Finite incantum," he mutters, then shoves the book bag into her newly freed hands. "Go back to bed, Granger."
She looks at him in surprise. "Why?"
"Why? Why are you crying by yourself in the restricted section at this hour? What do you have hidden away, that you're willing to whore yourself to hide?"
She doesn't move, and neither does he.
"Are you?" she asks softly. "A Death Eater that is? Is that why you've-"
"Go back to bed if you know what's good for you."
"I don't want to. I don't think you'll hurt me, despite how big and bad you think you are," she says as she wandlessly shrinks the bookbag and tucks it away into her pajama pocket.
"Do you really want to test that theory?"
"I already did."
She has her wand out now, so he tightens his grip on his.
"I'm disappointed," she continues. "Didn't all that pureblood breeding teach you anything about repaying favors?"
He blinks quizzically.
She reaches for his hand. Her fingers are cold, and he resists the urge to warm them against his own.
"I made you come last time. I think I'm owed something in return."
His breath hitches as she guides his touch under her top, until his fingers are grazing her bare, hardened nipples. He's so hard now that it hurts. It's his turn to ask why, but he doesn't want to. This way, he can ignore all the ulterior motives he doesn't want to confirm. This way, he can at least pretend to believe she wants to be with him in this way.
"Go back to bed," he tells her again, but he doesn't mean it. He's already thumbing her nipples and palming her breasts, and walking her backwards to the cracked table. He repairs it before he lifts her to sit on its edge.
She fumbles with his belt as he undoes the drawstring to her pajama bottoms. His hand finds its way to her pussy, and she's wet, soaked through her panties, and mewing breathy sighs against his neck.
"Tell me you want me," she says. His length is in her hand now, and again, he wonders where she's learned to do this.
"I should think that's obvious."
"Tell me anyway."
He bats her hand away so he can slick his cock against her slit, and just like that, he's pushing into Hermione Granger, and she's so warm, so tight, so perfect around the head of his cock. He squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating on not coming then and there. It's not until he opens them, and pulls out a bit that he even notices her white knuckles gripping the edge of the table, and how her core is too tight really, tense in a way that surely means she's in pain.
"I want you," he appeases.
But she's already avoiding his gaze, and new trails of tears wet the dried streaks already on her face.
With a sinking feeling, he pulls out and she collapses against him.
"What the fuck," he says. "Are you a virgin?"
So much for avoiding self-loathing. She has her face buried in her hands now, and like most other times he's been confronted by a crying girl, he has to fight the urge to run.
He should ask if she wants to stop, but his cock is still rock hard, and her legs are still spread around him, and she's still so very naked and pretty. Ron Weasley is a goddamn idiot, because who would give up this for Lavender Brown?
"Shhh," he says as nicely as he can.
When she doesn't stop sobbing, he sinks to his knees and parts her legs further. Her pussy is beautiful, pink and moist, with just a peek of the inner folds spilling out for him to lick.
She gasps when he puts his mouth on her.
"What... what are you doing?"
"Figure it out, know-it-all."
He flicks his tongue across her clit, and revels in how her thighs tighten around him as she pushes her core against his mouth. He gently eases a finger, then two into her, exploring, searching for that special spot.
"Ahhh!" she cries out.
Found it.
He sucks on her clit, and fucks her with his hand until her fingers are in his hair and her legs are shaking around him and her juices are pooling at the edge of the table.
"Shit," she gasps. "Fuck."
He grins against her pussy. He's made prim and proper Granger curse while she climaxed.
"Well," she says after a pause. "I suppose that's a favor repaid."
When she moves to slip off the table, he stands and pushes her back down.
"Not quite."
"No?"
He tries to swallow the words, but they tumble out like slippery marbles.
"I didn't mind when I thought you were just trying to distract me from whatever is in that bag, but I don't like being used."
He expects her to wince in fear as he pushes his cock against her entrance once more. After all, isn't she just a sad little virgin? Or was anyway, before he slipped in a quarter hour ago. Instead, she hardens her eyes and there's that goddamn petulance again.
"Don't pretend to be some villain, Malfoy. I already know -"
"Shut up," he snaps, then thrusts in.
She's less tense this time, but he can still tell it hurts her.
"You're right," she gasps. "Enough talking."
He pulls out slowly and then eases further in, again and again, until he's pushed up snug all the way inside her. Each motion only seems to make her wetter, hotter, squirmier, until she's rocking back against him and squeezing his dick with her inner walls.
"I thought I was fucked in the head," he tells her. "But you're a real piece of work, aren't you?"
"I thought," she says breathily. "That you didn't want to talk anymore."
"What kind of girl wants to be called a mudblood during a blow job?"
"But you didn't-"
"What kind of girl wants her first time to be as a whore?"
She slaps him. It doesn't hurt much, but it makes him angry anyway.
"I'm not a whore," she snaps.
He retaliates by thrusting harder, hoisting her legs up and bending them into her chest, so she's nothing but a hole for him to fuck.
"What kind of girl," he continues, "Wants her first time to be for revenge?"
She snaps her head forward and catches his lower lip between her teeth.
And here they finally are at their first kiss, and she's already drawing blood. He finds her clit and pinches it hard, and then she's crying out against his mouth, pulsing around him in dozens of heavy throbs.
The contact between their lips gentles, and they kiss and kiss. He likes that she tastes like her tears and his blood, and how she's now like jelly around him, and how ragged her moans are as he pounds into her with more force than he should.
"Tell me you want me," she says again before he comes.
"You stupid witch," he groans. "I've never wanted anything more."
Author's note: Whew! Part 2 down. Stay tuned for part 3! As always, I'd love to know what you think!
xoxo,
bourbonrain