It started with a single look.
An intense, mercurial, piercing silver gaze from the opposite end of the Great Hall. It struck Hermione right through the torso like a raging thunderstorm, jumpstarting her heart, before frying her body with so much lightning she was at risk of being burned alive to nothing more than a pile of ashes.
Just look away.
It no longer mattered that they had only just emerged from the culmination of the mortal battle between her best friend and one of the darkest wizards to have ever existed. It no longer mattered that Voldemort had finally fallen, with survivors on both sides of the war now scrambling to ascertain just how to move forward in the wake of such profound devastation and loss.
It no longer mattered that they were surrounded by more dead bodies than live ones.
It no longer even mattered that she'd been tortured in his home…
Because for some inexplicable reason, Lucius Malfoy had just become the center of her fractured universe.
Why can't I look away?
The deafening activity around her had been muted to silence by that haunting, metallic stare. There was nothing but the two of them, a Death Eater and a muggleborn, unfathomably linked by a sudden series of powerful biological impulses not even Hermione's intellect could begin to decipher, much less comprehend.
With each passing moment, her core body temperature steadily ascended to a high fever, her clothes dampening with perspiration. The cold sweat pierced through her pores like icicles, contrasting so sharply with her flushed skin that she began to shiver. Her sense of smell seemed to heighten, but instead of being inundated by the putrid odors of blood and death all around her, she could focus only on the mouthwatering aroma emanating from the impossibly blond wizard's direction.
He smelled like sandalwood, tobacco leaves, and the cool breeze of the Mediterranean Sea, a fragrance so irresistible that Hermione wondered if this was actually her new perception of Amortentia. She couldn't imagine adoring the scent of new parchment and freshly mowed grass anywhere near as much as Lucius's unique blend, amplified by secondary notes of warm amber, cool spice, and smoky musk.
There was a hidden element beneath those distinct savors, an alluring base note that seemed specifically designed to stimulate unseen appetites, latent intuitions she couldn't fully identify. It was like the magic that transformed the mere amalgam of separate ingredients into a single cohesive potion, and she was now poisoned by his bewitching tonic.
She had no idea how she knew what it was, or how she could even perceive it, but she was as certain of this secret integrant as her own name.
Hermione knew she was inhaling the unmistakably potent, aggressively masculine aroma of Lucius Malfoy's testosterone.
There was an aching tightness deep in her belly, a coiling, throbbing gnaw similar to the starvation she'd long grown familiar with. But this time, she wasn't craving food.
Maybe he can feed me.
Hermione shuddered where she stood, too tired and embarrassed to determine the source of the appalling thought.
She tried to look away from him and continue to focus on her tasks. She really, really tried. But it was as if she were charged metal, and he was her precise polar opposite, trapping her with the inescapable thrall of magnetism.
Has Mr. Malfoy always been this handsome?
Despite his weary countenance as he absently soothed his sobbing son and catatonic wife, Lucius Malfoy was still an arrestingly attractive man. Dried blood and soot couldn't detract from his powerfully beautiful visage, for he had the kind of striking profile that effortlessly commanded attention in any room he entered. His long, platinum hair was tangled and visibly unwashed, yet still managed to shine with the blinding luminance of a high noon sun. The layer of stubble that peppered the broad marble planes of his squared jaw and elevated cheekbones only enhanced his regal maleness, adding an attribute of rugged virility to the otherwise unwaveringly sophisticated nobleman.
His soiled Death Eater robes failed to conceal the impressive definition of his tall, proud form; a dignified, mature musculature that could only emerge from decades of arrogant commitment to personal excellence. He was neither overly burly nor overly ripped, rather, perfectly balanced with a polished form of athleticism.
But his most heart-stopping feature was his gaze, a chilling, scintillating beam of liquid alloy.
A gaze that still continued to bore into her so forcefully she felt hollowed out by his study. Emptied.
Perhaps even ready to be filled…
He stared at her as if he knew exactly what confusing things were going on in her body. He stared as if he knew all of her hidden secrets, darkest fears, and most ghastly desires. He stared as if he knew exactly what she looked like beneath her tattered, filthy clothes.
He stared at her like a carnivore dying of hunger—and she was fresh, bleeding flesh.
As a rule, she avoided leaning too far into self-deprecation, valuing her sharp mind far more than the frivolity of being concerned with her looks, but she couldn't suppress her increasing self-consciousness the longer he stared, morbidly curious if he was currently assessing the many ways in which she was lacking. It was understandable why she—and any other person attracted to men—would stare at Lucius Malfoy. He was a handsome, literal devil. What Hermione couldn't figure out was why he would be inclined to stare at her. She was a plain-looking muggleborn, a direct representation of everything he hated. Everything that disgusted him. Surely it would offend his pompous pureblood eyes to maintain contact with hers for so long.
With dread, she began to wonder…perhaps he was staring because he was plotting to kill her. Not wanting to succumb to paranoia, Hermione promptly dismissed the notion. If his intent was murder, surely he would have done so already when he'd had ample opportunity, before the castle was brimming with aurors.
So what interest could he possibly have in watching her?
Why do I care?
Hermione's heart hammered a bruising beat against her sternum, rendering the mere act of breathing near impossible. The fever continued to surge through her veins, molten like lava, and unable to catch her breath, Hermione began to pant like a hound in summer.
She desperately needed to cool off.
With pained effort, Hermione quickly decanted the healing potions she'd been methodically brewing to assist Madam Pomfrey and the influx of St Mungo's healers treating the wounded, before launching herself far away from her makeshift workspace. She'd been brewing nonstop for…she didn't even know how many hours she'd been on her feet, but the inky darkness outside suggested it was well into the depths of night, if not perhaps early morning. The gnawing heat slightly ebbed the farther she walked from the Great Hall, granting her minor relief.
Clearly the exhaustion was getting to her, now that the shock of the war had worn off, and it was manifesting in the form of a sudden, completely inappropriate attraction to her schoolmate's hateful father. She'd been functioning exclusively off of adrenaline for so long that her body and mind were finally beginning to expire, now that the biggest threat to the Wizarding World had been eliminated.
Hermione rationalized that Lucius was simply something visually appealing to look at. A pleasant face. He was an image of beauty to focus on in the midst of the ugliness of the casualties of war—and nothing more. This strange febrility had nothing to do with the Malfoy patriarch at all.
Perhaps even more likely, she was coming down with an illness. Or post-traumatic stress. Battle fatigue. She just needed a few private moments to catch her breath and compose herself, and the untimely fascination with the dark wizard would surely vanish.
But she could sense him before she even saw him, and Hermione's stomach dropped in terror as the disruptive fever immediately rushed back into her body with enough force to cause her to lose her footing and collapse onto her knees. It was as if her very consciousness had been blasted by an explosive Reducto, shattering her intelligence into a jumble of indecipherable puzzle pieces she had no hope of putting back together as her temperature continued to climb to dangerously high grades.
With her mind a melted scramble, she was left with nothing but physical sensation. Gut instinct.
Fight, or flight.
Lucius Malfoy was approaching her, and right now, she couldn't trust herself anymore than she could trust him in his duplicitous presence. She didn't have a wand, her brain had turned to slush, and she was arguably sectionable, simply from her dire state of enervation.
She needed to flee. Fast.
"I know what you're thinking, Miss Granger, and I'm telling you it's a mistake. Stay where you are. Do not run," he angrily called from somewhere behind her.
Was he a Legilimens? Is that how he knew that she was thinking of running away?
And why was his voice so equally frightening and entrancing? His baritone drawl was like the growl of a tiger, a low rumbling pitch somewhere between a purr and a roar that tickled her insides.
Had his voice always been that deep? That threatening?
That…seductive?
Too lost in her panic to worry about what a pathetic, decidedly un-Gryffindor sight she made, fleeing from the Malfoy patriarch like a field mouse cornered by a viper, Hermione scrambled to her feet with a craven squeak and sprinted through Hogwarts Castle with no clear direction, silently praying she was not being followed. The fever was edging on delirium, her increasingly erratic thoughts replaced by an intrusive series of disturbing images without context so graphic she wondered if she was actually beginning to hallucinate.
Skin against skin.
Sweat mixing with sweat.
Saliva with saliva.
Touching. Licking. Biting. Thrusting…
Her strained muscles throbbed in protest as she made her way to the outer grounds, her shivering body seizing in discomfort as she approached the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Her lungs were nearly exploding from the exertion, wheezes so sharp that stabbing pangs pierced her chest. The stamina she'd built up from more than nine months on the run was no match for the fact that she'd been starving for nearly as long.
She tentatively stared back at the sprawling stone edifice. The structural damage was extensive, but the castle still took her breath away, just as it had the first time she witnessed its full glory up close as a wide-eyed eleven-year-old crossing the Blake Lake. It was as if the walls themselves had been welcoming her home with a comforting benevolence that tenderly cradled her lonely heart.
Now, there was an eerie silence upon the towers, a bleak stillness, as if they were in mourning.
But despite the solemn atmosphere, there was an undeniable resilience beyond the sorrow. Hogwarts had survived.
Their world would move forward.
Hermione was so fevered, so dazed in her distracted contemplation of the fortress, that she didn't have time to react to the pop of apparition that emerged only a few paces away from her.
Lucius's icy gaze was now a deadly glower, his straight white teeth barred in a predatory snarl, and Hermione nervously backed away on shaking legs the nearer he approached. She was too afraid to take her eyes off of him, as if she even could, for he was much too close to her now.
Close enough to touch her.
His intoxicating scent was filling her lungs like smoke, suffocating her, hitting her right behind the eyes with a sweetly sharp, heady rush that disarmed and dizzied her.
Is this what it means to be drunk?
He seemed to tower over her with his billowing robes, growing bigger and stronger right before her eyes, cloaking her in an iniquitous darkness even more forbidding than the trees of the forest.
Or, perhaps she was growing smaller. She'd always been petite, always one of the smallest in her class, but never before had she felt this miniscule. She was but an elf in comparison to the aristocratic Death Eater. She would have to stand all the way on her tiptoes for her gaze to even approach his wide, armored shoulder.
The small voice of reason that remained at the back of her delirious mind urgently warned her to escape. If she remained alone with him, without the full use of her mental faculties, something disastrous would occur. She was certain of it.
Lucius finally broke the tense silence between them. "For your own safety, you need to stop attempting to run from me, Miss Granger."
Hermione moistened her trembling lips and shook her head fearfully. "S-stay away f-from m-me, Mr M-Malfoy. I…I'm n-not w-well…"
Lucius gently tutted as if reprimanding a child and took another long step towards her. "On the contrary, you're indeed quite well, my dear. I never would have fathomed such an exceptional bestowal of fortune upon a mere mudblood. Though I suppose it is I who is most fortuitous, having found you…and at precisely the opportune moment."
What in the bloody hell?
Finding herself unable to process the most basic of dialogue for the first time in her memory, Hermione released an uncharacteristic whine from sheer frustration. Still unable to halt her anxious stutter, she replied, "I d-don't know what y-you're t-talking about, Mr Malfoy, but p-please…please go away."
"Oh no, little witch," Lucius drawled. "Now that I know just what you've been hiding, you and I are about to become much more acquainted with each other."
A vision even more threatening than his dark glare suddenly spread across his handsome face, and Hermione screamed out loud as her body immediately reacted.
Lucius had smiled.
But it wasn't a look of joy or happiness. This was not a beam of pride, or a grin that would lead to laughter.
This slow, devious, slightly crooked curl of his full lips was an expression that conveyed pure carnality.
And to Hermione's horror, that simple look summoned a corresponding physical response between her legs, an intense, keening throb more powerful than any inclination of fleshly desire she'd ever before experienced.
It far exceeded her childlike crush on Gilderoy Lockhart, and the timid, unexplored pubescent arousal for Viktor Krum. It even trumped her longstanding, soul-encompassing, unrequited love for one Ronald Weasley.
This feeling that the dark wizard inspired—this turbulent, gut-wrenching, maddening ache clawing out of the juncture of her thighs—was unadulterated lust in its most concentrated form, so forceful that it actually hurt.
Mortified, Hermione squeezed her knees together to try and halt the sensation, but that pressure only seemed to galvanize the lascivious hunger to immeasurable registers. Unable to silence herself, Hermione released a high, desperate wail, and to her continued horror, Lucius growled like a beast in response.
He surveyed her up and down, a hunter strategizing a kill, and Hermione weakly shook her head and mindlessly retreated deeper into the forest.
"Don't run from me," Lucius hissed.
The invisible fire that billowed through her limbs seemed to be forming a new storm in her core—a torrential downpour that completely soaked through her knickers.
"Fuck…I can smell how wet you are," Lucius groaned with a deep inhale, slowly licking his lips. "You smell so sweet—you have to let me taste you…"
She was completely alone in the forest, unarmed and vulnerable, with a wizard who, just a few hours ago, would have hurled an Avada in her direction without a second thought.
She wasn't just losing her mind to this fever.
She was losing her body, too.
If Lucius didn't kill her first, this unexplained sickness certainly would.
He reached for her, and Hermione instantly flinched away with a choked sob.
"Miss Granger…this is your last warning: Do. Not. Run," Lucius cautioned with a lethal tone.
Hermione was beyond caring.
Too overwrought with fear to apparate safely, Hermione spun around and darted into the blackness of the forest, running even faster as Lucius spat angry curses behind her. Powered by the adrenaline of desperation, she quickened her pace to a sprint, lungs bursting as her fatigued muscles tore through the dense caverns of the woodlands. She knew that she would likely encounter any number of deadly magical creatures at this late hour, but the only thing that mattered was that she had managed to put some distance between herself and Lucius Malfoy.
Too soon, a heavy, solid chest slammed into her side, cracking her protruding ribs and wrestling her to the ground. Hermione tumbled onto the leafy forest floor, protectively clutching her aching abdomen as she shook with heavy coughs from the impact.
Lucius was upon her instantly, and Hermione kicked and clawed at him with anguished cries, but her efforts were futile. She was no match for his strength, and he overpowered her with an almost lazy ease as the last remaining energy in her muscles rapidly depleted to total frailty. He had a crazed, feral, bloodthirsty look in his eyes as he pinned her beneath him, his pupils so dilated that his silver irises were almost completely obscured by darkness.
Does he have a fever too?
He silently regarded her as she exhausted herself, gazing down at her flailing form with an evil smirk, until eventually, Hermione no longer even had the ability to even make a fist.
She was completely helpless.
She longed so badly to take hold of her anger, to find some second wind of hidden determination to furiously battle him like the righteous hellcat she'd been known to be. But for some reason, her will seemed to evaporate into the damp night air, leaving her bereft of everything except fear.
And sickening physical arousal.
A fog was steadily forming around her consciousness, an opaque mist that dulled her inhibitions and impelled her to simply stop fighting and…submit.
And it was in that moment that Hermione realized with plunging sorrow that she was completely defeated. After everything she'd experienced, the years of her childhood lost to keeping Harry alive, the pain she'd suffered, the sacrifices she'd made…this was her limit.
There was simply no fight left in her.
Tears formed in her eyes as he flattened her fully on her back, trapping her wrists above her head in a biting grip with one hand. His other was free to roam down her shivering body, tearing at her worn, fragmented clothing, several sizes too big for her after so many months of malnourishment. She rapidly shook her head from side to side as she cried, naïvely hoping that he would have sympathy and stop touching her, but her mouth fell open in alarm as he separated her legs, holding her wide open with his powerful thighs.
Lucius leaned forward, urging a huge erection directly against her core, and Hermione's last remaining, tenuous tie to her pride was completely severed. She started begging in a renewed panic, practically groveling, her normally assured voice far meeker than it had ever been before. "Mr M-Malfoy….M-Mr Malfoy p-please don't do this, p-p-please l-let me g-go, I've n-never—"
She squealed when his mouth suddenly crashed down onto hers, smooth, assured lips moulding against her chapped, clueless ones as his coiling tongue slithered so deeply that she worried she would choke on it. Hermione had only kissed two boys before—Viktor and Ron—and neither one of them had ever kissed her quite like this.
His kiss was angry, wild, and punishing. It was a total assault on her senses, having his flavor so abruptly poured down her throat. He tasted of mint and firewhisky, but there was something else, a unique, delectable spice that Hermione couldn't compare to anything she'd ever encountered.
It was delicious, rich, and addictive, and before Hermione realized what she was doing, she was kissing him back, mindlessly chasing the decadent flavor.
She'd never hated herself more than in this moment, thoroughly disgusted with herself for responding so wantonly his attack, but she couldn't resist the almost painful physical compulsion to open herself to him, nearly welcoming his kisses as he proceeded to rhythmically grind his bulging hardness against her increasingly sensitive apex.
Stop kissing him.
Stop him!
Hermione bit down hard on his lip on an impulse, desperate to break the contact and regain some semblance of self, but it seemed that the harder she fought against him, and the more urgently he kissed her, the less she was able to control her own body.
She vaguely wondered if this was what it felt like to be under the Imperius Curse, to have her intelligence and rationale locked away as her body functioned on thoughtless physical instinct.
Like an animal.
Lucius suddenly released his hold on her wrists, and for a split second, Hermione rejoiced, grateful for the chance to escape.
The celebration was short-lived, however, for despite the lack of contact, her wrists were still bound above her head.
She couldn't believe it. He had wandlessly and wordlessly trapped her with an Incarcerous. Even in her fright, she found herself impressed by his command of magic.
Out of automatic reflex, Hermione tested the strength of the invisible bondage, but soon realized with harrowing dread that if she continued to struggle, she'd likely end up passing out from fatigue. She was already like a rag doll, drained to futility. If she couldn't fight, then she needed to remain as awake and aware as possible if she would have any chance at all of surviving this night.
The aroused fever burned so hot that it was making her nauseous, and Hermione worried she'd end up vomiting as Lucius's kisses lowered, sweeping across her face and catching her tears. He was frowning as if in concentration—or perhaps pain?—as he nuzzled the crook of her neck. She could feel his hot breath on her sensitive skin, deeply inhaling and exhaling with quiet grunts and groans.
Merlin, was he actually smelling her?
"That's my good girl…such a good, sweet girl. Let the hormones relax you. Don't fight this," Lucius murmured, sliding his tongue up and down her tendons. Instead of growing furious from his derogatory speech, Hermione was inundated with an immediate swell of satisfaction from his words, toxically burgeoning her self-esteem.
But why was he talking about hormones? Was he referring to PMS? Hermione's periods had stopped months prior on account of her rapid weight loss.
Regardless, his sudden interest in her health was not actually meaningful. It was not, and never would be, any of his business.
And she was most certainly not his "good girl."
Committed to regaining her focus, she frowned and firmly shook her head. "No…d-don't call me that. I'm n-not y-your—"
"Oh yes you are, little witch. You were born for this. You were made for me." Lucius reached for the neckline of her top, and with a firm tug, the frayed garment was yanked from her body, leaving her torso exposed. Her bra immediately followed, and fresh tears poured from her eyes as his large hands manhandled her breasts and squeezed hard enough to bruise. His touch was painful, rough and demanding, and there was nothing about it she should have enjoyed, but the slick heat between her legs only grew stronger and more agonizing as he lowered his mouth to her breast, extended his tongue, and began toying with her nipple.
Hermione couldn't restrain her moan, and she cursed herself for arching into his mouth as he proceeded to suckle her entire areola, wildly swirling his tongue and coating her florid skin with hot saliva. She despised the way her tender breasts throbbed for more of his attention, and despairingly tried to distract herself from the sensations. But just when she felt like she'd gotten used to his odd fixation with sucking her nipple, he moved his attention to the other breast, and Hermione cried out as an explosive wave of pleasure barreled right down her stomach and between her legs.
She wasn't sure at what point she started mewling like a kitten, but it must have been around the time Lucius had started growling like a wolf as he hungrily devoured her breasts. It was such a strange conundrum, to be so paralyzed by both terror and desire, for the fact that Lucius could easily—and would likely—kill her was never far from her mind.
But the pleasure…the spectacular pleasure he was inflicting upon her body was a novel form of torture that had Hermione wishing for another skull-shattering round of the Cruciatus courtesy of Bellatrix Lestrange. She'd gladly let the certifiable witch Crucio her for hours, would even allow her to carve mudblood over her entire surface area of visible skin—anything if it meant escaping Lucius's sexual advances. Pain, she could handle, for pain was something she understood. Pain was something she could survive.
Pleasure, however, was an entirely new horizon, and she could think of very few people more inappropriate to introduce her to the world of the flesh than Lucius Malfoy.
This wasn't just violation of her body.
This was an assault of her soul, of everything she valued most about herself.
Hermione was frozen in shock as his mouth suddenly lowered from darting between her breasts, languidly kissing his way down her concave belly with extended licks. He impatiently ripped her jeans off, divesting her of her trainers and socks with a wandless spell, and before Hermione could fully react to the fact that she was now stark naked in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, Lucius buried his face between her thighs.
Hermione shrieked at the top of her lungs, instantly bawling with a roaring flood of scorching tears as the pleasure in her core catapulted beyond the boundaries of humanity. She'd never experienced anything as blisteringly exquisite as Lucius's long, thick, roughly ravenous tongue gluttonously lapping at her privates like a man dying of starvation. She was too overwhelmed to even consider the fact that she should have been mortified by what he was doing.
What would possibly possess a wizard like Lucius to perform such an obscene act upon her?
In what little she'd overheard about sexual relations from bolder students over the years, she'd understood cunnilingus as a mere compulsory act that wizards seldom actually enjoyed. Hermione had resolved that being on the receiving end of oral sex would never be something she'd willingly participate in, for her embarrassment at the idea significantly outweighed any potential curiosity. In her many romantic fantasies about sleeping with Ron, she'd never once thought about him putting his mouth on…she couldn't even consider it without turning redder than his hair from shame. She'd been led to believe that her appearance down there would be perceived as unsightly, her scent and flavor unappetizing, if not outright offensive, and she couldn't imagine subjecting anyone to such an unpleasant inconvenience.
But the way that Lucius was behaving—vibrating her insides as he longingly moaned against her slippery labia, clawing her thighs and tightening his grip each time she tried to squirm away, slathering his tongue absolutely everywhere until no part of her was untasted—seemed to suggest that perhaps this undertaking was one that brought pleasure to him.
It made no sense to Hermione.
He was feasting on her as if he'd never before tasted anything more delectable, manipulating her highly reactive surfaces so skillfully that Hermione was convulsing from the agony of the sensual delights.
She tried again to wiggle away from him, but Lucius gripped both of her locked knees and brusquely shoved her legs far apart.
"Mr Malfoy…M-Mr Malfoy, p-please…n-no more…" Hermione blubbered, but he ignored her pleas as he brought his long fingers to her dripping sex and spread her open. Hermione had never felt more exposed and defenseless, and her shoulders quaked with violent, despairing sobs as he gazed directly at her obscene vulnerability, breathing over her, smelling her.
"I'm sorry—I can't…I can't stop," Lucius rasped with a disturbing tone of absentmindedness. It was as if he were speaking to himself. "This cunt is so beautiful…so sweet. So fucking sweet. I need more…"
He lunged and encircled her swollen clitoris with his lips with a prolonged, throaty moan, drawing her away from herself and into his burning mouth.
Oh, sweet Merlin!
Hermione couldn't handle the intensity of the direct stimulation upon such a delicate, vulnerable part of her. This would surely kill her now.
Panicking, Hermione thrashed beneath his onslaught as he tongued her tender, pulsing clitoris with a direct, concentrated ambush. There were no words to describe how incredible it felt, a concupiscent tension that seemed only to compound as the moments passed. The scorching heat, the hungry movements, the sopping wetness…it was vulgar and degrading and extraordinary all at once. As the rest of her body flailed and spasmed like feathers in the wind, the area between her legs felt uncomfortably weighted and heavy. It was like she was being inflated, a helpless ballooned tied up and injected with so much air pressure there would be no choice but to explode into a million pieces.
As if sensing her distress—and intending to exploit it—Lucius suddenly spoke with a low, coaxing tone. "Come for me, my sweet little witch. Be a good girl and come all over my face."
His deep voice rumbled through her folds and up to her belly, commanding her body like a spell as the agitation in her sex reached a new critical mass. She fought against it with everything she had left, but the prolonged flutter of his relentless savoring on the most sensitive part of her clitoris completely eradicated her restraint.
"Come for me, sweet girl."
She could no longer resist.
The lustful pressure was going to destroy her.
There was a brief moment of stillness, and then, a catastrophe occurred. It started with a rapid series of explosions that detonated along the length of her spine like bombastic bombs, causing her overly responsive sex to repeatedly contract so fast, and with so much delicious force, that she completely lost control over her motor functions. She could only wail like a banshee as her body convulsed from the impact, prolific tears soaking the soil beneath her like a fresh rain. The euphoric pinnacle crashed into her, ripping her apart with so much sensual pleasure she was certain her heart had stopped. Her vision faded to temporary blackness as her body burned white hot, before she found herself submerged in a cooling, restorative ecstasy so profound it was practically transcendental.
It was magnificent.
And she was repulsed by it.
Orgasms were supposed to be a source of joy, but Lucius had turned her first experience into something of utter perversion. He'd stolen her climax, hauling it out of her unwilling body.
Never before had she felt so violated.
Hermione thought she'd reached the summit of her humiliation—surely it couldn't get any worse than this—but as Lucius slowed his movements, lazily trailing his tongue up and down her inner thighs as if to clean her as she quivered from the aftershocks of her climax, she noticed a discomfiting amount of moisture upon her skin.
Petrified, Hermione's instantly blushed at the realization that she may have spontaneously urinated, but to her relief, the texture of the fluid was all wrong. It was slightly viscous, completely transparent and largely odourless, and Lucius lapped it up as if she were some kind of honeyed dessert.
She'd been massacred, her body paralyzed in a buzzing state of exhausted rapture, her mind so lost to an abyss of shame that she didn't even react as Lucius moved back up her body, repositioning his erection between her legs. She offered no resistance as he manipulated her listless form beneath him, releasing her hands from his spell. Ensnared by self-loathing, she didn't even bother attempting to flee, arms dropping limply to her sides.
Hermione let her head roll lamely to her left as she listened to him unfasten his trousers. She hoped that she'd pass out quickly, for she wasn't sure how much more of this torment she could process before she succumbed entirely to madness.
"Miss Granger, look at me," Lucius snarled. She wondered vaguely if he'd used another spell, for the immediate desire to heed his instruction was a knee-jerk response, something subconscious and far beyond her control.
She obediently stared up at his gleaming moonlight eyes, and noticed with renewed terror that Lucius, in fact, looked as if he'd already fallen into insanity.
He spoke again through gritted teeth. "Listen to me carefully: I need you to remain as still as possible. Don't fight me. If you resist, this will end very badly for you."
Subdued by his threat, Hermione could only slowly nod in response.
She hadn't told Ron and Harry, but she'd secretly obtained a year-long contraceptive potion prior to their hunt for the Horcruxes, for she was nothing if not prepared. She knew the high probability of capture by Death Eaters, and also knew that there were unsavory ways they could harm her differently than the boys, simply due to her biology as a woman.
Bitterly, she was grateful for her foresight.
At least she wouldn't end up pregnant.
There was a hot hardness nudging against her entrance, and Hermione tightly closed her eyes, praying that it would be over quickly.
"Hermione," Lucius said, and her eyes immediately snapped open. He'd never before referred to her by her given name.
Even more troubling was what she witnessed in his expression, a look of pure anguish, as if he were being tortured. His large, rigid body was fraught with tension, trembling, and it reminded her of the way she'd tried to lock her own muscles to mitigate the full impact of the Cruciatus.
Something was hurting Lucius. Badly.
A sense of foreboding crept into her consciousness as she took in the sight above her, the powerful, beautiful, dark wizard so pained he was near tears. And it was in that moment she realized that whatever was happening between them was more than a repugnant act of a Death Eater debasing a muggleborn witch.
She just had no idea what it was.
Lucius suddenly spasmed and grunted as some kind of sensation visibly shot through his body, causing him clear agony. He reached for her hands with a newly determined look on his face, positioning them to either side of her head with a harsh hold on her wrists to further lock her in place.
As if she could even move to begin with.
"Forgive me, Hermione," he practically sobbed.
A mere second later, he snapped his hips forward, thrusting himself deep within her.
Hermione had long understood that first-time sex likely wouldn't feel great. But since she'd planned on offering her virginity to Ron after the war was over in the hopes that he'd finally return her affections, she'd reasoned that any discomfort would be worth the happy gesture of physically expressing her love for him. She'd mentally prepared herself for the pain, knowing full well that by utilizing internal muscles she'd never needed to before, some mild soreness was to be expected. She'd already resolved to take a pain-relieving potion before and after, ideally followed by a hot bath, so that neither she nor Ron would have to be at all inconvenienced by her virginal status.
She'd organized. She'd had a plan. She'd been ready.
But nothing could have prepared her for the excruciatingly traumatic feeling of Lucius's massive cock, ruthlessly stretching her untried walls so brutally she could already feel her fragile tissue beginning to tear.
Damn his threats.
She had to get away.
Hermione released a grating shriek, for she'd been screaming and crying so much already that her vocal cords were well-worn and battered. She struggled against his unyielding hold, wildly yanking herself around with no clear strategy, anything to escape his assault. She no longer cared if he killed her for resisting, for his sex surely would. He was way too big, and way too hard. There was no way she could survive this.
She managed to secure a few centimeters of freedom, but Lucius thrust forward so hard that her breath was knocked away from her, sending waves of piercing cramps throughout her lower abdomen so acute that she nearly fell sick.
"Hermione, stop! Stop fucking moving!" Lucius spat gruffly. She couldn't fathom why her body immediately stilled at his command.
She gazed up at him in apprehension.
A sweat had formed across his defined brow, and Lucius was glaring at her with undeniable suffering. "Miss Granger…you will hurt yourself if you keep fighting. I need you to relax for me—please."
She shouldn't have listened to him. She should have kept fighting until she died. That would have been the noble, strong thing to do.
But Hermione didn't have any strength left.
Surrendering to her weakness, Hermione silently wept as she willfully released all of the tension in her body, submitting fully to the Death Eater who was invading her body.
Draco had been right all those years ago.
She really was a filthy little mudblood.
Lucius began moving inside of her again, slowly and carefully, and while the scorching pain didn't exactly lessen, it didn't seem to be getting worse, as it had been before.
"Good girl…stay just like that. Keep relaxing for me. Such a good girl, your cunt is so perfect. So wet…" Lucius murmured, and Hermione's ravaged sex instantly reacted to the adulation against her will. She felt herself growing warmer, wetter, her body beginning to welcome his forced entry in direct response to his glowing words.
Specifically, those two words. Good girl.
Oh no…
This was beyond disturbing.
"Mmm…you like it when I praise you, don't you?" Lucius grunted between thrusts. "I know you're tiny, I know it hurts, but you can take it. You're doing so well…"
Hermione's lower lip trembled in the cold anguish of self-loathing. "N-no…no, p-please," she cried, but she was no longer certain of what she was even begging for. Did she want him to stop? She certainly should have. This desecrating plunder in and out of her, stretching her beyond her limits, was so painful it was psychologically distressing. She was too afraid to look down at where their bodies were joined, for she knew the sight would look just like a war zone. She could feel herself prolifically bleeding from internal tears.
Yet despite her suffering, something about the pain of his deeply moving erection felt…satisfying. Like there was rightness to the act, as violent and perverse as it may have been. It was like she was meant to hurt, on some primitive level that was subject to neither legality nor morality, much less her own thoughts and wishes. There was a very real part of her rejoicing as his body stole his pleasure from hers. Touching her. Taking her.
Fucking her.
"Yesss," Lucius hissed in gratification. "That's it…open yourself up to me. Don't fight it. Your body was made for this, Hermione."
His hand disappeared between them, and before she could think to mumble a word of objection, he brought his strong fingers directly to her clitoris and began to expertly tease the sensitive nub with gentle circles.
Then, he lowered his head, and softly kissed her temples.
It was baffling to be on the receiving end of two opposing forms of stimulation—soft tenderness and arduous savagery—a juxtaposition rendered even more peculiar by the fact that Lucius was even capable of offering both simultaneously. His cock was ferocious and incessant, stretching and pummeling her wounded flesh so viciously that his searing pressure was battering her cervix.
His kisses, however, and the strokes of his fingertips on her clitoris, were indulgent and almost careful, and she blindly seized onto the sensations, desperate for some semblance of humanity from the monster that was assaulting her.
As she began to shift her focus to the gentleness he was offering, the harshness of his mating became fractionally more bearable. And suddenly, that perplexing, foreign part of her that was so drawn to him, so sensitive to his scent and taste, so thrilled by his praises, emerged at the forefront of her consciousness.
I should let him do this.
Maybe he will make it good for me…
In full acquiescence, she urged herself against him with a soft moan, actively welcoming his destructive thrusts, and Lucius sprung forth with renewed enthusiasm, causing a fresh wave of hot moisture to flow from her body to further ease his foray. It granted her just enough relief from the pain of penetration for her to finally notice how oddly gratifying it felt to be stretched so widely, around something so hard, long, and thick.
Something so powerful.
Lucius groaned in distinctively smug male satisfaction, and hearing his pleasure caused her body to seize in delight, which subsequently seemed to cause him even more enjoyment. Somehow, their bodies had entered a heated feedback loop of responsiveness, and Hermione's cries of misery soon became cries of ecstasy.
Lucius pounded harder inside of her, bucking his hips against hers like a furious stallion, his bruising thrusts growing ever more forceful. The increasing pleasure sufficiently distracted her from the increasing pain, and Hermione allowed herself to surrender entirely to the erotic cacophony of their sex.
"I can't hold it back anymore…come with me, little witch," Lucius ordered, and Hermione was helpless to resist. She fractured with a scream as he roared and jerked above her, inundating her abused body with a roaring torrent of boiling seed.
But she could barely process the physicality of the simultaneous orgasm, for in the depths of their shared screams, somehow, magic was released. Her eyes widened in astonishment as a blast of spiky, glacial blue light surged from Lucius's core, spearing through the rounded, flame-like spirals of warm red that arose from Hermione's bare flesh in a sensuous dance. Their magic fused to the most radiant shade of lavender she'd ever seen, before brightening to a blinding white that pulsed and exploded like a supernova, dusting their bodies in clouds of sparkling diamonds. It was a sight so beautiful it brought tears of reverence to her eyes as earthquakes of pleasure ransacked her shivering—and now glittering—limbs, prolonging the waves and contractions of her orgasm so powerfully it seemed to go on for hours.
And in those blissful moments, she cared not that a Death Eater had just soiled her body, stolen her innocence. She was witnessing rare magic, and it was absolutely breathtaking.
She knew she'd hate him and herself as soon as the wonderment faded, but for now, she chose not to fall into devastation. Not yet anyway. She would cling to these moments of euphoria, for she knew that they would not last forever. Eventually she would wake, and the despair that awaited her would be debilitating.
If this was her last chance at happiness, then she would seize it for all it was worth.
Their shared magic finished flowing back into their bodies, and they were once again cloaked in darkness. Lucius's dazzling silver gaze, overflowing with tears, was the last thing she saw before her body finally gave out, and she collapsed into unconsciousness.
Lucius knew he had a great many things to be ashamed of as a Death Eater. He'd lied. He'd tortured. He'd enslaved.
He'd killed without remorse.
Raping an eighteen-year-old muggleborn virgin, however, was an offense far graver than any atrocity he'd ever committed in the name of the Dark Lord.
This was a new, entirely unforgivable low—even for him.
Perpetrating sexual assault was not at all how he'd envisioned the night ending.
Hermione's identifiable scent had spontaneously manifested in the Great Hall, like a budding flower bursting through the earth and greeting the sun for the very first time. She was clearly still developing, but already emitted a complex, ambrosial fragrance; a fresh, powdery bouquet of tuberose, lilac, and sweet pea, with sugary hints of creamy vanilla and honeyed apple. This alluring expression of her submissive pheromones was as seductive as it was innocent, an arousing aroma so overwhelmingly feminine that his cock had immediately stiffened in reaction. Her enchanting smell directly targeted his tightly concealed receptors like a Bombarda, shattering his restraints and instantly resurrecting the base, aggressive urges he'd diligently kept dormant for years through constant occluding and sheer willpower.
One whiff of the sweet little schoolgirl was enough to demolish his occlumency shields and render him a raving lunatic.
And exhausted from the war, he completely lacked the physical strength and mental capacity required to rebuild them.
He could only imagine how disarming Hermione would be once she went into a heat cycle and emerged into her full power. She'd have every alpha wizard in Britain foaming at the mouth, scaling her walls, and worshipping at her feet for the chance to experience her.
What happened in the Great Hall was merely an announcement of her arrival as an omega. A calling card. A prelude.
Her true symphony had yet to begin, and Lucius had fully intended to be the exclusive audience to her performance.
Once he'd recognized her exceedingly rare disposition, he'd thought to simply get her alone to commence negotiations for an official mistress contract using all weapons of persuasion at his disposal. Lucius hadn't encountered a true omega in decades, and he knew Hermione would be inundated with all manner of lecherous correspondence from proposals of marriage to threats of slavery once her status became public knowledge.
He'd been prepared to take the gentleman's approach, offering her anything Galleons could buy—fashions, jewels, property—so long as he had the sole rights of access to her body.
He was not prepared for the foolish girl to repeatedly discharge her intoxicating pheromones like fireworks the moment he approached, ambushing his senses to the point of salivating inebriation.
Wasn't she supposed to be the brightest witch of her age? Had she no control over her omega magic? Didn't she realize the danger her liberal use of those inebriating charms would invite?
It seemed the witch had developed some kind of a death wish, for she'd then proceeded to run from him, repeatedly, irreversibly provoking a hunt—summoning his predator instincts and activating her innate prey instincts, a primal, potentially deadly interaction that all alphas and omegas were intrinsically bound to.
Whenever she fled, he was biologically compelled to chase. He could apparate directly to her by tracking her scent alone.
He'd warred to restrain the beast within, but by the time he'd caught and subdued the succulent witch in the Forbidden Forest, every nerve ending in his body was on fire, an excruciating agony far more unbearable than any form of torment he'd experienced at the hands of the Dark Lord.
He'd never gotten so lost in his alpha mindset before, but the violent desire had grown so strong in their little game of cat and mouse that there was no way out but through. He was simply too weak to tamp down the distressing urges by occluding. There were extensive tales in ancient tomes of alphas spontaneously combusting into fiendfyre due to reaching the point of no return in an unconsummated hunt of an omega, and Lucius had no plans on dying tonight. His arousal for her was literally killing him, burning him from the inside out, and in his sexual rage, he was far too selfish to let a mudblood be his undoing.
So he'd done the unthinkable.
And shamefully, never before had sex felt so incredible. Her cunt was unbearably tight, painfully so, her pulsing wet heat a baptism of flames, a sublime, otherworldly pleasure that had shattered all he'd believed to be true as she'd cleansed his polluted soul with her indescribable purity. Clearly, he'd never known sex before her, for this was true carnal knowledge, and he was now a devout believer in the religion of her. Her exceptional body had granted him a level of ecstasy that made him want to erect monuments in her angelic image. She was a goddess, and he'd forced a blessing out of her. He'd gladly spend the rest of his life atoning for his sins, begging for forgiveness at her altar. This was the earth-shattering, fantastical kind of mating only rumored to occur between alphas and omegas sharing magical affinity, an unconfirmed phenomena even rarer than the omegas themselves.
Their magic had fused into a single entity, and now, Hermione Granger was embedded into his flesh and buried in the core of his power. He didn't know how long the effects would last, but now that he'd had her, had tasted her…he wanted to trap her forever.
He'd never come so hard in his life.
Lucius looked down at the unconscious witch that lay beneath him. She'd fainted over half an hour prior, but the knotted head of his priapic cock was still lodged deep against her womb, still too swollen and erect to safely remove without damaging her further.
It certainly didn't help that the little witch he held in his arms had grown into a beguiling beauty he would argue could easily surpass the loveliness of any Veela. She'd already proven her omega talent of hypnotizing a loveless man was far more compelling than those beings. The awkward, mismatched features she's possessed as a child had elegantly softened and balanced in her young womanhood, and Lucius knew it would be impossible not to be attracted to her, regardless of her status as an omega.
Finally feeling the blood flow beginning to reverse, Lucius carefully withdrew from her impossibly tight passage, noting with not-too-distant horror that his cock was covered in her blood.
Tucking himself into his trousers after a quick Scourgify, Lucius leaned back to fully assess just how much damage he'd savagely wrought upon the Granger girl.
Her tiny body was completely covered in scratches, welts, and bruises, and he couldn't tell which ones she'd acquired in battle and which were due to his animalistic attack. He ran his hands over her form, deliberately avoiding the allure of her pert breasts and the sweet scent from the damp curls at her apex as he offered the full extent of healing spells that he could perform wandlessly. He managed to heal the worst of her injuries—fuck, was he the one to break her ribs?—but she'd likely still need treatment from a proper healer.
Lucius was disturbed to the point of nausea by the presence of filth that soiled her pale form, particularly the pearly evidence of his lack of control mixing with the fresh blood coating her thighs.
He'd egregiously violated the poor thing.
He cast a series of cleansing charms, before summoning her torn clothing back to her body, repairing it to the extent of his wandless ability. There was a cowardly impulse to escape before she awakened, that same tragic flaw that caused him to follow the Dark Lord upon his latest return.
But he couldn't leave her here, alone and vulnerable. As loathe as he was to admit it, the alpha in him simply wouldn't allow it. His instincts were reacting to her even in her unconsciousness.
He had to protect her.
Lucius cradled her in his arms and strode away from the forest, disillusioning the pair of them as he journeyed back to the castle. He couldn't be seen carrying her, for any auror or Order member would assume her lifeless body was due to an act of murder on his part.
And the vile truth upon her waking would not render him any more forgivable.
He considered returning her to the Great Hall, but ultimately decided to allow her the privacy of uninterrupted rest in the part of the castle he was most familiar with—the Slytherin dungeons.
The serpent portrait granted him entry, thankfully without requesting a password, and Lucius carefully lowered Hermione onto a plush chaise in front of the fireplace, casting an Incendio to keep her warm.
He allowed himself a few moments to longingly gaze at her, soft and peaceful in her slumber, knowing full well this would likely be the last time he would ever be able to look at her.
He was no fool. His divergence to the Light in the middle of battle would be meaningless now that he'd lost control and violated the beloved Gryffindor Princess. He'd be spending the next hundred or so years of his life, starving, beaten, and frozen in confined isolation in the middle of the North Sea, unless of course the new Minister saw fit to sentence him to the Dementor's Kiss for his heinous crime.
Then, he'd be nothing more than a hollow shell of himself, a walking, mindless corpse that would ultimately wither to ash.
He deserved no better fate.
He took consolation in the fact that his family was safe. Narcissa and Draco would live on in a world free of the despotic madman.
And he had the memory of his beautiful omega to bring him comfort in the endless bleakness he would soon face.
He hoped one day she'd find the strength to recover, and find happiness with an alpha who could pamper and protect her the way she deserved. She was far braver than he ever had been, and she hadn't even scratched the surface of her true power. The Brightest Witch of Her Age was destined to be a force of nature.
He regretted that he wouldn't be around to witness it.
Lucius brought his lips down to Hermione's forehead, inhaling her sweet, soothing scent a final time, committing every part of her to memory.
"Forgive me, Omega."