Chapter Text
“Remember Hermione, nothing good happens at a party after two in the morning.”
Her father is rarely wrong on such matters. He’d often offered such titbits through Hermione’s childhood— ‘a double yolk is good luck’, ‘save half, spend half’—and she’s always taken care to heed him.
His advice on parties, however, she hasn’t had an opportunity to test. There’d been few parties in her adolescence so far, and often they’d fallen after a Quidditch victory. And there was only so much Quidditch talk Hermione could stomach, so she was usually tucked in far before two.
This two am, however, has snuck up on her. And while she could make good on her father’s advice, for once, she wants to ignore him.
“Hermione?”
Hermione’s awareness comes back to her with a click, and she blinks, coming back to the sparse dormitory, the crackling of the fire having grown quieter.
“I’m going to bed now.” Ginny says to her, “Just came over to say goodnight.”
“Oh, sorry. Goodnight Gin.”
Hermione is pulled into a quick hug—she hadn’t missed the quick glance of concern—before the girl turns, making her way down the stairs, out of the eighth-year dormitory.
Hermione herself is tucked into an armchair in the corner of the room, and has found her mind wandering as she watches the mantle clock above the fireplace. It happens more often now than Hermione likes, now that the war is over. Before it, her mind was cemented down, bricked in—its foundation immovable. Now it feels as though an errant thought or memory will pull her away, fray her awareness, and it takes something to bring her down again. Even now, the ticking of the mantle clock has cut the tether that held her in the room, and she is awash with memories of her father—of sliding her feet into his massive leather shoes at the entryway, of sitting on his shoulders at the village parade, of watching him tinker in the garage.
Even her friends have noticed, or at least, the few that have returned. Ron and Harry are off basking in their post-war glory, so most of her time is spent with Ginny, Neville, and Luna. They try their best with her, they really do. But they’d all been at Hogwarts last year, forming war-time bonds amidst the horror of the castle, so there seems to be a degree of separation between her and them.
Ginny had come to the party, at least. She’d sat with Hermione for most of the night, tolerating periods of silence, sometimes bringing Seamus and Dean in for conversation. As returning students—and legal adults—the freedoms afforded to them are greater than the other students, so it seems their makeshift dormitory is the new party location. The only caveat, however, is involuntary inter-house socializing. Eighth years aren’t categorized by house anymore, but their returnee status. McGonagall was reluctant to cement house hatreds as a result of the war. A few years too late, in Hermione’s opinion.
Hermione glances around the cosy room, taking inventory of those who remain. Despite the shared living quarters, the house lines are firm around the room. Malfoy, Zabini, and Nott have occupied the same spot all night, heads low in discussion. In fact, Hermione realizes, they’re the only others in the room besides her, something she’s failed to notice.
Perhaps that’s why Ginny made a display of leaving—giving Hermione a silent heads-up that the last friendly face was leaving the room. Not that the three boys are particularly unfriendly, if she ignores their last six years of schooling together. In fact, they’ve been almost cordial this year in comparison.
Zabini had sat next to her at the last Slug Club dinner, and fetched her fork for her after she’d dropped it under the table. Nott had noticed her absence in Arithmancy, and brought her a copy of his notes to the following class. Even Malfoy—as complicated as their past is—had stopped sneering every time they made eye contact in the hallways. Baby steps, but unexpected ones. Considering the sides they’d all sat on less than a year ago. Draco’s alliances had been clear, and Nott’s father had died in Azkaban a matter of months ago. She can only speculate on Zabini’s position in the war, but she doubts it had been a walk in the park.
Hermione has come untethered again. She comes back, and looks across at the subjects of her thoughts, and startles to find three pairs of eyes looking back.
“Granger.”
It’s Nott that speaks. Out of the three, it’s Nott she feels almost familiar with. He always has a smile playing around his mouth when he speaks, which gently tugs one corner up. They share a healthy respect for Arithmancy, which Hermione always appreciates in a person.
She looks to him, raising an eyebrow in a silent ‘yes?’ It could be the sleepy warmth of the fire, or the time past two, but Hermione finds her guard harder to raise. Nott has a puppy-dog look about him, with sincere eyes and dark floppy hair. He looks particularly earnest next to his compatriots, who’d both be in Azkaban if looks could kill. And she knows when they’re looking, because their gazes send a shiver down her back.
Nott tilts his head towards their little group, “Come sit with us.”
Hermione’s breath catches in her throat for a moment, and she clears her throat to hide her surprise. She looks to the other two boys, as if for their approval, and Nott chuckles,
“They’ll behave, don’t worry.”
Hermione knows she can refuse if she wants. And it’s the perfect place to— she can decline, make her apologies and head to bed. But something pulls low in her gut, tugging her in their direction.
Zabini shuffles his chair over, dragging another armchair over to fit tightly between him and Nott. Hermione slides into it, almost robotically, her eyes caught on the three of them, feeling her own trepidation mirrored in their eyes. Hermione is struck with déjà vu—she’s back in first year, tangled in the tentacles of Devil’s Snare.
“Have you cracked Vector’s latest code yet?” Nott sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Zabini takes the opportunity to fetch a wine bottle from under his chair, topping up everyone’s glasses. Hermione watches as he duplicates his own, pouring a splash into it, before handing it to her. She accepts it with a mumbled ‘thank you’.
Turning back to Theo, she nods, “Yes, I finished it yesterday.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Granger.” He replies with a wink, and Hermione sips the wine, at a loss for words. The whole situation—from the wine to the small talk—comes with a sense of unreality. Maybe the tether that holds Hermione’s mind has finally wiggled free, and she’s being carried away by a strange, deeply repressed fantasy.
“You can call me Hermione.” She says instead, and she shifts in her chair. In doing it, however, her knee bumps into Zabini’s. It’s barely a second of contact, and she moves her leg immediately, but a flush of heat envelopes her chest.
Whether Zabini cares—or even takes notice—he doesn’t say. But he doesn’t move his leg.
“I’ll be honest, Hermione,” Theo says after a moment of silence, and Hermione glances over at him, “we did have an agenda when we invited you over.”
Hermione’s curiosity is piqued, and her grip on her wineglass tightens. It’s something in Theo’s tone, how Zabini and Malfoy still in their seats as soon he speaks.
“Oh?” Her response is breathier than she prefers, the noise nearly swallowed by the echo of her pulse.
Malfoy shots a look at Theo—a silent communication that Hermione can’t translate. A pang of envy shoots through her; she’d once been the same with Ron and Harry.
Theo tilts his head—she might’ve missed it if she wasn’t watching—and Draco sits back, seemingly satisfied, his silent question just as silently answered.
“Well,” Theo continues, meeting her eyes again, “the boys and I are betting men. It’s become a recurring thing between us, even on the smallest of things.”
Hermione watches Theo talk, and realizes she’s underestimated him. On first glance, he’s the most approachable, head of public relations in their little group—the mouth. But his words, and the order he puts them in, are carefully selected, lulling her into a false sense of rapport with him.
“I’m guessing you placed a bet on me?” Hermione isn’t stupid, she knows where Theo’s preliminary spiel is leading. She watches with some satisfaction as his expression slips into awareness, that she’s caught him in the middle of his act. A smile plays in the corner of his mouth, and she bites back her own in return.
“You were a million miles away over there, Granger,” Malfoy cuts in, his first words to her this evening, “and you have been all evening. We placed bets on what you were thinking about.”
It is strange to realize sometimes, that when you watch people, they watch you back. Malfoy had watched her, catalogued her absent stare, and drawn attention to it. And she’d been too wrapped up in herself to notice.
Hermione bites her lip. They want to know what she was thinking about? It feels like an intimate ask for the simple sake of a bet. Yet, a risky bet to place. If her answer matches none of theirs, does no one win? Or does she receive the betting pool money?
“I—” She isn’t going to tell them about her father, it’s too personal, and too niche for their bet. She could lie of course, say something dull and expected—an upcoming assignment, or what she’d eaten for dinner that night. But truthfully, she knows they’ll see right through it. And her usual reticence has apparently clocked out for the night.
“Honestly?” She takes a breath, mulling over the words—ensuring she’s not misunderstood, “I was thinking about how difficult it is to stay… here. Present. I’ve struggled with it since…”
It strikes Hermione that it isn’t a good idea to finish that sentence. They’ve established a tender three am bond, and the word ‘war’ would stick a pin in it. Instead, her sentence trails off, and she waits for a response, a huff of acknowledgement, a nod. But they don’t make a sound. Just watch.
She sinks back into her chair, feeling her cheeks prickle in embarrassment. She hasn’t mentioned it to even her closest friends, never voiced the feeling out loud. It sounds even more pathetic in actual, audible words—and she doubts these three will hold back in ridiculing her. They never have before.
Blaise reaches for the wine again, and she holds out her glass. He tops hers up to the brim, only hers, before recorking the bottle and tucking it back beside his armchair.
Hermione is tempted to tell them to forget it, to make her excuses and go upstairs. She draws deeply on her wineglass, like it will ease the burn of shame. She makes to stand when Draco speaks,
“Can we get one more honest answer tonight, Granger? Before you go?”
Malfoy’s tone isn’t mocking, his words aren’t met with sniggers from the other two. It gives her pause, and she swallows her mouthful of wine. She spares a glance to Theo, who is watching her with a gentle curiosity, his fingers cradled under his chin. Zabini looks much the same, his ankle resting over his knee, with an aristocratic carelessness she can never hope to imitate.
Hermione doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to. Draco knows he’s captured her interest.
“When was the last time you felt excited about something?”
Hermione opens her mouth to answer, everything generic springing to mind, but Draco cuts her off, his voice strong,
“No. Take a moment to think about it. I’m not talking about forced, compulsory excitement, Granger. I’m talking about something physical, visceral. Excitement that put your stomach in knots, made it hard to breathe, made your hands shake. Do you remember what it feels like?”
To her credit, she thinks. She runs back over the last year, all her wartime and post-war achievements. A few stick out, of course. Voldemort’s death should be a clear one, but it’s marred with grief and exhaustion. Her return to Hogwarts had been bittersweet as well. She’d craved the escapism of her studies, and the familiar comfort of the castle, but it hadn’t ever matched the excited butterflies of first year.
Not a single memory Hermione summons in her post-war life meets Malfoy’s requirements. Instead, it feels like her emotions are muffled under a thick blanket, smothered by something Hermione can’t name.
“It sounds like you’re talking about fear, not excitement, Malfoy.” She replies instead, deflecting, and he tuts.
“You don’t think they’re the same?”
She opens her mouth to rebut his comment, say something snide to deflect her lack of an answer—as though it will patch up the sudden hollowness in her chest. It feels like Malfoy has pulled something from her abdomen, something vulnerable, and laid it in front of his friends to look down at. At this point, it would’ve been less intimate to undress her in the middle of room—
“New bet, boys.” Draco says suddenly, clapping his hands together, “Fifty galleons in each, first one to catch Granger wins.”
Hermione’s throat catches, “What—”
“Taken.” Zabini’s response is almost instantaneous.
“Taken, but she gets a thirty second head start.” Theo replies—his smile is the widest she’s seen it all night. It raises goosebumps on her arms.
They’re all standing—when had they stood?
“Tick tock, Granger.” Zabini says, “Off you go.”
She can go to bed. She can tell them to fuck off, and then go to bed. But what will that give her? Another quiet night in bed, her thoughts spinning, battling against her desire to sleep. The same as every night has been, and all nights for the foreseeable future.
Instead, she spins on her heel and bolts.
Her first instinct is to leave the eighth-year tower, as she’d easily be trapped in a corner somewhere at the top, with nowhere else to go. So, she runs for the stairs—taking them as fast as she dares without falling headfirst.
Bursting through the door, she doesn’t stop to think about a direction, just letting her feet lead her. It doesn’t matter where she goes, but distance will be her greatest advantage.
The frantic beat of her footsteps echoes in the silent hallways, almost rivalling the sound of her own pulse in her ears. She turns a corner at such a speed she almost slips, but she doesn’t slow—her thirty seconds were undoubtedly up.
It’s been a long time since she’s run like this. She can feel her lungs starting to cramp, her heart thundering in protest. But all she can imagine one of the boys on her tail, with an outstretched hand mere inches away, brushing the wool of her jumper. It sends a shock of thrill through her stomach, and she shoots forward, pushing her protesting body.
Hermione doesn’t know where she’s going, taking each corner and set of stairs at breakneck speed. An open door presents itself, and she ducks into it, tucking herself tight against a wall. Her chest is so tight, it feels like she’s breathing through a straw. But she forces slow, quiet inhales and exhales, keeping her ear on the hallway she’d just departed.
Nothing. Silence.
She’ll just take a breather. The castle is huge, and the odds of finding her are slim. If they find her—if they’re even looking. Maybe they’re upstairs, polishing off the last of Zabini’s nice wine and mocking her eager departure.
The sharpness in her chest has eased a little, and she slides away from the wall, ignoring the bite in her thighs.
What if they are looking? And what if they catch her? It’s a question she should’ve asked before she took off. It hadn’t occurred to her before, surprisingly. The thrill of the chase had emptied her mind of thoughts, the only thing echoing in her head had been her heartbeat.
She moves away from the wall, back to the door, and sneaks back into the hallway. If she finds a decent hiding spot, her odds of being found are slim—
Arms come around her waist, and Hermione thrashes. There’s a hard body at her back, unyielding and she draws a ragged breath inwards, preparing to scream—
A hand slaps over her mouth, anticipating her next move,
“Easy, Granger.” Malfoy’s voice is low at her ear, “Don’t give us away.”
If he’s trying to calm her, it doesn’t work. His whisper is a self-satisfied purr, and he hasn’t released her. She bucks, incensed, and his grip only tightens around her waist, and he still hasn’t dropped the hand from her mouth. She didn’t know they’d literally catch her.
She spits a word at him, it’s muffled, but she knows by his huff that he understands.
He’s pulling her backwards—back towards the room—
Fear has spiked her blood now, and she fights earnestly, not liking the dark shadow that lurk around the doorframe, and how easily concealed they’ll be.
Malfoy pulls his hand off her mouth, and she goes to yell, but Zabini comes around the corner, followed by a frowning Nott.
Nott won’t be in on it, will he? He—
“Bugger.” Nott scowls, out of breath, “I went to the library, figured she’d be there.”
Hermione bucks again, truly panicking now. But Malfoy’s arms are steel bands around her, and she can’t reach around to scratch at him. Her wand is in her back pocket, if she can just—
It’s like Zabini sees the thought in her eyes, and he summons it wordlessly. She feels it slip from her pocket, and her stomach sinks as he catches it in one hand—before it disappears into his dark robes.
Malfoy gets her past the doorframe, despite her clutching to it for dear life, and she watches as the shadows swallow them. Theo and Zabini follow tightly behind—the latter man shutting the door with a click behind them.
Draco drops her unceremoniously, and she lands on the ground with a force that rattles her teeth. She scrambles backwards along the floor, not standing in her eagerness to put distance between them. He just watches her, sweeping the hair off his face.
She looks around, taking note of her surroundings, and how the three men have positioned themselves. Zabini’s stationed by the door, watching her movements with a glimmer of interest in his eye. Malfoy’s at the head of the room—of course—leaning against a dusty desk, apparently disinterested. It’s an abandoned classroom off sorts, she guesses, by the grime under her hands and the piled desks in the corner.
Everything is washed with silver—her eyes have adjusted to moonlight—and she glares as Theo makes his way to her, the click of his shiny shoes stopping right before her.
He crouches to her level, his bottom lip sticking out in mock pity. She fights the urge to claw out, gouge it off his face.
“Listen, Hermione—we’re still on a first name basis, right?” She doesn’t reply, just glares, and he continues, “Despite Draco’s lack of manners, none of us really like our partners unwilling. So, I’m going to ask you now, do you want this to stop? You say the word, and it ends here.”
Whatever Hermione is expecting, it isn’t a request for her consent. It takes her a moment to gather enough air for words, but she manages, “Unwilling for what?”
She’d thought Theo’s smile was inviting, but it in the dark classroom, it’s a threat, “Use that big old brain of yours, Hermione. What do you think?”
Maybe it’s panic, or adrenaline, but thinking isn’t coming easily right now. It feels like her body is taking precedent—the feeling of stone against her bare legs, the pain in her backside after being dropped, and how quick her breathing is, how it echoes.
Zabini is still by the door, Theo is still crouched—watching her expression with apparent fascination, and Draco is twirling his wand between his fingers, like he’s bored,
“I—”
Malfoy sighs, impatient, “Or don’t think, Granger. That’s the whole fucking point.”
Hermione waits for her logic to reboot, for a voice to list out the hundred and fourteen reasons why this is a terrible idea. Caution comes so easily to her, and it has served her so well in the past. But it’s like her thoughts have glitched, and all she feels is here. The phantom of Malfoy’s arms around her linger still—the heat of his body against her back, his breath on her neck. There’s no running monologue, no memory flooding her senses. All she can feel is the presence of her three assailants around the room, and the heavy weight of their attention.
No thinking.
She speaks before she can regret it, her voice a raw rasp, “It stops if I say. We never speak of this again.”
“Taken.” Theo replies first, rising from his crouch. The smile is gone, and something determined has replaced it.
“Taken.” Zabini nods, and moves away from the door, heading towards her with slow purpose.
“Taken.” She’s finally grabbed Malfoy’s attention—he stands from the desk and grins for the first time that evening, “I can’t wait to make you regret this, Granger.”
Theo makes a move towards her, and she pushes backwards, slipping just out of reach. Her adrenaline spikes once more, and she fights to her feet, keeping each man in her line of sight. She feels vulnerable without her wand, like she’s missing a limb, and she takes a tentative step away from Theo, who frowns,
“You’re going to make us work for it, aren’t you?”
The only indication she gives is a tight nod, before she leaps forward in a burst of movement. Theo’s arm barely misses her as she slips past, and the graze of skin brought heat with it, but she fights forward. The element of surprise is gone for Zabini, and he guesses her trajectory, backing up towards the door. But he’s the tallest of the three—if she can slip under him somehow, she’ll have a clear shot for the door.
Her blood sings with the chase, and she eyes him up, aware of Theo and Draco hanging back. It’s like they want to give her a chance, or they doubt her chances of escape.
“Come on, princess,” Zabini croons, “try me.” He’s set himself in a defensive position, watching her with anticipation. The quietest of the three, but he’d read her like a book before, with her wand, she knows he’ll do it again.
She drops. Her knees graze the ground, but she barely feels it, her mind on getting low, crawling past him. All her senses are narrowed in on her body, trying to scramble between his legs. She feels him reach for her, but she pushes forward. If she shoots past him, she’ll make it to the door before he has a chance to turn around, using his considerable height against him—
Hermione yelps, as sharp pain rocketed across her scalp. He’s—he’s grabbed her by the hair! She squirms, but it only serves to cause her more pain, and she feels each pull acutely.
“You prick!” she hisses, stilling in his grip. He’s gotten a firm grip too—a fistful right at the base of her scalp. He crouches, and lightly tugging her upwards to her knees, until their faces are mere inches apart.
Zabini’s smile isn’t as arrogant as Malfoy’s, or as mocking as Theo’s. But she sees his victory in it, and all the things he wants to do with his prize. It sends a flutter through her, and she clenches her thighs.
“Nice try, Granger.” He whispers, “But not good enough.”
Behind her, Theo laughs sharply, and Draco tuts,
“If you’d actually watched the Quidditch matches, and not just mooned over Weasley,” he sneers, as Hermione tries to pry Zabini’s fingers out of her curls, “you would’ve seen Blaise defending the other goal. And you would’ve seen his reflexes.”
Hermione turns to scowl at the derision in Malfoy’s tone, but Zabini gives her a warning tug before he stands, and she has no choice but to follow. Her arms are free—she can fight back, shove him away—but something in his gaze warns her to be compliant. His fist slips free of her hair, but his arm is tight around her before she can think of getting away.
Zabini pulls her firmly against him, and she feels his breath against the shell of her ear, and she shivers against him.
“You ready to be good now?” His arms around her are a threat, reminder of the strength he possesses, that she does not.
She nods. Zabini pushes her forward, towards his friends, who’ve been watching their exchange silently.
Malfoy pulls his wand out, grabbing her wrists. The incantation he uses is silent, and white rope slithers around her wrists binding them together. Lifting them up, he connects them to another rope hanging from the ceiling—forcing her to stand with her arms up. She watches him do it without comment, and he raises an eyebrow at her, surprised by her sudden placidity. But he steps back without a word to admire his handiwork.
Hermione feels like a pinned butterfly as they circle, devouring her with stares. The anticipation has taken all the feeling out of her legs, and she’s almost glad for the rope—even if it has taken her last semblance of control, and placed it in their hands.
There are fingers on the button of her skirt, and Hermione takes a sharp inhale, meeting Theo’s eyes. His half-smirk is back, and he looks to his friends,
“Shall we see if fantasy lives up to reality?”
Draco scoffs, but his eyes are on her skirt, as though he can already see her without it, “Speak for yourself, Theo.”
Zabini voice comes from somewhere behind her, closer than she expects, and she jumps, “Don’t lie, Draco. I saw your eyes wander every time she bent over in Potions.”
Theo laughs, and she watches Draco roll his eyes, “Fuck off, Blaise.”
But the button gives way, and the attention of the room shifts as she feels the skirt slip down her legs, pooling on the floor.
Blaise gives a slow whistle, “Boys, take a look at this.”
“Sweet Merlin,” Theo exclaims from behind her, and Hermione feels her face flush in embarrassment. Tied to the ceiling, wearing nothing but her jumper and her knickers, she knows nothing below her waist is left to the imagination. But she can’t move away, can’t cover herself with her hands.
“Granger,” Theo groans, “if I’d known you were hiding an arse like that under your school robes…”
He finishes his sentence with a hard spank, and she flinches at the sting of it—the first touch on her bare skin. But Hermione’s pout slips as the sting spreads, and puddles somewhere low in her belly.
“Our resident ass man is sorted for the night, then.” Blaise remarks dryly, but Hermione’s barely listening. Theo’s running his hands over her backside, alternating between gentle strokes and firm slaps that echo in the empty classroom. She can feel a flush spreading across her face, and she tucks her face against her arm, trying to hide her face from Malfoy’s unrelenting stare. While the other boys are watching her body, he’s watching her face.
“Aw boys, look at that. Standing there in her knickers, and now she’s getting shy.” Draco croons.
“Imagine how red she’ll get when we do the rest.”
Theo’s muttering behind her, “—going to fuck this arse, Granger—” and that only makes her blush more. She’s doing a useless job hiding it, and Zabini laughs,
“Steady on, mate. You’ve gotta warm her up first.”
Theo’s hands slow over her bum, giving her a moment’s reprieve to try and calm herself, as she stares up at Zabini.
“Do the honours then, Blaise.” Theo says from behind her, and Zabini doesn’t hesitate. He steps closer, standing right in front of her. She has to crane her head to look at him—he’s a head taller than his friends—and waits, a 'calming’ breath caught in her throat.
She knows he’s handsome. Had always thought it, quietly. Guiltily. He had the look all three of them, polished and aristocratic, carefully cultivated. But as the quietest of the three, he was shrouded in a cloud of mystery, only adding to his allure. Tall, dark and handsome. With his jaw too—cut from marble—he looks like a late night fantasy brought to life.
He’s so close she can feel the warmth of his body through his clothes, see the curl at the edges of his pouty mouth. The chatter between the boys has stopped now, like they can feel the electricity crackling in the air, feel the anticipation coming off Hermione in waves.
He stares back. His expression is placid, measured. But she can see the hunger in his eyes, and she feels a lick of power, of pride. He wants this too.
Zabini leans down, and Hermione braces, closing her eyes. Expecting a kiss, she jumps a little at the feeling of his lips beside her ear. Not quite touching, but close enough that his breath makes her shiver.
“May I?” His voice is low, but the way it cracks gives away his desire.
She nods.
He huffs a laugh, and it way it brushes her skin makes her knees nearly buckle,
“Good girl.”
Zabini drags his nose across her jaw, letting her feel the puff of his breath against her neck. He isn’t going to make it easy for her, and she grinds her teeth. She’s so wound up she feels dizzy—despite how pathetic it is. They’ve barely even started and Hermione’s nearly in a puddle on the floor.
“You smell amazing, Granger.” Zabini groans, before his hands cup her jaw, and his lips meet hers.
He’s gentle at first, testing the waters. His mouth is cautious on hers, but he fills her senses—rich cologne, soft lips and hard mouth, the hand on her jaw, keeping her afloat. Her head swims, and a whimper in the back of her throat escapes without permission. But it’s all the permission he needs. His hand slips down her neck, grabbing her by the throat, as he amplifies the kiss tenfold.
Zabini pries her mouth open with his, and she’s barely holding on, utterly swept away by the intensity he’s suddenly produced. The rest of the room has slipped away—Draco and Theo could be tap-dancing in the background for all she’d know—and all she feels is the pressure of his mouth, his body pressed against hers, and his tongue sliding against hers.
Then he pulls away, stepping back. It’s too soon, she thinks dazedly, but he could’ve been kissing her for hours. She blinks dumbly up at him, feeling like the room has tilted on its axis while she was caught up in him.
“Back to earth, Granger,” Theo says from behind her, and she shakes her head, trying to clear it. Embarrassment prickles in her chest, thinking about how silly she must look, drugged from one kiss. But then she sees Zabini, and it eases, because he looks as surprised as her. His lips are swollen and bee-stung, and he’s running his thumb over the bottom one, like he can still feel her there.
Zabini turns to Malfoy, his voice firm, “Her jumper has to go.”
His wish is Malfoy’s command, as Malfoy waves his wand, and her jumper disappears. He’d even banished her bra away with it, and the cold almost shocks her out of her stupor. None of them are touching her now, and desperation begins to mount. She doesn’t care that she’s naked now, save for her knickers, doesn’t care that they’re all staring. Because she feels cold all over, and she’s going to break if someone doesn’t touch her.
They hear her silent plea. Zabini steps forward again, but he doesn’t go for her lips. Now he’s kissing a line down her neck, and across her collarbone and Hermione groans. She can feel her neck flush, chasing Zabini’s mouth, and then Theo’s hands are firm on her hips, holding her up. She doesn’t know whether it’s her body temperature, or his, but his hands burn into her sides as Zabini’s kisses trail lower.
Hermione startles at the feeling of another mouth on her, and Theo has joined in, kissing a trail gently down her spine. His tongue flits against her skin, and she’s swept away by the feeling on two mouths on her, taking their time, worshipping, pausing wherever they want to pay particular attention to. Zabini stops to weigh a breast in each hand, flicking his thumb over her nipples, at the exact moment Nott nips a spot on her lower back with his teeth. Air hisses through her teeth, and she sinks a little, ignoring the burn of the rope holding her up.
She knows she looks wanton right now, almost naked and bound, arms tied together above her head. But she doesn’t care anymore, her head is swimming with all the attention she’s being lavished with. She meets the eyes of Malfoy, still leaning back on the desk before her. He hasn’t touched her since he caught her, but he seems content to watch. His eyes trail over hers, following his friends as Zabini sucks her nipple into his mouth with a wet pop. She has to bite her lip to fight off another moan, but she stares back. She may be vulnerable, and she can only imagine how desperate she looks. But she’s never backed down from Malfoy before, and she won’t start now.
Instead, she realized with surprise, he’s squeezing himself through his trousers, running his palm along his solid length through the fabric. He’s keeping his expression still, but she can see the glassiness of his eyes, like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. The sight sends a jolt of warmth through her core, as Zabini switches to the other nipple, sucking and nibbling until her arms are shaking in the restraints.
“You don’t want to join?” she teases, her voice breathier than she’d prefer.
Malfoy grins, and it’s predatory,
“Missing me?”
Theo emerges for air, after another gentle bite, “He likes dragging these things out.” His tone is mocking.
“Sorry we’re not all minute men like you, Nott.” Malfoy replies dryly, and Nott huffs in annoyance, but quickly returns his attention to her.
Zabini’s mouth slips lower, coasting down the line down the centre of her torso, on his knees. She feels chafed and raw, Draco’s form is hazy before her, as Theo hooks his finger under the waistband of her underwear, and peels down her last line of defence. It’s only then that she realizes they’re soaked through, the fabric dark and wet as he pulls them down to her ankles. Embarrassment rears its head again, and she avoids Draco’s stare. How silly she must look, pining and panting, lost to a few kisses. She’d never thought nicely of these men in the past, and now she was falling to pieces because of them, crumbling into a whimpering mess under their mouths.
“Merlin…” Theo groans at the sight of her, “she’s soaking.”
Blaise slides his fingers along the seam of her, watching in fascination as she beads on his fingers, before bringing them to his mouth to taste her. It’s utterly filthy, and Hermione tries to tuck her face behind her arms again, but Draco’s right in front of her now, holding her chin, stopping her from hiding away.
“You enjoying yourself, huh?” His voice is low, just between the two of them, and Hermione gives him a tiny nod. The hard silver of his eyes is molten, watching her face crumple in pleasure as Blaise’s fingers skate along again, finding her swollen clit, and pinching it between his fingers. She cries out.
“She tastes good, Blaise?”
“Incredible.” He replies.
“Then taste her properly. I’m sure she’d like it.”
Zabini’s head dips lower, and she tries to cant her hips away, but bumps into Theo,
“I’ve… no one’s ever…” she can’t get the words out. Despite what they’re doing to her, she can’t name the act, like admitting it aloud would make it real.
“Never?” Draco whispers. His face is closer now, like he’s drinking her in, watching for each miniscule crease of her brow, and twitch of her lips. Like he’s enjoying her naivety and her shame.
She shakes her head.
“Well, then you better do a good job of it, mate.” He says to Zabini, stepping back, and it’s all the encouragement the other boy needs. Theo nudges her legs apart with his hands—she’d been trying to pin them closed—and Zabini dives in, licking the length of her with a flat tongue. She feels it echo up her spine, and she makes a guttural noise she can’t control, mouth dropped open. He takes it as encouragement, using flat strokes around and over her clit, until her legs begin to shake.
“Fucking hell,” she groans, and Malfoy laughs at the obscenity from her, before Zabini latches onto it, and sucks. Lights flash behind her eyelids, and the warmth in her belly has turned to fire, her breath sharp and gasping,
“I can’t—I’m going to—”
Zabini pulls off, and the building pressure stops.
“Come on, Granger,” Malfoy tuts, “you’ve got to last longer than that.”
She doesn’t even know what she’s saying anymore, she’s shaking in the ropes, “Please, keep going, please. I’ll hold it, I promise, please, just—”
They’ve reduced her to begging, and she isn’t even ashamed. All she knows is that she’s going to fall apart without his mouth on her, and she doesn’t even care about admitting it.
But instead of picking up what he left off, Blaise fingers are on her now, sliding inside. She’s so wet, there’s little resistance. But the intrusion is unexpected, and she fidgets, adjusting to this new pressure. His fingers move around, searching for something.
“I don’t know…” and he presses on a spot deep inside, on her front wall, and she gasps.
“There?” he’s looking up at her from his knees, his lips and chin wet, looking like a student eager to learn. He presses on it firmly, and she writhes.
He seems pleased with his finding, latching on again, and Hermione’s head spins. God, she lied, she can’t hold it. Her body is on fire, tingling warmth travelling down her limbs, making her fingers twitch in the ropes. She’s burning from the inside out, barely feeling Theo stand up—not realising until he’s behind her, pressing his erection firmly against her,
“Can I eat your ass?”
He’s so casual about it, like he’s asking to borrow her Arithmancy notes, and not asking to do some obscene act on her. Zabini pulls off again, and she whines in protest, but he’s waiting for her answer.
“Please?” he whines, “You’ll like it.”
He wants to do it? It sounds so filthy, but still, her imagination paints a pretty picture for her—Theo on his knees, doing something useful with that gobby mouth of his. She doesn’t even know if she can form a coherent answer—she’s been pulled back from the brink of orgasm twice now, and the room is swirling around her.
Draco’s back to leaning against the desk, arms folded, watching their exchange with amusement. He suits the moonlight—it brings him out in silver and grey.
“I’ll make you a deal, Granger.” He says suddenly. “If you let Theo eat your ass, I’ll let you come.”
It’s not an offer she can refuse. Not if she wants to keep her sanity, anyway, so she accepts. Theo doesn’t waste a second as he drops to his knees behind her, and she feels his fingers at her backside, spreading her to take a look.
It isn’t a part of herself she’s ever thought about before, but now she wonders what he’s seeing, and what he thinks. What if there’s something weird about her, or he changes his mind, or—
“So pink and pretty.” He mutters, before he licks firmly from bottom to top.
It feels even more invasive and intimate than what Blaise was doing, but not bad. It’s an unusual feeling, but it spreads the warmth in a different way. He zones in—his tongue lapping and tasting—making lewd sounds that echo in the room. And then, after circling eagerly, he presses his tongue in.
“Oh!” she sighs, her head lolling as he presses in even further. The wet slide of his tongue is warm, spreading her open. There’s an accompanying sting, but it only adds to the building pressure low in her. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer so he can get even deeper. He moans, and she feels it echo through her. His forearm presses hard just above her pubic bone, which sends an aching jolt through her. And then Zabini—his fingers still inside her—starts pressing and sucking again.
“Holy fuck,” she cries, “please!”
It doesn’t take long, with the two of them at work. Theo’s intimate exploration adds an edge to Blaise’s actions that she’s never felt before, and the fizzing warmth explodes. She doesn’t know what sounds she’s making, doesn’t know what she looks like—and she doesn’t care—as she swept up and carried by a wave of immense pleasure, her ears popping, colours flashing behind her eyelids. It feels eternal, time stretches, and she’s at the mercy of what her body is feeling, all of her senses cut off. Nothing but the languid roll of heat through her, sending her limbs twitching and shaking. She’s aware of Theo pinning her still, ‘easy, girl’ as her knees give in.
Then it ebbs away, and Hermione fights to open her eyes, feeling like she’s had the wind taken out of her. Blinking, she realizes her hands have been released, and the boys are holding her up, because her legs have turned to jelly. She doesn’t know how long she was out for.
“Alright, Granger?” Theo asks. He’s standing behind her, peppering kisses down her neck, bringing her back to herself.
“Hmm.” She hums, still reeling, “That’s the best orgasm I’ve ever had.” She isn’t embarrassed to admit it, and Theo sounds pleased, giving her an encouraging nip on the shoulder.
She looks over at Draco, surprised to see his trousers are unbuttoned now, his cock out, standing proudly. It’s slick and dark, and he’s holding it firmly at the base. She didn’t think she had anything left to give, but she flushes at the sight—imagining her hands where his are, sliding it over the head, and watching him twitch under her gaze.
“Can we fuck her now?” Blaise looks to Draco, still kneeling before her. He’s running his hands up the outside of her thighs, sending little zaps through her overly sensitive nerves, and she tries to bat his hands away, but hers are shaking too much.
Draco nods, and Zabini grabs her by the hips, pulling her down onto his lap, hands firm on her hipbones. She’s still shaking. His gaze is soft, and nestles down on his lap. He looks at her softly, proudly,
“You alright, sweetheart? Are you ready?”
She nods, the feeling of his hands on her, the ease with which he manoeuvres her around, adjusts her so isn’t crushing his erection, reminds her of the spark that’s still there. A little dimmer, but not gone.
“Unbutton me then.”
She reaches for his belt, pulling it out of the buckle and getting it loose. It’s hard to do with her still shaking hands, but she’s eager now, knowing how good this could be. Because if they could do that with just their mouths and hands, she can’t imagine how it’ll feel sinking down on him, stretching tight around him. She knows he’s considerable—she can feel it—and she takes a deep breath, fetching his length out from his boxers. He shuffles, sliding his pants down, stretching his legs so he’s sitting underneath her.
Theo’s behind her too, his knees either side of Blaise’s legs, hands almost encircling her waist, keeping her steady.
“Uhm—” she looks down at it, heavy and ready, and feels unsure, “I don’t know if it’ll fit.”
Zabini laughs, and Theo makes a sound of annoyance, “His ego doesn’t need any more feeding, bloody hell.”
“It’ll fit. We’ll make it work.” Blaise’s smile is encouraging. And he shifts her hips, angling them, so she’s lined up.
“I don’t know…” she chews her lip, “I’m not—”
Theo’s helping, tilting her hips to the right angle, his hands above Blaise’s, “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin, Granger.”
She shakes her head, “No, I’m not. I—” It’s not their business, but she continues, “over the summer, Ron and I—”
There’s a collective sound of disgust, and Hermione rolls her eyes, “Oh sod off.”
“I can imagine how that went—”
“And he didn’t even go down on you—”
“Shut up, all of you.” She snaps. In all honesty, what they’re picturing isn’t far from the truth. It had been nice—more than nice, sometimes—but it had felt like she was missing something. She’d heard Lavender and Pansy gossiping about sex, talking about the butterflies and fireworks. She’d figured they were overexaggerating because it didn’t feel like that with Ron. To be honest, it was usually over just after it began. But now she’s beginning to think she got the short end of the straw.
“Come on,” Zabini urges—his patience is admirable, really—and she settles down on it, bracing at the initial breach. He’s only an inch in, but the stretch makes her stop, and take a shaky breath. It isn’t quite painful, but it pushes the boundary, and her thighs are shaking with the effort of holding herself up.
“You’re so fucking tight.” Blaise groans, and his hands are gripping her hips with so much force, she can feel bruises blossoming under his fingertips.
“I—I can’t—” Theo shifts her hips to an angle she hadn’t thought of, and another few inches slip in, making her gasp.
“You can take it, Granger.” Malfoy’s voice is firm, and she looks up. He’s stroking himself in earnest now, watching the spot where her and Blaise are joined. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and he nods, “Be a big girl. Take the whole thing.”
She stares at him, and presses down. It’s too much, she’s too full, but she bottoms out. Tears well as their pelvises meet, and Draco looks drunk on the sight.
“That’s it, sweetheart.” Blaise pants, and he rocks gently, pressing on the spot he’d found with his finger before. The heat is there again, and she feels liquid, utterly boneless on top of him.
“I need a minute,” she says, nuzzling into Zabini’s neck, needing a moment to collect herself before he can move. He shifts, kissing her gently, and it feels like praise that she took the whole thing.
“I don’t know if I can stay still for much longer.” He mutters into her mouth, and she nods. Theo’s drawing up her back, making her twitch, and Blaise starts to rock, watching her carefully. The burn is there, but it’s changing as her body adjusts, and she melts.
Blaise gets into a rhythm, and the sound of their bodies meeting fills her ears. She turns, searching for Theo behind her, and he’s there—knowing what she needs—and he captures her in a kiss, his tongue filling her mouth as she bounces on Blaise’s cock.
“You’re doing so well.” he whispers, “Can you do it again?”
“I’ll try.” Her words are punctuated by a moan, and Blaise hits that spot again.
Theo unbuttons his dark jeans, shoving them down, and Blaise stops—giving Theo time to cast a lubricating charm, and another charm she doesn’t know.
He sees the query in her eyes, “It makes it hurt less.” But then he’s lining himself up, prodding and pressing again. It’s so much thicker than his tongue—blunt and hard—and Hermione stiffens. She’d barely gotten Blaise in; can she really take this? And Blaise, as well?
She knows how desperate he is, she can feel how wanting she’s made him, but he takes his time, watching her carefully as he pushes his hips forward. She can feel the resistance, like a barrier that doesn’t want to let him past. But it burns, and she can only imagine how much worse it would be without the charm.
“You’re so fucking hot, Granger,” Theo’s cheeks are flushed, and he kisses her again, “you have no idea.” He takes advantage of the distraction to push in a little more, and she’s half crying, because it’s so unlike the other sensation she’s ever felt. It so invasive, so dirty and intense, but she wants this. She wants them together, inside her, filled from every angle possible by them.
“You can do it, a little more.” Theo voice is tight, and Blaise is cooing, stroking her hair.
“You’re such a good girl. You can take us both.”
He breaks that initial barrier, and slides home. They’re both tight against her, and Hermione’s whole body is shaking and shivering. She’s right on the edge of bursting, completely consumed by the two of them,
“I’m so full—I—” Her whole body is throbbing, twitching, her nerves completely overwhelmed by the two of them. She feels like the closest she’s ever been to anyone—let alone these two—who she wouldn’t have spoken to yesterday.
“That’s it.” Theo hisses. It takes a minute, Blaise and Theo shift and move gently, until their movements match, and they work in tandem. It’s mind-blowingly good, indescribable, her body sings between them. She feels like a ragdoll, pulled and pushed by them. She barely has the wherewithal to hold her own head up.
“You’ve made her even tighter,” Blaise grits out to Theo, she fists her hands in his shirt, needing an anchor so she’s not swept away.
A hand threads through her hair, fisting, tilting her chin up. Draco is standing behind Blaise, one hand on his cock,
“Last one, Granger.” He’s pressing himself against her lips, and she opens for him. He’s so hard—he’s been waiting so long—salty and wet, and she does her best to draw him in, hollowing her cheeks for him. He rewards her with a groan, and she’s feels giddy with pride, knowing she’s finally broken through his standoffish façade. She wants to thank him for finally giving in, and show her appreciation with her mouth.
He thrusts in deeper, using his grip on her hair to manoeuvrer himself to the right angle. She’s so lost in all of them, in the way they light her up, and she knows she’ll do anything. She’s handed herself over to them completely, and she knows there’s no turning back from this point. She belongs to them tonight, and she’s okay with it.
Draco’s thrusting in earnest now, fucking her mouth, and she lets herself go placid, take whatever the three can give her. The room is noisy with debauched, slick noises, of bodies meeting, and huffs, moans, and breaths shared. Blaise’s hand is on her clit, pinching her hard, and the orgasm that sweeps through her makes the last one feel like a ripple in a pond. Her vision spots to black, and she hears herself cry out around Malfoy. Her whole body spasms, and it feels like she’s falling—the only thing tethering her down is the weight of their bodies against hers, inside hers.
Theo’s holding her again, Draco’s keeping her upright with his tight grasp in her hair, his pace unrelenting. It’s like her world has narrowed to the hands and mouths on her, and she can hear their praise, their glee, watching her body lose itself to them. They’re saying things, but it feels like she’s hearing them through water as her insides liquefy.
She feels Theo’s movements grow choppy as he comes, and Blaise follows, both of them pressing even deeper to chase it, and the pleasure ebbs as she comes down. She sucks on Draco—he’s twitching at the back of her throat—and she watches in fascination as his face twists, his mouth pops open, and he comes. She tries to hold it, keep in as much as she can, but it dribbles down her chin, and he smiles. If she looks hard enough, she can see the softness in it.
Draco pulls out gently, a little unsteady on his feet, as he leans down and kisses her hard on the mouth. Her nerves are shot, overstimulated, so she twitches under him, but she can feel herself grinning like an idiot. She knows—medically—that it’s just chemicals, her body is flooded with oxytocin, but she thinks he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
Theo backs out, pulling out gingerly, and Hermione grimaces. Now that her orgasm has fled, the full effects of their romp are hitting her now. She’s sore in places she hadn’t thought possible, aching with the abuse her poor body has suffered. Blaise shifts her, sliding out, and everything below Hermione’s neck has called it quits.
She can’t even stay on her knees, nearly collapsing onto the stone. But Theo’s behind her, he catches her, and she flops against him, completely ruined.
She tells them too, “You’ve ruined me.” She mumbles, and her throat is raw. Theo laughs, and Blaise slides towards her, running a tender hand over her cheek.
Draco conjures a mattress under them, and lies beside her, a hand resting possessively on her hip. It’s taking conscious effort to stay conscious, and even holding her eyes open feels too difficult. She closes them, lets herself feel Theo at her back, Draco’s hand trailing up her side, and Blaise between her thighs, his fingers on her face. She’s twitching with aftershocks, but her mind is finally silent. It doesn’t leave, doesn’t drift away, but is anchored here by the boys around her, guiding her through the comedown.
-
It takes some time, but they finally call it a night, when the pink of dawn starts to creep in the windows. They’re careful heading back to the eighth-year dormitory, with Theo scouting ahead. But Blaise still had to carry her, and her head is tucked against his shoulder.
She’s fighting sleep—he’s so warm—but she blinks up at him, “Do you guys do that with many girls?”
He smiles fondly, “No, Granger. Just our girl.”
And that only makes the night all the better.
-