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Hermione had always prided herself on her mind. On its ability to analyze and understand. Its ability to retain.
So it was a moderate slap in the face for her brain to be concealing such vital information from her. And it was a viscous slap when the person who’d been directed to pull it from her was Draco fucking Malfoy.
He was good now — or so the general population had decided — but she didn’t think so. There was nothing good about him, not with those cunning grey eyes and knowing smirk; not with the way he wore his Auror-issued wand holster ostentatiously across his chest but, she’d noticed, secretly stowed his wand up his sleeve.
He was still a snake and she had a healthy distrust of reptiles.
But he was the best, a natural, and so she’d had no choice but to grit her teeth so hard her ears rang and nod when the bloody Minister of Magic approved Robards’ request for the use of Legilimency against one of his employees. They needed the intel she’d seen but been made to forget.
Hermione knew brains. She knew how they repressed memory, whether aided by magic or not. She knew the hidden depths of the human psyche; the tangled web of thought.
She should have been prepared.
They did it on a Friday afternoon, so that she would have the weekend to relax before needing to be back in the office on Monday, and at her home. She’d balked initially when the location for her invasion had been decided, but after she’d done a few rounds of four-square breathing, she’d begrudgingly seen the point. She was comfortable at home — it was her safe space and contained all the sounds and scents that would relax her the most and hopefully make her mind the most hospitable to a good poking.
It would be the only hospitable part of her — of that, she was immovable — but she’d dutifully given Malfoy her home address and then gone home to scream into a pillow.
Friday afternoon, she left work early (after Robards had pointedly reminded her to) and wasted ten minutes sitting quietly on her bed, trying to wipe her mind of everything except the forgotten day, hoping that something would drift to the surface and therefore obliterate the need for Malfoy to have a look. As with every time she’d tried, she managed nothing but giving herself a low-grade headache.
Dejected and frustrated anew, she slid off the bed and treated herself to a pair of comfortable lounge bottoms and a soft t-shirt. She was about to undergo an at-home invasion, after all, so she didn’t feel badly about dressing down so early in the day.
She was in the middle of making herself a restorative cup of tea when there was the knock at the front door. She didn't need to check the clock to know who it was. Malfoy was, annoyingly, always on time. She put her game face on and went to answer it.
He was standing with hands in pockets, already looking down on her. Not that he could help it, given that he was half a head taller than her in her bare feet. She saw his eyes drop to them before flicking back up.
“Granger,” he greeted and she had to draw in a deep inhale at the way his voice instantly grated at her nerves.
When she didn’t reply, the edge of his mouth quirked upward. “You’re going to have to let me in eventually. I don’t fancy doing this on your doorstep.”
She exhaled as slowly as she could and stepped back, leaving the door open and going back down the hall to her kitchen. She heard him entering her home and so busied herself making more noise than was needed in getting the stove lit and pulling down a mug for him (she might not want him here but she wasn’t a barbarian) to drown out the sound of him in her space.
She felt his presence in the kitchen but didn’t acknowledge it yet, spooning tea leaves and spooling in every ounce of patience she had, which admittedly had never been much. Thus girded, she deigned to face him.
“I assume you take milk, seeing as—” She faltered when her gaze snagged on his socks: blue with what appeared to be little red-tartan-clad Scotty dogs wagging their tails and twitching their ears. Her brain stuttered, both at the unexpected playfulness of the design in contrast with his boring (though well-tailored) grey suit, and the fact that he’d removed his shoes at all. She didn’t like shoes in the house but hadn’t thought he’d willingly compromise what she suspected was a coordinated ensemble.
She blinked then flicked her eyes back up to his face. His amusement was barely concealed as he nodded agreeably.
“Milk’s great. Thanks.”
“...Right.” Damn him for throwing her off her game. She got it out of the fridge and prepared two identical cups.
“Let’s do this in the lounge.” She carried the drinks through, glad she didn’t have to walk past him to get there. She pointedly placed his mug on the side table beside her armchair and then seated herself on the furthest corner of the settee.
He eyed her as he stood by the coffee table between the assigned seats. “You’ve never undergone Legilimency,” he said, “but I assume you know the theory?”
She bristled. “Of course I do.”
He gestured to the armchair. “Then you know this is too far apart.”
She did but, despite all her varied life experiences, she’d never lost the capacity to hope.
“I thought you were the best,” she said with as little derision as she could manage. “You can’t do it from there?”
He shook his head, unfazed by her tone. “Skill doesn’t preclude the way things need to be done. I’m the best because I know the parameters for the highest success.”
Her ears were ringing again. She forced herself to relax her jaw.
“Fine.”
He didn’t move to join her yet, lips forming a thin line as he considered her. “In case you’re under the impression that I’m in any way looking forward to this, let me set the record straight: I don’t want to be doing this either.” He paused. “But I was given an order. So can we just get this over with?”
“Do you always do as you’re told, Malfoy?” she taunted.
He raised a brow. “Almost always, yes. The question is, do you?”
Well. She couldn’t bait him if he wasn’t willing to be baited.
She sighed and gestured to the other end of the couch. He shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the armchair and then stooping to retrieve his tea. He took the seat beside her, hardly a cushion between them, and had a sip before leaning to set his mug on the coffee table. She noted with begrudging appreciation that he placed it on a coaster, something she’d never managed to get Harry or Ron to do on their own.
“You need to relax,” he said, facing her. “It’ll be harder to get this finished if you resist when I try to enter you.”
She couldn’t help it. She was currently very highly-strung, anxious about what was to come and fizzing with repressed annoyance, so it really wasn’t her fault when she snorted a laugh. It was possible she’d also spent far too long in the presence of teenaged boys and lately, even worse of an influence, Aurors.
His brows dipped, confused, and then raised when he heard the double-entendre of his comment.
“Granger,” he scolded, smirking. “Who knew you’d have a sense of humor?”
“Just—” She waved a hand, fighting her inappropriate smile. “Just do it. Before I get annoyed again.”
He huffed a laugh but slid his wand from his concealed forearm holster. She tried to ignore it. He shifted closer, pulling a knee up onto the cushion so he could angle himself toward her. The Scotty dogs frolicked in her periphery and she dropped her eyes to them. What odd socks.
“Tell me to stop, and I will. Immediately,” he said, tone suddenly serious, and her eyes cut back up to his. “I’ll try not to hurt you, but if you resist, it might get uncomfortable.” He gave her a steady look, his expression the most earnest she’d ever seen. “Please. Try not to resist me.”
“But I have so much practice,” she muttered under her breath, the retort automatic.
The edge of his mouth lifted in a quick flash before resettling to a focused line. “I’ll start slow. Just a shallow dip, to get you used to it.”
Inexplicably, heat flashed through her. What the fuck, Hermione? She really needed to see to herself more often, if an innocent comment like that sent her brain to the gutter, even if it had been delivered in such a low, coaxing tone and after his earlier phrasing had tugged her psyche that direction.
She was still scolding herself when Malfoy murmured, “Legilimens,” and so didn’t have time to collect her thoughts before she felt him enter her mind. He left as quickly as he entered.
“Jesus,” he blurted. “What—?”
“Sorry, sorry,” she interrupted, closing her eyes and pressing a hand to her forehead. “I just…sorry, give me a second to clear my head.”
She refused to explain why the first thing he’d seen when entering her mind was a rather vivid recollection of her last masturbation session. How embarrassing. She thought about walking in a forest – the least sexy thing she could think of – and then doubled down by picturing herself in the Quidditch stands at Hogwarts. In the rain. In January.
“Okay.” She exhaled and met his eyes again. “Okay, it’s safe now. Go ahead.”
He looked dubious but raised his wand and spoke the incantation again. His second entry into her mind was less of a surprise and so she was able to experience the delicate way he did it. It felt like someone pressing a light hand to the top of her head, or lingering just inside a doorway.
“Alright.” His voice was low and soft. Soothing. Professional. “Let’s start by looking for memories of the same day, so I can get my bearings. Do you remember anything about that day? Or the day before?”
She settled back against the arm of the sofa, drawing a knee up in a mirror of his pose, facing him. She had the strangest sense of both being in her lounge and in her mind, and being together with him in two of her most intimate places was unsettling. Confusing. She tried to focus on his request.
“I remember that it was sunny that morning…I remember wishing I could stay outside a bit longer instead of going to the rendezvous point.”
He made a soft sound of interest. “The meet up was indoors?”
She cocked her head. It must have been, if she’d preemptively missed the sun because of it. She tried to remember, searching for the feeling of warm skin…of a sense of wanting to linger somewhere…
He cleared his throat and she realized where her musings had taken her. Again.
“Sorry,” she muttered, “I didn’t mean to…sorry, I’ll refocus.”
“It’s fine. Let your mind wander. It might bring us to the blank spots.” His voice was still soothing but the softness had slipped slightly toward gruff.
She felt badly for assaulting him with memories of post-orgasmic satisfaction but really, with his softly commanding tone, what did he expect? She comforted herself by the fact that he poked around in minds decently often. Surely he’d seen much worse.
She tried to think about the day but the shape of it was hard to decipher. She thought hard, like she had before he’d arrived, but it felt like fumbling for a light switch she wasn’t actually confident was there. It was incredibly frustrating. She huffed.
“Could you…direct me again?” she asked, hating that she needed further help. “I’m having a hard time focusing.”
“Of course.” He paused. “Alright, so it was a sunny day. Can you remember what you ate for breakfast?”
She visualized it instantly: two pieces of multigrain toast and a scrambled egg.
He hummed. “Okay, good. What about your clothes? Do you remember what you wore that day?”
As always, she started at the beginning, building a memory of her clothing in the same order she’d put them on. She had several pairs of the same style knickers – lacy, cheeky, virtually invisible beneath suiting and skirts alike – so it had definitely been those, but what had she put on top? If she’d been dressing for an undercover rendezvous, then it would have been jeans. Perhaps her dark wash pair…?
His jaw feathered, a minute tension there, and she wondered idly if holding the Legilimency connection was taxing.
“Not in the way you mean,” he offered and then chuckled when she narrowed her eyes at him.
“You can hear my thoughts?” she gasped. “That’s not— Normal Legilimency only lets the caster see memories, or a broad sense of things.”
“I can’t hear your thoughts,” he said placatingly. “Not like you were speaking them out loud, anyway. But I’m good at interpreting the language of thoughts. The feelings and colors. They’re strangely universal among humans...” He drifted off, brows raising. “Again? ”
He slipped out of her mind, dropping his wand to his lap and using both hands to rub his eyes.
She refused to be embarrassed. “You’re in my brain. Surely by now you’ve found out that lecturing only leads to one thing.”
“Christ, Granger,” he said, the words muffled. “How did you survive school and post-grad training and…and career-enhancement seminars?”
She scoffed. “Says you.”
He dropped his hands. “I don’t get turned on by being lectured to,” he said dryly. “You’re on your own with that kink, I’m afraid.”
“I meant because you’re male,” she retorted. “Isn’t your sex notoriously obsessed with, well, sex?”
“We’re off topic.” He reached for his tea, gulping down a quick swallow and then picking up his wand. “Ready for more?”
She nodded.
“Legilimens.”
She felt the sensation of a light touch on her head, and then a new heaviness just behind her eyes, like he was leaning back against the inside of her skull, arms and ankles crossed in the way he so often did against conference room walls during briefings. He was venturing further in.
“It was a sunny day,” he began, guiding her without being asked this time. “You had two pieces of toast and scrambled egg for breakfast. You put on lacy knickers and dark jeans.” He paused, letting his softly-spoken recap swell inside her mind again. “Did you Apparate to the rendezvous point?”
She felt a tightness in her chest, an echo of the sensation. “Yes.”
“Was it sunny when you arrived?”
The warm feeling was gone now. “No. I don’t think so.”
“It was raining,” he mused, and the phantom, cold prickle on her skin suddenly made sense.
She nodded. “It was colder. North.”
The sound of the sea was loud. She could taste the salt in the air and feel the way the wind was tossing her hair around her face, concealing her vision. She batted at it, worried about not being able to see when her contact approached.
Distantly, she heard a low murmur of Malfoy’s voice but it was drowned out by the sudden sound of rapid English in a strong accent. Scottish? …No, the intonation was lilting, the r’s hard. Irish?
The words shifted, going brisk and cruel. She sucked in a harsh breath at the visceral memory of the pain, but still couldn’t remember the cause of it.
She felt the memory slipping away, leaving her dizzy and disoriented, as if she’d stood up suddenly after having sat too long on her legs and wasn’t sure if she was about to pass out from the rush of blood or not.
She grappled for anything to ground herself – a wall, the floor – but there was nothing. She was in a black void. Her panic erupted and then she didn’t even have her breath to keep her company.
Malfoy’s voice cut through, steady and familiar. “Granger. You’re safe. You’re home. I’m here.”
She lunged toward the solidness of it, scrambling across the couch and on his lap before she’d even realized she’d moved. He froze for a shocked second but then his palm was warm on her chest, his other on her back just below her scapula.
“Breathe,” he ordered. “Deep as you can. Move my hands with it.”
She latched onto the instruction, filling her chest with a shuddering inhale. And then another, deeper, pushing out with her lungs against where his hands bracketed her ribs on either side.
“Good.” His voice was low and resonant. “Good girl, Granger. Again.”
The third time was finally easy.
Her head was swimming but now that she was out, she wanted to dive back in – she’d been so close . She felt the pressure behind her eyes of Malfoy’s presence and let out a relieved exhale.
“You’re still inside me,” she breathed.
“Jesus,” he chided. “Phrasing, Granger.”
But she couldn’t care about his tender sensibilities. Not when they’d gotten so close to cracking through.
“I mean…you were there. With me.” She searched his eyes. “Did you see anything? Hear anything?”
“Rest for a second,” he suggested but she shook her head.
He was very close, she realized, when he blinked and she caught the hint of rose gold in his pale eyelashes.
Pretty.
He blinked again, brows creasing.
“I’m okay,” she assured him, meeting his eyes properly. “Thanks, by the way. For…just, thank you. But I’m okay now. Let’s not stop yet. Tell me: did you get a sense of anything?”
“You were in Ireland,” he said. “Someone was shouting at you. Someone hurt you.”
She nodded, worrying her bottom lip. “Yes. I don’t really remember what they did but…I think I remember the pain.”
His jaw tightened, muscles flexing so hard, she wondered if his ears were ringing.
“It’s already happened,” she said, unsure why she was suddenly in the position of comforting him. “And I’m physically fine now, so it obviously wasn’t so bad as to leave a scar.”
“Not on your body, anyway,” he put in, but his jaw relaxed.
She inclined her head at that. Touché. Evidentially the scar was what they were currently working to loosen in her mind.
She realized that his hands were still on her, and at her thought, his eyes dropped to the hand on her chest. He removed it instantly, as well as the one on her back, keeping them raised to the side as he leaned back against the couch, giving her space to climb off his lap.
But she found she didn’t want to, not if she was going to go back to that awful, empty void to try and remember someone hurting her so badly that her brain made her forget.
“Ready when you are,” she said decisively, keeping her weight heavy on his thighs.
He eyed her, expression inscrutable, then let his hands slowly lower to the cushion on either side of her bent legs. He wasn’t touching her but she could feel the proximity of his hands. It was strangely soothing.
His eyes were intent on hers, the grey a bright, striking contrast to the darkness of his pupils.
“It was a sunny day,” he began, voice quiet, given that they were less than a foot apart. “You ate two pieces of toast and scrambled eggs. You put on lacy knickers and dark jeans. You Apparated to Ireland, somewhere by the sea. A man spoke to you.” He paused, as he had before, then prompted, “What did he say to you?”
She’d let her mind slip along the path his voice had taken and so when the words rose up in her mind, she was ready for them. She felt Malfoy’s attention zero in on the memory alongside her, seeing the jocular way the interaction had begun before her contact had gotten suspicious and things had turned nasty.
The man had grabbed her around the arm, had shaken her. She squirmed, trying to get away, but he was strong. She wriggled again, and suddenly Malfoy was pulling out of her mind, leaving her gasping with the sudden absence of pressure.
“Sorry,” he said, voice tight. “Need a minute.”
The memory had faded but she still felt that strong grip on her. It took her a moment to realize it was Malfoy’s hands, clamped around her waist and holding her still.
“Oh.” She felt her cheeks heat. She’d been wiggling on his lap, evidently wildly enough that he’d felt the need to stop her.
She froze under his hands, quietly apologetic. He wasn’t in her mind anymore but she got a sense he felt it anyway, from the way he gave her a curt nod and a half smile. His hands relaxed and he dropped them back to his sides. She gingerly settled her weight back on him.
He didn’t draw his wand this time: they were close enough for him to simply stare into her eyes and speak the incantation.
“It was a sunny day,” he began, once he’d resettled back against the inside of her skull. The words were hushed, and if it wasn’t for the way she’d seen his lips move, she would have thought he’d said them inside her head.
They had a tugging quality to them and she let her mind be snagged, drifting until she felt it: the warmth of the sun on her skin. The way it always made her want to lie in her garden with a book, or on a beach with the rays directly against her bare skin.
He cleared his throat.
“You ate toast and eggs. You put on lacy knickers and–”
The knickers had been pink, she suddenly remembered. And today they were blue. Dark blue, like his socks. And the red of her bra would match the little tartan kerchiefs the dogs were mucking about with.
“Are you doing that on purpose?” he demanded, cutting through her idle musing.
She blinked, refocusing on his eyes in front of her and not the way that their undergarments might coordinate. “Hmm?”
“Merlin,” he muttered. “Nothing, Granger.” He refocused himself with a quick inhale. “You Apparated to Ireland, somewhere by the sea. A man spoke to you. He grabbed you.” He paused and she exhaled slowly, living in the memory. “Then what happened?”
She felt the man’s grip around his arm. The way his fingers had dug painfully into her muscles as he’d shaken her, hissing words in her face. She shifted away from him, both in her mind and in her lounge. She felt Malfoy’s hands twitch against her legs but he didn’t reach to stop her moving yet — tying her memory back to her body with physical action seemed to be working. She could find it easily enough, even if where it was going was still a fuzzy mystery to her.
The man took her inside. He threw her to the ground, knocking the air from her lungs and then crushing her with his body before she’d fully gotten it back.
On Malfoy’s lap, her chest constricted. His fingers stretched to touch her legs; a steadying presence. She found her breath.
She remembered the flash of pain the hard floor below her had triggered — sudden and staggering. She remembered the harsh syllables of the Unforgivable word snarled into her face, it and its linked effect so weak compared to how she’d first learned it, she’d almost laughed. But despite being badly cast, the word still hurt. And his wand hurt where it was jammed into her neck. It had filled her with an unholy rage, and she’d barely held back screaming right in his face. She needed more from this grotty Irish house than simply yelling at an inept man and would not let him get in the way of her getting the intel she’d been sent for.
So she’d bottled her fury and used it to fuel her so that as soon as the Irishman broke the curse, she’d slung an arm around his neck and a leg around his thigh, had bucked her hips under him and had put the fucker on his back.
She felt the man’s heartbeat pulsing rapidly at the inside of her arm, but in her memory she was staring down at him, the outside of her forearm hard against his throat.
Coherence swelled as she realized she’d looped her arm around Malfoy’s shoulder so far that her bicep was pressed to his neck. His pulse was thundering. Her eyes met his.
“It’s fine.” His voice was strained though she wasn’t blocking his air. “Keep going. I’m fine.”
The man was fighting her, but she was stubborn. She had him pinned with her knees at his hips, the toes of her boots digging unrelentingly into his inner thighs. The man was swearing at her, spitting in her face, but she had him. She would not be taken down. Never again.
She pressed her arm harder against the man’s throat, angling the pressure until his face began to purple with the lack of blood and oxygen. His eyes fluttered and his body twitched under her, violently and then hardly at all. She gave it another second and then lifted off, quickly dropping two fingers to his pulse and finding it weak but still there.
One down.
“Fuck.” Malfoy’s voice broke on the word.
She checked to make sure she hadn’t accidentally half-strangled him as well but her arm hadn’t shifted this time. However during her remembered tussle, her hips had shifted forward and were now flush with his. He was pink-cheeked and in the scant space between their bodies, she could feel that he was hard.
His pupils were blown but he blinked when she met them. His head twitched in a half-shake, sensing her unasked concern.
“Sorry. It’s okay. Don’t stop.”
So she didn’t.
She was still crouched over the unconscious Irishman when voices sounded from the next room. She didn’t move a muscle, listening as the criminals laid out their upcoming plan of attack. The voices began to fade and with a final check to the man below her, she pushed to her feet and slunk across the room to the adjacent door, feet quick and silent. She listened with her ear pressed against it then cast a whispered disillusionment charm over herself and eased the door open.
Her vision whited out and she gasped, unsure if it was in the memory or because of it – if her brain was fighting back again. She squeezed her eyes shut against the brightness and the growing throb of pain. A white void was somehow worse than a black one – it hurt more, that was for certain.
“Granger.”
Malfoy’s voice.
She leaned toward it until her nose collided with silk, or maybe feathers – something unbelievably soft. Something that smelled clean and boyish and vaguely like sandalwood. It made the pain shift to the back of her mind.
“Granger.”
The light released her and she found herself flush with him, her nose buried in the hair just above his temple, her body pressed against his.
“Malfoy.” She tried to catch her breath at the whiplash. “Gods.”
She could feel his exhales, hot and heavy, against the bare skin above the neck of her t-shirt. Sitting on his lap had put her slightly above him and pressed forward like this, her breasts squashed against his chest, she wondered if he could feel the frantic beat of her heart.
“You’re close.” She could feel his words against her jaw. “You can do it. I’ve got you.”
She wasn’t sure she could.
“It’ll hurt.” She hated how shaky her voice sounded, but the blinding light had felt like pain far worse than the half-hearted Crucio. Pain she didn’t want to experience, not again.
He hummed a low sound of disagreement. “It won’t.”
“It did,” she whispered. And then, because he was in her mind so already knew it, admitted the truth. “I’m scared to remember.”
“It won’t hurt.” His voice was steady and his hands, when they carefully closed around her hips, were too. “It’ll feel good.”
He rocked her hips toward him, the thin material of her loungewear an insufficient barrier against the stiff length in his trousers. Her system was already overloaded, set to high alert against a remembered foe, and so the friction of him between her legs felt intense. She muffled her moan behind tightly-closed lips, her entire body pricking with goosebumps.
“See?” His voice was barely a whisper. “Finish the memory and you can have more.”
In a more coherent state of mind, she might have balked at the notion that Draco Malfoy was attempting to bribe her into doing her job with the promise of grinding on his cock.
But in her current state, she simply nodded against his hair, stealing a quick inhale of the inexplicably soothing scent before sitting back enough to find his eyes. She’d lost the thread but he was in her mind, so she didn’t need to ask.
“It was a sunny day,” he began and she melted into his voice.
The white light was blinding.
But instead of pain, she felt pleasure. Acute pleasure. Radiating pleasure. She felt the pressure of hands on her hips, of a cock between her legs, of a man gasping hotly against the inside of her skull.
She luxuriated in it. Leaned into it. Sought it.
The bright light ceased and in the resulting darkness, she made out the shape of three figures in the room. The strongly-cast Crucio had shattered her disillusionment but there were no anti-Apparation charms which meant that as soon as she saw their faces, she could Disapparate.
Pain reached for her. She reached for pleasure.
Malfoy’s harsh breaths against her neck felt like the breeze that wafted in through the open door at the back of the room. She needed to get there, to get the light behind her and on them.
But they were casting on her. Stinging jinxes and slicing hexes and near-misses with Crucio.
She rocked her hips in cadence with the rapid steps she took across the room, every step a burst of sensation, past and present coalescing and confusing the hell out of her brain with which was real. She briefly worried that she was going to give herself a complex, for mixing pain and pleasure so messily like this, but pleasure was winning so she didn’t care.
Another Crucio barely missed her, the ghosting touch like touching a downed wire. She tripped, but caught herself.
“Faster,” Malfoy choked out. “Go faster.”
She scrambled to her feet and ran.
Malfoy sucked in a harsh breath at the matching pace over him, but then she’d reached the window and the three faces were suddenly clear. He marked them with a toneless grunt of acknowledgement and then she was being lifted, physically by his hands and mentally by her rapid Disapparation.
He slid out of her mind and the memory snapped back to where it belonged, now fully formed. She squeezed her eyes shut as it clicked into place and then her eyes popped open.
“I can’t believe that worked!” she gasped, breathless. “Holy fuck. That was incredible!”
“You’re incredible,” he panted. “Fucking hell, Granger.”
He tilted his head back against the sofa, cheeks flushed and looking at her from half-lidded eyes. His chest was heaving. Hers was, too, her blood pulsing from the memories and having successfully found the intel they needed to blow the whole operation open.
She was also well over three-quarters of the way to what promised to be a thigh-shaking orgasm.
He was holding her a few inches off himself, his arms bulging through the material of his professional white Oxford with the effort. She didn’t know if it was because he’d accomplished what he’d hoped with it and so didn’t need to carry on, or…
She closed her hands around his wrists, gently squeezing. His cheek feathered but he let her resettle over the unsubtle bulge in his trousers.
It made her ache, knowing he’d gotten aroused watching her fight. Watching her succeed. That he’d used his body to ground her, to support her in her secondary success.
She hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor purely for her bravery and loyalty – nor for her self-righteousness and short temper.
She was also bold.
She was reckless.
She was kissing him before she gave it a second thought.
He made a broken sound against her mouth, a plea, and then his hands were on her, one sliding up the back of her neck and curling into her hair, the other banding around her hips, keeping her snug against him.
She licked into his mouth and he groaned. The sound stoked her hotter.
“Inside me,” she gasped. “I want you back inside my head.”
He panted a laugh. “Fuck witch, do you know how much focus—”
“Are you the best or not?” she interjected, and rocked her hips against his again in a little bribe of her own. He swore inarticulately, pressing up under her. She let him, dipping down to ghost her lips along his throat.
“Please?” she murmured. “I want to show you something good this time.”
She gave him a whisper of it, a tiny taste of her fantasy.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He yanked her head up by the back of her neck and she couldn’t hold the mewl it tore from her at the roughness of the gesture. His forehead was solid against hers as he hissed, "Legilimens,” and then he was inside her again.
She sent him a barrage of sensation without hesitation, most of it intentional but some because she was steadily giving in to her base impulses and she always lost her head a bit when she did.
In the scant space between their lips, he whined. The sound was low and anguished, and it ignited her.
She worked his belt open with hasty fingers and then tore his fly open. His boxer-briefs were buttery-soft and damp where the hard tip of his cock pressed. She curled her hand around him and squeezed.
“Granger,” he groaned. “Merlinfucking— please.”
She suddenly regretted, quite vehemently, that she’d swapped her work skirt out for soft trousers. She slid backward off his lap, legs shaky but stable enough for her to strip the trousers down. His eyes were glued to her hands and so when her shirt snagged and lifted as she kicked her bottoms away, he didn’t miss the fact that she’d stripped her knickers off as well.
He pressed a palm to his lap, hips shifting. She had nothing decent in her head after that.
She stripped her shirt off and then leaned over to tug his trousers down. He lifted up so she could get them out from under his arse, scooting closer to the edge of the sofa so that when she climbed back onto his lap, she could settle right over him.
“Can I–” she began but he was already tugging the waistband of his briefs down.
“Yes,” he grunted. “Fuck, I know what you want. I’m in your fucking mind.”
They’d be doing this again, she thought. They would absolutely be doing this again.
His laugh was strained, and when his cock bobbed free and she instantly closed her fist around it, the sound broke fully.
“Fuck.”
She was thrumming with arousal and jittery excitement about what they were about to do. He was hot in her hand, thick and so hard that the skin felt stretched taut. She dragged her hand up to tip and then down the full length of him. His hips lifted to meet her fist but she held him steady at the base as she lifted up onto her knees over him.
“Ready?”
His eyes were magnetized to hers, intense and vast, tracking every slight movement of her over him. She’d mussed his styled hair with her nuzzling; had crumpled his collar with the tightness of her arm; had brought out a deep rose in his cheeks with her everything.
He was gorgeous in his dishevelment.
“So are you,” he breathed, and then nodded. "I'm ready. I'm fucking dying for it."
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and sank down, eyelids fluttering at the best form of pressure she’d felt all day. All year.
The descent was easy — she’d been dying for it, too — but when she finally settled down on him, she was breathless, stretched full.
She rose up as far as she could in his hold and then sank back down, wiggling a little at the base until she was sure he was as deep as he could go.
The pressure behind her eyes was heavy, like he was slumped against the wall.
“Big,” she breathed and his nostrils flared.
She rocked forward once and then settled on him, motionless. “Okay,” she told him, a thrill racing down her spine. “Try not to come.”
His teeth sank into his bottom lip, but he nodded.
And so she let her mind run wild.
She thought first, in excruciating, delicious detail, about how he felt inside her. It felt inordinately good to be able to do it; to visualize exactly what she wanted after the murky struggle of the past half hour. She could feel the fat head of him deep inside, the delightful twinge letting her know that if he came like this, he’d fill her womb.
He whimpered, hands tightening on her, but he kept still below her.
She could feel him throbbing, the thick vein on the underside pressed firmly to the sensitive walls of her entrance. She imagined bouncing on him, feeling the pulses strengthen until they were beyond his control. She wouldn’t stop, not even if he begged.
His head fell back against the sofa but he was still there in her mind. The pressure felt lower, like he’d collapsed.
“Y’okay?” she mumbled, even as her cunt clenched around him at the image of him on his knees, weak because of her.
“Don’t stop,” he groaned. “Oh fuck, don’t stop.”
She pictured all the ways she wanted him, weak or otherwise. She dragged it out, lingering on sensation and sound until her own body was throbbing, begging for friction that she was determined wouldn’t occur from her action.
Malfoy resisted for longer than she’d expected but when she imagined the feel of him coming — from behind, so deep that not a single drop was wasted, the insane satisfaction of it — he snapped.
“Need to come,” he whimpered. “I can’t…oh god, please fuck me. Please.”
Her clit was swollen and throbbing, her walls fluttering erratically. His lap was soaked with how far her arousal had dripped down the length of him.
“Weren’t you paying attention?” she breathed and when his eyes met hers, she saw it click.
She was on her back a moment later, the plush rug a welcome contrast to the hard body that followed her down, the harder cock that pushed back inside and then didn’t stop.
“Dirty fucking mind,” he growled, the words as rough and deep as his thrusts. “Dirty fucking girl. You like this?”
She moaned her affirmation, clinging to his shoulders.
“But you want something else more.”
He pulled out and her cunt clenched, searching for his cock even though she could see it bobbing in front of her, taunting her.
“Malfoy—” she began, tone petulant, but he tsked and flipped her over. He was back down over her before she’d properly settled, his cock a hot, sticky weight on her bum.
“Jesus,” he groaned. “Your arse… fuck, Granger.” He palmed her, squeezing appreciatively. His thumbs were a few scant inches from her cunt and when he groped her arse again, groaning to himself, she was certain if he so much as grazed her clit, she’d come.
“I’d like to see that,” he murmured, and she felt his cock notch where she needed him. “But I want to feel it more.”
She managed to hold her orgasm off until his second thrust but then it was too much, the full-body squeeze so intense, she lost her breath again.
“Oh, good girl,” Malfoy groaned, and at the sound of his voice, she let go, gasping as the pleasure finally released, filling her along with her breath.
“Good fucking girl, Granger. Fucking Christ, that’s—” He held himself deep, breathing hard as he withstood the mental ecstasy of a female orgasm.
She groaned with satisfaction, moving her hips in gentle rocking motions because it felt good.
He felt good.
“Never seen your mind so empty,” Malfoy panted. “Can’t think about anything but how good you feel, can you?”
She didn’t even care to try, humming a contented sound and letting her body soften under his, pliant in a way she’d never have imagined ever being around him. He lowered down over her, forearms braced on either side of her shoulders and gradually picked up his pace. The glide was smooth, a constant motion of push and pull. Her body rocked with it, hips lifting to greet his, welcoming him.
“Can I come now?” he panted. “Please?”
She wanted it desperately. “Yes.”
“Like this? Inside you?”
She sent him the image again, the sensation of being full to the brim with his come, and he made a noise low in his throat.
“Tell me. With words.” His forehead pressed to the back of her neck. “Please. I need to hear it.”
“Come inside me, Draco,” she whispered. “Come deep.”
He pounded into her, any finesse obliterated as his primal instincts took over, driving so deep she could feel him hitting home. It made the nerves of her shoulders fire, tingling with every strike of his cock against her cervix. She felt his breath hot against the back of her neck, an errant scrape of teeth, and then he was moaning, muffled against her skin and sending vibrations tingling all down her spine.
She moaned with him, deeply satisfied. She felt warm all over and even though she was currently lying face-down on her sitting room rug, she had the sense of wanting to linger.
He recovered for a moment, forehead pressed to her back, and then she felt his nose skim along her skin as he raised his head.
“I knew you were a mindfuck but Jesus, Granger. Leave it to you to make it literal.” His voice was bemused but she could hear the layer of affection underneath.
She chuckled softly and then let him turn her onto her back. He sat back on his haunches as best he could with his trousers and briefs rumpled just above his socks. His shirt was mostly on, but half the buttons had been displaced so that it hung roguishly. She was naked except for her lacy red bra.
She’d just had a monumentally excellent orgasm but the half-dressed, urgent way they’d fucked made heat bloom between her legs. He’d slipped out of her mind without her noticing – probably during his orgasm – but even so, she could tell he read the thoughts plainly on her face.
“Merlin,” he complained, but his humor had turned his eyes a sparkling pewter. “Are you perpetually horny?”
She hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Malfoy. Am I? Feel free to have a look and find out.”
He scoffed, faux-scandalized. “That would be highly inappropriate.”
“Mm. My favorite.” She waggled her brows up at him and he chuckled. He looked down at her for a moment, expression sliding from amused to rather fond.
“I can think of a more fun way to find out, anyway,” he murmured.
“Oh?” She curled up to a sit, looping her arms around his neck so their faces were inches apart. “Does it involve getting properly naked?”
He raised a brow thoughtfully. “Might do.”
“Mm.” She kissed him, slowly and sweetly. He opened to her, tongue peeking out to meet hers. She flicked hers against it and then kissed him again. “Good thing it’s Friday then. Plenty of time to find out all weekend long.”
When he smiled against her lips, it felt just like lying in the sun.