Chapter Text

Shame and Strategy

Draco

Draco strained against the sticking charm until his shoulders screamed, until sweat ran down his temples and his breath came in ragged bursts. Three feet. She was three feet away, and he couldn’t move.

Severus, his mentor, his godfather, the man who had dragged him back from the edge when no one else gave a damn, was systematically taking Hermione Granger apart. And Draco was pinned to the door, forced to watch every second of it.

Move. Bloody hell, fucking move.

The magic did not care, and he was still quite stuck.

He knew this feeling, helplessness.

It sat in his throat like something swallowed wrong. No amount of struggling dislodged it.

Knew it the way he knew the dimensions of his Azkaban cell: nine steps wall to wall; four years of damp that seeped into his bones until he felt so numb he wondered if he was even still alive. Knew it the way he knew the particular silence that settled over the Manor during his year of house arrest. His mother had gone mad alone in those same halls while he’d rotted in prison; by the time he got back to her, she was too far gone for him to reach.

He’d found her in her bedroom right before his year was up, pale as the pearls at her throat, the empty phial of Dreamless Sleep still clutched in her fingers. Accidental or intentional. He would never know which.

He hadn’t screamed or cried. He had just stood there, twenty-three years old, staring at the only person who’d ever loved him unconditionally.

Snape had appeared and moved him away from the scene. He hadn’t offered condolences or empty comfort either. He’d just looked at Draco as if he were weighing a broken cauldron, deciding whether it could be salvaged or should be discarded.

“You’re wasting your second chance, Draco,” he had said, his voice cold as stone. “And I won’t allow it.”

Draco had almost laughed. Who was Severus Snape to forbid him anything? But then his godfather had kept talking.

“I swore to protect you. You have two choices: continue this pathetic spiral until you’re as dead as she is, or come study with me. But I won’t stay to watch you throw your life away.”

The choices had been that simple.

Draco had chosen the apprenticeship.

Now he could not help but think of standing in the Manor drawing room at seventeen, watching Bellatrix carve into Hermione’s arm while she screamed. He hadn’t been able to move then either. His mother had stuck him to the floor with this very same charm, the only thing stopping him from getting them all killed. So he hadn’t spoken, afraid it would do more harm than good. Just stood there with his face carefully blank, occluding harder than he ever had before. Because showing anything would have meant death for all of them.

The same terror was in her eyes now, the same silent plea he couldn’t answer, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

Always watching. Never able to stop it.

Helplessness.

Then and now.

Draco’s stomach lurched. Severus had finally lifted his head from between her thighs, his mouth slick, his expression satisfied—and Hermione’s body was still trembling from whatever he’d done to her.

Beneath the desperation and outrage, his cock stirred.

Fucking hell.

He’d disliked her starting first year, the know-it-all who dared to be better than him at everything. But third year changed it into something else entirely.

She’d slapped him. Hard. And when she’d looked at him afterwards—like he was nothing, like he was dirt beneath her shoe—his cock had gone hard so fast he’d had to hunch over and flee before anyone noticed. She’d hit him. No one had ever hit the precious and pampered Draco Malfoy before. He’d barely made it to his dorm before his hand was down his trousers, confused and furious, telling himself it was just hormones probably, it was just the shock of it. And besides, everything and anything made him hard these days, it was—therefore—absolutely not because of the infuriatingly perfect swot with impossibly beautiful eyes.

After that, he hated her for any reason he could find to cling to. Hated her because he thought about her constantly—at the Yule Ball when she’d descended those stairs and looked like a goddess, in sixth year when her eyes would follow him with something like concern and it had nearly undone him, at his trial when she was bravely defending him even though he didn’t deserve it—and he’d have bet the heir’s share of the Malfoy vaults that she never thought about him like he thought about her. At all. Ever.

He was nothing to her. And after the war, after her brief testimony that helped him avoid the Dementor’s Kiss, he became utterly forgettable to her.

The forbidden Muggle-born. The only witch who’d ever struck back at his cruelty. He’d come all over himself thinking about her more times than he could count—at Hogwarts, in Azkaban with nothing but memories to fill the endless hours, in the years since when she’d appear in the Prophet looking polished and powerful and utterly untouchable.

Most of his fantasies had been about her wanting him. About breaking through that insufferable composure, making her admit she’d thought about him too. About her choosing to let him have her. About letting him worship her.

What unfolded in front of him was the opposite of what he would have wanted with her now. Because Draco had long since stopped hating her. This was like watching his darker pubescent fantasies about taking control of her dredged up and enacted without consent—hers or his—and his body didn’t seem to care either way. Wanting or not, he was painfully hard for Hermione Granger in this moment.

The shame was almost worse than the helplessness.

Severus noticed. Of course he did.

“Draco.” His godfather moved closer. His gaze dropped deliberately. “What do we have here?”

Draco’s jaw clenched. He refused to look away, refused to give Severus the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

“Hard as stone from watching.” Severus’s hand pressed against him through the fabric, and Draco bit down on his tongue to prevent provoking him. “How terribly honest of you.”

Draco wanted to be sick from the touch. This was the man who’d sat with him through the worst nights after his mother died. Who’d forced food down his throat when he’d stopped eating. Who’d given him a reason to keep breathing.

He was the closest thing to a real father figure Draco had ever had.

It should have killed his erection instantly. It absolutely should have.

But he’d been alone for so long. Starved for touch he’d denied himself for years. And his cock didn’t seem to care about the source—just that someone, anyone, was finally touching him.

“The potion.” Draco’s voice came out rough. “Severus, you need to listen to me. You’re not—”

“Not what? Not myself?” Severus laughed, low and dark, fingers tracing the outline of Draco’s erection with casual possession. “I’ve never been more myself.” He leaned closer, breath hot against Draco’s ear. “Did you think I didn’t notice, boy? All those years alone in your quarters, never bringing anyone home, never even looking at witches after your release. I assumed you were broken. Above such base desires. Traumatised.”

His grip tightened, and Draco stifled a groan.

“But you weren’t, were you? You were pining.” Severus’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Craving something specific. Someone specific, I should say. Tell me, Draco—how many times did you spill into your own fist thinking about her? How many nights in Azkaban did she get you through?”

Draco’s face burned. He wanted to deny it, to spit in Severus’s face and call him a liar. But the potion seemed to sharpen his godfather’s perception along with his cruelty, stripping away the comfortable fictions they’d both maintained for so long it would seem.

The truth was worse than anything Severus could invent: Draco’s entire sexual history amounted to one pathetic, desperate shag with Pansy Parkinson in sixth year—frantic, fumbling, and utterly forgettable. After that, war, prison, grief. He’d had nothing but his hand and his imagination.

And his imagination had fixated on Hermione Granger with obsessive, shameful regularity.

Draco tried again. His voice was rough. “Severus, you must listen.”

Severus’s hand slid up and down once, then squeezed, and the words died in Draco’s throat, replaced by a sound he’d never made before—half groan, half whimper, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Hmmm,” Severus murmured. “Sensitive, are we?”

Draco’s mind raced even as his body betrayed him. Severus was lost to the LP-9, that much was clear. Reasoning with him would be pointless. But the man Draco knew—the real one—was still in there somewhere, buried under chemical compulsion. And he would never forgive himself for this.

Bloody hell. You’re a fucking Slytherin. Think.

The antidote. He had to find a way to get to more.

The shattered vial of Chasteté on the floor was useless from contamination, but Severus was a meticulous brewer. There would be more. There was always more. The cabinet along the far wall, twenty feet away, was the most likely place.

He needed Severus to release the charm.

Severus’s attention drifted to Hermione, his gaze raking over her prone form with proprietary interest. Just a moment—but enough.

Draco’s eyes found hers. She was watching him—loss, horror, and fear etched across her face—but her gaze was still sharp and present.

He made a decision, then mouthed two words: Trust me.

Something flickered in her expression—confusion, then understanding. She gave the barest nod.

Severus turned back, and Draco forced himself to stop struggling. Forced his breathing to slow, his body to relax into the grip instead of fighting it. Severus’s eyes narrowed, reading the shift.

“Giving up so soon?” he said, with a hint of suspicion.

“No.” Draco let his voice drop, let his hips press slightly forward into Severus’s palm instead of pulling away. Selling it. “Thinking.”

“About?”

“About what you said.” He held Severus’s gaze, channelling every ounce of cunning he’d learnt over decades of navigating pure-blood politics and a few of the Dark Lord’s dinner parties. “About waiting. About wanting something specific.”

Severus’s stilled. Interested now.

Draco’s eyes flicked to Hermione—bound, trembling, watching him with despite her fear—then back to his godfather.

“You’re right,” he said, allowing the want he’d buried for years to bleed through, because that part, at least, wasn’t a lie. “I’ve wanted her. For longer than I’d ever admit.” He let a breath shudder out of him, half performance, half genuine reaction to the hand still wrapped around his cock. “I just never knew how to… I didn’t…”

He let himself trail off, playing up the fumbling practically virgin man Severus had already accused him of being. He swallowed hard. Dropped his eyes to Hermione, then back.

“Show me. Show me how to take what I want. You’ve taught me everything else that matters.”

For a long moment, Severus studied him. Those black eyes missed nothing; they never had. Draco kept his face open, somewhat eager, and buried every screaming instinct under a mask of compliant curiosity.

Believe it. Come on, you suspicious bastard. Believe it.

The sticking charm released.

Draco stumbled forward, catching himself against Severus’s chest, hope surging—

Ropes snapped around his wrists and yanked his arms behind his back. The binding bit into his skin. He could adjust a bit, but his hands were useless.

Fucking hell.

Severus’s hand closed around the back of his neck, steering him forward. “Come then. Let’s see if you can handle this.”

Draco’s mind raced as he was marched towards the table, towards her. Hands bound behind him. Severus’s grip like iron. He needed to stay alert. Needed to wait for an opening. Needed not to fuck this up the way he fucked up everything else.

Hermione’s eyes met his as Severus pushed him closer. Her body was still trembling, slick with sweat and worse, but her gaze held steady.

Something in his chest cracked at the sight.

I’m going to get us out of this, Granger. I swear to Merlin, I will.

Whatever came next, they were in this together. He just had to survive long enough to find his opportunity.

Severus positioned him at the foot of the table, directly between her spread thighs, one hand still clamped on the back of his neck. Her pussy was swollen and slick, the evidence of everything Severus had already done still glistening on her mound.

Salazar. He’d never even seen a witch up close before.

Draco’s cock throbbed.

Severus’s grip shifted, giving Draco just enough slack to dip his head slightly. He risked it. Held her gaze and mouthed, “I’m sorry. May I?”

Her eyes glistened, but she lifted her chin defiantly and nodded. Permission she shouldn’t have to give, granted anyway.

Something in his chest loosened. Not absolution—he didn’t deserve that. But enough to keep going without them both feeling a total lack of control.

Then Severus’s hand forced him down.

His knees hit stone. His face was inches from her cunt, close enough to smell her arousal, to see every detail of what Severus had done to her.

The voice behind him slipped into a familiar lecturing cadence. “A wizard who can’t use his mouth properly has no business in bed with a witch. You’ll make her come before you earn the privilege of anything else.”

Draco’s face burned. He’d imagined this—Gods, he’d imagined it so many times. Her spread open for him, his tongue on her, her hands in his hair as she fell apart.

He looked up at her. Her eyes were wet, her breathing ragged, but she held his gaze.

I will get us out of this Granger. But first he had to get them through it.

He leaned forward and let his mouth find her.