Chapter Text
Draco
Draco gave up on his tie, tugging it off and tossing it onto the desk in front of him. He ran his hand through his hair. Gods, he needed to wash it so badly.
He would. In an hour or so.
The twenty-seventh iteration of his application essay lay open on his desk in the dorm room he shared with Theo, margins so overflowing with red-ink markups he could barely see the parchment. His own notes, of course.
It had to be perfect.
This essay was the single most important thing he’d ever write, and it had to be absolutely, completely and inscrutably perfect. Because even though Draco had the connections, and the grades, and the extra-curriculars to be able to waltz into the Ministry Internship—
His competition was the fucking Golden Girl.
The Ministry Internship was new. It was fully paid, extremely prestigious, and would practically guarantee the successful candidate a fast-track to a high-ranking Ministry position. It was supposed to go to the seventh (or in their case, eighth) year student with the best grades. To the Candidate of Unparalleled Merit; a title which Draco already knew he well and truly deserved.
But he and Granger were absolutely neck and neck. There was no way that either of them would lose a single point in their NEWTs, so, it was going to come down to the admissions essay.
And Hermione Granger’s essay would be perfect.
It would be inscrutable. She would look inscrutable in it; playing into her carefully cultivated mythology of brilliance and hard work and the friends she fucking made along the way.
Draco rested his elbows on the table as he lifted the paper, conscious of the wrinkling of his rolled sleeves as he zeroed in on the section about his rehabilitation after the war. About his philanthropy. His charity work.
His exceptional grades in Muggle Studies.
Merlin fucking damn it.
Or should he say, Jesus Fucking Christ.
He smirked to himself. Nailed it.
But the smirk quickly fell from his face. He glanced down at his internship essay.
Was he boasting too much?
It probably couldn’t hurt to be a bit more humble. It definitely needed to be more gracious. He hummed to himself. He needed a better word for benevolent.
Without hesitation, he snatched up another roll of parchment, scribbling out as many synonyms as he could think of.
He was halfway through altruistic when a hand came down gently on his shoulder.
Draco jumped about half a foot out of his chair.
He turned, a snap on the tip of his tongue as he faced his roommate.
Theo looked like he’d just been dragged backwards through a hedgerow, hair messed and eyes full of sleep.
“Draco.”
“What?” Draco asked.
“It is five o’clock in the morning.”
“And?”
“On a Sunday.”
Draco frowned, but didn’t respond. He turned back to his essay, staring at one of his tiny margin notes—
He immediately reconsidered, and eyed Theo carefully.
Theo liked words, and also, occasionally used them. Also, he’d read over the first twenty-six drafts. Maybe he could help.
“Actually, you know what, quick one,” Draco held up the paper as he twisted. “Should the rehabilitation section be entirely in the present perfect tense or simple past? Because present perfect implies an ongoing moral state, which I’m worried sounds unresolved, like I’m not fully rehabilitated, whereas simple past implies closure, but I don’t want to seem like I think I’m done atoning.”
He sighed, frowning in frustration.
“But the section is already three lines longer than the academic one, and visually it’s starting to look apologetic. Like I’m begging, and that’s thoroughly unmasculine, which wouldn’t normally matter, but the panel is overwhelmingly male and I’ve read four organisational psychology studies that show that hiring panels were more likely to recruit candidates who reflected their own demographic—”
Theo stared at him.
The stare went on for quite a while. And then longer. And, then, after about eighteen seconds of stunned silence, Draco shrugged, and turned back to his essay.
Which was promptly torn from his hands.
“You sound like Granger!” Theo exclaimed. “When was the last time you fucking slept?”
Draco rolled his eyes.
“I slept yesterday, Nott. I had a nap after Potions.”
“Yesterday was Saturday, Draco.”
Draco paused for a moment.
“Well then, I slept Friday.”
Theo stared at him incredulously, which Draco found very confusing.
“No. Nope.” Theo shook his head, rising to his feet. “This stops now.”
And he walked to his side of the room.
“What are you doing?” Draco asked.
Theo sighed loudly as he stormed over to the trunk at the end of his own bed.
“Ever since you started working on this application, you’ve completely stopped taking care of yourself.”
Draco scoffed. “I have not?”
“You don’t eat. You have to be reminded to shower. You barely sleep, and when you do, you’re tossing and turning like you’re about to have a fucking panic attack,” Theo began, digging haphazardly through his belongings. “If you’re not going to take care of yourself, then responsibility for your welfare falls to me.”
“What do you mean?” Draco frowned. “What do you mean my welfare?”
“I promised—no, swore to your mother—Morgana, where is it?” Theo leaned further into his trunk. “I promised your mother that I would make sure you completed the school year with your unfairly dashing self still in one piece.”
He grunted as he reached for something.
“And given that your father’s in Azkaban for the fore—shit, where is it?—foreseeable future, I am very keen on reassuring your beautiful mother that I will do anything—anything— she asks of me.”
He pulled back and winked over his shoulder, before turning back to the trunk.
Draco frowned in his direction. “You’re disgusting.”
Theo made a sound of discovery, standing back up with a large box.
“Oh, darling, you don’t know the half of it.”
With a grunt, Theo tossed the nondescript brown box onto Draco’s bed.
“Now, I can bring you breakfast. I can charm your candles to show no light at one-in-the-morning. I can remind you to shower under threat of setting up an illegal portkey to the centre of the Black Lake. But there’s an element of your wellbeing that I can’t take care of for you.”
Theo raised his wand, lifting the glamour on the box, but paused.
“Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind about being straight?”
Draco rolled his eyes before allowing them to look at the box.
It was ripped along its left side, missing a part, but it showed, in no uncertain terms, precisely what was inside it. A glossy depiction of its contents took up nearly the entire front, completely unmistakable in what it was and what it was supposed to be used for.
Because it was, quite literally, a female body.
It wasn’t the whole thing, there were no feet or arms, just the… lower parts. It was a woman, but from the waist down. The torso cut off abruptly at the navel, smooth and featureless, the hips wide and exaggerated, thighs sculpted with unsettling realism. And between them was—
Well. He supposed he didn’t need to describe what was between them.
But, as if a picture was not worth a thousand words, there were some, plastered loudly, underneath it. Most of them were in another language, one he didn’t recognise. But there were three he could make out quite clearly.
REALISTIC SILICONE COMPANION
Draco stared at it. Then at Theo, his entire face twisting in horrified disbelief.
“What the fuck is that?!” he hissed.
But Theo didn’t even flinch.
“You have needs, Draco. And you’re not meeting them. I can practically smell your frustration. And I know for a fact that you haven’t had a wank in months.”
“How on fucking earth could you know that?!”
Theo lifted a brow as if it was an incredibly stupid question.
“Because you always do it in the shower, and unless you’re wanking to the sound of your own voice debating the merits of using the word didactic, I can almost guarantee you’re not fucking doing it. And Merlin knows you haven’t brought a witch back here.”
Draco’s jaw dropped, and he scoffed.
But he also blushed.
Because, while Theo was a fucking pervert for noticing his wanking habits, he also wasn’t entirely wrong.
It had been more than a little while since Draco’s last wank. It’d been… He paused for a moment, trying to recall the last time, and came up completely, dare he say, empty handed. It was March now. Maybe—No, he’d been this stressed at Christmas, and it had been a while then—
He exhaled heavily.
But that didn’t matter. In fact, it was probably a good thing. There was evidence (another four studies, at minimum), that excess levels of testosterone could be beneficial to performance, both athletically and academically.
So, really, he’d been doing himself a favour by not getting off.
“Nott, if I want to have a wank, I can do that whenever I want. My hands work perfectly fine. I do not need a—” he waved his hand at the box on his bed. “A—that.”
A dismissive scoff followed from Theo. “Women use sex toys all the time. There’s nothing wrong with it.” The man grinned. “Besides, Draco, she’s special.”
Draco frowned.
Theo jutted his hip out.
“From what I could gather during my patchy conversation with the vendor, she’s meant to be a stand-in for the real thing. It feels exactly like—Gods, what did she say—” Theo cantered his fingers along the side of the box. “Your missing piece? I’m not quite sure. Her English was terrible.”
“And you just bought it?” Draco hissed. “”What if someone saw you?!”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t buy it,” Theo grinned. It twitched rather casually into a smirk, and he shrugged.
Draco stared, incredulous. “You shoplifted it?”
“No, of course not.” He smiled. “It’s not shoplifting if it’s a discreet pop-up shop at a market, is it? More stalllifting. Kiosklifting.” Theo grinned. Again. “Boothlifting—”
Draco sighed into his own hands. “I don’t want your fucking stolen sex toy, Nott.”
“Draco,” Theo cooed. “I am concerned that if you don’t expend some energy soon, you may actually drop dead from severe stress. I’ve got one of these I bought legally from a Muggle store, and they’re fucking fabulous. So regardless of what you want, you will make an attempt to de-stress.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll inform your mother with specific details of how you’re refusing to take care of yourself, and I’m sure you want to receive that letter, emphasising the importance of meeting all of your needs. She might even come in person.”
Theo tapped his finger to his chin.
“Actually, maybe I should do that. Perhaps she’ll realise there are shortcomings in meeting her own. And I happen to know a very available young bachelor who’s freshly minted in ideas for taking care of what I can only expect would be Narcissa Malfoy’s insatiable needs—”
Draco’s face twisted into horror. “You are fucking disgusting.”
“Yes. And if you continue to be belligerent about it, I’m going to slip the memory into your pensieve.” He winked again. “Now open the fucking box.”
Draco side-eyed it, grimacing. “Why do I have to open it?”
“So that it connects you as the owner, obviously.” He, once again, rolled his eyes. “Hurry up and do it, and I’ll give your essay back.”
Draco sighed. There really was no point arguing with Theo. Besides, what harm could it do? It wasn’t like he was going to use it.
So, he approached the box. Opened it. Peered inside. The box seemed to shudder, momentarily. Draco immediately closed it again.
Then he held out his hand to Theo for his essay.
“Say thank you, Draco,” the man said, teasingly.
Draco rolled his eyes.
“Thank you, Nott, for this inappropriately personal gift of a disgusting sex toy that I am never going to use, under any circumstances, ever.”
Theo smiled, and handed his essay over.
“There,” he said, smugly. “Was that so hard?”
*
At seven o’clock, Theo went for breakfast.
Draco tapped his fingers on his desk, re-reading his introduction for the seven hundredth time.
Fucking Nott.
Now that Draco had been reminded of how long it had been since he’d had a wank, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He probably could have a shower. Though, the shower had been his escape, recently. A new location that had served as space to clarify his ideas. He thought well in the shower. He was inspired in the shower. And he didn’t want to jeopardise that by re-wiring his brain to associate showers with fucking his own hand until he stopped thinking at all. Same for his desk. And lying in his bed beneath charm-warmed covers was the only place he could get any sleep. Best not associate that with fucking his hand either. He needed maximum possible efficiency if he was to write the best essay of all time.
Draco glanced at the box on his bed.
He sighed.
He stood abruptly, as if momentum might possibly carry him through the decision before he could reconsider. He crossed a few steps. Flicked the box back open, and emptied its contents onto his bed.
The inside was nothing like the garish packaging suggested. Nothing fake or gaudy, just a deep-lined interior. Resting within it was a heavy velvet bag the colour of claret wine, tied neatly with a gold cord. It looked expensive in a way that offended him on principle; soft and elegant, the way one might store heirloom jewellery or a precious artefact.
Not this.
The velvet slid away easily when he loosened the tie. What emerged was smooth and warm to the touch in a way that immediately set his teeth on edge, the magic humming faintly under his fingers. The form was unmistakable: sculpted hips, thick thighs, the torso ending cleanly and deliberately at the waist. And between the legs—
Well.
Whoever the creator of this toy was, they had committed fully to the concept of a woman, and did not seem, in the slightest, apologetic about it. Draco set it carefully on the bed, avoiding eye contact like that was going to help, and stepped back.
He stared at it for several seconds, heart thudding with a mix of embarrassment and sheer disbelief.
This was a profound misuse of excellent craftsmanship.
But there were no instructions. No leaflet or pamphlet or anything on what he had to do exactly.
Well, obviously, Draco knew what he was supposed to do with it, but it seemed odd that there was nothing—
He glanced at the ripped left side of the box. It must’ve been where the instructions were supposed to be. Must’ve gotten lost.
His eyes fell back to the toy.
He wasn’t the slightest bit intrigued by it. On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest and 10 being the highest, his level of fascination for the toy was one. Perhaps less than one. Zero. Zero fascination, whatsoever. And he also wasn’t interested.
Truly, his level of interest was, in a single word—
Insignificant.
But his curiosity got the better of him, and he poked it.
It felt real. He used the back of one single finger, to brush over the…skin? Material? It truly was warm. How was it warm? And why? Where else was it—
He cupped one side of the round arse in his palm. Gave it a gentle squeeze. And, if he was being completely honest…
Damn. It was a great arse.
Then, with a flush of embarrassment—
His cock decided to display a not-insignificant amount of interest.
Draco groaned, furrowing his brow and grimacing to himself.
“This is so fucking weird,” he told the toy, hoping for some sort of absolution.
It offered none. It simply lay there, offering no judgement.
But it was fucking weird. Weird men used these things. Sex pests like Theo whose minds had been so addled by pornography and absurdly kinky sex that the only way he could wank was with a…visual component.
And Draco wasn’t weird. He wasn’t!
He closed his eyes and cringed as the inherent shamefulness of what he was doing made his cock even harder.
Draco folded his arms, taking a deliberate step back from the bed as if distance might restore his dignity. Perfectly ordinary, normal men did not stand alone in their dormitories on a Sunday morning experimentally fondling enchanted toys. They simply didn’t. They had composure. Restraint. Better things to do.
Important essays, for instance.
His eyes moved pointedly toward his desk, toward the scroll of parchment that would quite literally dictate his entire future. Lingered there for a moment.
And then, traitorously—
His eyes drifted back to the bed.
He considered the practicalities. Considered the time. Considered the fact that his now-very-hard and thoroughly neglected cock did not appreciate that there was a difference between what was in front of him and a real woman, and had simply decided that it was perfectly happy to take whichever was on offer.
Considered the fact that he hadn’t had a clear thought in days and that Theo, inexplicably, might have had a point about…stress relief.
Besides, it was just laying there, giving off that faint magical warmth like it was patiently waiting for him to give in. No judgement, just…
A silent, and very warm invitation.
He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders.
“This is fucking depraved,” he informed the toy.
The toy, unhelpfully, did not agree. It simply lay there, jigglingly, enticing him and what he now knew to be his sexual deviant of a cock to just give it a try.
Draco hovered near the edge of the mattress, hands flexing at his sides. If this meant he could finish his paragraph—
He sighed.
He took his wand from his pocket, sending a locking charm in the direction of the door. Then, he turned back to the toy.
He committed, closing his eyes and skimming his fingers down the back of the right thigh. Turned it over, onto its back. Cast a quick lubrication charm.
And, with all the hesitation in the world—
He slipped one, long finger into it.
Hermione
Listing her achievements in order of influence over the Wizarding World made sense, didn’t it?
Hermione blocked out the noise of the Great Hall as though she were back in fifth year, and Harry and Ron were nattering about Quidditch. She tapped her biro against her lips.
Alphabetically was stupid, of course. But perhaps she should’ve saved ‘architect behind Dumbledore’s Army’ as a punchy final item on the list? It probably blended more seamlessly into the following section on her work with the Order. That made sense chronologically, but ‘architect’ did have such gorgeous potential for metaphors. Also, she’d have to move something else forward. She didn’t want to start by talking about being the first student to essentially master time travel. That made her look like a perpetual rule breaker, which, while technically true, wasn’t really putting her very best foot forward as far as the Ministry was concerned, particularly for someone they were planning to herald as a Candidate of supposedly Unparalleled Merit—
“Hermione.”
Hermione’s head whipped up. “Sorry, what?”
Ginny cocked an eyebrow at her.
“I’ve been talking to you for like, the last ten minutes.” She said, through half a mouthful of toast. “Did you not hear a word?”
Hermione flushed with embarrassment, and guiltily shook her head.
“Sorry, Ginny.”
Ginny swallowed, leaning forward on her elbows. “That’s fine. I can tell you all about it when we go prowling Hogsmeade for dates for the anniversary ball.”
This again. Hermione winced.
The anniversary ball was due to be toward the end of term. This term. Their very last at Hogwarts. Celebrating an entire year since the end of the war. It would be teeming with Ministry officials. Hermione had already decided she wasn’t taking a date.
She wasn’t wasting a second of potential networking time.
Ginny stared at her pointedly.
Her best friend was unsatisfied with her plan.
Hermione grimaced. “Ginny—” she started.
“If you say you need to work on your fucking essay again.”
“I do need to work on my essay!”
“You finished it three months ago.”
“I finished the first draft three months ago,” Hermione sighed. “My extracurricular activities section is still so bland—”
“You defeated Voldemort,” Ginny said, taking another huge mouthful of toast. “I’d say that’s a pretty good extracurricular activity.”
Hermione huffed. “It’s not enough.”
Ginny frowned at her. She chewed, slowly, her expression blank.
Hermione already knew what was coming. It was the same conclusion Ginny always reached.
Because it was the correct one.
“This is because of Malfoy again, isn’t it?”
Hermione stared at her for a moment, her mouth pinched, and eyes wide, trying to look innocent.
“No…”
Ginny raised her eyebrows, waving toast in the air as she waited for the punchline to a very unfunny joke.
Hermione exhaled heavily.
“He’s got his Quidditch, he’s practically the face of the reparations council, he’s got the entire selection committee on fucking speed dial—”
Ginny took another bite of toast.
“What’s speed dial?” she asked, with her mouth full.
Hermione let out an exasperated sigh.
“He’s a genuine threat, Ginny. Being the first person to receive this internship sets a precedent for all future winners, and despite everything I’ve done, that panel do not want it to go to a Muggleborn. They are looking for an excuse to give it to anyone but me. Malfoy and I are going to have almost identical N.E.W.T scores, and I already know they’re going to make up some ridiculously subjective excuse as to why his essay resonated better, so mine has to be indisputably perfect.”
Her eyes darted up across the room to the Slytherin table, but mercifully, Malfoy wasn’t at it.
“I think you’ve spent too much time around Harry all these years.” Ginny frowned at her. “You are obsessed with Malfoy.”
The only thing Hermione could do in response was try not to gag. “I am not. He is just my sole competition. And if I can spend today editing my essay, I’ll be so much less stressed about it. The thing is, I’ve read like four organisational psychology studies that prove that recruitment panels are far more likely to hire from their own demographic, so I’m already at a huge disadvantage—”
“Hermione.”
The redhead leaned forward, her eyebrows knitted, a sly expression on her face.
“The solution to your stress is not more work. It’s getting your mind off it.”
She leaned back, taking a large gulp of tea.
“Take me, for example, I’m planning on relieving my stress by fucking the first witch or wizard who looks twice at me today.”
Hermione huffed. “Don’t you have an Arithmancy assignment due tomorrow?”
“Due tomorrow means do tomorrow.” Ginny shrugged. “I think you need help. So, put down the…” she forgot the word momentarily “...pen, and come to Hogsmeade with me. We’ll find you a tall, attractive, willing partner who can make you forget how to write your own name, because you’re too busy being pounded into a mattr—-”
“—Ginny!” Hermione’s face burned with a blush.
Ginny sighed.
“Hermione, we share a room. We’re halfway through the school year and I haven’t heard you so much as think about an orgasm. You’re a nineteen year old witch with perfect tits. You’ve been single for eight months. You should be having devastating amounts of sex.”
She wasn’t wrong.
It had been a while since Hermione had thought of her needs in that department. She simply hadn’t had time, nor the mental space to consider it. She knew it would be prudent to make somewhat of an effort, but she was fine!! It wasn’t as if she craved touch that badly. Her need wasn’t burning—
But, as it happened, at that exact moment, something made Hermione freeze.
Because, oddly, something was ghosting up the back of her right thigh.
She twitched, her eyes darting accusingly up to Ginny, but the witch was focused on taking a deep gulp of her tea, starting into a rant about her homework.
Hermione, again, wasn’t really listening.
The sensation disappeared immediately, and for the next few seconds, Hermione wondered if she might’ve imagined it. The touch hadn’t been unpleasant—far from it in fact—but it was also very odd to have a random sensation that was so specific.
Maybe a ghost had skimmed her, and maybe she was so humiliatingly orgasm-deprived that she’d enjoyed it.
Truly, a new low.
Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe there was something to say for getting laid.
Hermione was ready to write it off as just that–a pathetic attempt from her nervous system to drain a few sips of water from an already-overflowing dam.
Until it was followed by a warm, slippery wetness dripping between her legs.
Hermione’s instinct was to drop what she was holding; to dart her hands between her legs to stop the sensation, but her brain caught up halfway through the movement. Grabbing one's crotch in a panicked motion mid-conversation generally invited questions from one’s peers. So, she grabbed the edge of the table instead.
Ginny stopped talking momentarily, her attention drawing toward Hermione’s grip on the edge of the table, but Hermione cleared her throat, pretending nothing at all was the matter.
Then, she shifted in her seat, and assessed her situation.
She was definitely wet between her legs. By the very nature of her being born female, there were myriad reasons to explain why that would be—none of which felt correct for this particular scenario. Because she realised, rather slowly, that she was a very specific type of wet.
Generally, the very type of wet that Ginny had just been hinting that she needed to encourage.
Warm. Slippery. Tingling, even.
It appeared that Hermione had, all of a sudden, become rather…lubricated.
But how? Or more importantly, why?
Her eyes flicked up to Ginny. Hermione wasn’t blind, her friend was very pretty, but it was highly unlikely that Hermione had suddenly had a realisation of homosexual tendencies and become uncontrollably aroused by her pretty best friend procrastinating her Arithmancy assignment. It was possible, of course, however unlikely.
But something had made her wet.
She shifted again in her seat. Furrowed her brow as she glanced around the room. No one else seemed affected by it. It couldn’t hurt to ask, though, she supposed.
Hermione opened her mouth to ask Ginny if she was feeling alright, when, out of nowhere—
She felt something begin penetrating her.
Hermione squeaked, caught between simultaneously staying in her seat and jumping out of it; shifting violently sideways as she tried to move off whatever was pressing inside her. It was slim. Thicker than her own finger, but not by all that much. If she had to name it, she might’ve thought it similar to the sensation of a man doing some tentative exploring. Ginny cast a glance across the room at something, so Hermione chanced one downward.
There was nothing there. No ghost, no apparition, certainly no boy.
Which meant that something very odd, and very inappropriate was going on.
Whether it was ghosts or a curse; a prank, or some kind of anomaly encased within this particular bench in the Great Hall—
The Headmistress needed to know about it, immediately.
“I need to go and see McG—” Hermione began quietly.
Her voice cut off mid sentence as something firm brushed over her clit.
“Oh!”
Hermione jerked up straight as she felt herself tighten; squeezing around nothing as arousal jolted through her body. The pressure was hard. Probably a little too hard.
She glanced around, finding multiple sets of eyes on her, which wasn’t ideal, as if she was as wet as she thought she was, she was probably flushed in the face, too.
“McG…oh…nagall!” she blurted. “Need to—” she turned back to Ginny. Her friend was staring, wide-eyed, utter bewilderment painting her face.
Hermione grimaced.
“I’ll talk to you later!” she managed to blurt out.
She rose from her seat, and began walking swiftly out of the Great Hall.
Hermione knew she had eyes on her. She could feel them lifting the hairs on the back of her neck as she tried to walk as normally as she could. The heat in her cheeks was almost unbearable, her body warming with every step under the gaze of what seemed to be the entire Great Hall.
She had to stop herself from breaking into a run.
The moment she exited the hall, Hermione slowed, one hand pressed flat against the staircase to steady herself.
The sensation hadn’t stopped.
If anything, it was more noticeable now that she wasn’t surrounded by the noise of a whole-school breakfast. The persistent, gentle, and unmistakable pressure of a finger inside her. Moving with deliberate, exploratory motions that felt far too purposeful to be imagined.
Hermione clenched her jaw, crossed her legs, and tried to think.
This was impossible. There was no charm she knew of that could do something like this without a wand. Without words. Without any visible caster. No ghost within Hogwarts was supposed to be able to touch them corporeally. No prank product she’d ever heard of operated with this level of precision, or with this level of utter depravity.
Her first thought was Ginny. Obviously her first thought was Ginny. They’d just spoken about how badly Hermione needed a shag, and the witch had well and truly inherited the same gene as the twins that gave her an aptitude for pranks and new magic and deviance.
But Ginny wouldn’t just do something like that.
Still, it had to be a prank. Hermione was certain.
And as if to punctuate her understanding, the sensation of what felt unsettlingly like the pad of a thumb brushed over her clit once more.
Then pressed down. And started rubbing.
Her thighs clenched underneath her.
And so did every single muscle between them.
It was circles. Slow, perfect circles over her clit. The urge to spread her legs and allow the pleasure to take hold of her was almost too strong. Her thighs twitched with the need to part. She grabbed hold of the bannister to steady herself, bent over in pleasure. It was circling. Stroking. Firm. Warm.
Hermione dropped her head, mashed her mouth against the back of her hand to stop herself from—
Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God—
To stop herself from moaning.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She dragged herself to an upright position. Straightened her legs. Forced herself to take a step toward the Headmistress’s tower.
She had to report this.
Immediately.
Draco
It clenched.
Draco’s eyes went wide the second it happened. He had expected warmth, maybe some clever charmwork, but not actual, responsive movement. The thing reacted to him the way a living body might. The way a woman—
Fucking Christ.
It clenched.
The toy almost sucked his finger deeper, feeling very much like the real thing as he began teasing his thumb over the apex. As soon as he started doing it, he found he couldn’t really stop. Academic curiosity perhaps. And now that he knew it could respond. That it could tighten, just like a real cunt—
He found he rather wanted to know if he could make it come.
The thought was intriguing.
He didn’t have to pleasure the toy, obviously, that was clearly not the point of it. But there were very few feelings in the universe more incredible than coming deep inside a cunt that was spasming through an orgasm. He very much enjoyed his cock being squeezed as he fucked the girl through it and watched her moan at the ceiling. Draco did love to be excellent at everything he did. If anyone was going to make a sex toy come, it would probably have been him.
Besides, if the toy could come, it was probably smart to check precisely how tight it got before sticking his more precious extremities inside it.
No sense risking a very embarrassing trip to the hospital wing.
The toy was fascinating. It truly seemed to have a life of its own, flexing and squeezing as he played with it. He’d never seen such complex charmwork, and Draco knew complex charmwork. His sense of academic curiosity—and only that—had him by the throat.
So, in the name of it, Draco decided to conduct an experiment.
If one intended to spur on a female orgasm, there weren’t many faster ways he could think to do it. So he dropped to his knees, and he guided the toy to the edge of the bed.
He admired it, to start with. Despite being made of silicone, it felt so real. The anticipation made his mouth water as he leaned down. He squeezed, sinking his fingers into the soft thighs and trying not to become overwhelmed by how he wished there were more of them to wrap around his head. But he parted the toy open, spread it with his fingers.
And he gave it a single, curious lick.
Hermione
Hermione made a valiant attempt at reaching the Headmistress’s tower. A short walk, a three staircases, and a few dozen metres, and she’d be face to face with the spinning gargoyle.
It wasn’t even that far, but every step had only exacerbated the sensation. Her knees had buckled multiple times underneath her, completely uncooperative as she tried to focus on anything but the gentle thumb rubbing over her clit. Walking didn’t soothe it. Or stop it. In fact, the friction of her own thighs seemed to make it worse.
And the portraits were assessing her.
She had to make it. She had to. She refused to collapse; refused to concede defeat and come untouched in front of three hundred ancient, sentient dead professors and academics whose names she’d read over and over in her textbooks. God only knew how many of them had alters at the Ministry, and if that got back to the panel—
This curse—prank—hex—whatever it was—
It needed to go away.
Hermione forced herself forwards. Step after excruciatingly pleasurable step. This made no fucking sense, and she wouldn’t stand for it. She would just keep moving. One step closer to her goal; powered by nothing but spite and fury and the Gryffindor fucking spirit—
She fell to her knees as she was licked.
Hermione’s head fell back, letting out a moan as she clung to the bannister railing. Pleasure exploded from between her legs, from her entrance all the way to her clit, and down again, a curling, slithering warmth laving across every inch of her with an accuracy that made her head spin and her entire body loosen.
There was nothing physically between her legs, that much was obvious, but it was unmistakable in its feel; in its texture and dexterity. It was a tongue. A tongue. And not just any tongue.
This one—Oh, God—this one—
Oh,ItWasTheMostPerfectTongue.
Hermione tried to get up. She tried so hard. Her right leg, then her left, pulling herself upright as she tried to push through the mind-melting pleasure ebbing between her thighs. She dragged herself, pulling along the railing, inch-after brainless-inch closer to the Headmistress’s office.
She just—every few seconds—had to stop—
To keep—
Her composure—
And—
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t allowed to be real, and even if it was, she wasn’t allowed to enjoy it. She just had to walk.
She just—
Had to—
Suddenly, the tongue withdrew.
And in its place, was—
Soft. Softer, it was softer. Oh, God—so soft. It was firmer. More tangible.
They parted.
Lips. It was lips. Hot breath over her clit.
They moved in closer. Latched.
And then—
It—
Oh—
Oh God—
It sucked.
And Hermione threw herself behind a statue.
The space wasn’t much larger than her hips, but it was large enough for what she needed, which was immediate and urgent privacy. Out of sight, but not earshot, she slapped one hand on the wall beside her, the other over her mouth as another suck came between her legs.
She keened against her palm.
Hermione kicked her foot up against the back of the statue, spreading her legs wider as she arched into the sensation. Her moan was deafening, drawing from deep in her chest, but she couldn’t help it.
There was nothing between her legs; she could see there was nothing there, but she could feel it. The tongue, the lips, the breath, a mouth.
Whatever it was, whatever the mouth belonged to—
It was devouring her.
Her eyelids fluttered shut as a whole-body tingle began pooling in her limbs. She had to stop it. A finite was in the back of her throat. This was a curse, or a joke; some kind of fucking hex, she couldn’t allow herself to enjoy it. She just had to whisper the word. Finite. Finite. Finite. And she was about to—
When two phantom fingers thrust into her, curling hard against her g-spot, and she forgot how to do magic at all.
“Oh, God,” she let out, too desperate to remember to muffle herself. Her hands dropped between her legs, searching for something to take hold of. She whined with disappointment when she found nothing.
She hadn’t realised how much she loved sinking her fingers into the back of a man’s head as he went down on her; her nails scratching his neck. Feeling him moan as she pulled him harder against her; fingers twisting, raking through his hair—
Oh, she so badly wished she could grab a fistful of hair.
Her fingertips scrambled instead against the stone walls, sinking into the crumbling mortar as she braced for the impact of what she already knew was coming.
She let it take hold—the coming—the way it always did. Steadily, smoothly, building through her body as she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on her breathing. And it built. It built and it rose and it approached the peak, the apex, the precipice.
But then it—it just kept—
It kept fucking going.
This wasn’t right. It was building too high. Too far past the point where she usually tumbled over the edge. It was as if someone had unlocked another part of her. A greater level, a deeper—a—
A higher peak—a—shit—a—-
Oh.
Oh. Fuck.
She was tipping. She was leaning. She could see the peak, and it was too high. Too intense. Too—oh.
Oh God.
She went into freefall.
There was every chance that, for the first time in her life, she actually whined, arching off the wall as the pleasure took possession of her every limb. Arms to stabilise, legs to spread wider, trying to grind, push, pulse, claim the source of it and pull it deeper into her being. Her body gave over completely to the pleasure, hips grinding against nothing but the invisible sensation of a tongue and mouth and fingers making her come so hard that, for a moment, her vision whited out.
And still, she kept fucking coming.
She was whimpering. Moaning. Keening and aching and gasping through it as the waves came hard, one after another after another. Flows and peaks and surges and licks of flame dragging and forcing her through everysense that her body could register.
It was too much. Too hard, too fast, all at once, but she would have given anything to keep it going. She came harder than she ever had before—harder than she thought was possible, every limb shaking and sweat dripping down the back of her neck as she rode the shuddering aftershocks.
Then, the mouthing sensation stopped.
Hermione stood behind the statue, one hand on the wall, one in her hair, waiting for the sensation to start up again, but nothing happened. Everything was perfectly ordinary again: cool stone, distant chatter from the Great Hall below.
Everything was completely normal.
She furrowed her brow.
Was it possible she’d hallucinated the whole thing? No, no, it wasn’t possible. Hermione was drenched in sweat. She raked her hand through her hair as she tried to gather it up off her neck.
Though, she had been a little overdue for an orgasm.
Maybe her body had just… released.
It would probably be prudent to address it immediately. Figure out what it was so that it didn’t happen again. She probably should’ve gone immediately to Madam Pomfrey about it.
Or, maybe, she thought— Maybe she just needed to lie down.
Oh. A lie down. What a phenomenal idea. That sounded sensible. Responsible, even. People under stress sometimes imagined things…and she had been working very hard. Not sleeping enough. Drinking far too much coffee and not nearly enough water. There were perfectly rational explanations for this.
Maybe her brain had just needed to switch off for a moment.
Besides, reporting what had just happened to McGonagall would require, well—explaining it to McGonagall. Out loud. Which would involve using words Hermione did not particularly want to hear coming out of her own mouth. On top of that, the three staircases and hundred-metre walk suddenly seemed like an unconquerable mountain.
And then, Hermione realised, blissfully, she was only about forty paces from Gryffindor tower.
Her dormitory. Oh, bliss. She would go to her room, lie down for an hour, and she was certain that she would discover that this had all been a very vivid stress response brought on by her own impossibly high standards.
Just forty paces between her and proving that the orgasm she’d just had had been an anomaly, and that the phantom tongue had been nothing more than a symptom of her own overtiredness.
She swallowed hard.
She stepped out from behind the statue, her legs shaking and weak.
Forty paces.
She could make it forty paces.
Draco
Draco sat back on his heels, staring down at the toy.
Holy. Fuck.
The toy lay on his bed, and he could feel it shaking; quivering under his touch.
The toy could, as it turned out, simulate a female orgasm. A very strong, believable orgasm that he was certain would’ve felt even better on a real woman.
And now, despite what he’d just done, his throat was dry with anticipation.
He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. There was something utterly fascinating about the magic here. Theo had said it himself, Muggles had these. Creating a magical version seemed almost unnecessary.
He chewed his bottom lip.
There was no reason for the toy to have walls that fluttered and squeezed like a woman. For the thighs to shake and twitch under his tight hold. God, it had gripped his fingers like nothing else he’d ever felt. Pulsing, as if it had a heartbeat. Throbbing, as if made of muscle.
Fluttering, as if begging him for more.
He couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel on his…
Draco swallowed hard. Furrowed his brow. Academic curiosity included immersive research… didn’t it? The door was locked. Theo believed in leisurely breakfasts, he’d be gone for at least an hour. He supposed it couldn’t hurt for Draco to just…
Try it?
Draco got to his feet. With a last glance at the door, he took a deep breath.
And slid a hand in his pyjama bottoms.
Whatever this toy was, its propensity for fluttering, squeezing movement meant that his cock, in its very suggestible state, had become extremely interested. That, combined with how long it had been for him, meant he was—
Fuck. He was almost uncomfortably hard.
Draco winced as he took himself in hand, giving himself a single, long stroke. His cock was dripping, a bead of precum leaking—dripping—from his tip. His balls were already so tense; high and tight and achingly full.
As infuriating as it was to admit it (and he would never, out loud), but it was becoming pretty obvious that Theo had been onto something.
Draco might’ve actually needed this.
So, with a furrowing of his brow, and a drag of his teeth over his lower lip—
He angled himself downwards.
He swiped his tip over the toy. With his lubrication charm, and his tongue—his cheeks flushed at having done that to a sex toy—but even if he hadn’t, the toy was… wet. Like a woman would be. Shaped like a woman would be. Obviously it wasn’t a woman… but…
His tip caught at the entrance.
Oh, Merlin, it absolutely fucking felt like a woman.
Every inch of his skin erupted with heat, as if fire was spreading via his bloodstream. It was delicious, a rush through his entire body as he slid just a tiny bit inside.
He drew back, pushed further in, and—
Draco gasped.
It was so—tight he could barely fit in, barely make room for himself between the soft, sucking muscle. He had to squeeze his eyes shut as he forced his way into it, groaning as it gripped him, welcomed him.
Draco’s mouth fell open, and he moaned.
He’d never felt tightness like it, or felt anything so fucking decadent. It squeezed him tighter, slicker, more all-encompassing than he and his inadequate hands could ever have managed.
He could feel it, the stress leaving him like an exorcism of pent-up energy; the uncaging of some depravity that had been tearing through his body with claws and teeth.
Draco drew his hips back once more. Lingered at the entrance, on the edge, awaiting the instinctual urge to thrust that would deliver him into the mindless freefall of biology.
He felt it. Tightened his grip.
Then he pinned the toy to the bed.
And began fucking like a man possessed.
Hermione
Hermione threw the door behind her, shutting it with a loud slam that she was sure almost rocked the castle walls. She locked it, urgently, lifting her wand to cast a diagnostic on herself.
She didn’t get an opportunity.
Because no sooner had she stepped through the door than she felt—
It.
She knew what it was. It was unmistakable, the sensation, silky yet impossibly hard, parting her folds and dragging through the soaking wetness between her legs. A cock, and what felt like an absolutely gorgeous one; dragging through her and making her legs cross and squeeze shut. It was right there, at her entrance. There was nothing to squeeze around. There was nothing.
Except a press. A breach. The sensation of being pushed into—-
And her legs turning to jelly beneath her.
She backed herself up into the wall, but this time, a wall wasn’t enough to keep her upright.
Desperate and shaky, Hermione hobbled over to the bed and tumbled onto it. She drew the curtains. Managed, somehow, to peel her soaking knickers off her legs, and tug her jumper over her head.
Her head hit the pillow with a moan, her legs spreading wide as the full length of the unseen slid into her. Her entire body shook; vibrated as it took her; a violation of the highest order—
But one that was not in the slightest bit unwelcome.
Whatever it was, it didn’t seem malevolent. In fact, it seemed like some sort of blessing. A benediction. Perhaps someone had slipped her some Felix Felicis.
Here, enjoy a good, clean, consequence-free fucking.
She could do nothing but breathe, taking fistfuls of her bedcovers, desperately wishing that whatever it was would take a solid form so that she had something to wrap her legs around.
It drew back, thrusting in hard.
It sent her flying up the bed.
Every inch of her body jolted with pleasure, her legs lifting off the bed and spreading in response. Hermione’s brain formed a hazy question: how was it doing this?! There was no spell on earth that could penetrate her, let alone one that could fuck her up the bed—
But there she was, one hand on the headboard, trying to hold still and spreading her legs for a phantom cock as if its owner was there, in the flesh; shagging the ever-living fuck out of her.
She moaned, feeling the sink of fingertips into the soft flesh of her thighs, keening as she felt them being forced further apart. They rose to her hips, holding her still. Pinning her down.
She’d thought it was fucking her hard before—
Hermione let out a whine as the slams against her hips reverberated through her entire body.
It was rageful and frantic, so desperate, and she was so fucking close to coming again, she needed to push back. She needed to sink down, to meet the thrusts, but the leverage from her hand on the headboard wasn’t enough.
Oh, God— her mouth fell open. Oh, God—
Her eyes began to roll back in her head.
Yes. Yes.
More—she needed more.
She needed both hands.
Draco
The toy was fucking him back.
Oh, hell, the toy was fucking him back.
This was what Theo meant. She’s special. She’s special. And this was what made her so. Not just the tightness, or the perfect curves.
The eager, greedy way she rocked backwards to sink him further into her cunt.
Draco could feel it. Her hips slamming backwards with leverage; meeting his every thrust and taking his cock like something out of one of his darkest, wettest dreams. He’d never been with a girl who did this, who was so greedy for it; a desperate little slut, riding his cock from beneath him. What he wouldn’t give for a girl who fucked like this; needy and willing and soaking fucking wet—
He groaned, dropping his head as he tried to focus on his breathing.
It was as if he couldn’t stop, the heels of his palms pinning the hips to the bed with every bit of his full weight. He was pounding into it. Slamming himself in to the hilt with a force that took every ounce of his strength to maintain. He’d never fucked something this hard. He’d never been able to.
A real girl wouldn’t have been able to take it.
But this toy— it was like—no, it wasn’t like—
This toy was made for it.
He pushed the thighs wider. Switched his grip. Lifted the toy and began slamming it back onto him.
It squirmed.
His jaw fell open as he looked down at it, trying to figure out how much of the movement was really the toy and how much was his vivid imagination, but he realised rather quickly he didn’t care.
The toy was about to come again.
It was going to squeeze him. Constrict him, suck him, drag him in—shit—he needed to be fucking it as hard as possible when that happened.
So Draco pulled out, and flipped the toy over; perfect, pert arse in the air.
He got to his knees. He forced the thighs to sit wide on the bed—
And he slammed himself back into it.
Draco could do very little other than groan as the tight little toy began quivering underneath him. The top of the thighs shaking as it tried, in vain, to lift its hips and take him deeper. To try and catch the head of his cock along its anterior wall. He gave it to her—her—he was calling her her—panting as the toy met his thrusts, rocking against him as if blindly seeking the release it knew he would give to it.
He couldn’t breathe, he was so hard. He couldn’t think, he was so close. He could feel it constricting deep within him; twisting and rising as the knotting pressure in his base began to tighten and throb. He could feel it building with every thrust, every ‘fuuck—oh—fuck—’ that fell from his lips. This slick, shifting cunt that tried, in vain, to hold him inside.
By every possible metric, he could deduce that the toy was close; fluttering and squeezing and tightening around him. Academically, he knew it. Physiologically, he could sense it. His throat was beginning to close with his need to release. To try and stop himself from verbally begging for her to come.
It was stupid—he couldn’t talk to a toy. He couldn’t. He—he couldn’t—
She was sending him over the edge. He couldn’t hold off. He was sure he couldn’t. He wanted to feel her come on him; feel that tight squeeze, but he—shit—he couldn’t hold it—
He—
“Come,” he whispered. “Oh, god, please come—”
Draco gave her two hard thrusts. Felt her tip over.
Then he held the hips down by flesh and spine, pushing her into the mattress as she dragged him, almost screaming, straight over the edge with her.
His orgasm was like a white-out, his eyes rolling back in his head as the pleasure shot straight up his own spine. He fucked her. Over and over, fucking shaking, staggered thrusts into the squeezing depths as he rutted. As he ground himself in and emptied deep into her cunt. She twitched and squeezed and sucked him deeper, moving as if she was begging for it, lifting and pressing and welcoming as he filled every last goddamn inch of her with cum.
It went on for too long—for so long he could barely gasp a breath of air to keep himself conscious. But when he did—when he did—
Draco could feel the toy shaking.
The whole thing was quivering. Vibrating, but not as a setting. It was like he’d broken her, but he could tell—oh, he could tell instantly that he hadn’t. This—
This was a feature.
The thighs twitched against his own, the perfect, tight arse shivering under his fingertips. A shaky, pathetic little tremor moving through her entire body as if he’d just split her in half.
Draco couldn’t help but scoff in amazement.
He let his head fall back, panting as he tried to whisper a silent fucking thank you to whoever had made it.
Then, he pulled out. Realised he’d just verbally begged a sex toy to have an orgasm. Wondered where he’d gone wrong in life.
And passed out cold in his bed.
Hermione
Hermione had to sacrifice a hand.
She had to.
Her wand was somewhere on the floor, far too out of reach for a muffliato. And both her hands were on the headboard, but she was on the verge of screaming, so she sacrificed stability for secrecy. She clapped a hand over her mouth.
And tried her best to push back against the force of the thrusting.
Hermione had had sex before—excellent sex. It turned out that almost dying on a regular basis had made for quite incredible, desperate sex with Ron. She’d met up with Viktor the summer after the war and been taught things that only a boy in his twenties could teach her. She’d also had a particularly satisfying one-off involving Charlie Weasley’s hand over her mouth as he shushed her through three explosive middle-of-the-night orgasms on the family sofa.
But even Charlie, with his large hands and dragon-wrestling thighs, had never dared fuck her this hard.
It was something she really ought not to have liked; and something she was yet to rectify in herself. But could she help it if she’d developed a bit of an appetite for being fucked so hard her brain turned off?
So there she was, brainless, legs apart and eyes rolling back as she felt herself starting to go limp. She was close. She was very close.
God, what she wouldn’t give to turn over, push her face into her pillow, and scream.
Immediately, it was as if invisible hands had clamped on her hips, and were pulling; urging her to turn over. Begging with her, coaxing her, promising it would be good for her— that it would be so very, very fucking good for her if she would only flip over—
Up to this point, listening to what this seemingly benevolent entity suggested had resulted in a spectacular orgasm.
So she complied, and flipped onto her stomach, rising to her hands and knees.
And she gasped.
The hands didn’t leave her hips, instead, sinking in to her skin with possession as it began fucking into her from behind. She could do nothing but arch her back, moaning loudly as she met each thrust with a returning push of her own hips.
Hermione dropped her face to the pillows, fingertips sinking into the softness as she bunched them into her mouth, biting and groaning and holding on for dear life as whatever it was railed her into some previously unknown plane of existence.
She could do nothing but moan, nothing but take it; nothing but bite down on blankets and pillows and hope that she didn’t tear them to shreds.
The hips behind her were stuttering. Were rutting. Thrusting harder and harder and harder, until finally, she lost the ability to meet them. She could do nothing but arch. Spread, receive, her eyes rolling back in her head as he slammed against the perfect spot.
She whimpered into her pillow. Took two more thrusts.
And went limp as she came again.
It took control of every inch of her, sending her spiralling, lightheaded, into the heights of an orgasm that made her vision white out. She released; a string of unintelligible sounds disappearing into the cotton and down between her teeth, unable to do anything but submit to the feeling of being filled, and filled, and filled.
When she finally came down, her whole body was shaking; legs and hips and hands, adrenaline coursing through her veins.
But, as Hermione lifted her head from the stifling pillow, she immediately froze.
Because, as she got to her knees, she realised—
She was—
Dripping.