Chapter Text
Hermione Granger had struck gold and she had never been more grateful for one Ronald Billius Weasley and his skill of putting his foot in his mouth. It had started small enough, as most terrible ideas often did. After another argument with Ron, after he was snogging Lavender, mind you, she had all but blown up in his face, not in the mood to hear him rip on her choice of friends outside Gryffindor. She stormed out of the tower, her feet carrying her blindly through the castle’s twisting corridors until she stumbled across a passageway she swore had never existed before. The door had been half cracked, hidden behind an ancient suit of armor.
Curiosity had pulled her forward when common sense told her to stop. She trudged forward, wand alight. The passage had been narrow and cold, lit only by the faint glow of her wand, and by the time she reached the end of it, her breath was coming in soft gasps. She had emerged into a room far too grand to belong to anyone but a Slytherin, all deep greens and polished silver, the heavy scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air. When she saw the initials, D.M., embroidered on a carelessly flung tie, her heart had nearly stopped.
This was Draco Malfoy’s room!
Hermione should have turned around that very moment, should have bolted back the way she came, if she were any other proper witch. This was the room of her very sexy, blonde obsession, and who was she to look a gift Abraxan in the Mouth? Instead, she stood there, her arousal growing at the unbidden thoughts of all the ways she could ensnare Malfoy, her eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his furniture, the books arranged in immaculately perfect rows, the gleam of his broom leaning against the far wall, and finally his bed. She found herself reaching for one of his practice shirts carelessly flung over the back of his desk chair, soft from too many washes. Before she could stop herself, she pressed it to her nose and breathed him in.
She moaned wantonly, a deep, throbbing heartbeat followed after, and she'd gotten herself off right there on his desk chair. That first shirt should have been enough, it should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t. She had returned, again and again, like a crazed stalker. At first, she told herself it was harmless, her own comfort. Malfoy was rich, what did he care if she stole a few of his items for her shrine? She never meant for it to become a game, never meant to take more, but she was powerless to stop her maddening obsession. Eventually, it wasn’t just one shirt here or there. It was two, then five, then his boxers, then the jersey he wore to Quidditch practice that still smelled faintly of sweat and his shampoo, then to watching him undress secretly through the passageway to his room while masturbating.
It spiraled, and she couldn’t stop.
By the time she found herself curled up in his bed, in his clothes for another nap while he attended a double period and a good finish, it was too late to pretend she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. His sheets were sinfully soft beneath her bare legs, the silk of his pillowcases cool against her cheek, and the lingering traces of her arousal on his sheets? Heavenly. She told herself she was just resting, just for a moment, and she would be gone before Malfoy came back from his double period. No harm done and Malfoy would never know she'd been getting her rocks off in his bed. Hermione knew it was stupid, falling for Draco Malfoy, of all people. It was the kind of reckless, illogical thing she usually prided herself on avoiding. For years, there were still moments when she could feel the sting of his words like phantom bruises, however, somewhere between first year and now, something had shifted.
It wasn’t sudden and it wasn’t even particularly romantic. It was subtle and gradual, impossible to trace to any one beginning. It might have started in second year, when she’d noticed him in Flourish and Blotts and how he'd grown so much taller than he had the year before, or maybe in third year, when she punched him and the moment of stunned silence that followed and lingered far longer than it should have in her mind and peaked her nipples in the most delightful way. Or maybe even this year, when he’d become her Potions partner and she’d smelled him in her Amortentia. There were times she caught him watching her, not sneering or jeering, just watching her with something unreadable flickering behind those cold grey eyes. Those times were her favorite, because she could look at him unbidden.
She told herself it meant nothing, told herself it was a harmless, secret obsession and nothing more. She had always noticed things about him that she wasn’t supposed to though. The precision with which he tied his tie, the way he held his wand with fingers just slightly too elegant for the sharpness of his spells, and, stupidly, hopelessly, she had always loved his hair. The ridiculous, slicked back platinum blond that should have looked absurd but somehow didn’t in his younger years. So what if his hair was now effortlessly tousled with fringe hanging over his forehead instead of the slicked back look of his younger years?
Everyday she fantasized about what it would be like to run her fingers through the soft locks, to drag her fingernails along his skull, to pull his hair back and command him to look at her and fuck her cunt with his tongue. So what if his shoulders had broadened and he’d grown taller and more manly and less boyish? She liked him anyway. It didn’t mean she forgot who he was, however. Hermione was not naive, she remembered every name he ever called her, every time he curled his lip at the sight of her, every pointed reminder of where she stood in the world according to his rules. But she also remembered the way his voice softened, imperceptibly, when he wasn’t surrounded by his friends, the way he sometimes looked tired, lost even, how there were moments, rare and fleeting, when he seemed on the verge of saying something entirely different from whatever cruelty actually came out.
Her feelings were complicated, they always had been and probably always would be. Now, curled in his bed in one of her stolen shirts, breathing in the soft, expensive scent of cedarwood and mint as she came down from her high, she wondered when she had crossed the line from innocent crush to dangerous obsession. She wasn’t supposed to want this, but she did, she wanted him so bad. She became his thief in quiet, measured steps, always being careful not be caught. She wanted him forever. She wanted him so viscerally that if she couldn’t have Draco, no one could.
She wanted him in ways that made no logical sense and it terrified her the lengths she would go to secure his heart and also thrilled her with a sick arousal. Hermione Granger stopped seeing the boy he pretended to be and started noticing the boy beneath the mask and it only fueled her fantasies. When she wasn't being a creep in his room, in the quiet of her four poster, when the curtains were drawn and the world fell away, she wrapped herself in his clothes and imagined things she had no right imagining.
The feel of his breath on her neck, the way his hands might fit against her hips, the way his cock would stretch and fill her so perfectly she'd never want anything else ever again. She would mouth the words Lady Malfoy into her pillow sometimes, the syllables sweet and wicked on her tongue, her heart fluttering with the wrongness of it as she fucked herself on her hand. She knew it could never be, knew he would never want her like that, but fantasy was safer than reality, and she let herself indulge, if only for stolen hours in the dark.
The only one who knew some semblance of the truth was Ginny. Ginny, who had wormed her way into the Slytherin circles without blinking, who wore her rebellion like armor and dated Blaise Zabini with the kind of reckless joy Hermione envied. Ginny had caught her once, red handed, wearing one of Draco’s black silk button downs over her knickers while brushing her hair by the dormitory mirror over Easter Hols. Hermione had frozen, heart slamming in her chest, but Ginny had only raised a brow, then smirked as if she knew exactly what Hermione wasn’t saying.
“It’s always the ones you shouldn’t want,” Ginny had murmured, soft and knowing. “Trust me.”
From that night on, it became their shared secret on some level. Ginny never judged her for loving liking Malfoy, never mocked her. Sometimes she even helped, whispering details from her stolen evenings with Blaise, Draco’s latest moods, or where he disappeared to that evening. Hermione hated how her heart twisted with every scrap of news, hated how she caught herself studying him in classes, her gaze drifting to the sharp angles of his face, the way he pressed his lips together when he was deep in concentration and she would cross her legs together and squeeze just to feel any sort of friction to ease the ache between her legs.
She watched him on the pitch, at meals, in the library. When Draco had taken a bludger to the shoulder during their last Quidditch match, the cold grip of fear and worry that enveloped her was impossible to ignore. When Madam Pomfrey had barred her from the infirmary, when she wasn't able to make sure Draco, her Draco, was okay, she knew then and there that she would never settle for anything less than being his wife, forever. His Lady Malfoy.
After he'd been released from the infirmary, Hermione wasted no time going to check on him. The castle was silent as she slipped barefoot through the passage, her wand clutched tightly in one hand, alight with Lumos, her other brushing along the stone walls for balance. Every step made her heart pound harder and her excitement stronger at finally seeing him again. By the time she reached the concealed sliver of door, her breath was already shallow, her body taut with want and something far darker. Her fingers pressed carefully against the ancient stones, widening the crack just enough for her to see into the promised land without entering or giving herself away. The air left her lungs in one sharp, stunned exhale.
Draco sat at his desk, shirtless, Malfoy blond hair falling artfully over his brow, the soft golden glow of candlelight painting every sharp angle of his body in sin. He was leaning back in his chair, one hand raking through his hair, the other resting casually on the arm of the chair, utterly oblivious to the fact that he was destroying her with nothing more than his existence. The smooth pale stretch of his chest, the ripple of lean muscle along his abdomen, the distinct, maddening cut of his V-line disappearing into the low slung band of his black slacks, it was too much, it was too perfect.
Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry, her mouth somehow even drier, as her eyes traced the sleek definition of his body. He wasn’t built like the boys in Gryffindor, broad and stocky. He was pure grace, a true Seekers build, long lines of honed muscle carved from endless hours on a broom. His biceps flexed as he stretched his arms over his head, and the movement pulled the shadows across his stomach, highlighting every ridge of his abs. She could see how soft his lips looked when parted, how his eyes fluttered half closed, lashes darker against pale skin as he tilted his head back to stretch his neck.
Her mind betrayed her in an instant. She could see it, feel it, the weight of him beneath her hands, the taste of his skin as she pressed her lips to the sharp cut of his hipbones. She could hear the low sound of his voice, rough and breathless, as her fingers glided over his stomach, as she knelt between his legs and took him into her mouth as he moaned her last name. Granger. The image blazed white hot in her mind, her body clenching in response, heat flooding her so fast and so fiercely she barely registered her own fingers slipping beneath the hem of the oversized sleep shirt she wore and into her thoroughly ruined knickers.
Her breath came in shallow, broken bursts as she touched herself, her thumb brushing over the swollen ache of her clit with shaky, desperate strokes. She couldn’t look away as every subtle shift of his body made the tension coil tighter inside her. The drag of his palm through his hair again, the soft flex of muscle as he shifted in his chair, the way his lips curved, almost in a smirk, as if he knew, as if he knew, his leg bouncing beneath his desk. Her knees buckled as she sank silently to the cold stone floor, her back pressed to the wall, her thighs falling open just a bit more as her hand sped up.
She moved her fingers faster, biting down on her bottom lip to keep from making a sound and giving away her guilty pleasure. The friction built in her belly, the muscles tightening, white heat crashing through her veins as her eyes stayed locked on the lean cut of Malfoy’s bare torso, on the impossible perfection of his pale, muscled body. When she came, pleasure rippling through her in waves, she had to clamp her palm over her mouth to keep from crying out his name as she rubbed herself through it.
Her heart pounded wildly, her skin felt flushed, her fingertips shaking. For several long moments, she could only press her forehead to the cold stone, her eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in uneven pants as the aftershocks left her dazed. Then the guilt hit, it came in fast, hot shame chased by bitter self loathing that clawed. What had she done? What was wrong with her? She wasn’t supposed to be this girl, wasn’t supposed to be someone who spied through cracks in doors, wasn’t supposed to be someone who touched herself like some sort of depraved voyeur.
Her hands shook as she wiped them on the hem of her shirt, her breath still uneven, her pulse still far too fast after casting a nonverbal scourgeify. She should feel disgusted, she should feel sick, but the memory of it, the way his muscles shifted with every small movement, was burned so deeply into her mind she knew she’d never claw it free. By the time she stumbled her way back through the passageway and into the dark safety of her dorm, satisfied that he was, in fact, safe and recovered, the guilt had already begun to curdle into something darker. A need, a compulsion, and addiction to thrill. The scent of his stolen cologne lingered on her pillow, she pressed her face into it, her fingers curling tight in the fabric as she whispered to herself. Malfoy would haunt her until she burned completely and only ashes would be left of her.
The common room was quiet when Ginny dropped the news, they sat curled on the worn red sofa near the fire, their legs tangled in blankets, half eaten Honeydukes wrappers scattered on the low table. Hermione barely looked up from her book when Ginny nudged her with her foot, her tone deceptively casual.
“Did you hear?” Ginny asked, popping a toffee into her mouth. “Apparently, Malfoy’s family is in talks for a betrothal contract.”
Hermione’s heart stopped, the words crashed over her in slow motion, her vision blurring slightly as she blinked, her fingers frozen on the page she wasn’t reading anymore.
“What?” she croaked, her voice catching embarrassingly high in her throat.
Ginny, to her credit, gave her a knowing look, one that was far too perceptive for comfort.
“Thought you’d want to know. It’s rumored to be Astoria Greengrass,” she continued with a careless shrug, stretching her arms overhead. “It’s not official, but Blaise heard it from Theo, who heard it from Pansy, who heard it from Astoria herself. The Malfoys are old fashioned, Hermione. They want some assurance locked in before the war.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted violently, her pulse roared in her ears. For a moment, she couldn’t speak, could barely breathe at the news. The idea of Draco with someone else, with Astoria, was like a hot iron pressed against her ribs. The jealousy was immediate, ugly, and consuming. It burned through her chest in dark, wild flames, so hot and fast she barely recognized herself. She could feel her magic crackle, her hair frizzing up. There was only one witch who would ride Draco's Pureblood cock for the rest of his life, and it was going to be her.
“Isn’t that,” she started weakly, her lips dry. “Isn’t that his choice? I mean, surely he-”
“Oh, come off it,” Ginny cut in, rolling her eyes. “You know how these families work, Hermione. He doesn't get a say, and you,” she added, pointing a finger directly at Hermione’s chest, “have been drooling over him for years. If you’re going to do something about it, now’s the time before it’s too late.”
Hermione gaped. It was one thing to be creep in private, but to obsess over him out in the open? Unthinkable.
“Ginny!”
“I’m serious,” Ginny said, sitting up, her expression hardening into something startlingly direct. “I love you, but I am so sick of watching you pine for him in silence like it’s some tragic romance. If you want him, take him. Climb him like a tree, hell, fuck him for all I care. Get it out of your system now.” She grinned wickedly. “Or better yet, get him so thoroughly wrecked he never looks at another girl again. Maybe he’d even break his contract for you, if you please him enough.”
Hermione’s cheeks burned crimson, she swatted at her with a mortified laugh, but it was weak, breathless. She wanted to protest, wanted to say that she didn’t just want him physically, that it wasn’t that simple, but she couldn’t. Something deeper and darker was crawling to the surface of her thoughts, Ginny's words ringing in her head. Maybe he would break his contract for her if she could get him addicted to her body. She didn’t want to share him. The thought of Astoria, or of anyone, touching him, kissing him, owning him in ways Hermione hadn’t yet, made her stomach churn with something territorial. The idea of Draco Malfoy as anyone else’s, it wasn’t just painful, it was unthinkable.
“No one else,” Hermione murmured under her breath, barely realizing she’d spoken aloud.
Ginny raised a brow, her lips twitching.
“What was that?”
Hermione shook her head, her hands balling into fists in her lap.
“Nothing. I just,” She exhaled shakily. “I can’t stand the thought of him with her. Or with anyone.”
Ginny gave her a slow, sly smile.
“You mean, anyone that’s not you? Sounds to me like you’ve already made up your mind.”
Her heart pounded and her mind spun. There was no logic left, only the raw, burning need to claim him before someone else did.
“But how?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “How do I…”
Ginny’s grin turned positively devilish.
“That’s the easy part,” she murmured, leaning back. “All you have to do is make him want you, Mi. From the way Blaise talks? Trust me, Hermione, he already does.”
A tremor ran through her at the idea that didn’t seem impossible. A plan started forming in Hermione’s mind and she smiled wickedly as the puzzle pieces started clicking into place. She would do anything to secure her man. Anything. Astoria Greengrass would rue the day she tried to fuck with Hermione's property. Draco was and would always be hers. Her to covet, hers to fuck, hers to possess. Nothing and no one would get in her way.