Chapter Text
Marietta Edgecombe, Assistant Medical Rotation Assignment Clerk at St. Mungo's, rubbed her face. Years had passed, and Granger's scars remained upon her cheeks, scrawling out snitch for whoever looked closely enough. Cosmetics, glamours - none seemed capable of covering the humiliating blemishes. It was her own personal cross to bear, and she had never forgiven Granger for it.
Now, however, she would not be the mocked, hideous assistant; the Senior Medical Rotation Assignment Clerk had called in sick with Doxy Flu, and now, Marietta was in charge.
She smirked as Lucius Malfoy waited at the counter. She'd made him wait - the arrogant prick - feigning searching through books just to waste his time.
"So, you need a medical assistant to look after your son, Draco?" she asked sweetly.
"As I've told you thrice now, Madam," Lucius gritted back.
"Unfortunately Mr. Malfoy, we're very strapped for even qualified volunteers."
"I will pay," Lucius replied, "As I've mentioned multiple times now, Miss Edgecombe."
"It's not about pay, Mister Malfoy." She tried to look affronted. "How crude. Obviously, we allocate resources on a needs basis. And we simply don't have the resources to provide 24/7 care for your son, not when so many other war heroes require assistance..."
Her eyes caught upon a name she had not expected, one that had been listed in the rolls of volunteers. Hermione Jane Granger.
The bitch who'd left her with these permanent scars.
The bitch who'd been trapped and tortured in Malfoy Manor.
It was too perfect.
"Perhaps we might have one volunteer who'd be appropriate. She's just finished a rotation elsewhere..." Marietta sighed deeply. "But it's really our only option, and I'm sure you'd decline, as she's neither pureblood nor a supporter of your... Dark Lord, Mister Malfoy."
Malfoy's voice was clipped. "At this point, Miss... Edgecombe, I find I care little about the pedigree of the wizard who will save my son's life."
Marietta smirked. "Then we're agreed."
Hermione's eyes widened as she crossed the threshold into Malfoy Manor. She had never believed in fate, but she fleetingly wondered if there was some tie of destiny between herself and the Malfoy family. They kept - unwillingly and unwantedly - appearing in her life. She supposed she could have declined to go, but the better angels of her nature won out. She knew that Draco Malfoy had been seriously injured, and she also knew that there were no medical staff to spare on him.
If she refused to go, he might well die. She did not want that upon her conscience, no matter how much she loathed the Malfoy family.
A grizzled house-elf had greeted her at the door. One of its ears had a nasty chunk missing from it, and a scar lanced its face. Hermione was reminded of Crookshanks who - in his old age - had taken to fights with the local tomcats. It muttered something under its breath that sounded suspiciously like filthy blood.
"You be coming inside to meet Master."
Hermione tried to keep her voice cheerful. "Thank you. What's your name?"
He simply glared back at her before turning around and limping down a nearby corridor. Hermione pulled her jacket tight around her shoulders, feeling a chill in her bones at the thought of returning to this place.
Luckily, he did not bring her through any of the places she recognized - the place I was tortured. The reality of it cut through her thoughts, and she felt her heartbeat race and breathing quicken.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and willed away the urge to flee. Finally, after a rabbit warren of corridors, the house-elf stopped in front of a heavy oak door. The little house-elf swung it open, and then gestured with one hand for her to enter.
With trepidation, she peered inside. It appeared to be a small sitting room. A Victorian settee sat against one wall, next to a bookshelf and a sideboard laden with liquor bottles. A fire crackled in the grate. Two wingback chairs sat before it, their backs facing the door.
"Do not stand in the doorway, Miss Granger." Lucius Malfoy's silky voice reprimanded her. "You may go, Stultus."
"Stultus thanks Master," the house-elf murmured, shutting the door behind Hermione.
Stultus. Latin for Stupid. Hermione felt a shudder ripple through her. Suddenly, in the blazing-hot confines of this small, dark room, Hermione felt trapped.
"Sit."
One pale hand appeared from the side of the right-hand wingback chair, gesturing to the left-hand one. Swallowing and drawing up her courage, Hermione crossed the room and sat.
For the first time, she could see Lucius Malfoy. He was thinner than the last time she'd seen him, his cheekbones more pronounced and jawline more angular. His long, pale hair had been drawn back at his neck, and his gray eyes fixated upon the fire, never looking her way.
"I am surprised you agreed to come here, Miss Granger." He let out a disdainful sniff. "I suspected you would decline."
She felt her cheeks flame at the suggestion of cowardice. Her anger replaced any trepidation she had been feeling.
"I haven't any inclination to be here, Mister Malfoy." Her voice was icy. "But from what I gather, if I don't, then there's a good chance your son might die."
"So there is," he replied. "Though I cannot imagine that would particularly concern you, given your shared history."
"Everyone deserves a second chance. I'd never condemn someone to die just because I disliked them, Mister Malfoy."
"Ah, but it's not dislike, is it, Miss Granger? You loathe him, just as you loathe me, and just as I loathe you." His voice was still frighteningly soft and conversational. "I should have known your Gryffindor do-gooder sensibilities would win out over self-preservation."
She paused, her heartbeat quickening in fear at his words. When she finally replied, she forced her voice to stay calm. "Self-preservation? Why, do you plan to harm me, Mister Malfoy?"
He finally glanced her way. His eyes lingered upon the v-neck of her tank top, moving down to her denim skirt and pink sandals.
Finally, the edge of his lips flickered upward. "You wound me, Miss Granger. I thought I made it clear that I require your assistance... for my son's benefit. During your six hours here each day, I am not to be disturbed. I do not care to see you. I would rather pretend that you are not in my home. You will convey any messages through Stultus. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly." She felt heat rise in her cheeks under his cold, direct gaze. "I think we are ad idem, Mister Malfoy."
"Oh, and one more thing. Henceforth, you will clothe yourself with a modicum of modesty when you attend my home." He waved his hand. "Stultus, show Miss Granger to Draco's room."
Hermione stared down at Draco Malfoy. Unexpectedly, she felt a pang at seeing him. His body had wasted away, his cheeks hollow, his collarbones knife-sharp beneath his exposed chest. His cornsilk hair fell onto his pillow like a halo, and in his unconscious state, his expression remained boyish and innocent.
"Oh, Malfoy," she muttered to herself, "even you don't deserve this, bastard as you were."
He'd been cursed. He'd simply been found comatose in an alleyway near Flourish and Blotts. It had probably been retaliatory, as dozens of attacks had been in the weeks after the war.
How naive they'd all been, thinking that Voldemort's defeat would usher in an idealistic new world.
Suddenly, Draco's body shuddered, and his breath sounded as if his lungs were full of water. At St. Mungo's, she'd been briefed on his condition, and knew his course of treatment. From his bedside table, she lifted a spray bottle filled with potion, and began to lightly mist his chest. She noted his knife-sharp rib bones protruding through his lily-white skin. Slowly, his breathing cleared. Using her wand, she cleansed her hands, and sat primly at the bedside.
The house-elf stood in the doorway, surveilling her. His large green eyes discomfited her - she could feel them on her, even with her back to him.
Six hours.
She glanced around, taking in the small room. It was impersonal - white walls, dark blue bedding, without the tchotchkes of everyday life. Doilies sat on the dresser and night-table. A pristine copy of Merlin's Treatises lay atop one of the doilies. Cabinet paintings of flowers hung on the walls. It felt like a guest room, not the room of a twenty year old man.
Her mind began to wander to the Malfoys themselves. Draco had been cursed a month ago, and by all accounts, his parents had cared for him day and night. Why did Lucius now need assistance from the St. Mungo's volunteers? Where was Narcissa Malfoy?
Surely the situation must be dire, if Lucius was willing to welcome a Mudblood war hero into his home.
And how long did they expect Draco to be cared for? As Hermione understood it, the healers at St. Mungo's had no idea what Draco had been cursed with. They'd been unable to do anything except fight the symptoms.
Her musings were interrupted by a shift on the bed. For a moment, she thought Draco might've woken up. But no, his muscles had gone rigid, and he lay on the bed like a board. She cringed, hoping that he could feel no pain.
There was no treatment for it but to let it pass. Hesitantly, she reached out and held Draco's hand. Maybe in some recess of his mind he might feel it, and get some comfort from it.
Stultus gasped. When Hermione glanced back at the house-elf, he was looking on with an expression of abject disgust.
"Do you have something to say?" she asked him sharply.
"Stultus has been told not to interfere." The house-elf's eyes narrowed. "Even if Stultus wants to. But Master will know all that goes on here, once he wakes up. Stultus will not wake up Master's first sleep in many days, even for... this."
Draco's limbs slackened, and Hermione withdrew her hand. Her mind kept moving, though, digesting what the house-elf had said. Why would Lucius go without sleep for days?
The remainder of the six hours passed by uneventfully. She did as she'd been trained, levitating Draco so he wouldn't get bed-sores, and administering charms and potions when his symptoms reappeared.
At the end of her shift, she found Lucius Malfoy at the doorway. His silky, cold voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Miss Granger. Leave now. You will return tomorrow promptly at eight."
The next day, in contravention of his order to dress with a modicum of modesty, she had worn a short-sleeved sundress and sandals. To Malfoy, she was certain modesty meant never showing a flash of uncovered ankle. The Malfoys had always seemed to dress as if readying themselves for holy orders.
It was, after all, a hot July day. And if Malfoy Senior didn't like it, that was just a silver lining.
Except that she didn't see Malfoy, not the entire day. As she trudged out the front doors to her Apparition point, she didn't look back. She didn't see a curtain drawn, and a tall, blonde figure staring out at her retreating figure with a furrowed brow. Nor did she see him watching from that same window the second day, or the third.
On the fourth day at Malfoy Manor, she brought a few books from the Grimmauld Place library. She figured that while Draco slept, she could search for clues about what had happened. As she opened Obscure Curses from Cymru's Past, she uncharacteristically found it difficult to concentrate on the book.
She yawned widely, and her eyes felt heavy. A dozen witches and wizards, including Hermione, now called Grimmauld Place their home. With the destruction left by the war, many were homeless. And Harry had opened his doors to them.
Practically, though, it meant endless noise and disruption from the other girls she shared a room with. Worse, Ron had vanished - without so much as a good-bye - on what Harry said was a top-secret Auror mission. Ron's presence, like Harry's, had always been an anchor. Now, not knowing where he'd gone or whether he was all right or why he'd left without so much as a farewell, she felt constantly on edge.
She hadn't slept well over the past few nights.
"Miss Granger!"
Lucius Malfoy's sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. She hadn't even noticed him walk into the doorway of Draco's small room. It was the first time she'd seen him in four days.
"Yes, Mister Malfoy?"
"Stultus told me you were falling asleep." His lip curled. "You are a risk to Draco. You aren't here to nap."
"I'm not falling asleep, I'm just yawning a lot. I don't sleep well lately - too many people to share a room with." She shrugged and set aside her book. "I've only got another hour, then I'll head home and finally rest."
"Spare me your domestic complaints, Miss Granger. They're of no consequence to me." He set a bottle down on the table. "Take it."
And as quickly as he appeared, he vanished. She sighed when she realized the bottle was nothing more than Pepper-Up. Though she was suspicious, Malfoy wouldn't be so stupid as to poison a war hero in his own home. When she realized Stultus was watching her, clearly waiting for her to swallow the potion, she uncorked it and swigged.
Though she hated to admit it, her energy immediately spike. She did not yawn for the rest of the time she spent with Draco.
She did not see Malfoy again before she left.
Nine days had passed; nine days of caring for an unchanging Draco Malfoy; nine days of Lucius Malfoy flitting past once in a while like a shadow. Now, however, she had to speak with him.
Hermione shivered as she knocked at the door of Lucius's sitting room.
"What do you want, Miss Granger?"
"I need to speak to you." She tried to keep her voice strong.
"If you require something, ask Stultus," he replied through the door.
"I don't..." She sighed. "We need to discuss Draco's care now that I'm going."
There was a moment of silence, and suddenly the door swung open. She was momentarily startled by his appearance. He had abandoned his waistcoat and the jewelled clasp at his neck. A sliver of pale throat and collarbone, until now always covered by his high collars, now lay exposed. She could not tear her eyes away from his bobbing adam's apple. Hermione was suddenly reminded of a Victorian novel she'd read long ago, where the protagonist waxed lyrical about an erotically exposed lady's ankle.
Her face flamed, thinking of where her thoughts had strayed.
"Sit."
His voice brooked no argument. She obeyed, sitting once again in one of the wingback chairs. He settled in the one next to her.
"You are not leaving." It was a command, not a question.
She willed herself to answer confidently. "I'm afraid I have to. You see, I didn't plan on this being a long-term thing. The Ministry takes assistants for as long as you can spare the time."
"And you've decided you can 'no longer spare the time'? Is that it, Miss Granger?" he spat. "Convenience, then, trumps my son's health."
"That's unfair. I've got a life, Mister Malfoy." Her face flamed. "I'm reading law. I've got my pupillage set up - I'm supposed to start in five days, and I haven't even got a flat yet in Cardiff."
"You're going to Wales for a pupillage?" He snorted. "Ah, the centre of the Legal Wizarding World - Cardiff. But it's not possible now. You can't go, of course. You'll stay here."
"Do you think I want to be a nurse's aid for the rest of my life, Malfoy? I don't and I won't. I want to be a barrister, and defend peoples' rights before the Wizengamot."
"A predictably noble sentiment," he replied boredly. "You couldn't get a pupillage at any of the good law firms in London, could you?"
She flushed scarlet and didn't answer. He smirked at the unspoken confirmation.
"You know how the legal world works in the Wizarding World, Miss Granger. It's a rather exclusive club, I'm afraid. Birth, connections - they matter. Being a war hero does not. How depressing to think you'll be relegated to landlord and tenant disputes in the suburbs of Cardiff for the rest of your life."
"I'm going to change that," she replied, trying and failing to sound confident.
"No you won't." Malfoy paused. "The Malfoy law firm is Shafiq Fawley - the oldest in Britain, I might add. Were you aware that they have never hired a muggleborn barrister before? They have a few half-bloods, but that's about as far as their tolerance goes - and a half-blood's never made partner."
She felt her fists balling and her heartbeat racing. She'd applied to Shafiq Fawley and hadn't even been extended an interview.
"Think of how many important cases they argue." He smirked. "I imagine it would be your dream to work there - defending unicorns and giants and werewolves and all the other riffraff of the Wizarding world."
"I haven't any desire to work somewhere that would view me as second rate," she replied tartly.
"How disappointing. Because I think with some encouragement, they might be open to hiring a mud-muggleborn."
"Lovely. Do a pupillage in a place that won't hire me back and won't give me decent work." She rolled her eyes. "Thanks, but no thanks."
"As a full barrister," he added. "Imagine, for a moment, being the first Muggleborn hired at Britain's oldest law firm."
For a moment she considered it. He caught it, too - his eyes lingered on hers, his dispassionate gaze shifting to something slightly triumphant.
"I don't think it's wise," she said, her voice wavering.
"Really, Miss Granger?" His voice grew frosty. "Imagine for a moment the alternative. A world where those who pull the strings actively work against you. Where, perhaps, you'll never get a single case. But, if you promise a few months' service here, to my son - which, I have noticed, you seem remarkably content with - you could be the first, the fastest muggleborn partner in Shafiq Fawley's history."
What am I doing? The realization that he had deftly manipulated her, dangled a treat before her and she'd almost bitten, hit her like a blow. She was talking to Malfoy - a manipulative, malicious snake at the best of times. He was capable of violence and betrayal, as long as he got what he wanted. His promises, especially to a muggleborn, were worth nothing.
Her lip curled, and she stood. With finality, she said. "No."
"No?" he stood, moving to within inches of her, so that his greater height seemed to loom over her. "I can see you're tempted, Miss Granger. Don't lie."
She could smell the sweet armagnac on his breath and a distinctively masculine fragrance of sandalwood and coriander. Malfoy's presence seemed to overwhelm all of her senses - the heat from his nearness, his smell, his distinctive, intimidating appearance. She felt her heartbeat quicken, and she had to fight the urge to close her eyes and breathe in deeply.
"Not all temptations are worth the risk." Her voice sounded inexplicably weak to her own ears. "I'll let St. Mungo's know you need someone else. Good-evening, Mister Malfoy."
With that, she turned and fled.
Hermione stared down at the letter, and white-hot rage coursed through her. It had arrived less than three hours after leaving Malfoy Manor.
Dear Miss Granger,
We appreciate your acceptance of a pupillage in our firm, but upon examination of our financial forecast for the upcoming year, we are no longer in a position to extend a contract to you. We apologize for any inconvenience and wish you the greatest success in your future endeavours.
Sincerely,
Jocasta Pucey, Office Manager
Llewellyn Macmillan LLP, Cardiff
Now, standing in front of the Manor's gate, she could barely keep herself from torching the place.
Stultus appeared at the gate.
"It is night. You come back tomorrow," he snapped.
"No. You tell Malfoy that I'm going to talk to him right now even if I have to bloody break his door down!"
Stultus's eyes widened with what appeared to be genuine fear. For the first time since her arrival at the Manor, he simply ran off rather than growling, hissing or scowling at her.
He did not return; the gate swung open for her, and she stormed to the front door, fully intending to barge into his little sitting room and give him a piece of her mind.
Instead, he met her at the door.
"Good evening, Miss Granger," he said silkily. "What an unexpected surprise."
"Like hell it is!" she shouted. "You fucking arsehole!"
His eyes fractionally widened, and he glanced right and left to the two neighbouring houses. She nearly laughed - they were a good half-kilometre away, at the nearest.
"Would you at least attempt to behave like a civilized witch?" he hissed. "It's nearly midnight. What will the neighbours say?"
"Oh, that is fucking rich, Malfoy," she continued ranting. "Torture? Murder? That's all right at Malfoy Manor, but you get one witch with a legitimate grievance about your absolutely disgusting behaviour..."
"Be quiet," he snapped, his voice deadly. "If you want to behave like a madwoman, by all means. I'll contact the Aurors to remove you. Or, if you wish to discuss your... unfortunate predicament... you may follow me inside."
"You did this!" she shook the letter at him. "Are you going to deny it?"
"You insisted on your own selfishness," he replied, nonchalantly moving to the sideboard to uncork a decanter. "Stronger measures were required."
"My selfishness! You'd ruin my entire future - everything I've worked for - just for your own convenience!"
His hands paused over the empty glass. "Convenience? Is that how you characterize my son's very life? How surprisingly... un-Gryffindor of you."
"Your son will be fine. St. Mungo's will send someone else within a day or two. I'd be off and happy in Cardiff, and never have to think of you again, and vice versa. I want you to fix this."
"No. St. Mungo's could, and likely would, send some incompetent. I find you repellent, Miss Granger, but even I cannot fault your... partiality for knowledge and technique."
Malfoy couldn't even compliment her without an insult. And despite his excuse, he seemed to feel no regret whatsoever at ruining her legal career. She had found it hard enough to get one pupillage; now, after being rejected from the one in Cardiff, it would be an impossibility to find another.
"You really must be the most loathsome person I've ever met. Selfish. Immoral. Cruel," she paced around the room. "I hate you, Malfoy."
"What refreshing honesty," he replied, his voice laced with dark amusement. "You've been so disingenuously polite since you arrived here."
"Fuck you. Fuck you, Malfoy. You think you can make me stay here, just by cancelling my pupillage? I wouldn't step foot back in here if you paid me." She scoffed and stared at him with the full force of her contempt. "You're revolting. No wonder Draco moved to London and your wife went - God knows where, but she's not here with you."
His expression of bored, amused contempt fell away instantly, replaced by a cold sneer. "My, my, what a vicious little bitch you are when you scratch the surface, Mudblood."
He crossed the room in three long strides, standing mere inches in front of her, boxing her into a corner of the room through his sheer size. His lip curled, and his hair hung loosely down around his face, framing his furrowed brow and cold gray eyes.
"Get the fuck out of my way, Malfoy." Her anger had overcome any fear she might once have had of him. "I'm leaving, and I will never, ever come near you again."
He did not move. In a move that she instantly realized was unwise, she lifted her hands to physically shove him out of the way. Lightning-fast, Malfoy gripped her wrists tightly. She tried to pull free, but it was futile. His strength far outmatched hers, and he easily held them tight. In one swift movement, he had pinned her arms against the wall. She was now sandwiched, her back against the wainscoting, and Lucius Malfoy standing inches in front of her, holding her in place.
"Let me go, Malfoy," she hissed. "Or else."
"Or else what?" He cocked his head. "You struck me, Miss Granger. Self-defence is, I assure you, quite legal."
At that, she fell silent. Once again, she could smell his particular scent - spicy sandalwood, herbal coriander, the sweet apple armagnac on his breath. She realized that she no longer struggled against his hold. She could feel the heat from his body. She could feel the strange, heady mixture of her anger and something more primal that was borne from their argument and struggle.
She realized that her face glowed and her chest heaved beneath her thin cotton blouse. With every breath she sucked in, her nipples grazed the front of Malfoy's black waistcoat.
It was as if the air in the room had suddenly changed. She realized with sudden clarity that her vain struggle to free herself had sent arousal flaring through her core. His angry gaze had shifted into something more feral and predatory. He released one wrist, dragging his slender fingers down her upraised arm. As his fingernails grazed that sensitive spot at the crook of her elbow, she let out a gasp. When his hand lingered just above her breast, at the intersection of her shoulder and collarbone, she bit her lip and realized she held her breath in anticipation.
Finally, after what seemed an agonizingly long minute, he moved his hand down and palmed the soft flesh.
"A mudblood with a vicious tongue," he muttered, releasing her other wrist, and brushing his thumb over her bottom lip.
Her hands fell to her sides. She didn't touch him; she told herself that this sudden, white-hot attraction to him was absolute madness. It was Lucius Malfoy, after all - the most awful, loathsome person she knew.
The hand working her breast began to pinch her nipple through the soft cotton, and she let out a whimper. His other hand slid, slowly, slowly downward, toward her thighs.
"Nooo," she murmured, her voice lacking any sort of conviction. "You can't do this."
His hands froze in place, and he surveyed her with a sneer.
"Don't try to make yourself feel better... to assuage your own guilt and responsibility... by feigning resistance, Miss Granger," he hissed, his breath hot on the shell of her ear. "I am incapable of physically harming another witch or wizard. Thank the fucking Wizengamot for that particular punishment. I will not - cannot - rape you. But I am more than capable of fucking you, despite our mutual loathing."
She shut her eyes, willing away the insistent throbbing in the pit of her stomach and the wetness smearing the insides of her thighs.
"But I hate you," she muttered.
"I know." His head dipped down to her neck and she felt hot breath, and then soft, warm tongue upon her pulse point. "I expect nothing less."
His hand finally slipped down to her thighs, instantly feeling the slippery wetness that had soaked her knickers. She could feel his lips pull into a smirk against her skin. As his fingers brushed over her damp thong, she felt a jolt through her body.
It propelled her, finally, into action. Her hands, which had lain motionless at her sides, slowly moved around his body, running over his wool waistcoat and down to his shapely arse. As she pulled his body tightly against her, she felt his hardness through the placket of his trousers. When she ground against it, he let out a soft, terse grunt. He flinched, as if his irritated by his own body's reaction.
He grabbed the hem of her dress and, in one swift movement, pulled it over her head. She stood, bathed in firelight, in only her pink lace panties and black brassiere. Malfoy stepped back a moment, surveying her with one eyebrow lifted in silent appreciation.
Unexpectedly, he grabbed her waist, turned her around, and pushed her so she was bent over the back of his wingback chair. She let out a startled mewl, but he took no heed. His hands went to her arse and back, kneading her flesh, and shoving up her bra to tweak her nipples, and then back down to yank down her knickers and spread her legs apart.
She could not see him from this angle, and could only stare forward into the fire. Her most intimate parts were now wantonly exposed. Malfoy was still, as far as she knew, fully clothed. She had no idea what he would do next.
Yet she felt more excitement, more anticipation, than she ever had in her life.
Suddenly, she heard fumbling and the sound of shifting cloth. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt a hot, blunt thickness brush against her lower lips. She felt him move into place between her lips, his wool-clad legs pressing against the back of her thighs, and his large hands keeping her hips immobile.
Suddenly, he thrust forward. There was no gentleness. No, this was something base and primal; he took her body for his own pleasure.
She flinched as he drove himself inside. Despite her wetness, his cock felt enormous. Her muscles seemed to resist against his size, but he did not give her time to adjust. His invasion was a heady mixture of pain and desire. Even fucking him was a battle.
Once he was fully sheathed, he let out a terse grunt. His hands gripped her hips tightly, and he used them to pull out, then thrust back in. The pain had eased, leaving only a feeling of being stretched to her limits. He began to piston into her in earnest now, holding her tightly, folded over his Victorian furniture so she could only lie under him, taking his cock. His wool-clad legs and abdomen rubbed roughly against her exposed skin.
His rhythm remained ruthless, his hips grinding her body into the chair with each thrust. It was the most unromantic, purely sexual fucking she had ever received. As she felt herself building to a crescendo, she whimpered and fumbled at the upholstery beneath her. She noticed that other than the occasional soft grunt, he made no noise; he kept to his powerful rhythm; his hands did not flail or grab for her body. It felt as if he wanted to stay in control.
She whimpered as he pinched a nipple hard enough to send a tweak of pain through her breast; she let out a shrill cry as she tumbled over the edge, her body clamping down hard on his member. Her body flailed under his hands, her hips twisting and shuddering backward to grind his cock even more deeply into her body.
Suddenly, his resolve seemed to shatter. He groaned as her body milked him, and his rhythm became faster, stilted, more jerking. His hands held firm to her hips, now yanking them to meet each thrust. Hermione could only lay limply, so exhausted was she from her peak. Her walls felt too sensitive to take much more of him. She did not have to worry; without warning, he let out a sharp shout, drove once more deeply within her, and his muscles tensed. Her insides flooded with warmth, and she nearly gasped at the thought that she was now drowning in Malfoy seed.
After a moment, she felt him pull out. She felt sore, exhausted, but magnificently sated.
Suddenly, though, she realized what she had done. Lucius Malfoy. Horror overcame her.
What now?
She heard him zipping his trousers as she slowly lifted herself up from the armchair. When she turned around, he was eyeing her with a peculiar expression, as if he had seen something both astonishing and distasteful. It reminded Hermione of the time her mother had discovered a six-legged turtle living in the goldfish pond.
Slowly, slowly, he reached into his pocket, and for a moment, she thought he would whip out his wand for a quick Obliviate. He did not. Silently, he handed her a snippet of cloth.
It was a handkerchief, she realized. She opened her mouth to speak, hoping to ask him questions - Why this? What now? Will you keep silent?
But it seemed Malfoy was in no mood to answer questions.
"Good evening, Miss Granger," he said, and abruptly left the room.
Hermione suddenly realized her own nakedness. Her knickers hung around her ankles. Her brassiere had been pushed up over her breasts, and now hung like a necklace around her throat. She readjusted both, cringing at the sight of thick white liquid sliding down the inside of her thigh. She slipped her dress back on, and tried to pat down her hair. Now what? It was past midnight, and she was in the middle of bloody Wiltshire, sticky and filthy and exhausted.
She had been standing, thinking, staring into the fire for several minutes when a soft pop interrupted her thoughts. Stultus approached her, his teeth bared in a disgusted sneer.
"Master has given Stultus orders. Stultus is to give Missy Mudblood this once you are decent." He held out a piece of paper.
She sighed and reached for whatever Malfoy had written. Instead, she felt a tug and a swirling sensation. Too late, she realized it was a portkey.