Current mood:	drained
Entry tags:	tender vengeance

Tender Vengeance Part VII

Disclaimer: Harry Potter (the boy-wizard, as opposed to the Harry Potter, Sr. and Jr. of Troll infamy fame) and the other denizens/artifacts/spells/etc. of the Wizarding and Muggle worlds are the creations of J.K. Rowling. No profit is made from this work, which is intended as a commentary on the original, not as a derivative work. No infringement on the rights of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Publishing, et al is intended. To the extent permissible by law, I retain the rights to my language/text/story.

Pairing: HG/DM References to GW/V, GW/HP and HG/RW
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, violence, language
Genres: Angst, Romance, Drama, Smut
Spoilers: Through HBP

Tender Vengeance
Part VII - Promises
by
Margot Le Faye

A.N. For the timeline of this fic, consider that the girls were captured a few days after Ginny’s sixteenth birthday on August 11, 1997, which would make it about two weeks after Harry turned seventeen. Also, a warning: Hermione has certain thoughts in this chapter that she means absolutely and sincerely. The question is, will she still think the same way about those issues as the story progresses. As to the chapter itself, this is probably shorter and much less polished than it should be. It was written in one day-long sitting, though most of it has been in my head for more than a year. Not only isn’t it beta’ed (I don’t actually use a beta for reasons that I won’t belabor here) no one has been given so much as a sneak preview. So, it is a bit on the rough side and I reserve the right to edit in the future.

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After the first delivery, Ron and Harry could count on receiving an owl every Friday, bearing Voldemort’s little torment of memories. They came unerringly to Grimmauld Place, and followed the boys to Hogwarts when they moved there. Once the term started, Headmistress McGonagall would invariably glare at the owl and purse her lips in disapproval, but she would nod curt acceptance when the boys left the hall to view the contents of the little vials within the safety of the silver circle of protection. Like Moody, she knew she couldn’t stop them, and felt it was better they do what had to be done with as much safety as she could provide. After the first time, they had agreed to delay viewing the memories until the circle of protection was built to Moody’s satisfaction, but that was as far as they let themselves be pushed. The moment Moody grudgingly approved their work, they brought the Pensive they had taken from Grimmauld Place into the circle and viewed all the memories they had thus far received.

Harry quickly came to terms with what he was seeing. Ginny remained defiant, Tom remained a snake, and Harry’s resolve to free Ginny grew stronger with every new memory delivered to him. It was harder for Ron. Draco no longer shared moments of physical intimacy, seeming to realize that it was the other memories, those of quiet discussions over dinner, leisurely breakfasts together, that would cut more deeply. Ron might admire Hermione’s knowledge of runes, or her understanding of what it meant that boomslang skin was used in a poultice for healing, but he couldn’t add anything to her understanding. If she had been talking to him about her translations of the ancient healing recipes, he would have listened to her, praised her, encouraged her. But he could not have offered his own insights or theories the way Draco did, could not have served as a springboard for her ideas, guided her research in new directions.

Ron hated Draco for what he’d done to Hermione, for hurting her, forcing her, raping her. That was absolute. But he thought he might hate him more for being able to share those conversations with Hermione than he did for preventing Ron from being the one to make Hermione his and his alone. Each new memory, each new conversation he was forced to vicariously share, only strengthened and deepened that hatred.

The fact that the third Friday of the Hogwarts term in that year of 1997, the start of their seventh year, fell on 19 September, Hermione’s birthday, was a cruel irony not lost on him. But his hands did not shake as he uncapped the little vial and he did not hesitate in pouring the silvery memories into the Pensieve, stirring them with his wand, plunging his face into the swirling strands.

The first memories were nothing less than he expected, Hermione excited about something Gudren/Judith had done with asphodel a thousand years ago that might be useful in dealing with spell damage from backfired memory charms today, Draco quick to point out that his ancestress had used the white asphodel found in the southwest of France, among other places. The two immediately plunged into an animated discussion of the various types of asphodel, the properties they had in common, and those that differed, and the effects that might be had by substituting one kind for another in the recipe, a conversation whose nuances Ron could barely follow. He didn’t give a toss about herbology, studied potions only as a means to the end of joining Harry as an Auror and had no interest in the healing properties of poultices, ancient or modern. But one couldn’t fast-forward a memory the way Harry could fast-forward a Muggle movie on his DVD player. So he grit his teeth and watched through the scene to the end, wondering bitterly if Hermione even knew how she had changed around Malfoy over the five weeks of her captivity, how relaxed she was in his presence, how clearly she enjoyed conversations with the git.

How accepting she’d become of his casual touches, or the way she melted against him when he drew her to him for a kiss before departing on whatever business he was off on for Voldemort.

But Ron knew, could see it clearly before him, and it gave him more reason than he’d ever had to hate Draco Malfoy.

Until he got to the last scene, the unexpected one, the one that didn’t involve Hermione at all, just a few terse sentences Draco had spoken to, of all people, Severus Snape.

A few terse sentences that might change the course of the war. The memory ended and Ron fell away from the Pensieve, already calling for Harry.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The encounter with Bellatrix and her conversation with Draco had given Hermione much to think about. So it was that she was drowsing, rather than fully asleep when Draco returned very late that evening, a fact which he took as an opportunity. Quickly disrobing, he slid into the bed beside her, pulled her into his arms and kissed her with a hunger that had her fully awake in moments. She could taste the desperation in his kisses.

“What’s happened?” she managed when he moved his lips to her neck, nipping at the sensitive flesh there. “What’s wrong?”

“Shhh,” he hushed and took her lips once more. “Shhh, sweet girl. It’s all right, now I’m here.” If whatever he’d been doing for the Dark Lord was upsetting to him--making him desperate, making him seek the consolation he said she provided him--that had to be good for her side, right? Then he slid a caressing hand along her curves to brush lightly at the tender secrets between her thighs, and all thoughts of war and sides fled. Sighing into his kiss, she opened for him, wrapping her arms around him, cradling his body with her own. One sure thrust drove him into her lush wetness, further inciting her desire, and began a slow, deep rhythm that quickly tightened the coil of desire in her belly. Whatever demons were driving him tonight, they were not driving him to haste. He refused to be hurried, and there was a quality to the way he touched her, the way he watched her, an intensity to his silver-eyed gaze that gave Hermione the odd fancy that he was trying to memorize the shape of her body, the feel of her skin, every nuance of her expression as she lost herself, let herself come apart in his arms on the wave of rapture he unfailingly induced. The wave ebbed away but returned, more strongly a second time, and yet a third time, before he joined her, his face twisted into an expression of profound ecstasy that looked near to anguish. With a groan he collapsed against her, lingering for several moments as she stroked his back soothingly. Finally, he dipped his head to kiss her and moved to her side to spare her his weight. Hermione was chilled by the loss of heat from his body and burrowed under the covers. He joined her, pulling her close, spooning her and settling down to sleep.

He had said nothing further. In the morning, he was gone before she woke.

The evening brought another lesson.

Her day progressed as usual, until just before dinner, when Priddy arrived with the news that she had drawn a bath for Miss and would lay out fresh robes for her.

“What is it? Are we going somewhere?” Hermione said uneasily, worried that the potion protecting her memories of the Horcruxes was almost completely ineffective by now.

“No, Miss,” Priddy said. “But Master Draco said he is wanting you to have a special dinner this evening. Priddy is not knowing why.”

The news increased Hermione’s uneasiness, and she wondered if there was any connection between the odd desperation she had sensed the night before and the dinner. Had Voldemort retracted his gift? Was she about to be delivered to a new, less kind, master? But surely the contract between them protected her from that? Or was there some loophole to be exploited?

The hot bath did nothing to relax her, and even the exquisite silk dress robes in Griffyndor red, shimmering with a spray of what she was sure were tiny diamonds, did little to calm her nerves. Fortunately, Draco arrived for dinner before she could work herself into a panic, and the mystery was explained.

“Under the circumstances, I suppose wishing you a happy birthday would be foolish,” he said in greeting as he arrived for dinner. “So I shall simply wish you many happy returns of the day.”

“My birthday?” she said numbly. “It’s the nineteenth?”

“Hadn’t you realized?” Draco asked. She shook her head. She’d lost track of the days early on, barely realizing it had become September. Even then, the circumstances of her captivity kept her from giving the approach of her birthday a moment’s thought.

“That’s what this is about?” she said, indicating the exquisite dress robe she was wearing, a garment that hugged her curves and seemed to have been embroidered with a sprinkle of tiny diamonds

“I had Priddy make your favorite foods,” he said, holding out her chair so she could take her seat.

Sure enough, the meal was perfect. A pâté to start, dressed with figs and feta cheese, then a broiled lobster tail drenched in butter, served with crisp young asparagus and roasted new potatoes. For desert there was a small dark chocolate shell into which fresh raspberry sorbet had been spooned surrounded by fresh strawberries and raspberries drizzled in more decadent dark chocolate.

“Ginny told you, I suppose,” she said. “What my favorite foods were, and when my birthday was?”

“You can’t think I was paying enough attention while we were at Hogwarts to have learned those things on my own, can you?” he asked dryly, pouring her a flute of champagne. She laughed at the absurdity,

“Hardly,” she agreed, accepting the glass.

“A toast, then,” he offered, raising his flute. “To you, and to the day.”

“Thank you,” she said, touching the rim of her flute to his. When they had drained the flutes, he vanished away the remains of their meal and helped her from her chair.

“And now, for your present,” he said, leading her to a seat on the divan.

“Present?” she repeated, surprised.

“For you birthday, sweet girl,” he said in amusement, drawing a slender box from his robes. Hermione recognized a jeweler’s box when she saw one, by it’s size meant to hold a bracelet or necklace, and arched a brow as he began to open the black velvet case. Had he taken some bauble from the family vault for her? Something his father wouldn’t mind parting with? His next words put the lie to that.

“I had this made by Saronetta in Wizarding Rome,” he said, showing her the box’s contents, which proved to be a bracelet of garnets set in gold. Hermione did not need to see the telltale ivy leaf design to set her heart pounding. She knew exactly who Serafina Saronetta was, and exactly what kind of jewelry she made.

“Those are promise stones,” she said. “You’re making me a promise?” Promise stones came in two types. The first began as a rare gem--diamond, ruby, emerald--and would retain that form so long as a vow was kept. At one point, they had been very popular as engagement rings, when given with the promise of fidelity. If the vow was broken, the rare stone became something more common, diamonds becoming crystals, rubies garnets and emerald malachite. This bracelet was the other type, one that began as a lesser stone and would only become priceless if a promised task was performed or a vow fulfilled.

“Yes, I’m making you a promise,” Draco said, removing the bracelet from its box and holding out his hand for Hermione’s. She slowly gave it to him, not entirely sure she was wise to do so. Draco draped the bracelet around her wrist, but did not close the clasp.

“I promise that, should we meet on the field of battle, no one you love will die by my hand,” he said, fastening the clasp, sealing the promise, as Hermione gasped in disbelief.

“How can you possibly promise such a thing?” she demanded, pulling her hand free of his grasp. “Do you think I don’t know what happens in battle, how uncertain everything is? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that you would not like to lie in the arms of the man who had killed Ron Weasley or even one of his superfluity of brothers,” Draco said quietly, “and that whatever else I can or cannot offer you now, I could at least assure you of that.”

The Wizarding jigsaw twisted again, the stark picture shocking Hermione so that she rose from the couch with a little cry and fled to the other end of the room, fisting her hands into the curls at her temple in distress.

“Hermione!” Draco said, startled, following after her. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong is that you dare believe yourself in love with me, she thought. But you aren’t. You can’t be. You cannot love me and follow a bigot who wants to commit genocide against my people, can’t participate in that genocide yourself, not if you really love me. So you’ll make extravagant promises and maybe even keep them, but you won’t do the things that would prove that you love me: defy your master, let me go, work against him. Because you don’t even know what love is.

She thought, in that moment, that she had never hated Draco Malfoy, never loathed or despised him, more.

None of which she could say.

Hermione pulled her hands from her hair and let her arms fall to her sides, turning to him with a bright, false smile.

“I was...overwhelmed,” she said. “Even if I had remembered my birthday, I wouldn’t have expected such an extravagant present.” She knew full well the difficult and complex charm and transfiguration spells that went into making a promise stone, and as a result, how expensive they were, how rare. Nothing she said was less than the truth. It simply wasn’t the entire truth. Draco was returning her smile with a gentle smile of his own and Hermione knew he had taken her words at face value, accepting them as the cause of her distress, when the cause was far other. She had learned another lesson, mastered another skill. Well, he’d wanted her to learn to be a little more Slytherin, and she had, she thought as his lips closed tenderly over her own. She had learned to lie with perfect truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As she so frequently did, Hermione woke up in the middle of an orgasm, Draco’s head buried between her thighs and his tongue lashing against her clit. She tangled her hands in his hair, holding on for dear life, whimpering and moaning her way through three more climaxes before he was satisfied.

“Prat,” she accused as he kissed his way up her body,

“But at least you enjoyed yourself, sweet girl, honey girl, delicious girl,” he laughed, his face glistening with her juices, before he bent down to give her a slow, deep kiss that transferred her own taste from his mouth to hers. “You taste so fucking good coming on my tongue,” he half growled between kisses. “I love that I can make you come, give up your sweet honey, again and again and again.”

“Smug prat,” she amended, then sighed in satisfaction as he slid inside of her and proceeded with his usual bout of morning ravishment.

“Smug as you please, and deeply satisfied so long as I can be inside you,” he told her moving in a way that struck a sensitive spot and made her cry out for him.

Now that she knew his secret, that he believed himself in love with her, it was easy to see it in the way he took her. She supposed he thought of it as making love instead of continual rape. Then again, she no longer thought of it as rape, even if, technically, it remained so. She wasn’t with him of her own free will, whatever consent she gave was obtained under coercion.

And yet.

Beyond the intimate aspect of their relationship, she had come to know things about Draco Malfoy that had never been apparent to her before, things she would never have learned at Hogwarts, never have learned at all if not forced into such close proximity these past several weeks. Little things, like mannerisms, the music he liked, the foods he didn’t, his taste in books, writers, poets, and larger things, like the field of magic he wanted to pursue should her survived the war.

It was a little disturbing to realize she had more in common with the boy keeping her prisoner than with the boy she loved.

It was more disturbing to realize that she had grown not simply complacent about the intimate things he did to her, but that she had come to enjoy them. Not only in the moment of orgasm, but the entire act.

She still did not confuse having sex, which is what she did with Draco Malfoy, with making love, which she was certain she could never do with him. But she enjoyed it, and she was not going to punish herself or feel guilty about it.

So she let herself melt into his embrace, wrapped her legs about his waist, dug her heels into his arse to encourage him in his rhythm, scored his back with her nails and returned his feverish kisses with demanding kisses of her own.

All the while the bracelet of promise stones gleamed dully on her wrist, reminding her not to share in Draco’s delusion, reminding her that compulsion was not consent.

Which did nothing to weaken the power or force of the climax sweeping through her as Draco pounded into her, finally spilling his seed inside her in a warm burst of strength, devouring her with kisses before collapsing to her side. They lay together in languorous exhaustion and tangled limbs amongst the silken bedclothes for several contented moments before Draco groaned and got out of bed.

“What do you say to a shower?” he asked holding out his hand. Showering together had also become routine, so much so that Hermione didn’t think twice about taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet.

“A shower sounds lovely,” she said.

“Good,” he said, leading the way into the bath. “We’ll have breakfast, and then I’ve arranged another meeting with Lady Ginevra,’

“Oh,” Hermione said quietly, and began to worry her lower lip between her teeth. She wanted to see Ginny, but she was terrified that Voldemort might show up unannounced as he had a few days earlier. If today was 20 September, it had been more than a month since she had last cast her memory charms, and with no magic to cast the them again, her mind was vulnerable to intrusion, the secret of the Horcruxes vulnerable to revelation.

Draco, damn him, noticed her distress.

“What’s wrong?” he said, turning from the water faucets he had about to reach for to look at her closely. She would have to try to lie with the truth again.

“It’s just that...he showed up last time we were there. I can’t say I much fancy meeting him again.”

“Sorry, love, but we’ve little control over that. If you want to see Lady Ginevra, that’s the risk you have to take.”

A risk she couldn’t take, Hermione thought desperately, beginning to panic.

“Do you think maybe he would let her come here?” she asked desperately.

“Even if he did, he’d just Apparate to our quarters if he wanted to see her,” Draco said, frowning. “I can’t imagine you want that. What’s really going on, Hermione?”

“I told you,” she said trying to keep her composure. “I don’t care to see the Dark Lord if I can avoid it.”

“Well, you can’t,” he said bluntly, noticing the way she shivered at his words. “I won’t ask again, he said firmly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Hermione took a deep breath and forced a smile onto her face.

“Really, Draco, I’ve already said, nothing’s wro---”

Draco Malfoy used wandless magic to utter a single word.

Hermione blinked, then regained her footing.

“Sure you’re okay?” Draco said, his voice a little tight as he let go of her. She remembered he had kept her from falling when she’d tripped over her own feet. Had he been worried? She would think it sweet if she didn’t despise him so.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I can’t think why I came over so dizzy, but I’m fine now.”

“You’ll feel better for a shower and breakfast. I’ve arranged for you to see Lady Ginevra after.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, smiling in delight. “That’s wonderful.” He smiled at her enthusiasm as he adjusted the water temperature and helped her into the shower.

The visit with Ginny would have been perfect if Voldemort hadn’t shown up toward the end. Knowing Draco would simply use the Imperius on her if she refused to show the deference the Dark Lord demanded, Hermione forced herself to drop a slight, stiff curtsey under Ginny’s anxious gaze.

To Hermione’s horror, the long, cold fingers of the Dark Lord were wrapped around her chin as he forced her to meet his gaze and she found herself staring into his red eyes.

“Ah, you may rest easily this evening, young Malfoy,” Voldemort chuckled after a moment, releasing her. “The only murder she currently contemplates is mine.”

“A contemplation that will never bear fruit,” Draco reassured his master with a deferential bow.

“Yes, my dear,” Voldemort taunted. “feel free to imagine all the ways you wish to bring an end to me. I have safeguards you will never know, and cannot ever hope to overcome.”

Shortly after, Draco and Hermione were dismissed to return to their quarters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

However often he ravished her, if they had spent the day together and he’d enjoyed her when they retired for the evening, Draco never woke her up in the middle of the night to enjoy her again. But, just after midnight, he did, taking her quickly, if passionately and to her ultimate satisfaction.

“What was that about?” she asked as she pulled the covers close again, watching curiously as he dressed himself.

“Severus and I are off again,” he said. “I’ll be late tonight.” He bent to kiss her. “Go back to sleep, love.”

She didn’t bother to object to his casual use of an endearment to which she felt he had no right. Simply nodded and snuggled back under the covers.

Hermione spent the day puzzling out one of the more difficult translations. The names of the herbs the runes revealed simply weren’t familiar to her, until an obscure symbol struck a chord and gave her the idea of cross-referencing the work with medieval Arabic Wizarding texts. Sure enough, Gudren appeared to have come into contact with a Saracen wizard making a rare journey to England and the terms were his native, dialectic terms for plants grown in the middle east. It took Hermione a bit of time to track them down and give the equivalent English terms, and it was past midnight before she went to bed.

Draco had not returned.

He was not there when she woke in the morning, but Priddy, delivering her breakfast, seemed unconcerned and imparted the news that young master had contacted her not an hour earlier with her orders for the day. Free of worry--and refusing to consider why she would worry about the man who was keeping her prisoner--Hermione devoted herself to her translations once again.

Although the day passed in much the same way as her days always did, Hermione gradually became aware of an increasing restlessness, blushing when she realized its cause. Simply put, Draco had spent so much time ravishing her hat her body was unused to going so long--more than twenty-four hours--without an orgasm. The lack was putting her on edge.

I’ve become such a slut, she thought wryly, trying to distract herself with more translations.

She ate a solitary dinner and, when her restlessness increased, decided on a soothing bath.

The bath did not sooth. She stood up, drained the tub and tried a cold shower, yelping when she realized that she just didn’t have the stamina for that sort of thing. Sighing she adjusted the temperature so that it was chill rather than cold and tried again.

But the main thing the cool water did was curl her nipples into tight little buds and make her more aware of her own body than ever. With a groan, Hermione gave it up as a bad job, closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall of the shower. It was early in the evening, hours before midnight, by which time Draco would have to return to renew the spell if he wanted to keep her magic. She really didn’t know how she was going to last that long.

And then it occurred to her that she didn’t have to.

Heat suffusing her cheeks, Hermione decided she might as well see if she could use some of those lessons Draco had been teaching her on her own. Tentatively, she brought her hands up to cup her full breasts and flicked her fingers lightly over her nipples. She shivered at the lovely feeling. Not quite as forceful as when Draco did it, she experimented, and found a pressure that felt exquisite, pulling her nipples tight, pinching them just so. She could feel her own moisture begin to pool between her thighs, and she widened her stance, spreading her legs, letting one hand wander down over her belly and lower, lower, until her fingers brushed that sweet secret place, the little hidden bud in it’s nest of curls.

She knew what she liked when Draco did it, but now she experimented, letting her fingers skim and caress, trying indirect stimulation rather than the direct approach her lover usually took. It was nice, more a slow build of heat than an instant fire. Tugging on her nipple she tried to keep her pace between her thighs slow and steady, the way Draco did. But her need was growing, building, she pressed her thumb hard against the little nub and slipped her fingers inside her soaking sheath. She couldn’t help the moan that escaped her. That felt so good. She moved her fingers, exploring, whimpering when she found particularly responsive spots. Ever the eager student, Hermione quickly discovered a position and a rhythm that felt beyond delicious, thrusting into herself hard, pinching each nipple alternately, and rubbing her clit hard with her thumb. She began to imagine what it would be like if Draco were here, helping her, perhaps standing behind her, caressing her breasts and teasing her nipples so she would have both hands free to delve into her pussy, or maybe he would be on his knees, tonging her clit hard and fingering her while she played with her own breasts. Yes, that was a lovely image, Draco at her feet like a supplicant while she rode his talented tongue to glory. Hermione gasped and shuddered as her orgasm washed over her, an orgasm of unbelievable intensity. She cooed and gasped at the pleasure, thrusting her fingers as deeply inside herself as she could get them at a furious pace, rubbing her clit hard, and twisting her nipple cruelly, imagining it was Draco’s tongue lashing at her, his fingers inside her, working her, forcing her to climax. She didn’t even realize that she was moaning his name as she came with such force that her knees buckled, and she would have fallen without the wall behind her for support.

She did not fall. The pleasure which had crashed over her slowly ebbed away, leaving her gasping and satisfied.

And ready for more.

After all, she reasoned as she pulled her fingers out of her pussy only to reposition them and begin to explore herself anew, Draco always made sure she came at least four or five times before he stopped. Why shouldn’t she do as much for herself? She’d come and that was lovely, but it wasn’t enough. Besides, there was something so liberating, so freeing, about being in charge of her own pleasure, not having to depend on a partner for satisfaction. She could get used to this. So, she closed her eyes, leaned back against the wall and let her hands rove where they would, giving herself over so completely to the delights of her exploration that she did not hear the crack of Apparition coming from the sitting room, or the opening of the door to the bath. Not until the shower curtain was pulled aside, and cool air washed over her body was she aware that Draco had returned.

“I thought I’d--” he had begin, stopping when he realized where her hands were and what she was doing. “Merlin,” he said in a strangled tone.

Hermione’s eyes had flown open at the unexpected intrusion, and she was left gaping to find Draco standing naked before her, his hot-eyed silver gaze devouring her.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said thickly.

She managed to regain her poise and smirk at him, thrusting a finger deep inside. She refused to be embarrassed about having been caught, not when he was the one who taught her to do this to herself in the first place.

“I hadn’t planned to,” she said saucily.

“Miss me, did you?” he chuckled.

“Parts of you, anyway,” she drawled. “Now, either close the damned curtain or cast a warming charm. It’s chilly.”

“The warming charm, I think,” he said, suiting deed to word before conjuring a chair so he could watch her in comfort.

“Much better,” Hermione said as the air around her grew warm. Lazily, she flicked a finger over a nipple, shivering in pleasure at the sensations she was inducing in her own flesh.

“Merlin, you’re beautiful like this,” Draco said reverently. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“What do you think I’m thinking?” she said huskily, her eyes half-lidded as she watched him watch her, licking her lips as she saw his long, hard throbbing cock, watched him wrap his own hand around it to give himself a little relief. “I’m thinking about your fingers inside my pussy and your tongue on my clit, on your knees as you suck my juices.”

“Go on,” he said, voice guttural as he began to fist his cock in slow strokes.

“You have a lovely tongue, have I mentioned that?” she said as her fingers began a slow pumping action that matched his strokes on his cock. “Just broad enough to cover my sensitive bits, and strong enough to keep licking me on and on until I’m so wet, so ready, so primed, until I know that I’m going to come any second, come hard, all over your face, and then you slip one of your long fingers inside me, stroking just the right place and I start coming as you fuck me, fuck me, fuck me ungh....”

Already primed by her first orgasm she was coming again, writhing on her fingers, knees buckling so that she was falling forward this time, only to be caught by Draco, who pulled her hands out of her pussy, slammed her up against the wall and kissed her savagely as he hoisted her up until she wrapped her legs around his waist and drove into her hard and fast, so that she was wailing her way through a third orgasm, undeniably the best of the night, the feel of him inside her making her so deliciously full.

“Fuck me, you bastard,” she demanded, devouring him with kisses. “Fuck me hard.”

“Hard as you can take it,” he promised, and proceeded to show he was as good as his word, fucking her long and hard up against the shower wall until she was screaming his name and clawing bloody ribbons down his back, pulsing around him in her fourth climax. He didn’t join her, just kept pistoning his hips, driving inside her until her internal tremors subsided then pulling out of her, forcing her to stand on her own trembling legs as he dropped to his knees, attacking her clit with his tongue, thrusting inside her with his fingers, exactly as she had fantasized. She climaxed again, and her legs wouldn’t support her any longer. He caught her, uttered a charm to shut off the water and carried her back to the bed. She found herself face down, then drawn up into a kneeling position. Hermione urned her head to glance behind her.

“Hurry,” she told Draco, wiggling her arse invitingly.

He groaned, not needing to be told twice. In an instant he was on the bed behind her, sliding inside her slick depths. She whimpered, but realized he had his hands on her hips and she didn’t want that. She tugged at them drawing them up to her breasts until he was fondling them and pinching the nipples just the way she liked.

“Yessss,” she hissed. “Harder.”

“You’re killing me,” Draco groaned, pumping his hips and twisting her nipples between his fingers.

“Good,” she said. He laughed, then changed his angle of penetration, making her moan.

“So tight,” he said. “So fucking tight and so beautiful. You’re a fucking goddess, Hermione, did you know that?”

“Mmm,” she replied inarticulately, her hand busy between her thighs, stroking her own clit, then reaching further, managing fleeting caresses to Draco’s balls, making him groan and curse and murmur obscene endearments into her ear. She came hard, pinching her clit as Draco pounded her, finally letting loose and letting his own orgasm overtake him. They strained together in ecstasy for long minutes before collapsing to the bed, Draco still blanketing her body. It took a few minutes for them to get up the energy to draw apart, and Hermione burrowed under the covers. Draco just lay there, recovering.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, realizing it was still relatively early.

“And a most delicious meal she was, too,” he chuckled suggestively.

“Prat,” she said, slapping his arm playfully. “I meant dinner.”

“Yes, well, I meant both. Although if I decide I’m feeling peckish in the middle of the night, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

“I should hope so,” she retorted.

“Although, I have to admit that I really enjoyed having a quick rut up against the wall with you. We’ll have to do that again.”

“If you’re lucky,” she said, settling down to sleep. After all, they had pretty well exhausted themselves and could be forgiven for making an early night of it. But his words had struck a chord, some memory that she could not quite grasp. She gave up and closed her eyes.

And it was not until she was drifting off that she remembered, her last conversation with Ron, and not wanting to have her first time as a quick rut up against a wall. Only then did she realize that, even before he had returned, it had been Draco Malfoy who was her imaginary lover when she was pleasuring herself, not, as it should have been, Ron Weasley.

She wouldn’t cry, she thought. Draco was here and Ron was not and she wouldn’t feel guilty.

Only terribly, terribly sad.