Catch Me If You Can

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/58052236.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings
Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy
Additional Tags: primal kink, Praise Kink, Dom/sub, Dominant Draco Malfoy,
Submissive Hermione Granger, Beltane, Ritual Sex, Sex Magic, Draco
Malfoy Has a Large Cock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Gratuitous
Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Squirting
and Vaginal Ejaculation, Semi-Public Sex, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex,
Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), A Study in Sexual Tension, Size Kink,
Hunters & Hunting, Predator/Prey, mask kink, Rough Sex, Naked
Female Clothed Male, Masturbation, BDSM, Masochist Hermione
Granger, Body Paint, Multiple Orgasms, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts,
Orgasm Edging, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Creampie, cum kink,
Overstimulation, Lust Potion/Spell, Accidental Voyeurism, Sadist Draco
Malfoy, painting as foreplay, Hermione is a simp, Mildly Dubious
Consent, Because of the lust potion, Spanking, pussydrunk Draco
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-08-10 Completed: 2024-08-12 Words: 27,615 Chapters:
4/4
 Catch Me If You Can
by reveusedeminuit

Summary

“I wonder,” he purred, “if I could make you cum from just the pain alone. How many slaps
do you think it would take? Two? Three?”

Fuck, she wanted to cum so bad. Hearing him acknowledge it made her realize just how close
she was. She danced on the precipice of her orgasm, silently pleading for him to push her
over to the other side.

She felt a sudden pinch. It was short and vicious enough to make her hiss without the same
satisfying burn as his slap.

“Answer me, Granger,” he demanded, his breath skating across her lips.

“No.”

She didn’t want to let go of whatever faint glimmer of pride she had left. She couldn’t let him
know just how much he affected her, not that easily.

Malfoy chuckled darkly instead and smirked at her. He looked like a predator gearing up for
the kill.

“I also disagree,” he taunted, “I think it would take just one.”

Hermione is invited to stay at Malfoy Manor for the exclusive traditional celebration of
Beltane. With little information available on how purebloods celebrate the holiday, Hermione
shows up without any idea of what to expect.
She better get ready to run.
Fast.

Notes

Sooo, hi lol
I'm in the middle of writing two other stories, but I had this fic idea rolling around in my head
on and off for like two years. It's been in the drafts for a long time, and I figured that I might
as well share it with the world. I may regret posting it eventually since it's not as fully baked
as I prefer my stories to be, but I know that if I don't force myself to post it right now, then I
never will.
True to form, I meant this to be a short little scene that somehow spiraled wildly out of
control, but I apologize for nothing.

Content Warnings Include:

Primal Play, BDSM, chasing through the woods, ritual magic, sex magic, lust potions, a
metric ton of masturbation, and explicit sexual content. Draco isn't a mean Dom, but he isn't a
soft one either. Both Draco and Hermione are under the effects of a lust potion, though
Hermione's is more obvious. Also, typical of my smutty writing style, it's gonna get kinky
later. Really kinky. Read at your own risk.
 Chapter 1

Hermione stared at the imitation of the night sky above with unseeing eyes. Bubbles foamed
atop the still surface of the bath around her, fizzing in her ears as they disintegrated in the
humid air. The water was warm and perfumed her skin with an exotic blend of oils she
couldn’t identify by scent alone. She floated in the bathing pool, limbs languid, unwilling to
get out.

If she got out, that would mean that she had to start getting ready. And she really didn’t want
to have to do that.

Glancing around, Hermione had thought that the bathing chamber was both ostentatious and
depressive in its all-black and gilded-gold decor when she’d first seen it. But now she found
the obsidian walls and floors were actually quite soothing in the soft candlelight. She felt like
she was floating amidst an austere grotto, hidden away from humanity to shed her skin and
cleanse herself into something new.

The Malfoy’s certainly never did anything by halves. Why should their bathrooms be any
different?

The thought of the Malfoy’s sparked anxiety low in her gut. She didn’t know what to expect
tonight. The Beltane celebration was an extremely private affair, usually only celebrated
amongst Wizarding Society’s most elite community: The Sacred Twenty-Eight.

The customs and expectations for the celebration were lost on her. She’d tried to do some
preliminary research, but traditions like this were passed down in the family by word of
mouth. Until she attended the celebration for herself, what was going to happen was largely a
surprise.

If there was one thing Hermione hated, it was surprises.

Another thing she hated, arguably more, was not knowing something that everyone else
around her knew. Especially if it pertained to magic.

How to participate in an exclusive, pureblood-only tradition definitely fell into all of those
categories.

At this point, she was about eighty-nine-percent sure that she was brought here just to be
humiliated.

Her invitation was Theodore Nott’s doing, she assumed. Ever since he began courting Harry,
he’d been adamant about forcing integration amongst their social circles. He also had a
fondness for breaking tradition wherever he could.

What better way to show Harry that he wasn’t prejudiced than inviting his best friend,
Hermione Granger, Britain's most famous muggleborn, to a pureblood-only celebration? If
said invitation also happened to scandalize all aforementioned purebloods in the process and
break three-hundred years of precedent, all the better. He would be killing two birds with one
stone, as it were. His favourite pastime.

But why Malfoy played along with it and invited her to his party was beyond her. Hence her
firm belief that this was all ultimately done to humiliate her. She was being deliberately set
up to fail. She wouldn’t put it past the lot of them.

But Hermione was, unfortunately, way too relaxed to care at the moment. This was,
dreadfully, the most tranquil she’d felt in years. Whatever potion was added to the water had
done wonders to soften her skin and ease even the most subtle ache from her muscles. It was
allegedly a Beltane-specific blend, but she wondered if she’d be able to get the recipe to
make it more regularly. If this is what the potion could make a bath feel like, she would
happily never take a shower again.

The water was warm and caressed her body in ways that made goosebumps wash over her
skin. She idly stroked the length of her curves with her fingers, shivering at the delicate ghost
of the touch that was dulled by the water. Her nipples pebbled into tight peaks. She felt heat
unfurl low in her abdomen, generating a warmth that had nothing to do with her bath.

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed, surrendering to the heat and sensuality of the moment.
Her palms slid over her breasts, sparking sensation as they grazed her nipples before
descending downwards to her core.

She imagined her hands were larger, stronger, firmer. With thickened fingers, and callouses
from training. She imagined they were veined and long. They grazed her body covetously
and without caution. They plucked at her nipples with sharp tugs and sensual rolls that made
her whimper softly into the humid air.

Her hands drifted along her stomach as her legs fell apart. Her hand, now his, would trail
decisively downwards, before cupping her labia in his large palm. He would make her wait,
teasing the folds with a featherlight touch, making her whine and writhe beneath him. He
would chuckle, dark and low in her ear, amused by her desperation.

Her core pulsed at the sound, and she could feel her wetness spilling out from between her
folds to slick her fingers in her own arousal. His other hand would pin her down by the hip,
securing her in place at his mercy.

“Patience, Granger,” he would purr.

Hermione’s eyes snapped open. Her idly teasing fingers froze against her core. Her body
tensed, and her heart raced.

Oh fuck.

She was fantasizing about Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy.
It was humiliating, in a way, to pleasure herself to the thought of him while she used his
bathroom. But there was also something erotic about it as well. Had he bathed in this
chamber himself? Had he used the pool as she did? Did he take himself in hand the way that
she did to herself now? What did he think about? Had he ever thought of her?

She knew the answer to that was a resounding no. He’d avoided her ever since her arrival
yesterday. He seemed determined to play the role of the ghost of the estate rather than the
host of it. Every time she entered the room, she smelled his cologne lingering in the air, and
was informed she’d just missed him. As she wandered through the halls, orienting herself
with the lavish manor house, she felt like she was constantly chasing his shadow.

Did she want to see him? Not necessarily. While they were civil for Theo’s sake, it would be
a far stretch to say that the two got along.

But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t acknowledge within the safety of her own mind that
she found him devastatingly attractive. It was a damned shame that the most beautiful man
she’d ever met had to also be the unequivocal worst.

But this was her bath. And her self-care time. And in her mind, he wasn’t the worst. In her
fantasy, he was transformed. His aggression during their debates was passion, his anger at her
defiance was hunger, and that glint of fire in his eyes was desire instead of hate. The only
thing that remained was the darkness in his eyes and pulsing in his magic.

There had been an incident at the pub two months ago when they were celebrating the
capture of Dolohov, and Malfoy had been positively dripping in dark magic and darker
thoughts. At the time, he’d seemed volatile, aggressive, and on the verge of snapping.

She’d gotten into a vicious argument with him that she couldn’t even remember the cause of
now. What she did recall was him cornering her against the wall, his hands caging her in,
before telling her in a low, authoritative tone that she needed a thorough lesson in manners
and obeying authority that he was more happy to provide.

At the time, she’d yelled at him for his control issues and not respecting boundaries and
shoved him off. But later that night, she pleasured herself to the thought of him following
through with his promise.

She imagined his hands on her, using her body as an outlet for all of his darkest impulses, and
teaching her that lesson in obedience. It was the first time she’d ever fantasized about him.
She came three times that night.

Okay, so she had a bit of a fixation. It was no big deal. There was no way he would ever
know that he was a recurring star in her fantasies. Or the only star really. As long as they
maintained their distance, and he maintained his horrible attitude, she would be fine.
Business would proceed as usual.

So for now, she closed her eyes. She imagined the heated stone wall behind her to be the
solid length of his body instead. She imagined one of his hands drifting across her stomach
before grazing her breasts. His hand would continue up, before his long fingers would wrap
themselves around the base of her throat. Not quite constricting, but resting, with just enough
pressure to let her know that he was in control.

With her other hand, she once more cupped the heat between her legs, and imagined it was
his hand instead of her own. As she teased the heat between her legs, never giving herself
what she wanted, she imagined his amusement as she ground against her hand.

“Needy little thing aren't you?” He would say in his soft, mocking voice.

Finally, her fingers spread herself open, gliding through the slick of her arousal. The viscosity
of it was thinned by the bath water, but she was still surprised by how wet she was. Her index
finger teased her opening before gliding slowly inside. She imagined her fingers were thicker,
longer, and would fill her deeper, to the parts she couldn’t reach on her own. She slowly
pulled her finger out, adding another, and imagined his signet ring would catch on her
opening as she pushed them back in.

“So fucking wet for me, Granger,” he would purr, “good girl,”

She sighed into the air, and goosebumps patterned her skin. The water sloshed along the edge
of the bathing pool as her fingers sped up. She moaned into the air, the pleasure rolling
through her like a soft wave. Her cunt spasmed around her fingers, and she sped up her pace
more. Warmth flooded through her, and her muscles tensed as she felt her body careening
towards the edge.

She was close. So close. Just a little bit more.

A tentative knock broke her out of her reverie. Hermione froze. She could only hear the
sloshing of the water and her soft panting in the air. Both seemed incriminatingly loud.

“Yes?” She asked.

Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. The echo against the cold austere walls seemed
to mock her.

“Will Missus be getting ready soon?” The call of a house elf came from the other side of the
thick wooden door.

Hermione sighed into the bubbles and rested her head back along the edge of the bathing
pool. She could feel the tidal wave of her orgasm recede back to the churning pool of desire
in her gut.

She had been so close. She could have cried.

“Ten more minutes,” she grumbled instead.

“But Missus said that ten minutes ago. And then again ten minutes before that. And then ten
minutes before that also!” The worried voice of the elf called.

Hermione closed her eyes, and resigned herself to the fact that it was time. She had stalled
enough. And she didn’t want to make the poor elf panic any longer.
“Yes, alright,” she huffed, “I’m getting out now.”

She closed her eyes, and breathed deep, inhaling the notes of eucalyptus and rosemary that
perfumed the air and her skin. The fire in her blood still boiled, and she wondered if she had
enough time to get herself off before dressing. If the insistence of the elf was any indication
though, she doubted it.

She rose from the bath slowly, luxuriating in the feel of the silky water cascading down her
softened skin. She stepped from the bath and summoned a bathrobe into her outstretched
hand. Her toes wiggled in the plush bathmat as she dried herself off. She scrunched her curls
into a towel after wrapping herself up in the robe, and walked towards the bedroom.

As she crossed the seating area, she spied Bowen’s anxious face peering at her from across
the room. Far from the fearful sort of anxiety Hermione associated with most house elves, his
seemed rooted more in offended disapproval. Her stalling had not earned her any favor from
the small creature. She had disrupted his meticulous schedule.

“Missus is required to be at the meeting point by eight o’clock. Will missus need help getting
there?” Bowen asked.

Hermione shook her head, “No I remember where it is, thank you.”

She looked at the clock at the wall. It was just past six-thirty. It would take her about ten
minutes to walk down to the meeting point. She had plenty of time.

“Missus will also need to prepare accordingly. Bowen has taken the liberty to lay out the
Missus attire for tonight.”

He gestured towards the bed where he had laid out a white cotton shift dress across the duvet.
At the foot of the bed were a pair of plain brown leather sandals.

“Thank you, Bowen. That was very thoughtful of you.”

She absently wondered if she would have the time to get herself off before getting ready. The
warmth in her blood had yet to subside. She was so close to an orgasm she could taste it. She
needed it. She would be more clear-minded for the ceremony later if she did, and she needed
to keep her wits about her as much as possible.

Despite the tentative friendship she’d forged with Theodore Nott, she was still very much in
enemy territory staying at the Malfoy’s. She could not allow herself to be distracted by
something like her hormones.

“Missus will also need to paint on her marks.” Bowen said.

At this, Hermione’s attention swung back to the little elf. “Pardon?”

“The marks. Missus will need to paint them on soon.”

“What marks?” She asked.

The elf huffed, which only confused her more.

“The marks for the celebration of course.”

“I don’t know what kind of marks you’re talking about. Would you please be able to help me
paint them on?”

The elf’s gasp was loud, and he went still. His eyes bulged wide, and his tiny knobby hand
raised to cover his gaping mouth. It was clear that her request had scandalized the creature
quite thoroughly.

“Bowen couldn’t possibly! To think Missus would even think to ask such a thing!” Bowen
gasped.

The little elf’s tiny chest rose and fell alarmingly quickly, and Hermione was worried she was
going to give him a panic attack.

“I apologize for offending you, Bowen. That wasn’t my intention. I just don’t know what the
marks are or how to paint them. Can you show me a picture maybe, or guide me in some way
at least?”

“No, Bowen could never! Bowen would punish himself most thoroughly if he were to help
Missus like that. It is sacred wizard’s magic. To sully the preparation with an elf’s touch
would be disastrous. Bowen can’t. Missus must not ask him to do such a thing!”

“Please, Bowen. If they are required and I can’t see a picture and you wont tell me what they
are, then I’m at a loss for what to do here.”

The elf’s gaze was shrewd as it assessed Hermione. Though the creature hardly came up past
her hip, she felt small beneath the weight of his disapproval.

“Missus must ask someone else,” he insisted after more silence stretched between them.

Hermione’s heart sank, even as desperation clawed its way up her gut.

“I could order you to help me,” she replied, swallowing past her guilt.

If anything, the elf’s disdain grew tenfold.

“Bowen cannot obey orders Bowen doesn’t know how to follow. Missus must ask someone
else,” he said with a pointed sniff.

“Fine. Then please get me someone else who both can and will help me,” she huffed.

The elf popped away with a sneer, and Hermione crossed her arms across her chest before
plopping down at the vanity in the corner of the room.

Her eyes then slid to the bed. She wondered once again if she would have enough time to rub
one out quickly. She just didn’t know how much time she had before help arrived.
Why the bloody hell was she so damned horny right now anyway? That was the third time
she’d thought about masturbating since her interrupted attempt in the bath. She normally
didn’t feel this needy. Hell, she hardly even masturbated much at all. Where was this sudden
need to orgasm coming from?

With a determined shake of her head, Hermione ignored the lust in her body. She didn’t have
the time. She’d accidentally edged herself before and she’d been fine. She would be fine now
too.

She turned towards the mirror and began sectioning her hair into parts. Using her wand, she
muttered a drying spell along the sections as smoothly as possible, concentrating on
protecting her curls while minimizing frizz. After another several passes, her hair was
voluminous and dry, with her fresh curls spilling around and down her back like a lion’s
mane.

The vanity itself was bare except for some perfume, a box of tissues, body lotion and a
wooden pot delicately engraved with a Celtic knot pattern. Hermione picked up the pot and
analyzed the substance inside. It was deep red and looked for all intents and purposes
identical to freshly collected blood. There was a faint smell of warm spices like clove and
cardamom. She wondered if this was the paint she was to use.

There was no mention of paints that she had ever come across in her reading about the
holiday. No mention of what needed to be painted on or where. She scanned the vanity for
instructions, but it was frustratingly clean.

Stupid secretive purebloods.

She slammed the lid back down before putting the pot on the vanity with more force than
required. She fought the temptation to throw it out the window in a childish fit of rage.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a deep voice chided behind her.

Hermione jumped in her chair, unaware she had company. She hadn’t heard anyone come in
through the door, nor did she hear the tell-tale crack of apparation. Her startled gaze flew to
the mirror and locked on to the ghost of the estate himself.

Draco Malfoy.

Of all the bloody people in the estate to retrieve, Bowen had sought out him. It was just her
luck.

She intended to say something quippy, but her mind went blank as she took him in.

Un-styled, his hair was longer than she realized, with the fringe curling ever so slightly in
front of his eyes. The pale white-blond of his hair was dampened ever-so-slightly from his
own washing, and her mind couldn’t help but to drift back to her earlier musings.

Did he too try to pleasure himself while he bathed as she had? Was he at least able to reach
an orgasm, unlike the one her body danced frustratingly on the edge of?
His strong, athletic build was draped in lightweight linen that billowed deep in the front,
exposing his sculpted torso. His legs were encased in soft brown leather that cut off just
below the knees, revealing slim calves and pale narrow feet. It culminated in rather pirate-
like effect that made Hermione rather weak in the knees.

But more than anything, it was the deep red markings that covered his skin that caught her
eyes. She found herself tracing each one with her gaze, studying, surveying, and coveting the
knowledge she uncovered. The dark red runic marks slashed and swirled artfully across his
body, each one a different invocation and blessing to be called upon later. His shirt was thin
enough that she could see the dark impressions of them through it.

Draco Malfoy was art. And he was beautiful.

“Mother would pitch an absolute fit if she knew Bowen called me in here to do this,” he said,
breaking the silence between them.

The ghost of a smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. In a surprising act of tact, he hadn’t
commented on her staring at him. If she wasn’t so flustered she might have found it
suspicious.

“And why’s that?” she asked instead.

He stepped closer, his body directly in the strong beam of golden-hour sunlight, which
seemed to set his skin and marks aglow. His pale hair was luminous. He was ethereal. It was
almost painful to look at him, he was so pretty.

But the smirk that pulled at his lips was mocking, and the glint in his pale eyes was cold. She
almost forgot how much he reveled in her ignorance, how much he adored exposing how
much more he knew than her in the ways of their customs. It set her immediately on edge.

“It is improper for men and women to see each other before the bonfires are lit. The gods are
not said to favor the eager and impatient.”

She wetted her lips. “Then why did you come?”

It’s not like he hadn’t been content to ignore her up until this point anyway. She hardly
believed he was a dutiful host who came when called upon by a guest. He’d demonstrated
that well enough in the last twenty-four hours.

“Bowen informed me that you need help applying the paint. That you didn’t even know what
it was for. Is this true?” He smirked.

The tone he used to ask her the question was cruel. He was toying with her ignorance. If she
wanted his help, she would have to confirm it. She felt her ire grow, warring with the un-
abating arousal swimming in her veins.

“Yes, it is,” she said with as much dignity as she could scrape together.

He hummed in thought and stepped towards her. He held his hand aloft for her to take. She
stared at the offered hand for a beat, unsure of what to make of it. Glancing back up at him,
his face was a stone wall, betraying nothing. He just watched her. Her heart picked up under
the force of his stare, and the hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end.

It was small moments like this where he reminded her of a panther. A predator that bided his
time, waiting for the right moment to strike. As beautiful as he was deadly.

With a swallow, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to escort her up from the small
vanity stool. His hand was warm against hers, and she found herself surprised by that. For a
man whose countenance was so cold, she had for some reason assumed the physicality of him
would match. It confused her in ways she didn’t know what to do with.

When she stood before him, he loomed over her, his height making her feel small. Standing
this close to him, she could smell the musk and oils on his skin and hair that intermingled
with his natural scent. The combination was heady, and Hermione had half a mind to close
her eyes and drink him in. She had been teased by the scent lingering in the empty halls since
she arrived. It was so much more potent coming straight from the source.

But the cold way he was looking down at her, and the mocking, ever-present smirk ghosting
his lips reminded her to stay present. His gaze was shrewd, assessing, watching. She could
not afford to slip up and reveal whatever this attraction to him was. He would absolutely
weaponize it against her.

She needed to get a grip. Hermione refused to swoon for him.

A beat passed between them, electric and charged. She expected him to step back to make
room for her, but he stayed rooted to the spot, caging her in between the solid heat of his
body and the vanity behind her. This was the closest she’d been to him since the pub. It was
overwhelming. The last thing her overheated body needed right now was the reminder of that
night.

The hand that guided her to her feet ghosted along her arm, not close enough to touch, but
just enough to make her skin rise and shiver with the almost-sensation. The hand then trailed
along the curve of her waist, slow and sure, barely touching the cloth of her bathrobe. It was
only really then that she realized how very naked she was beneath the robe, and how very
clothed he was right now. The terry cloth felt rough on her overly-sensitive skin.

The hand trailed down from her waist and just barely grazed over her ass, and Hermione
couldn’t help the gasp that expelled from her lungs. His eyes drifted down to her parted lips
for a beat, before dragging lazily up to meet her eyes again. The heat inside of his eyes was
startling, and Hermione felt a corresponding throb inside of her. The arousal that ignited her
blood before raged into an inferno. Her body felt like it was on fire, and the only thing that
would cool her down was his touch.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

Hermione sucked in a ragged breath and wet her lips with her tongue.

“What is?” She asked, her voice quiet.

His hand left the outline of her body and he leaned into the dresser, closing the already
minimal distance between them down to a sliver. His nostrils flared as he breathed deep. She
could feel the heat emanating from his skin, and the loose material of his shirt brushed
against her robe.

“How much of the potion did you add to your bath?” He asked.

Her brow furrowed in thought. Why would that matter?

“I don’t know. Bowen prepared it for me. Why?”

Malfoy frowned and didn’t answer. She watched as the pupils in his eyes unnaturally shrank
down to a pinprick. He stepped back, the pot of paint now in his hand. There was a rigid set
to his spine that hadn’t been there moments ago. He took another deep breath, as though
steadying himself.

“He added too much to your bath,” he explained, “You’re producing an excess of
pheromones right now. Do you feel any unusual symptoms? Elevated heart rate, feverishness,
hypersensitivity, shortness of breath, heightened arousal?”

He was speaking in his detached, no-nonsense professional voice. The one that made her
weak in the knees whenever they shared the rare interdepartmental meeting. It was almost
cruel for him to use that voice on her when she was in this state.

But the distance between them provided some clarity to her lust-addled mind. So this
overwhelming and persistent arousal was the Beltane potion’s doing? That knowledge
honestly made her feel a lot better. She wasn’t just horrendously randy for no reason. It was
compulsive.

Still, the thought of admitting to Malfoy that she was experiencing all of the above symptoms
and more made her cheeks flush with mortification. How did one tell their enemy-turned-
reluctant-acquaintance that they were under the influence of a lust potion and were desperate
to shag their brain out?

“Tell me what you’re feeling, Granger. I can at least help you alleviate some of the
symptoms,” he said.

The only way he could help her alleviate the symptoms was by fucking her to the greatest
orgasm of her life. Or five. The sudden image of Malfoy roleplaying as her healer made her
core ache with a desperate need to be filled.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she should tell him. This objectification of him in her mind was
just getting out of hand. Fantasizing about him alone late at night in her bed was one thing,
but fantasizing about him in front of him was quite another. But how would she begin to
admit that?

“Why yes, Malfoy. I do seem to be experiencing the unusual side-effect of visualizing you
fucking me roughly and relentlessly in all manner of creative ways that I’m sure would make
you promptly file for an restraining order against me. I’m positively feral for you at the
moment, you see. Care to lend a hand?”

Yeah, no. Best she didn’t tell him anything.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

He raised an eyebrow at her. His disbelief couldn’t be more clear.

“Really? No symptoms? Nothing at all?” He persisted.

“I’ve only thought of you fucking me in at least fifteen different ways in the last ten minutes,
and the way you’re looking at me now is inspiring me for a sixteenth, but yeah, no, nothing at
all.”

“No,” she replied, ignoring the depraved train of thought in her mind, “I’m fine.”

He stared hard at her for a second, and his jaw clenched tight. She could see a vein in his
neck throb, and against her better judgement, she wanted to lick it. The sudden urge to take
his skin between her teeth and bite was almost overwhelming.

“Granger, I don’t give a shit if you got accidentally exposed to too much. I just need to know
so I can do something about it. So for the last time, tell me honestly. What are you feeling?”
He insisted.

His eyes were cold as he watched her, like a shark assessing its prey. Hermione felt very
much like a helpless guppy. Or maybe a beta fish. Something small and tiny and
tremendously, incredibly powerless. But the way she wanted Malfoy to eat her was very
different from the way a shark would eat fish. With a glance at his mouth, she knew he would
devour her.

“I said I’m bloody fine, Malfoy,” she snapped, “now are you going to help me or not?”

Sweat beaded down her back as she held his stare. She forced herself to breathe normally
despite the frantic pounding of her heart. Her core throbbed, and she could feel her arousal
smearing itself across the inside of her thighs. She wondered if he could smell it. The thought
made her flush with mortification.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously similar to ‘insolent witch’.
She chose to pretend not to hear him.

“Fine, then. Have it your way,” he huffed, before leveling her with a dark, challenging look.

All at once his aura seemed to change. His stance widened, and he stood tall. The vast space
of the bedroom seemed to shrink, until he commanded every particle of attention in the room.
His authority was sudden and immediate, and she couldn’t help but feel her body and magic
both demure at the change.

The host-turned-healer act was gone, and in its place the Head of the Department of Law
Enforcement was here instead. Malfoy stared her down like a naughty criminal seconds
before interrogation. She wanted to fucking melt. This was yet another fantasy she would
have to explore later.

“Take off your robe,” he ordered.

Hermione froze, and her eyes widened in alarm. In a dazed compliance, her hands flew
immediately to the opening of her bath robe, before they paused on the lapels.

She was naked under the robe. Did he know that? Did he want her to strip for him? The
thought of being completely nude while he was fully dressed made her spiral. The
vulnerability was heady.

He would see how desperate she was for him. Would he like that? Did he want her nude and
obedient for him? She could do that. She would be so good for him. Or did he want her
defiant? Would he follow through on his promise all those months ago and teach her a
lesson? The thought of him bending her over his knee made her shiver with need.

Wait, no. She shouldn’t want that. Or even think it. Her hands tugged at the opening to her
robe, shielding even her collarbones from view. The hard glint in his eyes flashed with
amusement in a way that made her core throb.

“Excuse me?” She asked after a moment of gathering herself.

Her voice higher and breathier than she liked. It felt incriminating to speak in that tone
around him. She sounded so needy.

Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Malfoy lifted the pot in his hand. His rings glinted in the light
along his fingers.

“Kind of hard to paint this on without a canvas,” he replied smoothly.

Oh. That’s what he meant.

Good Godric she really needed to get a grip.

Hermione felt quite foolish then, and she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. Malfoy
was not trying to get her to strip for him. She had specifically requested for him help her
paint these mysterious marks on. He was just obliging her request.

She found herself cursing that Bowen for putting her in this situation to begin with. Of all the
people he could have summoned for her, the elf just had to have gotten him. It was just her
luck that Bowen had also poured too much of the Beltane potion into her bathwater. She
could never strike out just once.

Hermione wondered for a moment what would happen if she did drop her robe, nudity be
damned. What would he do then? How would he react? Would he take pity on her when he
realized just how needy and aching she was? Would he take control of her pleasure and make
her finally cum?
No. That was lust-potion-Hermione talking. Regular-Hermione wouldn’t even dare to think
of doing such a thing. She needed Regular-Hermione back in control.

With a fire burning in her eyes, she glared at him. He smirked at her, and his pale eyes
flashed in triumph.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Granger,” he threatened, his voice dark with promise.

She realized then what he was doing. Malfoy was deliberately challenging her in a sexually
dominant way to force her to slip up and reveal that she was, in fact, overdosed on the potion.
And she, like the wanton slut she was being right now, was playing right into his hand.

The thought unmoored her. How had he known about her preference for dominant partners?
How did he know exactly how to play the part perfectly? Even close friends of hers guessed
incorrectly all the time that since she was a dominant woman herself, she must prefer a more
dominant role in bed. How had he seen through that?

Damn him for thinking he could manipulate her. And damn her for almost falling for it.

Well two can play at that game, fucker.

She leveled him with a heated look and said, “But I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

Malfoy’s pale eyes flashed molten silver as they lazily dragged down the length of her body.
She felt his eyes on her like a physical touch and she shivered. It made her blood sing and her
skin flushed with heat. He folded his arms across his broad chest, and his hands clenched into
tight fists. By the time his eyes swept back up to look at her face, they were back to their cold
icy-blue.

“Then change,” came his hard, flat reply, “or don’t. It makes no difference to me either way.”

Bastard.

Still clutching the opening of her robe tight, Hermione stepped around him towards the
spacious walk-in closet on the other side of the room. She shut the door and locked it for
good measure. As soon as she was inside, she closed her eyes and took three deep, grounding
breaths.

What the fuck just happened?

She was trembling, she realized. That moment by the vanity had wrecked her libido entirely.
She could still smell him in the air, and it made her pant with want. She could see the way he
looked down at her as he caged her in, his pale eyes darkened with hunger. Had he been
effected by the pheromones? Is that why he acted the way that he did?

Fucking Malfoy.

Anyway, should she quickly get herself off now? She doubted it would take more than a
couple of flicks against her clit at this rate. Tentatively, she parted the folds of her robe and
cupped the slick heat between her thighs. Even just the lightest touch made her gasp. She was
shaking harder now, desperate for relief. Her hips rocked uncontrollably back and forth
against her hand. She couldn’t stop. She spread her legs wider, and slid three of her fingers
inside of her at once. She was so desperate and so wet that it hardly felt like much of a stretch
at all. The sudden feeling of fullness made her keen in the air, and the pleasure was
immediate and overwhelming.

This. This is what she needed. She’d been so empty. So desperate. So close.

She imagined Malfoy on the other side of the door. Could he hear her through the door? The
thought made her clench down on her fingers, and her eyes fluttered, despite the flicker of
embarrassment in her chest. She drove her fingers roughly in and out of her body. The sound
was obscene in the small closet. Did he know what she was doing?

She imagined him flinging open the door and catching her in the act. She imagined how she
must look, feverish and wild from the effects of the potion. He would catch her with one hand
rocking in and out of her cunt while her other hand pinched and rolled at her sensitive
nipples. She imagined the way his eyes would darken in anger and hunger, and his nostrils
would flare as he scented her arousal in the air.

“What a needy little slut. You thought you could hide from me? Remember, Granger, only I
am allowed to make you cum,” He would sneer.

Then he would rush up to her, pull her hand free, and pin it to the shelves behind her. He
would cage her in like the way he did before. She swore she could still smell him strong
enough that she could taste it. She inhaled deep and felt her cunt flutter around her fingers.

He would fill her empty cunt deep with his own fingers, robbing her lungs of breath and
making her eyes roll to the back of her head. His fingers would fill her perfectly, fucking her
roughly, taking her to the right to the edge, before pushing her violently off the side of it.

“That’s it. Take it, Granger.”

“Granger?”
 Chapter 2

“Granger?” The real Malfoy called.

It was like a bucket of ice water had been poured on her.

What the fuck was she doing?

“Granger, are you almost done?”

His voice was louder, closer to the door.

In a strict manner of speaking, she was almost done. But not in the way that he intended.

She wanted to scream. And cry. And cum so hard she passed out. To edge herself once earlier
was already agonizing, but to do it again now was almost too much for her to handle. She
pulled her fingers out of her dripping cunt with a shudder, and the sound seemed to
reverberate in the tiny room.

She’d never hated a man more in her life. She could kill him.

“Give me a bloody minute,” she snapped.

“Well hurry up then. We have an hour and a half to get this over with, finish getting ready,
and get down there,” he snapped back.

At least five different hexes danced on the tip of her tongue that she wanted to respond to him
with.

“I’ll be out in a minute. Calm your bloody tits, Malfoy.”

Instead Hermione took a deep breath. She needed to be rational. She needed to think about
this whole situation as objectively as she could. She hoped logic would help her separate
from the intense and overwhelming arousal in her system.

Okay, so. Hermione was under the effects of a lust potion. She already was attracted to
Malfoy prior to consuming it. The potion elevated her pre-existing attraction to him, and also
caused her to feel overwhelming lust. Her inability to finish herself off twice now was
elevating both her arousal and her agitation. Her adrenal system was going into overdrive.

Just because Malfoy happened to be who she was thinking about while pleasuring herself did
not mean that any attraction between them existed in real life. She was simply projecting her
fantasies onto reality.

The moment by the vanity could be explained by the sudden rush of pheromones that she was
exuding that had clearly caught him off guard. He was as much under the influence of her
pheromones as she was under the potion. It was a chemical, biological reaction, not
indicative of anything deeper than that.
She also lied to him about her condition. Hermione would need to pretend that she really was
in a normal state of mind and had not over-exposed herself to the potion. He was already
resorting to different manipulative tactics to try to get her to slip up. She could not allow this.
He somehow knew how to best way to get under her skin. She could not let him effect her.

Thus, she needed to get a fucking grip and snap back to reality. She needed to regain control.

Now.

She pulled at one of the many drawers along the wall of the closet. What should she wear? If
she weren’t in the wizarding world, she would wear just a tank top and athletic shorts and call
it a day. But she was pretty sure even a modern man like Malfoy would be thoroughly
scandalized if she walked out wearing that. She opened drawers at random, trying to
remember what she packed.

Wedged between her underwear and her pajamas, her fingers grazed over something cool and
slinky. She paused.

Should she wear it? It was highly immodest in wizarding circles, but she’d gone out in less to
the muggle clubs before. Plus it’s not like it was completely indecent, and it was the only
good alternative to the aforementioned tank and shorts.

Plus, with the heat singing in her blood and the throbbing in her core, she thought of the
searing look he gave her earlier when he caged her against the vanity, and she wanted more.
She wanted to break his mask of indifference. She wanted him to feel as hungry for her as she
was for him. She wanted to make him lose it.

Was she thinking rationally? Not at all.

Was she being ridiculous? Absolutely.

Would she regret this? Without a doubt.

Yet as she pulled on the black satin slip dress, her heart pounded in her defiance. She wanted
to play with fire. Just a bit.

Hermione pulled the bathrobe back on over her slip before heading to the closet door. She
took another grounding breath before pulling it open.

She could do this. She could pretend she was feeling normal. She could pretend she didn’t
just try to fuck herself in the closet. She could pretend she wasn’t so close to the edge that she
could cum just from the sound of his voice. She’d be fine.

Malfoy had transfigured one of the wingback chairs before the fire into a slightly raised stool.
At the sound of the door, he swung his head around to look at her. His cool mask of
indifference was back in place. He was watching her, assessing her. Looking for a crack in
her armor.

Hermione couldn’t have that.

Slowly, while she had his rapt attention, she parted the fabric of her robe before gently
pushing it off from her shoulders. It gathered in a heap at her feet in a soft plop.

Immediately his eyes raked down her body, and she felt the heat of his stare like a physical
touch. His gaze traveled from the exposed skin of her collarbones, down past the lacy trim
along the tops of her breasts, and until reaching the exposed skin of her thighs. The skirt of
the dress was short, just covering the bottom of her ass.

Despite wearing the slip, the heat in his eyes alone made her feel like she may as well not be
wearing anything at all. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His mercurial eyes flickered
back to hers.

“Sit,” Malfoy commanded, gesturing towards the stool in front of him.

The order did things to her. She shivered at the dark authority in his voice, and slowly walked
towards him. Her heart pounded. His eyes fell to her thighs once more as she walked up to
him, and the heat in her blood burned. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t put a little bit more
sway in her stride than usual.

When she reached the stool, she turned around, offering the low cut of the slip’s back to his
gaze, and sat down. She could feel Malfoy behind her. The presence of his body and the pulse
of his magical aura was like a tangible thing in the air, charging the space between them. She
could feel his magic shifting amidst the air particles, setting her nerves alight, and dancing
along her naked back until she felt liquid heat pool in her core.

It was almost obscene, what Malfoy’s magic was doing to her. She’d never felt anything like
it.

She heard him mutter a levitation charm behind her, as well as another spell she didn’t
recognize.

“I’m going to start with your arms,” he announced in a low voice.

Hermione nodded her head, letting him know it was okay to proceed. Her muscles tensed,
anticipating the touch of the paint on her body.

Despite his warning, she jumped the moment she felt him start.

Immediately, she felt his hand wrap itself around her curls at the base of her neck, and pull
back hard. She yelped at the sudden sharp pain that flared throughout her scalp as her head
tilted back. His face loomed inches above hers. His eyes were as hard as granite as he glared
down at her. Even upside down, his face was ferocious.

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, and her lungs seized. She couldn’t help but wonder if
this is what he would look like if he fucked her hard from behind. Would he look just as
vicious? Just as domineering? Would he pull her hair in the same way?

“Don’t move,” Malfoy all but growled at her.

Hermione shivered at the harshness of his tone and swallowed. That persistent throb low in
her abdomen pulsed hard. She could feel herself dripping onto the stool below.

All thoughts of pretending he didn’t effect her promptly scattered like ash in the wind. There
was no way she could keep up an act when he flayed her nerves raw with a look like that. She
was only human, after all.

“Tell me you understand,” he demanded, his cold eyes hard and unyielding.

“I understand,” she replied immediately, her acquiescence rushing out of her in a single
breath.

His eyes softened at her obedience. She felt his fingers in her hair twitch.

“Good,” he nodded.

He let go of his iron grip on her hair. When she faced away from him, she swallowed hard,
allowing her eyes to flutter closed momentarily.

Holy shit.

This time when he started to paint, she stayed still. The paint was cool and thick against her
skin, and goosebumps prickled along her arms. He used his own fingers, and the heat of his
touch set her skin on fire. He was surprisingly gentle as he worked, which was at odds with
the cold ferocity he just displayed. She pressed her thighs together tight.

“What is the paint for?” She asked.

“They’re different runes and symbols meant to indicate an offering or intention for the
equinox. They tend to be house-specific. Since you don’t have a house of your own, I’m just
painting mine,” he explained.

So she was to be painted in the marks of the House of Malfoy?

The thought of being covered in his marks drove her wild. A primitive part of her was smug
with satisfaction. No other woman tonight would be painted the way that she was. She
couldn’t wait to see the look on Pansy Parkinson’s face.

“Are they magical? Bowen suggested they were imbued with some kind of wizarding
magic,” she said.

She heard him huff in amusement behind her.

“You asked Bowen about the marks? Poor creature must be traumatized,” he laughed.

She felt a flash of ire stir inside of her.

“Well it’s not exactly like I had any kind of frame of reference for what was or wasn’t
appropriate to ask. I don’t know how I’m supposed to know any specifics about the customs
when everyone refuses to write them down. I didn’t see any instructions anywhere.”
“Why would anyone write them down?”

“Oh I don’t know, Malfoy. You tell me why a muggleborn invited to a historically pureblood-
only event might want written instructions for the secret preparations that are required for the
ceremony. I didn’t even know the marks existed at all until Bowen brought them up.”

“Nobody told you?” He sounded genuinely surprised by this.

“Clearly not,” she huffed.

The silence resumed. Hermione bit her lip hard, trying desperately to keep in the whimpers
and sighs as his fingers swept and swirled down her skin. It was like he sought out each
erogenous zone on her body and teased and tortured her there until she was panting. Some of
the longer lines he traced into her skin she longed to lean into like a cat.

Was this a kink? Was she into the feeling of being painted? Or was it because it was his
fingers tracing down her skin? Because it was his paint that he marked along her body?
Would she feel this strong of a reaction if it were anybody else?

She tried to imagine if it were her ex-boyfriend Ron instead of Malfoy painting her, and the
thought made her grimace. It would do absolutely nothing for her. She would not feel the
same. Not at all.

So why was this so different? What about him made her feel so charged, so on edge, so ready
to fall apart at the seams?

She blamed the lust potion. That must be it. She needed to get a grip. Collect herself. This
was not a sexual experience, despite how erotic it felt to her. Malfoy was just doing her a
favor like she’d asked him to. Why he even agreed was still beyond her. Why he went so far
as to paint her in the marks of his House was simply unfathomable. If he knew just how
aroused she was by this, he would probably be horrified. She should be ashamed of herself.

Thoroughly chastised, she watched idly as he worked, curious to see what he was painting on
her skin. Some of the runes she recognised, like uruz, lagoz, and manaz. Others, she did not
know, but she didn’t trust her voice enough to ask.

When her arms and shoulders were done, he gathered her hair in his hand. It made her scalp
tingle and her skin buzz.

“Do you mind?” He asked.

Immediately, she took over holding the mass of her hair. The slip was cut low, with a dip that
extended to the small of her back. It gave him plenty of room to paint.

As he continued, she could feel that the design was larger, spanning across her shoulders. As
his fingers traced feather-light down her spine to the small of her back, she instinctively
arched, gasping loud as sensation flooded her body. It was like her nerves danced, and sparks
flew behind her eyes.
Malfoy froze behind her. A beat passed, and cold reality cut through the lust in her blood. Her
mortification was immediate.

Her reaction was undeniable. Despite her attempts to keep her arousal to herself, there was no
way to misinterpret how she just responded. If he was ignorant to her desperation before, he
was coldly, inarguably aware now. He was a smart man, and her reaction to his touch was
anything but subtle.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled, embarrassed beyond belief, “my back is very sensitive.”

She wanted to smother herself in her curls. She wanted to apparate to Antarctica and let the
polar bears take her. Hermione was grateful she couldn’t see his expression, she didn’t want
to know what he thought of her. He probably thought she was some kind of desperate slut.
Which honestly, given how she felt right now, she kind of was.

Malfoy was still didn’t move from behind her. She could feel his finger hovering in place at
the base of her spine, a single heated point amidst the chill of paint adorning her back. As his
silence stretched on, her embarrassment grew tenfold.

“I’m sorry. I’ve always been very sensitive there. Can barely get through a massage without
twitching. I’m sorry. I should have warned you. I didn’t mean to do that. If you don’t want to
continue, or if you want to get someone else to help me finish, I get it. I’m just very sensitive
there, and whenever someone touches it I just feel so—“

“Granger,” he interrupted her rambling sharply.

“Y-yes?” She stuttered.

“Shut up.”

Her mouth shut closed with a click. The sound echoed in the otherwise silent room. She
heard him sigh from behind her, before he continued to paint along her back. He studiously
avoided the area that drove her wild, and she couldn’t decide if she was grateful or resentful
for it.

Eventually he was done and muttered a drying charm along her back. The heat of his magic
on her skin made her shudder and her eyes fluttered closed. His magic felt strong, secure, and
sensual as it settled the paint into her skin. He lightly pulled at her wrist telling her without
words that it was okay to let go of her hair. He stepped around the stool and stood directly in
front of her.

She blushed at the change in position, as she slowly dragged her eyes up from the waistband
of his trousers. He loomed over her, all powerful man and menace. That damned pirate shirt
of his made her mouth water, and she wanted to lick the marks from his skin. When their eyes
met, Hermione could feel that pulse inside of her grow strong, and she bit her lip again to
restrain her noises.

“I’m going to do your legs now,” he said.

His voice was darker than before, and Hermione shivered. She didn’t know why he was
announcing where he worked. Maybe he confused her shivering and flinching for being
easily startled.

“Okay,” she breathed, trying to give herself some kind of agency by agreeing.

Malfoy sank to his knees before her, and she’d be damned if the sight didn’t drive her wild.
His gaze was searing as he dipped two thick fingers in the paint before grabbing ahold of her
ankle with the other hand.

With the rich red color of the paint, his hands looked like they were stained with blood. For
some inexplicable reason she had no desire to ever analyze, the sight of a bloodied Draco
Malfoy kneeling at her feet and servicing her drove her all but feral. His hold over her left
ankle was hot and secure, and the possessiveness of it made her body tremble.

For a man so cold, she never imagined his touch would burn so hot.

“So sensitive,” he muttered, eyeing the goosebumps that raced along her legs.

If only he knew just how sensitive she was. As he gently pried her legs apart as he painted
higher and higher along her calves, she gnawed on her lip so hard she could taste blood, all in
an effort to contain her sighs. She could feel her arousal spilling down her thighs and onto the
stool below her.

What if he noticed? At this rate, he would have to be blind not to. Would he say something?
Would he mock her? Berate her? She could hear him now. Poor dirty little girl, so desperate,
so needy, that I barely have to touch you for you to soak the chair. Pathetic. The thought of
him saying that while sliding those paint-stained fingers into her cunt made her spasm.

The real Malfoy let out a frustrated sigh, before bringing his palm down suddenly on the
exposed inner flesh of her thigh, startling her out of her imaginings with a loud yelp. The
action was so sudden, so jarring, that she nearly fell off of the stool. Malfoy’s hand was a vice
around her ankle, jerking her to stay upright.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” She shouted.

Her wide eyes trained on him while her mouth hung open in shock. Her thigh burned from
the sting of his slap. But the pain slowly mellowed out until her skin was warm and tingled
underneath his fingers. Her arousal dripped out of her as her cunt clenched desperately
around nothing.

Against any and all reason, she wondered if she could make him do it again.

“What did I say about moving?” he growled.

Hermione froze. She was so lost in thought she didn’t even notice the extent of her
squirming. She blinked at him, a flush staining her skin. Her breath caught in her throat. His
eyes were dark and thunderous, like twin storm clouds set on releasing their destruction down
upon her.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, swallowing past the sudden fear in her throat.

“I don’t need you to be sorry,” he sneered, “I need you to be still.”

His grip on her ankle eased up from punishing to gentle once more, but his gaze still rooted
her to the spot. His manhandling of her body had the unintended consequence of her legs
spilling wider around him. If she glanced down, she could see the shine of slick coating her
inner thighs, stopping just millimeters away from his handprint blooming red on her skin.

As Malfoy turned back to his work, Hermione felt her shame wash over her again. Her dress
had ridden up considerably thanks to the widening of her legs, and she knew beyond a
shadow of a doubt that if he looked up, he would be able to see her soaking through her
underwear.

So far, aside from the slap and hair pulling, his gaze and touch since he started painting on
her had been nothing short of respectful. His eyes only looked where he worked, and his
touch was light, and didn’t wander anywhere it wasn’t supposed to.

But by Merlin how she wanted it to.

She hated him all over again for his restraint.

She watched as his hands trailed up her calves to her knees, before starting to work on her
thighs. With a gentle, but persistent hand, he spread her legs wider, allowing him access to
more of his canvas. Her slip rose up even higher, with only an inch of fabric covering her.
She shivered in his hold, her skin prickling at his touch.

“Granger,” he growled low in warning.

The hand that rested on her thigh twitched. It hovered just over the red imprint that bloomed
on her skin. The warning was clear. Blood rushed in her ears, and she fought to keep from
squirming at the darkness in his tone.

“Sorry,” she breathed out quickly.

His fingers twitched again, and she wondered if he would slap her again just because he felt
like it. She certainly wanted him to. The glinting of his signet ring in the bright light seemed
to mock her.

His fingers anchored to her inner thigh as his other hand worked on painting the runes. They
dug into the abused skin just enough to make it tingle with heat. She whimpered at the pain
as it bloomed outwards and directly towards her dripping center. His hands twitched again,
while his furious eyes locked onto the curve of the runes he painted.

“Shut. Up. Granger,” Malfoy snarled.

His words were clipped, short, and angry.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He sighed, before rubbing his temple with the heel of his paint-covered palm.

“Stop fucking apologizing too,” he spat through clenched teeth.

“I’m so—“

His venomous glare cut her short. She withered under the ferocity of it, and flushed.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she whispered, eyes wide as she blinked at him.

“I don’t want you to say anything at all,” he snapped, “I swear to fucking Merlin if you make
one more sound or move one more time I’m going to fucking lose it.”

His threats made her blood run hotter, and she felt her core throb in response. What if she
kind of did want him to lose it? What would he do to her then?

“You do not want to test me right now, Granger. Believe me. Do you understand?” He
demanded.

His gaze was unflinching as he glared at her expectantly. Even his magic seemed to flicker
and pulse with warning along with his threat.

Hermione nodded, her fear of setting him off again robbing her of her voice.

“Good,” he said shortly, exhaling hard as he did.

He reached for her other ankle. The process took over her mind, as she fought to contain all
of the sighs and whimpers that she had unknowingly let slip before. She couldn’t make that
mistake again. Her lip was raw from how much she had bitten it, and the taste of copper
flooded her mouth. She obeyed though. All of her muscles were rigid beyond belief as she
fought against any involuntary twitch or spasm. She was going delirious, she was sure of it.

“What does that one mean?” She asked as she watched him paint a rune just below her knee.

He had painted a similar one on her other knee, but the curve was reversed.

“It’s a sign of offering,” he bit out.

His answer made her had buzz. So he had painted a sign of offering on her knees? The lack
of subtlety made her snort.

Malfoy’s cold gaze flickered to hers, and he arched a pale brow. There was no trace of
amusement on his face, and Hermione felt her own fizzle out. Her heart started to pound the
more he stared at her, mouth set in a cold smirk.

“Find that funny, do you?” He sneered.

His hand that was cradling her calf while he painted trailed upwards to her inner thigh. “We’ll
see just who’s laughing in the end.”
His long fingers twitched against her skin in warning. Hermione swallowed nervously, but
despite her instincts telling her to shut up and listen, her arousal was making her delirious and
testy.

“An offering on my knees?” she smirked, “Seems a bit on the nose.”

She stared down at him, unblinking, as the weight of what she said settled over them. His
smirk deepened, and he leaned in until his face was inches away from hers. She could count
the fine lashes that shaded his burning silver eyes. His breath ghosted over her face, and it
smelled minty, mixing with the oils and musk of his person.

“I wonder,” he purred, “if I could make you cum from just the pain alone. How many slaps
do you think it would take? Two? Three?”

Fuck, she wanted to cum so bad. Hearing him acknowledge it made her realize just how close
she was. She flushed with embarrassment and heat and fought the urge to grind down on the
stool. She danced on the precipice of her orgasm, silently pleading for him to push her over to
the other side.

She felt a sudden pinch to her inner thigh. It was short and vicious enough to make her hiss
without the same satisfying burn as his slap.

“Answer me, Granger,” he demanded, his breath skating across her lips.

“No.”

She didn’t want to let go of whatever faint glimmer of pride she had left. She couldn’t let him
know just how much he effected her, not that easily.

Malfoy chuckled darkly instead and smirked at her. He looked like a predator gearing up for
the kill.

“I also disagree,” he taunted, “I think it would take just one.”

Instead of proving his point like she desperately wanted him to, he pulled back.

She was panting, legs spread before him, skin flushed, and eyes dilated. Any pretense of not
feeling the overdosed effects the potion were long gone. She felt utterly debauched. Her chest
heaved, and her nipples were sharp points demanding his attention through her slip. Her skin
was fever hot, and burned hotter still in his hands.

Pride torn to shreds, she wondered if he would give in if she begged. An animalistic whine
escaped her lips, and Malfoy’s silver eyes grew dark as he watched her.

“If you hadn’t lied to me earlier, I could’ve given you something to reduce the effects of the
potion. But you did. You did this to yourself, Granger,” he glared, “Now if you shut up and
don’t move like the good little girl you’re so desperate to be, then I might just overlook your
transgression and give you a reward. Would you like that?” he proposed, teeth flashing in a
devastating smirk.
She couldn’t breathe. Equal parts humiliation and arousal warred inside of her. She really had
no one else to blame for being in this predicament but herself. But she blamed him for being
too much of an asshole for her to feel comfortable enough to be honest around.

Hermione’s brain lit up at being given the promise of a reward. Everything in her narrowed
down to the thought of what her reward would be. Would he make good on his promise and
slap her again? Would he involve his fingers and tongue? The thought of Draco Malfoy
eating her out was enough to make her brain short-circuit. He would make her feel so good.
She just knew it.

She nodded her head shakily. She didn’t trust her voice.

“Use your words, Granger. Will you be a good girl for me?” He taunted.

Her cheeks burned. She’d never been spoken to like this before. She’d dreamed about it,
fantasized about dark honeyed words coming out of his mouth specifically. But for Malfoy to
actually be here talking to her like this had an effect on her unlike anything she could’ve
imagined.

“Yes, I’ll be good for you,” she answered.

Malfoy’s smile was all vicious male satisfaction. He went back to his work, his fingers
swirling and stroking her skin with ease. The contrast of the cold paint and his hot hands
made her shiver, but she balled her hands in the hem of her slip and fought to remain still.

When he finished with her legs, he rose up on his knees towards her. He moved her hair from
her shoulders and began to work on her collarbone and above her breasts.

Could he feel how fast her heart was racing? Could he feel each stutter of breath whenever
his fingers dipped just below the fabric of her slip?

“So you do know how to listen to me,” he mused as he drew another rune on the pulse of her
throat, “If I’d have known this was the best way to shut you up, I would’ve done it ages ago.”

Hermione glared at him in response to that. She opened her mouth to respond to him with a
retort of her own, but his thumb rose to the other side of her throat. He didn’t apply any
pressure, merely rested his hand around her neck, but the message was clear.

“Careful, Granger,” he purred, “you’ve been doing so well for me. You’ve been so good. You
don’t want to have your reward taken away now, do you?”

The darkness in his eyes was gleeful, baiting her to open her mouth and say something
stupid. He was taunting her. The prick.

She maintained her glare. At her continued silence, his dark smile grew wider. His grip on
her throat tightened, and Hermione’s eyes fluttered. Her hand scrambled to grab at his thick
wrist. She could feel her pulse thrumming against his grip. She didn’t know if she wanted
him to pull away or apply more pressure. Malfoy’s eyes were nearly so dark they looked
black, and they seared her with their intensity. His pristine teeth looked sharp then. Deadly.
“Your needy little pussy must be aching for me, isn’t it? You must be so desperate for me to
fill it up for you. You want to know how I can tell?”

He leaned in closer, until his lips traced along the outer shell of her ear. He breathed her in for
a moment.

“I can smell you,” Malfoy whispered.

His confession was a damnation. A confirmation of her worst fears and wildest fantasies.

His tongue darted out, teasing along the edge of her ear, before biting gently down.
Hermione’s pulse ran wild, and a corresponding wave of need gushed out of her. She gasped
at the sensations, her head full of everything and nothing at all.

“The moment I knelt at your feet, I could smell your greedy little pussy. I can see the way it’s
been weeping for me, spilling down your thighs. You’re so starved you've been moaning and
crying out while I barely even touch you. Tell me, Granger, would you get off on anyone else
painting you up real nice like this, or is it just for me?”

The steady weight of his hand around her throat made her head buzz. Every part of her body
felt like liquid heat. Her eyes fluttered as she processed what he just said to her.

On some level, she felt embarrassed that he could smell her arousal so strongly. The other
part of her was so drunk on her lust that she didn’t care. Let him smell it. Let him see it. Let
him know how much he was completely ruining her. Maybe he’ll actually do something
about it then.

The grip on her throat tightened a fraction, and she gasped at the sensation. It felt so good.
Like he was claiming her. She could feel the strength and power in his grip. She loved it.

“Answer me, Granger. Do you drip this easily for other men, or is all this mess for me?”
Malfoy demanded.

“You,” she gasped, “it’s just you.”

His answering grin was feral. All sharp teeth and ruinous promises. The heat in his half-
lidded eyes was mercurial. Hermione wanted to burn beneath it.

“One last question for you, Granger.”

She looked at him through half-lidded eyes and waited with her heart in her throat for him to
continue.

“Earlier, when you were fucking yourself in the closet, who were you thinking of?”

Her stomach dropped and mortification flooded through her like a tidal wave.

“You knew?” She wheezed through his hold.

His answering smirk was lethal, “of course I knew. Why do you think I stopped you when I
did?”

“You fucking bastard. I was so close,” she whined.

“I know,” he said far too cheerfully, before his voice lowered in seriousness, “Now answer
my question, Granger. If you’re honest with me, then I’ll take care of you.”

“You. I was thinking about you, you fucking bastard. Are you happy?” She spat, her chest
heaving indignantly through his hold on her throat.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” he snarled.

In an instant, his hand left her throat. She gasped for breath, while he reached down to the top
of her slip, and tore the dress down the middle. Hermione’s jaw dropped open at the savagery.
His hands flew to her thong next, and the pressure on her hips tightened, until it too was torn
away from her body.

Like a man possessed, Malfoy wasted no time running his fingers through the mess between
her thighs and growled, before plunging two paint-stained fingers deep inside of her.

Hermione’s back bowed like a string, and her eyes rolled back in her head. The moan
wrenched out of her mouth was animalistic and loud. Malfoy’s teeth attacked her throat,
biting, liking, and sucking at her skin, while his fingers fucked her in a punishing, unrelenting
rhythm. His other hand tangled itself in her hair, keeping her close as he ruined her.

Everything in Hermione’s body was reduced down to sensation. After being edged for so
long, the reality of him touching her was almost too much. Her hands fisted the fine strands
of his hair and his shirt as she clung desperately on to him. She pulled him into her body,
needing to feel as close to him as possible.

The sounds of his fingers pushing in and out of her cunt were obscene in the otherwise silent
room. He crooked his fingers, and scraped them unrelentingly against the spongy flesh of her
g-spot.

“Oh my god,” she cried out, her body racing towards her peak.

“That’s right baby, I am your God. Let me give you my first commandment,” Malfoy
snarled.

“Cum.”

His hand came down hard on her clit, spanking her pussy before his fingers continued their
ruthless onslaught. Hermione’s vision went white, and she screamed as her orgasm ripped
through her body. All of the build-up, all of the edging multiplied the intensity of the pleasure
that seized her body. Her thighs shook, and her hips bucked on the stool, chasing the
stimulation he gave her. He groaned against her neck, while his other hand moved to wrap
around her back, pinning her writhing form in place against him.
His fingers never stopped, drawing out every second of her orgasm. She moaned from
overstimulation, and twitched helplessly in his hold.

“It’s too-it’s too much. I can’t” she panted wildly.

She burrowed her face in the nape of his neck, pulling sharply on his hair. His answering
groan was hot in her ear, and he chuckled.

“Tapping out already, Granger? Don’t think you can give me one more?” He taunted.

His fingers, if anything, sped up, and she roared into his skin, her entire body tense. His
thumb rubbed relentless circles around her clit.

“Malfoy, please!” She cried, feeling tears spring to her eyes.

She wanted more. She wanted to cum again. She wanted him to stop. It was too much. Fuck
she’d never felt so much pleasure in her life. It was endless, crashing into her over and over
and over again.

“One more, Granger. I need you to cum for me one more time. That’s it. Need to feel it. Need
your cum. Fuck, want to feel it. Give it to me, Granger,” he groaned.

She whined, thrashing wildly against him as she took what he gave her.

“Don’t stop!” She screamed.

“I won’t baby, I won’t. I promise. Cum for me now, Granger. There you go, that’s it. Fuck.”

It was like a bomb going off inside of her body. All of her sensations were overwhelmed to
feeling everything and nothing. Full body tremors shook her body, and she struggled to
breathe.

After a moment, Malfoy’s fingers slowed, before slowly slipping out of her cunt altogether.
His hand came to rest at her hip and she could feel her skin dampen with the evidence of her
arousal. He held her close as she trembled and came down from her orgasm. Every part of her
limbs felt loose and jelly-like. If it weren’t for her clinging to him, she would have fallen off
of the stool.

“Feeling better?” He asked her.

She nodded, not trusting her voice enough to speak. Her body continued to shudder from the
after effects of her orgasms.

They stayed like that for another minute, before Malfoy pulled back from her entirely. He
glanced at the clock.

“I have to go. I need to finish preparing for tonight,” he said.

He stood up and gave her an appraising once over. It was only then that she realized she was
fully nude while he remained fully clothed. The fog of her lust was receding bit by bit, and
she felt self-conscious for the first time around him.

She stood up and gathered the robe from the ground. She bundled herself in it and turned to
face him.

“How long will the potion last for?” She asked him.

“Normally it lasts for a few hours, but orgasms take the edge off. With how much you were
exposed to though, it’s hard to say.”

Hermione’s mouth flattened at the thought of feeling like this for an indeterminate amount of
time.

“What should I expect tonight?”

“I can’t say,” he sighed, “I’ve fucked up enough as it is already.”

Ire rose in her chest, as well as a prick of insecurity. He was such an ass. An ass hiding even
more secrets from her.

“Well you certainly know how to make a woman feel valued afterwards,” she sneered.

He rolled his eyes at her response, “We’re not even supposed to see each other before the
bonfire, let alone fuck. There’s going to be consequences for this.”

“Technically we didn’t do that.”

“You still orgasmed because of me. Twice. It’s going to read the same in the ritual either way.
If you had just told me you were overdosed, none of this would have happened,” he leveled
her with a piercing look, “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

Hermione felt like a deer in the headlights. The answer was so obvious she couldn’t believe
she even had to say it.

“Because I didn’t know how to tell you since it was embarrassing. Because I don’t trust you
at all.”

“That’s bullshit. You were suffering from the side-effects of too much exposure to the potion.
You should have told me, but you didn’t. Because of that, I lost control.”

“Sure, go ahead and blame me, when I didn’t even understand what was happening to my
own body. Maybe if Bowen told me what the potion was before letting me bathe in it for an
hour, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Wait, hang on a minute. You bathed in it for an hour?”

“Yes?”

Malfoy froze, before gripping his silver-white strands with his hands. It messed up his
already disheveled hair further.
“Salazar’s sweating balls. Fuck,” he hissed.

“Why does that matter?” She asked.

The look he leveled her with was searing. He looked genuinely distressed.

“You’re supposed to only bathe in it for thirty minutes. No wonder you were acting like that.
You took a double dose. Explains the smell too.”

Well that explained Bowen’s frustration with her stalling for time.

“What do I smell like?”

It wasn’t the question she meant to ask, but it was the one that came out anyway. She
watched his nostrils flare as he inhaled deep. His eyes fluttered shut, and he swallowed.
When he opened his half-lidded eyes to meet hers, he looked possessed.

“You smell like sex. Like you’re ready and ripe to be fucked. You smell like you want to be
ruined by me. Like you need it. It makes me want to claim you and fuck you until you’re
pumped full and dripping with my cum.”

Her face burned with heat as he spoke. She had no idea how to respond to that. To any of it.

But his words had an effect on her body regardless. She felt her core clench, and her arousal
dripped out, smearing along her thighs. She watched as his eyes flashed, and he breathed
deep. Could he scent that? Did he know how much his words made her desperate for more?

“Fuck. I need to get out of here,” he muttered.

He pulled out his wand from his back pocket in a smooth gesture, then paused.

“See you soon, Granger.”

With that, he apparated away in a soft crack.

 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

For vibes, check out the band Heilung. Their music is what I imagine the soundtrack to
the celebration to be. Listening to their Lifa album is what first gave me the inspiration
for this fic in the first place.
Hope you enjoy!

The air was thick and sweet in her lungs, holding within it the anticipation of rainfall. As
Hermione walked to the meeting point at the edge of the woods, she felt the weight of it settle
deep inside her gut. The sun was low in the sky, but strong enough to make her skin damp
with perspiration. She was grateful for the light weight of her white cotton shift, and gathered
a fistful of her skirt to keep it from trailing along the ground.

In the distance, she could see the rest of the girls had already gathered. There had to be about
fifteen girls in total, all in near-identical dresses to Hermione’s. She spied the blunt dark bob
of Pansy Parkinson’s hair, and the cascading blonde waves of Daphne Greengrass beside her.

Up close, the unkemptness of the other girls’ appearance looked more artful than accidental.
Though their faces were the most bare Hermione had ever seen them. Their skin was still
perfectly even, bronzed, and glowing. Mascara darkened their eyes, and their brows were
meticulously maintained. Everyone’s hair was down, unbound, and had a slight bend, curl, or
wave that Hermione had never seen in them before. She wondered if the lack of straightening
was to sell the illusion that they were all natural.

The only thing that really stood out to Hermione were the marks that the girls all had painted
on their skin. They were all different colors, from rich purples, navy, burnt umber, and deep
forest greens. Hermione was the only one painted red. The runes themselves were also
different. Some had similar marks, but in varying places, but most were completely unique.
From the appraising looks leveled at her as she walked up, hers must not have been out of
place. For that she was relieved.

Now that she thought about it, she would have to thank Malfoy for his help later. She was so
caught up in his seduction that she’d abandoned her manners entirely.

Pansy’s dark brown eyes flickered to Hermione as she approached, and they narrowed with
barely restrained hostility.

“Finally. Get lost in the garden, Granger? I’ve heard stories that your kind has a fondness for
dirt,” Pansy sneered.
Hermione just ignored the jab. It wasn’t worth it to dignify the other girl with a response. She
was outnumbered here.

“We should leave soon,” Daphne said, with her pale green eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Yeah, you’re right. Since the charity case is finally here, we can go now,” Pansy smiled
then, but it was more a wicked, sharp, baring of her teeth, “Okay bitches, buddy up and
follow me. Follow the path and don’t lag behind. If you get lost or tired, I don’t fucking care,
that’s on you. You have magic, figure something out.”

And with that abrasive speech over, Pansy spun on her heel and started walking into the
forest, arm-in-arm with Daphne. Hermione hesitated, waiting for the last of the other girls to
pair up, before following dutifully behind them alone. She tried to drown out the other girls’
giggles and idle chatter, and focused instead on the chittering of birds, the sharp buzzing of
the cicadas, and the crunch of underbrush beneath her sandals.

The path was illuminated with soft orange flames which hovered ankle-high from the ground.
As they walked, a contemplative sort of silence gradually befell the group, only occasionally
interrupted by a bark of laughter or scathing joke. The deeper into the forest they walked, the
more the trees grew taller and thicker, deepening the shadows which cast out the light of the
sun.

They came upon an archway made of branch and vine. It looked ancient and primordial. The
twist of root and drape of leaf was interspersed by small golden flames which were cool to
the touch.

As Hermione passed underneath it, a rush of magic rippled through her body. She gasped,
goosebumps erupting along her skin. She could feel the magic gently crackle along her body,
like a whisper teasing down her spine. She felt a thick blanket of it settle into the air around
her, heavy, but restrained with power. As she made to continue forward, it moved with her.

Because it was her, Hermione realized. It was her magical core manipulating the immediate
space around her, pulsing and writhing like a living extension of herself. Each breath felt
thicker and sweeter in her lungs. A kind of electricity thrummed in her veins. She had never
felt the sheer presence of magic like this before, let alone her own. It felt solid, but malleable,
and achingly familiar. Magic had never seemed more tangible. She wanted to sink into it, to
meld, and to burn, and to finally become one with that pure, unfiltered power always
tempting her just outside of her reach.

“Hermione?” a soft voice called.

Hermione opened her eyes at once. She was startled to realize she had even closed them at
all, let alone stopped walking. The crowd of girls before her was gone, and there was an eerie
absence of their giggles and footsteps. The sounds of the forest around her seemed at once
muffled and overwhelmingly magnified. The weight of the magic in the air around her draped
heavy on her limbs, and crackled with anticipation.

“Hermione, are you okay?” the soft voice asked. Hermione turned, and it took a while for her
senses to hone in enough for her to focus. She registered in fragments before understanding
the whole. Impossibly pale blonde hair. Large kind cerulean eyes. A fragile, delicate body
drowning in white ruffles and childishly embroidered flowers. A hideous charm necklace
made from the exoskeleton of a beetle. Lavender swirls and marks along pale arms.

Luna Lovegood.

It was like a bubble popped, and all at once Hermione felt sensation flood her. Luna’s eyes
were unwavering as they watched her reorient herself, but there was a patience to her smile
that made Hermione feel incredibly un-judged.

“Yes, I’m alright. Thank you,” Hermione smiled, though it was slightly strained. “To be
honest, I’m not quite sure what just came over me.”

Luna hummed in thought, her blue eyes sparkling with understanding.

“It’s nothing to be afraid of, the magic,” she smiled dreamily.

“I know,” Hermione said.

And she meant it.

“I remember the first time I felt the old magic. I cried so hard I vomited. It was quite the
spiritual experience. I felt truly seen by my magic for the first time,” Luna paused, and that
clear, unwavering gaze settled on her once again, “I hope you’re able to achieve something
similar for yourself tonight, Hermione. Though ideally with decidedly less vomit.”

Hermione couldn’t help but snort with laughter, “Now on that we are in complete agreement.
Thank you, Luna. Truly.”

They continued down the path together. The shadows of the trees stretched and deepened.
Golden sunlight cast everything in the forest aglow. The silence that stretched between them
was not uncomfortable. More than anything, Hermione was just relieved to have the
company.

“I didn’t see you before. Earlier,” Hermione said after a while. Luna tilted her head in
thought.

“I didn’t want to be seen,” Luna said, both evading and answering her question.

Hermione didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

“I prefer walking alone, especially tonight. People are often distracting on Beltane. I like to
prepare myself on the way for the ritual,” Luna sighed.

Right, the ritual. She wondered if Luna would tell her what it was, if she asked, or if she
would give her some dreamy response only half-tethered to reality. She decided to temper her
curiosity for now, even though she loathed feeling unprepared.

“I’m sorry to disturb your peace then,” she said shortly.

“I don’t mind your company, Hermione, even if your head is always swarmed by busibees. In
a way, it’s like being with a friend,” Luna smiled. Hermione again had no idea what to say.
What the hell was a busibee? She resolutely ignored that comment, because she didn’t know
what else to do with it.

“I am your friend, Luna,” Hermione said instead.

“That’s nice.”

Hermione didn’t really know what to make of Luna. She had never really contemplated
friendship with her until she declared it, but it felt wrong to call her anything else. Whatever
their relationship, Hermione certainly regarded her as the closest thing she had here to an ally.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Luna felt the same way.

They continued to walk. Just as Hermione’s thoughts began to wander with vivid ideas of
what the ritual could be, a low droning horn crooned over the buzz and chirp of the forest.
The deep tone was resonant and warm. It felt at once like a warning and a welcoming. It
droned on continuously, rarely pausing but for a quarter of a breath.

Then, a steady, pulsing vibration echoed beneath her feet, and Hermione felt the beat of the
drums before she heard them. The percussion began with quick pulsing beats that quickened
the pace of her heart, and another steady, grounding pulse that kept it all in time.

Hermione, who had never before felt any real appreciation for drumming, found herself
immediately entranced. It felt primal, instinctual. All at once, the impending ritual seemed
much more real

The tree line thinned until they came across a clearing. The rest of the girls were there. As a
collective, they gathered rocks from two nearby piles and created several spiraling circles
around a large, shallow pit.

The matriarchs of the Sacred Twenty-Eight were there. They were easily identifiably by their
flowing dark gowns which were a sharp contrast to the stark white shift dresses of the youth.
They sat on pillows besides an altar. Wildflowers covered the ground around them, and she
watched as they each weaved the flowers into intricate crowns. Some were small, more twig
than bloom, and others were full and lush with color.

As Hermione watched, she was struck by three things at once.

One, was that she’d never seen any of the older woman ever actually do anything with their
hands before, and the sight of it was strangely jarring to Hermione.

Her second observation was the complete lack of opulence and finery of their robes. The dark
gowns were lightweight, gauzy, and plain; a far cry from the golden embroidery, silks, and
jewels she was used to seeing the elite pureblood woman parade around in.

The third thing was the realization of just how sacred this holiday must have been to
purebloods, for them to abandon their ostentation so completely for the night. She had
speculated about it earlier upon seeing her ex-classmates, but the appearance of the older
women all but confirmed it.

She wondered, not for the first time, why they had invited her to come. She was the only non-
pureblood in attendance besides Harry. He at least had the excuse of being courted by one of
their members. She didn’t.

“Come on,” Luna gently cajoled Hermione, and she silently followed the blonde to the rock
piles.

The stones Hermione plucked were sun-warmed and impossibly smooth to the point of
softness in her hands. She followed Luna as they joined the group of girls to complete the
large rock circles.

The droning horn and beat of the drums had yet to cease, and Hermione found herself
relaxing into her work. There was an innate sense of purpose and intent which guided her
hands and feet. Her mind was blank, and her limbs moved on their own. The rhythmic
vibration of the drums reverberated inside of her body, and Hermione sunk into it,
surrendering completely to its pull. She didn’t know how long it took for them to finish their
circles, but she knew immediately, instinctually when they were done.

“What do we do next?” Hermione whispered to Luna.

“Our mothers will bless us with offerings and tribute to the gods. It’s quite a beautiful
practice really,” Luna explained dreamily.

There was one glaring issue that troubled Hermione.

“But…our mothers aren’t here,” she said, hoping Luna would catch on to the question she
didn’t want to ask.

“The head matriarch blesses us all, including the children she did not personally birth.
Madame Historia was the one to bless me the last three years since my coming of age, but
since she passed, I believe the new matriarch will be Madame Malfoy. Her aura has certainly
solidified. She wears her duty like an invisible armor. Can’t you see it?”

With Luna’s guidance, Hermione finally looked towards the Malfoy matriarch. Hermione
knew immediately that Luna was right about her duties, but she owed that to the heavy iron
crown jutting high into the air above her head. A black metal netted veil obscured most of the
detail of her delicate face, but her pale grey eyes were as piercing as ever. Her shoulders were
squared, and her spine ramrod straight.

If Hermione didn’t know any better about this world, she would never doubt for a second that
the woman was a queen. There was an energy about her which spoke of the duty and
expectation she held on her delicate shoulders. An Invisible armor indeed.

Hermione watched as Madame Malfoy gracefully stood. The other matriarchs followed her
example and fell into a line, shoulder-to-shoulder.
A clear hierarchy had been set by the matriarchs based on their social rank. The wives and
mothers of the lower ranking purebloods stood on either end, going up the ranks to Madame
Malfoy at the center. Her ex-classmates gathered around to stand across from their mothers.

Hermione, unsure of what to do, walked towards the very end of the line. Luna parted from
her side to stand on the opposite end, but not before lightly grabbing her hand and giving it a
reassuring squeeze.

Madame Malfoy cleared her throat, and all eyes fell upon her. The golden light of the setting
sun set her features aglow. Her pale golden hair looked as though lit from within as it fell in
soft waves to her waist. There was a hardness in her pale grey eyes that reminded Hermione
uncomfortably of her son. They were just as cold, as calculating, and as impenetrable. Her
full mouth was stern. She looked every bit the ethereal priestess from another world come to
deliver to them either salvation or damnation.

“Bless, O threefold true and bountiful,

Myself, my spouse, my children.
Bless everything within my dwelling and in my possession,
Bless the kine and crops, the flocks and corn,
From Samhain Eve to Beltane Eve,
With goodly progress and gentle blessing,
From sea to sea, and every river mouth,
From wave to wave, and base of waterfall.

“Be the Mother, Maiden, and Crone,

Taking possession of all to me belonging.

Be the Horned God, the Wild Spirit of the Forest,
Protecting me in truth and honor.

Be the Merlin, the originator of all magic,

Granting power to connect to Earth and all,

Satisfy my soul and shield my loved ones,
Blessing every thing and every one,
All my land and my surroundings.
Great gods who create and bring life to all,
I ask for your blessings on this day of fire.”

A beat of silence fell upon them after Madame Malfoy’s prayer. Then, as though rehearsed,
the matriarchs all stepped forwards and placed a flower crown atop their daughters’ heads.
After the crown was placed, the daughters and mothers alike bowed their heads together,
closed their eyes, and chanted something between them. Hermione was too far away to hear,
and her palms began to sweat with anxiety. What was she supposed to say? Was she expected
to know?
One by one, the girls all received their crowns, until just Luna and Hermione remained. The
others had stepped back towards the circles of stones, but Hermione didn’t look behind her to
watch. She stared forward towards the edge of the clearing, and tried to calm down. She truly
did not like not knowing what was expected of her. If Madame Malfoy were to be the one
giving her blessing, she was sure her ignorance would not be looked at kindly.

She heard the soft footsteps in the grass headed her way, before she saw Madame Malfoy
enter her field of vision. The decorous witch’s gaze was sharp and assessing as it pierced
Hermione’s own. She felt small beneath the weight of restrained power that seemed to
emanate from the older woman. The gauzy dark fabric which modestly billowed from
Madame Malfoy’s willowy body was, now that Hermione could properly see, a very deep
green. Equally dark purple filigree was embroidered along the edges of her sleeves and neck.

Madame Malfoy raised the crown of flowers above Hermione’s head. It was an intricate
mixture of wildflowers of yellows, purples, whites, and reds. Hermione bowed her head
forwards in deference to accept it.

Madame Malfoy’s pale eyes flicked once down Hermione’s body, scanning the marks on her
skin with the most fleeting glance. If she had any questions of how the Beltane marks of her
own house were painted on Hermione’s skin, she kept those thoughts to herself.

“To the daughter I place upon thine head,

an offering of grace, virtue, and vitality.

To the woman I place upon thine skin,

a call to the gods for completion and connection.

May you be protected from harm by the all-mother,

May you be sought for life by the all-father.”

The flower crown was light upon her head as Madame Malfoy placed it down. Hermione felt
the weight of the matriarch’s hand trail from the crown to the nape of her neck. Her fingers
were cool and strong against her heated skin. Hermione kept her head bowed, and closed her
eyes.

The netted metal of Madame Malfoy’s veil was cold and cutting against her forehead.
Hermione was hyperaware of how close they were, and it took everything in her not to shrink
away.

“Repeat after me,” Madame Malfoy commanded. Hermione could only listen, thankful for
this grace she was being bestowed.
“From the mother I take strength and patience,

From the woman I take knowledge and passion.

I accept this gift of flowers, woven into the endless circle of life.

I give the gift of tribute to the name of Spring.”

Hermione repeated the words softly, as though bound in a trance. As she spoke, she felt the
heavy magic weigh her down further, until it suffused with the marrow in her bones. Her
muscles drank in the power that coiled within them. Hermione felt her body opening to
receive the gift of this magic, and she clung to the older witch, her fingers gripping
desperately onto her delicate, bony wrists.

After a moment, she gathered her bearings to the best of her ability, and Hermione opened
her eyes. A gasp escaped her lips before she could control it, and she jerked out of Madame
Malfoy’s hold, bringing her arms up close for her to see.

Her marks were gone.

She glanced back at the gathering of other young woman, who by now had begun to mingle
by the altar. Hermione’s brow furrowed in confusion. Their skin was equally blank, but she
remembered how each of them had been painted just as she was before. She glanced back
down at her arm, and the rich painted ruins were truly gone. She felt a pang inside of her
chest that she didn’t know what to do with.

“Only your intended can see them,” Madame Malfoy’s voice was calm behind her.

Hermione spun back around to look at her.

“My intended?” she asked.

Madame Malfoy cocked her head as she assessed Hermione, who flushed under her scrutiny.

“You really are ignorant, aren’t you?” Madame Malfoy sighed.

It was offensive because it was the truth, and because she said it with such disappointment.
Humiliation heated her cheeks and constricted her lungs. She absolutely refused to cry. She
would not grant Madame Malfoy the satisfaction.

“If my ignorance bothers you so much, then by all means enlighten me,” Hermione all but
demanded.

A ghost of a smile lifted the corner of Madame Malfoy’s lips. The expression was so like her
son, it made Hermione’s blood run cold.

“If my son had the foresight to withhold such information, then I shall not be the one to
divulge it. You will find out soon enough,” Madame Malfoy said, before turning her gaze to
the group mingling over Hermione’s shoulder.

It was as clear of a dismissal as any. Anger boiled low in her gut, viciously mixing with her
humiliation until it slicked her palms and sent her heart racing.

Fuck her. And fuck her for enjoying Hermione’s discomfort. She can see where Malfoy got it
from, his sickening enjoyment at watching her squirm, at watching her race to figure out
what everyone else around her already knows.

Fuck the lot of them.

Hermione all but stomped away, trying to wrestle what little dignity she had left into making
the action look graceful. She set out on a direct course for Luna. As she walked over, she
belatedly realized that Madame Malfoy had somehow deduced that the marks on her skin
were painted there by her son. How she figured it out, Hermione didn’t know or particularly
care.

She found Luna swaying gently to the beat of the drums, and Hermione almost regretted
pulling her out of her trance. Luna had mentioned how much tonight meant to her, and
Hermione had every intention of respecting that, but she needed answers. Now. She refused
to be kept in the dark any longer.

“Oh dear, those busibees have all but doubled. You should try chewing on some mugwort,
that should help them go away,” Luna sighed, her cerulean eyes glumly searching in the air
around Hermione’s head, “Maybe they like the dandelions,” she muttered.

“Luna, I need you to please answer a few questions for me,” Hermione declared.

Her voice was shrill, and she loathed how desperate she sounded.

“The busibees feed off of anxious thoughts. They like to make them grow bigger,” Luna
explained.

“Forget the fucking busibees for two fucking seconds!” Hermione shrieked.

Luna’s face fell, and her big cerulean eyes shimmered with a sudden rush of tears. Merlin,
she did not want to deal with this right now, even with the stab of guilt she felt

“I’m sorry, Luna, that was rude. You can tell me all about them later, I promise,” Hermione
said softly, trying to placate the girl, “But for right now, I need you to explain some things to
me. Things about the ritual. Can you do that for me?”

Luna nodded her head, but her mouth still wobbled in a pout.

“Who is my intended going to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, fair enough. Do you know who yours is?”

“No.”

“You don’t? But then how will you know who he is?”

“The marks will reveal him to me, and me to him.”

“How are we expected to celebrate with them?”

“It depends on the pairing. We won’t know until our marks meet. Sometimes all the
connection needs is closeness like hugging or sitting close to one another. Sometimes the
connection needs more.”

“What do you mean more?”

“I think you already know, Hermione.”

“What the fuck, Luna?”

“It is all perfectly natural, Hermione. Why does it bother you so much?”

“Because I don’t want to fuck a stranger!”

“Oh Hermione, no one’s expecting you to do that,” the look Luna gave her was pitying, and
Hermione couldn’t bloody stand it, “Normally that kind of connection is only asked of
newlyweds, and really it’s only partially a compulsion. With you, it’s more than likely that
the most you’ll be asked to do is snog.”

“Oh, okay, I can handle that.”

Luna was quiet as she watched Hermione. She begun to sway to the drums again, and
Hermione wondered just how involuntary the act was.

Hermione’s thoughts raced with the thought of what the night might hold. How in control of
her own actions would she be tonight? What would cause this compulsion? Would it be like
the lust potion from earlier? It was still in her system anyway, she could feel the simmering
heat of it pulsing through her body. How long would the compulsion last?

In her mind, Hermione saw a vision of herself and a stranger entangled together, sweat
slicked and heads thrown back in pleasure. Hermione’s mouth ran dry, and she cleared her
mind of such thoughts.

“I need some water. Are there any drinks here?” Hermione asked suddenly, her gaze scanning
the clearing.

“I don’t have any water, but I do have something else, if you want to try it,” Luna offered.
The idea of trying one of Luna’s home-brew’s was enough to make Hermione suspicious, but,
against her better judgment, Hermione found herself curious.

Luna had always been an inventive an accomplished potioneer, and Hermione could
reasonably assume with a certain level of confidence that Luna held no malicious intent
towards her. Luna plunged a hand into one of the many great ruffles on her dress, before
procuring a small vial.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

“Tonic, for the nerves. The busibees like to bother me sometimes too, and I find this helps
keep them at bay. Though, it’s not as effective as the mugwort. You really should look into
getting some,” Luna explained with a soft earnestness.

Hermione could read between the lines enough to feel immediate sympathy for the girl. Once
again she was struck by a pang of guilt for being so short with her earlier. Luna really had
been nothing but helpful. In an effort to make it up to her, Hermione took the offered vial,
and peered at it.

It was an incredibly pale lilac. In the fading sunlight, it sparkled with stunning luster. She
delicately sniffed the tonic. It smelled clean, crisp, and had the slightest hint of peppermint.
She couldn’t recall any poisons smelling anything quite like this. If it weren’t for the color,
Hermione would’ve assumed it was a calming draught.

Deciding it was harmless enough, Hermione raised the vial in a mock cheers and smiled at
Luna in thanks, before knocking it back in one go. The potion was an odd combination of
minty, spicy, and floral that altogether did not taste great.

The effect was immediate. It was less overwhelming than a calming draught, which could
feel like an on/off switch to a floodgate of emotion. Instead, Hermione could feel as the
tension in her muscles unwound, and the tightness in her chest dissipated. She closed her
eyes, and felt as her heartbeat returned back to its normal steady thrum. She hadn’t realized
how anxious she was until now, and she was incredibly grateful, yet again, that Luna was
here.

“Thank you so much,” she said, hoping she could convey the sincerity of her gratitude well
enough.

“It’s fine,” Luna smiled, “The busibees are starting to fly away, so I’m glad I could help you.
Do you feel better?”

“Definitely,” she answered.

And she really did. It was like an equally balanced calming draught to bring her down, and
pepper-up to keep her going. She felt the most like herself that she had all day. She’d love to
be able to brew this for herself more regularly. Hermione would have to ask her for the
recipe.

“Good! Let’s dance!” Luna smiled.

She all but dragged Hermione back over towards the rest of the girls, who were all mingling
in the circle of stones. Some were dancing, some were sitting delicately on the ground
talking, and some were standing by the altar. Pansy and Daphne stood next to Madame
Malfoy and their mothers. Hermione couldn’t imagine a more dreadful group of people to
socialize with.

Luna grabbed at Hermione’s hands and threw her arms about in a grand flurry in time with
the pulsing of the drums. Normally, she’d be red as a tomato to be seen acting so foolishly,
but there was a lightness in her chest, and a calm in her veins, and she found herself laughing
instead.

They danced and swayed, and Hermione’s cheeks ached from smiling so much. The
vibrations of the drums thrummed through her veins, and she surrendered to it. The last fade
of the golden hour stretched over the clearing. Hermione couldn’t help but miss the runes on
her skin beneath the dying light. They were beautiful, in a way, and they pulsed with magic.
For once, she truly felt like she was magic.

The sun set halfway down the horizon. The sky burned crimson and blue. Then, just from the
other side of the clearing, the drums stopped. The sudden absence of the drums and that low,
droning horn felt almost ominous. Everyone stopped to look towards the absence of sound.

Four heartbeats passed. Then, with even more ferocity, the drums began again. The rhythm
was different this time, it was more. A deep, masculine chant accompanied the beat of the
drum, and Hermione’s magic sang in her veins. The words were lost in the distance across the
clearing, but the power of the invocation, the raw passion behind it, she could feel in her
bones.

Guttural growls accompanied the chant and a throaty drone, not unlike a Mongolian throat
singer. The throat singer lead the chant, and the rest of the men repeated back to him. The
ferocity of their response shook the ground, and Hermione felt it in her core. The wind began
to pick up in the clearing, and she shivered, goosebumps erupting on her skin.

The men broke the tree line, and Hermione couldn’t look away. They were closer than
expected, but their proximity wasn’t what threw her off, it was their attire. The men strode
forward with bare chests, skin glistening with some kind of oil, and dark leather breeches.
Some had leather bands and cords adorning their arms and wrists, which tightened against the
bulge in their muscles as they shouldered large logs. And there, atop their necks, were deer
skulls that completely covered their faces from view.

For a moment, she was frightened. The dark, ominous sounds that they made, the shadows of
twilight catching in the holes of the deer skulls, and the bold display of flesh made Hermione
tremble. It was too much, all at once.

She felt a tug at her wrist, and she turned her head to see Luna, always Luna, guiding her
towards the circles of stones around the large, shallow pit. The rest of the girls stood equal
distances away from one another with hands outstretched and interlocked, forming a large
ring around the pit. Hermione grasped the hand of a girl she didn’t know and Luna.

Five of the matriarchs walked clockwise around the outskirts of the ring. Five more circled
them going counter-clockwise instead. Madame Malfoy stood at the center of it all, in front
of the pit, with a kind of resolute anticipation.
The matriarchs joined in the chant of the men, adding to the strange choir which echoed out
into the twilight. Hermione could make out the words now. They were reciting the runic
alphabet, invoking each one with each pass through, strengthening the power of the
invocation.

Now that the dark had begun to fall, it descended over the clearing quickly. The men marched
resolutely forward to the pit, and began to place the logs down together to form the base of
the fire. As soon as one of the men placed a log down, he stepped back into one of two lines
before Madame Malfoy. The chanting filled her head, and Hermione couldn’t help but join in.
She whispered the names of each rune, visualizing its meaning as they raced through them.

Fehu, Uruz, Thurisaz, Ansuz, Raidho, Kennez, Gabo, Wunjo, Hagalaz, Nauthiz, Isa, Jera,
Eihwaz, Perthro, Algiz, Sowilo, Tiwaz, Berkana, Ehwaz, Mannaz, Laguz, Inguz, Dagaz,
Othala.

With every rune she invoked, she felt her magic pulse and flare. Her grip on the other girls’
hands tightened, and it was the only thing keeping Hermione tethered to her body. She could
feel the corresponding pulses from their own magic as it responded to hers. Hermione had
never before felt so much raw power. What they were generating together seemed limitless,
infinite, endless.

When the last log was placed on the bonfire, the drums slowed to a steady, impatient pulse.
The chanting quieted to a stop. All eyes looked towards Madame Malfoy, who turned to face
the tall stack of wood. If she said anything at all, Hermione did not hear it.

From her bare hands, white-hot flames erupted. They curled and coiled around her palms,
before she directed them towards the logs. The gesture was a minute flick of the wrist, but the
eruption was powerful.

A blaze ignited on the bonfire, and within seconds, the entire mass of towering wood was
aflame. The heat was searing, even from this distance, and the light so powerful Hermione
had to squint to see. After a moment, the blaze equalized, and the heat became less painful,
and more reassuring. The warm glow of the fire burned bright against the dusk that had
quickly fallen over the clearing, but it was no longer blinding.

One of the matriarchs stepped into the ring, and one by one offered a sip from a silver goblet
to the girls in the ring. Another matriarch stepped up to the young men who all stood in tight
formation at the entrance of the ring, and offered a drink from an identical goblet.

Hermione wondered what was in it, or if she would even get the chance to ask. Her paranoia
whispered to her about poison, but with it being passed around to everyone, she doubted it
was anything lethal or otherwise harmful.

When Madame Greengrass stepped in in front of her, Hermione didn’t even have the chance
to peer at the liquid inside before it was shoved up to her lips. She flinched in surprise, and
held her hands over the matriarch’s own to steady the goblet, before she took a deep gulp.

It was thick, viscous, and slightly fizzy on her tongue. There was a rich sweetness to it she
couldn’t place, but she could pick out the notes of cardamom and nutmeg that flooded her
mouth. It was divine.

Hermione could barely even breathe as she waited for it to take effect. Her anxiety was
dampened thanks to Luna’s tonic, and she was sure that if she hadn’t taken it, she would have
had a proper fit. She spared a thought for the effects of mixing the potions, but after waiting
several heartbeats, she cast aside that anxiety as well.

If she was supposed to feel anything, she didn’t.

Her worries somewhat satisfied, her dark eyes swept over the clearing, trying to discern what
was going to happen next. As she scanned the ring, she realized most of her ex-classmates
were sizing up the men, and either had coy smiles or concentrated frowns on their faces.

Right.

She’d almost forgotten about that part.

Her heart thudded dully against her ribcage, calmed by the tonic, but not enough. Worries
once again began to prick at her brain.

Who was her intended? What if they didn’t want her? What if she didn’t want them? Would
there be consequences? If so, what were they? What was she expected to do? Could she get
out of it, if she wanted to? What if it was Malfoy? What if it wasn’t? What did he want from
her then? What did she want from him?

She breathed deep to gather her nerves, and spared a glance at the tight formation of men
once more. The younger men stood tall and proud in two straight lines. The deer skulls atop
their heads made her shiver, as their distinctly alien forms looked like something straight out
of a nightmare. She tried to scan bare arms and legs for the rich swirling pattern of runes, but
she couldn’t see any. As she studied the men, she found her worries growing again.

What if she didn’t have an intended? What would happen? Was this where she would be
humiliated? Poor lonely orphan Granger, the charity case without an intended.

She could hear Pansy’s sweet mocking now, and dreaded what would happen if it were
vocalized. Was that why she was invited out here? To be rejected by the gods during their
celebration? Why did the thought of their rejection effect her so deeply?

The two lines split, and from the back, a small procession of older men stepped forwards. In
their hands they carried hand drums and mallets of varying sizes, with the last man through
with a large drum strapped to his upper body, and supported by braces around his hips.

These men didn’t have deer skulls on their heads, but woven caps with leather fringe which
dangled low in front of their eyes. Antlers carved into runes protruded out of the tops of their
caps. Their headwear made it equally as impossible to discern who they were. In sync, they
raised their mallets, and once again began to play.

The first beat of the drum vibrated in her body, and Hermione’s eyes fluttered nearly closed
as she swayed back by the force of it. The pulsing beat they created pumped in time with her
blood, and it felt like she was one with the music. At once, she flushed deep from the burning
heat of the fire. The cool breeze which swept through the clearing felt like a cooling balm
against her skin, which pebbled with goosebumps. It was like the fire that burned in front of
her burned inside of her equally.

Hermione was damp with perspiration, and, as she felt a shudder wrack her body, arousal. It
was the closest thing to a high Hermione had ever felt, and she wanted to sink into the
feeling, and let her body float in it forever. Her magic thrummed in her veins, and she’d never
felt more powerful in her life.

Her feet began a slow dance, sinking into the cooling grass in time with the drums. Her body
felt at once as light as a feather and as heavy as lead. The gyration of her hips was obscene,
but she didn’t care. Let her offend the uptight pureblood sensibilities. Her shift dress clung to
the perspiration slicking her skin. She could feel her hair growing wilder from the heat from
the fire.

Through half-lidded eyes, she could see bodies twisting, grinding, and swaying, equally as
entranced as she was. Her eyes once more swept through the crowd, seeking out the dark
runes which would match her own. Disappointment seized in her lungs as she still only saw
clean, unmarked skin.

Then a different, unnamable pang thrummed inside of her body, and Hermione’s dark eyes
were pulled to the towering fire.

The top two logs of the bonfire crackled and spit before splitting cleanly down the middle.

Time slowed. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded.

There. Straight through the blaze.

Staring straight back at her. Watching her.

Him.
 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Him.

Broad, well-muscled shoulders set atop a defined, but lean chest and abdomen. The dark
thick marks atop his skin glistened with perspiration, and seemed to carve out a path through
the hard muscles of his alabaster body. The large deer skull atop his head was bleached bone-
white, with massive, curved black antlers. Cords of leather cut into the tops of his biceps,
emphasizing their size and strength.

Hermione didn’t know how she could have missed him before. He was powerful,
intimidating, and utterly captivating.

She couldn’t see his eyes through the shaded holes in the skull, but she didn’t need to. Her
body shuddered under the weight of of his gaze all the same. She felt her core pulse with heat
and wanting, and her skin tingled in anticipation. The magic in the air seemed to pulse with
expectation.

She watched the defined muscles in his torso coil tight. He turned to begin a slow, determined
walk around the fire towards her. His steps were unhurried, confident, and the mask never
wavered from her. A single word echoed in her mind.

Predator.

The energy and magic in the air crackled like the sparks from the fire, and Hermione felt lost
in the blaze. Without any kind of conscious thought, she stepped hesitantly to her left,
mimicking his slow gait in the opposite direction around the fire. Hermione couldn’t look
away from him if she tried. Between the sheer intensity of him, and the sensations suffusing
her limbs with heat and wanting, she felt like cornered prey.

Around the fire they moved, taking slow measured steps to each heavy beat of the drum, like
an ancient, primordial dance. The chanting had started up again around them, but Hermione
could hardly hear it over the rush of blood in her ears.

Sharp calls and cries echoed into the night sky in time with the music. It only added to the
primal energy crackling along her skin and teasing the edges of her magic.

Step. Pulse. Step. Pulse.

Run. Stay. Run. Stay.

The words whispered in her mind, echoing from one ear to the other.

The logs once more crackled and split, and a shower of sparks exploded between them.
For a moment, everything was still. The music paused, the other couples seemed suspended
in time, and the air around her filled with a tense anticipation. Magic suffused the air with the
same rich, weighty pull she felt after passing under the gateway.

Immediately, Hermione knew that the magic she felt was not normal, not wieldable. It was
something other, and something infinitely more powerful. Ancient.

She froze. Her muscles coiled tight. She wanted to run.

He froze. His muscles twitched with anticipation. He would run after her.

Each breath felt thicker and sweeter in her lungs. A kind of electricity thrummed in her veins.
This was much stronger than the gateway. Much more seductive. Her body thrummed with
heat and want. She watched him as he watched her, and hesitated.

The music began again. The world around her came alive once more. A tingle burned through
her nerves. She shuddered from a sudden, overwhelming burst of energy.

Run.

Hermione took off, uncaring of which direction she headed.

He’s coming. He’s coming.

Run. Run.

The thoughts were a whispered compulsion she could not disobey. Her heart was a
hummingbird trapped in her chest, and her blood roared in her ears. The music of the clearing
grew soft as she ran deep into the forest, but the beat of the drum pounded hard in her chest
all the same. She pushed herself to jump over the different logs and rocks in her path. Her
dress caught on stray branches, which tore and ripped the light fabric.

No matter how far she ran, her skin still felt hot from the fire. A deep pulse beat low in her
core, and Hermione knew that the dampness between her thighs could not only be attributed
to sweat. She was wet. Aching. Needing.

Run. Run.

He’s coming. He’s coming.

The strange whisper in the back of her mind pushed her forward. Hermione could hear the
man running behind her, chasing her through the forest. With every snap of a twig and crunch
of leaves, she felt a corresponding throb in her core. She weaved a path through the forest,
hoping her erratic direction would throw him off. Her eyes frantically scanned the area,
searching for a place to hide.

As she continued to run, she burst through a line of trees into a clearing. A whine escaped her
throat. She stumbled to a pause and tried to think of what to do.
There was a stream cutting through to her right, so she could try to follow that. There was a
massive willow tree that she could tried to hide behind as well. Or she could pick a side of
the forest to run into and hope she came across a more convincing place to hide.

Run. Run.

He’s coming. He’s coming.

A branch snapped behind her. Hermione jumped at the sound, and took off towards the
willow tree. Her muscles burned. Her breath was harsh in the otherwise quiet night.

He’s coming. He’s coming.

The whisper in her mind was goading her on. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew
instinctively she had to listen to it. Despite her fear, Hermione felt a kind of giddy
anticipation as she ran towards the willow tree.

Chase me. Catch me.

It begged in her mind, giving voice to the desire she couldn’t articulate.

She jumped over a cluster of rocks placed just before the tree. She was close. So close.

He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s—

Two pale, strong arms covered in dark runes wrapped around her abdomen and pulled with a
vicious, possessive strength. The momentum thrust Hermione back against the man’s chest
with enough force to knock the breath out of her lungs. Heat engulfed her as she was pulled
tight to his body.

Hermione thrashed in his hold, trying to break free of his iron grip. Her elbows dug in
painfully against her ribs while he crushed her arms to her sides.

“Yield,” The man commanded.

The deep baritone of his voice vibrated through her back, and made her shiver in his arms.
The command was overwhelming, and she had half a mind to immediately submit to him. To
let her limbs go loose, and let him have his way with her.

But she wanted the fight. She wouldn’t give up that easily. She wanted him to earn it.

Hermione continued to struggle against him. It was like her lust and adrenaline fogged out
every rational thought from her mind, leaving only the basest instincts left to guide her. She
wanted to fight. She wanted to fuck.

“I said yield,” he snarled.

His grip grew even tighter, and she could feel every heated, rigid inch of his body against
hers. The strange whisper in her mind wanted to sing, to give in, to submit. But it also wanted
to bite, to make him bleed, to win.
“Make me,” Hermione hissed instead.

She tried to recall her martial training from long ago. She used his tight hold on her upper
body to her advantage. She swung her legs out, trying to knock him off balance. His legs bent
in response, and widened, stabilizing him against her thrashing. Her adrenaline spiked even
higher, and she stifled a scream of frustration.

Hermione could feel the smooth, cold bone of the skull against her shoulder and she
shuddered. Her skin felt hypersensitive, and her nerves felt flayed raw.

“Submit, Granger,” he demanded.

One of his hands slid up her torso, and grabbed ahold of her neck. His grip was firm. She
stuttered for breath as his fingers twitched against her throat, squeezing the slightest bit
harder. His other arm was wrapped securely around her stomach. His chest heaved behind her
from exertion, and she could feel the heat of his exhales against the sweat on her neck.

She was surrounded by him. Trapped by him. One of her hands flew up to his thick wrist, her
nails digging in. She wanted him to let go. She wanted him to squeeze harder.

Her core throbbed the harder his grip became. She moaned, and her eyes fluttered. Her
nipples tingled and ached beneath the thin cotton of her dress. If she looked down, she could
see them clearly through the fabric which had grown damp with her perspiration.

The rough control of his hands set something off inside of her body. Her magic flickered like
electricity on her skin, and she clenched desperately around nothing, yearning for him to take
away the ache. Hermione whimpered in his hold, and the smooth, cool bone of his mask
nuzzled into the crook of her neck.

“That’s it. Good girl,” he purred.

Leveraging her weight, the man all but collapsed backwards onto the ground. He rolled them
both over immediately, and Hermione had to quickly turn her head to avoid her face being
squashed into the ground. She grunted as he used his weight to straddle her back, pinning her
down.

“Got you,” the man gloated.

The satisfaction in his voice made her burn. She didn’t want it to be over yet. Not that easily.

“You wish,” she growled.

His arms had untangled from their grip around her abdomen, and Hermione used to sudden
freedom of her hands to her advantage. She thrust her arms back to dig her elbows into the
softer flesh of his inner thighs, and wiggled upwards to try to create some room to free
herself.

He hissed at the sudden dual pinpoints of pain, and faltered for half of a second before
reaching up to pin her arms down. Hermione quickly spun over to face him just before he
was able to grab hold.
Even though he still held the advantage, she felt better knowing she no longer had her back to
him. He used his weight to bore down on her. His hands came up to her neck in a possessive
and firm grip. She grabbed ahold of the meat of his palms and plucked at the same time as
she bucked her hips high, thrusting all of her weight up against his hips.

Despite his size, he dislodged just enough for Hermione to be able to free her legs from
beneath his. She wrapped one leg around his thigh and knee, while planting the other on the
ground, and fueled by adrenaline, she pushed hard with all of her weight. At the same time,
she grabbed one of his arms which had buckled, and pinned it down, using his own weight
against him, until she forced them to both roll over.

When they landed, she was on top, straddling his waist. Up close, the deer skull mask was
even more frightening, especially now that the warm light of the fire was gone. The full
moon illuminated the clearing enough to cause the pale skull to glow, but the shadows were
deep. Even though his face was inches away, she could not see his eyes through the darkened
sockets of the skull.

Even still, she could feel his amusement, his primal satisfaction. It rolled off of his body in
waves. Straddling him as she was, she could feel the hot, thick length of him against her core.
She felt him twitch, and she gasped at the sudden stimulation. She wanted to grind down
along his cock. She wanted it inside of her. She wanted to use it to make herself cum.

Look what you’ve done to me. Her body sang. Feel me. Feel how wet I am for you. How
ready.

His strong hands came to rest on her hips, and the heat of his palms were searing through the
thin, dampened fabric of her dress. She studied them, taking in the long fingers, wide palms,
and prominent veins running through solid musculature. The weight of them was firm, and
she could feel the strength in them as they held her in place.

Through the fog of lust and adrenaline clouding her mind, a distant part of her brain flickered
with recognition. She knew these hands.

Her gaze flew back up to the skull which seemed to taunt her now. All of her questions would
be answered if only he took it off.

Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward, trying to see through the deep shadows.
Immediately, one of his hands wrapped in her hair at the base of her neck, and pulled tight.
She let out a sharp cry at the sudden pain, but her body shivered and her cunt throbbed. She
felt him twitch against the heat of her core.

“Tsk tsk, little lion,” he admonished.

Hermione felt a flare of annoyance. So he knew who she was. They definitely knew each
other.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice a demanding hiss.

The mask tilted as he looked up at her, and Hermione didn’t have to see the man’s face to feel
his amusement. His mockery. His magic pulsed with it.

Slowly, he sat up until they were face to face while she straddled his lap. The skull was even
more terrifying up close like this. Fear dripped like ice down her back, even as her blood
sang and her need to feel him burned through her like a fever. He leaned forward, until her
vision was full of only pale animal bone and shadow. When she tried to lean back, the hand
in her hair pulled tight, forcing her to stay put. She couldn’t get away.

“You can’t tell?” he taunted, “I’m hurt.”

She glared at him. Her adrenaline fueled her anger, and one of her hands reached around to
grab at the back of his sweat-slicked neck. Her fingers tangled in the impossibly soft strands
of his hair covered beneath the mask and pulled tight.

“Yield,” she growled.

He laughed at her. The sound was dark and heady, and she felt the vibrations of it through her
own body since she was pressed so tightly against his. It was startling enough to make her
quiver with sudden fear. What was so funny? What was he laughing at?

“Oh Granger, there’s only going to be one person submitting here tonight. And I promise you
it’s not going to be me,” he vowed.

With that, his free hand grabbed at hers which had come to rest on the heat of his pecs. His
legs crossed behind her, caging her in. He lunged forward and his hand in her hair pulled.
Hermione rolled backwards to the ground, her body colliding with the rough forest floor with
enough force to knock the air out of her lungs. He rolled with her, on top of her, and pinned
his hips down into hers hard.

The hand that was previously in her hair grabbed at her chin in an iron grip. His other hand
held tight to her wrists, and pulled them high above her head, pinning them to the ground
with enough strength to bruise. The fine bones in her wrist felt like they were going to
shatter. Hermione hissed at the sudden flare of pain.

She writhed beneath him, trying to find some slack in his hold that she could exploit. But he
held firm. His body was heavy and solid above her, and his grip was unyielding. Hermione
felt her heart race as a moment of clarity struck her through the animalistic fog.

She hadn’t fought out of his hold earlier. He had let her fight back. He had wanted to see
what she would do.

All at once, that feeling of being cornered prey struck again. Her heart only raced faster. He
was strong, incredibly so. Without a wand, her old hand-to-hand training could only do so
much for her. Her legs were freed, but with the weight of his pelvis pinning hers down, she
could only maneuver so much.

The threat of his promise seemed much more real now.

She tried to raise her left leg high, hoping to swing it down across his head between them, so
she could create some kind of space. She’d have to be mindful of the sharp antlers.

As soon as her leg was over his shoulder, the grip on her chin moved lightning fast, and
grabbed ahold of her calf. He leveraged it high above her head. He pinned her ankle to his
shoulder and stretched her leg until her thigh pressed against her chest, and his body moved
even tighter against her. She was completely pinned.

The sudden force of his cock forcefully grinding against her core made her eyes flutter, and
her whole body twitched as pleasure shot through her veins. She knew that if it weren’t for
the leather breeches, he would be buried to the hilt deep inside of her. Her body sang at the
thought, and goosebumps raced along her skin.

While she was distracted, she heard him mutter a sticking charm. The pressure of his hands
on her wrists went away. She tried to move her hands, but the charm held strong. He kneeled
back. He grabbed ahold of her thighs and viciously pulled them apart, until she was spread
wide before him, her knees hovering an inch above the ground. The stretch burned and she
gasped at the sudden pain.

She immediately fought to close her legs. His grip turned to iron in response. She could see
the flesh of her thighs squeezing through the gaps between his fingers as he gripped tight
onto her. He muttered another sticking charm, before letting go of her completely. Red
handprints stained the pale flesh of her skin, glowing beneath the moonlight. They bruised
the flesh beneath the marks painted on her skin. Against all rationality, the sight of it made
her blood sing.

He sat back, watching her, admiring her body stretched out and displayed for him. The heat
of his stare made her skin flush hot, and she could feel the wetness of her arousal dripping
down her cunt to the grass below. She strained beneath the charms, wiggling against the
invisible bonds.

He had won.

By the way that he took her in like a king admiring the spoils of war, he knew it too.

His hand came up to the bundle of her skirts which pooled across her abdomen. They were
the only barrier of her modesty, and she writhed against the charms. He was unhurried,
relaxed, as his fingers grabbed at the bundle of fabric. Inch by inch he pulled it up. The slow
glide of the skirt against her aching core made her breath catch. Every part of her body was
attuned to the subtle sensation, and she trembled.

“Do you yield?” He asked.

He continued to pull the dress upwards. Her breasts heaved under the weight of his stare as
they were exposed to the night sky. She shivered violently. The slow drag of fabric was
torturous, lighting her nerves up to the point of overstimulation. She wanted it off. She
wanted his skin against hers. She wanted him inside of her. Now.
He pulled the dress off of her entirely, sliding it past the invisible bonds of her hands easily.
He flung it carelessly to the side. Finally, at last, she was bare before him.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

As if in a trance, his hand raised, gently tracing along the folds of her labia. She gasped at the
contact, and her hips bucked against the air. His other hand pinned her hip to the ground. She
was sure she would be covered in bruises tomorrow. But the pain didn’t deter her now. It only
drove her more wild.

The frenzy in her blood made her skin itch for more. She was sweating profusely and she
could barely breathe. She writhed against the rough forest floor, desperate for friction.

Sudden pain bloomed fire across her breast as his hand came down hard on the soft flesh. She
yelped and squirmed against her restraints. She chased the fever that followed. Her skin
buzzed and prickled with the sting. She wanted more. She craved it. She wanted to taste the
full weight of his violence on her tongue.

“I asked you a question, Granger,” he warned.

She looked up at him through bleary eyes. The skull’s visage revealed nothing. It was all
sharp edges and death staring down at her with uncaring frigidity. The horns that curved
outwards were lethal points. She wanted to feel them against her skin. She wanted them to
make her bleed.

“What was the question?” She asked finally, panting through the fever in her blood.

She wondered if she could ride his mask. She wanted to see the pale bone of it shimmer with
her arousal. Would he be able to smell her through it? Would he taste her?

His hand came down on her other breast, and she wheezed through the pain. Her cunt
fluttered helplessly, drooling her arousal clearly for him to see.

“Do you yield? Will you submit to me?” He asked.

She shuddered at the thought. Would he use his fingers or his tongue or his cock first to make
her cum? Which did she want him to start with? Would it be rough and frenzied? She needed
it rough right now. She needed to be fucked so hard she couldn’t think. She needed his cock
to split her open. She needed his violence. His hands on her body. His darkness consuming
her, swallowing her whole.

“Granger,” he growled.

His hand slid down to rest on her weeping cunt. He tapped along the length of it once with
his palm. It was a warning.

“What will you do to me if I say yes?” She asked finally.

“Oh Granger,” he cooed, but the softness in his voice just made her tremble with fear, “I’m
going to fucking ruin you.”
His fingers teased through her folds, and the wetness that spilled out was obscene. She
couldn’t find it within her to feel embarrassed. Not when she could feel the hunger in his
magic, the need inside of his body waiting for her consent to submit to him completely. His
fingers teased the opening of her cunt, but never entered her. She whined. She needed him
inside of her. She needed to get off. She needed it more than she needed her next breath.

His other hand slithered along the length of her torso, before brushing over her nipples with a
firm, but light touch. She arched into his hand, breasts heaving as she sought out more of his
touch.

Merlin, he’d hardly even touched her and she was ruined. She felt drunk on her lust and her
need for the man who kneeled at her feet like a dark god. She wanted his pain and his
pleasure. She wanted his everything.

“What do you say, Granger? Will you give in to me?” He purred.

“Yes,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “yes, you can do whatever you want.”

His groan was low and primal, and his touch became firmer, stronger. He shuddered, his
strong muscles tensing. His fingers entered her swiftly, filling her, stretching her with his
heat. Her eyes fluttered, and she keened loud in the night air.

“Stupid little girl,” he growled, “you’re going to regret saying that. I’m going to ruin you. I’m
going to fill you with so much of my cum no one will ever doubt who you belong to. I will
own you.”

He ranted like a madman. He ripped his hands from her body, making her cry out from he
sudden feeling of emptiness. His hands flew to the ties at the waist of his trousers, and undid
them in a blink of an eye. Then he was finally, blissfully nude.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned.

His cock was beautiful. It was long, thick, and rigid from need. The tip was so red it looked
bruised. Her mouth watered. She wanted to taste him. She wanted to feel him down her
throat. She had no idea how he was going to fit. His was the largest cock she’d ever seen.

He chuckled at the look of lust-drunk awe and fear on her face. His cock twitched as he fisted
it in his hand.

“You can take me,” he purred.

She shook her head. She didn't think any woman could take him. He was too big.

“You will, Granger. Your cunt was made for me. I’ll make it fit,” he promised.

Spread wide as she was, he guided his cock to her wet heat, rocking back and forth until the
thick head and shaft glistened with her arousal. With the smooth glide of his hips, the base of
his cock pressed against her entrance while the leaking, ruddy tip grazed her belly button.
There was no way in hell all of that was going to fit inside her. But Merlin did she want him
to try.
She couldn’t breathe. Every single muscle in her body was rigid with anticipation. She
needed him. She needed him to fuck her so badly she could scream.

Without any fanfare, he guided his tip to her entrance and slammed into her with one violent,
full thrust. The full weight of his thrust tested the strength of the restraints, and forced her to
take all of it, unable to move even an inch. She howled into the air.

Oh fuck.

This was everything. Everything she needed. Everything she had been waiting for. She was
full. So full it hurt. But it was a good hurt. A hurt that meant that his cock filled her in ways
nothing ever had before. It touched places no one else had been. He groaned loud in the air
between them, and she savored the sound. She wanted to play it on a loop in her head
forever.

Her cunt burned and wept as it molded to him. The pleasure was unlike anything she’d ever
experienced. Finally he was inside of her. She could feel every molten inch of him setting her
on fire, burning her alive from the inside out. She felt reduced to the atoms that touched him,
every sensation tripling until she was shaking.

She came violently before he even had a chance to move. She sobbed her pleasure loud into
the air, her body twitching against the invisible bonds that restrained her. He growled as her
cunt fluttered and squeezed around his length, and she felt his cock twitch deep in her core.
The feeling compounded her pleasure, sparking the inferno inside of her so it only burned
brighter.

Then he started to move. His hips were violent as he slammed his cock into her over and over
again. His cock bullied against her spasming walls with unrelenting fury. His hands gripped
hard on either side of her hips, lifting them up just enough so he could hit that same spot deep
inside of her that she’d never felt before. She screamed her pleasure loud. The aftershocks of
her orgasm rolled and tumbled until they built her up towards a second one.

“Fuck yeah, that’s it, Granger. Cumming all over my cock before I can even fuck you
properly. Fuck you need it don’t you, slut? Need me to fuck this greedy little pussy until it’s
mine.”

His savagery made her sing beneath him. Her hands dug into the dirt, as her body thrashed
beneath him. His hand came down hard on her swinging breasts, and the pain flared
throughout her body until it burned inside of her. She shrieked, and clenched down hard
around him. The tension soared her pleasure higher, and she wanted him to do it again.

He leaned down over her, his hips never missing a beat in their brutal pounding. The visage
of the mask looming over her made her flutter around his cock. His hand moved to brace
himself on the ground, while his other wrapped around her throat. His grip was tight, tighter
than it had ever been before. Her breath rushed out of her lungs, and she wished she could
cling to him. She wanted to feel him, to rake her nails down his skin.

“Say my name when you cum for me, Granger. I want to hear it. Tell me who owns you. Who
owns your cunt. Fucking say it.”
She could’t breathe, let alone speak. But the thought of disobeying him was an impossibility.
She could feel her orgasm rushing towards her. She could feel his cock forcing her to its
edge, filling her with promise and pleasure. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and it felt like
all the oxygen in the world was gone. Every single muscle in her body tensed. She was
reduced to just his hand around her neck and his cock fucking her endlessly in her core.

“Malfoy!” She screamed loud into the air.

Her release was shattering. It ripped through every vein and every nerve in her body, flooding
her with only pleasure. Her mind blanked completely, filled only with pure rapture. The
waves of bliss crested and churned, feeding back into itself over and over with every decisive
thrust of his cock. There was no beginning or end to her release. It felt like a dam had broken,
and the tidal wave of her pleasure had been unleashed, never again to be contained.

A rush of wetness gushed out of her, coating his pelvis and thighs with her arousal. The force
of it pushed his cock from her body. Malfoy growled before ripping off the mask and
kneeling between her thighs. He attacked her with his mouth, tongue, and teeth. His hand
ripped away from her neck to rub furiously at her clit. His other hand pumped his cock in a
vice-like grip.

The onslaught on her clit made her scream, and her legs shook violently against the restraints.
It was too much. It was not enough. She couldn’t take anymore. She didn’t want him to stop.
The guttural cries that left her throat were purely animalistic.

His mouth was gluttonous as he drank from her center. He buried himself in her cunt like a
man starved. His tongue was incessant, licking broadly across her before fucking into her
with abandon. She felt tears prick her eyes from the overstimulation. Her body trembled
uncontrollably. She writhed to escape his touch, and whined in the air.

But Malfoy was a man possessed. He ate at her cunt like it was his last meal. His sole
attention and focus was on licking up every last drop of arousal that spilled from her weeping
cunt. He groaned against her, and the vibrations of it made her scream. His grey eyes were
glossy black as they rolled in his head. The pale white strands of his hair stuck to the wetness
coating his face, but he didn’t seem to care.

It was too much. Draco Malfoy was eating her out like it was all he was made to do, like he
was too lust-drunk on the taste of her pussy to even breathe. He groaned as he tongue-fucked
her hole, his eyelashes fluttering as he drank down more of her taste.

“Fuck, Granger. The sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted. Fucking delicious. Gonna make you
cum for me again. Need your cum. Need to taste it. Give it to me, Granger,” he rambled
between long, luxurious licks.

His words were slurred but full of hunger. He rubbed furiously on her clit, before resuming
his task of fucking her on his tongue.

Her scream was silent as she came for a third time. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
Could only take the pleasure that he forced her body to feel. Her ears rang as bliss assaulted
her body, taking from her more than she thought was possible to give. She heard Malfoy’s
drunken moans, and she could feel his mouth lapping at the gush of her arousal like an
animal. He drank her down like she was a fine wine.

She was overstimulated beyond belief. She shook uncontrollably, her body violently jerking
against the restraints. Tears fell from her eyes, soaking the sides of her face as they trailed
along to her hair.

Malfoy had stopped bullying her clit, and instead his hand smoothed and massaged over the
skin of her stomach and thighs. His mouth finally released from her cunt with a final sloppy
kiss, before roaming along the inner flesh of her thighs. He nipped and bit at the skin, before
soothing it over with a long swipe of his tongue. The contrast of pain and pleasure heated her
body beyond its melting point.

He hummed in pleasure against her skin. “So fucking good for me.”

His hand still pumped his cock, but the speed was more lazy, more of an absent compulsion
than a driving need. The head was swollen and wet with a mixture of her cum and his. Had
he orgasmed with her? The thought of Malfoy coming to the taste of her did feral things to
her.

The fever in her blood bloomed. As she lay there languid and boneless before him, she felt
the need pulse through her. She wanted more. As impossible as it seemed. She wanted to feel
his cock inside of her again.

She began to squirm beneath his hands as the arousal in her body simmered. Malfoy bit hard
onto her skin, causing her to gasp and shake. The pain was sharp, sharper than anything else,
and she cried out into the sky. He released the skin with a wet pop, before kissing and
sucking the indentations that marked her skin. Tiny pools of blood seeped to the surface,
which he cleaned up with dutiful licks.

He bit her. Marked her. Made her bleed with his teeth. The simmer of her arousal flared, and
she needed to get free. She wanted to explore his skin. To feel his body close to hers.

“Draco,” she moaned, “can you release me?”

Her throat was sore, and her voice was raspy. He hummed, the vibrations of it rumbling
straight to her clit. His whole body shuddered in pure rapture. His fingers twitched and flexed
against her skin.

“Say my name again,” he groaned.

His own voice was low and gravelly. He sounded drunk. He sounded dark. He sounded
dangerous.

“Draco,” she said immediately.

He slowly travelled up her body, his mouth blazing a path of fire and want along her torso.
His lips wrapped around one of her abandoned nipples, licking and sucking and rolling the
neglected bud in the velvet heat of his mouth. He bit down hard, and the pain made her back
arch as she gasped.

“Again,” he demanded.

The pleasure rolled through her exhausted body in soft, luxurious waves. The pull of his lips
grew more firm and less explorative as he sucked harder on her nipple. He then switched his
attention to the other side, dedicated to giving it his equal attention. Her whole body
shuddered as he forced pleasure upon her again.

“Draco,” she gasped.

Satisfaction rumbled through his chest and he muttered a finite under his breath. She felt the
weight on her legs disappear and immediately closed them around his hips. The pain in them
was a sharp throbbing ache from holding the position for so long, but she didn’t care. She
wrapped them around him as much as her weak muscles would allow, drawing him closer
into her.

“Again,” he growled.

He let go of his cock, pressing it into the slick of her heat instead. Her entire body lurched at
the sudden stimulation on her abused clit and she shivered.

“Dr-Draco!” She yelped.

His hands were iron as he shoved her legs off of his body. He leaned back, grabbed ahold of
her hips, and flipped her over in a single, vicious turn. She felt her skin scrape from the
roughness of the forest floor, but ignored it. The way he manipulated her body like she was a
rag doll made her body sing and the blood rushed in her ears. That same flicker of instinctual
fear bloomed to life, and the adrenaline flooding her system was immediate and
overwhelming.

With her legs free, she squirmed in the dirt, trying to weasel out of his iron hold. Her wrists
were still bound together above her head, but they were no longer pinned to the ground. She
pulled them down close to her head, while struggling to get onto her knees.

The sound of his hand meeting flesh echoed in the air before she felt the pain of it bloom
along the cheek of her ass. She gasped at the sudden pain, and froze for a moment. Then the
fear was back, and she wanted to run.

“Again,” he growled.

His voice was nearly unrecognizable. As she squirmed out from underneath him. he pulled
back hard on her hips, dragging her body back. He spanked her again, harder, on her other
cheek, and she howled in pain.

“Draco!” She screamed.

She thrashed beneath him. Her abused cunt throbbed and her heart pounded.
“Again!” He shouted, before spanking her hard again.

Her entire body seized with pain, before she growled his name in the air “Draco!”

Tears stung her eyes, at odds with the pulsing of pleasure that made her body tremble in the
aftermath of the pain. She’d never experienced anything like this before. It terrified her. It
made her want more.

He palmed a tender globe of her ass in his hand, kneading and soothing the skin with rough
pulls. He groaned behind her. She squirmed again, unsure if she wanted to escape the feeling
or lean into it more.

His hand came down again. And again. Until she was full on sobbing from the pain and
emotion overwhelming her system. Just when she thought she wouldn’t be able to take
anymore, he stopped. He grabbed her hips, yanked them high in the air, and pushed his cock
into her until she was filled to bursting with him.

“What’s my name, Granger?” He growled in her ear.

The darkness in his voice made her shiver. He sounded more foreign to her now then when he
was wearing the mask before.

“Draco!” She shrieked.

He groaned low in the air. His hand wrapped itself in the curls at the base of her neck, while
his other kept an iron vice on her hip.

“You’re mine,” he snarled.

He began to fuck her. It was vicious and raw. The need inside of her body that had built
during his rough spanking turned into a feral pleasure that unfurled with every brutal thrust of
his hips. Her scalp prickled with pain as his grip tightened, and her hips felt raw from his
bruising. Her cunt clenched down on his cock in ceaseless pulses. She couldn’t breathe. She
couldn’t scream. She could only take what he gave her, pushing her body to the heights of
bliss she didn’t even think were possible.

“Mine,” he growled as he pumped his cock into her harder.

“Yes, yours. All yours,” she screamed.

The claim made her body sing. That strange feral compulsion which shrouded her mind
snapped. The fog lifted slowly, revealing only more pleasure in its wake.

The ache in her cunt burned as he took her on the forest floor. The slap of his hips echoed
loud against the trees, and the scent of grass and sex flooded her nose. She felt like she was
drowning in him. Lost in a sea of lust and need for him to use her body and make her orgasm
again and again.

He fucked her like an animal. His grunts and growls of satisfaction were loud in her ears. His
hold on her was complete and unyielding, keeping her exactly where he wanted while he
brutally thrust into her. His cock was a glorious thing that stretched her open and split her in
half over and over again. The swollen head pounded against her cervix, dragging ruthlessly
along the spongy wall of her g-spot.

It should be impossible for her to be so close to the edge again. But the ferocity of his claim
over her body made her weep with bliss. The tears wouldn’t stop falling, but she never
wanted the rhythm of his hips pounding against hers to stop. She felt full, complete.

His magic enveloped her entirely, securing her as closely to him as the iron grip he had on her
body. It teased at the edges of her own, tempting hers to entangle with it. She closed her eyes
and surrendered completely to him, body, magic, and soul.

The effect was immediate. Blind pleasure raced through her as her magic pulsed and
shimmered as it melded with his own. Malfoy’s hips stuttered as he moaned loud. His head
dropped back as his eyes rolled, his cock twitching furiously in her heat. His magic flared
outwards, seeking out her own until the two blended into complete synchronicity.

Emotions that weren’t her own filled her chest. She could feel primal satisfaction, the drive to
take, to claim, to conquer tingle all the way to her fingertips. She clawed at the dirt below her
and slammed her hips back onto his cock, enticing him to continue his brutal, maddening
rhythm from before.

Malfoy’s hand slid from its place in her hair around to grab at the front of her throat. He
pulled at her until her back collided with his chest, while his hips never faltered their frenzied
thrusts. He tilted her face to the side, and collided his lips to hers.

His kiss could ruin an empire. His lips were firm and demanding against her own, and she
sucked on them like candy. She could taste herself on his tongue, and she clenched down
hard on his cock. The grip on her throat tightened, and his kiss deepened. His tongue fucked
into her mouth in time with the thrusting of his hips.

His other hand found her clit and softly rolled the abused bud between his fingers. Her hips
stuttered against his, and she broke their kiss to gasp and moan into his mouth. He groaned as
she clenched down on him, and his forehead fell to hers. His fingers twitched and he panted
wildly against her. They didn’t resume their kiss, but moaned their pleasure into each other’s
mouths. It was unbearably intimate. She had never felt so close to another person in her life.

“I’m going to cum, Hermione,” he moaned, “where do you want it?”

She felt him tremble against her as his thrusts grew wilder. Her eyes rolled, and she clung to
his arms around her.

“Inside,” she gasped, “Inside me, please. I want to feel it.”

He whined, and the sound was needy and desperate. It was that sound that made Hermione
shatter. His hand rolled her clit while his cock bullied into her, his rhythm faltering as she
fluttered and seized around him. She roared his name into the night sky, the pleasure searing
everything inside of her with heat and light.
She barely heard over the ringing in her ears as he shouted her name as he came shortly after.
His cock continued to thrust as he pumped his cum inside of her. Galaxies were born in the
force of her orgasm. Their magic exploded outwards in an expulsion of wild, untamed
energy.

His arms came around to encircle her, holding her close to his heaving body. Exhaustion
weighed heavy on her limbs, and if it weren't for him, she would have collapsed in the dirt.
With a guided hand on her chin, his lips sought out hers once more. Their kiss was languid
and lazy.

Hermione didn’t know how much time passed before they finally pulled away.

When she turned to face him properly, and couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of his very
messy hair. He raised a pale brow at her, and his eyes glimmered.

“What’s so funny, Granger?” He asked.

She shook her head, not wanting to answer. She was sure hers looked at least ten times worse.
But she couldn’t suppress the grin tugging on her lips. She felt light. Impossibly light. Like
the weight of the world bearing down on her shoulders had been lifted while she wasn’t
looking. She couldn’t recall the last time she felt such contentment.

He smiled at her then, and the expression softened his features considerably. He had a dimple
on his left cheek she’d never noticed before. Was this first time she’d seen him smile?

“Are you ready to go back?” He asked after beat.

The thought of going back to the manor made an unnamable pang resound in her chest.

“That depends,” she said softly. She refused to meet his eyes and instead focused on the long,
raised scar along his collarbone. “Does going back mean pretending this didn't happen?”

The question was vulnerable. Maybe too vulnerable. It revealed too much. But she needed to
know the answer.

“Do you want it to?” He asked.

His voice was soft. She risked a glance at him then. His pale eyes were fixed on her, studying
her face for a reaction. He wet his bottom lip, and breathed deep, almost like he was bracing
himself.

She knew her answer immediately. “No.”

His relief was palpable in the air between them, and he exhaled the breath he'd been holding.
“Then no, it doesn’t mean this is over. It means that I’m going to take you back to my room,
clean you up, and take care of you.”

Hope bloomed dangerous and wild in her chest. But she needed to know his intentions. He
could just want this until tomorrow. She didn’t think she’d be able to handle that.”
 “For how long?” She asked.

How long will you take care of me? How long will you want me? How long will I be able to
call you mine?

His hand lifted to cradle her cheek. His touch was gentle and warm and right. She could feel
the electric tingle of his magic as it weaved through his fingers and poured into her skin.

“For as long as you want me, Hermione,” he said.

Relief flooded her, and the lightness in her chest made her feel giddy. Her cheeks split in a
grin, and she leaned into him, capturing his lips in a brief but intense kiss.

He tasted like hope. Like her future. He tasted like hers.

“Then I’m ready.”

Chapter End Notes

And that's a wrap!

I had parts of the story written on and off for the better part of two years, but really
pulled it all together over the last three days while I was out of work. Despite not
featuring it on ao3, I've written at least fifty different Dramione fanfics since I was like
13. If you ever read Fifty Shades of Blond on FanFiction.net like ten years ago then hi,
that was me lol. It's safe to say that despite what I choose to publish on here, Dramione
is my OTP.

But anyways. This fic is not as polished as it could be, but I think I'm okay with that. If I
don't publish it now, then I'll keep endlessly tweaking it for another two years, and I
don't want to do that. I've got other shit I'm writing that needs my attention more. I've
just always been a slut for the lust-potion trope, the Beltane setting, and the whole trope
of 'bad-boy chases heroine through the woods'. A girl's gotta write what a girl wants to
read, am I right?

But anyway. all that aside. Kudos, comments, the whole she-bang, please do it all.

If you're into fighters, threesomes, and the thought of being shared between two mean
daddy-doms, then check out my fic Knockout.
If you're into dub-con, gun kinks, reylo and the omegaverse, feel free to check out my
other fic Unravel Me.

Cheers, babes xx
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