Our Girl

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/36898771.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: F/M, Multi
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott/Blaise Zabini,
Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Theodore Nott,
Hermione Granger/Blaise Zabini
Additional Tags: Smut, Double Penetration, ass eating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot,
Light Bondage, Gang Bang, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Size Kink, Praise
Kink, Hide and Seek, Consensual Non-Consent, (just during the first
parts of each chapter!), Exhibitionism, Semi-Public Sex, Dirty Talk,
Teasing, Face-Sitting, Overstimulation, Forced Orgasm, Mildly Dubious
Consent, you can pry the em dash from my cold dead hands, Squirting,
Edging, Creampies, Reverse Harem, Polyamory, Why Choose
Language: English
Collections: K's Picks, Sex is good but have you tried?
Stats: Published: 2022-02-05 Completed: 2025-05-19 Words: 42,384 Chapters:
5/5
 Our Girl
by geoblock

Summary

Nothing good happens at a party after two am. Or does it?

The Slytherin boys help Hermione find her tether.

Notes

This is shameless smut, with no plot. Expect a little OOC too, because the chances of this
happening in canon are almost zero, let's be honest. Enjoy this ménage à quatre!
 Chapter 1

“Remember Hermione, nothing good happens at a party after two in the morning.”

Her father is rarely wrong on such matters. He’d often offered such titbits through
Hermione’s childhood— ‘a double yolk is good luck’, ‘save half, spend half’—and she’s
always taken care to heed him.

His advice on parties, however, she hasn’t had an opportunity to test. There’d been few
parties in her adolescence so far, and often they’d fallen after a Quidditch victory. And there
was only so much Quidditch talk Hermione could stomach, so she was usually tucked in far
before two.

This two am, however, has snuck up on her. And while she could make good on her father’s
advice, for once, she wants to ignore him.

“Hermione?”

Hermione’s awareness comes back to her with a click, and she blinks, coming back to the
sparse dormitory, the crackling of the fire having grown quieter.

“I’m going to bed now.” Ginny says to her, “Just came over to say goodnight.”

“Oh, sorry. Goodnight Gin.”

Hermione is pulled into a quick hug—she hadn’t missed the quick glance of concern—before
the girl turns, making her way down the stairs, out of the eighth-year dormitory.

Hermione herself is tucked into an armchair in the corner of the room, and has found her
mind wandering as she watches the mantle clock above the fireplace. It happens more often
now than Hermione likes, now that the war is over. Before it, her mind was cemented down,
bricked in—its foundation immovable. Now it feels as though an errant thought or memory
will pull her away, fray her awareness, and it takes something to bring her down again. Even
now, the ticking of the mantle clock has cut the tether that held her in the room, and she is
awash with memories of her father—of sliding her feet into his massive leather shoes at the
entryway, of sitting on his shoulders at the village parade, of watching him tinker in the
garage.

Even her friends have noticed, or at least, the few that have returned. Ron and Harry are off
basking in their post-war glory, so most of her time is spent with Ginny, Neville, and Luna.
They try their best with her, they really do. But they’d all been at Hogwarts last year, forming
war-time bonds amidst the horror of the castle, so there seems to be a degree of separation
between her and them.

Ginny had come to the party, at least. She’d sat with Hermione for most of the night,
tolerating periods of silence, sometimes bringing Seamus and Dean in for conversation. As
returning students—and legal adults—the freedoms afforded to them are greater than the
other students, so it seems their makeshift dormitory is the new party location. The only
caveat, however, is involuntary inter-house socializing. Eighth years aren’t categorized by
house anymore, but their returnee status. McGonagall was reluctant to cement house hatreds
as a result of the war. A few years too late, in Hermione’s opinion.

Hermione glances around the cosy room, taking inventory of those who remain. Despite the
shared living quarters, the house lines are firm around the room. Malfoy, Zabini, and Nott
have occupied the same spot all night, heads low in discussion. In fact, Hermione realizes,
they’re the only others in the room besides her, something she’s failed to notice.

Perhaps that’s why Ginny made a display of leaving—giving Hermione a silent heads-up that
the last friendly face was leaving the room. Not that the three boys are particularly unfriendly,
if she ignores their last six years of schooling together. In fact, they’ve been almost cordial
this year in comparison.

Zabini had sat next to her at the last Slug Club dinner, and fetched her fork for her after she’d
dropped it under the table. Nott had noticed her absence in Arithmancy, and brought her a
copy of his notes to the following class. Even Malfoy—as complicated as their past is—had
stopped sneering every time they made eye contact in the hallways. Baby steps, but
unexpected ones. Considering the sides they’d all sat on less than a year ago. Draco’s
alliances had been clear, and Nott’s father had died in Azkaban a matter of months ago. She
can only speculate on Zabini’s position in the war, but she doubts it had been a walk in the
park.

Hermione has come untethered again. She comes back, and looks across at the subjects of her
thoughts, and startles to find three pairs of eyes looking back.

“Granger.”

It’s Nott that speaks. Out of the three, it’s Nott she feels almost familiar with. He always has
a smile playing around his mouth when he speaks, which gently tugs one corner up. They
share a healthy respect for Arithmancy, which Hermione always appreciates in a person.

She looks to him, raising an eyebrow in a silent ‘yes?’ It could be the sleepy warmth of the
fire, or the time past two, but Hermione finds her guard harder to raise. Nott has a puppy-dog
look about him, with sincere eyes and dark floppy hair. He looks particularly earnest next to
his compatriots, who’d both be in Azkaban if looks could kill. And she knows when they’re
looking, because their gazes send a shiver down her back.

Nott tilts his head towards their little group, “Come sit with us.”

Hermione’s breath catches in her throat for a moment, and she clears her throat to hide her
surprise. She looks to the other two boys, as if for their approval, and Nott chuckles,

“They’ll behave, don’t worry.”

Hermione knows she can refuse if she wants. And it’s the perfect place to— she can decline,
make her apologies and head to bed. But something pulls low in her gut, tugging her in their
direction.
Zabini shuffles his chair over, dragging another armchair over to fit tightly between him and
Nott. Hermione slides into it, almost robotically, her eyes caught on the three of them, feeling
her own trepidation mirrored in their eyes. Hermione is struck with déjà vu—she’s back in
first year, tangled in the tentacles of Devil’s Snare.

“Have you cracked Vector’s latest code yet?” Nott sits forward, resting his elbows on his
knees.

Zabini takes the opportunity to fetch a wine bottle from under his chair, topping up
everyone’s glasses. Hermione watches as he duplicates his own, pouring a splash into it,
before handing it to her. She accepts it with a mumbled ‘thank you’.

Turning back to Theo, she nods, “Yes, I finished it yesterday.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Granger.” He replies with a wink, and Hermione
sips the wine, at a loss for words. The whole situation—from the wine to the small talk—
comes with a sense of unreality. Maybe the tether that holds Hermione’s mind has finally
wiggled free, and she’s being carried away by a strange, deeply repressed fantasy.

“You can call me Hermione.” She says instead, and she shifts in her chair. In doing it,
however, her knee bumps into Zabini’s. It’s barely a second of contact, and she moves her leg
immediately, but a flush of heat envelopes her chest.

Whether Zabini cares—or even takes notice—he doesn’t say. But he doesn’t move his leg.

“I’ll be honest, Hermione,” Theo says after a moment of silence, and Hermione glances over
at him, “we did have an agenda when we invited you over.”

Hermione’s curiosity is piqued, and her grip on her wineglass tightens. It’s something in
Theo’s tone, how Zabini and Malfoy still in their seats as soon he speaks.

“Oh?” Her response is breathier than she prefers, the noise nearly swallowed by the echo of
her pulse.

Malfoy shots a look at Theo—a silent communication that Hermione can’t translate. A pang
of envy shoots through her; she’d once been the same with Ron and Harry.

Theo tilts his head—she might’ve missed it if she wasn’t watching—and Draco sits back,
seemingly satisfied, his silent question just as silently answered.

“Well,” Theo continues, meeting her eyes again, “the boys and I are betting men. It’s become
a recurring thing between us, even on the smallest of things.”

Hermione watches Theo talk, and realizes she’s underestimated him. On first glance, he’s the
most approachable, head of public relations in their little group—the mouth. But his words,
and the order he puts them in, are carefully selected, lulling her into a false sense of rapport
with him.

“I’m guessing you placed a bet on me?” Hermione isn’t stupid, she knows where Theo’s
preliminary spiel is leading. She watches with some satisfaction as his expression slips into
awareness, that she’s caught him in the middle of his act. A smile plays in the corner of his
mouth, and she bites back her own in return.

“You were a million miles away over there, Granger,” Malfoy cuts in, his first words to her
this evening, “and you have been all evening. We placed bets on what you were thinking
about.”

It is strange to realize sometimes, that when you watch people, they watch you back. Malfoy
had watched her, catalogued her absent stare, and drawn attention to it. And she’d been too
wrapped up in herself to notice.

Hermione bites her lip. They want to know what she was thinking about? It feels like an
intimate ask for the simple sake of a bet. Yet, a risky bet to place. If her answer matches none
of theirs, does no one win? Or does she receive the betting pool money?

“I—” She isn’t going to tell them about her father, it’s too personal, and too niche for their
bet. She could lie of course, say something dull and expected—an upcoming assignment, or
what she’d eaten for dinner that night. But truthfully, she knows they’ll see right through it.
And her usual reticence has apparently clocked out for the night.

“Honestly?” She takes a breath, mulling over the words—ensuring she’s not misunderstood,
“I was thinking about how difficult it is to stay… here. Present. I’ve struggled with it
since…”

It strikes Hermione that it isn’t a good idea to finish that sentence. They’ve established a
tender three am bond, and the word ‘war’ would stick a pin in it. Instead, her sentence trails
off, and she waits for a response, a huff of acknowledgement, a nod. But they don’t make a
sound. Just watch.

She sinks back into her chair, feeling her cheeks prickle in embarrassment. She hasn’t
mentioned it to even her closest friends, never voiced the feeling out loud. It sounds even
more pathetic in actual, audible words—and she doubts these three will hold back in
ridiculing her. They never have before.

Blaise reaches for the wine again, and she holds out her glass. He tops hers up to the brim,
only hers, before recorking the bottle and tucking it back beside his armchair.

Hermione is tempted to tell them to forget it, to make her excuses and go upstairs. She draws
deeply on her wineglass, like it will ease the burn of shame. She makes to stand when Draco
speaks,

“Can we get one more honest answer tonight, Granger? Before you go?”

Malfoy’s tone isn’t mocking, his words aren’t met with sniggers from the other two. It gives
her pause, and she swallows her mouthful of wine. She spares a glance to Theo, who is
watching her with a gentle curiosity, his fingers cradled under his chin. Zabini looks much the
same, his ankle resting over his knee, with an aristocratic carelessness she can never hope to
imitate.
Hermione doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to. Draco knows he’s captured her interest.

“When was the last time you felt excited about something?”

Hermione opens her mouth to answer, everything generic springing to mind, but Draco cuts
her off, his voice strong,

“No. Take a moment to think about it. I’m not talking about forced, compulsory excitement,
Granger. I’m talking about something physical, visceral. Excitement that put your stomach in
knots, made it hard to breathe, made your hands shake. Do you remember what it feels like?”

To her credit, she thinks. She runs back over the last year, all her wartime and post-war
achievements. A few stick out, of course. Voldemort’s death should be a clear one, but it’s
marred with grief and exhaustion. Her return to Hogwarts had been bittersweet as well. She’d
craved the escapism of her studies, and the familiar comfort of the castle, but it hadn’t ever
matched the excited butterflies of first year.

Not a single memory Hermione summons in her post-war life meets Malfoy’s requirements.
Instead, it feels like her emotions are muffled under a thick blanket, smothered by something
Hermione can’t name.

“It sounds like you’re talking about fear, not excitement, Malfoy.” She replies instead,
deflecting, and he tuts.

“You don’t think they’re the same?”

She opens her mouth to rebut his comment, say something snide to deflect her lack of an
answer—as though it will patch up the sudden hollowness in her chest. It feels like Malfoy
has pulled something from her abdomen, something vulnerable, and laid it in front of his
friends to look down at. At this point, it would’ve been less intimate to undress her in the
middle of room—

“New bet, boys.” Draco says suddenly, clapping his hands together, “Fifty galleons in each,
first one to catch Granger wins.”

Hermione’s throat catches, “What—”

“Taken.” Zabini’s response is almost instantaneous.

“Taken, but she gets a thirty second head start.” Theo replies—his smile is the widest she’s
seen it all night. It raises goosebumps on her arms.

They’re all standing—when had they stood?

“Tick tock, Granger.” Zabini says, “Off you go.”

She can go to bed. She can tell them to fuck off, and then go to bed. But what will that give
her? Another quiet night in bed, her thoughts spinning, battling against her desire to sleep.
The same as every night has been, and all nights for the foreseeable future.
Instead, she spins on her heel and bolts.

Her first instinct is to leave the eighth-year tower, as she’d easily be trapped in a corner
somewhere at the top, with nowhere else to go. So, she runs for the stairs—taking them as
fast as she dares without falling headfirst.

Bursting through the door, she doesn’t stop to think about a direction, just letting her feet lead
her. It doesn’t matter where she goes, but distance will be her greatest advantage.

The frantic beat of her footsteps echoes in the silent hallways, almost rivalling the sound of
her own pulse in her ears. She turns a corner at such a speed she almost slips, but she doesn’t
slow—her thirty seconds were undoubtedly up.

It’s been a long time since she’s run like this. She can feel her lungs starting to cramp, her
heart thundering in protest. But all she can imagine one of the boys on her tail, with an
outstretched hand mere inches away, brushing the wool of her jumper. It sends a shock of
thrill through her stomach, and she shoots forward, pushing her protesting body.

Hermione doesn’t know where she’s going, taking each corner and set of stairs at breakneck
speed. An open door presents itself, and she ducks into it, tucking herself tight against a wall.
Her chest is so tight, it feels like she’s breathing through a straw. But she forces slow, quiet
inhales and exhales, keeping her ear on the hallway she’d just departed.

Nothing. Silence.

She’ll just take a breather. The castle is huge, and the odds of finding her are slim. If they find
her—if they’re even looking. Maybe they’re upstairs, polishing off the last of Zabini’s nice
wine and mocking her eager departure.

The sharpness in her chest has eased a little, and she slides away from the wall, ignoring the
bite in her thighs.

What if they are looking? And what if they catch her? It’s a question she should’ve asked
before she took off. It hadn’t occurred to her before, surprisingly. The thrill of the chase had
emptied her mind of thoughts, the only thing echoing in her head had been her heartbeat.

She moves away from the wall, back to the door, and sneaks back into the hallway. If she
finds a decent hiding spot, her odds of being found are slim—

Arms come around her waist, and Hermione thrashes. There’s a hard body at her back,
unyielding and she draws a ragged breath inwards, preparing to scream—

A hand slaps over her mouth, anticipating her next move,

“Easy, Granger.” Malfoy’s voice is low at her ear, “Don’t give us away.”

If he’s trying to calm her, it doesn’t work. His whisper is a self-satisfied purr, and he hasn’t
released her. She bucks, incensed, and his grip only tightens around her waist, and he still
hasn’t dropped the hand from her mouth. She didn’t know they’d literally catch her.
She spits a word at him, it’s muffled, but she knows by his huff that he understands.

He’s pulling her backwards—back towards the room—

Fear has spiked her blood now, and she fights earnestly, not liking the dark shadow that lurk
around the doorframe, and how easily concealed they’ll be.

Malfoy pulls his hand off her mouth, and she goes to yell, but Zabini comes around the
corner, followed by a frowning Nott.

Nott won’t be in on it, will he? He—

“Bugger.” Nott scowls, out of breath, “I went to the library, figured she’d be there.”

Hermione bucks again, truly panicking now. But Malfoy’s arms are steel bands around her,
and she can’t reach around to scratch at him. Her wand is in her back pocket, if she can just—

It’s like Zabini sees the thought in her eyes, and he summons it wordlessly. She feels it slip
from her pocket, and her stomach sinks as he catches it in one hand—before it disappears
into his dark robes.

Malfoy gets her past the doorframe, despite her clutching to it for dear life, and she watches
as the shadows swallow them. Theo and Zabini follow tightly behind—the latter man
shutting the door with a click behind them.

Draco drops her unceremoniously, and she lands on the ground with a force that rattles her
teeth. She scrambles backwards along the floor, not standing in her eagerness to put distance
between them. He just watches her, sweeping the hair off his face.

She looks around, taking note of her surroundings, and how the three men have positioned
themselves. Zabini’s stationed by the door, watching her movements with a glimmer of
interest in his eye. Malfoy’s at the head of the room—of course—leaning against a dusty
desk, apparently disinterested. It’s an abandoned classroom off sorts, she guesses, by the
grime under her hands and the piled desks in the corner.

Everything is washed with silver—her eyes have adjusted to moonlight—and she glares as
Theo makes his way to her, the click of his shiny shoes stopping right before her.

He crouches to her level, his bottom lip sticking out in mock pity. She fights the urge to claw
out, gouge it off his face.

“Listen, Hermione—we’re still on a first name basis, right?” She doesn’t reply, just glares,
and he continues, “Despite Draco’s lack of manners, none of us really like our partners
unwilling. So, I’m going to ask you now, do you want this to stop? You say the word, and it
ends here.”

Whatever Hermione is expecting, it isn’t a request for her consent. It takes her a moment to
gather enough air for words, but she manages, “Unwilling for what?”
She’d thought Theo’s smile was inviting, but it in the dark classroom, it’s a threat, “Use that
big old brain of yours, Hermione. What do you think?”

Maybe it’s panic, or adrenaline, but thinking isn’t coming easily right now. It feels like her
body is taking precedent—the feeling of stone against her bare legs, the pain in her backside
after being dropped, and how quick her breathing is, how it echoes.

Zabini is still by the door, Theo is still crouched—watching her expression with apparent
fascination, and Draco is twirling his wand between his fingers, like he’s bored,

“I—”

Malfoy sighs, impatient, “Or don’t think, Granger. That’s the whole fucking point.”

Hermione waits for her logic to reboot, for a voice to list out the hundred and fourteen
reasons why this is a terrible idea. Caution comes so easily to her, and it has served her so
well in the past. But it’s like her thoughts have glitched, and all she feels is here. The
phantom of Malfoy’s arms around her linger still—the heat of his body against her back, his
breath on her neck. There’s no running monologue, no memory flooding her senses. All she
can feel is the presence of her three assailants around the room, and the heavy weight of their
attention.

No thinking.

She speaks before she can regret it, her voice a raw rasp, “It stops if I say. We never speak of
this again.”

“Taken.” Theo replies first, rising from his crouch. The smile is gone, and something
determined has replaced it.

“Taken.” Zabini nods, and moves away from the door, heading towards her with slow
purpose.

“Taken.” She’s finally grabbed Malfoy’s attention—he stands from the desk and grins for the
first time that evening, “I can’t wait to make you regret this, Granger.”

Theo makes a move towards her, and she pushes backwards, slipping just out of reach. Her
adrenaline spikes once more, and she fights to her feet, keeping each man in her line of sight.
She feels vulnerable without her wand, like she’s missing a limb, and she takes a tentative
step away from Theo, who frowns,

“You’re going to make us work for it, aren’t you?”

The only indication she gives is a tight nod, before she leaps forward in a burst of movement.
Theo’s arm barely misses her as she slips past, and the graze of skin brought heat with it, but
she fights forward. The element of surprise is gone for Zabini, and he guesses her trajectory,
backing up towards the door. But he’s the tallest of the three—if she can slip under him
somehow, she’ll have a clear shot for the door.
Her blood sings with the chase, and she eyes him up, aware of Theo and Draco hanging back.
It’s like they want to give her a chance, or they doubt her chances of escape.

“Come on, princess,” Zabini croons, “try me.” He’s set himself in a defensive position,
watching her with anticipation. The quietest of the three, but he’d read her like a book before,
with her wand, she knows he’ll do it again.

She drops. Her knees graze the ground, but she barely feels it, her mind on getting low,
crawling past him. All her senses are narrowed in on her body, trying to scramble between his
legs. She feels him reach for her, but she pushes forward. If she shoots past him, she’ll make
it to the door before he has a chance to turn around, using his considerable height against him
—

Hermione yelps, as sharp pain rocketed across her scalp. He’s—he’s grabbed her by the hair!
She squirms, but it only serves to cause her more pain, and she feels each pull acutely.

“You prick!” she hisses, stilling in his grip. He’s gotten a firm grip too—a fistful right at the
base of her scalp. He crouches, and lightly tugging her upwards to her knees, until their faces
are mere inches apart.

Zabini’s smile isn’t as arrogant as Malfoy’s, or as mocking as Theo’s. But she sees his victory
in it, and all the things he wants to do with his prize. It sends a flutter through her, and she
clenches her thighs.

“Nice try, Granger.” He whispers, “But not good enough.”

Behind her, Theo laughs sharply, and Draco tuts,

“If you’d actually watched the Quidditch matches, and not just mooned over Weasley,” he
sneers, as Hermione tries to pry Zabini’s fingers out of her curls, “you would’ve seen Blaise
defending the other goal. And you would’ve seen his reflexes.”

Hermione turns to scowl at the derision in Malfoy’s tone, but Zabini gives her a warning tug
before he stands, and she has no choice but to follow. Her arms are free—she can fight back,
shove him away—but something in his gaze warns her to be compliant. His fist slips free of
her hair, but his arm is tight around her before she can think of getting away.

Zabini pulls her firmly against him, and she feels his breath against the shell of her ear, and
she shivers against him.

“You ready to be good now?” His arms around her are a threat, reminder of the strength he
possesses, that she does not.

She nods. Zabini pushes her forward, towards his friends, who’ve been watching their
exchange silently.

Malfoy pulls his wand out, grabbing her wrists. The incantation he uses is silent, and white
rope slithers around her wrists binding them together. Lifting them up, he connects them to
another rope hanging from the ceiling—forcing her to stand with her arms up. She watches
him do it without comment, and he raises an eyebrow at her, surprised by her sudden
placidity. But he steps back without a word to admire his handiwork.

Hermione feels like a pinned butterfly as they circle, devouring her with stares. The
anticipation has taken all the feeling out of her legs, and she’s almost glad for the rope—even
if it has taken her last semblance of control, and placed it in their hands.

There are fingers on the button of her skirt, and Hermione takes a sharp inhale, meeting
Theo’s eyes. His half-smirk is back, and he looks to his friends,

“Shall we see if fantasy lives up to reality?”

Draco scoffs, but his eyes are on her skirt, as though he can already see her without it, “Speak
for yourself, Theo.”

Zabini voice comes from somewhere behind her, closer than she expects, and she jumps,
“Don’t lie, Draco. I saw your eyes wander every time she bent over in Potions.”

Theo laughs, and she watches Draco roll his eyes, “Fuck off, Blaise.”

But the button gives way, and the attention of the room shifts as she feels the skirt slip down
her legs, pooling on the floor.

Blaise gives a slow whistle, “Boys, take a look at this.”

“Sweet Merlin,” Theo exclaims from behind her, and Hermione feels her face flush in
embarrassment. Tied to the ceiling, wearing nothing but her jumper and her knickers, she
knows nothing below her waist is left to the imagination. But she can’t move away, can’t
cover herself with her hands.

“Granger,” Theo groans, “if I’d known you were hiding an arse like that under your school
robes…”

He finishes his sentence with a hard spank, and she flinches at the sting of it—the first touch
on her bare skin. But Hermione’s pout slips as the sting spreads, and puddles somewhere low
in her belly.

“Our resident ass man is sorted for the night, then.” Blaise remarks dryly, but Hermione’s
barely listening. Theo’s running his hands over her backside, alternating between gentle
strokes and firm slaps that echo in the empty classroom. She can feel a flush spreading across
her face, and she tucks her face against her arm, trying to hide her face from Malfoy’s
unrelenting stare. While the other boys are watching her body, he’s watching her face.

“Aw boys, look at that. Standing there in her knickers, and now she’s getting shy.” Draco
croons.

“Imagine how red she’ll get when we do the rest.”

Theo’s muttering behind her, “—going to fuck this arse, Granger—” and that only makes her
blush more. She’s doing a useless job hiding it, and Zabini laughs,
“Steady on, mate. You’ve gotta warm her up first.”

Theo’s hands slow over her bum, giving her a moment’s reprieve to try and calm herself, as
she stares up at Zabini.

“Do the honours then, Blaise.” Theo says from behind her, and Zabini doesn’t hesitate. He
steps closer, standing right in front of her. She has to crane her head to look at him—he’s a
head taller than his friends—and waits, a 'calming’ breath caught in her throat.

She knows he’s handsome. Had always thought it, quietly. Guiltily. He had the look all three
of them, polished and aristocratic, carefully cultivated. But as the quietest of the three, he was
shrouded in a cloud of mystery, only adding to his allure. Tall, dark and handsome. With his
jaw too—cut from marble—he looks like a late night fantasy brought to life.

He’s so close she can feel the warmth of his body through his clothes, see the curl at the
edges of his pouty mouth. The chatter between the boys has stopped now, like they can feel
the electricity crackling in the air, feel the anticipation coming off Hermione in waves.

He stares back. His expression is placid, measured. But she can see the hunger in his eyes,
and she feels a lick of power, of pride. He wants this too.

Zabini leans down, and Hermione braces, closing her eyes. Expecting a kiss, she jumps a
little at the feeling of his lips beside her ear. Not quite touching, but close enough that his
breath makes her shiver.

“May I?” His voice is low, but the way it cracks gives away his desire.

She nods.

He huffs a laugh, and it way it brushes her skin makes her knees nearly buckle,

“Good girl.”

Zabini drags his nose across her jaw, letting her feel the puff of his breath against her neck.
He isn’t going to make it easy for her, and she grinds her teeth. She’s so wound up she feels
dizzy—despite how pathetic it is. They’ve barely even started and Hermione’s nearly in a
puddle on the floor.

“You smell amazing, Granger.” Zabini groans, before his hands cup her jaw, and his lips meet
hers.

He’s gentle at first, testing the waters. His mouth is cautious on hers, but he fills her senses—
rich cologne, soft lips and hard mouth, the hand on her jaw, keeping her afloat. Her head
swims, and a whimper in the back of her throat escapes without permission. But it’s all the
permission he needs. His hand slips down her neck, grabbing her by the throat, as he
amplifies the kiss tenfold.

Zabini pries her mouth open with his, and she’s barely holding on, utterly swept away by the
intensity he’s suddenly produced. The rest of the room has slipped away—Draco and Theo
could be tap-dancing in the background for all she’d know—and all she feels is the pressure
of his mouth, his body pressed against hers, and his tongue sliding against hers.

Then he pulls away, stepping back. It’s too soon, she thinks dazedly, but he could’ve been
kissing her for hours. She blinks dumbly up at him, feeling like the room has tilted on its axis
while she was caught up in him.

“Back to earth, Granger,” Theo says from behind her, and she shakes her head, trying to clear
it. Embarrassment prickles in her chest, thinking about how silly she must look, drugged
from one kiss. But then she sees Zabini, and it eases, because he looks as surprised as her. His
lips are swollen and bee-stung, and he’s running his thumb over the bottom one, like he can
still feel her there.

Zabini turns to Malfoy, his voice firm, “Her jumper has to go.”

His wish is Malfoy’s command, as Malfoy waves his wand, and her jumper disappears. He’d
even banished her bra away with it, and the cold almost shocks her out of her stupor. None of
them are touching her now, and desperation begins to mount. She doesn’t care that she’s
naked now, save for her knickers, doesn’t care that they’re all staring. Because she feels cold
all over, and she’s going to break if someone doesn’t touch her.

They hear her silent plea. Zabini steps forward again, but he doesn’t go for her lips. Now he’s
kissing a line down her neck, and across her collarbone and Hermione groans. She can feel
her neck flush, chasing Zabini’s mouth, and then Theo’s hands are firm on her hips, holding
her up. She doesn’t know whether it’s her body temperature, or his, but his hands burn into
her sides as Zabini’s kisses trail lower.

Hermione startles at the feeling of another mouth on her, and Theo has joined in, kissing a
trail gently down her spine. His tongue flits against her skin, and she’s swept away by the
feeling on two mouths on her, taking their time, worshipping, pausing wherever they want to
pay particular attention to. Zabini stops to weigh a breast in each hand, flicking his thumb
over her nipples, at the exact moment Nott nips a spot on her lower back with his teeth. Air
hisses through her teeth, and she sinks a little, ignoring the burn of the rope holding her up.

She knows she looks wanton right now, almost naked and bound, arms tied together above
her head. But she doesn’t care anymore, her head is swimming with all the attention she’s
being lavished with. She meets the eyes of Malfoy, still leaning back on the desk before her.
He hasn’t touched her since he caught her, but he seems content to watch. His eyes trail over
hers, following his friends as Zabini sucks her nipple into his mouth with a wet pop. She has
to bite her lip to fight off another moan, but she stares back. She may be vulnerable, and she
can only imagine how desperate she looks. But she’s never backed down from Malfoy before,
and she won’t start now.

Instead, she realized with surprise, he’s squeezing himself through his trousers, running his
palm along his solid length through the fabric. He’s keeping his expression still, but she can
see the glassiness of his eyes, like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. The sight sends a
jolt of warmth through her core, as Zabini switches to the other nipple, sucking and nibbling
until her arms are shaking in the restraints.
“You don’t want to join?” she teases, her voice breathier than she’d prefer.

Malfoy grins, and it’s predatory,

“Missing me?”

Theo emerges for air, after another gentle bite, “He likes dragging these things out.” His tone
is mocking.

“Sorry we’re not all minute men like you, Nott.” Malfoy replies dryly, and Nott huffs in
annoyance, but quickly returns his attention to her.

Zabini’s mouth slips lower, coasting down the line down the centre of her torso, on his knees.
She feels chafed and raw, Draco’s form is hazy before her, as Theo hooks his finger under the
waistband of her underwear, and peels down her last line of defence. It’s only then that she
realizes they’re soaked through, the fabric dark and wet as he pulls them down to her ankles.
Embarrassment rears its head again, and she avoids Draco’s stare. How silly she must look,
pining and panting, lost to a few kisses. She’d never thought nicely of these men in the past,
and now she was falling to pieces because of them, crumbling into a whimpering mess under
their mouths.

“Merlin…” Theo groans at the sight of her, “she’s soaking.”

Blaise slides his fingers along the seam of her, watching in fascination as she beads on his
fingers, before bringing them to his mouth to taste her. It’s utterly filthy, and Hermione tries
to tuck her face behind her arms again, but Draco’s right in front of her now, holding her
chin, stopping her from hiding away.

“You enjoying yourself, huh?” His voice is low, just between the two of them, and Hermione
gives him a tiny nod. The hard silver of his eyes is molten, watching her face crumple in
pleasure as Blaise’s fingers skate along again, finding her swollen clit, and pinching it
between his fingers. She cries out.

“She tastes good, Blaise?”

“Incredible.” He replies.

“Then taste her properly. I’m sure she’d like it.”

Zabini’s head dips lower, and she tries to cant her hips away, but bumps into Theo,

“I’ve… no one’s ever…” she can’t get the words out. Despite what they’re doing to her, she
can’t name the act, like admitting it aloud would make it real.

“Never?” Draco whispers. His face is closer now, like he’s drinking her in, watching for each
miniscule crease of her brow, and twitch of her lips. Like he’s enjoying her naivety and her
shame.

She shakes her head.

“Well, then you better do a good job of it, mate.” He says to Zabini, stepping back, and it’s all
the encouragement the other boy needs. Theo nudges her legs apart with his hands—she’d
been trying to pin them closed—and Zabini dives in, licking the length of her with a flat
tongue. She feels it echo up her spine, and she makes a guttural noise she can’t control,
mouth dropped open. He takes it as encouragement, using flat strokes around and over her
clit, until her legs begin to shake.

“Fucking hell,” she groans, and Malfoy laughs at the obscenity from her, before Zabini
latches onto it, and sucks. Lights flash behind her eyelids, and the warmth in her belly has
turned to fire, her breath sharp and gasping,

“I can’t—I’m going to—”

Zabini pulls off, and the building pressure stops.

“Come on, Granger,” Malfoy tuts, “you’ve got to last longer than that.”

She doesn’t even know what she’s saying anymore, she’s shaking in the ropes, “Please, keep
going, please. I’ll hold it, I promise, please, just—”

They’ve reduced her to begging, and she isn’t even ashamed. All she knows is that she’s
going to fall apart without his mouth on her, and she doesn’t even care about admitting it.

But instead of picking up what he left off, Blaise fingers are on her now, sliding inside. She’s
so wet, there’s little resistance. But the intrusion is unexpected, and she fidgets, adjusting to
this new pressure. His fingers move around, searching for something.

“I don’t know…” and he presses on a spot deep inside, on her front wall, and she gasps.

“There?” he’s looking up at her from his knees, his lips and chin wet, looking like a student
eager to learn. He presses on it firmly, and she writhes.

He seems pleased with his finding, latching on again, and Hermione’s head spins. God, she
lied, she can’t hold it. Her body is on fire, tingling warmth travelling down her limbs, making
her fingers twitch in the ropes. She’s burning from the inside out, barely feeling Theo stand
up—not realising until he’s behind her, pressing his erection firmly against her,

“Can I eat your ass?”

He’s so casual about it, like he’s asking to borrow her Arithmancy notes, and not asking to do
some obscene act on her. Zabini pulls off again, and she whines in protest, but he’s waiting
for her answer.

“Please?” he whines, “You’ll like it.”

He wants to do it? It sounds so filthy, but still, her imagination paints a pretty picture for her
—Theo on his knees, doing something useful with that gobby mouth of his. She doesn’t even
know if she can form a coherent answer—she’s been pulled back from the brink of orgasm
twice now, and the room is swirling around her.
Draco’s back to leaning against the desk, arms folded, watching their exchange with
amusement. He suits the moonlight—it brings him out in silver and grey.

“I’ll make you a deal, Granger.” He says suddenly. “If you let Theo eat your ass, I’ll let you
come.”

It’s not an offer she can refuse. Not if she wants to keep her sanity, anyway, so she accepts.
Theo doesn’t waste a second as he drops to his knees behind her, and she feels his fingers at
her backside, spreading her to take a look.

It isn’t a part of herself she’s ever thought about before, but now she wonders what he’s
seeing, and what he thinks. What if there’s something weird about her, or he changes his
mind, or—

“So pink and pretty.” He mutters, before he licks firmly from bottom to top.

It feels even more invasive and intimate than what Blaise was doing, but not bad. It’s an
unusual feeling, but it spreads the warmth in a different way. He zones in—his tongue
lapping and tasting—making lewd sounds that echo in the room. And then, after circling
eagerly, he presses his tongue in.

“Oh!” she sighs, her head lolling as he presses in even further. The wet slide of his tongue is
warm, spreading her open. There’s an accompanying sting, but it only adds to the building
pressure low in her. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer so he can get even
deeper. He moans, and she feels it echo through her. His forearm presses hard just above her
pubic bone, which sends an aching jolt through her. And then Zabini—his fingers still inside
her—starts pressing and sucking again.

“Holy fuck,” she cries, “please!”

It doesn’t take long, with the two of them at work. Theo’s intimate exploration adds an edge
to Blaise’s actions that she’s never felt before, and the fizzing warmth explodes. She doesn’t
know what sounds she’s making, doesn’t know what she looks like—and she doesn’t care—
as she swept up and carried by a wave of immense pleasure, her ears popping, colours
flashing behind her eyelids. It feels eternal, time stretches, and she’s at the mercy of what her
body is feeling, all of her senses cut off. Nothing but the languid roll of heat through her,
sending her limbs twitching and shaking. She’s aware of Theo pinning her still, ‘easy, girl’ as
her knees give in.

Then it ebbs away, and Hermione fights to open her eyes, feeling like she’s had the wind
taken out of her. Blinking, she realizes her hands have been released, and the boys are
holding her up, because her legs have turned to jelly. She doesn’t know how long she was out
for.

“Alright, Granger?” Theo asks. He’s standing behind her, peppering kisses down her neck,
bringing her back to herself.

“Hmm.” She hums, still reeling, “That’s the best orgasm I’ve ever had.” She isn’t
embarrassed to admit it, and Theo sounds pleased, giving her an encouraging nip on the
shoulder.

She looks over at Draco, surprised to see his trousers are unbuttoned now, his cock out,
standing proudly. It’s slick and dark, and he’s holding it firmly at the base. She didn’t think
she had anything left to give, but she flushes at the sight—imagining her hands where his are,
sliding it over the head, and watching him twitch under her gaze.

“Can we fuck her now?” Blaise looks to Draco, still kneeling before her. He’s running his
hands up the outside of her thighs, sending little zaps through her overly sensitive nerves, and
she tries to bat his hands away, but hers are shaking too much.

Draco nods, and Zabini grabs her by the hips, pulling her down onto his lap, hands firm on
her hipbones. She’s still shaking. His gaze is soft, and nestles down on his lap. He looks at
her softly, proudly,

“You alright, sweetheart? Are you ready?”

She nods, the feeling of his hands on her, the ease with which he manoeuvres her around,
adjusts her so isn’t crushing his erection, reminds her of the spark that’s still there. A little
dimmer, but not gone.

“Unbutton me then.”

She reaches for his belt, pulling it out of the buckle and getting it loose. It’s hard to do with
her still shaking hands, but she’s eager now, knowing how good this could be. Because if they
could do that with just their mouths and hands, she can’t imagine how it’ll feel sinking down
on him, stretching tight around him. She knows he’s considerable—she can feel it—and she
takes a deep breath, fetching his length out from his boxers. He shuffles, sliding his pants
down, stretching his legs so he’s sitting underneath her.

Theo’s behind her too, his knees either side of Blaise’s legs, hands almost encircling her
waist, keeping her steady.

“Uhm—” she looks down at it, heavy and ready, and feels unsure, “I don’t know if it’ll fit.”

Zabini laughs, and Theo makes a sound of annoyance, “His ego doesn’t need any more
feeding, bloody hell.”

“It’ll fit. We’ll make it work.” Blaise’s smile is encouraging. And he shifts her hips, angling
them, so she’s lined up.

“I don’t know…” she chews her lip, “I’m not—”

Theo’s helping, tilting her hips to the right angle, his hands above Blaise’s, “Don’t tell me
you’re a virgin, Granger.”

She shakes her head, “No, I’m not. I—” It’s not their business, but she continues, “over the
summer, Ron and I—”

There’s a collective sound of disgust, and Hermione rolls her eyes, “Oh sod off.”
“I can imagine how that went—”

“And he didn’t even go down on you—”

“Shut up, all of you.” She snaps. In all honesty, what they’re picturing isn’t far from the truth.
It had been nice—more than nice, sometimes—but it had felt like she was missing
something. She’d heard Lavender and Pansy gossiping about sex, talking about the butterflies
and fireworks. She’d figured they were overexaggerating because it didn’t feel like that with
Ron. To be honest, it was usually over just after it began. But now she’s beginning to think
she got the short end of the straw.

“Come on,” Zabini urges—his patience is admirable, really—and she settles down on it,
bracing at the initial breach. He’s only an inch in, but the stretch makes her stop, and take a
shaky breath. It isn’t quite painful, but it pushes the boundary, and her thighs are shaking with
the effort of holding herself up.

“You’re so fucking tight.” Blaise groans, and his hands are gripping her hips with so much
force, she can feel bruises blossoming under his fingertips.

“I—I can’t—” Theo shifts her hips to an angle she hadn’t thought of, and another few inches
slip in, making her gasp.

“You can take it, Granger.” Malfoy’s voice is firm, and she looks up. He’s stroking himself in
earnest now, watching the spot where her and Blaise are joined. His tongue darts out to wet
his bottom lip, and he nods, “Be a big girl. Take the whole thing.”

She stares at him, and presses down. It’s too much, she’s too full, but she bottoms out. Tears
well as their pelvises meet, and Draco looks drunk on the sight.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Blaise pants, and he rocks gently, pressing on the spot he’d found
with his finger before. The heat is there again, and she feels liquid, utterly boneless on top of
him.

“I need a minute,” she says, nuzzling into Zabini’s neck, needing a moment to collect herself
before he can move. He shifts, kissing her gently, and it feels like praise that she took the
whole thing.

“I don’t know if I can stay still for much longer.” He mutters into her mouth, and she nods.
Theo’s drawing up her back, making her twitch, and Blaise starts to rock, watching her
carefully. The burn is there, but it’s changing as her body adjusts, and she melts.

Blaise gets into a rhythm, and the sound of their bodies meeting fills her ears. She turns,
searching for Theo behind her, and he’s there—knowing what she needs—and he captures
her in a kiss, his tongue filling her mouth as she bounces on Blaise’s cock.

“You’re doing so well.” he whispers, “Can you do it again?”

“I’ll try.” Her words are punctuated by a moan, and Blaise hits that spot again.
Theo unbuttons his dark jeans, shoving them down, and Blaise stops—giving Theo time to
cast a lubricating charm, and another charm she doesn’t know.

He sees the query in her eyes, “It makes it hurt less.” But then he’s lining himself up,
prodding and pressing again. It’s so much thicker than his tongue—blunt and hard—and
Hermione stiffens. She’d barely gotten Blaise in; can she really take this? And Blaise, as
well?

She knows how desperate he is, she can feel how wanting she’s made him, but he takes his
time, watching her carefully as he pushes his hips forward. She can feel the resistance, like a
barrier that doesn’t want to let him past. But it burns, and she can only imagine how much
worse it would be without the charm.

“You’re so fucking hot, Granger,” Theo’s cheeks are flushed, and he kisses her again, “you
have no idea.” He takes advantage of the distraction to push in a little more, and she’s half
crying, because it’s so unlike the other sensation she’s ever felt. It so invasive, so dirty and
intense, but she wants this. She wants them together, inside her, filled from every angle
possible by them.

“You can do it, a little more.” Theo voice is tight, and Blaise is cooing, stroking her hair.

“You’re such a good girl. You can take us both.”

He breaks that initial barrier, and slides home. They’re both tight against her, and Hermione’s
whole body is shaking and shivering. She’s right on the edge of bursting, completely
consumed by the two of them,

“I’m so full—I—” Her whole body is throbbing, twitching, her nerves completely
overwhelmed by the two of them. She feels like the closest she’s ever been to anyone—let
alone these two—who she wouldn’t have spoken to yesterday.

“That’s it.” Theo hisses. It takes a minute, Blaise and Theo shift and move gently, until their
movements match, and they work in tandem. It’s mind-blowingly good, indescribable, her
body sings between them. She feels like a ragdoll, pulled and pushed by them. She barely has
the wherewithal to hold her own head up.

“You’ve made her even tighter,” Blaise grits out to Theo, she fists her hands in his shirt,
needing an anchor so she’s not swept away.

A hand threads through her hair, fisting, tilting her chin up. Draco is standing behind Blaise,
one hand on his cock,

“Last one, Granger.” He’s pressing himself against her lips, and she opens for him. He’s so
hard—he’s been waiting so long—salty and wet, and she does her best to draw him in,
hollowing her cheeks for him. He rewards her with a groan, and she’s feels giddy with pride,
knowing she’s finally broken through his standoffish façade. She wants to thank him for
finally giving in, and show her appreciation with her mouth.
He thrusts in deeper, using his grip on her hair to manoeuvrer himself to the right angle. She’s
so lost in all of them, in the way they light her up, and she knows she’ll do anything. She’s
handed herself over to them completely, and she knows there’s no turning back from this
point. She belongs to them tonight, and she’s okay with it.

Draco’s thrusting in earnest now, fucking her mouth, and she lets herself go placid, take
whatever the three can give her. The room is noisy with debauched, slick noises, of bodies
meeting, and huffs, moans, and breaths shared. Blaise’s hand is on her clit, pinching her hard,
and the orgasm that sweeps through her makes the last one feel like a ripple in a pond. Her
vision spots to black, and she hears herself cry out around Malfoy. Her whole body spasms,
and it feels like she’s falling—the only thing tethering her down is the weight of their bodies
against hers, inside hers.

Theo’s holding her again, Draco’s keeping her upright with his tight grasp in her hair, his
pace unrelenting. It’s like her world has narrowed to the hands and mouths on her, and she
can hear their praise, their glee, watching her body lose itself to them. They’re saying things,
but it feels like she’s hearing them through water as her insides liquefy.

She feels Theo’s movements grow choppy as he comes, and Blaise follows, both of them
pressing even deeper to chase it, and the pleasure ebbs as she comes down. She sucks on
Draco—he’s twitching at the back of her throat—and she watches in fascination as his face
twists, his mouth pops open, and he comes. She tries to hold it, keep in as much as she can,
but it dribbles down her chin, and he smiles. If she looks hard enough, she can see the
softness in it.

Draco pulls out gently, a little unsteady on his feet, as he leans down and kisses her hard on
the mouth. Her nerves are shot, overstimulated, so she twitches under him, but she can feel
herself grinning like an idiot. She knows—medically—that it’s just chemicals, her body is
flooded with oxytocin, but she thinks he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

Theo backs out, pulling out gingerly, and Hermione grimaces. Now that her orgasm has fled,
the full effects of their romp are hitting her now. She’s sore in places she hadn’t thought
possible, aching with the abuse her poor body has suffered. Blaise shifts her, sliding out, and
everything below Hermione’s neck has called it quits.

She can’t even stay on her knees, nearly collapsing onto the stone. But Theo’s behind her, he
catches her, and she flops against him, completely ruined.

She tells them too, “You’ve ruined me.” She mumbles, and her throat is raw. Theo laughs,
and Blaise slides towards her, running a tender hand over her cheek.

Draco conjures a mattress under them, and lies beside her, a hand resting possessively on her
hip. It’s taking conscious effort to stay conscious, and even holding her eyes open feels too
difficult. She closes them, lets herself feel Theo at her back, Draco’s hand trailing up her side,
and Blaise between her thighs, his fingers on her face. She’s twitching with aftershocks, but
her mind is finally silent. It doesn’t leave, doesn’t drift away, but is anchored here by the boys
around her, guiding her through the comedown.

-
It takes some time, but they finally call it a night, when the pink of dawn starts to creep in the
windows. They’re careful heading back to the eighth-year dormitory, with Theo scouting
ahead. But Blaise still had to carry her, and her head is tucked against his shoulder.

She’s fighting sleep—he’s so warm—but she blinks up at him, “Do you guys do that with
many girls?”

He smiles fondly, “No, Granger. Just our girl.”

And that only makes the night all the better.

-
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

Hey besties! I have added new tags to reflect the content in this chapter. Similar to the
first chapter, there is a little bit of dub-con/consensual nc in this chapter, so be warned.

Hermione’s day isn’t going so well. Her alarm charm hadn’t gone off, so she only made it to
the last few minutes of breakfast service. She’d scoffed down a few pieces of dry toast before
running to make double Potions, where her bag split right outside the classroom. Her glass
ink bottle had smashed in the process, soaking every book and piece of parchment on her
person. It had taken three precious minutes to charm everything clean and dry, and repair the
offending backpack.

So she isn’t surprised to be the last in the classroom. She is surprised, however, to see
everyone split off into four, setting up at worktables around the classroom.

“Miss Granger,” Slughorn is at the front of the room, writing instructions on the chalkboard
with his wand, “find a group. We’re making Veritaserum today.”

Which Hermione would’ve known, if she’d had the time to review her daily schedule—as
she did every morning over breakfast.

She searches the room for an empty spot, of which there is one. In their group. Her stomach
does something funny.

The three Slytherins watch her expectantly, not surprised by her late entrance. They’d
followed her requests to the letter, and not a word of their late-night rendezvous has made it
back to Hermione. She’d spent a few days after in dizzy paranoia, searching in the eyes of her
friends for some kind of accusation or disgust. But everyone had behaved normally, business
as usual, and the feeling had mostly passed.

But just because people didn’t know, didn’t mean Hermione could forget. On the contrary, the
entire incident sat at the forefront of her mind at all times—whispering and teasing—until
she’d have to excuse herself to her dorm, cast a muffliato around her bed, and attempt to
pathetically imitate what they’d done to her that night, to the best of her ability. But it never
worked. She couldn’t caress herself, she couldn’t kiss herself, and she sure as Merlin couldn’t
go down on herself. So she’d give up—her body tired of orgasms that couldn’t compare—
and try to sleep.

She walks over to their table with grim determination, and sets down her bag beside the last
empty stool. The boys are talking amongst themselves quietly, now, pretending not to notice
her arrival, and she sets her jaw. She can be mature about this. Adults have sex all the time,
and they’re able to compartmentalize, be professional. Be mature, Hermione.

“Bit of trouble with that?” Nott nods at her bag, and Hermione grimaces. How on earth could
he have known? Unless he can see through walls—which he can’t—there’s no reason why
Theo should know that her bag split. Unless he split it himself.

Hermione bites her tongue, swallowing a few choice names she could call him, that would
undoubtedly earn her a detention if Slughorn caught wind. Instead, she internally rolls her
eyes, before shooting Theo a saccharine smile.

“Nope, no trouble.” He isn’t the only one that can play at that game. Your move, you prick.

Theo’s eyebrows go up, and he grins, before turning back to the conversation Blaise and
Draco are having. But she knows what that look means, and it makes her heart pump a little
harder. Game on.

She hadn’t expected them to treat her any differently. In fact, that would’ve made it worse—a
reminder of what they’d given her, what she’d never have again. They’d gone back to coolly
co-existing, hovering around one another, and only interacting when forced. Or at least, until
she’d looked up at the Slytherin table last week, feeling hard eyes burning into her cheek.
She’d met the gaze of Blaise, who hadn’t dropped his gaze when she caught him looking.
Instead, he’d run a thumb across his bottom lip—staring all the while—and watched her
cheeks blaze.

An accident perhaps, or a coincidence she was thinking too much into. Until a few days later,
in Charms, when she’d seen Draco prodding his tongue into his cheek. It was a repeated
action, and deliberate. A childish imitation of… well, she knew. And he’d known she was
watching.

Whatever the reason was for the mindfuck, Hermione could only guess. But it was a
reminder. A reminder that she couldn’t wash off what they’d done to her, that they had been
there as much as she had. They were letting her know that it wouldn’t disappear. That, in
some way, she was still theirs, and always would be.

Hermione gets out her textbook, flicking through to the instructions on Veritaserum. A tricky
potion, but not too far outside of her comfort zone. She won’t let them distract her, or throw
her off. Hermione isn’t the type of person who lets her schoolwork suffer because of boys, of
all the things. Even a Basilisk lurking in the pipes hadn’t managed it, so she sure as shit isn’t
going to let three more snakes do it either.

“—it was a foul, and just because you’re blinded by Holyhead Harpy fanaticism, doesn’t
mean—”

She clears her throat, and they finally look at her. Draco cuts himself off, and she
immediately regrets drawing attention to herself. They’re bad enough one on one, but three
sharp and knowing eyes on her sends her mind and body spinning out of control. She
remembers the line Theo kissed down her back, Zabini’s mouth on her, Draco’s cock in her—
“I was thinking,” it’s barely above a whisper, “one of us could fetch the first ingredients,
another could heat the cauldron, and another could start chopping the scarab beetles.”

“We could heat the cauldron on your cheeks, Granger.” Draco replies, which doesn’t dim the
blush she’s desperately trying to hide.

“Shh!” she whips her head around the classroom, searching for eavesdroppers, or someone
near enough to hear the passing comment. But the room is a flurry of movement and busy-
ness, no one strays too close to the Slytherin table, like they’re scared of being bitten. She
doesn’t blame them.

Theo’s grin breaks free again at her embarrassment, and even Blaise smothers a smile behind
his hand. She’s scrambling for a comeback, something to balance the conversation again, but
all she’s thinking about is how nice Zabini’s hands are, and how unfair that is.

“I’ll grab the ingredients.” Blaise volunteers, and he stands, making his way around her side
of the table. He moves past her, like he has to squeeze through, and presses a hand to her
lower back. It burns, like he’s pressing into bare skin, and Hermione’s stomach swoops. But
it’s barely a second of contact, and he breezes through, heading for the potion cupboard. She
shoots him a glare, fully aware of the miles of space behind her—he didn’t have to squeeze
past anything—but he ignores her.

“Right,” she starts, but she can’t remember what she was thinking about, can’t summon the
instructions she’d given them moments ago—

“Heat the cauldron, Granger. Like you said.” Malfoy drawls, and Hermione fetches her wand,
feeling like her brain is fighting a losing battle again her body. Stay professional.

She summons a flame, cursing herself for being so aware and attuned to the boys beside her.
It’s like her senses are narrowed in on them, each movement they make around the table,
each slow draw of their breaths. Their breathing had been a lot different when they’d been—

“Easy, Hermione,” Theo’s hand is on hers, and she jumps. The flame flares, and Theo tilts her
wand hand, calming her charm, “it’s meant to be a gentle simmer.”

She’ll kill all of them. She’ll slip something into their pumpkin juice, and watch them fall
into their breakfasts. Maybe then she’ll finish the school year in peace, unmolested.

His hand is gone a moment later, and Hermione takes a shaky breath. It’s like they’ve got ink
on their hands, and every touch leaves her stained. She can feel their heat leaching into her,
marking the places they’ve touched long after the contact has ended.

She looks up, and catches Neville looking at her. His features are etched with concern, like
she’s beaming a distress signal across the room. Maybe she is.

You okay? He mouths, and she nods. Because what else can she say? ‘Oh, I’m fine, Neville.
These men are just turning me on so much I can’t think straight.’
She needs to focus. She needs to maintain her spot at the top of the class. She needs… she
needs a repeat of that night. She sighs, and places her wand down before she loses control of
the flame again. It’s so unfair. It’s unfair that they can touch her like that, peel away her
layers and climb inside, and then act like it never happened. They’ve broken her, utterly
ruined her. She knows that whatever future sex she might have will always be measured
against that night, and will likely fall short. Because they’ve set the bar too high, changing
the goal posts forever.

Zabini’s back now, arms loaded with jars and vials, and sets them down on the table. Draco
grabs one, tipping it gently to count out sixteen scarab beetles. Theo slides the cutting board
in front of him, crushing each one under his knife with a grinding crunch. Their teamwork is
admirable, but she already knew that.

“—the usual debauchery, I presume. Your mother never throws a boring Samhain gala.”

They’re talking again, and Hermione silently eavesdrops. It’s an interesting insight into their
dynamic, something she’s never been privy to before. But that night had given her a slight
insight into their power dynamic, and she’s nothing if not curious.

Draco had spoken, and Zabini rolls his eyes.

“If you don’t watch out, she’ll make you husband number eight, Draco.” Theo’s wearing a
trademark shit eating grin, looking for Blaise’s reaction. To the latter boy’s credit, he doesn’t
give in, deflecting the comment at Draco,

“I don’t think so. Draco seems to prefer his women with wild hair, and pouty mouths. My
mother is far too refined for him.”

They’re talking about her, she presumes. They know she’s listening, and it’s a causal nod in
her direction to let her know they haven’t forgotten she’s there by way of an easy dig. She’s
not nearly as subtle as she thinks she is, apparently. But she still doesn’t appreciation the
insinuation that she’s not refined. If she’d ever seemed anything but, it was their fault.

“On the contrary,” Draco shoots back, “as long as a woman knows how to suck, I’m satisfied.
And after seven husbands, I’m sure—”

One of Draco’s legs seems to slip from under him, and he nearly tumbles. But he quickly
rights himself in the blink of an eye, and shoots a look at Blaise.

“Mind your stinging jinxes, Blaise.” His voice is calm, despite the near disaster moments
ago.

“Mind your tone, Draco.” Zabini’s reply is just as mild, and Hermione is utterly perplexed.
The entire exchange had seemed polite and mild-mannered, but they’d been firing insults and
jabs like hexes. It’s like they were waiting to see who fell first, and this time, Zabini had
taken the bait.

Slytherins. Such an odd bunch. Their whole conversation made Harry and Ron’s raging
Quidditch debates sound like a serenade. Weren’t these three supposed to be best friends?
“Stop gawping Granger, you look like a fish.” Draco runs a hand through his hair, fixing it,
and Hermione closes her mouth.

“Be nice, Draco,” Theo replies, “she doesn’t see much intelligent conversation at her end of
the castle.”

Is this an invitation? Or is she overthinking it?

She raises a single eyebrow in their direction, before turning back to her cauldron, like she’s
busy with it,

“And not much here either, it seems.”

Judging from their reactions, she’s met the mark. Theo laughs in surprise, and she even earns
a huff of rare amusement from Draco. She’s not wrong, though. Boys. Acting like they’re
engaged in some grand battle of wits when all they’re doing is spouting the pureblood
equivalent of ‘your mum’ jokes.

They fall into an easy silence, save for the sounds of the bubbling cauldron and knife against
the cutting board. Hermione tries to turn her energy to her stirring—three times clockwise,
four times counter-clockwise—but the rest of her body feels hyperaware of the movements
around her, the three boys who are keeping a respectable distance from her. She looks up
from the potion to watch Theo, who’s peeling dittany root with a knife using fine precision.
He has those kind of hands—pianist hands—with long thin fingers, blue veins running along
the back of them, sharp knuckles protruding under his pale skin. A silver signet ring sits on
his pinkie. Strange to imagine the same hands pressed into her waist, prying her legs apart.

Her gaze travels further up, and she starts when their eyes meet. Once again, she’s been
caught, pinned under Theo’s gaze. His hands have stilled now, and he’s watching her with a
knowing look. His mocking smile is betrayed by his eyes though—the heat in them gives him
away. She blinks, feeling like a fly trapped in amber, while internally cursing herself for
being so easy, so naïve. She’d held onto her virginity for seventeen years before Ron. She’d
never let her libido take precedent, not when they had a war to win, and she had classes to
top. Even her impassioned make-out sessions with Viktor hadn’t left her doe-eyed and
mindless. But them…

Why did it have to be them of all people?

Theo leans over to Draco—Hermione watches the pale column of his throat—and whispers
something into his ear. And Draco looks right at her, and nods.

She doesn’t need to remind them that it’s impolite to whisper. Instead, she’s caught in a wave
of déjà vu, the odd feeling that there’s a trap being weaved around her, and she’s being
ensnared without a say in the matter. It’s the same feeling of curious trepidation she’d felt
that night too, knowing that something was in store, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

Damn the lot of them. Wily, conniving bastards.

She reorients herself, forcing her attention back to the boiling cauldron. It had been fine
before—when they’d been almost strangers, and she had no stake or part in whatever they
were concocting. But it seems she’s accidentally caught their attention—at least for now—
and they’re enjoying their shiny new toy. At least they know how to share.

Theo’s knife slips out of his fingers, clattering to the floor by her feet. Her shoulders tighten
at the sound, but she refuses to look, to give them a sliver of attention. Three times clockwise,
four times counter-clockwise.

Theo kneels to pick it up, and she freezes. He’s closer to her now, the knife is inches away
from her foot, and her personal space was her last defence against them. He grabs it with one
hand, shifting to stand, and she stares at the cauldron determinedly—three times clockwise,
four—

His fingers trail up the back of her calf.

She swallows a gasp.

Theo stands, and his fingers sweep up her leg—the divot behind her knee, up her thigh—
before his hand settles up her skirt, skimming gently past... He’s touching her there. In the
middle of Potions!

But it’s barely a second—the barest graze of contact through her underwear—before he turns
back to his dittany root, slicing it into thin ribbons on the cutting board.

She’s indignant, of course—anyone could have seen that!—but if she said her blood wasn’t
singing, she’d be lying. She can feel the trail he’s traced, burning against her skin like
Fiendfyre.

She’ll start with Theo, she decides, gripping her stirring rod with enough force to shatter it.
She’ll curse his broom, and send him flying into the Whomping Willow. She’ll let it turn him
into human mulch.

Draco shoots her a look, “If you’re going to stick the stirring rod through his eye, can it wait
until after class?”

Hermione scowls, trying to turn the warmth in her belly into anger, “He’d deserve it.”

Draco shrugs, “I’m not disputing that, Granger.”

Theo laughs, and a few heads turn at the sound. She doesn’t disagree, the sound suits him.
Even his smile, curving into his dimples, looks good. It shows a flash of his straight teeth,
pearly against his rosy pink mouth.

He’s too pretty for his own good.

They’re only twenty minutes into the lesson, and Hermione’s watching the clock with
desperation. If Theo hadn’t hexed her bag, the lesson would’ve been another mundane
Potions block, micromanaging Neville, Dean and Seamus through brewing, with an
extinguishing charm primed to go if necessary. But now she’s managing her own arousal,
which rears its head whenever she’s within three feet of the Slytherin trio. She’s played into
their hand, yet again. And she’d be kicking herself if some dark part of herself wasn’t so
turned on.

She’s allowed a few minutes of reprieve, barely, before Theo seems to get bored of ingredient
prep. Instead, he meanders over to her end of the table, under the guise of looking into the
cauldron. Instead of doing so from her side, however, he makes a point standing behind her,
pressing tightly against her to look into the cauldron over her head. It’s not a difficult feat,
however, his lean height puts him a head taller than her. They all are. What on earth were
they feeding them in the Slytherin dungeon? Skele-Grow?

“Hmm,” he peers into it, “looks good.”

She’s caged in by arms his arms, her hipbones firm against the counter, and the last thing
she’s thinking about is the cauldron. She can feel the hard steel of his erection against her
arse, pressing into her in a way that makes goosebumps break out on her arms.

“I know.” She grits out. She fights the urge to push him back. It would draw unnecessary
attention, and only serve to reward his arrogance.

“Good work.”

He steps away again, returning to his side of the bench with a smug look on his face.

Blaise, who’d watched the exchange with an eyebrow raised, sighs,

“Could you be any more obvious, Theo?”

“No fun without a little risk, old pal.” He winks.

Hermione’s jaw is tight enough to shatter, and she hisses in embarrassment, “I might take
Draco’s suggestion and shove the stirring rod up his—“

She stops.

He—the bloody cheek of it!

Hermione sits down sharply in her stool, before her knees give way.

“You alright, Granger?” Blaise asks, pausing in his ingredient prep.

“Fine!” she squeaks, higher than she would’ve liked.

A bloody vibrating charm! The nerve! She takes a deep steadying breath. She’s going to
strangle him, she decides. His fate is sealed. It’s hard to concentrate on fantasies of murder,
admittedly, as Theo shifts the charm slightly to the left, and Hermione has to grab the potion
bench for support.

“You know the rules, Granger. You can stop this whenever you like.” Theo murmurs, holding
his wand under the table.
She knows the sensible answer. The risk of discovery is too high. And the mortification she’d
face is a chilling thought. She didn’t even know the rules of this kind of situationship. Were
they more common in the wizarding world? Or would she be looked down upon? And that
wasn’t even to speak of Harry and Ron finding out...

And yet, she’s reluctant to say no. Aside from every nerve ending in her body screaming at
her to see it through, Theo’s affections alongside Draco and Blaise’s very heated observation
of their silent battle answered the question she’d been silently asking herself for weeks. Did
they actually want her? Or had she just been there?

“And let you win?” She grits out, “I think not.”

Theo grin is indulgent, “If you say so, Granger.”

And he increases the speed of the charm. Hermione’s nails bite into the wood of the
benchtop, and she presses her lips together to smother a gasp.

“Oh great,” Draco drawls, “another exhibitionist. As though its not bad enough sharing a
dormitory with one.”

But he hasn’t taken his eyes off her yet, and his pestle hovers over the beetles, forgotten.

“What kind of heathen does their private business with the bed curtains open? That image
haunts my nightmares.” Blaise adds, seemingly oblivious to Hermione’s situation.

She shoots Theo a look, which she hopes is disapproving, but she can feel the blush radiating
from her cheeks. It won’t take long—she can feel the orgasm brewing low, a warm rush
across her lower back in a low simmer. She wants to fight the reactions, stay still and in
control. There’s something arousing about the idea of holding it back, fighting it, making
them work to pry her loose. She wants them to earn her, show her how much they want her
wanton before them. She takes a shuddering breath.

She’s getting close—the simmer has built to a threatening boil—and she clamps her thighs
together, trying to fight it off. She can tell she’s soaked through, but she won’t give Theo the
satisfaction of knowing what he’s doing to her. She pretends to read the textbook before her,
but she isn’t taking in a word.

Hermione’s leg shakes involuntarily, and the table judders, giving her away. She bites down
hard on her lip—she can feel Theo’s eyes burning a hole in her cheek, daring her to look up.
But she knows the moment she catches his gaze—any of them, for that matter—she’ll lose it.
He turns the charm up again.

Fuck. The pressure builds, and she squirms in the stool. Her body is taut like a bowstring,
rocking on the cusp, just a little more to tip her over—

The charm stops suddenly, and the orgasm falls away just before her breaking point. She
almost cries out in outrage, and her head snaps up to glare at Theo.
All three of them are staring at her, and it catches her off guard. A slug is making a hasty
escape across the their worktable, and Blaise hasn’t noticed. It seems she’s caught their
attention now. The realization is accompanied by a blush, but a flash of pride too. God, they
have really corrupted her good and proper, haven’t they? She’s panting like she ran a mile.

“That’s mean, Theo.” Draco says.

Theo rolls his eyes, “Weren’t you accusing me of being a minute man last time?”

Blaise still hasn’t noticed the escapee slug, “It’s for the best. I don’t need Granger testing the
limits of my distraction charm in the middle of Potions.”

She’d been so distracted herself, she hadn’t even noticed him casting one. Yet she can see it
when she looks, the faint sheen around the table, and the way her classmates eyes don’t look
directly at them.

“You’re no fun.” It seems Theo hadn’t noticed either.

“I want her to get off, not get expelled.” He waves it away.

Hermione takes a steadying breath in the lull, trying to steady the tremor in her hand as she
picks the stirring rod up once more. She has no idea what point in the process they are at, and
notes the tables around her are entirely finished with their potion preparation, having moved
onto the heating phases. Hermione has a different—and far more urgent—heat simmering
away low in her belly, whining for attention. She shifts in her stool, clearing her throat in
embarrassment.

“I suppose it’s too late to skip the lesson,” she remarks lightly, and Draco stares at her like
she just sprouted a second head. She sticks her tongue out at him.

“Your slug is making a break for it, Blaise.” Theo points at it, and Hermione is almost proud
of how much headway it’s made.

“I suppose I’ll need a new one.” Blaise sighs.

“What? Just use that one.” Theo says.

“Nope, I need a new one,” he says again, slower this time, “from the dimly lit ingredients
cupboard. Which is currently unoccupied. Over in the quietest corner of the room.” He turns
to her, “Do you think you could grab me one, Hermione?”

Hermione doesn’t need to be told twice, and she straightens her skirt, making her way to the
ingredients cupboard at a brisk walk. Something hums with anticipation in her chest, and she
squeezes past other tables and hyper focused students. Slughorn is nowhere to be seen, but he
often disappeared in odd bursts during their double periods.

The small room isn’t a cupboard, so much as a walk in pantry, complete with a door that
shuts if necessary—a fact she hasn’t truly appreciated until now.
“Quickly now, before she melts,” she hears Blaise mutter, and then she hears Theo’s stool
slide backwards on the stone, following closely behind as she slips in the cupboard. He
squeezes through, closing the door behind him. As soon as the lock clicks, he pounces on her,
pressing her against the only spare piece of wall in the cupboard, right behind the door.

He’s lavishing kisses down her neck, and she does melt, his hand cradling her head to protect
it from the stone wall, and to manoeuver her head for optimum neck kisses.

“You’re killing me, Granger,” he switches to the other side, “you’re going to give me a heart
attack. I wasn’t sure if you would be into it, but of course you are, because you’re perfect—”

Theo’s body presses into her, overwhelming her, his knee pressing up between her thighs. He
brushes her hair away from her face, and his fingers still have the gingery smell of dittany on
them. He sucks and nibbles down the line of her throat, and it sends shivers down her back,
she presses into him.

“How long do you think we have?” he breathes, and she’s caught in the dark blue of his eyes
—puppy dog eyes, she’d once thought. His pupils are blown out, probably matching hers.

“I don’t know,” she’s overwhelmed by him, looking up at him, surrounded by him, “a minute
or two, probably.”

He grins, “Well, it’s funny you should say that...”

She laughs, genuinely, and he kisses her in the middle of it like he can taste it. He kisses like
he fucks—with his whole heart—and Hermione’s pulse is thrumming so hard she can hear it.

“Fucking gorgeous, Granger, so pretty and filthy—”

It sounds like a prayer against her throat, and his hand is slipping upwards, and she feels the
change in his urgency when he reaches the apex of her thighs, feels how slick it is.

“Christ, you—” he groans, and he’s all but ripping his robes open, she hears his button pop
open. She’s taut with anticipation, has been since she arrived in this godforsaken classroom,
since Blaise teased her across the dining hall.

She’s missed Theo. She’s missed all of them, their dry bantering with each other, the way
they treat her like a wrapped up gift hand made for them. Theo slides her underwear down
under her skirt, kneeling at her feet and muttering something reverent, before shoving the wet
material into his robe pocket.

“If only they could see you now, Granger.” He hoists her higher, wrapping her legs around
his hips, “Can I fuck you?”

Hermione nods, the wait leaving her dizzy and desperate. She grinds down against him,
keening for a sliver of relief but he pulls away.

“That’s not an answer.” He’s feigning patience, but she can feel how long he’s waited, and his
forceful grip on her arse is telling.
“Please, Theo.”

She can feel when he gives in. He’s fighting to be inside her now, all but tearing his fly open,
pinning her still, like he’s been waiting years for her.

The initial slide feels like a fresh breath, and she lets out a low groan despite herself, despite
the busy classroom on the other side of the door. He’s not gentle, not like Blaise was. He’s
desperate and hungry, his hot breath on her neck, and she lets herself go. Lets herself melt
into him.

“You look the picture of sin when you cum, did you know that?” Theo whispers in the shell
of her ear, “Those beautiful lips get so pink and full. The way they part a little—”

She whimpers a little despite herself—who knew Theo was such a poet—and he presses his
hand against her mouth, keeping her quiet.

“Imagine if they knew how fucking filthy you are, huh?” They both groan when he strikes
deep, “The Gryffindor princess likes to get fucked like a slut in class. They don’t know that,
do they?”

God, he’s pure filth. His hot breath at her ear, the smell of him, his desperation—she feels
like she’s losing herself in him.

“Did you think we were done with you? That was it?” He shifts his hand, letting her suck in a
shaky breath.

“Kind of,” she admits, knowing she’ll regret her honesty later, but there’s nothing but truth
when she’s wrapped in him so completely, smothered by him.

He huffs, grinning into her neck, “We wouldn’t let you go that easy, my darling.”

He sinks more deeply into her, fucks harder. She bites into his shoulder, fighting back a wail
against his punishing pace. It’s building again—it never truly went away.

“You’re ours, aren’t you?” It sounds like a curse, and his hand slips between them, pressing
against her clit with the heel of his palm.

“Yes,” she hisses, and she’s back on the edge of it again, her fists clenching his robes,
writhing against him.

“Look at me. Keep your eyes open.”

She does. She holds his gaze as she comes, lets it wrack through her, legs twitching against
his hips, and he drinks it in. Forehead against hers, towering over her, he drinks her in—eyes
flitting from her lips, over her flushed cheeks, and back to her eyes again.

Moments later, she feels him follow suit—like he’d been holding out to watch her first. His
hips slow, chasing deeper rather than quicker, and she watches him in return. His lids flutter,
jaw taut. There’s a slight flush over his pale skin, high on his cheekbones. Far too pretty, she
thinks.
They take a moment to tidy themselves--’can I have my underwear back?’ ‘absolutely not’—
and Hermione opens the door gingerly, expecting a class of disapproving students to be
glaring at her on the other side of the door. Without the haze of arousal clouding her
judgement, the idiocy of her actions has begun to sink in.

Yet, she opens the door, and no one turns her way. No one is even waiting to use the store
cupboard, which is a miracle in and of itself. Well, it seems like a miracle until she sees the
thin film of Blaise’s distraction charm over the door.

“You’re welcome.” Blaise says when they sit back down, and Hermione tries to smooth her
hair down with a hand.

“How long was that?” Theo sits down on his stool, looking like he’d just had a brisk morning
walk. Hermione feels like a clone of herself made from jelly.

“Four minutes,” Draco tells him, after checking his pocket watch.

“That long, eh? Must be a personal record.” Theo grins at his own joke.

Hermione’s common sense returns with a jolt, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Ah, she’s back with us.” Draco drawls, “Do you think you’re capable of stirring the
cauldron now? Or should I do it?”

Hermione glowers at him.

“If she can’t manage that, we could put her under the table.” Blaise adds.

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea!” Theo looks intrigued.

“Next time?” Draco suggests.

Next time. Maybe she wasn’t a temporary fixture, a one-off plaything. Maybe she would find
a place in their group, hold her own in their conversations. Could it be... more?

“Don’t pull that sappy face, Granger, I’ll gag.”

“Oh shove off, Malfoy.”

Good to know some things hadn’t changed.

 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

Note the tags, and enjoy!

It was an unfamiliar experience to Hermione. Having someone—someones--who paid

attention to her mood, noticed her ups and downs. Being looked out for was familiar in a
survival capacity, sure. Ron always had her back in a duel, and Harry had a knack for sensing
imminent danger, and getting them out of it. But that was staying alive, getting by. That kind
of observation was essential on the battlefield, of course, she wasn’t dismissing them. But,
beyond that, Ron and Harry weren’t the most...observant.

It was unfamiliar to reach her favourite seat in the library and find it warmed with a charm.
To find a blueberry muffin in her bag after she skipped lunch. To have someone ask their
Charms professor for further notes on a topic that had caught Hermione’s interest. It felt like
they’d collaboratively agreed to ease her into something. She felt like a wild horse, being
gently encouraged along with carrots. They weren’t wrong. She was the most hesitant of the
group. Like she’d mentioned—unfamiliar. But a good kind of unfamiliar.

She’s at the Gryffindor table with Neville and Luna when the morning owls swoop down
from the rafters. Hermione automatically pins the pages of her book still with a finger, as the
wind from a hundred wings swishes across the table. Her Daily Prophet owl lands neatly
beside her plate, and she exchanges a sickle for the paper. It gives her a hoot, and takes off—
sending a napkin flying in its wake.

“Anything new?” Neville asks, and she closes her book to briefly skim the front page. The
tone and content of the Daily Prophet has noticeably shifted in recent months—from Death
Eater sentencing and war reparations, to the everyday and unremarkable. Hermione thinks it
speaks to a wider fatigue towards the post-war news cycle, and the accompanying reminders
of horrors endured. Normality, while banal and predictable, is what people prefer to read over
their breakfasts.

“Workers in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office are striking today,” she reads aloud, “to
protest the inadequacy of their personal protective gear, and the flaws in their current
magical injury compensation scheme.”

“Sounds about right. The whole department was in uproar after that guy lost his finger
defanging a microwave.”

Hermione makes a noise of agreement, and keeps reading. She’s on page three—Three Ways
to Spice your Mead for Yule—when there’s a thwump beside her, of something soft hitting the
table. It doesn’t catch her attention really, not until the silence at the table takes on an
anticipatory feel. She looks over the top of her newspaper, to find Neville and Luna looking
at her expectantly.

“What?”

“I think those are yours, Hermione.” Luna points to the spot next to Hermione’s porridge,
where a bouquet of red roses sit. They’re wrapped in brown paper—a little crinkled from owl
travel, but not bad—with a white square of card attached. The white card bears her name. She
clears her throat.

“Oh, well...” she unsticks the note, trying to pretend her cheeks aren’t red.

Hermione,

Be at the north end of Hogsmeade at six.

Well, it was better than being ambushed in Potions. She would’ve preferred something a little
more understated, and not in clear view of her friends. At least Neville and Luna were too
polite to push her for answers, but once Ginny got word, Hermione would be subject to an
interrogation like no other. Ginny had inherited Molly Weasley’s talent for cross-
examination, and Hermione had often mused that the latter had missed her calling as Chief
Warlock of the Wizengamot.

“That explains why the Devil kept popping up in my readings for you, Hermione.” Luna
remarks, and Neville perks up.

“What does that one mean?” Neville had taken a genuine interest in Luna’s tarot readings
ever since she’d (correctly) predicted Trevor’s conjunctivitis.

“Hmm. I sense hedonism.”

Neville splutters into his pumpkin juice, and Hermione studiously avoids his eye,
concentrating intently on her porridge. Luckily for her, Luna’s remark puts Neville right off
the topic of Hermione’s love life, and she finishes her breakfast with no questions about the
roses. The urge to look across the room at the Slytherin table nags away at her the entire
meal, and it takes a degree of willpower to ignore it. A glimpse isn’t worth it, especially
under such scrutiny.

Even then, she can’t quite hide her smile as she reads the note once more, when she runs a
fingertip over the velvety petals. No one has ever given her flowers before.

It isn’t until she’s leaving that she risks it, when she’s somewhat concealed in the end-of-
breakfast exodus from the hall, and she turns her head, searching for Blaise in the crowd. It
doesn’t take long—his height makes him stick out—and he’s not far behind her. His eyes
meet hers.

Thank you, she mouths. Blaise inclines his head in acknowledgement, a returning ‘you’re
welcome’. She bites back a smile, but he sees it, and the corners of his mouth lift slightly.
With Blaise’s stoicism, it feels like a victory. She turns back again, keeping with the crowd.

She feels a little breathless at the interaction, at the intimacy of their private conversation in
such a public space. The way his eyes glitter with the secret of them, and what they’ve done.
She’s been having these silent conversations for days—a sly wink in a quiet hallway, and
knowing look across a classroom. But she knows now it isn’t mocking, but a stolen moment
of intimacy, and she delights in it.

It’s a few minutes to six when she reaches the northern arch to Hogsmeade. It would’ve been
hard to be late, considering how closely she’s watched the clock all day.

But she’s not the first one here. Blaise leans against the wrought iron, hands tucked into his
long coat, chin hidden from the wind in his collar. He hasn’t spotted her yet, and she takes a
private moment to admire the long line of him, the shadows under his high cheekbones. She
isn’t sure she’s ever seen him outside of his school robes, and in Muggle clothes nonetheless.
She wishes he looked a little more awkward and uncertain—to ease her own nerves. But, as
with everything Blaise does, he wears the clothes with a silent self-assuredness, an ease, that
she envies.

It grows dark enough that the lampposts down the lane flicker to life, and she steps out of the
shadows. He doesn’t startle at her sudden appearance. Maybe he heard her crunching in the
snow, felt her eyes drinking him in. He looks even better in the yellow glow of light, and she
allows herself one last admiring glance before she speaks.

“Quiet tonight, isn’t it?”

Another privilege of their position as eighth-years; they didn’t have to wait for Hogsmeade
weekends like the rest of Hogwarts. McGonagall had made it clear that they were adults, and
they had the right to come and go as they pleased, as long as they behaved themselves.
‘Upheld the reputation of Hogwarts’, as she’d phrased it. For that, Hermione was grateful. It
felt a little demeaning to win a war and be reduced back down to permission slips and
curfews.

“Hmm,” Blaise replies, not drawn in by Hermione’s attempt at small talk. Instead, he inclines
his head, and they set off. She has to take two steps to every one of his, but soon they find a
rhythm. Not for the first time—and probably not the last—the unreality of the situation points
itself out. Walking alongside Blaise Zabini, without a hex on the tip of her tongue. Walking
with him to an undisclosed second location, and only feeling the good kind of butterflies.
How the turns table.

“You look lovely, by the way.”

The comment catches her off guard, as does the complete ease with which he says it. She
tempers her surprise, and the accompanying surge in her chest.

“Uh, thank you. So do you.”

The clear purpose and definition of Blaise’s invitation had been hazy, and dressing for it had
taken some patchy guesswork on Hermione’s end. Meeting with him and the others usually
meant sex. But accompanied by a dozen roses—a date? She’d tried to dress for either
outcome, one of her nicer skirts, her favourite top... her sultriest lingerie set. Hermione is
nothing if not prepared.

Her questions are on their way to being answered as Blaise stops before the Three
Broomsticks, holding the door open for her. The cosy air of the pub envelopes her, and she
and Blaise shed their outerwear. He’s paired his jeans with a nice woollen turtle-neck—looks
expensive—and she does a quick visual sweep of the room. No one familiar sticks out, and
she feels a guilty pang of relief. She’s not embarrassed of being seen with Blaise per se, but
she’s reluctant to give fuel to rumours that may stumble onto the truth.

Blaise ushers her past the bar—she gives Rosmerta a wave—and opens the door to one of the
private rooms in the back, shutting the door quickly behind them.

This room is a further continuation of the main room—wood panelled and cosy—warmed by
a fire crackling away in a stone hearth. It reminds her of the Gryffindor common room with
less red; packed with squishy couches and arm chairs, and little footstools and wooden side-
tables.

Theo and Draco occupy one such couch in the centre of the room, beside a coffee table
stacked with bottles and glasses, bowls of snacks. It makes her smile a little, imagining them
debating over crisp flavours before her arrival. Theo’s wearing a deep blue sweater that
matches his eyes, and Draco wears familiar greys and blacks. They’re caught in conversation,
but they look up when she enters.

Theo smiles at least, “Here she is, belle of the ball! Take a seat.” He gestures to the couch
opposite him. She sits, smoothing her skirt, trying to subtly decipher the mood in the room.
It’s a survival instinct with them—has she been invited to laid back drinks? Or is she about to
be devoured? Maybe a mix of both—they’d drink Firewhiskey and she’d get passed around
like canapés. (She wouldn’t protest.)

She sits. Theo invites her to pick her poison, and she goes for wine. Firewhiskey is nice, but
she doesn’t trust her tolerance. Two drinks in and she’d be on the floor, making her a very
dull party guest. There’s fruit, crisps, and nuts too, but she doesn’t feel like eating—nerves
are fizzing away in her belly.

Blaise sits beside her, fixing himself a drink. His thigh presses into hers, and he pretends not
to notice. Hermione has a sense of déjà vu, but doesn’t pull away. How casual Blaise is with
his affection, how unconcerned he is with touching her. Another thing she envies him for.

Theo takes a handful of peanuts, crunching on them loudly until Draco gives him a hard
shove.

“Don’t be such a sourpuss.” Theo replies, “It’s not my fault Rosmerta hates you.”

Blaise takes a few ice cubes from the wine bucket, charmed not to melt, and plops them into
his drink, shooting Draco a look,
“It was a mission getting you in, you could at least act pleased to be here.”

Theo sees the question in Hermione’s eyes, and answers it, “Well, technically, he’s banned.
For obvious reasons. I got him through with a Disillusionment charm and some of my best
flirting.”

Draco scoffs, “Best, you say? She probably would’ve lifted my ban to shut you up.”

“You’re in a charming mood tonight, aren’t you?” Theo turns to her, hand on his chest,
“You’ve gotta stop him, Hermione, he’s breaking my heart.”

“Just let him self-flagellate in the corner, he’ll get over it soon.” Blaise remarks, and
Hermione bites her tongue. She’d almost forgotten about the incident between Rosmerta and
Draco in sixth year. She wants to ask him what it was like, holding someone under the
Imperius for so long. She’d always been a little curious, in a purely academic way. Harry and
Ron had cast it in the war, and they’d never wanted to go into much detail. Harry had let slip
once that the power was a little heady—holding someone under your control like that. She
remembers how it had felt when ‘Moody’ had cast it on her in fourth-year. It had bought an
odd peace of mind to Hermione that she hadn’t felt before then. Or, at least, not until recently.

Hermione realizes that Draco is watching her, and it’s like he’s reading her mind, seeing the
questions she wants to ask him. She fidgets, suddenly embarrassed. He looks away too, with
an odd twisted expression, which she’ll realize later is shame.

“Regardless, we’re not going to the Hog’s Head,” Theo says, “I saw the bartender there
sneeze into a pint once.”

Hermione cuts in, “That’s not fair. Aberforth’s nice, once you get to know him.”

“People can be nice and also unhygenic, Hermione.” Theo replies.

They sit in silence for a moment. It’s not uncomfortable—Hermione marvels at how much
has changed—before Draco tips his glass back, finishing his drink.

“Shall we play a game?”

Blaise shrugs, and Draco pours himself a more than generous glass.

“What kind of drinking games do you play in the Gryffindor tower, Granger?”

It doesn’t take a genius to see Draco’s in a controversial mood. It’s obvious in the set of his
jaw, the dark shadows in his eyes. He’s testy, and each draw on his glass is longer than the
last. It seems the reminder of his misdeeds and the whiskey aren’t sitting well together.

She doesn’t tell them she almost never played those kind of games, and scrambles for an
answer, “I don’t know... truth or dare?”

“I was hoping for something with stripping involved.” Theo chimes in, and Draco and Blaise
grimace.
“If I have to see your cock one more time against my will, I’m gouging my eyes out.” Blaise
glares at him, and Theo grins. He seems to feed off his friends’ disapproval.

“That implies there’s a scenario in which you’re willing?”

Blaise throws a peanut at him, he laughs.

“Truth and dare is good. I’ll go first.” Draco declares, “Blaise, truth or dare?”

Blaise narrows his eyes, immediately suspicious. Fairly so. Hermione knows Draco’s
warning signs as well as anyone. If they were in third-year again, she’d be loading verbal
cannons, ready to fire back. But their new... relationship makes things precarious. Now she
has a stake in the game, and she doesn’t want to disrupt this delicate truce they’ve built.

“Dare.”

“Blow Theo.” Draco shoots back.

“Truth then.” Clearly his first answer was wrong.

Draco takes another long sip before speaking. His eyes are flinty.

“Why did you send Granger roses this morning?”

The air shifts, growing taut. Blaise stiffens next to her. She wouldn’t have caught it from the
across the room, but his thigh is still pressed into hers, and she feels it as a sudden jolt.

Blaise gives Draco a look, something indecipherable, but Draco isn’t acquiescing. There’s
something they don’t want her to know, that much is clear. But Draco is in a foul enough
mood to drag it to light. Even Theo has gone quiet.

“To invite her on this date.” Blaise replies stiffly. None of them are looking at her.

“And...?” Draco presses. Hermione looks between the three of them, waiting for something to
give. What were they hiding from her? Clearly Draco has broken a vow of silence.

Blaise sighs—he can see plainly that Draco won’t back down.

“To stake a claim.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Theo seems to deflate into the couch—“you’re such a cock,
Draco”—while Blaise carefully avoids her eye.

“A claim?” Hermione repeats. “Why?” As though they needed more confirmation that she
was theirs—as though she hasn’t given so much to them already.

“Your turn, Blaise.” Draco ignores her, and refills his glass again.

“I told you we should’ve played a strip game.” Theo jokes.

It’s clear Draco has unsettled the status quo, but that this mood isn’t unfamiliar to Blaise and
Theo. They’re tip-toeing around him, and Draco is directing his self-hatred outwards. She
knows this side of him, though, probably knows it better than anyone else in the room. For
seven years it had been the only side she’d been privy to. No, she doesn’t want to cause a rift
between them. She doesn’t want to disturb the peace. But a twinge of anger breaks through,
and she speaks before she means to,

“Are you going to ruin the night, Draco?”

He leans back in his seat, lip curled, “What’s it to you?”

“Well, what do you want? Do you need reassurance? Do you want me to lie?”

She’s hit the nerve everyone was avoiding.

“Fuck off, Granger.” He spits. Blaise and Theo are watching apprehensively, ready to
intervene.

“Get over yourself. I didn’t come out tonight to throw you a pity party.”

Theo’s eyebrows go up.

“Stop looking at me like I’m a freak, then.”

She laughs, “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Finally, he shuts up. Maybe she was a little harsh, sure. But just because they’re ‘involved’
doesn’t mean she’s letting him walk all over her. And, hey, at least he feels guilt. It’s a sign of
growth on his end, and growth isn’t always comfortable.

They sit in silence for a while. It’s clear Theo and Blaise aren’t sure how to break it. If it were
anyone else—if they weren’t them—the sailing might’ve been smooth. But there’s so much
history between the three of them, it’s like they can’t take two steps before they hit a snag.
Especially her and Draco.

But she’s feeling emboldened now. She’s finding her space in their pre-existing dynamic, and
she’s not playing into silly mind games. Maybe her candidness is an asset, rather than a lack
of social finesse, as Draco would paint it. Or maybe she’s just had half a glass of wine.

She finishes the other half.

“The roses?” If they’re airing dirty laundry, they may as well address all of it.

“Terry Boot made an inappropriate comment about you,” Blaise admits, “I wanted the school
to know that you’re spoken for.”

Hermione takes a minute to absorb this new information, listening to the crackle of the
fireplace. So often, it feels like she’s having plots and schemes wound around her, and it feels
refreshing to get a footing with them.
“Blaise forgot to mention that he hexed Boot and got detention, but I guess that’s extraneous
detail.” Theo adds, and Hermione shoots Blaise a disapproving look.

“Whoops.” Blaise drawls—not even attempting remorse. Her grabs the wine bottle, filling
her glass.

“Maybe tell me, next time?” Hermione says, looking to each of them.

“Noted.” Blaise nods.

If the wine hadn’t started going to her head before, it most definitely had now. Hermione
slips her boots off, putting her feet in Blaise’s lap—trying to give her own casual intimacy in
return. He doesn’t bat an eye, taking a foot and massaging up the arch. She tries not to squirm
as the contact sends tingles up her leg.

Hermione isn’t upset, as the boys had assumed she would be. She understands their hesitation
in telling her—she’s not exactly out and proud about their... ‘thing’. It was also a little
misogynistic, ‘staking a claim’, like she’s a piece of property. But in their defence—strangely
chivalrous? She doesn’t understand pureblood dating customs. But the conversation had
answered some unasked question about their exclusivity.

“So, we’re,” she clears her throat, trying to maintain her boldness, “exclusive? It’s just us?”

They way they react makes her realize she’s behind the ball. They were waiting for her to
catch up.

“Your choice, Granger.” Draco replies.

She looks to each of them. Draco doesn’t look so dangerous anymore, like she’s worn the
edge off him temporarily. Theo jostles his knee, impatiently awaiting her answer, bursting at
the seams like usual. Blaise is still calm and collected, the steadfastness that balances them
out.

“It’s just us.” She manages, trying not to pull a face that’ll make Draco cringe.

The conversation was overdue. She can see that now. But everything about them is uncovered
ground, and Hermione’s tiptoeing around landmines in every conversation. Maybe that was
why sex was easier; there wasn’t much talking involved.

“Well, thank Merlin that’s taken care of.” Theo breaks the silence, and he crunches down
another handful of peanuts, “You should’ve seen Draco. He was having a conniption fit
imagining you with someone else.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Draco snaps, which Theo would inevitably treat as an invitation to
continue.

Blaise’s hands had shifted from a foot massage to a calf massage, edging closer to the inside
of Hermione’s knee. She tries to ignore it, but Blaise knows how to get a reaction from her.
She can feel each sweep of his thumb intimately, each inch of territory he gains up her leg.
They relish in the quiet for a few moments. It’s less tense than previous ones, and Blaise’s
fingers slip behind Hermione’s knee. She sucks in a breath.

“I did want to take you on a date, regardless of Boot.” Blaise tells her in a low voice, and she
tries not to melt into the couch.

“Like she’s not spoiled enough.” Draco says.

“I like spoiling her.” Blaise replies haughtily, “If it were up to you, Hermione would probably
spend the rest of the year chained to your bedpost.”

Draco gives a nonchalant shrug, “It’d keep her out of trouble.”

Hermione’s imagination takes a lengthy moment to paint that picture, and what such a
position may entail. She catches Draco watching her, again, and he gives her a devilish smile.

“Truth or dare, Hermione?” Blaise’s thumb traces the inside of her thigh. She takes a hearty
swig of wine.

“Dare.”

Blaise pats his lap.

She shifts, holding her glass steady and she shuffles up the couch, settling on his lap. He
shifts her a little, setting her up comfortably, tucking her head under his chin. Her back
pressed into his chest, the warmth of him leeches into her skin, she can feel his heart beat.
Steady, like the rest of him.

“Good girl.” He whispers, and she hides the blush with a drink from her glass. She hasn’t had
the opportunity for contact like this, not since the first night. To go from nothing, to this, feels
like sensory overload, to have so much contact all at once. She tries not to squirm, not give
herself away. Blaise’s massage has slowed to gently tracing now, just under the hem of her
skirt.

“Still not sure what you’re doing for you birthday, Blaise?” Draco asks, pretending not to
notice Blaise fingers travelling further up Hermione’s skirt.

“Same as last year, most likely. My mother loves throwing parties.” He taps the inside of her
thigh, “Open.”

She obliges, trying not to let her embarrassment get in the way of her obedience. Draco and
Theo watch the movement hungrily. Theo swallows.

“You want Hermione to come?”

Hermione doesn’t miss the double entendre.

“If she wants to.” Blaise replies. “You going home for the Christmas holidays, Hermione?”

She nods. His fingers trace higher.

“Do you want to come to my birthday party?”

She nods again.

“Fantastic. I’ll put you on the list.”

She doesn’t know how he does it, how he keeps his cool as his fingers creep up. She’s almost
on full display now, he’s pushed her hem up on his travels, exposing her to the room. She
shivers.

“It’s your turn, Hermione.” Blaise reminds her gently.

She clears her throat, not wanting to sound husky and wanton when everyone else is so put
together.

“Draco?” she manages.

“Yes, Hermione?” He’s trying to keep his eyes above her neck, but they keep flitting down to
watch Blaise’s fingers trace lazy circles against her.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” She should’ve known he wasn’t going to make it easy for her.

She takes another sip of wine, when a devious idea strikes. Blaise’s fingers skirt over her clit,
over the thin material of her nicest knickers, and she twitches.

“Would you like some wine?”

Hermione can surprise him too, when she wants to. It seems he’d forgotten. Draco nods.

She takes a generous mouthful of it, holding it in her mouth. Blaise lets her up, and she
makes her way to him. He watches her, a half smile playing around his mouth, as she holds
his chin between her thumb and forefinger. She tilts his head back gently, and he lets her,
watching her all the while. He looks so sharp like this, his jaw tipped up, watching her with
amusement.

Draco doesn’t resist, but he must realize what she’s about to do. She leans down, taking her
time, and presses her mouth to his. His lips are soft, cool. Thinner than Theo’s, but more
demanding, more urgent. She can tell he wants to take control, but he holds back, parting his
lips as she leads the kiss. She does, letting the wine dribble into his mouth. He swallows it.
Arousal flushes through her.

She goes to pull away, but now he’s grabbing her chin, pulling her back to his mouth. It
seems he was content to allow her a turn to play, but now he has to assert himself. He takes
charge, kissing with a sense of desperation that makes Hermione’s skin tingle. His tongue
slips past hers, and his other hand is tight in her hair, pinning her still. There’s nothing to do
but try to keep up, try to match his fervour, his need to dominate her entirely. She braces
herself on the arm of the couch.
He breaks the kiss, and Hermione has to reorient herself for a moment. Who knew Draco
Malfoy—local nightmare—kissed like a man starved?

“Oh.” Hermione says. The kiss said more to her than Draco had in months. Under the
surface, carefully contained in his nonchalance and arrogance, he wants her. Desperately, and
ravenously, he wants her.

“How’s the wine?” Theo asks, his voice throaty.

“Sweet.” He’s still watching her, gaze dark. “Truth or dare?”

She takes a moment to remember how to talk, “Dare.”

“Do as I say.”

As though she could do anything else. She swallows, imagining any number ways it could
end. He could humiliate her, make her stand in the snow if he wanted to. Maybe he wants to
one up her for essentially spitting in his mouth. But, if this is to work between them, she has
to have a little faith.

“Take your underwear off.”

She slides her hands under her skirt, hooking her fingers under the material and sliding it
down. She tries not to look at them on the floor, knowing how they look, what they give
away about her current state. Instead, she steps out of them, tugging her skirt down a little,
and looks back to Draco.

“Sit on Blaise’s face.”

It isn’t what she’d been expecting. She frowns, uncertain, but his expression brooks no
argument. She turns to Blaise, expecting back up, but he’s already sliding down the couch,
lying lengthways on his back, just as eager as Draco.

She turns to Theo next, but he just shrugs, “You could’ve said truth, Hermione.”

“I’ve never sat—“

“We’re aware. Sit.” Draco interrupts.

Hermione feels very exposed as she straddles Blaise, hovering over him as she fits her knees
on either side of his head. Every time she thinks she has a handle on something, or she’s
gotten comfortable with something new in her sexual repertoire, they like to shake things
around on her—unsettle her again. Draco in particular. He likes to see her out of her depth,
having to hand herself over to him completely.

Blaise kisses the inside of her thighs, where’d he’d been tracing not long ago. He sucks and
nips, trying to soothe her, relax her. But she’s still hovering over him, unsure.

“If he wants to spoil you, Granger, let him spoil you. Put on a show for us.” Draco croons.
Blaise doesn’t wait for her to decide, tired of trying to soothe her, he hooks his arms around
her hips and pulls her down.

He not holding back now. There’s no exploring touches, no hesitation. He knows what she
likes, and he knows what he wants. He devours her cunt, savouring her.

“Fuck,” she whines, and she isn’t hovering any more. Her full weight rests against him, and
she grinds down, lost in his mouth and his enthusiasm.

He shifts, adding fingers under his chin, finding that spot he’d discovered during his first
encounter and she keens. There’s no slow build now, he’s ravenous, and as he sucks, liquid
heat spreads along her limbs. She grips the arm of the couch again, desperately clinging on,
rocking and grinding against his face.

She turns her head, wanton, missing Draco and Theo, but they’re there. Watching her with
fascination—awe, perhaps. Theo’s brows are high, mouth open, watching her hips circle.
Draco, however, watches her face. His eyes are so dark she could probably see herself
reflected in them, flushed and panting, utterly depraved. She’s like a puppet on his string.

She tips her head back, and the orgasm rocks through her like a freight train, she feels her
body arch—her body bowing to him—and he drinks it in. Her thighs quiver around Blaise’s
head, nails almost breaking the leather of the couch, but he doesn’t give her a moment of
reprieve.

Finally, when he’s worked the last of it from her, he slows, avoiding where she’s the most
sensitive. He nips and sucks the inside of her thighs, cooling down, and she shifts away. He
doesn’t let go.

Theo laughs, mocking, “You’ve fucked up now, Hermione.”

Blaise’s forearms are locked in place, and she can’t pull off him. She’s trying to squirm away
this time, and he’s got her pinned. And his kisses are creeping higher again, and she’s still
reeling from her orgasm when he starts again, and she cries out.

“You prick—” She scowls down at him, and he punishes her with a playful nip.

Her arms are shaking against the arm rest, struggling to hold herself up against the second
onslaught of pleasure. If Blaise had been holding back before, he certainly wasn’t now—
determined to coax another orgasm from her.

She can see Draco and Theo watching with something between amusement and interest on
their faces. She squirms, and its riding the line between pleasure and pain—she’s feeling
overstimulated and sensitive, but it’s adding an edge to something new blooming in her lower
belly.

“I don’t think I can—” she whines, and she feels a hand on her cheek, tilting her head.
Draco’s crouched next to her, and his thumb sweeps over her cheek with tenderness.

“Hey, look at me, Hermione. Hey.”

She holds his stare, and she sees it again. He’s ravenous.

“You’re going to come again, ok? And we’re not stopping until Blaise wants to.”

She shakes her head—she can’t take any more, she’s strung out, her limbs feel like jelly, she
can barely hold her head up.

“God, she’s literally dribbling,” she hears Theo say, and Draco swipes it away with his
thumb.

“Come on, Hermione.” He tells her, “Come again.”

It’s like a dam breaks, something gives away. It’s a heady wave of pleasure with an edge of
pain, and Draco’s hand cradling her cheek holds her steady, gives her something to hold onto,
as she’s upended.

It takes a minute for her to come back down, her legs are wracked with intermittent shivers
for a minute before she can move off Blaise, and she shoves him away, sinking into the
couch. Her knees pulled to her chest, she keeps her eyes shut until she can recalibrate.

“Fuck you all.” Is the first thing she can manage, and they laugh.

“You don’t feel spoiled?” Blaise asks, and his voice is thick with arousal.

She scrubs a hand over her face, opening her eyes to glare at him.

“I hate you.”

He responds with a shit-eating grin, Theo-esque.

“Truth or dare was your idea, Hermione.” Draco reminds her.

She throws a peanut at him.

Once Hermione recovers, they call it a night. Theo and Draco had carefully orchestrated
Draco’s exit, and Blaise and Hermione are alone once more. He walks her to the northern
arch of the village, and they wait for the other two to catch up.

He holds her hand, rubbing a his thumb across her knuckles. Her breath steams in the frigid
air, and he casts a warming charm across her bare legs. Hogsmeade is even quieter in the
dark, and they stand right at the edge of the village lights.

“Your dynamic with Theo and Draco...” she isn’t sure how to ask, “it’s interesting.”

Her question doesn’t perturb him, “A result of interesting circumstances, I suppose.”

“There’s no jealousy?”
His bottom lip twitches—she’s noticed that its a quirk he does when he’s thinking. She likes
that she knows it.

“I’m sure Theo wanted to be where I was tonight,” he gives her a small smile—another little
intimacy, “but not in the traditional sense, no.”

“Hmm.” She considers it. “But you disagree with each other?”

He nods, “Often. But we’re...attuned to one another.”

Once again, she wonders how she fits. Wonders why they made the decision to go after her in
the first place.

As though Blaise sees the question forming, he tilts her chin up, and kisses her softly. It’s
ever so gentle, a bare brush of his lips, but it’s a reassurance, dispelling Hermione’s insecurity
before it has a chance to take root. Blaise is a man of little words, but he’s more than capable
of getting his point across.

“Thank you for tonight.” She whispers into the kiss, and she means it.

“You’re welcome.”

-
 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“Is the hose on for any reason?” Hermione calls.

The inside of her father’s greenhouse isn’t warm per se, but the enclosed space protects her
decently from the cutting wind outside. It’s a peaceful spot, at the end of the garden, and she
can understand why her father fritters away his time down here. His radishes are doing well,
as are his cabbages. They look particularly vibrant and green against the snowy back drop of
the garden, and the pale light from the kitchen window.

“Oh, uh, I must’ve forgotten. You can turn it off!” Her father calls back, out of said window.

It’s been on awhile. The whole floor of the greenhouse is sodden, and there’s a veritable river
of water streaming under the door, turning the snow into slush. She follows the hose to the
house, avoiding the slush, and shuts off the tap.

She still isn’t fond of the cold. Her previous distaste for winter was only cemented by nights
standing guard outside the tent, teeth chattering. Or days spent clawing through frozen soil
with her fingers, foraging for food.

But, she admits, the calm of a winter night is unrivalled. It feels like the world is holding its
breath.

She lets herself in the back door, wiping her feet on the mat. Her mother watches with pursed
lips, up to her elbows washing dishes in the sink. Hermione grabs a tea towel and starts to
dry. Her Dad is back in the garage, tinkering away at something. He’s whistling too—it
sounds like an off key rendition of Silent Night.

“He’s gotten worse, you know.”

Whether the guilt trip is intended or not, the result is the same.

“Yes, I’d noticed.”

Her father had asked her three times over dinner if she had plans for the evening. Pointing out
the repetition was unhelpful, and only served to embarrass him. Rather, she’d let the
conversation play out identically. She was going to a friend’s birthday party. No, he shouldn’t
wait up, she wasn’t sure when she’d home. Yes, she’d be safe.

“I do worry about his wandering too, with this cold snap.” Her mother continues, her brow
furrowed as she scrubs an oven tray.

Communication has never been easy between them. She and her father are one brain shared
across bodies. Sometimes Hermione felt like she could pre-empt his next sentence, ticking
along on the same wavelength. With her mother, it felt as though they were trying to
overcome a language barrier.

“If you saw a Healer—” Hermione starts.

“We’re happy with Doctor Prentiss, thank you. She’s starting him on new medication soon.
Apparently it’ll help with the confusion.”

It isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. Jean Granger’s scepticism towards magic
—much like Hermione’s dislike of cold nights—was only entrenched by the war. A result of
being subjected to a memory charm against her will, most likely. Hermione doesn’t feel
guilty for trying to protect them, but she feels guilty about the distance it has created.

Hermione doesn’t want to have this conversation again. Usually her father is the balancing
force in their family dynamic. Without him, discussions about his treatment quickly escalate.
Hermione may take after her father in many ways, but she has her mother’s temper.

“Do you mind if I finish these later? I should start getting ready.”

It’s clear her mother doesn’t want to leave it there. She’s already queued up the next attack in
her verbal arsenal, Hermione can tell. But she nods, and Hermione makes her way up to the
guest bedroom.

She doesn’t know what to expect when she steps out of the Floo at Blaise’s. He’d written a
set of personalized instructions of the back of her invitation, in his now familiar swooping
script. Like many historic wizarding residences in Britain, Blasie’s property had an anti-
Apparition barrier tied to its blood wards. Hermione had read a fascinating chapter on the
subject last summer, and she’d tried to ask Blaise a few questions on the finer technicalities
of such a ward. He hadn’t seemed as enthused on the topic as her.

Instead, Draco had made a mocking comment on the age of Blaise’s homestead, and Theo
had called Blaise’s family ‘nouveau riche’. Which, Hermione came to find out, just meant
that his family made their fortune on this side of the Industrial Revolution. She’d rolled her
eyes.

The green flame begins to die down, and she can see the edges of a room come into view—
her stomach swoops. Her biggest concern is being spat out in the middle of the party, having
to dig through awkward introductions and small-talk to get to her boys. Or that they’ll see her
there and leave her to fend for herself, outnumbered and at odds.

And yet, she’s made herself come. Blaise is bigger than those concerns—all of them are. And
this party provided the perfect opportunity to forge her public connection to them, in a space
where they were on equal footing. Until now they’d left it to her to decide the pace and
publicity of their attachment, and she wants to take the lead—show them that she isn’t
ashamed.
She’s relieved, however, when she arrives in a large bedroom, dark and unoccupied. It’s
sparse and overwhelming all at the same time—richly decorated, but neatly kept and devoid
of personal belongings.

Hermione steps out of the grate, taking a moment to brush the soot from the navy velvet of
her formal robes, and check her chignon. It seems her sticking charms have survived the
tumultuous Floo trip, luckily. Once she’s checked that the rest of her is present—her fear of
splinching potentially bordering on irrational—she takes in her new surroundings.

It is almost as though the excessive decoration and furnishing is trying to fill the absence of
personal touch. There’s a dark wooden desk in the corner, littered with scraps of parchment
and an inkwell, but otherwise bare. The four poster bed grabs her attention, however, and its
satin drapes and gold filigree hold it. It’s quite possibly the largest and most ridiculous bed
she’s ever seen in her life—it even dwarfs the audacious chandelier.

“Granger.”

She jumps at her name, “Jesus!”

Not unoccupied. Hermione presses a hand to her chest.

She’d missed Draco in the overwhelmingness of the room, skipped over his simplicity. He’s
watching her from a lounge chair—more gold detail—nursing a cut crystal tumbler.

It’s been a week since she last saw him, their longest time apart since their entanglement
began. Even if they hadn’t been actively meeting, she’d grown used to seeing him across the
room as mealtimes, sitting in her eyeline during classes. Seeing him now brings a twinge of
familiarity, of relief. She ought to pinch herself, she thinks. Maybe check outside for flying
pigs.

He’s dressed in dark grey robes, sharply cut and a few shades darker than his eyes. At least
she’s interpreted the dress code correctly. But where she’s stiff and nervous in hers, he wears
his like silk pyjamas—languid and relaxed. He’s in his element here, and she’d never tell
him, but he looks divine.

“I assume everyone else didn’t arrive via guest room?” It explains Blaise’s personalized
instructions.

Draco nods, “Blaise asked me to escort you down. But this isn’t a guest room; you’re in the
birthday boy’s private quarters.”

That surprises her. She looks around more closely, looking for signs of Blaise in the set
dressing. It’s very dark, and very green, yes. But she comes up short, getting lost between the
third and fourth chaise lounge.

“This is Blaise’s room?”

“His mother is adamant on a consistent theme in every room of the house.” He’s trying not to
laugh—the corners of his mouth twitch.
With this new knowledge, Hermione makes an effort to think of something nice to say.

“It’s very...” she continues to struggle, “uh...”

Draco coughs into his fist—it sounds awfully like “new money”. She bites her tongue trying
not to laugh. She imagines Blaise surrendering at the twentieth throw pillow.

“We shouldn’t tease him when he’s not here to defend himself,” she manages, trying to
school her grin. Draco rolls his eyes.

“Well, are you ready to head down?”

She nods, regretting it immediately. The pit of anxiety she’d been ignoring reintroduces itself,
and she swallows.

Hermione straightens her robes—tailored for the occasion. The collar is high—clasping at the
front—but a circular cut out at the front shows a hint of cleavage, which Draco politely
avoids looking at directly. Instead he holds out an arm, with a gentlemanly air that both does
and does not suit him. She takes it, and realizes that that may have been their first
unchaperoned conversation. She’s never been alone with him before, and he’d been
charismatic and distracting enough to make her forget it.

“Nice robes.” He remarks blithely, and Hermione’s nose wrinkles. They’d been a pretty
penny, and with the two hours it had taken her to get ready, she’d hoped for a more
enthusiastic response.

He raises an eyebrow in her direction, knowing that she’s unhappy with the lukewarm
comment, waiting for her to pout. But she isn’t going to beg Draco for compliments—she
hasn’t stooped that low—so she just smiles.

“Thank you. Shall we get a move on?”

Blaise’s definition of a birthday party, and hers, vary wildly.

Hermione comes to a stop outside the ballroom, right at the doors, her feet planting
themselves of their own accord. Draco pauses, unperturbed by the disruption.

In Hermione’s mind, a birthday party was a small to moderate gathering of good friends. A
dinner party maybe—or karaoke and a few drinks. Blaise’s ‘party’ is almost a public affair—
a gala, or a ball.

“I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”

She hasn’t prepared for it. She’d been expecting Slytherins en masse—and she’s right about
that—but there’s enough people in attendance to make the Zabinis’ ballroom look
comfortably full. Hermione isn’t one for crowds. If given the choice, she’d prefer the
company of Crookshanks and a good book.
“We can go in separately, if you’d like.” Draco is watching her with an expression she can’t
quite decipher.

She shoots him a hard look, “Don’t even think about leaving my side. I’ll hex you.”

He relaxes, despite the threat. The odd expression shifts back to neutral, before she can
puzzle it out.

“If you insist,” he drawls, “but I’ll have to escort you properly, or my mother will skin me
alive.”

‘Properly’ is Draco at her side, her right arm draped over his left. They cross over the
threshold as a pair, and Hermione doesn’t know where to look.

The ballroom is expansive, with marble stairs leading down onto the main floor. The ceiling
rivals that of the Great Hall, but twinkles with three opulent chandeliers, rather than stars. It
reflects almost blindingly off the floor, polished to a shine, embedded with glittery flecks of
quartz that catch Hermione’s eye. The whole room is an accumulation of the rest of the
manor’s theme—glitzy and excessive. But the ballroom is large enough to suit the style,
rather than drown in it. The whole room would comfortably fit at the Palace of Versailles.

They descend the stairs, and Draco is quiet as she takes it in. The attendees in the room
number close to a hundred, maybe more. They’ve broken off into little circles of
conversation, with some making rounds—working the room. Trays of nibbles float around
them, nimbly avoiding party guests, and pausing intermittently. She has, at least, dressed
appropriately—she sees other women in similar cuts and colours, and it eases some of her
nervousness. Wizarding formal dress is not something she’s had much experience with, and
in this crowd, the smallest social faux-pas is spotted.

They’ve reached the main floor now, and her hand still rests on Draco’s arm. He guides her
through the throngs of people, aiming for a far corner of the room. She recognizes a few
faces, but the bulk of attendees are unfamiliar.

She whispers to Draco,

“Does Blaise know all of these people?” He’s no hermit, but Blaise has never struck her as a
social butterfly.

“No, but his mother will have him doing the rounds.” Draco replies, not whispering. They’re
nearly clear of the centre of the room when she hears her name whisper through the crowd—
eyes and heads turn in her direction.

This is the part Hermione hates the most. Her stomach sinks as people start to recognize her,
as necks crane to look, as people point her out. Her post-war fame had been unexpected, and
completely unwelcome. At least with Harry and Ron, some of the heat was off her. But
without them, she’s on her own. It’s worse outside of Hogwarts, too, where people aren’t
used to her presence, when familiarity hasn’t taken the shine off her. In public she’s
‘Hermione Granger: War Heroine’ and she hates it. If she could erase her name from public
memory, she would.
She doesn’t realize how tightly she’s holding Draco’s arm until he pries her fingers loose.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. So much for fitting in. People peek over their glasses, look over their
shoulders, watch her and Draco as they set up at a table at the edge of the room.

He throws himself into a seat, apparently unbothered by the sudden attention. He taps his
glass twice on the table, and it refills itself. His duties are over, she supposes. But she sits
next to him anyway, tucking her legs under the white tablecloth.

“Not going to join the party?” His voice, again, has that taut edge that makes Hermione’s
brow crease. Maybe he wants to be left alone, but she’s feeling on display and on edge, so
he’ll have to put up with her until her nerves settle.

“I’m not really a people person,” she says instead. It’s not a lie—she usually avoids things
like this. Crowds and small talk bring her out in hives, and she’s mastered quiet exits. She’d
never been social before the war, and her newfound fame hasn’t changed that—regardless of
all the victory events she’s been forced to attend.

There’s a pause, long enough that Hermione turns her head to look at him. He’s side-eyeing
her, like she’s an idiot. It’s eerily reminiscent of how Snape had looked at first-years, down to
the condescending lip curl. She awaits his mocking drawl, maybe a cutting remark about how
out of place she is. A familiar pattern between them.

“Of course you’re not. Most people are idiots.”

It surprises Hermione enough to temporarily stump her—because it’s not what she’d been
expecting. If Hermione’s took a magnifying glass between the lines, it could possibly be... a
compliment? Like it was the peoples’ fault, and not something intrinsically wrong with her.

Another difference between them, she realizes. Why would Draco, who had never once
doubted his place in their world, want to fit in? To him, standing out was an asset.

“Alright,” she allows, suspiciously, “say that’s true, then what?”

He pushes a piece of card towards her, a menu, “You drink. What Octavia lacks in tasteful
decor, she more than makes up for in cocktails.”

Hermione decides on ‘Hair of the Werewolf’, ordering aloud per Draco’s instructions. She
still jumps when the drink appears with a pop before her, liberally garnished with mint leaves
and lime wedges. As with most magical food and drink, she’s suspicious of it’s origin—but
she doubts Draco would be receptive to conversation on elf rights. Instead, she sips it, Draco
watching on. He laughs when she sputters and coughs, like he’d been waiting for it. Her eyes
water. Yes, it’s good, but also inhumanly strong.

“I hope you’re prepared to carry me home.” Her voice is raspy.

“I’m sure the three of us will manage it.”

The burn of the alcohol doesn’t eliminate her nerves, but distracts them. They sit in
comfortable silence for a while, and Hermione listens to a gentle violin piece, drifting
through the room with no clear source. Draco stares at nothing in particular, apparently
content getting lost in his drink.

Before long she spots Blaise, cutting through the crowd towards them. The sight of him send
a thrill through her. He looks delicious in his black formal robes, the cuffs and collar edged in
gold detail. She isn’t the only one admiring him—heads turn appreciatively as he walks over.

“Hermione,” she stands—Draco follows—and Blaise catalogues her, eyes softening, “you
look magnificent.”

She shoots a look at Draco—‘see how you compliment someone?’—and he scoffs. Blaise
kisses her on each cheek, and thanks her for coming. A social courtesy for anyone else,
perhaps, but she can feel his lips linger on her skin for a moment too long. Her stomach flips.

She’s missed him, missed them both. Being near Draco and Blaise again, seeing them, has
eased an ache in her chest she hadn’t realized was there. Maybe when Theo shows it’ll
disappear entirely.

“Happy Birthday, Blaise.” She wishes she could pair the words with a kiss, or some other
gesture with thoughtless intimacy. But the eyes that followed Blaise over are glued to them,
and others have been watching her since she arrived.

She has to settle for a secret squeeze of his hand, hidden from the room, and a smile that she
hopes conveys what she’s feeling. He squeezes her hand in return.

“Now you’ve done it, she’s all misty-eyed,” Draco remarks, but it’s light-hearted—his own
way of showing affection in public. Hermione still makes a point of trodding on his foot,
however.

Across the room, a woman gestures to Blaise, beckoning him over. She’s in champagne
coloured robes, and Hermione doesn’t have to guess who she is. The resemblance is uncanny,
but her face is pinched where his isn’t. He sighs.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t linger. I’ll be free later, once all this is over.”

“You’re fine,” she assures him, “go play host.”

He gives her hand one final squeeze, before looking to Draco,

“If you see Theo, don’t give him whereabouts. I mean it.”

Draco shrugs, “If you insist.”

Blaise shoots him a look that says he very much does, before turning, striding over to his
mother. Draco and Hermione, having strayed into the chattering throngs with Blaise, retreat
back to their table. Hermione orders the next drink on the menu named ‘Fairy Dust’, a gin
and elderflower mixture heavy on the edible glitter. The mere smell of it singes her nose
hairs. Heavy on the gin, too.
Hermione watches Blaise speak with his mother, the furrow between his brow. They share the
same nose, and the same dark eyes. It’s clear he’s being reprimanded for something—her
disapproving expression is universal to mothers everywhere. Jean Granger would make a
similar face when Hermione came home covered in mud. But Blaise towers over his mother,
almost twice her height, making it funny to watch. If she tried to box his ears, she wouldn’t
be able to reach. But still, he looks adequately chastised.

“I don’t get it,” Hermione says to Draco—Blaise is nodding tiredly to whatever his mother is
saying, “why is he having this massive party? It doesn’t seem like he’s enjoying it very
much.”

Draco’s not watching them; his eyes have fallen elsewhere in the crowd. But when she
speaks, his attention shifts back to her,

“Blaise is an adult now, and the Zabini heir. His birthday is a way to get him out into society
and networking. He’ll be handling the family affairs soon enough.”

Draco states it like it’s all common sense. Hermione doesn’t point out that they live in the
twentieth century, not the Regency era, and most people don’t have ‘family affairs’ to
manage. Instead, Hermione bites her tongue, desperately trying not to make a Jane Austen
reference. She imagines Blaise in a white shirt, wading through a lake, and tries not to giggle.

God, the cocktails are strong.

“And I’m sure she’s invited all the eligible ladies in Britain, too.” Draco tacks on, which puts
a pin in Hermione’s good mood. She’s sure Octavia wouldn’t count Hermione in that number.

“Shouldn’t he be able to do what he wants? It’s his birthday.” If her voice is a little sour,
surely Draco won’t notice.

He gives her a look—one of noticing.

“He will, after the networking. And some would say good connections with influential people
are the best birthday gift you could receive.”

It doesn’t sound like Draco, but a parent speaking through him—a repetition of something
he’s been told before. Not for the first time that night, she’s reminded of the cultural gulf
between them.

And Draco’s position is similar to Blaise’s, she remembers. The sole heir in his family, and
with Lucius in Azkaban, the expectations placed upon him would be similar. She feels a
twinge of sympathy for Draco—a sensation she’s not comfortable with. Instead, she puts her
energy into looking around the room for “eligible ladies” to glare at.

“How about you, Granger?” He says after a minute, “What do you want to do?”

Credit to him, he sounds genuinely curious. She should’ve realized by now that he doesn’t
make conversations for politeness sake, and he isn’t one for filling silences with pointless
small talk. The night so far had demonstrated that.
But it’s the million galleon question, isn’t it? He isn’t the first to ask. She’s in the last months
of her Hogwarts education now. Each of her professors were eager to nudge her towards their
field, and her parents had dropped hints about dentistry over Christmas dinner. Hogwarts
won’t be her last stop in academia, she knows that much. But like she told Scrimgeour, she
wants to do some good in the world. But easier said than done.

Hermione’s mind goes to her father, suddenly, the squeak of the garden tap shutting off, of
finding him wandering on the street in the wee hours of Christmas Eve.

“I’m interested in the possibility of crossover between Muggle and magical medicine.”

He’s waiting for her to continue, like he can tell there’s more to it.

She hasn’t told anyone yet. Draco would be the first to know. It had seemed selfish to intrude
on Harry and Ron’s well earned post-war peace. They’d suffered enough, she hadn’t wanted
to burden them. But the cocktails make it hard to bite her tongue.

“I think there’s a gap of knowledge where the two meet, and all the treatments in between.
I...” she clears her throat, “I’d like to work on something for my father. He’s not been very
well since...”

She clears her throat again, to save herself from finishing the sentence, and because her throat
feels tight.

Draco’s words are measured, “I’m sorry about your father.”

It makes her breath catch, and she looks at the dregs in her empty glass. The sincerity in his
voice makes her eyes prickle, and she doesn’t want to cry.

“Thank you,” she manages. Despite her own thoughts on Lucius Malfoy, she knows Draco is
in a position of understanding. When it comes to daddy issues, she knows he and Theo are
gunning for first.

“Well, if you need any help in achieving that goal, let me know. The Malfoys still have their
fingers in a few pies.” His voice is deliberately light-hearted, and she’s grateful for the tone
shift. But then she actually hears his words, and she’s caught by surprise. He reads it on her
in a second.

“What? Did you think you’d get fucked with no benefits?” He shakes his head in mock
disappointment, “I thought you were ambitious, Granger.”

“I thought the sex was the benefit, in and of itself.” She speaks in a half mutter, blushing. It
had certainly felt like to it to her.

“Don’t let Pansy hear you say that, she’ll faint.”

Which makes Hermione wonder what benefits Pansy wrangled from Draco over the course of
their relationship. Judging from the storm cloud across Draco’s face, more than he’d like to
admit. She doesn’t ask, but makes a mental note to ask Theo later—he’ll gleefully spill the
beans.
Hermione will, again, blame the cocktails for the next words out of her mouth,

“But we haven’t, have we?”

She has his full attention now, “Haven’t what?”

“Fucked.”

It’s such a vulgar word, but she likes the way it sounds. She also likes the way Draco’s eyes
drop to her mouth as she says it, watching her lips form around it. Hermione ignores the heat
in her cheeks, looking away.

She’d noticed how hands-off Draco is with her. She’d assumed he preferred to watch, rather
than participate. But the way he’s kissed her during truth or dare... a person who kissed like
that was more than a voyeur. He’d been holding out on her.

“No, I suppose we haven’t.” His tone suggests there’s a reason for that, one Hermione isn’t
privy to. She goes to ask, when she hears her name.

“Hermione, Draco—there you are!”

It’s Theo, cutting his way through the crowd towards them. She’s noticed Theo is a little
more adventurous with his fashion than the other two, and his corduroy robes are testament to
that. He’s handsome enough to make them look fashionable vintage, unlike Ron’s Yule Ball
attire.

“You look utterly gorgeous, Hermione. That blue is a dream on you.” He kisses her on each
cheek, before clapping Draco on the shoulder in greeting.

“I hoped she’d wear something Muggle, really stir the pot.” Draco remarks, which explains
his lukewarm comment in Blaise’s room. She shoots him a glare.

“Listen, I’ll be back to chat, but I’ve got something to take care of first.” Theo says, and his
eyes are scanning the room, “Where’s Blaise?”

Draco’s points him out without a moment’s hesitation.

“Wonderful.” Theo has a dastardly glint in his eye, “Toodaloo!”

And he’s gone. Draco and Hermione are alone once more.

Hermione turns to him, planning to pull him up on his comment on her attire—she doesn’t
actually like standing out, contrary to popular belief—but he cuts in.

“Don’t feel obliged to sit with me all night. You can join Blaise or Theo whenever you’d
like.”

It’s so out of the blue, Hermione forgets the telling off she’d been about to give him.

“Huh?”
Draco looks... bashful? He’s focussed on a point somewhere over her shoulder.

“I’m letting you know. I understand why you may not want to be seen with me. I won’t hold
it against you if you’d rather be with them.”

It renders Hermione temporarily speechless. That’s what he thought? Had she not just walked
through a roomful of people on his arm? But she can tell it’s taken him some effort to say it.

“Do you want me to go?” She asks, keeping her tone even. She knows that at the slightest
sign of mockery or condescending, he’ll slam shut.

“Not at all.”

“Then I’m quite happy where I am, thank you.”

He’d been tense. How had she not noticed? As soon as she says it, something loosens in his
jaw, his shoulders relaxing. Harry had made a comment once about Draco’s talent as an
Occlumens. In this movement, she sees it. He’d locked that thought away, even as it had
eaten at him, not giving any prior indication of how it wore him down.

There is it again, sympathy. It’s not so uncomfortable this time. Hermione opens her mouth to
reassure him, to tell him she doesn’t see him like that. That each of them have become
important to her in their own ways, despite her and Draco’s personal history.

But he speaks before her,

“Daphne’s coming over—probably to check you for signs of Imperius.” His voice is back to
taut again, all signs of earlier vulnerability shuttered away.

She grinds her jaw. The one time she actually wants to have a conversation with Draco alone,
and everyone wants to pop by. Their table of refuge is quickly becoming King’s Cross.

But Hermione isn’t one to be rude, so she smiles as Daphne draws closer to their table. She’s
wrapped in robes of a soft pink silk, which bring out the spots of blush across her
cheekbones. They’ve never really spoken properly before, but had always been peripherally
aware of one another—like Hermione is with many others in her year. Daphne had been one
of the many that had opted not to return to Hogwarts after the war, and Hermione had not
expected to see her again. Until recently, they’d run in very different circles.

“Draco, so good to see you!”

Ever the gentleman he stands, giving her a perfunctory kiss on each cheek, with a polite
refrain about her robes. He draws out a chair for her—putting himself between her and
Hermione—and she sits.

“You’re looking lovely and tanned, Daphne.”

Daphne makes a noise of agreement, picking her nails,

“Oh, thanks! We just got back from Rio, I needed a break from winter.”
“Well, the colour suits you.”

She gives him an indulgent smile,

“You’re too sweet, Draco. You’ll have to come with when you’re finished with school.
Marcus has a gorgeous apartment there, a must see.”

Draco makes a non-committal noise, acknowledging the offer, and Daphne finally turns her
attention to Hermione—like she was making small talk just to wait for a socially appropriate
time to do so.

“I must say, Granger, it was a surprise to see you here.” ‘With Draco’ is the unspoken bit—
Hermione’s fluency in Slytherin-speak has improved.

But she doesn’t want to engage in the same manner, as Draco’s earlier comment rings in her
ears. She decides to answer the unasked question. Honesty is her strength, after all.

“Oh, I’m surprised as well. I had no idea Draco could be such lovely company.”

She sets Daphne on the back foot with that, and she sees the way Daphne’s brows jump—
almost imperceptibly. She’s not used to such directness. But at least Hermione is putting any
rumours of the Imperius curse to bed. Hermione is sitting with Draco of her own accord,
thank you very much.

“When he chooses to be.” Daphne recovers, “Narcissa has him well trained.”

“If he introduces me tonight, I’ll give her my thanks.”

Draco is out of Daphne’s eyeline, playing with his glass. At that, he gives Hermione a
suspicious look—‘what are you doing?’ Hermione returns with an innocent smile.

“You two—” Daphne starts, but Hermione doesn’t hear the end of the sentence. It isn’t a
mystery—the desire to pry is written plainly over Daphne’s face. Hermione can’t blame her.
Seeing Draco and Hermione enter a room with arms interlocked—anyone that knew them
would be pinching themselves.

Instead, Theo interrupts Daphne’s inquiry, appearing beside Hermione with a sullen pout. Not
unfamiliar, if not for the fact he’s windswept, and covered in confetti.

“What on earth?” Hermione presses, and Theo dusts himself off.

“I had him cornered and he threw up a protego, the prick. I spent weeks perfecting that
charm.” Little paper squares flutter off him, collecting at his feet.

“You spent weeks perfecting it, and you didn’t anticipate a shield charm?” Draco comments
dryly, and Theo’s scowl deepens.

“Nice to see you, Theo.” Daphne announces herself. Theo—settling into a chair—pauses, his
attention pivoting.
“Same to you, Daph.” It’s a hard to change to spot, but Theo stiffens imperceptibly, putting
his public face on. Hermione hadn’t realized he’d stopped wearing it for her. But he’d had it
on that first night, when he’d invited her into their fold. They’d been as nervous as her.

“Congratulations on your engagement.” Theo continues, and Daphne’s cheeks darken. “Have
you set a date yet?”

Daphne looks chastised, “Ah, no. Not quite. You’ll get an owl when we do, of course.”

Hermione can see Daphne doesn’t want to linger on the point, and now Hermione’s the one
trying to read the room, digging out the reason for the sudden awkwardness.

“Looking forward to it.”

Daphne clears her throat, sipping from her wineglass. Theo goes back to brushing himself
off, avoiding eye contact. He’s picked the last of it off when Hermione breaks the silence,

“You’re engaged?” They’re technically adults, yes. And Daphne had chosen not to return
Hogwarts, so she’s not in school. But the reality of someone her age getting engaged was...
confronting. A war? Sure. A ring? Frighteningly adultish.

“Marcus asked me over Yule. Uh, Flint. Four years above us?” Now Hermione sees the heavy
diamond on Daphne’s finger. Daphne has it half hidden under one hand, but it’s hard to
disguise a rock that big.

Hermione nods, remembering the scowling older boy with the bad breath. She doesn’t have
fond memories of him, so she leaves it at a nod, taking a long draw from her glass. Maybe
he’s matured in the years since school. Or at least worked on his dental hygiene. For
Daphne’s sake, she hopes so.

Theo has missed a piece of pink confetti in his hair, and Hermione absent-mindedly holds
him still with one hand, pulling it free with the other. She thinks nothing of it until the silence
at the table grows awkward, and Draco does a pointed little cough.

Daphne’s expression is frozen in surprise, like she’s just made a sudden but obvious
realization, eyes darting between Theo and Hermione. Hermione’s hand is still on Theo’s
shoulder, and she moves it quickly, setting it back on the table like it’s guilty of something.
Theo, like usual, is unbothered, and Draco’s lips quirk in barely concealed amusement.

Fuck. So much for avoiding a social faux pas—it seems Hermione has made one she didn’t
know existed.

“I best get back to Astoria.” Daphne excuses herself, and her tone is calm. But her eyes are
still on Theo and Hermione, and she can see the context Daphne is filling on her own.

“Nice to see you, Daphne. Looking forward to our invite.” Draco replies, and Theo makes
sounds to similar effect. Hermione barely has time to nod, before Daphne heads back into the
crowd, a little faster than walking pace, heels clicking on the marble.

They’re all silent until Daphne makes it out of earshot.

“I can’t believe—”

“Granger, you—”

“Oh my god.”

Hermione drops her head onto the table with a thunk, followed by a groan.

“Give it fifteen minutes, and this whole room will know you and Theo are an item.” Draco
says.

She needs another cocktail.

“I didn’t even do anything!” She protests, lifting her head, “I pulled a piece of confetti out of
his hair, for Merlin’s sake.”

“In this context it’s like sticking your tongue down his throat.” Draco elaborates, making her
cringe even harder. Maybe if someone causes a big enough distraction, she can Apparate
away. Hopefully a spell goes awry, and turns her into a flower vase.

“It’s fine,” Theo pats her shoulder in a comforting way—she’s broken the intimacy boundary
now, and he’s taking advantage of it, “we’re not even betrothed any more.”

That makes her sit up taller,

“Betrothed?!”

He waves a hand airily, “It was only for a year or four, no biggie.”

“Oh, okay. So you get engaged at fourteen, and I’m the weird one.” She snips in return, and
Draco is fighting back a grin.

“Not engaged,” Theo continues, “just betrothed. Dear old Dad croaked before he could sign
the final bits of the marriage contract, so I got out of it.”

There’s a pause—Hermione is never sure how to address it when Theo brings up his father. It
seems Theo is loathe to receive her condolences on the matter, but he drops the occasional
dark comment that makes everyone else baulk.

“Don’t pull that face, Granger.” He continues, in a semi-serious tone, “It’s for the best.
Daphne is lovely once you get to know her, but she needs someone more solid than me. I’m
far too flighty to do her any good.”

His betrothal break-up isn’t the reason for Hermione’s soft look, but Theo is choosing to side-
step the sympathy. She lets him. Draco orders her a mystery cocktail from the list, and Theo
laces her fingers through his, peppering the back of her hand with kisses. Despite her
embarrassment, Theo seems quite happy to use the public revelation of their entanglement to
his advantage.
She can already feel eyes turning towards them as the news begins to spread, and Hermione
tries to ignore eyes burning into her back. It’s likely some people aren’t happy about her
claiming one of the hotter pure-blood bachelors at the party. Imagine how they’d react when
they find out she’s snagged three. She bites back a smile at the thought.

The cocktail Draco chooses is smoky and spicy, which smothers whatever spirit it contains. It
does put a little pep back in her, and she feels brave enough to press her lips to the back of
Theo’s hand in return.

“If I’d known that was the reward, I would’ve fucked the spell up with you.” Draco drawls,
and there’s a hint of jealousy in his tone.

Theo’s eyes are dark as the kisses trail down the inside of Hermione’s wrist,

“Well who’s laughing now, Malfoy?”

It’s another few hours before Blaise comes over again, and the guests have mostly trickled
away. Hermione hasn’t been watching the clock, caught up in the long-running verbal spar
between Theo and Draco, and she can barely get a word in edgeways. Theo seems to take joy
in winding Draco up, lavishing Hermione with gratuitous displays of affection that Draco
can’t match in public. Hermione doesn’t complain—only batting Theo’s hand away when he
tries to slip it up her robes.

Blaise throws himself into a seat at their table, pulling his top button loose,

“Either you two had a busy night,” he starts, “or someone started a rumour that you’re
engaged.”

“Is this another funny custom I don’t know about?” Hermione asks, “Pull a piece of confetti
from someone’s hair, and you’re affianced?”

“You’d know if I proposed, Hermione.” Theo assures her, “You’d have a rock big enough to
poke eyes out.”

“Good way to get them to stop staring.” Hermione replies, and Blaise shuffles in his chair,
knees spread. He’d looked gorgeous all evening, but he looks even better a little rumpled,
button undone, slouched in a chair. He makes it look small—the sheer size and bulk of him
spilling out of it. Even his seams of his trousers pull a little as he shifts, and Hermione’s eyes
linger.

“That’s a dangerous look, Blaise. You’d better watch out.” Draco teases, and Hermione averts
her gaze, feeling her cheeks heat.

“I guess she’s not looking for a quiet night of board games then.” Theo continues, and the
look she shoots him is downright murderous.

“Well, my mother has finally retired me for the evening. So, if everyone consents, we could
take this party somewhere quieter?”
Theo’s already getting out of his chair before Blaise finishes his sentence.

At Hermione’s insistence, they stage the exit carefully. Despite the mass exodus of Blaise’s
party guests, there are still prying eyes watching Hermione’s every move. Especially with
news of her and Theo’s ‘engagement’ spreading quickly. Imagine what they’d make up if she
left with all three.

Once the plan is decided, Draco leaves first, pretending to wish them all a good night. Blaise
follows, doing the same—behaving as though they’re off to sleep in separate rooms. The
play-acting is its own foreplay, as Blaise dips his head, pressing a slow kiss to the back of her
hand.

“Thank you ever so much for coming, Granger. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
His gaze is heavy-lidded, his breath dancing over her knuckles.

“I hope so too.” She replies.

It’s difficult to wait as Blaise leaves, and Theo laughs at her twitching in her chair. Finally,
after the longest few minutes of her life, Theo inclines his head towards the door. Hermione
all but leaps up, brushing her robes and double-checking she has her belongings.

“You ready?” Theo asks, presenting his arm in the manner Draco had before.

“I was ready an hour ago.” She places her arm over his.

“Don’t speak too soon. I’m worried they’ll take their jealousy out on you.”

She gives him a puzzled look, “Jealousy?”

He quirks an eyebrow,

“They wanted to touch you like I could, Hermione. Could you not see the way they looked at
you?”

The thought brings goosebumps out on her skin, and she squeezes Theo’s arm.

“You’re such a filthy tease, Nott.”

“Yes,” he grins, “and you’ll be thanking me for it later.”

It doesn’t take long for Hermione to understand what Theo means.

He’s taken her up the grand staircase, and they’ve negotiated endless hallways that Theo
seems to know like the back of his hand. They turn a dark corner when Hermione sees a blur
of movement in the corner of her eye. She barely has time to reach for her wand when hands
tighten around her waist, pulling her against a hard chest.
“Do you know,” Blaise kisses down her neck, “how difficult it was,” more kisses, “watching
that smug prick,” his tongue brushes her skin, “kiss you all night?”

Hermione can’t help it, she’s melting against him. He nips her collarbone.

“I told you,” Theo says from somewhere behind them, still smug.

He mutters against her neck, “I would’ve cursed him if you weren’t enjoying it so much.”

While she’d been lost in Blaise’s mouth, his hand had made its way up her robes. His fingers
are on the slickness between her thighs, hot and eager.

“Fucking hell, Hermione,” he groans, before hoisting her up.

She squeals as the world tilts unexpectedly. Blaise handles her with ease, twisting her so she’s
over his shoulder.

“You weren’t walking fast enough.” He tells her with a pinch on the bottom, which makes her
jump. She wants to demand to be released, wants to squirm and kick until he puts her down.
But her impatience wins out—the pace he sets is undoubtedly faster. She likes knowing he’s
as desperate as she is.

It may only be a few more corridors, a few archways and carpeted stretches until his
bedroom, but the wait is unbearable. Blaise’s grip on her is utterly indecent—his free hand
slipping up the back of her thighs in a show of possession, of absolute control.

When she’s in her right mind, the idea of it would outrage her. But when she’s here, with
them, she likes it when they overwhelm her so utterly. When they take control of her, rag doll
her around, manhandle her. Submitting herself entirely to their mercy turns her on so much
she can’t think straight, she wants to give herself over completely.

Hermione’s feet hit something, and she hears Blaise’s door click open. She can’t see if Draco
is already there—her head at Blaise’s back—but she hears him,

“Time to open presents now, is it?”

Hermione feels herself shifted once more, placed on her feet—which are a little unsteady.
One of her shoes has slid half off, and her knees seem reluctant to hold her.

“Indeed, and I’ll even let you two help.” Blaise replies.

Draco has done something to the lamps around the room, dimmed them or something. The
room seems smaller with all her boys in it, and hazier with the way they’re looking at her.

Theo sits in an arm chair, undoing the top buttons of his robes. Draco has taken out his silver
cufflinks, and placed them on the dark desk. Each of them are moving slowly, carefully, like
she’s prey they’re afraid of spooking. Awareness of eyes on her makes her skin prickle, and
her tongue wets her bottom lip.
“Can I unwrap you now, Hermione? I’ve been very patient.” Blaise’s voice is low, soothing,
and he takes a step towards her.

Hermione can feel something in her give, acquiescing to his authority. It’s like a head space
she’s been on the edge of all night, that she can finally give in to. A place where she can give
herself over to them, allow herself to take whatever they choose to give.

Blaise sees the shift, and he softens, reaching for the top clasp of her robes.

“You’re such a good girl, Hermione. You’re going to be ours tonight, aren’t you?”

She nods, the clasp gives, “I’ve missed you.”

“We’ve missed you too, sweetheart. That’s why we’re going to help you feel so good tonight,
we promise.”

It’s like a mirror of their first night, but she’s in far deeper now. She’d given in on that first
night, yes. But not as blindly as she does now, not as freely. It’s a little shocking to see the
night almost replayed, and how differently it feels.

A finger taps her ankle—Theo behind her—and she shifts her weight, letting him slip each
shoe off her foot. Blaise has found the clasps lower on the bodice, and he undoes each one
slowly, watching her squirm.

Theo’s fingers are tracing up her robes, and she isn’t batting him away like earlier. He traces
circles over her calves, up behind her knees. The final clasp gives way, and Blaise pushes the
robes off her shoulders. They pool on the floor.

There’s a moment of somewhat stunned silence.

“The invite did say traditional robes.” She explains. It had felt a little strange leaving the
house in robes with nothing underneath. But if she did something, she liked to do it properly.

And she likes the way they’re looking at her now, with more desire than surprise. It’s fun to
put the three of them on the back foot occasionally, shift the power dynamic for a second.

Blaise says her name in a half-groan, reaching for her. Theo’s hands have worked their way
higher, kneading her backside, and she feels a gentle tug in her hair.

She looks across the room at Draco, who gently flicks his wand in her direction. Her sticking
charm drops, and her hair comes loose, curls falling against her back.

“That’s better.” He hums.

Blaise traces a finger under the curve of her breast, watching it come up in goosebumps.
Draco, always hanging back, watches his friends’ hands explore.

“Any suggestions?” Theo asks, from somewhere behind her. Again, with eerily similarity to
their first night together.
“Well, it’s my birthday. I should go first.” Blaise says immediately.

“I knew you were going to pull that card.” Theo replies indignantly.

Draco scoffs, “You did have your hands on her all night.”

Blaise pinches one of her nipples, rolling it between fingers. It sends a direct spark
somewhere low in her belly, and she tries to hold her composure. But he’s watching her,
enjoying the crack he’s created in it.

“We could ask Hermione.” He says after a minute. The silence in the room means they’re
considering it, so Blaise’s suggestion hasn’t been shot down outright.

It takes her a moment to realise they’re waiting for her approval. It’s hard to think with
Theo’s fingers creeping inwards, and Blaise’s gentle but expert touches.

She looks to Draco, holding his gaze,

“I want to be fucked.”

She waits for a quip; instructions to be more specific, to narrow down such a general term.
But Draco can tell what she means. She means fingerprint bruises up her thighs, her hips
crushed under squeezing grip. She means rutting, breeding, fucking—letting them
desperately take from her what they want. Animalistic and primal and ravenous, she wants to
be consumed. Fucked.

He watches her mouth as she says it.

“Alright.” His voice is cooler now, “Get on the bed.”

Blaise and Theo step back, giving her space to step away. It’s like the word has changed the
atmosphere in the room, and they’re assessing her, weighing her up.

She still doesn’t think it’s safe to take her eyes off them, and she sits back on Blaise’s green
bedspread, settling back on her elbows. Her knees are still tight together, still a little shy
despite all they’ve seen of her.

Blaise is popping open his fly, “Flip over.”

“Sorry?”

“Get on your hands and knees, Granger.”

His voice is firm, unforgiving. She might think his brusqueness is disinterest, if she couldn’t
see how hard he is.

So she does, only briefly hesitating when she realizes how on display she’ll be. But she turns,
settling on her knees, hands under her shoulders. Her only view now is the patterned wall
paper, and the dark wooden headboard in front of her. She almost regrets her decision now,
wishing she could see her boys, but the anticipation of touch is heady.
They’re moving, she can hear footsteps on the wooden floor, a low murmur. She fights the
urge to say something, to ask for affection. She knows she’s getting what she asked for.

A hand presses gently between her shoulder blades, pressing her chest towards the bed. She
lets her arms slide forward, her ass in the air.

“Were you expecting to get fucked in missionary?” Draco asks, a mocking note in his voice.
Her cheek is pressed against the mattress, her eyeline at his thighs.

“I don’t know, I just—” Her mind is racing but empty, Draco’s hand tracing up her spine.

“You’re going to take it, Granger? You’re going to take us, one after the other?”

She nods.

“We’ll see.” Draco lifts his hand, and the loss of contact makes her feel hollow. But then
there’s hands on her hips, adjusting her angle, arching her back. She knows they’re Blaise’s,
so big they’re able to shift her with ease, and she squeezes her eyes shut. She’s nervous—
knowing that they’ve gone easy on her before, remembering the accompanying stretch that
comes with sex with them. Almost painful, but just as pleasurable.

Blaise’s is pressing against her, pausing to give her warning. It will only the second time
they’ve had actual penetrative sex, she realizes. Theo is in the lead, but not by much.

“Breathe, Hermione.”

She’d been holding her breath. She takes a deliberate inhale, trying to release the tension in
her body with it. But it knows what’s coming, and her whole body is taut with impatience.

Hermione breathes out. Blaise presses in, holding her still at the hips. Her breath leaves her in
a rush, as the low ache makes itself known. She’s tries to pull away, her body reacting to the
sensation of too much, but she’s held firm, made to take it. He’s still pushing in, the breath
escaping him with a hiss, and she squirms against him, nowhere to retreat to.

She feels when he bottoms out, a low whimper escaping her, her hips twitching.

“You feel so—fuck—so good, sweetheart, you’re so good.” Blaise is running his hands over
her hips, over her lower back, like he needs to move some part of himself while she adjusts.

But he doesn’t ask if he can move, rather, he follows her earlier orders. He starts rutting into
her, gently at first, but that’s enough to make her toes curl against the bed, her fingers clawing
the cover for support. It’s still too much but the pain of over-fullness is shifting into
something delicious. When he feels her give, he takes more, not giving her a moment of
reprieve.

That first night together, where she’d sat on his lap—she’d been in control. Only now, in
comparison, can she see that. Now, he’s taking what he wants to. His hips, driving against
her, the slap of skin echoing at a frantic pace. She’s whited-out, her brain has checked out.
The only thing she’s cognizant of is each movement, each time he fucks into her.
Blaise’s pace slows, as her reaches around her hip, groping for her clit—

“She’s not coming yet.” Draco says.

Hermione must make a sound of protest, and Theo laughs.

“She has to take all of us first, then she can.” Draco insists, and she feels Blaise shrug,
straightening up again.

Without that requirement, Blaise chases his own orgasm with enthusiasm—using her body
for his own. Hermione just tries to hold on, tries not to get swept away completely as he picks
his own pace.

His fingers will leave bruises in her hips the way he’s gripping her, fucking into to her with a
sound that echoes in the room. Hermione’s calves are almost cramping with how tight she’s
wound up, tense but melting into him. It’s full sensory overload, but she sits uncomfortably
on the precipice of coming.

She isn’t sure how much longer she can take it for, she feels feverish and raw and strung out,
but she feels his movements change. He’s chasing deeper, slowing down, hitting a spot that
makes her legs shake. But he’s pinning her up, pulling her against him so their hips meet each
time, not letting her inch away from the overbearing fullness.

The hiss of air between his teeth is his giveaway, and his movements grow choppy and
stilted, and she’s almost grateful for the reprieve.

“You did so good, angel,” his voice is low, out of breath, “you’re perfect. Good girl.”

His hands are reverent over her hips, tracing up her back, keeping her still. Her skin feels like
it’s too tight, her body not her own, but that praise creates a warm hum in her chest. The idea
that she can make him feel good, that he can use her to extract his own pleasure, brings a
sense of satisfaction itself.

He pulls out, and she goes to move away, her cheeks heating, but he pins her still.

“Hey—” she protests, but he spreads her.

“I just want to see.” He says in that low tone, and Theo whistles at the sight.

She knows what they’re looking at. She feels slick and wet, but it’s not just her.

Hermione could charm herself clean, tidy herself up. But she can tell this is part of the game
—marking her as theirs. So she just buries her face in Blaise’s duvet, trying to ignore the heat
pooling in her belly at the thought.

Blaise’s hand lifts, and she feels Theo’s hands replace it, encircling her hips, keeping her
propped upright.

Her legs are like jelly, protesting at having to hold her up. But there’s still a knot of tension in
her, her clit neglected, so she stays still.
“Round two, Granger.” He slides his cock against her slit, watching her twitch as it skims
over her clit. But he can’t wait long himself, lining himself up and gently pressing in. Blaise
has worked her open somewhat, but she’s swollen and needy now, so there’s still pressure as
he enters her. He’s not as patient as Blaise, and she feels their pelvises meet as he slides
home.

“It’s like she’s sucking me in—fuck.” His hands are tight on her hips too, fingers pressing
over where Blaise had squeezed—both their fingerprints staining her skin.

He fucks her like he did the first time, desperate and loving and entirely. She’s fighting to
take it, to feel the stretch and walk the line of pleasure and discomfort as her body screams
for release. The slick sounds are louder this time, and she wants to hide at how graphic it is—
but he doesn’t let her. He pulls her up, her back to his chest, still rutting up into her. Her
thighs are shaking from the angle change, bringing a new raft of sensation.

Theo kisses down her throat, sticky with sweat, nuzzling against her ear,

“You’re letting us all fill you, huh, Granger? Fill that greedy cunt?” His breath is warm
against her ear.

She nods, his hand is under her jaw, a firm grip on her throat. She’s making sounds she can’t
control, not trying to hold them in, a rag doll in his arms.

“You’re such a good slut, Hermione. Such a good girl.” He cups her breasts, squeezing her
nipples, and she’s sure she could come like this, so close her body is singing.

But it’s not quite there, even though one brush of her clit would send her over, she still teeters
uncomfortably on the edge. Her chest is flushed, her cheeks hot, her nervous system buzzing
like a live wire. But Theo’s pace changes, and she can tell he’s about to come, sinking his
teeth into her shoulder. He chases it at a punishing depth, like he’s giving into some primal
urge to come as deep as he can.

He doesn’t linger, and when he pulls out, she can feel the stickiness between her thighs, her
cunt desperately clenching at nothing. She falls to her hands again, and it’s like she can’t take
in enough air, her body pulsing—

“What do you need, Granger?” Draco’s voice is soft.

“You, Draco. Please, I need you. Please, I can’t—I need—”

This time, it’s his hands on her hips, turning her over, lying her on her back. She’s limp and
pliable, a toy in his arms, as he folds her in half, her knees practically at her ears.

“Can you hold this?” He asks, positioning her hands to hold her own legs up. He’s being so
calm, and patient—all she can do is babble incoherently,

“Please, I just—please, Draco—” She’s pleading, desperate, barely able to hear over the
ringing in her ears.
“I know, darling. You’re doing so well.” He’s tracing fingers the back of her thigh, he kisses
the inside of her ankle. “Just hang in there. You’ll feel really good soon. I swear.”

She’s completely exposed, she can feel it, sticky with cum, but she doesn’t care. She’s nearly
spare with need, tears beading in the corners of her eyes. If she was thinking clearly, she’d
see how much Draco was enjoying her like this.

He slides in, made easier by Blaise and Theo, a slow breath leaving him. She can feel herself
squeezing around him, she can’t help it, like her body is trying desperately to milk an orgasm
itself, pushed past its reasonable limits long ago.

But it’s still tender, still a stretch. This angle too—he’s going so deep, his cock dragging
along that spot Blaise always finds with his fingers.

His eyes are dark, ravenous. The same as they were when she’d dribbled wine into his mouth,
watched her sit on Blaise’s face. Like he’s drinking her in, watching her mouth pop open as
he fills her entirely.

“Look at you, Hermione. You’re made for us, aren’t you?”

She nods, her voice raw, strands of hair sticking to her forehead.

“They’re right baby, you feel exquisite.” Another slow drag of his cock that skitters across
her bones.

He’s taking him time, but not for her sake. Rather he’s enjoying her around him, watching her
melt, arms locked behind her knees, spread out.

“Please.” She manages, throat sticky.

He unleashes, zero to a hundred. He fucks her with unrelenting strokes, slamming home, and
the angle drives at something new. She’s not in control of her body any more, subject to
whatever he inflicts. He’s rocking into her, merciless on that sensitive spot.

Something swells in her lower belly, and new pressure which gives her pauses—she puts a
warning hand on his thigh. He slows.

“You alright, Granger?” He pants.

“It’s—” her mouth is dry, “we should change positions. It feels...”

Kind of like she needs to pee, but different. She’s not going to say that though, even the
thought of doing so makes her face pre-emptively flame. But he’s reading her like a book,
seeing what goes unsaid, and his eyes light up.

He’s still thrusting half-heartedly, like he can’t stop moving,

“Do you trust me?”

Hermione doesn’t hesitate, “Yes.” Like he even needs to ask, but it’s like he needs to hear it
aloud.

“Just breathe.” He says, shifting her hand from his thigh. But he doesn’t put it back—he just
interlaces their fingers, and starts again.

The pressure hadn’t gone away, but it was lingering, waiting for him. It’s not uncomfortable,
but unfamiliar—like something is building, waiting to give. It’s like her body is trying to
push him out, swollen and aching. His hand is an anchor in the feeling, and she digs her
fingers in, trying to keep her head.

He shifts, his thumb brushes her clit—once, twice—and she breaks. The pressure gives away,
and there’s wetness. She’s barely aware of that, however, as the orgasm sweeps her away—
eyes rolling back in her head, legs wracked with tremors.

Draco is saying something, a reverent word, but she’s shattered. Like the orgasm had stacked
up, getting weightier with each denial. Her limbs are loose with pleasure, hit with wave after
wave.

She sucks in air, after an indeterminate period of time, like she’s settled back into her body.
The wetness is still there, and the stickiness too. A small voice in the back of her mind
reminds her off the shame of it, but she’s too boneless to care. He’s still fucking her, the pale
skin of his cheeks flushed, with an awed expression.

Before she can speak, he leans down, locking her lips in his. She forgets that she’s sweaty,
that she’s wrung-out and exhausted—all she can feel is him. He puts everything unspoken
into it, everything he won’t let himself say aloud. She hears it, feels it, and she locks her
hands in his hair and kisses him back, hoping she can return even a sliver of it. He swears
against her mouth, and his orgasm follows hers.

He doesn’t move right away. Rather, they stay connected, sharing air as Hermione tries to get
her breath back, tries to settle back into her own skin.

She feels a hand brush her hair out of her eyes, run a hand over her forehead.

“You alright, Granger?” Blaise’s voice.

“I’ll live.” Her voice is croaky.

Draco kisses her forehead, in the space that Blaise cleared, and starts to withdraw. She
winces, the soreness starting to make itself known, now that the endorphins have fled.

“Of course you had to pull out your winning move, you bastard.” Theo says to Draco. Theo is
handing Draco a towel, and he pats the sweat off the back of his neck and forehead.

“Are you complaining?” Draco replies.

“God no, that was hot as fuck.”

 Hermione props herself up on one arm, and Draco presses a glass of cold water into her free
hand. She surprises herself by finishing it, which helps her feel immediately present. Blaise
hovers near by, half-dressed, monitoring her carefully. Theo is set up on a chair further back,
but at an angle that would’ve given him a generous view of the proceedings.

When she finishes her water, Blaise sets up behind her, letting her lie back against him, and
Theo insists on cleaning her with a wash cloth—not letting her use her wand. He does take
his time lingering in some spots, and she makes sure to give him a light push with her foot.

“Don’t get any ideas or you can sleep in the hallway,” she tells him firmly, which sorts him
out. Instead, he moves onto a foot massage, working out the tension in her arches and calves,
which feel tight after being edged for so long.

Draco sets up next to her, and she can see the question before he asks it. She answers to save
his silent anguish.

“Stop looking at me like that. Yes, I enjoyed it very much.”

He brings her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it,

“So did I.”

With all of the lights out, Blaise’s room wasn’t so bad. The bed was garish, yes. But it was
big enough to fit three large men, and their human-sized teddy bear. If Hermione hadn’t had
the stuffing fucked out of her, she might’ve complained about being jostled and passed over.
But it seemed the three of them had created an informal cuddling schedule, and Hermione
would wake every few hours to find herself in a new set of arms.

But she knew when she was in Draco’s, as he held her the tightest, and seemed the most
reluctant to let her go.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all for your lovely support on the rest of the fic, I read every single one of
your comments xx
 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

This one has some dub-con elements and more prey elements, as well as some subspace
etc. Please mind the tags, and enjoy! Thanks again for all your lovely comments too x

Hermione is mentally reciting Defence Against the Dark Arts fundamental tenents when she
feels someone following her.

The sconces on the wall had been dimmed for curfew, and Hermione is trailing down a stone
corridor—her mind lost in the chapter on environmental defence tactis she’d spent the last
few hours poring over. She hadn’t even realised the time when Madame Pince’s shadow had
darkened the pages, shooing her away for the night.

It was only then the crick in her neck had introduced itself, as well as the hollow feeling in
her gut. She’d meant to take a break for dinner, but once her focus was caught, she found it
hard to break.

She pauses, and the footsteps behind her pause too, a few seconds behind like a clumsy echo.

It was unfortunate for this stranger that Hermione had been reviewing defence spells, rather
than her Arithmancy textbook. She whips around, wand aloft, a nasty hex on her tongue.

“Merlin, Granger!”

Of all the people she’d expected to stalk her, Pansy wasn’t high on the list.

“Pansy.” She gasps, dropping her wand. She’s a little embaraased at having been caught on
the defensive. Pansy’s expression isn’t helping—the slight upward twitch of her left eyebrow
a succinct picture of condescension.

“Sorry, I—uh. I’m a bit stressed.” With NEWT exams five weeks away, it’s an
understatement. Her empty stomach is adding to that tetchy, high-strung feeling, and
Hermione takes a moment to consciously relax her jaw.

“Uh, yeah, I can tell,” Pansy steps closer, but still watching Hermione’s wand arm warily.
“You didn’t look up from that textbook all night.”

Hermione’s jaw tightens again, “You were stalking me in the library too?”

Pansy clicks her tongue in irritation, drawing up to a stop next to Hermione.

“Not stalking—you’re just a hard witch to nab for a chat. I didn’t want to lose an eye by
interrupting you mid-study.” Pansy tilts her head toward to end of the corridor. “You heading
back to the dorm?”

But she doesn’t wait for an answer, starting down the hall again. Hermione finds that her
growing suspicions are soundly trumped by her curiosity, so she follows.

“I’ve been hearing things.” Pansy starts, eyes forward. Ah, it seems Pansy was cutting right
to the chase. Like Draco, Pansy didn’t seem the type to fluff a conversation with pointless
small talk. Still, Hermione’s guard is up, keeping the other woman in her peripheral vision.

“Things?”

Pansy rolls her eyes in Hermione’s direction, “Don’t play dumb Granger, it doesn’t suit you.
I’m sure you’ve noticed the attention you’ve been getting lately—more so than usual.”

She had. Her return home from the Christmas holidays had seen an uptick in eyes on her in
class, whispers cut short as she got close. The younger Slytherins, especially, had been
staring at her like she was a spectacle, or some oddity they hadn’t noticed before.

“Theo and I aren’t engaged,” she says flatly.

Pansy snorts, “I’m not dumb enough to believe that. But I did see you both at Blaise’s party.”

Their pace has slowed unintentionally, like neither wishes to be overhead. Hermione’s
stomach swoops, like she’s been caught in a lie, and suddenly she wishes one of her boys
were beside her. Draco in particular, has a skill for navigating a difficult conversation—
speaking without saying anything, and Blaise stony stare would deter any curious question.

Hermione’s suspicion is unfurling into anger, her voice haughty, “So you just wanted me to
confirm some idle gossip—”

Pansy stops suddenly, turning to face her. Hermione realises, with surprise, that she’s trying
to be nice. Pansy picks at the cuticles on her left hand, not noticing she’s doing it. The tick
seems so un-Pansy-like that Hermione cuts herself off.

“It’s not like that,” her tone is sharp, but there’s a crease between her brows, “I grew up with
Theo, and boys like him. I know what they’re like.”

It takes Hermione a moment to calibrate, to bite back the defensive remark she’d already
prepared. Because Pansy’s tone isn’t mocking, and if she’s preparing to chew Hermione out
for dating a pureblood, it’s an odd way to start.

Hermione dips a toe in, tentative, “He’s certainly…” she doesn’t want to give too much away,
“different.”

Pansy scoffs, “You don’t need to be polite, Granger. He’s obnoxious and eccentric, but
you’ve got to tread lightly. He could talk his way out of Azkaban.”
Maybe it’s because she has no one else to talk to, or maybe her long hours of study are
starting to whittle away at her sanity. But Hermione has never discussed her boys with
anyone else. Outside of them, she is alone with the knowledge of them.

Hermione can’t help herself. Damn it if she was giving herself away—curiosity chewed away
at her as they began walking again, the dormitory stairs growing closer.

“His dynamic with Draco and Blaise…”

Pansy is probably the closest person she could ask. And if Pansy is offering the information,
she isn’t going to turn down the opportunity to learn more.

“Is intense?”

“Yes, I’d never realised before. Not that I knew much of them before, of course. But I’d
never noticed.”

Pansy nods, like she knows what Hermione means. She frowns, still picking at her nails, and
Hermione can tell she is choosing her phrasing carefully.

“They were always friends. When you grow up in our circles, there’s few you’re allowed to
have.” Pansy frowns, her gaze drifting to a spot on the carpet, “It was different in the war.
They were the only ones looking out for each other. I suppose on our side, you knew no one
was coming to save you.”

Hermione’s heart breaks a little, “Oh, that’s—”

Pansy’s gaze hardens, “I’m not looking for pity, Granger. It is what it is.”

Something in her had snapped shut, shielding a vulnerability she doesn’t want Hermione to
see.

“Right, sorry.”

“I just…” she breathes out, “I wanted to talk to you. I’m assuming you haven’t told Potter
and Weasley.”

Hermione winces, “Not yet. I figure I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

It was a bridge she’d wade through a river to avoid. Hermione knew Ron and Harry well
enough to predict their reactions with near-perfect accuracy, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Sometimes the guilt would hang about her like a noose—the idea that she was concealing
such an important part of her life from them. But she didn’t want to be the person that dealt
that blow, her distance from them was straining their friendship enough already.

Pansy’s eyebrow goes up again, such a cutting expression with a simple movement.
Hermione muses that the expression would be useful in her own dealings with the boys.

“I’d thought as much.”

 Hermione chews her lip, still not sure how much to say. But now the truth (or something
close to it) hovers between them, she finds it hard to bite her tongue.

“You’re the first person I’ve actually told. I feel out of my depth sometimes.”

Pansy nods in an understanding way, “Just don’t let Theo bulldoze you, Granger. You can
handle him. Just… if you need to talk, I’m here.”

A million more questions pop to Hermione’s mind, observations she’s made or behaviours
unanswered that Pansy might be able to shed light on. But Pansy doesn’t linger—turning to
the staircase to leave, like she’s said all she wanted to. But Hermione can’t help herself.

“You don’t think you and Draco would ever…?” A kernel of jealously digs into her chest at
the thought, but she wants to use Pansy’s honesty while she has it.

Pansy smirks, “God no, that ship has well and truly sailed.”

Hermione can feel the conversation drawing to a close, like Pansy’s said all she wanted to,
and is eager to leave this conversation behind her. They reach the bottom of the stairs.

Hermione’s still reeling from the conversation—talk?? to Pansy??—when Pansy stops on the
bottom stair, turning to Hermione,

“It’s funny you know. I’d always thought it would be you and Draco, and my intuition rarely
misses.”

It takes all of Hermione’s limited Occlumency skills to school her expression.

“Can’t win them all, I suppose.”

Pansy shrugs, “Maybe. Or we’ll just wait and see.”

Her late-night conversation with Pansy stuck around in her mind, mulled over between study
sessions and in the quiet moments before sleep. An unlikely ally, it seems she’d misjudged
her.

Hermione stretches her arms out up, feeling the edges of tension in her upper back. She
knows her reading posture isn’t ideal, but the pain becomes secondary when she’s lost in her
study.

She’s startled by warm fingers on the back of her neck, rubbing up either side of her spine.
She leans into them, heat rising up her neck, as the hands work at a knot at her nape.

“We’re going to Hogsmeade tomorrow.” Blaise says in a low voice, fingers working through
tense muscle. It takes willpower to not melt into his hands.

She’s taken over a desk in their dorm, littered it with parchment and ink pots. She had been
more than happy to study in the library, but they’d insisted she set up in their dorm. She’d
agreed on the condition that they would actually study, not ‘study’.

“Are you? Could you pick me up some more quills?” She’s worn the tip down on most of
hers, and chewed away the tops with exam anxiety.

“You’re coming with us.”

Hermione sits up, tilting her head back to look at him. His eyes are warm in the light of a
nearby candle her desk, and he watches her back. He is, like always, inscrutable. But his tone
is firm, like he’s already prepared for her protests.

“I can’t. Exams are—”

“Three weeks away, yes. We know.” Draco’s tone is snippy. He’s lying on his side in bed, his
Charms book long abandoned on his bedside table.

“You’ve been studying more than all of us put together,” Blaise adds, thumbs running up her
neck, “you can afford a break.”

“I’ve got to go over my Defence Against the Dark Arts notes tomorrow.”

“Bring them. But if you keep going at this rate, you’ll have a heart attack and get no NEWTs
at all.” Theo chimes in. He’d given up on study for the night too, and had been bouncing a
ball against the dorm wall for the last fifteen minutes, much to Hermione’s irritation.

They were hard to argue against when they presented a united front like this. Hermione knew
when she was fighting a losing battle.

“Alright. But after the break, it’s back to study.”

They agreed. She should’ve known it was too easy.

They arranged to meet at noon, near the Shrieking Shack.

Though Hogwarts is on the cusp of summer, a chilly wind still whipped through Hogsmeade,
taking with it any warmth provided by the watery sunlight.

Hermione pulls her coat tighter, the wind stinging her cheeks. She’d spent the morning in the
library, arriving early enough to snag a table by the window, overlooking the Great Lake. It
was an acceptable distraction, in her mind, to look out it and watch water lap against pebbles
on the shore between chapters.

The boys are waiting for her, equally rugged up against the chill. Oddly, they’re standing in a
circle, for a reason that isn’t apparent until she gets closer.

“No. Absolutely not.”

They’re standing around an old bucket, chewed through by rust. It’s propped up on a rock,
lilting to the side. But each boy is leaning down to touch it, fingers and hands making contact
against the grey metal.

“You agreed to take a break.” Blaise speaks first, indicating she step closer to the bucket.

“A break in Hogsmeade, not a bloody Portkey trip.” Her jaw ticks, and she stands stubbornly
in place, her feet planted in the dirt, like if she gets any closer the Portkey will suck her into
its orbit.

“Granger. What time did you arrive at the library this morning?” Draco’s irritation matches
hers, which irks her more.

“Six.”

“And what time did you finish studying last night?”

He’s got her there, she grits her teeth, trying not to answer. But Draco stares her down, not
letting the question drop, until the silence grows uncomfortable.

She breaks first, “… two.”

“You need to have a break, an actual break. An afternoon in Hogsmeade is not going to cut
it.” Draco’s tone is firm, like she’s a small child he’s scolding.

“You’ll do yourself no favours if you burn out before exams. A few days won’t kill you.”
Even Theo sounds serious, and she knows then that she’s lost.

She trudges over, knowing she looks petulant, knowing she’s throwing a tantrum. But the
stubborn edge to her smarts at the fact that they’ve got her cornered. Pansy words about
being bulldozed echo in her mind.

“Alright,” she steps forward, swallowing her pride. The metal is cold under her fingertips,
“But if I fail my exams because of this, I’ll—”

Her threat is cut short, as the world tilts on its axis. Her stomach drops, the earth falling away
under her feet as everything spins in her peripheral vision. Hermione concentrates on the
bucket, trying to ignore the inertia.

They land with a thud, a shockwave against her ankles. Hermione squeezes her eyes shut for
a moment, fighting the urge to vomit. She doesn’t think they’d ever let her live it down.

“Thank Merlin we didn’t have to use force,” she hears Theo say, “it’d be a right pain
kidnapping her by Portkey.”

Hermione feels the sun first. It’s nothing compared to the thin light of Hogsmeade, but a deep
warmth that kisses her cheeks. She finds herself leaning into it, letting it soak into her a
moment before she opens her eyes.
They’re in a meadow. Hermione’s feet are sinking into grass that is so green it almost hurts
her eyes, spread through with wildflowers in pinks and whites. She can hear birds nearby,
flitting through willows that shift in the wind. It’s like they’ve sucked her into a fairytale, and
she has to take a moment to catch her breath.

She’s momentarily speechless.

“Oh my god.”

“Do you think she likes it?” Blaise asks, a hint of teasing in his tone.

“It’s hard to beat a weekend going over Defence Against the Dark Arts notes.” Draco drawls,
but his heart isn’t in it.

Hermione turns. “Oh my god!”

Across the meadow, behind a wooden picket fence, there’s a small stone cottage. It’s nestled
in a flower garden, thickets of lavender and daises border a seashell path to the door.

Words aren’t enough. She jumps at Blaise first, peppering a flurry of kisses across his cheeks
—which he leans down to accept—before she turns to Draco and Theo, pulling them into a
bone crushing hug, kissing them wherever she can reach.

“I love it,” she exclaims, and her heart is singing—she doesn’t know how much more she can
adore them any more than she does, and then they do something like this.

“Good, it was a tricky bit of spell work getting the Muggle owners to leave, but—” Theo
stops short at the look Hermione shoots them, before he breaks, “kidding! I’m kidding. We
rented it for the weekend.”

“Shall we get unpacked?” Blaise prompts.

‘Unpacked’ means unshrinking their suitcases from pocket size, and charming the clothes to
the wardrobe. They’d even packed for her—she doesn’t want to know how they got into the
girls’ dormitory—but a few of them items aren’t hers, and she doesn’t miss the tags.

The inside of the cottage is just as quaint as the outside—a cosy wooden kitchen with copper
pots and pans, a stone fireplace, and a surprisingly large wrought iron bed covered in a
flowery quilt.

There were cows bellowing in a nearby field, and Hermione looked through the kitchen
window into the back garden, where wooden planting boxes brim with green bean vines and
tomatoes around trellises and stakes. Even the kitchen window sill is a mini garden—
terracotta pots bright with rosemary, basil and parsley.

“It’s beautiful.” She’s still awestruck—it feels like a scene out of a book, too idyllic to exist
in the real world. A stark opposite of the icy winds of Hogwarts, of the chill that had settled
into her bones in the castle, despite the protective spells and magical fireplaces.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Theo winks, “get your bikini on. We’re going for a swim.”

The so called ‘bikini’ is barely enough fabric to be deemed so, Hermione thinks.

She changes in the bathroom, stealing a t-shirt of Blaise’s that falls to the knee. Blaise
notices, and the corners of his mouth twitch slightly, but he says nothing, handing her a fluffy
towel with a raised eyebrow and nothing more.

Draco and Theo are already outside, standing in their swimming trunks in the full glow of the
sun. They’re bickering—in their way—about something trivial, standing in the ankle high
grass of the field. They look so vibrant in the sunshine—it brings a golden glow to Draco’s
pale hair, accentuates the smattering of freckles over the curve of Theo’s shoulders—golden
to Draco’s silver.

As though he can feel her eyes on him, Draco turns as her and Blaise catch up. His grin is
indulgent and she can feel a matching one pull at her mouth in turn. Theo, leading the pack,
starts trekking through the long grass, leaving a flattened path before them.

They walk towards a copse of trees in the near distance—Hermione just follows Theo’s path,
watching the ground for idle bumblebees that drone from one wildflower to another. The
back of her neck warms in the sun, and she listens as Theo and Draco’s conversation
continues, barely audible over bird song.

“—absolute buffoon who couldn’t pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel.”
Draco drawls, “How he even got a seat on the Wizengamot is beyond me, but at least his
idiocy will be diluted by the others.”

“I heard he bought his way on.” Theo adds, “He’s a big name in black market red cap
fighting.”

Draco scoffs, “Charming. I can’t wait until Granger is Minister for Magic, she’ll throw the lot
of them out and start from scratch.”

Hermione rolls her eyes in Draco’s direction, which he doesn’t miss. She receives a wink in
return.

They reach the tree line, the sound of cicadas growing louder as they step between the trees
and branches. As Hermione steps through, Hermione is once again caught short. The grass
gives way to the sparkling water of a swimming hole.

Willows dot the grassy bank of the water line, longs branches trailing across the surface in
the gentle breeze. There are ducks dipping under the water on the far side, shaking droplets
off their feathers as they resurface.

“What’s the difference between a lake and a pond?” Theo wonders aloud, dropping his towel
near the water’s edge.

“I don’t know, I left my book on the topic at home,” Draco responds drily.
Hermione speaks absent-mindedly, recalling a Muggle textbook she’d once skimmed, “A
pond is shallower, and sunlight wholly penetrates it, meaning there are often aquatic plants at
the bottom. Whereas a lake is deep enough that the sunlight doesn’t penetrate, and that zone
is often devoid of plants, and a much colder temperature than the surface.”

There’s a moment of silence as they all look at her, and Hermione feels herself shrink in
embarrassment.

Theo breaks the silence, “You’re amazing, you know?”

“Oh—um. Thank you.” Her face heats.

“See? That’s the brain we need running the Ministry.” Draco nods, satisfied, like she’d
somehow proved his earlier point.

Draco and Theo didn’t spend any time lingering, however, launching themselves into the
swimming hole with much splashing and wrestling. Hermione, rather, takes her time picking
a spot to lay her towel on the grass where her face will be in the shade of the trees.

Blaise, however, points his wand at a tree stump and neatly transfigures it into two sun
loungers. He also doesn’t miss the way her eyebrows go up, impressed at the tricky bit of
spell work.

She sits, shucking off his shirt, trying to avoid the urge to cover herself in embarrassment.

“I don’t know if I prefer you in my shirt or out of it.” Blaise remarks, and she feels her
cheeks flush—she studiously avoids his eyes.

“I might as well skinny dip for all this covers.”

“I wouldn’t complain,” he replies. His voice has a desirous edge that spreads the flush from
her cheeks down her neck. She’s not complaining at her own view—he’s wearing light blue
swimming trunks that ride up to reveal the strong muscle of his thighs.

But they’ve barely been here an hour, she reminds herself. She could at least show some
decorum, and wait a few more before she jumps his bones. So she shuts her eyes, settling
back into the lounger, relishing the sun sinking into her skin.

She listens to the swish of willow branches, of Draco and Theo splashing in the swimming
hole, before a question pokes at her.

“Is Transfiguration your favourite subject?” Her eyes are still shut, but she can feel the
solidity of the lounger beneath her, the unshakeable frame. Sometimes, with trickier
transfigurations, the object would jitter or shiver, like it was a taut elastic band waiting to
snap back to its original form.

“Yes, it is.” He pauses and Hermione thinks he’s finished, until he continues, “I suppose I like
the possibility of it, the potential. You look at an object’s components, and consider how they
could be rearranged.”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that before.” She usually approached it with more of a brute
force mentality; her desire to change mouse to matchstick was stronger than the mouse’s
feelings in the matter.

But, McGonagall had warned that Transfiguration theory was going to be a good portion of
their written exam. She really should review that study on Gamp’s Law of Elemental
Transfiguration she’d ordered from the library—from memory, it had an interesting
hypothesis on the consciousness of transfigured animals, which could be helpful in an essay
question related to vera verto—

“Hermione.” She almost jumps at Blaise’s voice.

“Yes?”

“Stop thinking about exams.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You always get a little divot between your eyebrows when you’re thinking about school.”

She opens her eyes, annoyed, because she can feel that her eyebrows have drawn together of
their own accord. She relaxes them to spite him.

“Do not.”

Blaise huffs a laugh.

“Come here, I’ll put some sun potion on you.”

He shakes a glass bottle at her, and she reaches for it to snatch it off him, but he pulls it back.
Rather, he pats the spot between his thighs—like he’d caught her admiring them before.

She knows where this might lead, still feels that prickle of embarrassment of feeling so on
display, but she still shifts over, settling between them, feeling his hard body against her
back. The sensation makes it very difficult to mentally recite her study plan.

“I remember when your attempts at seduction were far more subtle,” she teases, hearing the
potion slosh in the bottle as he shakes it.

“Seduction? I take sun protection very seriously, Hermione.”

She can feel his voice rumble in his chest, the warmth of his skin against hers. His hands rub
together, spreading the mixture over his palms, and her skin prickles in anticipation.

“—can’t touch the bottom, so it’s probably a lake.” Theo’s voice carries over the water.

“Just because you can’t touch the bottom, doesn’t mean the sunlight can’t either, you dolt.”
Draco voice is acerbic, echoing.
Theo launches himself at Draco in a burst of movement, pushing him under the water for a
moment, before Draco breaks free and splashes water in Theo’s face. Droplets of water cling
to their skin, glittering in the light, and Hermione is ogling—she knows she is—at skin and
the muscles tight underneath.

She jumps at Blaise’s hands on her shoulders, rubbing the potion in. She almost moans as he
finds a knot between her shoulder blades, firmly massaging the bundle of tension.

“Do you like watching them?” Blaise asks, his voice low in her ear.

“Yes,” she murmurs. It’s a guilty admission, something she’s reluctant to voice despite their
relationship. She’s a creature of reason, of logic, proud of rising above her baser instincts.
And yet… she’s mesmerised by the sight of Draco’s broad shoulders, the flex of his back as
he tries to shove Theo away. Theo, grinning, tries to hold Draco’s arms still, the curve of his
bicep bulging with effort.

“Do you fantasise about them, Hermione?”

Blaise’s hands move from her shoulders, stroking the potion down the sides of her waist,
inching lower with each swipe. She shivers, despite the heat, her skin rising in goosebumps.

“Often,” she admits, biting her lip as though it’s a dirty secret.

“What happens in these fantasies?”

“I—”

Blaise’s hands dip lower, sliding beneath the strings of her bikini bottoms, massaging the
swell of her hips.

“You can tell me,” he murmurs, “don’t be shy.”

“You all, standing over me. Passing me around, doing whatever you please.”

Her nipples strain against the bikini top, and she’s restless, writhing in the cage of Blaise’s
arms.

“What do we do?” His fingers move inwards, brushing the juncture of her thighs. She
squirms against him, embarrassed to answer.

“You fuck me, rut into me, taking whatever hole you want, filling me however you can.” She
can’t help it, hearing the filth from her own mouth, and her face flames with shame.

“Do you beg?” Blaise’s voice is throaty at her ear, despite his patient hands.

“Yes.”

“Beg, Hermione.”
Draco has got the upper hand, pushing Theo over with brute strength, trying to pin him down.
Theo lashes back, kicking with a strong leg, pushing Draco back.

“Please Blaise, I… please—”

Her desperate pleading is cut short by a moan, as Blaise’s thick fingers slide into her cunt,
stuffing her.

“Good girl,” he praises, “you can take two fingers, can’t you?”

She whines, and his fingers curl upwards, finding that spot on her front wall with practiced
ease, the muscles of his forearm tightening as he rocks up into it.

It’s too much at once, she wants to scramble away but she’s paralyzed by it, overwhelmed.

“That’s it, good girl. Does that feel good, sweetheart?”

Her legs are shaking against his, her toes curled against the grass as he increases his face,
muscles in his forearm tensing as he furiously fucks her with his fingers. She’s melting in his
arms, limp against his chest.

“You’re so desperate, aren’t you, baby? Listen to how wet you are, you’re soaking.”

He’s not wrong, the slick sounds are audible to her, but she’s lost in his hands, of the press of
his fingers inside her.

The heat in her belly spreads, tingling over her skin, concentrated in her swollen clit, which is
grinding against Blaise’s palm. She rocks against him, keening, feeling that dangerous swell
low in her belly, pressure that she knows is about to give.

“Blaise, I—”

“I know, baby, I can feel it. Relax.”

She fights the urge to fight, to hold it in, her body resisting the release, but he’s driving her
over the edge—his fingers relentless—and she breaks.

This time, she sees it, the warm gush soaking her bottoms, spreading down her thighs—the
sight almost lost in the wracking of her body, her back arching against Blaise’s chest.

It takes her a moment to settle back into herself, to feel Blaise’s fingers slide carefully from
her core, and she slumps against him.

“Still thinking about exams?”

She isn’t able to form a coherent thought, let alone answer, and she shakes her head. He
presses a slow kiss to her forehead, and she can feel the smirk in it.

It takes Hermione a moment to realise Draco and Theo have stopped, and are staring open-
mouthed at them.
“You sly dog! I knew there was a reason you didn’t follow us in!” Theo’s indignant, but he’s
also distracted by the wetness between Hermione’s thighs.

“You snooze, you lose, gentlemen.” His voice is a self-satisfied purr, and he pulls Hermione
tight against him.

“I see you’ve picked up on Draco’s trick,” she remarks, still breathless.

“You’re not the only one who’s a quick study, Hermione.”

Once she can hold her weight, Hermione and Blaise join Theo and Draco in the water. Theo
takes great joy in swimming behind her and grabbing her ankles, before Blaise and Draco
start a competition of tossing her as far as they can into the water.

The sun has started to sink when they finally retreat, the early evening light and fresh water
casting a drowsy contentment over the boys. Hermione wishes she could match the mood,
engage in the low-toned sleepy conversation ahead of her.

And yet, each step back to the cottage, the gnawing feeling in her stomach grows to a fever
pitch. The golden light of early evening reminds her that she’s just lost a day of study—that
she should’ve spent the day preparing. It’s a strange guilt, because no one is holding her
accountable for anything, only that nagging voice in her mind telling her she didn’t deserve
to be playing in the swimming hole, enjoying Blaise. That she hadn’t earned it yet.

“I’ll start dinner,” Draco calls from ahead of them, cracking open the front door.

“Am I hallucinating, or did Draco just offer to cook?” Theo turns to Blaise, with a look of
genuine disbelief.

“From the very same man who tried to bring a house-elf on a two day hike.”

Theo snorts, “I hope you like toast, Hermione.”

It seemed, however, that Draco had prepared in advance. She spots him reading from a
recipe, copied out on a piece of parchment, brow furrowed in concentration. Eventually,
Blaise did offer assistance when Draco struggled to turn the stove on.

Hermione takes advance of their distraction—that nagging voice ringing in her ears until
she’s consumed by it. She sneaks to her coat, fetching her Defence Against the Dark Arts
notes from her pocket, slipping into the bathroom.

Sitting on the toilet lid, she floats the notes in front of her.

It will only take five minutes. She just wants to review that section on the different classes of
immobilisation spells—she’d forgotten one as they’d walked back from the swimming hole.
Percy had let slip that there had been a duelling element to his final NEWT exam, and
immobilisation was the best non-offensive method of defence.
Spissus . That’s it. It thickened the air around your opponent, making them move like they’d
been suspended in treacle.

It did depend, however, on how they were grading such a duel. If it were a time-based, the
immobilisation spells were preferred. But if she were meant to be demonstrating a variety of
defence spells, it might be better to allow her opponent to attack for a while, so she could
demonstrate her knowledge across a variety of spell classes.

What would be her best environmental defence spell? Bombarda was the most effective for
large-scale destruction, but a rather unwieldy spell with indiscriminate damage caused to a
dueller’s surroundings. Unless, of course, she could counter-cast with Protego, which might
provide a way to direct the destruction. That would be a tricky one to cast, but if she figured
out the timing…

The door opens as she’s gotten to classifying spell effectiveness against non-human
opponents (she couldn’t presume, of course, that her duelling opponent would be human).
Feeling like she’s been caught, Hermione snatches the notes out of the air like they’re paper
snitches, crumpling parchment between her fists.

It’s Blaise. He frowns, like he’s put the scene together despite her best efforts.

“Sorry, I did knock. Twice.”

Her cheeks flush, “I was just reviewing my notes for a few minutes.”

“It’s been forty. Just letting you know dinner is ready.”

He leaves, the door hanging open. Hastily, guiltily, Hermione tries to flatten the notes out,
putting them back in order, before she enters the main living space.

Dinner is set before her, steam rising off bowls of pasta. She slinks into her chair, feeling eyes
on her—for all the wrong reasons—as she picks up her fork.

“This looks delicious, Draco. Thank you.” She wasn’t lying—it was some kind of pesto
chicken dish, with enough grated parmesan to make her mouth water. She hadn’t realised
how hungry she was.

“I’m, uh, sorry I lost track of time.”

There’s a moment silence, like they’re deciding who is going to speak first. She hasn’t looked
up from her bowl yet, but her eyes lift when Blaise speaks.

“If you want to study, Hermione, you don’t need to hide in the bathroom. We’re not trying to
stop you. We just want to look after you, as you haven’t been doing it yourself lately.”

She’d been expecting a dressing down, or some kind of reprimand, so she doesn’t know how
to respond to the sympathy in Blaise’s voice. It makes her want to lash out, defend herself.
She’d rather see them angry, because she knows how to deal with that.
“The not eating and not sleeping thing is a bit freaky, to be honest.” Theo chimes in, “Is it
usually like this?”

Again, she’s bared before them. As if she hasn’t shown them enough, then they peel some
other layer back, another vulnerability laid before them that no one had ever picked out
before. It sets her teeth on edge, the embarrassment of being seen, in ways she’d never
needed or asked to be.

She shrugs, trying to pass it off, “I come right after exams. Harry and Ron are used to me
going a bit spare at exam time.”

There are titters around the table, Hermione feels her hackles rise—Pansy’s comment about
being bulldozed rings in her ears,

“It’s not—it’s fine. Honestly. I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. Half the time it’s like you’ve retreated inside yourself, and we can’t
pull you out—like you’re not with us.” Draco’s tone is closer to hers, sharp and ready to bite.
So she rounds on him.

“If that’s the case, maybe you should’ve left me at Hogwarts, if I’m that bloody boring—”

“We’re not saying that. We’re just worried about you.”

“I’m fine!”

“Hermione—”

She can’t stop it, can feel something cracking in her chest, tears begin to well, which only
fuels the fire of her embarrassment. Maybe it is the lack of sleep, or their unwelcome pity or
the softness of their voices, or because she’s the only one who seems to be upset. She slams
her fork down, the table rattles.

“It’s fine for you, isn’t it? None of you have ever had to earn your right to belong!”

Her tone is harsh to her own ears, and she regrets the words as soon as they tumble out.
Draco flinches, like she’d slapped him. Her stomach churns.

She stands, not wanting to look at them, knowing that a single glance would crest the wave of
guilt that had been rising in her chest for weeks, as it always did (she wasn’t enough, she
wasn’t going to make it, she didn’t deserve to be here) so she leaves before her tear-blurred
vision can clear.

She ends up outside, set up on a wooden stump, angrily wiping the tears that had given her
away. Before long she quells them, unshed tears leaving her throat thick, and she can see the
expanse of stars stretched above her, the cloudy glimmer of the Milky Way bright without
light pollution to dim it.

The embarrassment burned hotter than her tears. She’d blurted her innermost thoughts—the
ones that had echoed in her mind ever since she’d received her letter, the first time someone
had called her a Mudblood. It was an old doubt—a familiar one—a whisper that ratcheted to
a scream whenever someone tacked the word ‘Muggleborn’ before her name, like a caveat to
her very existence in the wizarding world. An other, an exception. Whether it was praise or
an insult, the world never wanted her to forget where she’d really come from, what she’d
always be to them.

“Hey.”

Theo has been sent as peacekeeper, his voice light and careful, like a wrong word would
spook her further away.

“I made an absolute idiot of myself in there,” she says by way of greeting, still wiping her
wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

Theo’s fingers brush her cheek, pushing back a damp curl stuck to her cheek.

“No, you didn’t. With the way you’ve been lately, we’re just surprised you didn’t break
sooner.”

There’s no mocking in his tone, no joke to be had for a change. He’s just soft, relaxed, fingers
sweeping her hair back like he needs to see her face.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She hiccoughs.

“You’re fine. But it would be good if you came back in, when you’re ready. Don’t tell them I
told you, but I think Blaise and Draco are freaking out a little bit.”

She laughs, which almost ends with more crying, but she pulls it back in. Instead, she stands,
grabbing Theo’s offered hand. He interlaces their fingers, bringing her hand to his mouth and
peppering it with kisses.

The light of the house almost hurts her eyes, and she can feel how puffy and splotchy her face
is when Theo opens the door, but it hardly matters as she’s pulled into an immediate hug by
Blaise. It’s like he needs to touch her to be sure she’s ok, his hands running across her back,
up and down her arms, kissing the top of her head.

“You alright?” He murmurs into her hair, and she nods.

“I’m an arse.”

“You’re not.”

He lets her go, reluctantly, and she spots Draco. He’s hanging back a little, but he’s chewing
his thumbnail at risk of gnawing it off.

They’re all waiting on tenterhooks for her to speak, to reassure them that she’s ok. She
doesn’t know what to say, and she falters.

“I’d always wondered about your Boggart.”

It’s Draco who speaks, brows furrowed. Her Boggart? It took Hermione a moment to
remember it herself, their lesson with Lupin in third year. McGonagall appearing in front of
her, telling Hermione she’d failed all her exams, that she had to leave Hogwarts. Even now,
the mere memory makes Hermione feel sick.

“While I admit I thought it was funny at the time, I think I understand it now.”

There’s another pause, and Hermione finds herself reluctant to offer an explanation. They
wouldn’t understand, that cultural gulf between them wasn’t something she could explain
away. And yet, they’re waiting, patiently, like they can feel that she’s about to give.

In some ways, she doesn’t want to. She wants to keep her cards to her chest, keep her
longstanding insecurities to herself.

And yet, they’ve chosen her, and she’s chosen them. She’s not giving them enough credit if
she assumes they’ll misunderstand or dismiss her. So, she chooses her words carefully.

“I have been praised a lot for my marks, my mind—whatever you call it. But it has always
been marked against my blood, my parents, as though this is some kind of disfigurement
about my person. Like I am brilliant in spite of my heritage, or like it’s something I have to
overcome or obscure. In some ways, they’re right.”

Theo opens his mouth to speak, to cut in with reassurance, but she shakes her head.

“No, it’s fine. It is starting on the back foot, so to speak. You were all born into the wizarding
world, as soon as you were old enough to talk you’d all seen magic, knew common spells,
and had learnt the cultural rules of your world. Being dropped into it placed me at a
disadvantage—I think it places a lot of Muggleborns at a disadvantage. You have a decade of
catching up to do.”

“So, when I started, I was desperate to prove that I belonged in this world, that I deserved to
have magic. I’ve gotten older, but that feeling never really went away. At times, it is harder to
silence that voice. Don’t get me wrong, I study hard because it’s important to me, and I love
to learn. But it’s not always been the sole driving factor.”

Theo frowned, “You won a war, Hermione, you’ve earned your place more than most magic-
folk have.”

She shrugs, still embarrassed that they’re having this conversation and not just brushing this
thing under the rug, and squashing their emotions like proper Englishmen.

“Easier said than thought, I suppose.”

Despite her reluctance to talk about it, she can admit there’s a lightness about saying it out
loud. Like the thought had been a stone in her chest, rattling with each breath.

“I suppose my behaviour didn’t help, either.” Draco’s voice is tight, “I’m sorry for making
you feel less than.”
She isn’t sure how to respond—it doesn’t feel right to placate or reassure him. He had
behaved like a terror, after all, and some part of her would always resent the younger version
of him. In some ways, it was like they were two different people, now-Draco and then-Draco.
But she can see the crushing guilt in Draco’s face, an expression so open she knows such
vulnerability is difficult for him.

“I don’t want to focus on the past,” she replies, firmly. I want to focus on our future, she
nearly says, but stops herself for some inexplicable reason. They’d never spoken of it before
—what might be in store for the four of them, and it feels almost taboo to bring it up now.

But Draco nods, like he’s steeling himself.

Theo’s stomach growls, which breaks the tension, and they return to their half-cold meals.
Despite Draco’s lack of culinary experience, it turns out to be surprisingly delicious, which
she tells him so.

It isn’t until after dinner, and dishes, and a game of cards (a magical pack, which jitter and
jump with each winning move) that they circle back around to the topic of Hermione’s
preoccupation with exams.

“What do you need from us?” Blaise, she’s realising, is a man of action and solutions—he’s
antsy without a plan to enact.

She isn’t sure how to answer; there’s nothing they could do that would erase that feeling of
inadequacy and not-belonging that had haunted her for so many years.

“I don’t know if there’s a quick fix.”

Theo’s sitting next to her, running his fingers through the small curls at her nape, “Maybe not
a fix, then. Maybe a distraction, to give that big old brain a break.”

“To stop thinking?” Draco tacks on, and she knows where his mind has gone, the long-ago
conversation they’d had just like this.

“Sex isn’t a cure-all.” Blaise says, brow furrowing, but Hermione’s mind is already running
through the possibilities, her skin zinging with anticipation. Blaise catches her expression,
“But I’m not going to decline, if you want to.”

Blaise is right, of course, but her body craves that connection. Something that will take her
out of her mind, plant her firmly in the here and now.

“I’m tired of thinking, and talking,” she admits. “I want something physical.”

“And I suppose you’re not thinking of a hike?” Theo teases, gently tugging a curl.

“Not exactly,” she admits, and his grin widens.

-
Draco is the one who comes up with an idea. Not that she knows what it is, because he
refuses to tell her. She catches him whispering something in Blaise’s ear, that makes the
latter’s face brighten with amusement, but they both refuse to share despite Hermione’s
pestering.

She knows that sex isn’t a solution, and she doesn’t want their relationship to boil down to
just that. But her body is itching for that closeness, of being with them in that way. She’s
more aware of it now, the antsy feeling under her skin when she needed to be touched, to
have them. Sometimes she felt more brain than body, but the boys had woken something in
her, lighting a match to needs and desires she’d ignored for so long, smothered by anxiety.

“Wait until tomorrow,” Draco tells her, “Then you’ll find out.”

They manage to fit into the bed, limbs tangling and bodies shifting. Hermione sleeps well, for
the first time in a while, and is woken with fluffy scrambled eggs and toast in bed. She
accepts the plate with suspicion, because Theo’s shit-eating grin usually meant trouble.

“Eat up, darling. Big day ahead.”

It’s when she finishes her meal, popping the last bite into her mouth, that she notices how
quiet the cottage has become. They’d somehow slipped out without attracting notice, taking
advantage of her morning sleepiness and distraction to disappear.

She searches the kitchen, peeks out the front door, knocks on the bathroom door. But they’re
gone.

Her skin prickles, that creeping awareness that she’s the only one here. The ambient sounds
of the cottage seem louder, the clock ticking in the kitchen, the groan of pipes, her feet
padding on the stone floor.

When she turns back to the bed, she notices there’s something laid across the foot of the bed
that hadn’t been there a moment ago. It’s a dress, she realises, a white cotton sundress—
presumably for her. At least it took the guesswork out of picking an outfit, she muses,
slipping it on.

It’s not completely immodest (despite her expectations) hugging her waist but falling past her
knees. She barely has a moment to assess her reflection in the mirror—her hair is in uproar
after the swim yesterday—before she hears a click, making her jump.

Heart racing, she cautiously cranes her neck around the corner, to the kitchen. The back door
—which she’s sure had been shut—is now creaking open. Hermione’s wand hand is already
up, wand tip pointed squarely at the doorframe.

But there’s no one there.

No person, anyway. But there is a glowing golden trail hanging in there air, about knee
height, out of the backdoor down the pebbled path through the garden.

Hmm.
It’s a beautiful day. The sunlight is dappled through the trees above, and shadows dance
across the field beyond the garden. But she can see the darkness in the forest beyond, the
thick canopy the sun can’t get through.

Which is, inevitably, where the glowing trail leads.

Her heart drums in her ribcage, reacting to the emotion she can’t place—somewhere between
anticipation and fear. It’s the only thing she feels, thinks, as she finds herself slipping into
that mindset, that willing and obedient space where her mind is utterly still.

She takes a deep breath, and she follows the path.

It isn’t long before she’s engulfed in the shadow, her eyes adjusting to the thin light. It’s
cooler here, and the soil is chilly on her bare feet. She steps over roots, letting her toes sink
into soft moss as she follows the glowing path. She has a feeling she’s meant to follow it, and
doesn’t want to stray, even though she isn’t sure what waits for her at the end.

She’s hyperaware of the sounds of the forest, the birds flitting between branches, the crack of
branches beneath her. Everything sounds muffled though, which could be the close cluster of
tree trunks and shrubs, or her own senses—everything feels calmer in this headspace.

After five minutes of walking, Hermione feels that creeping sense that she’s being followed.
She hasn’t seen anyone so far, but she knows in her gut that she’s no longer alone.

On instinct, she runs.

The roots make it tricky, she has to watch her step as not to break an ankle. She’s not moving
as fast as she wants, and she can feel the presence gaining on her. She puts on a burst of
speed, bunching her dress in her hands so she doesn’t trip on it.

Hermione falling before she realises it, hitting the ground with a surprised cry. Looking
down, she sees her ankle is ensnared in a vine that has twined up her ankle and twisted
around her calf.

Blaise appears, lowering his wand.

“You’re deceptively fast for a bookworm.”

She tugs on the magical vine, but it’s stuck fast.

“That’s not fair,” she pouts, trying not to sound breathless.

He grins, that rare smile of his she covets, “I never promised to play fair, sweetheart.”

She sometimes forgot how tall Blaise was, but it’s impossible not to notice as he looms over
her now, expression smug. She feels a little like a rabbit caught in a snare, watching a wolf
stalk closer with predatory intent.
“I don’t like losing bets, Granger. So, I figure we’ll do the tried and true, yeah?”

She tries to squirm away from him, elbows digging into cool dirt. Blaise looks like he wants
to devour her, eyes dark, as he drops to his knees before her, placing his hands on the
underside of her thighs. The vine disappears as his grip tightens, and he hoists her hips up.

With her thighs on his shoulders, places his hot mouth on her cunt, lathing her with long
strokes of his tongue. She can’t help it—her back arches further, thighs clamping tight.

“I’ll never get over how you taste, Granger,” he pants, before he dives back in.

His mouth latches on her clit and she’s whimpering, the orgasm a storm brewing intensely,
threatening to barrel her over. She’s limp in his arms, hips grinding of their own accord.

She’s almost there, teetering on the precipice when something clicks in her mind—his earlier
words suddenly registering. It takes all her willpower, but she hooks her leg around, pushing
him back with her foot. His grip on her thighs is still tight, but she twists away, breaking it,
scrambling away from him in the dirt.

He grins, like he was waiting for her to put up a fight, and she finds her own expression
matching his. Her body screams in protest, wanting nothing more than to pick up where she
left off, but if he wants to win a bet, he’d have to work for it.

He leaps forward, trying to grab her ankle but she kicks his hand away. He dives for her
again, but stops short. Looking down, he finally notices the vine tight around his leg, snaking
up his thigh.

Hermione gets to her feet, beaming, and shows him the wand in her grasp. She enjoys the
face Blaise makes when he realises it’s his.

He laughs, half-surprised, “You’re devious, Granger.”

She winks, “I never promised I’d play fair, sweetheart.”

And with that, she heads off, following that glowing path.

Once she’s far enough away, she releases the spell on Blaise. He’ll probably come after her
again, but she hopes he’ll take some time to lick his wounds before he reappears.

It is only a matter of time before they find her, of course. She’s following the glowing path,
but her desire to win is not stronger than her desire to not get lost in the woods.

But she’s more aware of her surroundings now, keeping half her attention on the walk before
her, and half her attention on the sounds of the forest. It won’t be long before her next boy
makes his move.

She doesn’t have to wait long. Hermione is negotiating a particularly thick cluster of trees
when she hears the crack of a twig to her left. Without thinking she aims Blaise’s wand—
warm in her hand—and flicks a charm in the direction of the sound.

Theo hits the tree with a muffled ‘oof’, his hands and legs pinned to the bark of the trunk by
her spell.

She ambles over to him, “Howdy, Theo.”

“Fancy seeing you here, Hermione.” His expression is pleasant, but she can tell by the tick of
his jaw that he’s annoyed to have been caught. He’s vulnerable, back against the tree trunk,
limbs still. Utterly at her mercy.

The sight of him stuck like this stirs an unfamiliar feeling in her. Maybe this was why they
loved seeing her pinned and helpless. It’s a sight she could get used to.

“I think I’ve figured out the aim of this game,” she tells him, letting the strap of her dress slip
off one shoulder. Theo’s eyes follow it, hungry.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm,” she lets the strap slide lower, exposing the swell of her breast, “I’d hazard a guess
that there’s a bet to see who can make me come first. Am I right?”

His eyes are stuck on her chest, the pebbled nipple that’s stiff against the cotton of the dress.
His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

“I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out,” Theo’s voice is rough and low.

“Which begs the question—what do I have to do to win?”

Theo’s eyes go wide as she drops to her knees in front of him.

“Granger—” he protests, and she undoes his fly, but cuts himself off with a groan as she
palms him through his shorts. She’s pleased to see he’s hard already—a thick band straining
against the fabric.

“I’ll make you feel good if you let me go,” Theo’s voice is hoarse as she frees his length,
“Please, Hermione.”

She weighs him in her hand, marvelling at how she’s managed to fit him before. Seeing him
like this, it doesn’t seem possible. Often the sex between them was frantic, desperate. She’d
never had the chance to admire him before.

“I like hearing you plead, Theo,” is all she says, before she sucks him into her mouth with a
wet pop.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his head making a quiet thunk on the tree as it lolls back. She takes her
time, working as much as she can to the back of her throat. She keeps an ear on the sighs and
moans, paying attention to the spots that make him melt.

“I’m not winning the bet, am I?” He manages, voice tight.

Hermione only shakes her head, sucking the head of his cock. She’s figured out there’s a
sensitive spot there, and he keens as she laps at it, pumping her hand over the rest of him.

She can feel he’s close—her free hand is resting on his thigh, the muscle getting tighter with
each swirl of her tongue. He’s also started a string of curses, peppering by grunts and groans,
that has Hermione considering his request to be untied. Maybe he could return the favour?

The arousal that Blaise had stirred up was still there, simmering away, and she could feel
herself getting slicker at the sight and sounds of Theo Nott, bound. She looks up at him
through her lashes. He’s watching her, brows furrowed and mouth open in pleasure.

“God, look at how you swallow me—fuck—sweetheart, you’re so perfect—God—”

His hips are rutting against the tree, fighting for depth and more control, but she’s got him
pinned tight with her charm, so she takes her time. When he’s getting close she slows down
until he’s whining, then she picks up the pace again. It’s a perverse privilege, to be the one
pulling the strings.

She does it a few more times, until he’s almost begging—pink-cheeked and panting.

“You’re a cruel witch, Granger. I’ll not forget this—” she swirls her tongue again, ending his
threat midsentence with a moan. Her own thighs are rubbing together of their own accord,
seeking that friction to ease that simmer that’s swelled to a rolling boil of arousal.

Theo twitches, hips bucking as he comes, and Hermione hollows her cheeks, pumping her
hand until she’s sure she’s milked the last of the orgasm from him. He’s slumped against the
tree when she rises—brushing the dirt off her knees.

Theo, though utterly drained, gives her a dangerous look—one promising revenge. Not that
there’s much he can do tied to a tree. Obviously she’ll have to let him go at some point, and
thoughts of his future retribution send a dark thrill through her.

“Enjoy yourself?” She asks, saccharine sweet.

“Count your days, minx.”

She gives him a kiss on the cheek, but pauses at his ear before she pulls away, “Bye, Theo.
Thanks for playing.”

It takes until she’s a few steps away for him to realise she hasn’t released the charm.

“Granger? Granger!”

His cries follow her deeper into the woods.

She isn’t entirely cruel, of course, and released him when she’s well enough way. It makes
her painfully aware that she now has not one, but two pissed-off wizards on her trail. It puts a
little speed in her step, and she’s half-jogging along the path now.
When she breaks through a gap in the trees, she finds herself in a small clearing, brightly lit
and grassy. A large rock sits in the centre, and the glowing trail comes to a stop. And leaning
against the rock—she’s not surprised to see—is Draco.

“You made good time,” he remarks, twirling his wand between his fingers. It’s not a
thoughtless gesture. He’s showing her that he has it, and is willing to use it.

Losing the element of surprise puts her in a tricky position. She’d gotten Blaise and Theo
with their guards down, but Draco has pre-empted her. He, more so than the others, knows
exactly how many tricks she has up her sleeve, and she knows her chances of outwitting him
are slim to none.

“No orgasms, I assume?”

“They tried their best, but no luck.”

He tuts, “Pity.”

It’s like they’re circling each other, despite neither having moved, waiting for the other to
make a move.

She’s carefully aware of his posture, carefully arranged against the rock in that careless way
of his. She sees the ruse for what it is—knowing he’s wound up tight, that he might spring his
attack at any second.

His eyes dip below her neck, seeing the strap that has slipped down her shoulder, the fabric
dipping above her breast. She presses her advantage, popping the button at the top of the
neckline. His mouth twitches, a minute giveaway, and she opens the second button.

“Afraid?” She hums, surprised by the husky lilt of her voice. The forest is silent in
anticipation around them.

“Of you, my lioness?” He smirks, “Always.”

The dress slides off her shoulders, and he lunges.

She dances away, just missing the hungry grasp of his hands as she backs up. His wand lays
forgotten on the rock, and Hermione is silently grateful for his momentary lapse of
judgement. If he really wanted to, he could immobilize her in a moment, but she knows that
he enjoys the game as much as she does.

He chases her to the edge of the clearing, always a hair’s breadth away from catching her.
Her heart thrums with his every move, breathing tight with each near miss. His grin is dark,
predatory, and she knows he’s relishing her like this, scrambling away, tracking each
movement as it grows more hurried and desperate.

“We can’t play forever pet,” he taunts, and she backs up.

It’s a split-second fumble that gets her. He’s backed her into a tight cluster of trees at the edge
of the clearing that she can’t get past. She moves, but changes her mind as his arm stretches
to block her, she tries to dart past him in the other direction—

He catches her wrist, fingers closing tight. She tries to push him off with her free hand,
shoving roughly against his shoulder, but her captures that hand too, pinning it against the
tree.

“Let’s make this victory mutual, shall we?”

It’s all the warning he gives before he shoves his cock into her sharply. She cries out, the full
slide of him pinning her still against the trunk, twitching against him. Her head lolls back,
overwhelming by the deep drag of him as he slides home, groan muffled into her shoulder.
She’s on her tiptoes, pinned still by his hips, legs shaking as he draws out and slams home.

“Fuck—” She whines, overwhelming by the heat of him, the press of his chest against hers,
his ragged breath as she takes all of him.

She knows she’s at a disadvantage, already so close from her meeting with Blaise, wired
from pinning Theo to the tree and making him beg, so close her nerves are on fire. But it’s
the thought of losing, of giving into that edge she’s been teetering on for what feels like
forever, that spurs her. She doesn’t think, she pushes off the tree.

He’s off balance, lucky for her, and he stumbles back, falling down and she takes that
moment of surprise to climb on top of him, sinking down. He’s on the ground, and she
manages to pin his hands under her knees, rocking against him until he hisses.

“A mutual victory is no fun,” she grins, and she fucks him.

Their hips meet, and he’s desperately pushing up, trying to grind into her clit and send her
over the edge, but she’s in control now, pulling away when he gets close, trying to find the
angle that makes his eyes squeeze shut, sweat beading on his forehead.

She drives it hard, frantically rocking and sliding on his cock, trying not to get herself off in
the process—a feat in and of itself. He’s close, she can see it, desperately gripping onto his
last sliver of self-control, desperately trying to wriggle his hands out from under her knees.

But she doesn’t let him. Instead, she pulls her dress off, throwing it somewhere, watching his
mouth pop open at the sight of her—chest heaving, glowing with sweat, writhing above him.
She’s never felt so earthly, primal, fucking powerful, the earth beneath her knees, watching
him writhe beneath her, fighting off an orgasm she can tell is close. She’s close too, but she
tamps it down, refuses to let it bubble up.

Suddenly, she knows what he needs. Rocking down, she lowers her mouth to his shoulder
and sinks her teeth down.

His hips buck, and her swears—desperately, angrily—as he comes into her, pushing as deep
as he can in possession and worship.

It takes them both a moment to come back to themselves, to settle into their bodies again. She
rises, victorious, speechless, taking satisfaction in seeing Draco—always so put together and
carefully collated—in pieces before her.

“So, what did I win?”

Blaise’s voice startles her, “Win? If that’s what you’d like to call your punishment, well…”

She whips around. He and Theo are in the clearing, taking in the scene before them with
some amusement, but it’s tainted with an air of frustration.

And she’d thought the danger had passed. A silly thought, she realises.

Hermione’s exhausted from her struggle with Draco, strung tight and worn down, so it
doesn’t take much for them to grab her, pinning her against the rock with ease. She feels like
a sacrifice, laid bare against the rough stone, naked and golden in the glow of light that
breaks through the trees.

It’s clear, immediately, that time for playing is over. The three of them are pissed, and she’s
the consolation prize.

“She fucked you hard, huh?” There’s an edge of anger to Blaise’s voice she hasn’t heard
before, “Look at this cunt.”

He stuffs three fingers inside with no warning, making her curl inwards, trying to crawl away
from the stretch. But Blaise has one arm pinned against the rock in his large hand, and Theo
has the other one, holding her still with little effort.

“Her arse is woefully neglected, though,” Theo adds, which causes her try and squirm away
to little effect. The finger he slides inside is slow, but determined, not pausing to give her a
second’s reprieve.

She’s out of her mind, trying to summon the strength to push up, but Draco’s there’s pinning
her legs still with his knees, and his expression is triumphant.

“Still think you’ve won, pet?”

Hermione lifts her head, ready to spit an obscenity at him, but he (once again) pre-empts her,
sliding two fingers into her mouth, gagging her.

She’s close, too close, so aware of the press of each finger—invading her, claiming her.

Then, Blaise’s fingers begin to move. He’s doing it again, hitting that spot that makes her
lower belly swell and she can’t fight it off anymore, doesn’t have the strength to. She feels it
give, the gush of fluid accompanying an orgasm that makes her eyes roll back and her body
go limp.

“That’s one.” Draco says.

She tries to protest, but it’s an incoherent whine of protest. She barely has the wherewithal to
blink, to shake her head. But Blaise’s fingers move again, in tandem with Theo sliding
another finger home, and Draco’s fingers press down, pinning her tongue still.
They’re all she can see, her senses invaded by hard muscle and their smug faces, tracking
each twitch of her muscle and feeble resistance. The pleasure mounts again, against her will,
edged with the pain of a body pushed beyond limit, which morphs back into bone-melting,
overwhelming pleasure. All she can manage is a guttural cry against Draco’s fingers as her
body breaks and reforms, melting as her body is milked dry. There’s more, somehow, another
flood that trickles over Blaise’s fingers, down the inside of her thighs.

“Two,” Draco says, his voice low. She can feel his erection against her thigh.

“One more, baby,” Blaise nuzzles against her ear, “you can do it.”

“Or tap out,” Theo adds, wriggling his fingers, “it’s your choice, sweetheart.”

She’s theirs, always been theirs, every molecule she can give them—every part of her body,
her mind, her heart. It’s in this space, this submissive place they let her sink into, she knows
she can trust them, always. But they belong to her too.

With all the strength she can muster, she nods.

The orgasm they wring from her makes her ears pop, her muscles twitching and spasming in
their grip as she comes again, fucked from her exhausted body with their fingers.

“Three,” she hears, before her vision whites.

It takes some time for her to come back, and she’s leaning against Blaise, held up in the
cocoon of his arms. She’s settled somewhere, calm and still deep inside her mind, aware of
just them, having given herself over.

“You’re back with us?” Theo asks. He’s massaging the inside of her limp wrist, running his
fingers across her skin.

She nuzzles back into Blaise, needing the reassurance of him, the warmth of his body on
hers.

“You did so well, baby,” Draco is there, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, like he knows she
needs the praise and protection only they can give her. She leans into it, wanting him close.

“So beautiful, Hermione,” Blaise is nuzzling into her hair, “you’re so perfect.”

“You’re ours, baby. All for us.” Theo adds, his fingers raising goosebumps along her arm.

They have to half carry her back to the cottage, as her legs aren’t quite ready for the trek
back. Each step brings her back to herself, making her feel solid again, but she still finds
herself reaching for them, needing their skin on hers to reorient herself again.

She barely remembers lunch, but she refuses to let go of Draco’s hand through the meal,
eating her sandwich slowly as his thumb runs over her knuckles.
They sleep together that night, and she sinks deeply into it, their bodies cocooning hers.

-
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