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Smoke billows from the basin as Hermione drops in the last of the verbena. The image swirls before her, the answers she seeks within reach.
Blood pills and drips down her arm from the ever-worsening scar. She needs answers, she can’t keep living like this, in constant pain, with bleeding and rotting flesh aching on her forearm as the curse embedded in Bellatrix’s blade rears its ugly head with a vengeance.
Hermione scratches at the skin, black flakes falling to the floor. She’s tried every remedy, from simple things like Dittany to darker, blood magic.
She’s at a loss, and if things keep progressing she’s going to lose her arm. Possibly her life.
It’s barely been a year since the war ended. Hermione should be celebrating, and instead she’s still researching, still trying to save lives—this time she just happens to be on her own.
She refuses to burden Harry with this. He and Ginny deserve this time to be together, to live. She and Ron didn’t end their relationship on the best of terms, and frankly she’s not sure what kind of answers she could get from him anyway.
She’d already gone to Neville for herbs and even Luna for advice, though at the time she wasn’t necessarily keen to go down the path of blood or sex rituals. She took the lesser of the evils Luna had to offer, desperate enough to try anything. Even divination.
She followed Luna’s advice to the letter and anxious anticipation floods her veins as the picture solidifies in the basin.
As if watching memories from a pensieve, Hermione submerges herself into the vision.
She’s looking through a window overlooking a lake. Hermione sees herself half submerged in the water. Which makes sense. Cold water always helps the ever-present burning of the scar. Curls cascade down her back and she shifts up and down—treading water? —but…no. No, she's naked. And oh. Hands grip her hips, nearly hidden by her thick curls.
Whoever she’s with wraps their arms around the vision version of her, pulling her close. Vision Hermione’s head falls back, curls dipping into the water as a loud moan leaves her lips. A hint of ecstasy is visible on her face from this angle, but it’s unclear who she’s with.
Moving through the corridors, Hermione searches for a better angle, but the hallway is parallel and she can’t get a view.
Frustrated, she watches the scene unfold. How is this helping her scar? And who the hell —
No.
Vision Hermione’s partner leans in, biting and kissing his way down her neck. All Hermione can make out is the colour of the hair on his head, the pale blond, almost silvery shade she’s only seen on one person in her entire life.
Well, one person and his father.
Please, at the very least, don’t let it be his father.
He pulls his head back just as Hermione rips herself from the vision.
No. It’s not possible. This is why she’s always believed divination is a crock of shite. There’s no way in Salazar’s hell Hermione would ever have sex with Draco Malfoy, even for a healing sex ritual. No, Luna simply got into her head with all of her ideas. That makes more sense.
Perhaps she mixed up the herbs. Maybe she dropped in valerian root. Yes, that’s probably it. That herb is known to have nightmarish effects.
She’ll simply have to try again.
And perhaps she’ll learn to obliviate herself, to remove all memories of the absolute bliss and passion she saw on her face as the vision version of her fucked Draco Malfoy.
***
Two days later she tries again.
She wanted to wait longer, but her arm is throbbing, and she needs answers.
Unfortunately, not much has changed in this vision except for the location and she spots him immediately. Not that it’s hard, considering this time he’s on top. He’s illuminated by a full moon, his hair catching the light.
Hermione is laid bare in what appears to be the middle of a field, wildflowers all around them. Draco holds the back of her knees as he drives into her, his jaw clenched with concentration and his eyes drinking her in, lingering on her chest and lips and where they’re connected, like he can’t decide where to keep his attention.
Their bodies move as one, and the vision version of her cries out, moaning his name. Toes curling, back arching, eyes pinched closed.
In the throes of bliss, she reaches for him, her hands scrambling for purchase. It’s there that Hermione gets the first look at her scar, the whole reason she’s attempting divination. It looks…not healed, exactly, but better. The skin isn’t black and flaky, the dried blood is gone. The mark itself is red and raw, but an improvement.
Fuck. She’s seen enough.
On her third attempt, she Floo calls Luna.
“Did the brew not work?” Luna asks as she steps through the fireplace.
“No, it’s not that…” Hermione starts.
“What did you see?” Luna asks, the ever-curious Ravenclaw.
“I…” Hermione bites her lip. “I just think I did it wrong. The vision…” She shakes her head.
Luna smiles serenely. “Show me exactly what you did.”
Hermione repeats the process from the beginning, adding water and drops of her blood and herbs. She heats it for exactly forty-five minutes, stirring it counter-clockwise every five minutes in perfect increments. When the brew turns a blue-grey hue, she adds the verbena. It smokes, just as Luna said it would.
“It looks perfect, Hermione.”
“So, you think I did it right this time?”
Luna cocks her head to one side, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulder. “I’m sure you did it right every time.”
That’s what Hermione is worried about.
“Thank you, Luna.”
“Do you want me to stay? I can enter the vision with you? Explain the contents if—”
“No!” She yells a little too emphatically. “Sorry just, no, that’s okay. I’ve…I’ve already asked for too much of your time.” She gives her a small, nervous smile.
The brew is almost ready and she doesn’t want the vision to clear while Luna is still here. Hermione doesn’t want anyone else to know the truth of her visions.
“Good luck, Hermione!” Luna calls dreamily before disappearing back through the Floo once more.
As the last of the smoke clears and the brew has morphed into a white-grey, Hermione takes a steadying breath. No matter what she finds, she promises herself to watch the whole thing through. She needs answers…no matter how much she doesn’t like them.
With that thought in mind, she sinks into the vision.
***
The nauseating swirl of apparition has Hermione kneeling over and grabbing at her arm on instinct. She’s avoided apparating at all costs since the war, the magical method of transportation seemingly threatening to rip off her cursed arm with every attempt.
This time, however, the muscle isn’t painfully contracting nor does the skin feel like it’s tearing. There’s no cool slide of blood dripping down her forearm.
Looking down at what used to be mottled flesh, Hermione can’t believe what she sees. Apparating didn’t rip open her arm this time.
The scar is actually healing. The letters, though still etched into her skin, are fading. Her arm isn’t a constant, throbbing reminder of the poison sloshing through her veins. The skin itself has returned to its olive hue, if only with a tinge of pink still surrounding the slightly-raised carvings.
All of her effort, the weeks of research with Malfoy, hasn’t been futile. It’s working. With every completed ritual, the skin seems to return to normal.
Darco’s hands linger on her arms, steadying her. Hermione glances up, a small, grateful smile tugging at her lips and she nods, a quiet, ‘I’m okay.’
Stepping out of his slight touch, Hermione surveys the area. Grass surrounds a makeshift dais, and her eyes catch on a smattering of brushwood. Spinning in a circle, she finds the space littered with it.
Grabbing her wand, she aims it at the twigs. “Incendio.” Training her vinewood around the area, she lights a circle of fire around them.
As she turns back, Draco’s brow is cocked, his very talented fingers twirling his wand between them.
“You know, Granger, if you didn’t want me to leave, you could’ve just asked,” he says motioning toward the fire.
She rolls her eyes as she approaches him. That cocky smirk on his face has absolutely no business being as attractive as it is.
“Shut up and fuck me, Malfoy.” She collides with him, her hands sinking into his hair and pulling his mouth to hers.
Strong arms wrap around her instantly, tugging her body flush against him. One hand slips into her curls, gripping the wild strands as his other hand moves lower, slipping into the back pocket of her denims and squeezing her arse.
Hermione is feral when it comes to him, pushing up onto her toes, aching to get closer. Her tongue slips out, fighting his for dominance. Draco retaliates, nipping at her bottom lip to take control of the kiss.
She whimpers against his mouth. Her hands move down to his shirt, meticulously undoing the buttons. Once parted, she slides her hands over his chest, skating over the scars as she moves her hands downward toward his belt.
His hands stop her and he pulls back. Hermione has his lip between her teeth and he tugs away, fire in his gaze as he forces her to let go.
Those storm grey eyes are laced with thunderous lust as he looks down at her. “The first two times we did it your way, Granger. But if you’re going to be using me for sex, I think I should get a say, yeah?”
Skeptically, she asks, “What do you want?”
His lips graze over her ear as he whispers against the shell, “I want to taste you.”
Hermione’s eyes go wide at his words, and wider still when the wizard lowers to his knees in front of her. Draco Malfoy, on his knees, for her.
A wolfish, cocky grin tugs at his lips as he looks up at her. His fingers tear at the button of her muggle denims, popping them open. Hermione’s hands tremble at her sides, the weight of Draco’s gaze on her and the anticipation thrumming through her veins making her knees weak.
He lowers the zipper before his hands slip under the waistband and drag them down her hips. She kicks them off and she’s left standing in her quickly-dampening knickers.
“Take off your shirt. I want to see you.”
Hermione breathes in a shaky breath. The first time they did this felt almost clinical. A scientific study with a hypothesis (having sex with Draco Malfoy will somehow heal her scar). She wanted to test it quickly and not bare herself to him in more ways than one. She chose water as a barrier for protection, a way to hide her body and cool her arm at the same time.
The second time felt wilder. There was an urgency to it, a hunger. They couldn’t keep their hands off one another. The first time just felt so good. The way it soothed her scar, she thinks.
Reaching for the hem of her shirt, she holds his gaze as she drags the fabric up over her head. She tosses it to the ground beside her discarded denims and Draco’s oxford shirt.
Draco hums appreciatively. “Did you wear a matching set for me, Granger?” His finger drags over the lace of her pale pink knickers. His index fingers dips between her thighs and his eyes flare. “So wet already and I’ve barely even touched you. Is this even about the scar anymore, Granger? Or are you just being selfish now, enjoying me, knowing I’ll come whenever you beg so prettily.”
He dips his fingers beneath her knickers, wrapping the gusset in his fist, his knuckles grazing the wet, bare skin of her cunt.
She shivers at the contact, gasps when he yanks his hand down roughly, dragging her knickers over her thighs to bare her.
Tossing her knickers aside, Draco places his hands on the sides of Hermione’s legs, gliding upwards, running over her outer thighs until he reaches her arse. His eyes are trained on her pussy.
“Look at you.” He bites his lip, his hands moving to the front of her. He toys with her cunt, rubbing his thumb over her clit teasingly. “You’ve made such a pretty little mess for me.”
Hermione grits her teeth. “Stop toying with me, Malfoy.”
His lips quirk up on one side as his eyes slice upward to meet hers. “But you’re so fun to play with, Granger.” He slips his hand between her thighs, his middle finger barely dipping into her core. “Perhaps I have a theory of my own to heal your scar.”
“Oh?” The word rolls off her tongue in a quiet breath.
“Yeah.” He chuckles. He pulls his finger from her centre and Hermione swallows her whimper at the loss. Instead, he presses a kiss to her clit and Hermione’s breath stutters. “Maybe it’s about how many times I can make you come.”
She doesn’t get a chance to retort because Draco buries his face between her thighs, his tongue delving out to taste her. Hermione cries out, steadying herself by burying a hand in his hair.
Draco growls against her, noisily lapping at her core. Frustrated, he grabs one of Hermione’s legs and drapes it over his shoulder for better access. His hands are restless, skating over her thighs, holding open her cunt, slipping back toward her arse. Either he can’t stop touching her or can’t get the leverage he needs.
Her thoughts are answered a moment later when Draco pulls away. Hermione’s brows furrow, her mouth falling open, ready to beg him to keep going, to not stop—to never stop—when he knocks her off balance. With an arm wrapped around her back for support, he lifts her other leg and lays her down in the grass.
Without another word, he dives back between her thighs with unrestrained fervour. Hermione cries out as two of his fingers slip into her core and curl forward against a spot that has stars blurring her vision. His mouth is back on her clit in a heartbeat, his masterful tongue alternating long licks and quick flicks against the sensitive bud.
Pleasure rolls through her steadily, climbing higher as he sucks her clit. Her thighs clamp around Draco’s head as her hips grind eagerly against his skilled mouth. It’s too much and she’s so close and the whole time his fingers fuck her roughly, blissfully, until finally—
“Oh, god, Draco!” Hermione shatters, her orgasm ripping through her.
The flames grow higher, burn brighter as she shatters. Is the fire growing closer? The flames feel as though they’re licking her skin. But no, it’s just the effect Draco has on her. The burning desire coursing through her veins is all him.
Frantically, she grabs at him, pulling him from between her legs to kiss him messily. Her tongue delves into his mouth and she tastes herself on his tongue but she doesn’t care. She just needs him.
Hermione rips at his trousers, clawing and pushing them down his hips until Draco helps, shoving them down until they’re just below his arse. As soon as his cock is freed, Hermione lifts her knees and Draco lines himself up and in the next heartbeat, he drives his length deep into her core.
She sighs at the intrusion, blissfully full and right. “Draco, please,” she pants in his ear. Her hands slide over his back, pulling him closer, digging her nails into the flesh as she quietly begs for more. She claws at his back, bowing her body as the pleasure threatens to overtake her.
“Fuck. That’s it. You’re close, I can feel you fluttering around me.” His voice is restrained and husky, each word sounding forced out between his teeth.
The fire still raging around them grows hotter once more. Hermione has the desire to roll away from it as it burns brighter, threatening to consume her.
Fireworks explode in her nerve endings. She screams his name only for him to swallow the sound with a ravaging kiss. His arms tighten around her as he crushes her to him. The pace that inched her toward the edge of insanity moments ago grows impossibly quicker until his thrusts stutter and slow.
His groan is an aphrodisiac in its own right, making her body grow hot with need all over again.
Still locked inside her centre, Hermione brushes the fallen blond strands off his forehead before pulling his lips back to hers gently. It’s slower, almost lazy. They’re both sated, a blissed-out grin tugging at Hermione’s lips.
With a gasp, Hermione pulls herself from the vision.
It’s the elements , Hermione thinks. The first vision showed them surrounded by water, immersed in a lake—and one another.
Her second vision took place in a field of wildflowers, her fingers clawing at the dirt beneath her. Earth.
This vision…was ablaze. Literally and figuratively, both surrounded by fire and she could nearly feel herself in the vision. Her body alight with Draco’s every touch, burning for him. Fire.
Holy shit.
She scratches at her arm and hisses. Looking down, she sees the bloody, mottled skin flaking away. In this latest vision, her arm was almost fully healed. She’d somehow already gotten used to seeing it that way that she’d forgotten that isn’t her current reality.
But could it be? No. That’s crazy. Is Draco Malfoy really the answer to all of her questions? How is that even possible?
Draco sodding Malfoy. Of all bloody people.
She’s desperate but…is she that desperate?
Glancing back to her arm as it grows wet, she watches blood bloom to the surface of the scar and spill out, trailing down her arm to the ground and staining her floors.
Yes. She thinks she might just be that desperate.
***
Hermione paces around her flat, the tip of a quill between her teeth and a piece of parchment in her left hand.
Dear Mr. Malfoy —Merlin no imagine if that gets in the hands of Lucius.
Dear Draco —no, that’s too familiar.
As if you haven’t been watching yourself ride his dick for days. She’d like her subconscious to kindly shut the fuck up.
Malfoy —yes, that’s better. Please meet me —no, that won’t work. If you’re interested —why in Merlin’s name would he be interested? If anything, Hermione is banking on him being too curious to turn down the invitation, but it still needs to be carefully worded.
The parchment is looking closer to a black blob than a letter at this point.
Malfoy,
I have a proposition for you.
Hermione Granger
That sounds like she’s trying to beg him for sex. Well, aren’t you? Circe, now she’s arguing with herself.
She crumples the paper in her hands and tosses her quill back onto her entryway table. She can’t just send Draco Malfoy a letter asking him to meet her. What would she even say? ‘Hi Malfoy, I know I haven’t seen you since the end of the war, but I had a vision and it turns out I need to have sex with you in order to heal the scar your crazy bitch aunt carved into my arm. Oh! And it has to be a ritual. What do you say?’
No, she needs more data. At least one more vision, but maybe two to be safe…
Running upstairs to her office, she grabs all the ingredients and her basin.
***
Whipping winds rip at Hermione’s hair. Rain pelts at her skin hard enough it feels like it’s slicing her open. Her palms splay on Draco’s chest for balance as she lifts and lowers herself on his length.
Above them, thunder crackles loudly, seeming to shake the ground around them. Seconds later, lightning streaks across the sky.
Hermione lets her head fall back, opening herself to the elements, but she’s lost in the moment, in Draco.
The wind swirling around them is like a vortex, threatening to pull them apart but she holds onto him for dear life. She won’t let him go. She can’t. What’s even scarier is, she doesn’t want to.
Her cries of passion get lost to the booming storm. She clings to the wizard beneath her as he sits up, wrapping his arms around her shuddering body and pulling her lips to his.
Yanking herself from yet another vision, Hermione groans, frustration seeping out of every pore the way blood spills from her scar. Water, Earth, Fire, and now Wind.
Is Draco Malfoy really her only answer? Something to do with the Black bloodlines, between Bellatrix’s curse and using Malfoy to heal her? She supposes it makes sense, though she’s still not exactly sure why it needs to be a sex ritual.
But what’s nagging at her even more is… why do the visions suddenly look like more than sex, more than just using him to heal her scar? It’s…that’s impossible.
She has to be missing something.
Standing, she scours her bookshelves, looking for anything she might have missed in the past year, but she knows the effort is futile. There’s nothing here that will give her the answers she’s been looking for since the end of the war.
She’s combed through the Wizarding World Library, she’s gone back to Hogwarts and dove deep into the Restricted section. Every book and tome on dark magic and curses she could get her hands on, she’s already gone over them all. At least twice.
She—
She doesn’t have access to all the old ancient books on cursed blades and dark magic. Even if she did, this is Black magic.
That must be why she chooses to go to Draco. To get into the Malfoy library and see if any of those books have a cure.
Though apparently the cure is a sex ritual… Now at least it makes sense why she goes to him. If she could just see how she approaches him and how he reacts to it all it would quell her anxiety. Maybe if she can see herself in his library and get the name of the book they find this ritual in, he’ll know this is real.
She already saw the entirety of the ritual, she’s sure. Four visions and four elements, each one showing her arm looking progressively healed.
One more vision, and then she’ll suck it up and go to him. She just needs to see how this all starts and how he reacts. She needs to be prepared.
For one final time, Hermione creates the brew.
***
Stonehenge. Hermione’s heard of it, of course, knew of all its magical properties, but she’s never seen it in person. She hadn’t realised how close the location was to Wiltshire, and it makes sense the final ritual takes place here. Close to where it all began, on the floor in Malfoy Manor’s drawing room.
Magic is heavy in the air, nearly buzzing with its prevalence. She walks half a step behind Draco as he leads her to the centre of the structure, her hand wrapped in his.
She gasps as she spins in a circle slowly and takes it all in. Walking up to the nearest stone, she reaches out on instinct, her fingers brushing over the etching. She knows this rune. It’s the rune for Fire.
Walking to the next symbol, she recognises the rune for Water. Then she spots the rune for Earth and lastly, one for Air. They’re all here, but it’s not just the four of them. Another rock is etched with the symbol for Healing and the last stone shows the rune for Magic.
In the very centre, seemingly permanently etched into the ground, thrumming with magic, is a rune Hermione doesn’t recognise. She leans in, her fingers trailing over the symbol as she studies it.
“It means Blood,” Draco tells her. “Black blood, specifically.”
Hermione raises her brows. “Your family has a rune at Stonehenge?”
“My great-great-great-great grandfather stumbled upon all of this,” he says, arms wide. “Decided to claim it as his own.”
Hermione rolls her eyes.
“He went as far as engraving it into the Black family crest.”
“So, he stole it.”
“I don’t even think stealing registers on the list of the worst things my family has done. On either side.”
Hermione nods in agreement.
“But I think it’s the key.” He nods toward her arm. “I think this is the final piece.”
She hopes that it is.
She hopes that it isn’t.
How utterly fucked is that?
The moment almost feels surreal as Hermione walks over to Draco, a repeat of how this all began, and yet it feels like a lifetime has transpired between them over a collection of months.
From pouring over his library, learning of ritual, and resigning to her fate.
To looking forward to those late nights surrounded by books, splitting carafes of coffee, and swapping notes. To the transition from ‘Malfoy’ to ‘Draco.’ To craving his presence and more so his touch.
Everything is different now.
She reaches up to cup his face and he smirks, instinctively leaning into her touch. She drags her thumb over his cheek, her eyes darting down to his lips.
The first time they did this, it was rushed, her intent to get it over with quickly. The second time was passionate in a way she hadn’t comprehended at the time. The third time…her toes curl just thinking about it. And last time was explosive and all-consuming, everything felt heightened.
But now? This time feels…intimate. Even more intimate than when Draco had his head between her thighs and they’ve hardly even touched yet. It’s the way he’s looking at her, his gentle, lingering touches. A memory of each kiss they’ve shared and how they’ve turned her bones to liquid.
But at the same time, there’s a heaviness to it. The knowledge that this is it lingers between them. Instead of being rushed and colliding together to ravage one another, they both move in slow motion.
They’re both savouring it. Wanting it to last.
Deep down, she knows she doesn’t want this to end. The realisation a painful chasm in her chest she’s been avoiding as long as she could. But tonight’s the full moon and they can’t wait any longer. Nor should she want to. She needs to heal her arm once and for all.
Her heart pangs as there, in the middle of Stonehenge, Hermione presses up onto her toes and kisses Draco, for what could possibly be the last time.
There was already kindling between them after all this time getting to know each other’s bodies, but this kiss is the spark. Draco wraps his arms around her, pulling her tight against him.
Her nails dig into him as if she can hold onto him forever. He presses kisses to her neck, bruises she knows she’ll cherish, a memory of him that will linger beyond these last few moments.
Warring with the urge to prolong this time with him but needing him as much as she needs her next breath, she slides her hands down his shoulders until she finds the buttons of his shirt. One by one, she slowly peels the fabric open to expose his chest. She presses tender kisses between his clavicles and across his sectumsempra scars. She kneels as she moves down his abs, as she reveals more and more of him.
His stomach dips and flutters beneath her gentle touch. Tossing his shirt to the ground, he transfigures it to a blanket, giving them something to lay on instead of the hard rock of the rune beneath them.
Though she has every desire and intention to worship him the way he’s shown her, Draco grabs Hermione’s arms and hauls her to her feet, capturing her lips in a torturously exquisite kiss. His tongue delves into her mouth, languid but with a passion that makes her knees weak.
Together, still kissing and touching everywhere they can, they lie down on the makeshift blanket. They’re unhurried as they sprawl out, trailing fingers that make a map of one another’s bodies, as if the memory of their touch will leave a lasting scar.
Hermione thinks it might, if only on her heart.
As they kiss, Draco’s hands slip under Hermione’s t-shirt, setting her skin on fire with his blistering, attentive touch. She sits up, tossing her shirt aside and giving him free reign of her body. She’s used to him touching her, kissing her, marking and claiming her. But this time, it’s the attention he pays her, the way his eyes linger, scour over her. It’s like he’s memorising her.
She can’t take it anymore. She cracks, pulling his head to her mouth to kiss him fervently. She needs him, desperately.
Maybe this doesn’t need to be the last time.
She wants to lie, to say she has no idea where that thought came from, but the truth is she’s been thinking it for longer than she cares to admit.
Since she showed up at his house and he welcomed her in.
Since he listened to her with unwavering, rapt attention.
Since he saw the scar and his jaw clenched, horror dancing in his gaze, turning the silver a smoky grey.
Since he helped her so readily, without judgement.
She thinks she might have fallen for him a little bit right then and there.
“Draco.” His name falls in a whisper against his lips as his hand trails down her body toward the button of her denims.
Leaning up on one elbow, he flicks the clasp open with practised fingers, lowering her zipper immediately after, and slipping his hand beneath the soft fabric of her knickers.
Hermione knows what he’s going to find, her already wet for him, her eager body desperate for him. For this. For more.
Deft fingers drift lower, over her mound and barely grazing over her sensitive clit. Draco’s answering response is a groan full of his own hunger, a pained and delicious sound. He swirls his finger over the swollen bud and Hermione lets out a gasp.
She claws at his forearm, an attempt to hold him there, but one thing she’s learned over these last few weeks, is he likes to play with her. He stops his ministrations, dipping his finger lower, brushing over her soft lower lips and toying with her entrance.
“Fuck, Granger.” He pushes his middle finger into her easily, her body already so slick and ready for him. “You’re going to kill me, witch.” He pumps his finger into her slowly, not enough to build her up, but enough to drive her mad.
She arches her back and swivels her hips, searching for friction on her clit but he keeps the base of his palm frustratingly out of reach. She huffs out an irritated sound, and the man has the audacity to chuckle at her.
“Do you want to come, Granger?” he asks with a tilt of his hips and amusement in his gaze. She nods, but he tsks and shakes his head. “Use your words.” He fucks her almost lazily, like it’s an afterthought and not something he’s actively doing to drive her mental.
“Yes, Draco,” she breathes out as a wave of heat settles over her skin. “Please.”
“Please what?”
She grinds her teeth. “Yes, I want to come. Please.”
Draco pulls his hand away, the exact opposite of the reaction she wanted. “Go ahead, Granger. You can make yourself come, yeah?”
Cocky little shit. “Please make me come,” she grits out.
“Do you want my fingers, my cock…my mouth?”
She takes it all back. She might actually hate him a little bit. “Yes. Any of them.” All of them, she mentally adds. “Just…please, Draco.”
He peels her denims off her legs, her knickers following right after, and settles between her spread thighs. His gaze is unwavering on her naked cunt, and Hermione has the urge to clamp her legs closed. She feels overheated under his attention, almost embarrassed, but the heady look in his eye has her growing wetter by the second.
Large palms pin her thighs in place as he leans in, dragging his tongue from her entrance up to her clit. They both moan, the sounds mixing together in an erotic cacophony.
He mumbles something against her core, something that sounds suspiciously like, “I could spend forever between your thighs,” but that can’t be right. Her mind is playing tricks on her, confused by her own lust and overwhelming emotions.
Instead of answering, or asking—hoping—that’s what he said, she sinks her fingers into his hair and pushes his mouth to her centre.
Hermione writhes against his mouth as he creates magic with his tongue. Draco builds her up as she careens toward the precipice of bliss. She cries out when he pushes two fingers into her and nearly loses all sense when he curls them to rub against her front wall. Stars blur behind her eyes as sparks ignite in her veins.
She could spend forever like this too. It’s a dangerous thought, but it’s prevalent all the same.
Her toes curl and her breathing turns labored and seconds later, she explodes under his ministrations, crying out his name like a prayer.
In this moment she swears she can feel the magic in the air settling over them, taking their magical signatures and entwining them.
When the last of the waves ebb and her breathing returns to normal, Draco kisses his way up her body. A gentle kiss on one thigh, another planted on the opposite hip, a line of them up her sternum and neck until he reaches her mouth.
Their tongues tangle, lazy affection pouring into every swipe. Hermione wraps her arms and legs around his back, pulling him into her, clutching his body greedily. It creates the perfect angle for Draco’s cock to press and drag against her entrance.
She swirls her hips, trying to line them up to get him to slip inside of her. She doesn’t care how desperate it makes her.
Draco grunts as her wet cunt drags against him, and he breaks the kiss. Reaching between them, he takes hold of his cock and doesn’t hesitate a moment longer before pushing inside of her. His answering groan has her clenching around him, which only makes him drive into her deeper and faster.
He pauses, whether to allow her to adjust or to gather himself, she’s not sure. But she can’t help but whimper beneath him, craving more. She tries to fuck herself on his lenghh, but he stops her with a hand on her hip.
“Let me feel you. I don’t want to rush this.”
She bites her lip, stopping herself from saying something stupid like, ‘This doesn’t need to be the last time,’ or ‘Maybe we try a bed next time,’ as a joke, or worst of all, ‘I think I’m falling in love with you.’
Slowly, Draco pulls back, dragging his cock out to the tip before pushing in once more. He drives into her over and over again, his pace maddeningly slow. Butterflies flutter in her stomach as he pulls back to meet and hold her gaze, the look on his face making her heart stutter. His eyes search hers, an almost pained expression colouring his features.
He almost looks like he wants to say something, but stops, instead leaning down to capture her mouth with his.
He kisses her recklessly. Passion pours over her body from every inch of the wizard above her. He drives her wild, touching her just right, using the exact amount of pressure. It’s effortless between them.
Pleasure coats her veins, building her up all over again. She clings to him, her eyes falling closed as she focuses on the feel of him. Around her. Above her. Inside her.
Their hands intertwine, Draco pushing Hermione’s arms over her head and slipping his fingers between hers.
Despite wanting to prolong the inevitable, Draco picks up the pace, fucking her harder and faster with every pass. He loves to make her come, and after all this time, he knows exactly what she needs to get there.
He lets go of her hands and uses one of his palms to pin her wrists to the ground. With his other hand, he grips her hip, angling her and hitting deeper inside of her. Hermione’s mouth falls open in a silent scream.
Needing leverage, to cling to him however she can, Hermione locks her ankles around his back. Her high-pitched keen breaks their kiss as she teeters closer and closer to the ledge.
Resting his forehead against hers, he says, “Come for me, Hermione. Let me feel you.” His silver eyes meet hers, darkened by overflowing lust.
Trapped in his gaze, she loses control. It’s delicious and mind-bending and all-consuming and she can’t imagine this being the last time. Tears prick behind her eyes as she clutches Draco Malfoy to her, gifting him her moans that he swallows readily.
He follows her not long after, his hand still holding hers pinned above her head. His hips stutter and still as he finishes inside her, a moan clawing at his throat and a shiver taking over his body.
He loosens the hold on her wrists and kisses her gently before pushing off of her. His hand trails over her forearm. Her left forearm.
“I think it worked. Your scar is healed.”
Clumsily, she sits up, accidentally pushing Draco off of—and out of—her to look at her arm. The hope that blossomed in her chest deflates and she shakes her head, the tears that threatened earlier finally spilling over her cheeks.
“I thought it would be completely gone.” Mudblood is still carved into her arm, but Draco is otherwise right. The skin is no longer raw and bloody, the black flakes of dead skin fully healed. The scar lingers, but the curse is gone.
“We all have scars,” he says, but she’s not sure how reassured she feels by that notion.
Her eyes dart to Draco’s arm, the black skull and snake a stark contrast to his pale skin. Taking her arm in his hand, he presses a kiss to the word permanently etched there.
She flinches away from his gentle touch as if her skin is still infected.
Softly, he rubs his thumb over her inner arm. “This…word, this mark doesn’t define you. It doesn’t change who you are. It’s part of your story, what you’ve survived.”
She nearly recoils. It does define who she is. It’s her blood status, it’s what got her wanted in the war, what people tried to kill her over.
In the year since the war ended, she hasn’t been able to grieve or move on, not really. She went from saving the Wizarding World to having to save herself. She thought once the curse was gone the reminder would go with it. That somehow the only scars she’d be left with would be the ones on the inside.
His lips quirk up on one side, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “I didn’t choose my scar either, Granger, but mine makes me a coward. This—” he taps her arm, “—makes you the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
Emotion clogs her throat and it makes her want to lash out. To push him away before he can reject her. “You hardly know me, Malfoy.”
He laughs at her. “I know more about you than you think, Granger.”
Wiping at her cheeks, she turns away from him.
Draco chuckles to himself. “I know how you talk to yourself when you’re trying to solve a problem. I know you like your coffee black with two sugar cubes. I know you’re a fierce protector of the people you love and you always put yourself last.”
She half turns to look at him just as his hand reaches to toy with a rogue curl. “I know what you sound like when you come, how your skin flushes when you’re close, the shape of your nails when they dig into my back, leaving a map of scars.”
She shakes her head furiously. “That doesn’t—”
“More? Okay. You fight for the rights of others even if it puts you in the crossfire. You don’t care what anyone thinks, and you’re almost never wrong, but if this speech goes my way I’m going to deny I ever said that. Your brow arches when you’re annoyed with me and you turn your head away when you’re trying to hide a grin or a blush. You didn’t take a position at the Ministry because you wanted to earn your spot, as if being a saviour of the Wizarding World didn’t speak enough of your brilliance and character. You hate short cuts, you have to triple check your work—and mine—and you can’t wear heels for more than six hours because of an injury to your ankle from when you were on the run.
“More than that, I know I’m falling absolutely in love with you and I don’t want whatever this is between us to end. So, Hermione Granger, if you don’t think I know you…not only are you wrong for what may be the first time ever, but at the very least, give me a chance to learn.”
Hermione is seemingly yanked from the vision before she can see how she answers him. Then again, as she swipes at her cheeks, real tears falling over them, she thinks she already knows the answer.
Grabbing her wand, she apparates on the spot to Malfoy Manor. She can’t wait any longer. She needs his help.
She needs… him.
She gasps when she lands, clutching at her forearm with her wand still in her right hand. Blood seeps over her fingers but she ignores it. If anything, the sharp stab of pain makes her more determined than ever. Her answers are within reach; the cure so close she can already practically feel the muscles of Draco's broad chest under her fingertips.
The gates open for her as if they were expecting her. She storms down the gravel path and right up to the front door. He must know she’s here, the blood wards certainly alerting him, but she grabs the large, ornate door knocker, slamming it against the wood three times. Taking a step back, she waits.
The Manor door opens and Draco appears. His hair is shorter than it was in the last of her visions, and conflicting emotions flood to the surface.
“Hermione Granger.” Crossing his arms, Draco Malfoy leans against the door frame casually, a cocky grin on his face. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”