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Luxuria
Prisoner 5681ΔΛΜ13899 is a terrifying sight.
Ineffable, really. Too frightening to witness, yet too beautiful to dismiss.
Gone is the scrawny, pointy-faced boy from her youth, and in his stead is a formidable, magnificent desolation. A fallen angel wrapped in darkness and sin.
An imposingly tall wizard, with wide shoulders that taper into a narrow waist, pale skin littered with tattoos of runes and sigils. Silver eyes that penetrate deep into her soul, seeing through her to the dark spaces she keeps hidden. It’s dissecting, intense, and leaves her feeling raw, vulnerable.
His head is tipped back, but his severe stare doesn’t waver from her. If anything her sudden presence in his cell only fuels his gratification. Those long fingers are wrapped snugly around his girth as he languidly strokes himself.
The smirk that curls his face implies that he wants to offend her proper sensibilities, and it does. She’s unnerved—stalled to the spot and unable to look away as he gently rolls his bollocks.
Her fingers creep up her sternum to clutch the pearls at her clavicle. The roll of the cool beads steadies her against the pulse of intrigue and panic that dazes her.
It isn’t disgust that she feels winding in her stomach, making it tighten in a red, hot coil. It can only be arousal—a twisted interest that makes her heart pound in her throat and her bottom lip to catch on her teeth.
It’s sordid and obscene as he fucks his hands. His knees bow as he rolls his hips into his fist and she’s aching.
She should tell him to stop. She ought to call the guards and have him restrained until he can be punished for his lewdness.
Instead, she holds his gaze. She dares him to finish. To give her his worst. She wants to see him undone—devastated from exertion. It’s the flicker of surprise in his eyes that encourages her to drop her eyes to his gorgeous cock.
He grunts, his efforts double down. As though her attention spurred him into performing more audaciously. His purple, bulbous head peeking past the circle of his hand in quick succession and too quickly, he leans forward, his palm smacking the surface of the table nearby as he groans and then spills himself. Over his hand, onto the flagstone floor.
Abruptly, she spins on her heel, the echo of her heels bouncing off the walls as she hurries from the cell. She doesn’t care that she is fleeing the Azkaban—Prisoner 5681ΔΛΜ13899 and herself.
Later, when she is finally safe and alone in her flat and her fingers are deep into her cunt as she writhes on her bed, she realises that those wicked eyes made of mercury showed her things about herself she had never wanted to acknowledge.
It was Nietzsche who said when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.
Acedia
It feels futile, her work with Prisoner 5681ΔΛΜ13899—or Draco Malfoy as she knew him. It was meant to be a chance for rehabilitation. A cornerstone of therapy and skill building. A hope for redemption.
He’s beyond resistant though. Arms folded over his chest, chin tucked and brows furrowed as he stares at her.
She can hardly bear the brunt of it and it makes her feel cross.
It’s all convoluted, and his stoicism gives her nothing to push up from. The chair is dwarfed under his body, his legs spread with proof that he feels entitled to take up all the space he can.
She thinks there is derision in his apathy. Definitely insolence, because every time she visits, he doesn’t engage with her, absolutely no participation other than the hot, weighted stares that lick at her skin like silver flames and it frustrates her.
When she leaves, she always vows to never return, but she can’t stay away. After six visits, she decides to try something different. A chance to evoke some sort of response from him.
Her idea is perilous and completely amoral. To indulge—no, encourage—his sexual deviancy. But tit for tat. Quid pro Quo. A little incentive for progress. She puts aside her clipboard and stands.
Nerves trawl her skin leaving trembles in their wake, and she swallows thickly. Azkaban suppresses magic, and she knows it is risky to approach him. He could easily wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until the breath left her and her heart no longer beat. And there is nothing she could do to defend herself.
Somehow, from somewhere is the knowledge that he wouldn’t. Although dangerous, he wouldn’t harm her.
Gathering all of her moxie, the determination for a breakthrough reinforces her spine and tentatively, she reaches under her skirt. Fingers trembling as they find the warm fabric of her cotton knickers, she hooks a finger in the waistband and begins to drag them down.
Past her hips. Her thighs. To drop over her knees to her ankles.
Malfoy’s eyes trail every movement as she steps out of them, her skin prickling with interest, flushing pink under his scrutiny as she bends to pick them up. Raising her chin, she saunters to stand between his thighs, holding the pair from her finger.
No words are spoken as she lets them drop over his crotch. Or when he snatches her wrist, pulling her closer.
She stumbles, a soft cry of surprise leaving her as she collides with his warm chest and her core clenches. His arms band around her thighs, keeping her there.
Tilting his chin up, he holds her stare as his fingers slip up her thigh leaving sparks of fire in their wake.
Delirium makes her head swim. She knows she should pull away, scream for help. But her heart is galloping like mad in her chest and she can’t muster the will to do what she ought. She needs to push the boundary of propriety, she wants to see how far she can take this. Because the only clarity she knows is that she wants him. Hermione can feel herself growing dewy and pliant for him, so she shifts against him. Setting her hands on his shoulders, she swallows thickly as she widens her legs in encouragement.
Lazily, he pushes through her folds, teasing, ebbing, withholding what she wants most.
Her face is hot, her breath laboured, and she begs him for more. For it all. Touch her please. Where she needs it most. Deep and slow. He barely obliges, simply a shallow dip and soon, she realises that he’s leaving it up to her. Whatever she wants, she must take for herself because he won’t give her any more than this.
It doesn’t matter. It’s progress, she thinks as she pushes down on his digits. Letting them stretch her apart and when she’s taken all of him she can, when she’s full and stretched and his palm cups her mons, he finally speaks.
Low and gruff but nonetheless demanding. “Fuck them.”
She does as he says. Stuttering her hips against his hand, rolling, searching for that burst of euphoria. It’s wild and erratic. She can’t catch her breath, her heart pounding a thunderous beat as she chases the high. Flushed, nonsensical and desperate for release. To burst through into the wild unknown.
Intermixed with the taboo, with the blatant wrongness of the experience she feels it coming. Ready to slam into her untethered and dangerous and just as she breaches the crest—
“Times up, Granger!” The voice echoes down the corridor, causing her to fumble, but Malfoy catches her, picking up her rhythm with quick, measured thrusts, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit and finally, finally, finally!
The orgasm washes over her in a tsunami of nirvana, and the cry she’s been holding back whimpers out of her.
But then panic brings her back to reality and she shoves away from him. Ignoring the emptiness that grips her.
Wickedness presents a smirk upon his face before he brings his fingers to his mouth, greeting them with a lick before they disappear past his lips. A groan of satisfaction, of relish. Of supreme gratification. It’s dirty and obscene. Sexy.
Humiliation burns her, but she doesn’t look away until the guard unlocks the door. Turning away from Malfoy, she pats her hair, her skirt and keeps her head ducked as she gathers her things.
Before she crosses the threshold, Malfoy tells her. “I look forward to next week, Sweetness.”
Avaritia
She doesn’t stop seeing him. She can’t stop. In fact, she petitioned to add more visits to his case under the contention that allowing less time between sessions would prevent relapse. There is truth in that. With every sexual favour exchanged, he provides more of himself. All the fractured shards of himself that he collected in his battleworn hands. He keeps them tucked close, not wanting to share. Sometimes, he gives her a peek of the spoiled boy, or the scared adolescent trying to survive. Her favourite is the one he hides deep in his vest.
A man worth his salt.
She only saw it once. When he spoke of his mother.
They never talk about trivial things. No time for the weather, her career or their relationships. Instead he reveals his fears, his traumas, his abuses and she lets him fuck her mouth until its sore and raw, her eye-makeup tear-streaked down her rosy cheeks.
Malfoy tells her he likes it best when he can wreck her so gorgeously. When she comes apart because of him and is left in ruins. He prefers it to the snotty little bluestocking that she presents to the guards.
When Hermione asks him why that is, his smile is sinister and he murmurs that he likes to break pretty things. It reminds her that he is a dangerous wizard, and she would do well to maintain constant vigilance. Although, it’s difficult to keep her guard up when he sinks his fingers into her quim. When he pulls her hair and tells her how he hates his father and resents everything the man taught him. How if he ever leaves Azkaban, he will disappear to a remote, tropical island and never return.
It’s an ominously vague warning—or a promise. Perhaps even a dream. She devours each word as though they are enlightenment all while bringing him off with her hands. She justifies each encounter by the wealth of information—no, progress—that he provides. In her reports she calls the lewd acts rewards while omitting their nature. It implies that he’s driven by praise, by recognition when really, it’s him whispering what a good little witch she is that brings her back again and again.
Gula
He never stops eating her when she comes. Instead he maintains his relentless onslaught all the way through her trembling, clenching, shuddering. Malfoy barely affords her a moment to return to herself before he spins her into another crashing reverie. On and on it goes until she’s too spent to move; bent over the table, her knickers tangled around her ankles and skirt rucked around her waist.
The blunt press of his cockhead rouses her and she keens softly when he pushes through her folds. Covering himself in her satisfaction as he seeks his. He doesn’t fuck her, although she knows he’s desperate to.
She refuses. It’s the one line she holds because if they don’t cross it, then she can’t have gone past the point of no return. Her head still rises with dignity, her righteousness a thorny crown.
But when he spills himself against the rosebud of her arse, she wonders how much longer she can uphold the burden of her delusion.
Superbia
Hermione grows careless, visiting Malfoy even without the sanction of the Ministry. She abuses her clearance to slip in at night, under the guise that it’s an emergency session. The guards no longer care, having long ago turned a blind eye to whatever happens between her and Malfoy in his cell.
Feeling rather arrogant, she drops her cloak to reveal her naked body beneath, her belly wrenching at the darkness that fills Malfoy's eyes. She thinks she’s in charge. That he’s at her mercy and that she is only here to relish her own pleasure. It’s his mouth and fingers she’s after.
Be a good boy and do what you’re told.
She should have known better than to provoke him. To assume that he would bend to her wishes. He had never played her game before, so she shouldn’t expect him to begin now. She was always playing his, and it had never been more apparent than at this moment, with him stalking toward her. That thumb sliding the curve of his bottom lip. She wants to run away, take it all back—but she won’t. Her chin is firm and defiant when his long fingers wrap around her throat, when he pushes her back against the biting stone of the wall.
Even then she refuses to give up. It soothes her ego to pretend this is what she wants, what she came for. After all, his deft fingers have teased, petted and coaxed her to ecstasy, just as she demanded. And when he breaches her entrance with his cockhead, she acts appalled, fighting against him, pushing at his chest, but the reality is, the widening of her thighs is an invitation and the roll of her hips to place him just there is permission.
When he fills her to the hilt, when she’s too full and it’s too much and too deep, it’s his groan of reverence that grounds her. That keeps her tethered to the here and now.
She can feel all of him. His hot, sweat-slicked skin as he pounds into her. Every rugged vein and shifting muscle; the bruising press of his fingers and his hot breath against her cheek.
Her body is vibrating, every nerve stretching taut in a kaleidoscope of sensations until finally she snaps. Her soul shatters in every direction, her being expanding faster than the universe, and she calls his name from the ether.
For the first time, he kisses her. His mouth is firm, but gentle as he brings her back to him so that she can witness as he comes apart within her. She’s not sure if it's her name or a claim that she is his now, but it wraps her in bliss and comfort.
There is gratitude and appreciation in the way he carries her to his cot, in the way he tucks her against his chest and wraps himself around her. He asks her about her parents and doesn’t judge her when she admits that it feels like a relief that they don’t remember her. He listens when she laments the distance that’s grown in her friendships. He holds her tighter when she whispers that she feels lonely.
Later, when she leaves the cell, she knows the world as they knew it has shifted. And nothing will ever be the same again.
Invidia
The nature of her visits doesn’t go unnoticed by all, and coupled with their carelessness, it was only a matter of time before trouble would manifest.
It felt like as soon as she let Malfoy claim her, the fiends were out to take what belonged to him. What they wanted for their own.
It is the last thing she expects to see when she arrives. Malfoy, bruised, bloody—filthy, being restrained by another inmate—Thorfinn Rowle—while several others take shots at him. There is proof on his knuckles that he gave his best before they got the best of him.
Panic grips her; fear, a slime that slides down her back. There is no magic in Azkaban. Nothing she can do to make it all stop, except run for help. However, before she gets a chance, she’s grabbed by her hair, her arm wrenched behind her back.
Her briefcase falls to the ground, busting open and her eyes frenetic until they settle onto Malfoy’s large, fearful ones. Hot, terrified tears spring to her face because she knows how this will end for her.
There are no saviours in hell. No salvation in damnation.
Graham Montague’s nose runs the length of her face, inhaling, and it makes her shudder with disgust.
I’ve been waiting for this, he tells her, and she tries to twist away from him. But the hold on her hair is too tight and the grip on her wrist too steady. Throwing her weight, stomping on his toes—screaming for the guards...it’s all futile.
Nobody comes when her shirt is ripped down the middle, buttons flying everywhere. Nobody stops Montague from shoving her over the table. When his rough fingernails scratch at her thighs as he rucks her skirt to her waist, her mouth fills with bile.
Time begins to drag, slowing to infinity, and she focuses on Draco. So bloody, so irate. So beautiful. His eyes are as bright as starlight. Beaming like refuge.
I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours, she tells him. Over and over and over again. Like a promise. A question. A prayer.
Sound rushes into echoing nonsense, everything else blurs into vague shadows, and she feels ejected from herself. Bereft of her body as she falls into the serenity of her lover’s eyes.
So bright and blinding. Expanding over her like warm, comforting wings and then finally, her eyes close and it’s almost like finding home.
Ira
The truth matters little in prejudice. She knows that better than anyone. But hope is difficult to kill and she did everything to prove the facts, intent on saving a life. Just as hers was spared that horrific night in Azkaban. She can’t be certain what exactly happened, only guesses and theories. When she came to with Draco cradling her face, Montague, Rowle and the other wizard were dead. Their eyes burned from their sockets. Later she learned that their bodies had been burned by fire and dappled with sulphur.
Justly smitten for their depravity. They didn’t care that justice was meted out in defence of her honour.
With every refusal and adjudication, with every patronising pat on the head, her frustration grew until it was a vastly expanding ball of energy that bled from every pore. Even her reputation, her accolades, and her celebrity did little to sway opinions.
The impatient eye rolls. The derisive smirks that accompanied disgusting suggestions that perhaps she had asked for it, that her attire might’ve implied her true desires, or maybe her behaviour provoked them into trying to take what was offered.
They didn't know the extent of her relationship with Draco. As far as they understood, it was strictly that of patient-slash-healer. Hermione was certain that if they had been made aware of the truth, she wouldn’t have even been afforded an audience to plead for mercy toward inmate 5681ΔΛΜ13899.
It had been a folly, really. All for show, as they had already decided his fate. In fact, she suspected that they had been waiting for something to happen, some reason—any reason—to rid themselves of the Malfoy Heir completely.
Disgusting.
Her ire is ice cold. Glacial. Quiet and unassuming, but a fury unlike any other.
Calm. Calculated. Precise.
When she finally exacts her revenge, it is ruthless. A modified memory here. An Obliviate or two there. Until eventually, there is no trace of inmate 5681ΔΛΜ13899 within the entirety of the Ministry of Magic or Azkaban.
Empyrean
In the slate blue of dawn, their bodies move in a tempo of the soothing swash of the ocean kissing the shore. A sensual undulating of hips as staccato breaths volley between them.
She’s hypnotising, his witch. A force so terrific that it breaks him open, leaving him raw and vulnerable. Leaving the remains of all he’s ever known shredded to nothing.
He loves her. But he isn’t sure how or when it happened. Perhaps the first time he touched her or the first time he sunk his cock into her body, and it had been so fucking perfect that he had thought she was made for him. At that moment, he decided that she belonged to him.
Their beginning was dirty and depraved. Built in the grey, murkiness between right and wrong. While not a sturdy foundation, he was determined to reinforce it every day until it was strong enough to withstand the strongest of blows.
She was his. He was hers.
Deeper than flesh. More divine than absolution.
Connected in the soul. Tethered together among the heavens from their hearts, their minds and more incredibly, their magic.
Even when the world feels impossible, he can reach within and find her, and they are unstoppable.
Rearing up, his palms slide from her hips up the arch of her back, pulling her to him until her breasts crush against his chest and their hearts are aligned.
His mouth fits against hers in a compliment, and when she wraps her arms around his shoulders, her wild hair surrounds them, and together, they know heaven.