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“Don’t do it, Malfoy.”
“You might be two years my senior, Granger, but you’re not my boss.”
The statement is true, she’ll give him that. Bossy she may be, but his direct supervisor she is not. She’s his partner—work partner—, has been for the past year, and while most of the time they flow together surprisingly seamlessly there are moments (like right now) where she wants nothing more than to throttle him six ways to Sunday.
“No, I’m not, but you’re about to completely jeopardize this entire operation.”
“Please, Granger, calm your tits. You’re likely to give away our position before I do with all your huffing and puffing.”
“Calm my—!” She cuts off with another huff. The absolute audacity of this man, this oaf, this pigheaded—
“Get down!”
Suddenly she’s on the ground, head being pushed firmly into the dirt of the forest floor they’d been hiding in. Hermione doesn’t even fight against him, instincts kicking in and knowing that Malfoy wouldn’t be manhandling her like this for no reason.
Especially when she feels the heat of a Bombarda Maxima flying over her head. Someone is trying to blow them up.
How rude.
“You alright?” His breath is hot on her ear, and she nods, silent. He’s off of her an instant later, wand brandished in his left hand as he angles his body behind a tree and returns fire every few moments after another spell comes launching their way.
He doesn’t look at her as he speaks, though he needn’t had to in the first place. She knows the plan, it’s the same one they always go with, the one that has never failed them before.
“You’ve got me?” He asks, anyway, like he needs the reassurance she isn’t going to throw him to the proverbial wolves.
From the howl that comes from the shack they were surveilling, perhaps even the literal ones.
“Always.”
And it’s seamless the way they move together. Malfoy steps out from behind the tree at the same time she casts a Protego to shield him. She’s a deft hand at dueling herself, but they’ve learned over time that her specialty lies in healing and protection on their assignments and it’s best to let him deal with the assault.
And deal with it, he does. She never grows tired of watching.
His swagger is confident, undeterred, powerful. He doesn’t flinch as each spell cast his way is immediately bounced off her steadfast shield; doesn’t even hesitate to shout off spells of his own. Her ears tune into the sound of his voice: Incarcerous, Expelliarmus, Petrificus Totalus, Locomotor Mortis, Stupefy. For Merlin’s sake she even hears a Rictusempra.
Not once does he fire off an Unforgiveable, though the use of them is much less frowned upon for Auror teams. He doesn’t need them; his dueling magic is powerful enough on its own.
She watches him, he watches them, and when finally, there’s no one else in sight standing and able to fight and a sharp whistle rends the air, she shuffles herself out of the wood line and to his side.
Now it’s her turn.
Looking at the rickety shack in front of them, she side-eyes him as she expands her shield to cover them both.
“Really? The tickling curse?”
“He was just a kid. It was an easy decision, and I hit him with a Stupefy before he could wet himself from laughing.”
“You’re an idiot.” Even still, Hermione is laughing herself silly. It’s moments like this, when he’s looking at her with a soft smile on his face that she remembers why she volunteered to be his partner.
“You adore me.”
“Debatable.” She does.
Tabling the conversation, she turns to the shack and casts a quiet, “Homenum Revelio.” The spell reveals nothing. Their work, at least in terms of dueling, is done and so she continues to check for any wards or traps on the shack as Malfoy places magical suppressants on their captors.
In the back of her mind, she hears him speaking to himself: directions for another nearby Auror team to come and help with transport, but she is always surprised when his Patronus (not a ferret, to her disappointment, but a fox) forms and immediately scampers off to deliver the message.
The fact that he can summon one despite all of the darkness he’s had to endure is a testament to his willpower and strength in and of itself.
And she’s curious to know what memory he uses to conjure it.
Shaking her head to refocus back on the task at hand, she pushes open the door and walks into the shack. Nothing set off her detection spells (top of the line, if she says so herself) so she feels confident walking into…
Nothingness.
There’s a lone table sitting on the far wall of the small building which, all in all, can’t be more than four meters wide and long. A cauldron and a small scrap of parchment are the only things resting atop the table and the emptiness of the room spreads caution through her veins.
Wand still held out, Hermione steps gingerly to the center, eyes and magic casting glances around the space like somehow, she missed something. She hasn’t.
“What do you think that is?”
Malfoy is behind her now, looming presence both comforting and nerve-wracking. She’s been alone with him more times than she can count at this point, but he always leaves her feeling wired. She doesn’t want to look too much into it, if she’s being honest.
She already knows the answer.
He steps easily around her, plenty of space on either side of her body yet he still finds a way to brush his shoulder against hers as he walks toward the cauldron.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t smell like anything I recognize. What about you?” He’s always been a tad better at Potions than she is, since during his house arrest, he hired a Potions Master to teach him under his own roof. So, she’s fine with acquiescing this specialty to him.
Hermione walks closer to him when he doesn’t answer right away. Normally by now he’d be spouting off a whole list of things it could possibly be, or even just speaking aloud the ingredients he could smell at first sniff.
Nothing.
Coming directly to his side, shivering as her arm brushes his, she peers up into his face.
Malfoy’s eyes are cloudy… glazed. Eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly agape he seems almost stunned. The steam coming from the cauldron is wafting up directly into his face and she can see the affects of it almost immediately.
Well, she can see he’s affected by it, but not so much what it’s doing to him.
Not until she pushes him harshly away from it when she realizes he’s already under its spell.
In the process, in his shock or in his confusion, he yanks her with him and in doing so pulls her directly in line with the steam as well. She tries to hold her breath when she realizes what’s happening, but she can’t help the gasp that ratchets from her throat when they fall.
Later, maybe, Hermione would be able to describe exactly how it felt immediately upon exposure. Later, when the healers at St. Mungo’s were able to expel this from their system. Later, when it didn’t feel like suddenly her skin was on fire; when it didn’t feel like her lungs were fit to burst; when it didn’t feel like looking at Draco Malfoy was both heaven and hell.
“Granger…” He groans, baritone voice raspy and deepening by the syllable. They’re on the floor with Malfoy flat on his back, her body draped over his like a blanket.
She tries, Morgana does she try, to push through the haze quickly taking over her mind. This is not a normal reaction. Does she find him attractive? Yes, she always has, but this overwhelming lust, this inferno in her blood is decidedly not normal.
His hands, broad and calloused and strong, roam from where they were resting on her hips down to her thighs. His fingers spread along the tops, thumbs brushing against the inseam of her trousers, and it has her writhing on top of him even as she pushes her hands into his chest to sit up. The growl, almost feral, that escapes from his throat has her gasping, core tightening painfully until she can’t help but roll her hips down and forward, eyes rolling back in both of their heads at the friction and heat evident even through the layers of their uniforms.
“Malfoy,” she whines, fingers digging into his vest. “The potion. Lust. It has to be some kind of—”
Speaking is difficult, parsing her thoughts beyond want, want, want even more so, but she thinks he understands because suddenly his fingers halt though their pressure does not lessen in the slightest. Even more, they tighten impossibly until she’s sure that she’ll see little bruises dotting her skin later.
Looking back down at him, she sees moisture building on his forehead, his upper lip, his neck. It’s like he’s fighting the fever as much as she is and when his mouth parts and his voice slips out, it’s equal parts ice water and lava: “Get. Up.”
She whimpers, but finding her last vestige of strength, she tucks and rolls away. Quickly coming to her feet and pushing herself into a corner, she struggles to summon and send her own Patronus.
“Prepare two rooms at once for Auror Granger and Auror Malfoy. Lust potion. Arrival imminent.”
She’s watching him, not her Patronus, as it disappears to deliver the message. Watching him as he rises slowly to his feet and saunters toward her with the swagger and confidence in his steps she’s admired for so long. She feels like prey when his blazing silver eyes track from her toes to the top of her head, and she can’t deny neither the shiver nor the warmth she feels pool between her legs.
Hermione breaths in, out, in again and then as soon as his body makes contact with hers—fuck, his thigh between hers—she’s apparating them away.
She barely realizes they’ve made it to St. Mungo’s before they’ve both been stunned, and she falls unconscious.
******
Her head is pounding.
It’s the first thing she thinks of when she awakens in a sterile white room at St. Mungo’s, but it’s not the only part of her that is. Her chest, her stomach, her thighs and core pulsing and pounding in sync. She feels like she’s been hit by a train, and absolutely nothing is helping.
Standing up, the cool tile refreshing against her apparently bare feet, she wanders around the room. There’s nothing in here except a bed sitting square against the side wall facing toward what looks like a mirror—a window? An entire wall made of glass.
Stepping over to it, Hermione gasps and promptly chokes on the sudden intake of air.
Because he’s there.
Draco Malfoy lounges on a bed in a room seemingly identical to her own, legs crossed under his feet and eyes closed like he’s trying to find some modicum of mental peace. Hermione watches as slowly, like he can sense her, his eyes peel open, and she’s met with the same burning in his eyes she saw back at the shack.
What had they been hit with?
He unfurls himself slowly from the bed, making his way over to her in the same manner he had before she’d apparated them, but this time she doesn’t cower or plan or plot. Instead, she walks herself flush to the window and plants her hands on the glass.
Malfoy does the same, hands lining up to meet hers and she swears that even through the pane of glass she can feel the heat from his palms.
“Can you hear me?” She whispers, breathily and he nods as his gaze holds tight to her own. There’s something dark there, something she wants to pick apart piece by piece.
More than anything, she wants this glass gone.
“Have they told you anything?”
Malfoy looks annoyed with the questions, especially when she sees an eye twitch and the muscle in his jaw tighten, but he pushes past whatever is lording over them to answer her.
“Some sort of lust potion, like you suspected.” His voice is still deep, something she’d only ever equate to pure, unadulterated sex. “The parchment next to the cauldron didn’t detail much, but apparently if we’d actually ingested it, it would have been much worse.”
“Worse?” She groans, rubbing her thighs together and planting her forehead on the cool pane. “How could it be worse?”
“It’s meant to,” he pauses, swallowing deeply like he’s still vying for control. “Make the imbiber completely incapacitated with lust. And if they don’t… fulfill their desires they lose their minds.”
Fear, sharp like ice, slices through Hermione’s stomach but doesn’t fully penetrate her addled mind. “And us?”
“Apparently, for us, Bones thinks it won’t require us to go quite that far.”
Something tickles her brain, eyes finally dragging from his to take in their rooms. One bed each, no door that she can see, one wall made of glass with the beds in clear view for each of them…
“No. No way.”
Malfoy winces at the denial, the rejection, and she shakes her head and murmurs his name. “Malfoy, it’s not because it’s you—I’m actually rather glad it’s you if it were anyone— but here? In plain view?”
There’s a steady flush growing on his skin, the same sweat from before still shining as he takes a shuttering breath. “They want to keep us separated, lest we… take things too far when we aren’t in a right state of mind. But Granger…”
He trails off and she tries really hard, truly, to listen to him but the roaring of her blood is steadily becoming more and more distracting. “Yes?”
“I have to admit, I’m having a really hard time controlling myself right now. With you… right there… with the way I feel.”
“How do you feel?”
“Mad. I feel completely mad.”
She nods, pressing herself flush against the glass and sighs in relief not only from the cooling affect it has on her heated skin, but also from the way he does the same. It’s almost like they’re touching, close but not close enough, and she feels the way her nipples tighten and pebble against the thin hospital top they’ve put her in.
“Me too.” Her voice is shaky as she brings her gaze back to his and she stops fighting it, stops denying it, denying him; she succumbs. “Tell me what to do, Malfoy, please.”
“Answer something for me first.”
“Anything.”
“If this—if we—if this hadn’t happened to us,” he seems to be fighting for his words, eyes tracing her body as she shifts from foot to foot in front of him. “Would you still want this?”
Would you still want me?
The words don’t need to be spoken aloud, she knows him well enough to know the language he speaks between words and punctuation. For all of the blustering confidence he portrays, he’s still Draco Malfoy—he’s still insecure in his standing in the world, much less in the lives of the people he cares about. Her answer is easy, her answer is quick, her answer is honest.
“Yes. Of course, Malfoy. For longer than before today and longer than after tomorrow, too.”
Her answer must be good enough, because any shred of self-control he seemed to be holding on to shreds as his hands slam against the glass. She doesn’t flinch, instead she presses closer and begs again, “Tell me what you want.”
“On your knees.”
She folds easily, knees dropping down to the hard tile as she sits back on her heels and stares up at him. It’s a position she’s only ever dreamt about, to be looking up at him like this, and her mouth waters at the way his thin white trousers seem to bulge at the crotch.
He stays standing, eyes narrowing as he worries his bottom lip between sharp canines. “Top off.”
“Yes sir.” She mumbles and he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head as she grabs at the hem to wrench it over her head.
“Slowly.” He amends, and her hands still. Grasping still at the hem, she pulls it up slowly to reveal her stomach inch by inch.
Time has been kind to her; not being starving and on the run even more so. Years and years after the War, her body has matured, and she isn’t ashamed of her strong but curvy body. Normally, she might feel a little shy at the focused way he tracks each inch of her skin as it’s revealed, especially when the purple mottling of her scar comes into view, but not right now.
Not with this potion in her brain, and definitely not with the way Draco reaches down to grab and squeeze at himself as her tits fall free to the open air. Hermione doesn’t need to look down to know her nipples are completely hard, instead she just continues to look up at him as she pulls the shirt completely off of her body and tosses it to the side.
Hands free, she gathers her hair and pushes it behind her shoulders, hands trailing down from her collarbone to around the peaks of her breasts. Down and up, down and up until he’s positively salivating. “Now what?”
Draco almost looks hesitant to take off his own shirt, but he does it quickly; quicker than she’d ever seen like he’s afraid of taking his eyes off her for even one second.
“Tell me.” He demands, “How sensitive are your tits?”
“Right now? Unbearably.”
“Could you come just from playing with them?”
Hermione shakes her head, smirk playing on her lips as she circles one nipple with the tips of her index and middle finger. “Not likely, but it feels nice. Especially when you—”
“When I, what?”
She moans, shifting side to side to try and find some friction between her legs. “When you’re looking at me like that.”
“What do you need, Granger?”
She rolls her head back as her hands drift lower down her abdomen to the waistband of her matching hospital pants. “Just keep talking. Keep telling me what to do.”
“Oh, is that how it is?” He rumbles, teeth shining through his lips. “You like being controlled. Is that it?”
“Merlin, yes.”
Draco hums, but her eyes have since drifted shut. She’s trying to imagine them literally anywhere else; tries to imagine the way his breath would puff against her skin as he commands her.
“Lean back, Granger. Take off your pants and spread your legs for me so I can see just how wet your cunt is.”
She almost flops over in her haste to obey, growing impossibly more wet at the way he demands her obedience, at his tone, at his desire written plain. She isn’t slow this time, not like with her shirt, practically ripping off the pants and leaning back on her elbows and forearms to spread herself wide before him.
Mortification should be coursing through her, but all she feels is an inferno when he drops to his knees as well, as close to the glass as he can be like he’s trying to claw his way to her. He looks stricken, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing before him, and she wonders if his request for her consent went more than just one way.
“And you, Malfoy?” She asks and from the confused look on his face, she realizes he has no idea what she’s talking about.
“Me, what?”
“If this weren’t the situation, we found ourselves in…, would you want me?” She doesn’t faff around with her words like he did, making it very clear exactly what she’s asking.
“Granger—Hermione, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How often I’ve dreamt of seeing you spread just… like… this.”
The whine that escapes her is almost embarrassing, but she’s well past the point of that. She doesn’t even wait to lean up on her left elbow so she can drag her right hand down her body to her weeping cunt.
“Yes, just like that.” He whispers, reverence in his tone. “Touch yourself for me.”
Hermione can’t respond anymore, brain buzzing like static electricity as her small fingers skip over her clit to gather some of the wetness seeping out of her. Feeling the slickness on her fingertips, the heated flesh directly beneath her palm, she throws her head back and moans loudly.
“Eyes on me, Hermione.”
The addition of her first name these last few moments spurs her on, a truth in his choice that tells her he wasn’t lying. This was mutual—this is mutual—but for how long? A conversation for later.
Her eyes shoot to his just as she drags some of her slick back up to her clit, fingers rubbing slow circles just to find some relief. Already, she can feel the way her back arches and her hips roll to try and get closer, and nothing—no “self-love” she’s ever done before—has ever brought her this much satisfaction.
Draco’s squeezing and pulling at himself through his pants and she wants nothing more than for him to take his cock out so she can imagine it instead, but she refuses to ask. Why ask when it would be so much more exciting to force him?
Vaguely, as she slides her fingers down and slides both of them easily inside, she thinks about how they hadn’t even made it back to the beds. The thought is immediately wiped from her mind when he delivers a punched-out groan at the sight of her thrusting her fingers in and out of her tight pussy, and he shoves down his pants until his cock is bouncing long and hard in front of them.
Circe, it’s perfect. Not obscenely large and with a nice girth to boot, she questions if it weren’t for the glass if she’d be able to put her mouth around it.
She’d try. She’d give it her best shot.
“Fuck, Hermione—” he gasps out, one hand stroking up and down from tip to base while the other slams against the glass. It rattles but doesn’t break, though she wishes it would shatter just so she could feel his skin on hers.
“Yes?” She asks cheekily, even through the steadily increasing speed of her fingers. He matches her pace, a stroke for a thrust, and she can’t stop the wanton moans that fly from her throat with every press of her palm against her clit.
“I want to be over there. Merlin, baby, I want to be there. I bet you feel so good—I bet you taste so fucking good.”
Hermione shivers at his testament, cursing herself long enough to rip her fingers from her already pulsing cunt to bring her fingers to her mouth and suck them clean.
“I’d say so.” Bringing her fingers back down, she reinserts them and groans at the feeling especially with how wide eyed and fucked Draco looks. Sitting up just slightly, she removes them one more time—the last time, she promises herself—to smear her wetness on the glass between them. “Want a taste?”
It’s degrading, almost, but so unbelievably arousing and sexy when he kneels further down to lick on his side of the glass like he could actually taste her slick through it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” she cries at the imagery, at the way he twists his tip through the small hole in his fist and his hips thrust forward on their own accord. “Draco, I’m gonna come—are you close? Please tell me you’re—”
“Yes, baby, yes. I’m so close. Wish I could paint you with my cum; wish I could fuck it inside of you.”
“Me too, me too, me—Fuck, Draco!” A few more thrusts of her fingers, a few more drags of her palm, and she’s coming through her screams. Tears leak out of the corners of her eyes as her thighs press together and she continues to fingerfuck herself through her orgasm. The sound of her wetness leaking out of her pushes her harder, until the sensitivity has her withdrawing her hand from between her thighs.
Catching her breath, just for one second, she looks across the way, but he still hasn’t finished. Quickly, she scoots forward until her arse and the backs of her thighs are flush with the glass, until they’re as close as they can be and it’s enough apparently. Especially as she reaches down and spreads her pussy lips wide until he can see every swollen bit of her.
“Shit! —Fuck, Hermio—!” His hand quickens, twists, and he’s coming with several deep, throaty groans. His cum splashes out in spurts, shooting onto the glass and leaking down and Hermione knows if it weren’t for the separation, it would be on her tits, her stomach, leaking down to her cunt where she—or even he—would push it into her.
They both come down in wordless silence, their heavy breaths the only thing filling the space between them. The sweat on her body has cooled, the fire in her veins turned to a low warmth instead of the fiendfyre that had been there prior.
But no ice. No coldness. She doesn’t feel awkward or ashamed as the last remnants of the potion clear from her mind, and from the way Draco settles down on his heels and continues to stare at her with a soft heat, he feels the same.
“That was—”
“Amazing?”
“Yes.”
“Earthshattering.”
“Yes.” She agrees with a giggle, closing her legs until she’s sitting demurely (hilarious, considering what they just did) in front of him.
“A lot.”
“A lot.”
“Bad a lot?”
She shakes her head quickly, smiling at the relief that crosses his features. “Not at all. In fact, I’d very much like to leave here so I could kiss you. I feel like we’ve done things out of order.”
“Hermione,” his voice is whisper soft, and she strains to hear him, wanting to absorb every syllable. “When we’re out of here, I’m going to kiss you senseless. Don’t you worry about that.”
“Yeah? And what else?”
“Would you be opposed to dinner?”
“Not at all.”
“And what about breakfast?”
“Only if you’re planning on spending the night.”
His smile is grand, genuine and it floods her with light and joy and hope. “Granger, my happy memory for my Patronus? It's the day you agreed to be my partner." Her heart stutters and melts in her chest. "I’ll give you every night.”