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The door to the room opened with a soft rush of air from the corridor, followed by the faint, metallic creak of the heavy silver latch as it swung shut behind him.
Hermione, still absorbed in the report spread out before her, took a few seconds to register the intrusion before lifting her head to see who had entered her office.
Draco Malfoy was leaning carelessly against the closed door.
His blond hair fell in unruly strands across his forehead, as though he had just come in from the field. He wasn’t wearing his Auror uniform, only casual clothes—a light sweater and linen trousers. She hated how effortlessly elegant he looked like this, as if he had never needed to try at all.
His arms were crossed. His wand was pointed loosely in her direction. And a predatory smile hovered on his lips.
Hermione frowned.
She didn’t remember agreeing to see him tonight. Not for work, not for dinner. Let alone that she was due to go to his place tonight; she looked forward to those evenings too much to forget them.
She opened her mouth to tell him that, whatever this was, she was busy, and nowhere near finished.
But he cut her off before she could utter a single word.
“Manicae,” Draco murmured, his gaze locked onto hers as though he were speaking directly to her.
Delicate golden cuffs materialized and wrapped themselves gracefully around her ankles, preventing her from walking or moving her legs apart. Intricate salamander motifs were etched into the gleaming metal.
The safeword they had agreed upon months earlier—a word that had never yet been spoken—was woven into the spell as well. It was his way of reminding her that it existed, discreetly assuring her that it remained within reach, should she ever need it.
And in the fleeting glimmer that lit Hermione’s fire-warmed eyes, he knew she had understood.
“You’re kidding, right?” she asked after staring at them in silence for a few seconds. “Take them off.”
“I think not. I find they suit you beautifully. They’re gold, you know.”
“Take them off me. I could break them with my magic before you even had time to step away.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” Draco murmured, thoroughly amused. “They’re enchanted, obviously. They only respond to my magic. Otherwise, what would be the point?”
Hermione’s breathing grew louder in the office. He could see the rise of her chest where her blouse was open, her skin flushed, her heartbeat quickening. Slowly, he circled the large oak desk and came to stand beside her, taking in the position she was in.
She was seated in her velvet office chair—more like a throne in the middle of a room that smelled of parchment and wax. She couldn’t stand. The cuffs around her ankles allowed no freedom of movement.
He savoured the thought for a moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he looked at her: composed, her gaze burning.
He imagined the gears in that brilliant mind of hers, hidden beneath that unruly mass of brown curls, turning at full speed as she searched for a way out of her predicament.
For the moment, though, she remained upright, as if he were merely an inconvenience she was waiting to dismiss so she could return to work.
“Now your wrists, please,” he asked in a velvet voice, extending his wand in anticipation.
“You wish,” she replied immediately, a mocking smile on her lips as though she found the request absurd.
“I am asking nicely,” Draco insisted.
He positioned himself between her and the desk, guiding her knees apart so he could stand between her legs. He leaned in and whispered against her ear.
“We’re alone in the department. I’ve locked your office door, and you left your wand in your sitting room,” he said, feigning regret as he nodded toward a door behind the desk that didn’t lead to the corridor but to a small private lounge—used for meetings and breaks, as was standard for department heads. “Locked as well, naturally,” he breathed against her ear.
She shivered audibly. He savored her anticipation.
“Are those sufficient reasons to capitulate to your request?” she asked.
He knew her by heart; though her voice hadn’t yet wavered—she was standing on the precipice.
“Well, it seems to me this is a request you've already answered in the affirmative." he said conversationally, with that thoughtful air, as if recalling a particularly pleasant memory.
He caught her neck between his fingers and pulled her closer. She let out a startled gasp.
"Willingly. And without protest. I'd even say with a certain eagerness," he added, his voice low and slow, his face just inches from hers.
Her skin beneath his fingers was burning.
“Well, it was weeks ago. I was young and naive. I only wanted to please you. Time has changed.”
“And you don’t want to please me anymore? The tragedy of my existence.”
She drove her knee into him and pushed off with her heels, rolling her chair a few inches away.
“Please,” Draco said with a laugh in his voice, “do get up and try to hop around this locked office in search of something to knock me out with. Or crawl, actually—I’d adore seeing that.”
She shot him a murderous look but didn’t leave her chair. She was at his mercy.
“Let’s just say I’ve learned that one should earn what one asks for. You don’t ask—you demand.”
“Very well,” he said. “Let me rephrase. I am asking you—please—to be so kind as to offer me your lovely wrists so that I may bind them together with these little wonders of jewelry that I imagined just for you.”
She laughed out loud, unrestrained, and he drank it in with an amused smile on his lips.
But words could only delay the inevitable for so long.
“Nothing about this will ever be that simple, you know," Hermione said at last. “You and I are going to stay in this office until someone wonders where I’ve gone.”
“Which should not take long, considering you’re a very in-demand woman. The time we have is therefore limited. Don't make us waste any more of it than necessary.”
“You're quite the conversationalist, for someone who is wasting his precious time.”
“Fine.”
He straightened from the desk he had been leaning against and stepped toward her again.
“What I have learned ” he continued, “is that what matters is getting what you want—not the way you manage to get it. Do you know who taught me that? Your dear friend with his remarkably dubious methods as Head of the Auror Office.”
The connection was obvious. Hermione knew perfectly well that Harry used various techniques—sometimes far from scrupulous—to extract secrets, confessions, or oaths during his missions. She had pushed him in that direction herself at the dawn of his career, when his rigid sense of right and wrong had led to failure.
“If I want your delicate wrists in these handcuffs and your arms behind your back, Hermione Granger, that is how it's going to happen.”
He took her by the hips and lifted her from her chair. She nearly stumbled, catching herself by gripping Draco's elbows. Slowly, he made her back up until her hips met the edge of her desk.
He drew closer, hands still on her waist, towering over her, invading every inch of her personal space.
She was so beautiful—fierce in the energy she radiated, yet unable to move as she wished.
She did not struggle when he turned her sharply and pressed his body to hers, forcing her to bend forward over the desk.
“You are impossible,” she said.
“That’s hardly a revelation.”
The amusement in his voice only deepened her irritation. Or perhaps it was the fact that he knew exactly how to provoke it. Monthes of arguments, negotiations, and compromises had taught him every one of her weaknesses. The infuriating part was that she knew his just as well.
“One day,” she informed him, “your confidence is going to be your downfall.”
“Perhaps.” His hands loosened at her waist. “But not today.”
He sensed the shift in her posture once she decided to remain silent.
It wasn't anger. Nor was it a pretense of it.
It was that particular state he had come to recognize, after all those nights, weeks, and months. That perfectly balanced tension between refusal and invitation. That delicate game where “no” didn’t mean “stop,” but “prove that you truly want this.”
And she wanted him to prove it.
Hermione let him guide her, her breath quickening, her hands flat on the desk. Her slightly rumpled blouse brushed against the polished wod. her skirt had ridden up a little over her thighs.
He could have touched her, or he could have kissed her. He did neither. Not yet.
He leaned in against her once more, his voice warm and steady against her ear.
“You look beautiful like this. Restrained. Silent with defiance. I could watch you for hours.”
She didn't answer. She challenged him to earn every response, and he relished it.
“But you know what I like best?” he murmured, his fingers trailing up along her hips, stopping just short of bare skin. “It’s the fact that you could stop this. Right now. Right this second. And you don’t.”
He felt her shiver. A small, betrayed reaction. No pulling away. No refusal.
He stepped back slightly, taking in the sight of her arched back, the contrast between her pale skin and the black fabric of her skirt, the golden cuffs around her ankles—slender yet unyielding, delicate as jewelry.
He murmured a spell, and his wand slowly conjured two matching bracelets. One settled gently around her left wrist. The other remained suspended in the air, awaiting permission.
He waited.
Hermione turned her head slightly, and he caught the faintest hint of a smile—almost nothing. Then, deliberately, she raised her arm and offered her second wrist in a slow, controlled gesture.
The bracelet closed with a soft click.
Draco stepped closer, pressing himself against her. With her arms now bound behind her back, she was offered up, entirely. Motionless. Burning. Powerful in her chosen surrender.
“You have no idea what you’ve just done,” he breathed.
She gave a quiet laugh, her gaze fixed on the wall in front of her.
“Oh yes, I think I have a pretty good idea.”
He didn’t answer. He no longer needed words.
He eased her skirt aside, revealing her thighs, the delicate lace, the warmth of her skin. He traced the inside of one of her thighs with slow, unhurried strokes, savoring every shiver, every breath that grew a little heavier.
Hermione moaned very softly, almost in spite of herself.
She wanted to remain composed, but he could already feel the edges of her control fraying, that exquisite tension between control and surrender.
“You’re breathtaking when you're fighting against yourself,” he murmured, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, exploring.
She didn't say a word, but her hips shifted ever so slightly toward him.
And in that room scented with parchment and wax, at an hour when the Ministry was nearly asleep, Draco Malfoy got what he had come for.
An offering.
Hermione could feel every fiber of her body humming—tense, surrendered, acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin. The bracelets around her wrists pulsed faintly against her flesh, enchanted and responsive to her magic, her arousal.
She had worn them before, of course, but never here. Never in this office, at the heart of power, in a kingdom that was entirely her own. It made the entire experience dizzying.
And he knew it.
Draco was in no hurry. He drew out the tension like a conductor leading a slow, meticulous, devastating symphony.
His fingers slid between her thighs, seeking the places already slick with anticipation, making her tremble without ever truly giving her relief.
“You like this, don't you?” he murmured against her nape. “Being mine, here and now, bound hand and foot in your own office. You could break me with a single word, and yet you stay exactly where you are. Trembling.”
She wanted to answer, but her voice refused to cooperate. Only a sigh escaped her lips. There was a strange clarity beneath the haze of desire: she wanted this. She had chosen this. She had let her defenses fall like armor that had become too heavy to bear.
“I could make this last for hours,” he added. “Make you beg.”
His fingers brushed her clit, that burning place, already soaked, already sensitive, responsive to every breath and every touch.
She arched further, unable to remain upright.
He imposed that maddeningly slow pace on her—frustrating, deliciously cruel.
Then, with deliberate precision, he slipped inside her. One finger, then two, moving slowly. Her hips jerked with a sharp gasp, and he laughed softly against her neck.
“There. That's better. Now you're talking to me.”
He moved inside her with slow, deliberate strokes. His fingers knew every angle, every pressure that could unravel her. His free hand drifted lower, finding the sensitive spot between her thighs that made her gasp.
This time, the helpless moan escaped her openly, impossible to contain.
Her forehead came to rest against the desk, the cuffs tugging lightly at her wrists behind her back. The position itself—the blend of restraint and pleasure—sent her drifting.
She was no longer thinking. No longer reasoning.
She was nothing but sensation. Pulse. Breath.
And he, still solid and unwavering behind her, leaned close to her ear.
“Say it. Tell me you're mine.”
She hesitated. Out of pride. Out of instinct.
But he quickened his pace just slightly, adding a subtle turn of his hand, pushing her closer to the edge.
“Say it, Hermione.”
And she broke.
“I... I belong to you.”
He gave a low groan of pleasure against her skin, and his movements grew more certain.
Pleasure surged through her, relentless and uncontrollable, a wave far too powerful to stop.
He pressed just a little harder, just enough, and she came undone around his fingers, breathless, unable to stay upright, unable to hold back her cries.
She shattered in silence in the very office where so many crucial decisions had been made.
When she finally caught her breath again, he was still there behind her, his hands tracing gentle patterns along her waist, his lips brushing her shoulder.
“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever screamed my name in this office,” he murmured, amusement threaded through his voice.
She turned her head slightly, cheeks flushed, curls in disarray, her eyes still shining.
“Enjoy the victory while it lasts. You are not going to make a habit of visiting my office.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t want you to be distracted every time you look at your desk.”
His satisfaction was unmistakable.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself. It doesn’t suit you.”
Draco had stepped back just slightly, studying his handiwork—a breathless Hermione, sweat gathering at the small of her back, desire still lingering between her thighs—like a collector contemplating a rare artifact.
Hermione was still catching her breath, her chest pressed against the desk, her back taut beneath the pull of the restraints, her skirt still hiked up.
He never tired of the sight: her power, her surrender, her desire.
He had restrained himself for her, but now his own body was demanding satisfaction.
He leaned down to kiss the curve of her hip, before leaning toward her ear, where he whispered:
“I believe you owe me something, Miss Granger.”
She turned her head, one eyebrow arching, a faint smile playing at her lips.
“Oh, really? Do I?”
He had already straightened, deftly undoing his belt, his gaze fixed on her like a predator considering the next stage of the hunt.
“I think your mouth is every bit as talented as your brain,” he said. “Though perhaps I'm mistaken.”
She laughed softly but offered no protest. She loved their verbal sparring, but there was something intoxicating about this chosen obedience.
Despite the bracelets still fastened around her wrists, she slowly lowered herself to her knees before him, settling into position without a word, her chin lifted, looking every inch a priestess about to perform a sacred rite.
He stood before her, proud and tense, his cock already hard and straining towards her, desire written plainly across his features.
“You're beautiful like this,” he breathed for the second time.
She didn't answer. Instead, she parted her lips and took him into her mouth.
She drew him in gradually, unhurried, her eyes never leaving his. She had almost no freedom of movement, and yet he could feel her entire body participating in the act.
Her hands, bound behind her back, only heightened the tension of the scene.
She could not touch him. And he was in control.
His fingers slipped into her hair, directing her movements, setting a pace—measured at first, then increasingly demanding. She let him guide her, let herself be manoeuvred, and he was already perilously close to the edge.
“Merlin... Hermione... you're going to make me—”
She stopped abruptly. A groan of frustration escaped him.
“Release me,” she whispered, breathless. “I want my hands.”
He hesitated for the briefest moment. His clouded mind wavered between caution and compliance.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the two pairs of bracelets sprang open.
And the instant her wrists were free, everything changed.
She rose with ease to her feet, placed her hands on his hips, and pushed him backward until he stumbled, slightly off-balance, into the velvet chair behind him.
Then she climbed into his lap and sank down onto him in one smooth, confident movement, settling herself firmly against his hips.
Instinctively, he reached for her waist.
“No,” she said, catching his wrists and pressing them firmly against the back of the chair. “Let me take care of this.”
His eyes widened. Startled. Aroused. Thoroughly unsettled.
She moved against him slowly at first, adjusting to his rhythm, then imposing her own—steadier, deeper, utterly deliberate.
She claimed him as if she were uncovering a secret no one had intended to share with her.
He tried to reclaim some control, his body seeking to alter the tempo, but she met his gaze, breathing hard, and shook her head.
“Draco. Please. Don't move.”
And this time, he obeyed.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, held his gaze, and began to move with exquisite precision—slow, deliberate rolls of her hips that left him breathless. She rode him with growing confidence, claiming every inch of his attention, every fragment of his restraint. Making him hers. And he let her.
It was new. And it was dangerously intoxicating.
Hermione Granger, entirely in command of herself, flushed with power and pleasure, kissed him the way one demands, claims, devours.
Her movements grew less controlled, her soft moans more unguarded.
The longer it lasted, the more unraveled they both became.
He felt himself approaching the brink, felt himself beginning to fall, but she clung to him and, in a voice rich with authority, commanded:
“Look at me. Let me make you come. Let me keep you like this. Beneath me.”
His body stretched to its limits, his hands clenched on the armchair. He let himself go completely, overwhelmed, undone, shaken to his core.
She watched him, dominated him, possessed him.
And in her gaze, there was more than just power. There was tenderness, fierce pride, and perhaps a hint of love.
They remained like that for a moment, entwined, panting, their bodies still joined.
Then she settled against him, pressed a kiss to his temple, and whispered, mischief dancing in her voice:
“That’s what it’s like to be in my shoes. Sorry for going off-script, but I wanted you to get a taste of it. How did you like it?”
He burst out laughing, his heart still pounding wildly.
“I’m not entirely certain I’d survive a second round,” he admitted softly. “But if I die… let it be here, right now, in your office, a very happy man.”