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It’s unusual circumstances. Not ethically sound, Hermione supposes, but she certainly can’t decline her final test subject. Even if the person in question didn't formally consent to the trial. Even if it is Draco Malfoy.
In only three years, she's invented a treatment that she knows has the capacity to change the lives of those still suffering post-war, but before she can reap the reward, there's an ex Death Eater in the way. The lengths she's already gone—discovering the magical signature for memories that evolve into PTSD (93% of the time), perfecting a potion, successfully testing it in non-human subjects without a single adverse event—all felt unconquerable at the time. But this is a challenge unlike anything she's known. Draco Malfoy, she dearly hopes, will be conquerable.
Now down to her last tiny bucket of funding, she's relying on the morally questionable tactics of the St Mungos board to trial her final doses on a prisoner. One who she is certain hates her and her dirty blood, and would probably take some satisfaction in seeing her fail.
This potion is revolutionary. She reminds herself of that fact every day. Her work is important. Yes, she’d enjoy the public recognition, perhaps even a smidge of glory, but above all, she persists through the late nights, brain-addling calculations, and tireless fundraising because she wants to help people. And she's so close. But the ability of her study to conclude with positive outcomes, to eventually lead to international testing and distribution, is limited by the sample size, which is limited by expended funding. Hermione just needs one final patient.
She needs Draco Malfoy.
Hermione had no prior relationship with the other patients, and she can't help but wonder whether the fact Malfoy holds a deep hatred for her may have negative effects on the outcomes. Will he resist the magic? Maybe he won't even let the potion pass his lips. She considers as much as she stands at the end of the corridor of the second floor of St Mungo’s, watching the wizard himself walk towards her. He’s in the usual prison garb: dark cotton trousers and a matching long-sleeved shirt, wrists bound by silver manacles and an Auror guard at each side.
As he nears, a smirk unfurls across his face and she needs to remind herself to breathe.
Over the years, Hermione has seen mention of Malfoy in the papers, heard of his sentencing and knows the conditions of his release. But this is the first time she’s seen the man in… well, since he was a boy. He’s taller than she recalls, platinum hair unsettled, Azkaban neck tattoo visible and steely eyes unashamedly latched to hers.
Her heartbeat trips up over itself. Nerves, she assumes. Simply her body readying for Malfoy to call her a mudblood again. But as his eyes stay on hers even as the guards usher him into a nearby room, she second guesses herself. What is wrong with her? Sure, it’s Draco Malfoy—school bully and ex Death Eater—but they’re not in Hogwarts and certainly no longer fighting wars. This is her research study, her magnum opus, and she needs to own it.
After straightening the white coat she wears over her flower sundress, then adjusting the little silver badge on her breast pocket that reads Mind Healer Granger, she follows into the hospital room where Malfoy is already strapped down to the bed. The guards have swapped his manacles for the restraints on either side of the mattress and his fists flex as if testing the new binds. A peek of the faded Dark Mark pokes from beneath his sleeve. Hermione quickly draws her eyes up only to find the menacing crease of his brow deepening as he tracks her movements.
After the guards depart, Hermione sits in the chair opposite Malfoy’s bed and crosses one leg over the other, resting her notebook on her knee. She offers a small smile in the same way she does all her patients—an effort to help them feel at ease before she pries into their traumas. Before they allow her experimental potion to declutter their brain during their vulnerable state of sleep.
But Malfoy offers nothing in return except an assessing stare. It scorches down her bare legs before flicking to her breasts then settling back on her eyes.
He tilts his head. “I had no idea the Golden Girl had grown into this.”
Hermione’s breath catches. Her cheeks blaze hot. Surely he’s toying with her—this was the boy that despised her in school, who called her blood dirty. But then again, she hasn’t sat across from someone with such a blatantly salacious look since her Healer training rotation in Azkaban.
She clears her throat. “We should get started.”
Her voice is softer than intended. It’s the danger simmering in the room, and maybe it’s his Azkaban tattoo and unashamed look. Hermione doesn’t want him to sense her fear. As with any problematic patient, she can’t allow him to find a weakness to exploit.
She glances at her notebook as she prepares her words, then she makes certain her voice is as steady as her gaze. “Thank you for your participation in this very important study.”
“You can thank the Ministry.”
She nods curtly, pretending there’s no ethical concern with the forcibly signed consent form that sits in her office. “We’ll begin with an interview. I’ll ask you several questions to assess your baseline, to understand more about your most traumatic memories and the effects they have on your daily life.”
He scoffs a laugh and for a split-second the crease of his expression renders him beautiful. She scolds herself for the thought.
“Do you truly think I'm going to divulge my darkest secrets to you, Granger?”
“It’s Mind Healer Granger.”
The end of his mouth tugs up. “I’ll make a deal, Granger. If you get the guards to take these restraints off, I’ll answer your questions.”
“We can’t allow that. You’re a prisoner.”
“I can be a prisoner in this room without being strapped to my bed. This is worse than my cell.”
Perhaps he has a point. She eyes his broad shoulders and how the muscle in his arms strains the cotton of his shirt. He could no doubt overpower her—harm her—even without a wand, and the ward is not well equipped for dangerous wizards. There are no safety wards or alarms to trigger in case of threat.
In spite of this, she says, “I suppose we could manage this arrangement.”
His eyebrow quirks up and mouth shapes into something pleased.
“But I want legitimate answers to my questions, not lies or mistruths or anything else you think might placate me.”
The lifted corner of his lips droops. The greys of his eyes glaze over.
“And you're not allowed to use your Occlumency.”
He narrows his glare.
“I know you've been protecting your mind in Azkaban, but now is the time to let your defences down. This treatment will help you.”
It’s a protracted moment before something in his eyes glimmers then wavers. His scowl relaxes. “Is that a promise you can make, Granger?”
“Yes.” Her voice is pale. “I promise,” she says, despite the fact she knows she should never do such a thing. He could be the first person this potion fails.
“Can you promise me confidentiality?”
“Anything said or done in this room stays with me. I’m the sole researcher, and St Mungo’s and the Ministry will only receive aggregated results at the end—no identifiable information.”
The sound of his great inhale fills the room. He surveys the small space, from the tiny window to the little bedside table.
She’s certain he is nearly on side; he just needs a tad more persuasion. “Those who have already trialled this treatment experience increased brain efficiency, relief from nightmares and panic, plus improved mood, and all with entirely zero side effects. It cleans away bad reminders experienced during the day and weakens bonds of the traumatic memories. It will act during your sleep across five nights. It's as simple as that.”
“Simple? You've spent years on this inventive potion and call it simple? Have some pride, Granger.”
Bristling, she readjusts in her chair to switch her crossed leg. “Let's return to the matter of your primary trauma. If any of these questions become too much for you, please let me know,” she begins, reciting the same script she does with every patient. “Have you experienced, witnessed, or been confronted with an event involving actual or threatened death, serious injury, or a threat to your physical integrity?”
He examines her with an angled gaze for so long that she wonders whether he's now refusing to speak. “I…” he begins.
She readies her pen to paper.
“I haven't had a woman for so long, Granger, and all I can think about is a wet, tight cunt.” He chuckles lightly. “Do you think you could heal me of this affliction?”
Hermione’s whole body joins her already blazing cheeks. She lets her gaze fail for only a beat, desperate not to show how he's rankled her. “That’s your primary trauma, is it? Lack of sex?”
“Certainly in the last few years, yes.” Humour is lasting on his lips.
“And my mud-blood, is that not an issue?”
His expression falls. His lips twitch as if he teases the idea of a sneer. She shouldn’t have said that. Testing the bounds of his bigotry is not part of this arrangement, and she knows no matter what he thinks, he won’t tell her the truth. He needs to maintain his supposed changed thoughts on blood supremacy when his freedom is just within reach.
“Not an issue at all,” he says. “In fact, I’ve never had a mudblood before and I have a feeling that’ll mean you only taste that much sweeter.”
Suddenly that blazing heat is at her very centre as an unbidden vision crowds her mind. A vision of his mouth latched between her legs, his greedy eyes intent on hers as his wetted tongue slides up through her folds before the pressure deepens at her clit. Hermione shakes her head to will it away, but it does nothing for her pebbled nipples brushing at her bra. She’s far too distracted to find her next line of thought.
“You know, I wouldn’t be opposed if you felt like sitting on my face in the middle of the night.” He unleashes a smirk. “Especially if you’re still adamant on keeping me strapped up like this.” His wrists jerk the binds, clinking the metal bed railings.
Beneath Hermione’s navel tingles. A devilish pleasure she needs to ignore. Briefly, she tightens her crossed legs for what feels like a misguided ache at her clit, then reminds herself she can’t be goaded. This study is far too important to spend time playing into Malfoy’s inappropriate advances.
“You’re sounding a little desperate," she says.
“I think I am, Granger.” He rests his head back with a smirk, revealing his throat bobbing with a swallow. Highlighting the perfectly delicious stretch of throat she’d happily drag her tongue down. Bite into as he fucked up into her from below.
Hermione blinks for an extended moment, breaking herself from the ridiculously dirty thought. What is wrong with her? She’s acting like she’s never experienced a leering man before.
Decisively, she closes her notebook and takes to her feet. “I think you need some time to consider your responses to my questions.”
With that, she walks from the room pretending as if she’s not flustered, certainly not oddly aroused, and all too aware that his eyes track her arse the whole way.
***
Hermione arranges to have Malfoy’s restraints removed, but she secures his room with wards only she and the guards have the capacity to unlock.
Malfoy holds up his end of the deal.
As Hermione expects, the trauma he recounts involves Voldemort. But she doesn’t expect how it involves Narcissa. Malfoy describes watching his mother endure the Cruciatus Curse several times over, but it’s one incident in particular, when her head collided with the stone of the fire mantle and she was knocked unconscious, that has imprinted on his mind.
Blood infiltrates his dreams. Red can be a trigger for panic. He confesses his palms sweat when he thinks of his mother and the lasting tremors she lives with. With some prying, he admits his guilt for not interfering, but he readily admits how he despises his father's acquiescence to the Dark Lord.
He’s learnt to quell his breathlessness with Occlumency, but he’s still evidently troubled. Hermione quickly realises that, although he was forced into her study due to the conditions of his release, he still holds a deep desperation for the treatment’s success, just like any other patient.
Malfoy takes the bitter potion without complaint. Without even a sneer or snide remark.
After two hours she silences her footsteps to enter his room and begins her first round of observations. She pauses to view him perhaps longer than she would in any other circumstances, but the potion will keep him in a deep sleep. Hermione can admire his beauty like this. He’s like something from a Pre-Raphaelite painting, alabaster and ethereal with an odd melancholy about him. She has the overwhelming urge to help him despite the fact she is doing exactly that with her study, and even if his participation is a condition of his release.
It’s her Healer nature, that’s all. Her ever-present desire to fix anyone that comes into her path.
But her inclination to heal has nothing to do with the fact her eyes cut lines over him like she’s been living in a monastery for several years. From the sharp edges of his cheekbones to the runes along the side of his neck, then further down to find that apparently he prefers to sleep shirtless. The silver borders of his Sectumsempra scars glint in the slip of moonlight, run in lightning patterns down to his stomach, one infiltrating the strip of fair hairs marking a path down to his—
Hermione gasps.
The sheet that’s barely draped over his hips is tented. So preposterously elevated that she pulls her eyes away from the incriminating sight, only to land on the dip of his hipbone and the beginning of a V-shape she’d love nothing more than to run her tongue down. He’s not wearing any briefs. No wonder he’s propping the blanket up in that way, there’s nothing to contain his raging erection.
It happens, she supposes. It’s natural, like any other bodily function.
Hermione needs to concentrate on the reason she’s here: registering his vitals. She casts her diagnostic charms and watches two glowing orbs of light uncoil then hover over his body, one above his brain and the other at his heart. The colours are strangely muted. The numbers concerning. Hermione swipes through the air with her wand, ridding the charms, then tries anew.
But it still shows the same worrying picture. Although she scribbles down the numbers, she’s loath to do so. This is going to throw off the outcomes of her study: lower the averages, widen the standard error, reduce the confidence of her findings.
After her third attempt at the same diagnostic charms and reading the same vexing numbers, Hermione throws her head back and groans out her frustration as quietly as possible. How? How is this happening? Immediately, she entertains the idea of his hatred for her, his family’s history of dark magic, his dissimilar background compared to the other patients in this experimental study—not only the privilege, but then several years of Azkaban including mediocre food and less than average living conditions.
But her eyes end up back on his unrelenting erection. It has to be the reason.
Every single patient who had come through the trial thus far had zero side effects. Nothing visible and nothing reported. Not even the mild headaches that Hermione experienced when she had tested the potion herself.
This overt side effect is it. She’s so certain.
Hermione narrows her eyes at the bulge beneath the sheet. What is she supposed to do? She’s come so far and an absolutely raging hard-on from an ex Death Eater is going to be the reason her study fails. She’ll need to once again ask the board of St Mungo’s for more funding and time, and at last occasion they were adamant they wouldn’t grant either.
She leaves Malfoy’s side with her aggravation, but suddenly she’s doubling back without a thought. Without a care in the world as to whether he might feel the scrape of her nails along his stomach, she snakes her fingers behind the sheet and peels it back.
“Merlin,” she whispers.
Never in her life has she verbally expressed a single thought about a penis, and yet here she is with her lips parted due to the sight of it. Thick and flushed. Somehow uncovering his cock has unsettled it, and she watches wide-eyed as it weighs down against his stomach with a pearl of pre-cum atop.
What is she doing? This is so incredibly unethical.
She lets the blanket fall down and there’s not even a wince. The only movement is Malfoy’s even breaths, buoying his chest.
What the hell is she supposed to do when an erection ruins her study data? That’s something they don’t teach you in Healer training. Hermione departs, asking herself the same question over and over again, as if she might finally think of the answer, but it’s not until she’s returned home and finally tucked in her own bed that she realises the weight of what happened tonight. She witnessed Draco Malfoy’s hardened cock. And it was ludicrously large. And maybe, in the moment, she had teased the thought of wrapping her palm around him and lowering her tongue to sample the taste of him. To see if he responded to the heated hug of her mouth even in the dead of his sleep.
Hermione flings her hands onto her face, burning from the simple thought. That’s the final time she’s allowed herself to think of Malfoy’s cock. Tomorrow night there’ll be no erection. There’ll be no obscure results, and in only four days she’ll be able to bid the prisoner goodbye.
***
The next day is a new beginning. As far as Hermione’s concerned, last night didn’t happen, and today she’s simply going to undertake her usual study routine. There will be no more side effects. There will be no erection.
Come afternoon, Hermione walks into Malfoy’s room to find him fresh out of a shower. Wet strands of hair skirt his cheek and he’s moments from pulling his shirt down his chest, slowly covering the way his lithe muscles flex as he moves.
She needs to remind herself to look away, but he catches her lingering look, she knows it.
“Granger.”
“It’s Mind Healer Granger.”
With a smirk she can now only read as provoking, he slips his hands into the pockets of his cotton trousers. Were they so thin yesterday? They fall into the dips and curves of him, which means that she can see he’s not wearing underwear. Again.
Hermione takes up her usual spot in the chair opposite the bed, but he continues to stand there, staring down at her past his nose. Her attention is on the point of her pen when she asks, “How do you feel after your first dose?”
“It was the best sleep I’ve had in years.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She scribbles in her notebook. “There’s only more to come.”
Finally, she glances up at the wizard, who is still staring at her with an infuriating smirk. Does he know what happened last night? Does he know what she witnessed? He can’t. It’s not possible. Her first patient slept through her accidental crash into a potion cart on their second night. There is no way in the world he felt the slightest brush of the bedsheet.
“What am I supposed to do until then?” asks Malfoy.
“Well, I need to assess you and your symptoms.”
“And then what?” He shrugs lightly. “It’s rather boring in here.”
“What did you do in a cell?” she offers. “Do just that here.”
“I could; but I think it’ll be even more enjoyable with your company.” His lips tip up into something dashing and suddenly he’s looking less like a prisoner.
Hermione’s skin prickles with the threat of arousal as her brain once again expertly fills in the blanks: the slide of his fist up and down his thickened cock as she sits here to watch.
How is he doing this to her?
She crosses her legs tighter. It’s beyond unprofessional and she needs it to stop. “Malfoy, you can’t say those things to me.”
“What I said was perfectly innocuous, Granger.”
“I need you to stop insinuating things or using euphemisms or suggest anything that is ill-fitting of a patient-Healer relationship. Do you understand?”
“Understood, Healer Granger.” His words are smooth like the first sip of red wine, and his expression playful.
She’s never known him like this. It only adds to her curiosity. It must be the reason she keeps experiencing an overwhelming stirring inside like a bloody kneazle in heat. Now, the fact she once considered him threatening seems stupid, seeing as all she feels when she looks at the wizard is achingly aroused. And now, after what she witnessed last night, her every spare moment is filled with fantastising about the thick stretch of him. The deep grind.
At swearing she feels a phantom delve into her centre, Hermione clears her throat. Jaw tight, she keeps her sight down on her pen. “Let’s begin…”
That night, she stands at Malfoy’s bedside dreading her diagnostic spells. It’s never been like this before. She normally can’t wait until the two hours runs down and she can measure exactly what her potion is doing in a new patient. But now, she huffs a sigh and draws up her wand tentatively.
Her pulse pounds in her ears as the light glimmers and hovers in place. She inhales sharply.
There it is, the very same reading.
And there it is, the very same erection.
Hermione bows her head to her hand and sweeps her fingertips over her eyebrows with a repetitive motion, an attempt to soothe her sudden worry. Her heart now thrashes against her ribs, reminding her that she’s on the verge of panic with entirely no theories as to how to remedy this. A greater dose? A smaller dose? Morning treatment?
With a sigh she crosses her arms and stares at his erection where it props up the blanket. She glares as if it’s personally victimised her. Well it has, hasn’t it? Years of work and sacrifices, and now there’s a hardened cock in her way. Draco bloody Malfoy’s hardened cock.
Before she knows what she’s doing, she whips back the covering to reveal the rigid length of him and grasps him in her palm with all her irritation for the man.
Suddenly she stills, eyeing Malfoy.
Of course, they’re supposed to sleep like the dead with this potion running through their veins, but the reality of what she’s doing has only just come to her. He’s seemingly peaceful. She can’t see all too much of his face as his chin is tucked closer to his right shoulder, but the fact his breathing hasn’t changed instills her with some assurance.
As Hermione holds her breath, she draws her grip down the searing silkiness of him, base to tip then back again, coaxing a drop of pre-cum to leak from the head. A ragged exhale runs through her lips at realising he’s not flinched at her touch. There’s no flutter of his eyes nor quiver in his fingers and that fact alone fills her with an unruly confidence.
She’s going to fix this. She has to fix this.
After gliding her palm down his length several times over, she stops to linger over the sensitive frenulum, then pauses to sweep the pad of her thumb in a slow circle over the cockhead in a way she imagines would have him humming with pleasure if he were awake.
It’s only then that she realises how her clit pulses. Her centre aches.
This is supposed to be clinical. A means to an end. It’s for the sake of everything she’s worked for every day and night for months on end, for the countless iterations of the potion, and every single minute spent agonising over dwindling funding. She’ll simply relieve him of his extraneous side effects and then he’ll be the perfect picture of a patient.
But if it’s just clinical, why is she so painfully turned on? Perhaps it’s inevitable holding Malfoy’s thickened cock in hand. The reality hits her again, a stinging of her nerves. But undeniable thrill bats away her worry just as quickly, and suddenly she’s wondering what it might be like if she enclosed her mouth around him. Would he instinctively buck into her throat?
She wets her lips before threading her bottom lip between her teeth. She couldn’t, could she? As Hermione considers the gravity of her thought, she drags her fist up, twisting with a gentle squeeze at the end.
Malfoy’s hips hitch upward, forcing him deeper into her grip.
Hermione halts her movements. She cuts short the flow of her breath and stares intently at his face, waiting for his eyes to flash open.
But he’s still in the dead of a magical sleep. He’s responsive to her because he’s just so close to his release, that’s all. And to prove herself right, in two more passes his cock swells in her grip before it twitches and jerks. She pumps her fist up and down until his stomach is streaked with thick strands of cum. Until the last of it trickles over the tip of him.
Hermione’s breath suddenly feels evasive, as though she’s been chasing after her own pleasure.
But soon arrives an uncomfortable clarity. The same she experiences after she’s fallen into a terrible one-night stand. Regret. How could she have done this? She’s wanked off Malfoy. In the dead of sleep.
Despite the sobering thought, she retrieves her wand and casts her diagnostic spells, silently murmuring a prayer. The blue light uncoils and hovers over his perfectly undisturbed body—except for the ropes of cum on his skin.
At seeing his vitals are normal, laughter tumbles from her mouth. She’s proven her theory correct.
But her expression is quickly washed of amusement when she realises what she’s just done. She’s given a handjob to a patient. A sleeping patient—without his consent. She feels a little sickly staring down at her palm covered in cum and needs to quickly Scourgify herself, along with any evidence left on Malfoy.
After sweeping the covering back to hide his softening cock, Hermione quickly scribbles down his vitals and strides from the room.
Is she completely, utterly mad? If anyone were to find out what she just did, she’d lose everything.
***
With a new day, Malfoy takes to Hermione’s study routine with little resistance. He sits on the bed with one knee propped up and a patient tilt to his gaze. Even his taunting smirk is gone. He has the same unburdened look about him that every patient gains by the third day: shoulders that aren’t creeping closer and closer to his ears and a sharpness in his eyes that tells her there’s no longer a battle in his mind.
“I’m feeling strangely relaxed after last night,” he tells her.
“Relaxed?” she asks naively while the memory of Malfoy’s cock in her hand briefly flashes at the back of her eyelids. “How so?”
He considers the ceiling as he thinks. “The memories feel broken. I can feel them trying to come back but can’t see them properly. Does that make sense to you?”
Hermione’s smile is small, but internally she celebrates like a fool. “All of my patients have said something similar.”
He nods slowly and she can’t help but feel he's staring at her like he sees her. Like she's something worth considering, rather than an annoying classmate with the wrong blood status. She doesn’t want to mar what is an intriguing silence and instead, lets it linger until he has something else to offer.
“How did you do this?” he eventually asks.
She sniffs a gentle laugh. “I'm afraid the answer's not so simple.”
He's looking at her like he's almost on the verge of gratitude, and in the absence of his words, she reads it in the silence.
“What might this mean for you?” probes Hermione, testing how far that gratitude stretches. “What will life look like when the disruptive memories are gone?”
“I've never dared to dream.” His signature smirk resurrects. “This must be my final penance. Saved by the very person who I once sought to destroy.”
Saved? She doesn’t know what to make of that. Perhaps it's made this ordeal with Malfoy worth it.
“You're going to change the world, Granger.”
As long as his erection doesn't make a reappearance, she agrees with him. And with another uninvited thought of his straining cock, she reminds herself the alleviation of his side effect was in the name of science. Which, if she’s being honest, is still an ethical breach—she’s manipulating the outcomes in trying to rid of adverse events. But she’ll ignore that in favour of the thought that she’s only days away from finishing her data collection and finalising the outcomes after years of waiting for this moment.
Hermione spends the rest of the evening feeling like she's floating because her childhood bully appears to have some faith in her ability to save him. But she’s so far from that feeling when she enters his room to find him sleeping peacefully with another sheet-tenting erection.
“For fuck’s sake…” she mutters beneath her breath, then pulls back the covering like there’s no other option.
Perhaps most worryingly is that, as she sights the already weeping head of his cock, she’s not only heated with irritation, but a strangely misplaced desire. The tips of her fingers prickle and her centre clenches with a familiar urge. Familiar and somehow doubled since last night, when she tried to convince herself it was all just clinical before laying in her bed and replaying the memory of sliding her palm down his sticky shaft so many times over that her mind strayed to several what-ifs. What if she’d wrapped her mouth around his cock instead? She needs to relieve him in some manner—why not into the back of her throat?
Hermione swallows gently. She threads two fingers under his length where it lays against his stomach, gently teasing the pad of her thumb down over the prominent vein beneath and her fingertips down along the slight curve until she reaches the fair hairs. Convinced he’s still in the depths of sleep, she grips him harder and begins with the same languid caress as she had done last night. Now, she tells herself that if she alleviates him in the same way as previously done then there’ll be no variability in the method and, theoretically, the outcome.
But after several pulls of his cock she notices the head leaks another bead of pre-cum and, with only the single thought that she wants to know what he tastes like, she lowers her mouth. Her tongue slides out, painting a tender line over the slit and lapping up the slightly salty taste of him. He’s delicious. Tastes like danger and sin.
She hovers her mouth, breathing tight as she searches his face for some kind of reaction, as if the heat of her throat will finally be the thing that breaks him from a magical sleep; but when nothing moves except the rise and fall of his chest, she climbs on the bed and straddles his legs.
Immediately, she sucks the thick head into her mouth, moaning around him at tasting the tang of Malfoy on her tongue. He’s scented like the inoffensive hospital soap and his thighs beneath her palms are soft except for a gentle brush of hair.
The hot pulse of arousal between her legs is nothing she’s ever known. Her desire is mixed with a strange fear that has her skin thrumming as she swallows down his cock until it skirts the back of her throat. She moans around him. Delights in the lush feel of his swollen shaft along her tongue as she coasts up and down. Her cunt is aching. If he could fill her she knows she’d be sated. But she could never.
Instead, she skirts her fingers beneath her dress until she can thread two down the front of her knickers and into the deeper heat of her centre. She’s so sopping, wetness dripping down her folds, and even the lightest brush over her clit has her whimpering around Malfoy’s cock. Deepening the pressure sends a wickedly hot prickle over her body. She’s so stupidly aroused she could come from several well-placed strokes.
But she wants Malfoy’s release, and she wants to do it well. She abandons her underwear to drag her grasp up and down his shaft while whipping her tongue around the tip of him, recalling that he would have been happy to wake with her sitting on his face. But what about with her mouth around his cock? She almost wishes he could see.
When she takes him so far down her throat that she feels a buck, she panics.
Malfoy waking is not really what she wants. What would he do to her? See that she loses everything? Make her life a living hell?
As she pulls back, Hermione holds her fingers to her mouth, staring down at him with her heart lashing her ribs. It was just another reflex, she’s certain. So certain that she resumes and in the instant she slides him in and pumps her fist below, he twitches against her tongue and a hot spurt of cum lands down the back of her throat. Then another. As she retracts a little, the rest coats her tongue.
Hermione swallows him down, the reality yet again swiftly coming to her as she tastes his release salty on her tongue. She’s a terrible person. A terrible Healer.
But she’s also wildly worked up in a way she’s never experienced.
With her logical thoughts all but abandoned, she returns her fingers to her underwear and skates two down through the wetness, slipping them into the heated hold of her cunt. She groans with her swift disappointment. They’re too small and unsatisfying, particularly when she’s staring at Malfoy still hard and thick and flushed and she knows he’d fill her so well.
Revisiting her clit, she makes little circles, quickly flaming her pleasure, and suddenly her desperate inhales are making her nipples brush at the back of her bra and she needs to dig her nails into Malfoy’s thigh, as if pleasure might send her careening. Her toes scrunch. Breaths stall.
With another flick of her fingers her cunt is fluttering and she moans far louder than intended.
As she sits atop Malfoy, panting, watching him in all his beauty and naivety, she realises the gravity of what she’s just done.
But it’s fine because she tells herself it’s never going to happen again.
And no one will ever know.
***
The erection is back the next night. Of course it is, because Hermione is not an idiot and she can recognise a pattern. She can also recognise that even despite her efforts to forget about the heinous things she’s done lately, she still wants nothing more than to feel the stretch of Malfoy’s cock. She wants her own release in the same moment she brings on his. Wants him to fill her with cum.
Hermione could assess her inclination for her risky behaviour, consider how it might be a symptom of the many variations of trauma at key points during her development. But she’d rather not. She enjoys the nipple-prickling thrill. Knowing she’s the antithesis of who everyone believes her to be causes her an undeniable exhilaration, and the fear of deviating from the norm lights her cunt like nothing else.
It’s that single thought that leads her to straddle her patient. It’s that thought that already has her arousal dripping and the beauty of undisturbed Malfoy beneath her that flames her all over again.
Lowering on to the hardened length of him, engulfing him inch by inch and feeling the slow fill is a pleasure she’s never known. She whines at the delicious stretch. As she sits for a moment, adjusting to the beautifully thick infiltration, she runs a forefinger down his silvery scar over his stomach.
The twitch beneath her is a trick of the light, she’s sure.
At first, she grinds back and forth, testing the sensation. But the test is an immediate overwhelm. She folds in closer to Malfoy as the pressure at her front wall sends a lick of warmth across her skin, burning at her cheeks and throbbing at her clit. It only affirms her decision. Already she’s moaning.
Then, as she rides up and down and chases the sensation lighting her nerves, growing wetter all over Malfoy’s cock, his lower back bows beneath and he's suddenly deeper.
Instinct, she tells herself.
Responsiveness to her warm, tight cunt trying to milk him for every drop. Even in his sleep she expects as much. But she never expected such a fucking divine feeling. She’s uninhibited knowing he’s none the wiser, clawing in breaths as her searing orgasm mounts on top of her. But a new sensation frightens it away like a startled animal.
Malfoy’s grip is suddenly around her thigh, squeezing at her flesh.
She straightens her spine, staring down at his porcelain smooth expression, palms on his chest and fingertips measuring the even beats of his heart as if it’ll tell her a story.
Malfoy’s eyes wrench wide.
Hermione’s breath feels like it’s punched from her lungs. She's clammy with fear and barely has time to consider the loss of her job, her life’s work, her dignity before he smirks up at her.
“Is this part of the treatment, Granger?”
Hermione squeezes involuntarily around his rigid heat and he twitches in reply. Before she can bring herself to answer, he grasps her waist and simultaneously holds her down as he fucks into her harshly from below with a growl. A moan threads from her lips—she can’t stop it if she tries.
Then in one swift move he's got her on her back. He slams into her with a single punishing delve and she cries out as her fingernails bite into the muscle of his arms. The stretch of him is one thing, but coupled with the force it’s a pleasure she's never experienced.
With another shattering stroke her breath becomes an afterthought.
“Did you think you could just use me and get away with it?” Malfoy growls as he slams into her.
Hermione claws at him to brace for his next rabid pump inside. She drives her head back into the thin mattress.
“How is it a Healer doesn’t know that cleaning charms still leave residue on skin? Did you think I’d be too stupid to realise I kept waking up to the scent of cum? That I wouldn’t find nail-marks on my thigh?”
“Fuck,” she breathes. “Fucking fuck—” Her words give way to an unruly moan.
“You’re so pretty, with such a perfect tight, wet cunt. And yet so careless. And for what? My cock?” He shoves her knees to her stomach and the next strike of him makes stars burst on the backs of her eyelids. “Was it worth it?”
“Yes,” she moans.
He grips her face and her eyes fly open. Now that she’s watching him, he slams into her in double time. The angle has him dragging against her front wall, making her legs tremble where he’s belted them against her body.
“Tell me again, Granger. Say it.”
“Yes, your cock was worth it. I need it.”
“What a depraved little slut.” He punctuates his sentence with a slam then a grind that forces her moan to shake.
What’s he going to do to her? She both scrunches the bedsheet in her fists and her eyes tight, too caught up on the pleasure instead of the consequences. He’s fucking her just like she expects of a man fresh out of prison, but also like it’s the only solution. He doesn’t need to do this. His desperation for her suddenly has her worries dissipating and she’s falling back into ecstasy. Her body is fiery with a new flood of arousal.
The incredibly full feeling swiftly disappears. Suddenly she’s being flipped over.
“On your knees like a good fucking girl,” he tells her as he yanks her backwards with his palms around her waist.
Malfoy seats her directly back on his cock and she groans from the heavenly reignition of her nerves, centred hot at her clit. The brief loss has only made the deep bury of him unbelievably satisfying.
“Please, please, please,” she chants. What for, exactly, she doesn’t know. She just wants more. Wants all of it.
“Is this what you need?” He shoves at her shoulders, forcing her onto her palms, then he’s coaxing wild sounds: the wet friction as he thrashes into her, the erratic rhythm of her breathy exhales and desperate whimpers. The slap of his balls from behind adds to the dirty rhythm.
“Yes,” she moans, “fuck me like that.”
With a growl, Malfoy ruts into her like some wild thing, causing her to feel like she might split down the middle. Causing the frantic spasm of her inner walls. His heat engulfs her back as he bends forward and his broken moan past her ear tells her that he’s feeling the sudden constriction of her cunt.
His words punctuate each new stroke. “So—fucking—tight.”
Malfoy pulls her back down to the bed, turning her onto her side, and he grabs at her hip, squeezes at her thigh, ghosts over her centre until his fingertips land on her clit. As he snaps into her from behind, his fingers rub in a slow torturous circle. A tender touch in contrast to everything else.
And he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s wonderfully talented. Nothing she expected of a prisoner—of Malfoy.
Hermione’s toe scrunch with her mounting release. Her breath turns staccato.
“Show me,” he rasps across her ear. “I want to feel you come all over my cock seeing as you’ve deprived me of the show these last few nights. Can you do that for me?”
She can’t answer. She can’t speak nor move and can scarcely breathe. The manic throb of pulsing pleasure holds her body hostage. Malfoy’s rolling curve into her from behind and the increasing acceleration over her clit works her through it, and her cunt trembles around him. Clamps down.
“There you go,” he says. “Look at how wet you’ve made my cock. Look at you coming all over me like such a good Healer.”
Hermione reaches behind until her fingers find the back of Malfoy’s head. She scrapes her nails along his scalp. Cries out. Her orgasm is like falling from a broom, but crashing into the earth is bone-melting pleasure. Her nipples ache, fingertips sting and cunt is blissfully warm from the way he’s fucking her through it. Then hotter again as Malfoy pulls away just enough to paint between her legs with hot ropes of cum.
This is not the way she had imagined.
It’s better.
Until she captures a full breath and has a painful realisation. “You’re awake.”
He's still breathing heavily; until his exhale turns into a bat of laughter against her neck. “I didn’t take the dose, did I?”
At that, she pushes herself up and away from the bed, taking to her feet.
“I needed to confirm my suspicions.”
The horrid reality of this situation is making her gut roil. Her life's work flashes before her eyes. How could she be so stupid?
As she straightens her dress, she can barely look him in the eye. Only long enough to find that he’s apparently amused.
“What are you going to do now, Granger? Spend the rest of the night with my cum all over you?”
She swallows roughly. The fact he’s not combative or threatening somehow quells her nerves. She holds his gaze. “Do you like that idea?”
His smirk evolves into a grin. “Very much so.”
She folds her arms. “If you take your dose like a good patient.”
“Certainly, Mind Healer Granger.”
Hermione doesn’t linger. She walks from the room like she has exactly what she came for. It’s only when the door clicks closed behind her that she realises he hasn’t taken his dose.
His erection wasn’t a side effect of the potion at all.
***
The fifth and final night, Hermione takes Malfoy his potion. He’s sitting in bed, already shirtless, and tracking her as she moves around to deposit a little glass of purple liquid at his side table. She’s barely been able to look him in the eye all day. She rather enjoyed the thrill of nearly being found out, but not the aftermath of getting caught. Even though he took advantage of the situation, she’s done wrong, and in the light of day that fact is only more stark.
But now, the sun has set and she can hold eye contact a little longer knowing these are her last few hours with the wizard.
Typically, as she begins her journey back from his bedside, she sees him reach for the potion in the periphery of her vision.
Tonight, as she swivels on her heel, he reaches for her instead.
Malfoy’s grip clasps around her wrist and she eyes his hold before dragging her gaze up to meet his.
He draws her closer until her thighs meet the bed, then he slides his fingers around to clasp the back of her neck. He pulls her towards his lips. Suddenly his silver eyes are all she can see. They shift back and forth, reading hers without a hint of his usual antagonism.
“I want to see all of you, Granger.”
Then he bridges the hairs-width of distance and his lips graze hers. Her tongue prickles with the promise of pleasure, but it’s a slow tender moment before that happens. His tongue flicks over her bottom lip. Teeth nip gently. Then it’s such a sweet glide into her mouth that she moans lightly.
Malfoy unbuttons the front of her dress and she reaches for him, grasping at the muscle at his chest.
After he pushes her dress back off her shoulders and it drops clear from her body, he rids her of her underwear in even less time, then drags her forward until she kneels up onto the bed.
When she straddles him, reminiscent of last night yet entirely nude, he asks, “Remember what I said about you sitting on my face?”
***
The next morning they’re expert at pretending nothing has happened. They’re Healer and patient once again. Professional, if anyone should drop by to see. She’s noted the strange side effect as unrelated to the potion—a byproduct of Malfoy’s several years in prison and lack of intimacy. A side effect that failed to appear last night after she had her way with him, and certainly nothing worth casting doubt on the outcomes of her study.
“Any nightmares?” begins Hermione, sitting in her usual chair. “Flashbacks? Sudden difficulty breathing?”
Malfoy, attired in his black prison clothes, stands with his hands in his pockets and head cocked, which she now realises is impatience. “Only when I wake to find my Healer riding my cock like a good little slut.”
Hermione smirks but quickly sinks her gaze to her notepad.
Malfoy steps forward, recapturing her attention. He’s moving for the door.
“I need you to answer these questions sufficiently before you leave,” she says hurriedly.
He shrugs loosely as he comes to a stop. “It's all gone, Granger.”
“The symptoms?”
He nods once. “The bad memories are fuzzy. They wear a sheen of white so I can’t see them in my mind’s eye, and I can’t hear the voices. Don’t really recall how it all went. Gone.”
Hermione smiles as she reads his expression. Content, if she has to label it. Unburdened.
“Thank you,” he says, nothing but sincerity in his tone. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to celebrate my first day of freedom.” He sets his hand to the doorknob.
Hermione’s smile falters with a swift pang of something like disappointment. She’s only now realising how, if it were up to her, she’d continue chasing the wild pleasure of the last several nights. Chasing Malfoy.
He cracks the door open, but at the threshold he turns back. He drinks her in for a beat, once again reminiscent of a salacious prisoner. “I'll change the wards at the manor to allow you in. My bedroom is on the second floor, third door on the left,” he says. “I won't wait up.”