Chapter Text
One word from you and I would
Jump off of this ledge I'm on, baby
Tell me "don't" so I can crawl back in
“First Love/Late Spring,” by Mitski
Draco Malfoy was drowning. The reasons why were numerous, growing, and dragging him deeper down every single day.
Although relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of things, what felt most pressing to him in that very moment was that his girlfriend was an awful tease. In public, Pansy was perpetually affixed to him. She carded her fingers through his hair, laid his head in her warm, welcoming lap, and trailed her hand up-and-down his thigh under the dinnertable, knowing full well that other people could see them. She marked her territory, in essence. Practically shouted from the rooftops that he belonged to her, and that the other the courtship-hungry, pureblooded bints within range should back off. Unfortunately, she hardly touched him in private. She kissed him, but it was always stiff and bland. Her lips tasted of duty. She swore, “Marry me and you can have it all!”
Problem was, he would never marry her. Not because he was entirely opposed to the idea. She was pretty enough, and his mother would undoubtedly approve. Regardless, he’d most likely be dead by the end of the year, so he couldn’t marry her. Hence, he couldn’t fuck her. Thus, why keep her around? She’d have to find someone else to marry in the end, so why endure this torture? The same went for the other Slytherin girls. Most proud and proper families knew the old spells to check for that sort of thing on the morning of a witch’s wedding. He could perhaps get something else, however. Beyond protecting their maidenheads, they weren’t all quite as prudish as Pansy. He was unwillingly subjected to Zabini’s drunken bragging that Tracy Davis sucked him off in a broom-closet the other night.
Just something like that would be enough, he bemoaned, to shake off this pervasive sense of bone-chilling dread.
Potential outcome #1!
His mission would prove a success. He would suddenly find himself capable of casting Avada Kedavra. He would kill Albus Dumbledore. Everyone he knew, even most of his own pureblooded housemates, would forever hate and fear him. He would go down in wizarding history as one of the Dark Lord’s most faithful soldiers. This was least likely to happen, he admitted.
Potential outcome #2!
Albus Dumbledore would kill him. Or subdue him, at the very least, locking him up in Azkaban with his pitiable father.
Potential outcome #3!
He would fail. He would never cast the Killing Curse. He couldn’t even manage a proper Crucio. Aunt Bella cackled and mocked that it merely tickled. The Imperius Curse was the only unforgivable he could muster. He liked being in control, after all. He wasn’t in control of anything else anymore. He wouldn’t fix the cabinet. Perhaps he wouldn’t even make an attempt. He’d just screw around, stay perpetually drunk, and wait until the end of the year.
Time’s up!
The Dark Lord will kill him. He will make it as terrible as possible and force his mother to watch. He might kill her too, afterward. Maybe he’d do it all but in reverse.
Doesn’t help to dwell, Draco mused.
He reached his destination, the end of the seventh-floor corridor, just past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Lost amidst his hormone-fueled angst and anxieties, he absent-mindedly muttered what he sought aloud as he circled three times, “The place to accomplish my mission, to accomplish my mission, my mission…”
Just as the door materialized, he barely caught a soft gasp from the shadows.
Draco pretended not to hear it, stepping forward to wrap his hand around the knob. He made a show of looking around, double-checking for prying eyes. The tell-tale shimmer of disillusionment hung in the corridor's far-corner — something he never would have noticed had he not been alerted to the presence of an invisible lurker beforehand. With one hand he turned the knob and pushed the door open, while the other disappeared into his robes.
Spinning swiftly, he leveled his wand at the shimmer, and shouted, “Incarcerous!”
He heard a feminine yelp and a thud as the mystery witch hit the floor, bound and still invisible. Stalking forward and crouching before the source of the noise, he hissed, “Revelio!”
Then, to Draco’s supreme horror, the wildly wriggling, fiery-eyed, and bushy-haired form of Hermione Granger melted into view at his feet.
. . .
Draco Malfoy knelt above her, clearly terrified and acutely terrifying.
A manic energy painted his features. He looked ready to bolt, to scream, or to strike out at her.
Hermione couldn’t reach her wand. She could hardly move at all. She jerked and twisted, yet his conjured ropes held firm. Why, oh why, had she not held it in hand as a precaution?
She didn’t suspect Malfoy was up to anything foul in the first place. Harry had been driving her up the wall with his baseless accusations, so she followed the Slytherin prince on a whim, eager to prove once and for all that he was not a Death Eater. He was too soft, too spoiled, and too much of a ferret-y git to be one of Voldemort's chosen.
Hermione still didn’t believe he bore the Dark Mark — even after all this — but he was clearly guilty of something, seeking out the Room of Requirement, muttering about a mission… She should be running to report to Harry, not struggling on the ground, bound at Malfoy’s feet. She opened her mouth to scream for help.
In spite of his panic, the damned Seeker still had a wicked reaction speed.
Before she could save herself, he cried out, “Imperio!”
Her cry froze in her throat. A gentle, comforting warmth flowed like water down her body, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Her fear seeped out of her in an instant. She sighed sweetly and waited for Malfoy to tell her what to do.
She did not have to wait long. He released the spell that bound her and snarled, “Shut up! Get up! Follow me.”
It felt wonderful to do so. Quietly, she followed him into the Room of Requirement.
Once the door shut behind them, Malfoy stalked away. When she tried to follow him, he commanded, “Stay!”
Standing in place, she calmly and mutely observed from a distance as he paced in stumbling, uneven circles. He appeared to be arguing with himself — his lips moved, his brow furrowed, and he waved his arms wildly in frustration.
Eventually, he returned. His eyes were glued to her feet. Hermione stared dreamily up at all the towering junk and oddities surrounding them.
“You will not tell anyone you saw me here. You will not accuse me of using the Imperius Curse on you. Do you understand?”
She spoke without thought, “Yes, of course.”
Malfoy eyed her warily. “Tell me, why were you following me?”
“Harry is suspicious of you,” she admitted at once. “He thinks you’re a Death Eater, and that you’re leaving the castle somehow.” Thankfully, his order was not specific enough to reveal anything about the Marauder’s Map. “I believed he was wrong and sought to prove it. I didn’t think you’d come here, but it makes sense now that this is where you’re going.”
Laughing darkly at her answer, he drawled, “Potter thinks I’m a Death Eater, does he?”
It was a rhetorical question. He obviously wasn’t. Since he didn’t command her to answer, she remained silent, waiting on his further whims.
A distant voice at the back of her mind questioned, But how did he learn the Imperius Curse? Why is he so panicked?
He wordlessly beckoned her, and it was as good an order as any. Every few steps, he glanced back at her anxiously as if to check if she were still following him. Of course she was. Without complaint or any unease, she let him guide her into the maze of lost and forgotten objects.
He stopped before a tall black cabinet, asking, “Do you know what this is?”
It was not a command, as far as the curse was concerned.
“Damnit, answer me!”
“It’s a cabinet,” she replied dumbly.
Sighing, Malfoy massaged the bridge of his pointy nose. “Evidently not, then.”
Curiously, he opened it, revealing a solitary, bloodred apple hidden within. Sighing again, in resignation now rather than frustration, he closed it back up.
“Fix it,” he demanded.
Hermione simply stared at him for a time, frustrated by her inability to follow through. She muttered, “It doesn’t look broken.”
“It’s a…” Malfoy hesitated, darting his pale eyes back-and-forth. He groaned, coming to some decision, and continued, “It’s a Vanishing Cabinet. There’s an identical one, elsewhere. You place something inside it, and then it disappears and reappears inside the other. It’s broken, though, so I can’t send anything through.”
She nodded and said, “Oh, I see.”
“Well? Fix it.”
Shifting her weight from foot-to-foot, she itched to obey. “I… I can’t… I don’t know how.”
Cursing, Malfoy spun in a swift circle, combing a hand through his pale hair. Then, he bit off a sudden burst of flat laughter, “At last! Something the mudblood extraordinaire cannot do!”
“Don’t call me that,” she hissed, breaking through her haze.
He looked startled for merely a moment. Then, his face split apart in rage.
He spat, “No. You listen here, mudblood. I’m the one giving orders now — not you.”
Hermione simply nodded, unable to protest further.
After a while, he calmed down, eyes bouncing between her and the cabinet. He finally said, “You’re always in the library, researching all that crazy shite for Potter, right?” Not waiting for her reply, “It’s time you made yourself of use to me. Help me. Figure out how to fix this damned thing. Do that… and I’ll make sure you’re out of harm’s way when the time comes... Tell no one of this.”
This is the moment where an ordinary person would ask something along the lines of, Do we have a deal? However, Malfoy did not have to ask. She nodded.
“Good… good,” he muttered, mostly to himself. His eyes were far away. He waved a hand, wordlessly dismissing her.
Pivoting on her heel, she was eager to flee, gears in her head already turning in two opposite directions. First and foremost, how to help Malfoy in his mysterious mission; more importantly, but nonetheless still second, how to break free of his hold.
She didn’t made it a single step before he called, “Wait. Before you go…”
Turning back, she found that he wore a wicked, malicious grin. “Show me how obedient you truly are, mudblood. Bow down. Kiss my feet.”
Hermione’s knees knocked to the stone floor, hard enough to bruise. The cold, curious apathy of the Imperius Curse did not dull the pain, but it made it less important. Obedience was all that mattered to her now. A gentle warmth suffused her core every time she followed one of Malfoy’s orders.
She still felt embarrassed, but that only seemed to tighten his hold on her.
Bending down, she pressed her lips to one of his stiff and shiny dragonskin boots. It smelled of cinder, shoe polish, and freshly-mowed grass.
“And the other, while you’re at it.” She did so without hesitation, feeling grateful even, for being able to follow another command so quickly and easily. “Sweet Salazar, you look like a dog. Feels right, having you down on and all fours like that.”
Her face burned, and Malfoy grinned wider at the rush of power it gave him.
“Yes, like Potter’s loyal dog… but I’m your master now. You’re going to be my good girl, aren’t you?”
She breathed heavily, face still pitched toward his feet, trying in vain to fight off her growing mortification. Malfoy lightly kicked her. “Consider all questions an order, Granger. Answer me! Look at me and smile while you do it.”
Her head tilted up. She felt tears tracking down her cheeks. “Yes, Malfoy, I’ll be your good girl,” she gritted through her unwilling grin. That wonderful heat blossomed again.
It was the first time she closely observed his eyes since he put her under his spell. They had always been captivating, unfortunately. Irises like ice. Despite their inherent coldness, she expected his eyes to be burning with anger, mockery, or satisfaction. Rather, they widened in bewilderment, and in their depths swam… something else. She heard his sharp intake of breath. There was a slight quiver at the corner of his mouth, as though he were suppressing its urge to tilt — whether upward to a smile or downward to a frown, she couldn’t say.
Malfoy abruptly spun, stalked off, and settled on a faded settee several paces away. He spread his knees wide and threw one arm indolently over the back. Despite his confident posture, his expression was still odd and uncertain. After observing her for what felt like an age, he softly called, “Crawl to me.”
Her treacherous hands and knees propelled her forward. Never having received an order to look away, she kept her eyes locked to his as she went. She was still smiling.
She stopped before his knees.
“Closer,” he snapped.
Settling herself between his spread legs, her shoulders brushed against his thighs. He had not given her a command to remain silent, so she pleaded, “Malfoy, please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone about this. I won’t, I swear! Please.”
“I know you won’t, Granger,” he whispered, strangely gentle. “The curse won’t let you. Do not tell anyone about what I’m doing to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes! I understand!” She meant it — though, she could not help it, really. The delicious heat of her obedience mixed with her sense of relief. She wholeheartedly thought at that moment that he was going to let her go.
“Unbuckle my belt.”
She was silent for a beat, mouth agape. Then, she stammered, “But- But I… please, I don’t…” All the while, her shaking hands reached out to fiddle at the cold metal buckle. “Malfoy, please, why are you doing this?”
He twisted his mouth in a way that screamed he thought her an idiot, but he simply said, “Unbutton my trousers.”
This was a more difficult task. Her hand brushed against his growing hardness. It strained against the stiff fabric at his crotch. The tension made it hard to slip the button out, but she finally got it after fumbling for nearly half a minute. Malfoy’s breathing grew labored, and Hermione’s crying intensified. She gasped out, “Please… please…”
“Take it out,” he hissed.
She managed to still her hand and stutter out, “T-Take what out?”
“Granger,” he growled.
Her fingers inched forward, trembling violently. “P-Please. I’ve never… I’ve never…”
“You’ve never… done this before?”
“No! Never,” she confessed. Surely her inexperience would deter him.
“Good,” he sighed, smiling almost sweetly. “That’s good… That’s my good girl... I’ll tell you what to do.”
She could not pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about anymore. The curse guided her hand, the heat consumed her, and Malfoy’s grip was strengthened by her overwhelming sense of shame. She whimpered as she finally freed his cock, and he exhaled a satisfied sigh.
“Have you ever seen one before?”
“No… only pictures… in textbooks,” she admitted.
“What do you think of it? You’ve always got an opinion on everything… Tell me,” he groaned.
“It’s… it’s…” She had never felt more mortified in her life. She didn’t want to tell him, she didn’t want to, didn’t-
“It’s so big,” she blurted.
He laughed viciously. “Why, thank you, Granger. What else?”
“It’s harder than I thought… I mean, I knew- I knew about erections, but… it’s… I can’t even imagine… I can’t…”
“Can’t imagine what it would feel like to have this inside you?” He finished, smirking crookedly. Her horrified expression and the rush he got from it was answer enough. “Don’t worry, mudblood. I don’t intend to fuck you.”
She let out a breath she’d been holding, enormously relieved.
“Stroke it.”
Her fingers glided lightly up-and-down his shaft. The skin of it was feather soft, stretched tightly over the hardness. At its base, his cock just was just as pale as the rest of him, but it reddened as it travelled up to the end. The tip leaked a tiny bead of clear fluid. The pad of her index finger travelled along a bulging vein snaking up its length. She reached the top and swiped at the mysterious liquid, spreading its wetness across the tiny slit it leaked from.
Malfoy jerked lightly in his seat and hissed out his held breath. “Oh, yes. That’s good… Keep going.”
She continued to stroke him, to circle the head and spread the wetness, transfixed by his soft sighs and muttered praise. The continuous nature of his command meant that the rewarding warmth kept glowing steadily within her, never fading or flickering out. It had begun to trickle from her chest down to her lower gut.
“Use your mouth,” he gasped.
“Malfoy, please-” was all she managed to say before her lips wrapped around the head of his cock. Her tongue darted out tentatively, dancing at the slit. She tasted salt. She took him another inch deep and started circling her tongue around the head, familiarizing herself with the shape of it.
Malfoy was babbling incoherently. She picked up only a handful of scattered words, “…perfect…my good girl…so hot and wet and sweet…so, so good…”
Hermione wished she could close her eyes. Instead, they remained glued to her abuser’s face. His own eyes were clouded, his face was flushed pink, and his lips parted slightly as he continued to pant and prattle on. He seemed just as incapable of breaking eye contact. She’d never seen him so thoroughly undone.
This was Draco Malfoy. Her worst enemy. A spoiled brat and pathetic bully. The first person to ever call her mudblood. His cock was in her mouth, and the act of pleasuring him lit a fire deep within that she feared may burn her to nothing but ash.
He suddenly bit out, “Stop!”
Hermione wrenched back, and he exited her with wet pop! She was glad; her jaw was beginning to ache. She desperately hoped he had come to his senses.
He hadn’t.
“I need… a minute,” he panted. “Come here.”
He didn’t even give her time to obey, grabbing the front of her shirt and wrenching her up into his lap. His mouth crashed over hers, and he snaked his tongue inside. She opened wide for him, melting into his kiss, idly wondering if he could taste himself on her tongue.
It was not until much later that she realized he had never given her a command to kiss him back.
She had never kissed anyone like this before. Hungry, hot, wet, and wanton. Her handful of kisses with Viktor had always been close-lipped and chaste. A hidden, shameful corner of her mind hoped she was decent at it. She danced her tongue against his. Their teeth knocked lightly together, but he seemed not to notice. He was moaning into her mouth.
Malfoy eventually pulled back and ran his thumb over her swollen bottom lip. He hissed through his labored breaths, “Alright… alright…. Let’s finish this.” He nudged her back to the floor between his legs. His cock appeared even larger and more rigid than before. The tip leaked so much that it had begun to drip down his length. “When I finish, swallow it.” He smiled down at her and added, “Be grateful for it, Granger, and do not miss a single drop of my priceless, pureblooded cum.”
“Please,” she gasped, but her lips closed back around him. Her tired tongue circled and lapped and danced. Spittle dripped down her chin.
“Take me deeper and suck,” he sighed. She obeyed, and the head of his cock pushed farther back to flatten her tongue. As she gently sucked, her tongue massaged his underside. He grabbed the hand she had rested against his thigh and wrapped it around his shaft. Without being told, she began to squeeze and stroke him where her mouth didn’t reach.
The fire burned so brightly that she couldn’t stop herself from moaning around him. It seemed to only excite him further. He keened, “Oh, Granger! Granger! Granger! You’re so perfect! You’re my good girl! You’re! You’re!”
He gasped and groaned. His hips and cock jerked in tandem. Viscous, hot liquid hit the back of her throat. The command to swallow smothered her urge to gag. It was salty like the liquid before, yet laced with a bitter tang. After the surprise wore off, it was honestly and horrifyingly not so terrible. She continued to suck as he emptied inside her waiting mouth. His cock seized and pulsed in her hand as ribbon after ribbon of cum shot into her. She eagerly swallowed every drop, as he demanded.
Hermione focused on the noises Malfoy was making in an effort to ignore the awful, wonderful burning between her own legs. It didn’t help. He gasped, groaned, whined, and warbled, clutching at her curls and fixing his eyes to hers.
Once he stopped throbbing and the cum no longer flowed, she dropped him from her mouth and crawled away warily.
He was staring at her, eyes still clouded with lust, panting in exertion.
After collecting himself a minute further, his mask fell firmly back into place. He sneered, tucked his cock back into his pants, and rose to dust off his trousers. His eyes were now fixed to the floor again. Waving a hand dismissively, he snarled, “Get out.”
She ran from the Room of Requirement as fast as her feet could carry her, but before she made it through the door, she heard him shout, “Remember my orders! Meet me here when you can be of use.”