Work Text:
Actually, it wasn't even his fault. He was the one that got seduced..
. . .
Exhausted, Malfoy climbed up the last few steps to their head common room, his sweat-soaked Quidditch uniform sticking uncomfortably to his skin, unfulfilled duties on his mind. All he wanted was a hot shower—to just wash away the bad mood left by the awful training session before he would spend the rest of the evening with his head buried in an overdue essay.
He was usually alone at this time of day, enjoying this peaceful place far away from the sounds of the overcrowded Slytherin common room, the great hall or even the library.
It was hardly believable, but their shared space had actually become a refuge for him. There wasn't much in the small head common room—a table for their 1:1 work, a large brown armchair, the usual ever-burning fireplace, and a small sofa opposite that was rarely used. But still, it meant peace and solitude.
Upon entering, however, he realised to his dismay that on that very sofa lay—her right profile pressed against it, hips swung over the armrest—her feet practically still on the floor, the bane of his life: Hermione Granger.
She looked absolutely ridiculous—almost as if she had fainted right next to the sofa and collapsed onto it. Like a doll that had been carelessly thrown into a corner.
"Can't you go and snore in your own room, Granger?" he asked, irritated as he strode across the room and hung his sweaty Quidditch cloak over a chair. He didn't really want her in the room while he was working. Usually, she was still stuck in her regular spot in the library at this time of day and avoided him, just as he avoided her.
But the witch didn't respond.
"Granger," he repeated, wiping the wet hair from his face.
Still, silence reigned on the sofa.
What could have put her out like that? Was it her packed class schedule, a new learnt charm, or perhaps a potion? He walked around the sofa and stopped next to her upper body. She had probably knocked herself out with a spell and underestimated its effect.. or Madame Pomfrey had given her something to calm her down. Merlin knew she could use it.
Whatever it was, he didn't care. He simply wanted to get her out of his sight.
"Mudblood!" His voice grew louder. "Mudblood, get up!"
But she remained motionless. Her small face pressed against the seat cushion, her eyes still closed, mouth slightly open. He had never seen her so close up before. Normally, she would turn away with a roll of her eyes before he could properly discern their colour; would bury her laughing face in Weasley's shoulder so he couldn't really detect the freckles on her forehead. But here, in the light of the fire dancing on her face, he could see her more clearly.
He hesitated for a second, then lightly nudged her shoulder.
It wasn't the first time they had touched. He had pushed her aside once or twice, her hand brushed his here and there when she handed him something for her school prefect duties or in advanced potions class—and of course he hadn't forgotten that her little fist had made acquaintance with his nose in third year.
Shame rose within him and he shook her roughly now.
"Get up!" he shouted at her—to no avail.
She wasn't dead, was she? Poisoned, perhaps? Here, in this place where only the two of them had access, that would look bad for him. He leaned down further, held a hand over her mouth and tried to feel if she was breathing, while watching her back closely.
Up and down it moved, slowly but steadily.
Even more annoyed, he pulled her eyelids open—but even that didn't seem to disturb her sleep in the slightest.
"For fucks sake, Mudblood."
Malfoy straightened up again, his hands now on his hips, and looked at the young woman in front of him.
She really seemed to be on another planet; completely switched off.
Slowly, taking a minute an inch, his gaze slid from her button nose along the bushy hair, then wandered hesitantly over her dark grey jumper and lingered on her skirt—on the curve of her bottom, which was so demonstratively bent over the armrest.
Taking two quiet steps to the side, he savoured the view that unfolded behind her for a moment—her uniform skirt, which had ridden up slightly, revealing a good portion of the back of her thighs, down to the knee-high socks she had dutifully pulled over her kneecaps.
He stared at the exposed piece of skin and swallowed briefly, blinking at her face and then back at the hem of her skirt.
How often had he wondered what Little Miss Perfect was hiding under her uniform... whether her bottom was rather small or plump, rather round or pear-shaped..
Wasn't this a unique opportunity to render his thoughts—his imagination—a little more realistic? To just steal a quick glance at it?
Carefully.. ever so slowly, he bent down, let his fingertips grasp the fabric of her skirt.. pulled it up a few inches with the utmost precision and came to a halt as Hermione Granger's bare ass lay before his eyes.
He swallowed hard, his breath quickening. Her perfect two buttocks were separated by an inconspicuous black thong—and Malfoy stared at it as if she were the first girl whose underwear he had ever seen—spellbound, hypnotised.
This was what he would think of every day from now on when she acted all mighty. When she beat him in a subject, stuck her arrogant little nose up in the air, or even dared to cast a spell on him.
He watched as the light from the flickering flames now danced on the bare skin of her bum, highlighting it's tone to perfection. Golden brown, soft and so seductive—it was practically begging to be touched by him.
A conflict raged within him: on the one hand, there was of course the very obvious the risk that she could wake up. That she would catch him behind her, her privacy laid bare before him. Call her Professor on him, get him into trouble.
But on the other hand, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. After all, he didn't want to spend the rest of his years wondering if she felt as soft as she had looked.
He could just..
Eagerly, he rubbed his right hand over his thigh a few times, making sure it wasn't cold, and then lifted his trembling fingers to guide them down in slow motion—his eyes nervously fixed on hers. Very carefully, he first touched her only with his fingertips and paused for a moment, before he slowly pressed his palm down against the curve of her perfectly rounded buttcheek.
A deep shiver ran through him as his entire hand cupped her, holding her there, completely at his mercy.
Fuck.
This was what he would think about in the shower. This. This and not the memory of Greengrass's lips around his cock or Parkinson's moans when he pulled her hair from behind.
This.
He swallowed again.
If only he could—maybe he should—he—
The muscles in his hand suddenly moved as if of their own accord, tensing and allowing him to slowly but surely grab hold. There he stood—with a handful of Granger's little ass.
Satisfaction spread through him as the thought formed so clearly in his mind: A handful of Granger's arse just for him.
He checked her eyes again, but found no sign of her waking up, so he repeated the movement: loosening his grip slightly and grabbing her cheek again. He squeezed harder, let go of her, then deliciously moved his fingertips further, grabbing her there again; his breathing now significantly heavier than it had been two minutes ago.
It almost upset him that her skin was as soft as it looked. Almost.
His cock pressed insistently against the inside of his trousers, asking for release. Draco, however, was almost in a trance, two fingers continuing to dance over every inch of skin on her backside, lower and lower, until they finally landed under her bum and slowly followed the cute little crease that ran there towards the centre.
His breath caught as his fingers came to a stop right next to her knickers. He looked around, blinked twice quickly between the room's entrance door and her face, and then did the impossible.
With his heart racing, a pounding so audible he could hear it his own ears, the tip of his index finger wrapped around her thong and carefully pulled it aside a bit.
Granger's cunt.
This was Hermione Granger's fucking cunt.
Right in front of him, begging for attention.
Without thinking, he leaned in closer to get a better look at it, determined to memorise every detail.
He would take a shower in a moment and think about it, massaging his cock and replaying the image over and over again, how she lay in the light of the fire, her skirt pulled up over her hips, her knickers pushed aside, her pussy and asshole exposed before him.
Fuck, he saw Hermione Granger's little asshole.
He would think about it today, and tomorrow morning when she came to breakfast, and tomorrow at noon when she bragged in Arithmancy, and tomorrow evening when she threw a sassy remark at him, and every damn night when he jerked off.
From now on, every time she talked down to him, he would know that he had seen her exposed. That she lay beneath him. At his mercy. Just like one of the other girls that he..
He only needed one more detail to make the memory perfect.
Curious, he leaned in even closer to her slit and inhaled briefly.
A first moan escaped him.
She smelled.. perfect.
His other hand now reached out as well, spreading her cheeks a little, and he moved even closer to her; breathing again—deeper, longer this time; desperate to burn the smell into his brain, even though it was impossible for this sense.
Everything in him cried out to press his lips against her for just a tiny second; to see how the skin down there would feel, whether it tasted as good as it smelled.
But the mental image of him kneeling behind her, his face buried between her buttocks, shocked him so much that he regained his senses for a moment and recoiled in horror.
He straightened up and ran his fingers through his hair.
This was crazy. Absolutely mental.
Briefly, he rubbed his groin from the outside to relieve some of the pain that had built up there.
He should do nothing else now but straighten her skirt and go to his dormitory, where he would probably come harder than ever before—where he would have to cast a sound-dampening spell over the room so that she wouldn't be woken from her sleep by the loud moans of her name.
That's what he should do—walk away and enjoy the triumph. Stay logical.
But name one man who would have thought logically at that sight.
Instead, he did the only thing possible, the only thing that really made sense—and slowly pressed the tip of his right thumb between her folds, into her.
The second he felt the wetness on his skin, his hips bucked forward on their own accord and his eyes rolled back as he almost came in his trousers like a pityful 12-year-old.
Fuuuck, what a whore.
Just lying there bare like that, seducing him, offering him her hot, wet cunt. Letting him do this to her..
She was such a fucking—and his thumb pressed even deeper, his head falling back—fucking slut.
A zip sounded as his body prevailed and he opened his pants without further ado to finally close his fist around his rock-hard cock.
Whore.
His finger became wetter with every movement inside her.
That’s what whores did—getting wet.
Whore, whore, whore. Mudblood whore.
His mind was switched off—all that was going on inside his head were incoherent fragments of insults, in time with his thumb moving in and out of her and his hand pumping his cock.
In—and out.
In—this time wetter, even easier, even hotter—and out.
In, even hotter, so tight, so inviting, so begging—out.
In—fucking—out—whore.
Nothing could be heard in the room except the soft crackling of the fire, his desperate moans, which now sounded more like whimpering, the sound of his hand working his cock harder and faster, and rarely—very rarely—a soft smacking sound from her increasingly wet cunt.
Fuck, he was going to come. He was going to come and he had to decide where. Make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He had to.
Images of her appeared before his inner eye. His cum in her bushy hair. On her freckled face—on one eye, partly in her open mouth—her cheeky stubborn mouth. He groaned even louder. On her perfect arse cheek, on her Gryffindor tie, on her slit, in her pus-
Without a further thought of the consequences, he pulled his thumb out of her, held his cock at her entrance and continued to pump it, his eyes now squinted shut.
—FUCK, his most sensitive spot right at her damn cunt—jerking himself off against her, so close—so close to just coming at her entrance, on her thinnest skin, to know forever that his cock had touched her, that his cum had stained her smug, high-and-mighty cunt, that he had dirtied her—almost—almost fucked her—
His hips thrust forward on their own and a shuddering moan ran deeply through his very bones as he slightly entered her folds.
Just the tip, just the tip, just the tip, was all he managed to think as he paused his hips with all his willpower and continued to jerk himself off, his tip now pulsing inside her.
Jerk off inside her, cum inside her, cream her. Give it to her. Show her.
Just show her.
Show her how—
No.
He knew he wasn't allowed to—he knew he couldn't, shouldn't—under any circumstances, ever, no way, slide further into her, not take her virgini—fuck, that would pop her cherry, wouldn't it? She would surely be untouched, the perfect little cunning—
He lost control of his hips and slid another agonising half-inch into her hot cunt, before he stopped himself.
Slut.
"Fuckkk, Granger," he blurted out. He sounded pathetic, as if he were begging her, as if she weren't the one who should be begging him, who should be grateful for him, a pure-blood, choosing her, a dirty mudblood, to fuck.
Anger coursed through him and he continued to lose control of his body, sliding further into her; his hand still wrapped around the rest of his cock, pumping it wildly; continuing to jerk off inside her, his moans loud in the room.
Fuck, he was going to come, he was going to come, come inside her, come inside Granger. Never—never would he recover from that thought. His hand slid frantically over his cock, trying with all his might to give him the release that his hips were denied.
Because he couldn't go any further inside her, never. This deep and no further. Another centimetre and he would take her virginity.
And then he made the fatal mistake of opening his eyes.
His brain melted.
He stood bent over the sofa behind Hermione fucking Granger, her Gryffindor uniform pushed up over her round cheeks, his bulging cock in her wet little cunt, her asshole right above it.
But the worst, the most unbearable thing of all, was her face—the crease that had formed between her eyebrows and her mouth, which was still open—almost as if she were moaning, almost as if her sounds were echoing through the room like his, and then he heard it in his mind—a high, pitiful, begging sound in her voice.
His hand gripped her waist, his fingers buried deep in her skin, and he bit his lip as his hips thrust forward without his permission, deep into her, deeper and deeper, until he was buried in her to the hilt.
His head tilted forward and he leaned just above her, almost starting to cry.
Draco Malfoy's cock was inside Hermione Granger—he was fucking Hermione Granger, he was—
"Fuckkkkkk," he groaned as he began to move inside her, "fuck...". The sounds of his cock inside her were the most erotic he had ever heard in his life.
He didn't care about anything else, didn’t care about what could happen, about the consequences—because this was so forbidden, so incredibly hot, so fucking dirty—he had never been so turned on before.
"Mhmm Merlin, you shouldn't feel that good. You really shouldn't feel that—fucking—good, you dirty..." and he thrust especially deep into her, "Mudblood."
He hadn't even noticed when sweat had started running down his temple, when his wet hair had fallen into his face, when everything had started sticking to him; he had no idea how long this moment had been going on—all he knew was that he had her—after all these years.
He had her.
From now on, he had shown her—finally he had her and she would—fuck, he would always remember when she gave him a condescending look or decided to ignore him. Would always remember how perfect she felt, how tight and wet she was for him, how her small waist fit perfectly in his hand.
His other hand now pressed down on her head, pushing her deeper into the pillow, and he took her deep—hard, fast, like an animal, fucking her mercilessly into the upholstery of her sofa, where she would sit cross-legged again tomorrow evening, a book on her lap, an ache in her lap—from his big cock inside her, from how good he was at fucking her, how he had deflowered her, how he had...
Fuck...
"You're so... nghh..." he hissed through clenched teeth and his gaze wandered down again to where they were joined, watching his cock disappear completely into her over and over again, imagining he had a hand free and would sink his thumb into her other tight ring as well.
His balls tightened and he groaned loudly again, his face contorted with pain; his hips slamming against her in a ruthless rhythm—punishing her—punishing her for—for—
"If only Weasley and Potter could see you like this. They would despise you.” His pace quickened even more.
"You should be ashamed—should blush for me—cry for me!”
Fuck, how good it would be if she were awake and begging him to stop; not to stop. How good it would be if he could see the shame on her face now, her blushing cheeks, her self-loathing, the tears in her eyes.
He should take photos of it and hang them up in her Gryffindor common room; show everyone how depraved she was, how filthy she was, filthy like her blood. How she liked this, liked him.
He should blackmail her with the pictures, force her to her knees in front of him next time, her filthy mouth wide open for him, her hostile eyes fixed on his; make her spread her ass for him next time, beg him to fuck her, to jerk off inside her—to spill himself inside her—to come deep inside her...
An inhuman, long sound slipped out of him as he lost the fight and came directly into Hermione Granger's virgin cunt—and came—and came even more, thrust after thrust, pressing her even closer against him with his hand, at the same time pushing her face deeper into the sofa, claiming everything about her, and riding out the longest, most intense orgasm of his life; collapsing, his head now only a few inches above her, the scent of her hair in his nose, just like back in their first year at school when he sat next to her in Transfiguration; the scent he had never forgotten, the scent he had tried so often to catch again but had never admitted so to himself.
A wave of unfiltered affection washed over him, penetrating his chest, rising higher into his throat and finally reached his head, where his mind tried to make sense of it all. And somewhere there, in the dark, still foggy spheres of his post-orgasmic consciousness, a calculation emerged that took everything into account: How it pissed him off when she ignored him, when she laughed with the Weasel, how he hated that she was a mudblood, how he just needed to put himself above her, had to have her under him, had to keep telling himself about her lower worth in a voice that wasn't his own.
His eyes snapped open as realisation hit him.
No.
Oh no.