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Draco drums his fingers along the cold, metal table and stares unflinchingly at the witch across from him. She’s warm. Warm-coloured too, with brown skin and honey eyes. Chocolate and russet tones in her hair.
She looks so out of place in Azkaban.
“Are you listening?” Granger snaps her fingers, and he can’t stop a tiny smirk from curving along the edge of his lips. “What.”
“What’s the rush, Granger?” Draco leans back in his metal chair and folds his hands behind his head. “You that eager to escape my presence?”
She huffs and tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. Draco wonders how her teeth would feel tugging on his lip.
He doesn’t get much company in Azkaban.
“I’m here to do my job, Malfoy, not waste hours on frivolous small talk. Seeing as I’m your solicitor, I’d have hoped you understood the importance of me doing my actual job. You know, getting you out of here.”
“I’m looking at another six months minimum. Forgive me for not jumping for joy over a possible release 180 days from now. Do you know, I think the five months I’ve spent here have been worse than when You-Know-Who set up camp in Malfoy Manor.”
Granger blanches the way she always does when he acts cavalier about his circumstances. Does it bother him being locked away in Azkaban for two to five years when other Death Eaters received lighter sentences? Sure. But he’s had five long, cold, lonely months to do nothing except ruminate. He’d go crazy if he let himself think about it too hard.
Plus, riling Granger up is fun. She only visits once a month or so to check in on him and provide updates on his case. It’s the most social interaction he gets, and he’s come to crave their little spats—the way he digs his claws under her skin and peels it apart. The crimson flush of her cheeks when he lets an innuendo slip. Her rolled eyes, her sighs, her thighs—
Gods, she has delectable thighs. Draco’s eyes drop to them unbidden, though the stupid fucking table is in his way. And what a shame, because she’s wearing the tightest little pencil skirt that stops just below mid-thigh and hugs the curve of her backside like the garment was crafted directly on her body.
“Malfoy?”
His head snaps up. He’d be sheepish, but there’s no embarrassment left in him. That was stamped out of him quickly. Because he sees the way she looks at him too. Azkaban, while not the best thing to ever happen to him, has been an absolute boon for his physical fitness. He spends two hours every day doing bodyweight exercises in his cell. They keep him sharp. Filled out even with the slop they call food.
And if Granger weren’t into him, she wouldn’t get so riled up when he teases her. Her shoes give her away. The crimson cheeks too. Her eyes flicker to his biceps when he wears t-shirts, to his hair when he’s freshly showered, and to his lips when he smiles.
But the shoes. The shoes. When she’s really riled up, they tap. Little pitter-patter rhythms against the hard, stone floor. Or she crosses her legs and lets her shoe dangle from her toes, moving her foot up and down in an anxious rhythm. Once, she lost control of it—flung the kitten heel all the way across the room—and hobbled over to pick it up with splotches of red all down her neck.
Draco wanted to kiss her so badly.
It’s not proper, a client-solicitor relationship. Draco’s long past proper, but he has a hunch Granger might care about that sort of thing.
You know. Ethics.
“Yes, solicitor Granger?”
Steam pours from her ears. He can see her physically bite back her retort—she hates when he calls her solicitor. Naturally, he does it every chance he gets.
“I asked you if you’ve given any thought to possible character witnesses. Testimonies. Friends, family—well, in your case maybe not family, although I’m sure I could talk to your aunt Andromeda.”
“Take a breath. I’ll think about it.”
“Okay, because this is extremely important and I think it could make or break your appeal. Your magistrate is known for taking character references into account when—”
“Didn’t I just say I’ll think about it?”
“Fine.”
She scribbles something down in her notebook, still hurrying, though she doesn’t need to. They have all day. But she doesn’t know that yet.
The last few weeks have been especially isolating. No one came to visit, it was too cold to go in the yard, and he had his reading privileges revoked after talking back to one of the guards. He’s itching for human contact.
Granger, specifically. Maybe it’s because of their past that he clings to the idea of her so fiercely. She reminds him of a life outside Azkaban—that he existed before this icy fortress and he’ll continue to exist after leaving it.
That, and she’s exceptionally pretty.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she mutters, barely glancing up from her furious note-taking.
“Maybe you’re nice to look at. Did you ever think of that?”
Granger tuts and shakes her head. It’s cute that she doesn’t believe him.
He glances surreptitiously at her wristwatch. Only two minutes until the wards malfunction. He can’t wait.
Last month, the wards got messed up during a routine check of the prison’s magical barriers. All the inmates had been stuck in their cells for the rest of the day. Guards and wardens too. No one could leave their rooms.
What better way to guarantee hours of human contact? Draco bribed the warden to trigger the same malfunction today, securing him a full afternoon with Granger.
Nothing untoward. Only guaranteed conversation and basking in her scent. She smells clean, so different from the prison. No one in Azkaban smells warm.
Only a minute to go now, and Draco can’t hold back a smile.
But she pushes back from her chair and gathers her leather briefcase.
“Where are you going?”
“Our hour’s up.”
“You can’t leave yet.”
She looks at him with an entirely too knowing expression. Her eyes are lined with pity but for the wrong reason. “I’m sorry. I’ll try and visit sooner, or send updates via owl, I don’t want you to worry—”
“It’s not that,” he says. She keeps moving towards the door, and now he’s fully panicking. If she leaves too soon, he’s going to be trapped in here alone all day, without even the comfort of his cell—because at least there he has a hard cot masquerading as a bed.
“I’m sorry, Malfoy, I really do have to go. I’m going to be late for my next appointment.”
And then her hand is on the doorknob and Draco’s heart falls into his stomach and in that very moment, a warped sound cracks open the atmosphere and the entire foundation of the building shakes. A blinding light flashes, forcing Draco’s eyes shut, and when he opens them, Granger’s gone.
Actually… He rubs his eyes in disbelief, certain he’s hallucinating. Because Granger’s not gone. At least, not entirely.
Her head and torso are gone, disappeared through the solid metal door. But the rest of her is still there. He can see the nip of her waist, the soft swell of her backside, and those lean, biteable legs he’s spent far too much time staring at. She’s bent forward slightly, her posture warped by the pull of the wards. It can’t be comfortable.
“Granger,” he calls. “Are you alright? Can you hear me?” There’s no answer, and he starts to get worried, but then Granger stomps her foot, and he has a hunch. “If you can hear me, tap your left foot twice.”
Tap. Tap.
Excellent. So she’s alive and theoretically unharmed. This is good news. Although…
“Can you move?”
Fuck, that was a mistake. Because immediately she starts trying to push herself through the wall. Because she’s stuck, the only thing it results in is a lot of wriggling movements.
Draco stares, open-mouthed, at the curve of her arse swaying back and forth, pulling at the tight fabric of her skirt. He thinks about her making those same movements in a very different scenario.
His cock twitches and a hand flies to his trousers. Fuck. This is fucked up. He shouldn’t be getting turned on, but he’s only human.
What to do about his plan? If she can’t get back through the wall, his entire day will be wasted. The promise of this afternoon has been sustaining him for days. To go back to his cell after a day in isolation, staring at Granger’s backside, would be torture.
He can’t hear anything from the other side of the wall. If Granger’s talking, he’s unaware, but he has to imagine she would’ve opened that big mouth by now.
“Granger, I’m going to try and pull you through onto my side, okay? Maybe we’ll have more luck if someone else is helping. I’m just going to…” He swallows thickly and takes a deep breath. “I’m going to touch your hips to try and pull you. Yes?”
Tap. Tap.
“Right. On the count of three then. One, two, three!” He tugs with all his strength, trying to pull her through the metal door, but she doesn’t budge a centimetre. “Fuck. Sorry, Granger, I don’t think I’m going to be able to get you out of there. We’ll have to wait for the cursebreakers to reinstate the wards. Last time it took a few hours.”
This time it will take a few hours too, because Draco requested it. Which, in retrospect, seems like a terribly idiotic idea.
He transferred five thousand galleons to the warden for a day with Granger, and now he’s got nothing to show for it.
Well… He settles into the rigid metal chair and drags his gaze along the length of Granger’s lower half. Perhaps he’s got something to show for it.
She must be furious. He can picture it, the reddened flush down her neck, the scowl gracing those full lips. He almost hopes there’s no one stuck in the corridor outside. He wouldn’t envy them having to listen to Granger ranting and raving about being stuck in a wall for hours on end.
She doesn’t even have her wand—all visitors are required to check them. Either way, that probably isn’t stopping her from attempting wandless magic. Not that she’ll have any luck. Azkaban wards are some of the most impenetrable on the planet, even—and perhaps especially—while they’re all discombobulated.
He raps his knuckles along the table, echoing loudly against the metal. Thirty seconds pass where he’s lost in thought, and then Granger stomps her foot, and he starts.
His fingers still, and so does Granger.
He smirks. Of course she’s still finding ways to express her annoyance.
Truthfully, it’s a treat to look at Granger without her knowledge. His eyes can linger on the curve of her arse the way they always want to. He milks the opportunity, taking in every last detail of Granger’s body.
The flare of her hips from her narrow waist. The way her skirt fabric hugs every curve, stretched taut over her bum. The backs of her thighs are dimpled—he’s never noticed that before.
It’s fucking intoxicating.
He moves further down. To her calves, shapely and pronounced in her current position, elongated by her high heels. She always wears heels, Draco reflects. He very much supports the choice.
Seeing her up close, with all the time in the world, is both a gift and a punishment. Freckles chart constellations on her calves. She shuffles one foot mindlessly. Draco can’t stop staring. Her thighs are there, a tantalising sneak peek beneath her wool skirt, hitched up higher because of her slight forward bend. He could ruck it up six inches and find out what type of knickers Granger likes.
Or maybe she doesn’t wear knickers at all, in which case he could reach between her thighs and—
Gods, he’s fucked.
What would happen if he tried, though? He knows Granger thinks he’s attractive—why wouldn’t she—but he has to imagine a witch like Granger wouldn’t take kindly to being, well, taken while stuck in a wall and unable to talk.
What is wrong with me? Draco sighs and rubs a hand along his face, dragging away the bleariness and desperate thoughts.
His mind keeps jumping back to the image of her bare under her skirt, knicker-less, and his cock twitches. What he wouldn’t give to be back in his cell with at least some privacy, where he could—
He has privacy.
Granger can’t see him, and as long as he can keep quiet, she’ll never need to know. Besides, he can’t exactly pass the time effectively with a raging hard-on that shows no sign of going away. Better to find relief now, he figures, and then he’ll be able to think clearly and find a way out of their predicament.
Slowly, Draco unties the drawstring on his trousers—the uniform might be the most humiliating part of being in Azkaban—and frees his cock from his trunks. It bobs in his hand, leaking and uncontrollable, desperate to be free. He gives it a firm squeeze around the base and has to cover a groan with a frantic cough.
Fuck. He hasn’t even properly started and he’s already forgetting himself. What he wouldn’t give for a bit of wandless magic and a muffliato.
His eyes fall shut, blocking out the cold, Azkaban light, and he can pretend he’s anywhere else. In the Hogwarts library, stumbling upon Granger in the back of the stacks. Or at a bar somewhere in London. Hell, maybe in the halls of the Ministry after she inevitably frees him. In her office, after a celebratory drink (or four). In his bed, her curls haloed by the soft evening light—
Merlin. No. Not in his bed, what the fuck is wrong with him? This is Granger. He’s dreaming of a quick shag, and nothing else. She won’t be coming to the Manor. He doesn’t want her in his bed. He only wants to see what lies under her skirt.
Salazar, he’s a creep.
Draco strokes himself firmly, leaning back in his chair, his legs spread wide. His eyes glaze over, half-lidded, as he takes in Granger’s pert arse straining in her skirt and the lean, muscular length of her calves. In those heels, she’s the perfect height for him to take from behind. In a perfect world, he’d be able to see her curls cascading down her back, but this is Azkaban, so he’ll take what he can get.
Heat climbs up his spine and spreads through his limbs. His desire chases away the chill of the prison, replacing the bone-aching cold with something just as life-altering but far more pleasant. He can’t remember the last time he was this warm. Even wanking in his cell doesn’t bring the relief he feels now.
No. That’s entirely Granger.
His hand moves in a steady rhythm along his cock, twisting in a practised motion and squeezing the tip on every pass. His thumb flicks over the ridge beneath the head of his cock, and it brings sharp breaths and a fullness in his groin. His balls are high and tight, drawn close to his body, ready to spill.
But release won’t come. No matter how firmly Draco squeezes his cock or how intently he imagines sliding between Granger’s legs, something blocks it. He needs more.
Imagining what lies between Granger’s thighs doesn’t subside his need. If anything, it stokes it.
Would she know if he takes a little more…overt inspiration? Lifts her skirt? It could be a soft breeze. Another prisoner.
No, that’s idiotic. He needs blood to flow to his brain, not his cock. But maybe…
He shuffles over to where Granger’s stuck in the wall and strokes his cock more steadily. It perks up now that he can smell her—sweet and cinnamon—and see the expansion and contraction of her waist with every godsforsaken breath.
Maybe he can…what if…?
He drags a delicate finger along the hem of her skirt, and Granger jolts. Draco freezes. He waits for her to kick him or cross her legs together in a clear rejection, but she does neither.
Huh.
He toys with the hem and slowly pulls it up, up, up—and nothing. It’s Granger’s turn to freeze, and Draco takes advantage. He folds her skirt above her arse and drinks her in. She is wearing knickers—black lace, to be precise—and he wants to pull them aside and run his fingers between her legs and—
Fuck. Gods, he wants to take her. But he’ll settle for running a hand along the curve of her sweet arse. She flinches and starts wriggling faster beneath his touch. Kicks one pointed heel behind her and stabs blindly at the air. Draco steps out of the way easily, sparing his shin from damage.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I’m not going to touch you.”
At this, she starts kicking harder, and Draco swears under his breath. “Did you not hear me? I said I’m not going to touch you. Merlin.”
His cock must like the writhing and the kicking because it twitches in his hand and hardens further. The flow of blood gives him a light head rush, and he steadies himself by gripping her arse more firmly.
“Fuck, Granger.” She’s fully panicking now, her lower half kicking and squirming every which way, but she has nothing to worry about. He’s not a monster. “Look at you, so pretty under this skirt. Are your knickers always this fancy, or were these just for me?”
If only she could reply so he could know how she feels. Then again, maybe it’s for the best. His need grows with every pass of his palm over her smooth cheeks. He runs his finger beneath the lacy edge of her knickers and his knees buckle.
“Please, Granger. I haven’t felt—seen—in so long.” His rhythm picks up, his words falling into a staccato stutter between ragged breaths. Pleasure courses through his veins. She’s so warm and plush and gods, what would it feel like to take her? He imagines sinking into her tight heat, her muscles squeezing his cock until he sees stars, that little breathy laugh she’s so fond of turning into a breathy moan.
“Let me—fuck. Going to come, sweetheart. Please let me—Christ, you’re being so good. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Need this. Fuck—”
Draco groans and increases the pressure around his cock. He’s so close to the edge. He wants her so badly. It only takes imagining what lies beneath her black knickers for him to hurtle over the cliff.
“Fuck, Grang—fuck.” He comes with a long, drawn-out grown. White, hot seed paints her backside like starlight. It’s so base, so primal, so proprietary, he can hardly stand it.
He braces one hand on the wall while he pants and tries to recover his mental faculties. That was the single greatest experience he’s had since entering Azkaban—and long before that, if he’s being honest.
What he wouldn’t give to keep Granger in his cell with him at all times.
Then again, probably easiest to cooperate and help her secure him an early release.
But still.
“Sorry for this,” he murmurs, running his fingertips through the sticky, slowly-drying cum along her backside. “I know you can’t see, but gods, I look good on you. That was…” He looks away, his chest filling with shame—partially because of what he did, but mostly because he doesn’t actually feel terrible about it. He should be wracked with guilt, but he’s mainly grateful this happened.
Hence, shame.
“I meant it when I said thank you. I haven’t…that was better than anything I could’ve dreamed up. It gets lonely in here.” Draco isn’t sure why he’s suddenly opening up to Granger after shooting her down every time she tries to discuss his case. The lack of sharp retorts and unwanted pity and big brown eyes probably has something to do with it. That, and his mind is fuzzy in his post-orgasmic haze.
“You can’t imagine how cold, how fucking hopeless—” He cuts himself off and drags a hand through his hair. “Anyways. Thank you.”
Draco tugs on Granger’s skirt hem. He should pull it down over her thighs to give her some privacy. But first, his fingertips graze the slope of her bum, massaging his cum into the scant fabric and her deep, golden skin. A study in contrasts.
His fingers follow the lacy edge of her knickers lower, swooping between her thighs. Granger stiffens and clamps her legs together, and he huffs out a disbelieving laugh.
“I assume you’re trying to keep me out, Granger. But it seems you’ve done the exact opposite.” Her thighs squeeze his hand, nearly pulverising his fingers, and he doesn’t mind one bit. Because he feels something. Something incriminating. Something Granger may not even be aware of—or perhaps, doesn’t want him to find out about.
“Granger,” he says, his voice dripping with disbelief, “you’re wet.”
Her hips buck in an effort to push him off or maybe draw him closer. Either way, he feels a renewed rush of blood flow south. How the fuck—? He shouldn’t be able to go again this quickly, but then again, when has Granger ever settled for anything less than outstanding?
“What would you do,” he murmurs, “if I wanted to feel you? For real this time?”
This time, it’s undeniable. Her thighs tremble around his hand. The fabric between her legs is soaked. He can’t resist. Her cunt is just there, warm and wet beneath his fingertips. So he drags them along her slit, through the silky fabric, relishing the way she twitches under his touch.
Does she really—could she—? He tugs at the waistband of her knickers and slides them down until they bunch around her thighs. She kicks backwards again, this time landing a glancing blow against his right knee.
“Fuck!” The sharp point of her stiletto leaves a disproportionate imprint that Draco knows will be a bruise tomorrow. It’s not the worst thing. He’ll be happy to have something to remember her by.
He reaches forward and works the fabric down to her ankles. He could try and take them off, but there’s something enticing about leaving them around her feet.
By this point, he’s fully hard, somehow recovered from his first round. It has to be Granger. Her lush, physical form is like nothing he’s seen since imprisonment. She overwhelms his senses.
Sight—voluptuous and tantalising. Golden brown skin dotted with freckles he wants to trace with his tongue. Sound—the soft tapping of her heels against the stone floor. Touch—smooth and firm beneath his hands. Smell—warm and musky. Cinnamon and arousal. Taste—well, he can’t wait to find out.
“You’re not opposed to this, are you?” To illustrate what he means by this, he runs his index and middle fingers along her slit, his touch gentle, lightly capturing her dampness on his skin. Her hips jerk backwards. “No, I suppose you’re not. I suppose you could be trying to get away, but I don’t think you are. I think you want this.”
His cock bobs along his stomach, leaking already with precum. How tight she must be. How warm. He wants to feel her.
“You want this, yeah?” His voice is hoarse and breathy, worn down by months of doom and desire. He doesn’t care.
He does care.
Does he care?
Lest he ruin this before it can begin, Draco pushes all related thoughts out of his mind. Granger’s here. For him. He’d be stupid not to take advantage of this.
…Right?
Granger shifts from side to side on the balls of her feet. She taps her left foot in that impatient rhythm he’s grown to love.
Huh. So she does want this.
She’s waiting for him. Maybe she’s as worked up as he is.
Draco can’t remember the last time he was inside a witch. Well before his sentencing. He was probably a teenager. So of course he’s nervous about this. He’s aching and lonely and this is a real witch and it’s Granger, and his only saving grace is the fact that he just came by his own hand.
But gods, he’s close to falling over the edge again.
Her thighs are spread apart but not far enough, so he taps the inside of one knee and nudges her legs wider. She falters, her knees nearly buckling, but manages to right herself. One advantage of being trapped in a wall.
He wants to slip inside her. To break her open until her walls are bearing down around him, trapping him inside and drawing out his release.
A far corner of his brain sends up a flag. He can’t hear her or see her. He has no way of knowing if she’s truly consenting.
Fuck. Draco doesn’t like that.
But she would protest more if she didn’t want it, right? Her meagre kicks and squirming aren’t enough to dissuade him. She’s so by the book, she’s probably focused on putting up a good enough show that she doesn’t have to feel guilty later about letting her client fuck her.
And he’ll be gentle. Other prisoners might take advantage, but he would never. He’s not in it to hurt or demean her. He’ll make it good for her.
Draco runs his hands over the crease of her thighs and pauses with his thumbs just outside her centre. This is his last chance to turn back. To continue being someone who hasn’t fucked Hermione Granger. He’s lived his whole life as someone who hasn’t fucked Granger, and where has it gotten him? Nowhere decent. Maybe he’s tired of denying himself scraps of pleasure. He deserves more. Trapped in Azkaban with nothing but four walls and his hand for company.
It’s not like he actually murdered anyone. He couldn’t even do it. So Granger wouldn’t be fucking a murderer. Plus, she’s his solicitor, so that means she believes in his case, right? She believes in him. Granger’s so ethical and opinionated—she wouldn’t try to get him released if she thought he was a terrible person. So she won’t be upset about fucking him.
Plus, she’s right there and she’s fucking soaked and he wants to slide his cock through her folds and rub her clit until he can hear her whine his name through the wall.
With his mind made up, Draco walks two fingers between her legs. They glide easily along her slit, their path eased by her slick arousal. She twitches and shifts in place.
Draco can smell her. He hasn’t smelt anything except stale air and body odour for months. And now the musk of her desire slips through his nose and into his throat. He swallows it greedily. Wants to taste it.
He licks his fingers.
“Mmmm, oh fuck.” It slips out in a groan before he can stop it. He’s sure she can hear the wet pop of his fingers as they slide over his tongue and out from between his lips. “Maybe I’ll taste you properly later.”
But for now, Draco has work to do. He breathes deeply—in and out, in and out. Granger shifts her weight, and the light catches on her arousal. She glistens. Draco wants.
Draco takes.
"Tell me to stop."
His cock threads her dripping cunt and barely breaches her entrance. She’s squeezing the tip of his cock, or maybe she’s just that tight. But the suction—desire—need draws him in further and he sinks in another inch.
Gods, this is the best thing he’s felt in the last—maybe ever. He strokes the soft curve of her arse, round and supple beneath his hands. He spreads her wide and watches his cock disappear into her body.
“Christ, you’re tight.”
Heat crawls up his spine; he’s impossibly hard. If wanking to Granger was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, fucking her is— It’s otherworldly. Out of body.
Granger’s hips jerk backwards, sucking him in deeper, and he nearly loses it.
“Fuck. Don’t—fuck—don’t move.” He squeezes his eyes shut and calls forth every depressing thought about Azkaban to try and stave off his unwanted early release. “Been so long,” he groans. “You feel—” He breaks off into a harsh laugh. “Merlin, I wish you couldn’t hear me. This is embarrassing.”
His breath leaves him on a shudder as he slowly works his cock into her tight hole. He can barely stand it, the way she’s quivering and shaking and convulsing around him.
He wishes he could hear her.
Then again, maybe it’s good he can’t.
If the upper half of her body was available, he’d wrap his fist through her curls and tug on her hair, tilting her head back so she was forced to look up at him as he claimed her. Maybe he’d wrap a hand around her throat and cut off her air until she grew weak in his arms. And then just before she passed out, he’d let go, and she’d flirt with the edge of release as the oxygen flooded her system.
But he doesn’t have her. So he grabs the sides of her hips and holds her still as he picks up slow, steady thrusts. Once he’s acclimated and no longer in danger of coming thirty seconds in, he lets himself relax and simply enjoy it.
Every sense is heightened. He can feel every flutter of her inner walls, every twitch of her hips, every subtle manoeuvre of her heels, shifting weight from foot to foot. And she’s so fucking warm.
“Gods, Granger, you’re a fucking dream, do you know that? Never thought…” He huffs out a laugh. “You feel incredible. Look incredible. I wank to you every time you visit, bet you didn’t know that. Always so fucking uptight. And these tight little skirts. Fuck.”
Granger jerks backwards like she’s trying to fuck his cock and it’s—
“You little slut,” he gasps. “Try and tell me you don’t want this. Go on. That’s right, I know you can’t.” He goes harder on the next stroke. The ricochet makes her cheeks and thighs jiggle. And Draco has the earth-shattering realisation that she’s trapped in the wall. He can fuck her as hard as he wants and she won’t move.
What a fucking tease.
His thumb drags along a patch of dried cum near her hip, and his cock throbs. Coming on her was one thing, but coming inside her? He might perish.
“Promise me something, Granger,” he grunts. “Promise me you won’t go back to Weasley or whoever. Promise me you won’t let anyone fuck you. I want this cunt. It’s mine.”
She clenches around him.
“I’ll help you,” he gasps. “Character witnesses, testimonies. Hell, I’ll dance a naked jig in front of the magistrate if it’ll get my release approved. But I want your cunt when I’m out of here.”
Draco thrusts harder, faster, sweat dripping down his brow. With Granger unable to move, there’s nowhere for the excess kinetic force to go except inside her. His power is unmatched; he’s sure her cunt will be sore and bruised tomorrow.
Good.
“I mean it, Granger. No one else comes in you.” He rubs her clit furiously in time with his thrusts. Her legs jolt and tremble under his ministrations. If Draco had to guess, he’d say the wall is the only reason she’s still standing upright.
“Fuck you—every day. So tight I bet you could hold my cum in you all day.” Draco wipes a bead of sweat from his hairline and goes right back to circling Granger’s clit, desperate to feel her come for him. “These shoes, fucking Christ. And these—the skirts. Fucking absurd.” He lets out a strangled noise from the back of his throat, desperate to come and yet wanting to drag this out as long as possible.
“Going to dream about this forever,” he pants. “Fuck, I can feel you—are you gonna come for me? Gods—fuck—you are, aren’t you?” He can hardly believe it. Her walls start to flutter more rapidly, and he knows she’s close. The beginning stages of her orgasm wrap around his cock like a tidal wave.
“Keep squeezing me, love, go on. Make me come for you.” Draco groans and throws his head back. He’s needed to come the whole time, and he’s barely hanging on by a thread. But finally—fucking finally—she clenches around his cock and she’s so fucking tight. He can’t move.
“Oh, gods, that’s—fuck, Granger. I’m—” He cuts off with a strangled cry. Her thighs tremble as her release barrels through her, and Draco is five seconds away from his own, now three, now—
Now. Stars burst behind his eyelids, and his vision whites out. His ears fill with an indiscriminate buzzing as the reality of Azkaban falls away, and all that remains is him and Granger and the wall.
Everything in his body clenches and draws towards a central point. His fingers press into her skin, clinging for a shred of sanity amidst the unyielding, spiralling pleasure coursing down his spine, wiping every thought from his mind except for Granger. His cock pulses and spills his release deep inside her—he wants to live there, among the proof of his cum coating her walls. Marking her. She accepts it greedily, her cunt shuddering violently around his length, demanding more, more, more.
He’ll give her everything.
“Fuck—so good—how are you still—?”
Draco’s voice shakes. He’s wrung out, and Granger’s cunt is still squeezing him, demanding more. He has nothing left to give her. But she’s given him so much already.
Slowly, he withdraws, biting back a sharp gasp when his cock slips free of her channel and spills drops of release on the hard, stone floor. His fingers feel between her thighs, searching for the proof of his release, and pushes it back inside her cunt. Her muscles clench around his fingers.
“So sensitive,” he murmurs. “Keep this safe for me, yeah?”
Draco collapses into the chair and stares at the backs of her thighs for a long while. A single bead of cum drips down her leg and charts a path along her inner knee.
Eventually, he should replace her knickers and pull her skirt back down. Give her some dignity. But what’s the harm in looking a little longer?
He takes her twice more before the day is over.
By the time the wards come down, Hermione’s bottom half is returned to the way Draco found it. He’s seated with his hands folded neatly in front of him on the table.
Granger is unceremoniously thrown from the wall and thrust back into the room. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair wild.
Her eyes are…
“How was your day?”
She sputters. “How—how was my day? You touched me—fucked me—without my permission, and now you’re asking about my day?”
Draco nods, displaying a casualness he doesn’t feel. “Did you have fun?”
“Did I have fun?”
He shrugs. “Seemed like you were enjoying yourself to me. Or did I imagine feeling you org—”
Her jaw snaps shut. “Shut up. Just—stop talking.”
Draco smirks and leans back in his seat. His worries have mostly dissipated. If she was going to yell at him, she would’ve done so already. Besides, her body didn’t lie. She liked it. A lot.
“Did you mean it?” she asks.
Draco tilts his head, confused. He said a lot of things. He probably meant some of them.
“When you said you’d help me with the appeal if…if my…”
She can’t say it. How precious.
“If your cunt was mine?” he finishes. A scarlet flush blooms across her cheeks and down her neck. But she jerks her head, an infinitesimal nod. “Yes, Granger, I meant it. I’ll do whatever you need and I promise not to complain about any of it.” He holds up a hand in solemn oath. “As long as you swear no one else is allowed between your legs. And that as soon as I’m out of here, I’m taking you again.”
She swallows thickly and fiddles with the clasp of her briefcase. “Alright.”
Fuck. This went better than he ever dreamed. He fucked Granger, Granger is his, and now he’s going to get to fuck Granger as often as he’d like, as soon as he’s out.
She clears her throat and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you next Thursday for our next briefing.”
Draco watches her leave, relishing in the click-clack sounds her heels make on the stone floor. He waits until she’s halfway out the door, and then he calls to her. “Granger.”
She turns around, her eyes catching his one last time. Her lips part, and Draco smirks.
“You’ve got something on your leg.”