Chapter Text
He’s eating dinner when she arrives, the Prophet laid out on the shiny dark surface of the table beside his plate. He doesn’t look up as she eases her shoes off and places them with toes against the baseboard. Takes another bite as she comes to sit in the chair just to his left, the corner of the table between them. He’s in his shirtsleeves and a narrow tie, hair lightly mussed.
She swallows as she takes her wand and stretches forward to place it in the center of the table. Far enough to be clear she’s set it intentionally out of easy reach.
Then she spreads her knees the width of the chair, the balls of her feet on the ground, bottom of her heels against the chair legs. Her arms go behind her back, each hand wrapping around the opposite elbow to hold herself in place, back arched. Her position.
Malfoy finishes his bite and turns the page of the paper before he glances up. Wear the dress from last week’s state dinner, his unsigned note had said. The ‘Nothing else.’ was implicit. No underthings when she came to him – a baseline rule.
The dress is black, several layers of gauzy fabric that nip in elegantly at the waist and flare gently below. It leaves her shoulders bare, fabric at the center of her chest coming up in a halter around her neck. Very elegant, Padma had said.
She still feels elegant as he reaches over and trails fingertips down her shoulder, across her clavicle to the top of her dress. Then tugs the fabric down until her nipple is visible, and keeps pulling until her whole breast pops free. She breathes in sharply and he glances up at her but doesn’t pause as he tucks the fabric under her breast, then does the same to her other one.
The back of his knuckles are warm against the underside of her breast, nudging it up a bit as he tucks the fabric in place. Then he sits back and considers her, still sitting with her hands clasped behind her back so she can’t do anything to cover herself. She can feel her nipples tingling as they harden under his gaze. And then he turns back to his reading and his food, like she isn’t even there.
She feels her vision tunneling, her breath starting to come fast and shallow at how casually he treats her body as something he’s entitled to display. And then ignores it, as though there’s nothing particularly interesting in her bare tits or her silent obedience. Certainly nothing he’s desperate for – not like she always is, thinking all the time of things they’d done or might do, of when she can see him again and end up in this place of heady silence, arousal rushing over her in dark waves.
There’s no plate for her. She knows this is intentional, another way to play up their hierarchy. Later, he might have her kneel by his chair, while he feeds her scraps from his plate, her lips and tongue against the tips of his fingers. Or maybe he’ll do as he’s threatened: set her plate on the floor beside him so she can eat while he watches, her hands still held behind her back. Or else they’ll have a late supper on trays in his ridiculously sumptuous bed, both leaning naked against the pillows, after he’s used her. Just thinking the phrase makes her shiver internally.
The rush of the Floo sounds in the other room.
She breaks position accidentally, eyes flicking up to his in question. It’s only a moment before she catches herself and drops her gaze, but he’s already seen.
“Hmm,” he says, amusement in his voice, so she knows she’ll pay for that later. The foyer with the Floo is right beside the dining room – if she were in a different chair, she’d be visible to anyone who floos in. As it is, she’s tucked out of sight, which means she can’t see the foyer either. But can hear clearly.
“Ah, glad you could make it,” says Draco’s voice.
“No worries,” answers a male voice and she knows that— Neville.
“All right, Longbottom?” says Draco as if to confirm.
“Aye,” says Neville, and she hears the rustling of paper. “Here’s the crossbred strain of murtlap I mentioned.”
After half a decade in Australia and another working with MACUSA, Hermione knew things would have changed back home. But the relationship – friendship? – between Draco and Neville was not something she’d ever imagined.
She’s gotten pieces of the story from Ginny and Harry when she’d asked – a shared apprenticeship at one of the larger apothecaries; a year Draco had spent teaching at Hogwarts, where Neville leads the Herbology program; a symbiotic relationship between Neville’s pet growing projects and Draco’s potioneering. Whatever happened, she hasn’t seen them together enough to understand the dynamic.
And Harry and Ginny’s gossip is only worth so much, busy as they are with kids and in-laws and all the trappings of the kind of life she fled. It’s clear from her outsiders perspective that her friends have neatly divided into two social groups. Those who have married get together for early dinners and discuss – what? Nappies and training brooms? Something like that.
Those who are single – divorced or unpartnered – are a loose world unto themselves, flitting in and out of combinations and trading gossip that’s out of date almost as soon as she’s heard it.
It’s the group where she first ran into Draco again, calmer and relaxed, ankle on his knee at a rooftop party, chatting with Demelza Robins.
It’s at a cocktail bar with the same group where she first got a confused jolt seeing Neville across the room – tall, broad, confident – and then realizing the person he was chatting with – looking genuinely pleased! – was Malfoy.
Malfoy who saw her at kink night at a muggle club, of all places. Malfoy who took what she’d learned about herself in her years abroad, and made it his medium. Got her somehow addicted to this game where she’s just his plaything–
“Let me know how it brews,” Neville’s voice continues in the foyer.
“Cheers,” Draco says. “I have a batch I’m starting next week.”
“Brilliant,” says Neville, and she hears the squeak of the floorboard beside the front door, before Draco speaks again.
“Care for a drink?” he asks. “I was just finishing dinner, come join.”
Hermione feels a thrill of excited panic shoot up her spine as her whole body tenses.
She has options. She can pull up her dress before they walk in, essentially using her safeword. She can duck into the next room. She can grab her wand and apparate.
In the foyer, Neville has said something and Draco is answering, listing out several different wines, a couple of liquors– dimly she realizes he’s giving her time to react, if she wants to.
“-- and a gin from Norway,” he says. “Very juniper forward, I’m not sure what I think of it, if you want to try a taste.” She hears twin footsteps approaching, his voice getting louder, and her heart is in her throat, she’s barely breathing–
“Oh, whatever you're having is fine,” says Neville, as he comes into the room behind Draco – before stopping short as he sees her.
“Oh,” she hears him say in a different sort of voice. “Didn’t know you had company. Don’t… mean to interrupt.”
He’s a bit behind her and off to the side but she doesn’t turn her head, keeping her position, arms back, eyes lowered to the table in front of her. She can feel his eyes on her, hot across her skin, and her breasts have never felt so bare, more naked than naked.
“Not at all,” says Draco, moving easily to the sideboard. She can just see him from the corner of her eye as he takes down two snifters. “That’s the pet project I mentioned. Do you mind? We can move into the den if you prefer.”
Neville hasn’t moved and Hermione realizes all the blood in her body seems to have rushed to the space between her legs, which is positively throbbing. She waits, barely breathing, for him to live up to her memories and accept Draco’s out, for them to retreat to the den.
Instead—
“Hardly,” says Neville, and instead of sounding wobbly or awkward, his voice is steady, with a smile in it. She hears his heavy tread again – he’s as tall as Draco and sturdier – before he settles into the seat across from her, on the other side of Draco’s place.
Even with her eyes lowered, she can see his face now, a bit. See him studying her, even as he leans back in his chair to let Draco set a glass in front of him. Draco settles back into his own seat as Neville takes a long sip of his drink, eyes on her the whole time. It turns out her blood is not all between her legs as she’d thought – half of it seems to be in her face now. She must be bright red.
Draco glances at her and laughs.
“Breathe, pet,” he says and she takes in a slow, deep lungful of air, only then realizing how much she needs it. “Steady on,” he tells her, then – she can’t fucking believe it – turns to ask Neville how his grandmother has been.
It’s like before, like she’s not even there, or like she’s only a decoration. Something to be ignored (Draco) or to look at with slowly wandering eyes (Neville) while they chat. Hermione digs her nails into her arms and feels a rush of uncontrollable wetness between her legs. How did Draco know she’d want this so much, when even she didn’t?
She can’t follow their conversation, so caught up in the arousal roaring in her ears, the feel of her own hands against her skin, the air against her breasts, the fact that this is really happening, right now. Breathe, she tells herself. Slow and steady.
“And how goes the project?” Neville finally says, gesturing at her with his chin, and it cuts through the fog as she realizes he means her. Draco turns to look at her as well, folding his arms, and she takes another deliberate breath, feeling both sets of eyes on her skin.
“Coming along nicely,” Draco says. “Except when she’s too horny to behave. Which is almost always. She’s terrifically desperate.”
Hermione feels her face go beet red. It’s true, and he’s always teasing her about it, using it as an excuse to dole out punishments, both the kind that’s fun for her and the kind that’s only fun for him.
“Convenient,” Neville murmurs, and Draco chuckles.
“Indeed,” he says, before changing his tone as he addresses her. “Pet,” he says, and she knows she can lift her eyes to look at him. Like always, his gaze is mischievous, controlled, conspiratorial. Without her permission, her eyes dart sideways to see Neville’s face. His chair is angled sideways, long legs stretched out beside Draco’s seat. He’s sipping his drink, expression unreadable as he watches her, eyes flicking from her breasts to her face and back. She yanks her gaze back to Draco, who raises an eyebrow at her in warning, but doesn’t comment.
“Come here,” he says instead, snapping his fingers and pointing to a spot between himself and Neville, like she’s a pet being called. She lets her arms drop and rises unsteadily to her feet, walking around his chair to stand at the corner of the table, facing him, back to Neville. He angles his chair away from the table, like Neville’s, so she’s standing between his knees.
“Look at these tits, just hanging out for anyone to see,” he says, taking one in his hand to squeeze while he gently twists the nipple of the other. “Such a little slut.”
As though it had been her idea! She keeps her mouth shut but scowls at him, which only makes him laugh at her. He slaps the side of one breast.
“So easy,” he says. His voice is matter-of-fact: “Are you wet?”
With her back to Neville she can almost pretend he’s not there, not hearing this.
“Yes, sir,” she says in a small voice.
“Of course you are,” he grins. “How wet?”
“Very, I think,” she admits.
“Typical,” he says and nods down at her skirt.
“Up,” he says, and she swallows, fisting her hands in the fabric and lifting the front so it shows him everything, lack of knickers and all.
“And the back,” he says sternly. “Show Professor Longbottom that luscious arse.”
Fuck. She’s so simultaneously embarrassed and turned on she feels dizzy. She gathers more fabric in her hands, lifting the back of the skirt as well, until the whole thing is bunched around her waist. The air prickles against her bare skin.
“Better,” says Draco, and runs his fingers down her stomach, scratching through the trim patch of curls above her clit before tugging on it deliciously. She sways slightly and he uses the back of a finger to brush between her legs, ever so lightly. Pleasure jolts through her, somehow so much stronger than if he’d just touched her firmly. He knows just how to tease her. He does it again and she whimpers, then again, before pressing gently with his knuckle against the hood of her clit. She whimpers again, louder, and hears an exhale and rustle of fabric as Neville shifts in his seat.
Then Draco’s hands are firm on her hips as he turns her around. She’s only feet from Neville, her breasts still bare, holding her skirt up like she’s intentionally showing him her bare sex.
He’s still leaning back, holding his drink in his hand, looking interested and mildly amused. She can’t believe he’s so relaxed about this. The Neville she’d grown up with would never–
“You see,” Draco says conversationally, one hand still firm on her waist, “Miss Granger here just needed someone to take her in hand.” He slides his other hand back down, but instead of touching her again, delivers a sudden light slap to her pussy from behind. It reverberates through her, sharp and warm, and she can’t help it. She cries out.
“Generous of you,” Neville remarks, voice only a little tight.
“Mmm,” Draco agrees, then finally – finally! – touches her properly, sliding two fingers between her folds and spreading them to open her up to view. Her clit is throbbing and he squeezes it just a bit between his fingers before pressing their tips against her entrance. All three of them watch as he removes them, the slickness of her arousal glistening as it stretches between his fingers and her cunt.
“See?” Draco says, spreading his fingers wider to show how much she’s drenched them. Then, before she can react, he’s brought them up to her face, pressing them into her mouth. She lets out a tiny moan around them, at both the treatment and the taste, the tang of her own wetness.
He leaves them there, heavy against the back of her tongue, as the hand on her waist wanders up to pinch a nipple. His tone changes, addressing her directly.
“Do you want to come?”
She gulps, feeling her own eyes widen. She does, desperately, but can she admit it in front of Neville? Let alone do it in front of Neville? If –if that’s what he’s offering?
It’s a question, so she can of course say no. But before she can even catch up with her own thoughts, she finds herself nodding. He removes his fingers from her mouth, trailing them wetly across her cheek.
“Yes,” she says, voice just above a whisper.
His fingers tighten on her nipple.
“Yes what?” he says.
“Yes, sir,” she says, face crimson.
“Mmm,” he says. “We’ll have a little spanking about that later.”
Neville’s eyebrows raise and his mouth twitches in amusement.
“In the meantime,” Draco goes on. “Since we have company–”
He reaches over to the table, the fabric of his clothing pressing briefly against her bare cheeks as he grabs a folded linen napkin, dark navy.
He drapes it over one knee, covering his slacks.
“Right, then,” he says, and presses on her lower back until she takes a step forward, out from between his legs. “Rub yourself off, if you must.”
Her clit throbs and she feels her face flood with color again, realizing. The napkin is to protect his trousers from– her, her nakedness next to his tidy expensive outfit, her wet cunt and slick desperation beside his cool control. She closes her eyes briefly.
Draco’s firm hands wrap around her hips again and nudge her to walk two steps backward, so his leg is between hers. Then he guides her firmly down. Her eyes flutter shut as, finally, she gets something in contact with her cunt, and she lets out a whimper without thinking. Then her eyes fly open to meet Neville’s gaze. It’s the first time they’ve made eye contact and she flushes harder. Again, he sips his drink without looking away.
“Best get on with it before I change my mind,” says Draco, who’s released her hips. She feels him reach for his own drink and her body has overridden the controls and bypassed higher brain function because before she can even think about it, she’s rocking against him, cunt alight as she rubs against the firm warmth of Draco’s thigh. She’s desperate for it, can’t stop the moan that bleeds out of her at the relief of friction at last. Neville raises his eyebrows and drops his gaze to–
Her cunt, where she’s holding up her dress to show it to him, as she rubs it against Draco’s leg. Wanton. A part of her, observing, can’t believe she’s desperate enough to do this; but she’s so turned on she can’t think straight, can just follow direction and impulse and the cravings of her desperate, blissed out body. She’s a horny mess. It’s perfect.
“I see what you mean,” Neville says, after a long moment, glancing up at Draco and grinning. Behind her, Draco snorts in agreement. She hears the clink of ice in his glass, then a swallow, before he sets it down on the table. He presses his fingers suddenly to the inside of her thigh and she jolts – they’re freezing, from holding the glass.
“Oh!” she says, and he chuckles.
“Drenched,” he tuts, and she glances down to see, yes, the slickness she can now feel beneath her is a spreading wet patch against the dark fabric. She makes a small, choked noise but doesn’t slow. She’d been so turned on before she even started this that she’s already rocketing toward orgasm, gasping a little as she leans forward, slowing a bit as her clit drags across the thick cloth.
“Sir,” she chokes out, still looking down to where the lips of her pussy are visibly spread, pressed against Draco’s thigh. “Can I come? Please?”
He doesn’t answer and she whimpers, slowing down more and trying to focus on the feeling of her fingers in the cloth of her dress, the balls of her feet pressed against the floor – anything besides the liquid pleasure coiling so compellingly between her legs.
She hears Draco take another languid sip, then slide his free hand up into the hair at the base of her neck. He tugs, deliciously, and it forces her chin up, so she’s looking at Neville once again. His eyes are dark and wide, watching what Draco’s doing to her. What she’s letting him do to her. What she’s letting him make her do.
“Don’t ask me,” Draco says. “Ask our guest.”
Her eyes go wide and she sucks in air. Neville’s eyes do too, and now he’s watching her face, glass still in hand. He’s wearing the Neville version of city clothes: clean and perfectly respectable, but certainly more practical than Draco’s finery. She looks down at the tan of his thick canvas trousers, then the shine of his brown brogues, and wonders how each in turn would feel rubbing against her hot cunt. Fuck.
She can barely choke out the words, but she’s so close–
“Please,” she gasps out, remembering the boy who’d agree to any favor, would lend her his best quill and somehow manage to be the one apologizing to her if she lost it. “Please can I come?”
Neville takes another sip of his drink as she tries to fight the tiny circles her hips are still making. He tilts his head consideringly.
“No,” he says, and the casual cruelty of it is like lightning to her clit.
Draco yanks her up by the hips just as she starts to come, or would have, and she feels hot delicious frustrated tears fill her eyes as her orgasm fizzles and dissipates, ruined.
Fuck. He knows her far too well. She surprises herself with the noise she makes, half desperate moan, half frustrated rage. Her lust and annoyance are only compounded when she realizes they’re laughing, both of them, actually laughing – at her.
“Good man,” Draco chuckles, and Neville lifts his glass, smiling.
“Well?” says Draco, letting go of her hips. “Where are your manners? Thank the Professor for his answer.”
Her eyes burn.
“Thank you,” she says sullenly to Neville’s right knee. Draco gives her arse cheek a sharp slap.
“Thank you,” she says again quickly and clearly, jerking her gaze up.
“Like you’d thank me,” Draco says sternly, smacking her other cheek.
“Thank you for not letting me come,” she says all in a rush. Draco pinches the inside of her thigh and she squeals, going up on tiptoe.
“Because…” he says. She feels her face, somehow, get even redder.
“Because,” she says, mumbling, “it keeps me horny and makes me suck better cock and it’s reward enough just to be used.”
Neville looks like he’s having the time of his life. Draco pinches one of her outer labia.
“We’ll work on that delivery,” he promises darkly, then points toward the floor in the corner. “That’s enough of your distractions now. Go sit.”
Hermione swallows and starts to move.
“Wait,” he says when she’s two steps away and she turns back. He picks up the napkin from his thigh. “Better use this, or you’ll be cleaning the floor with your tongue.”
She’s still using both hands to hold up the skirt of her dress so it takes a moment to realize what he wants. Face flaming, she bends forward and takes the wet cloth between her teeth. It reeks of sex.
She can feel them both watching her as she makes her way to the corner and has to undergo the indignity of figuring out how to follow his directions. She kneels, facing the wall, and drops the napkin to the ground. It lands in a heap so she has to bend forward to use her nose to nudge it flat, knowing she’s giving them a perfect view of her bare arse waving in the air. Then she turns back around, back to the wall, and settles back on her knees. The napkin is on the floor below her cunt, which they can clearly see with her knees spread wide. She’s not up for the punishment she’d get if they weren’t. It’s all she can do not to spread them a little farther, press herself lower, push her needy pussy against the floor itself.
It’s a small consolation to watch Draco adjust himself in his oh-so-precious trousers. To see Neville press the heel of his hand against his crotch. It’s just one moment, though, and then Draco is leaning forward to pour them both another glass, saying something about Quidditch scores, and Neville is smiling and answering. Both of them ignoring her, a diversion that’s done with, as she sits and drips and waits.
**
Eventually, Neville gets up to go, shoving his hands in his pockets as he heads toward the Floo.
“Bye, Draco. Thanks for the drink.” A pause, as his eyes dart to her corner, sweep over her. The side of his mouth quirks. “Bye, ‘Mione.” Her name is like a slap. No pretending this didn't happen, no imagining she's someone else.
After he’s seen Neville out, Draco comes back to his chair and paper. He snaps without looking her way and she crawls back over to settle between his legs, kneeling upright instead of on her heels. He flicks open his fly, pulls trousers and pants below his bollocks, and finally glances down at her. His hand is large as he slides it into her hair to grasp her head and bring it to his half-hard cock.
“Mouth open,” he says, and guides her head down over his cock. Because he’s not fully hard, it can all fit in her mouth at once, barely. She begins pulling back, to suck him, but his grip in her hair tightens.
“I didn’t tell you to move,” he says. So she stops. Waits there, with him in her mouth, her mouth filling with spit, her tongue and throat strangely hungry for the usual slide and thrust.
Draco’s using a charm that lets the paper hover in the air in front of him. He turns a page occasionally, with a flick of his free hand. His other hand keeps her in place, heavy and sure against her skull.
On instinct, Hermione tries to swallow down all the saliva in her mouth, but she can’t with his cock in place – and it gets her a sharp tug on her hair.
“Uh uh uh,” he says warningly, without looking away from his paper.
Hermione closes her eyes and breathes slowly through her nose. In and out. Her spit spills, slick, out of her mouth and down her chin, a simple and primal humiliation she knows intimately from the times she’s been gagged.
She can smell him so strongly, the musk peculiar to this part of him. Like sex and clean sweat. It makes her hungry for him. Her chin is nestled against the soft skin of his bollocks, so he must feel the soaking they’re getting from her spit.
She closes her eyes and floats there for a bit. On the floor for him, mouth around his cock, while he ignores her. Slowly she feels him begin to get harder, his prick filling out, until she can’t fit it all. Eventually he brings his other hand to her head as well and thrusts up into her mouth. His eyes are still on the paper, but after a moment he does it again, the soft head of his cock sliding against her soft palate. Hermione moans, feeling herself get wetter, and he finally mutters a finite at the hovering paper, which brushes past her as it folds itself neatly on the table.
“Ready, little girl?” he says and she’d gasp if she could. Then he’s widening his legs and holding her more firmly with both hands as he rocks up into her mouth. At first he’s slow and firm, pressing the head of his cock against her throat and holding for a beat before drawing back. He gets faster and sloppier, though, as it goes on.
“You were so good today,” he says, on a gasp. “Letting Longbottom see those pretty little tits of yours. Letting me show you off.”
Hermione feels a rush of warmth all through her body and does her best to relax her jaw further.
“Makes me wonder – fuck – what else I could get you to do.”
Her mouth is filling with the taste of his precum and she moans a little, helplessly. He ruts upward faster, shoving his cock down her throat, cutting off her air. She sucks in oxygen through her nose when he pulls back, then holds it through the next stroke.
She can feel her pussy tingling, her cunt twitching, at being so thoroughly used. Draco’s hips snap and then he’s groaning as his come fills her mouth, gasping along with each spurt. He holds still for a moment, after, meaning she holds the come in her mouth until he lifts her head off his wet prick and leans back, head tilted up at the ceiling while he breathes deeply. She swallows.
“Fuck,” he says drowsily, then raises his head to look at her. She knows she’s a mess, face streaked with tears and spit, mouth swollen. Her breasts still lewdly framed by her dress.
“Up,” he says, and she stands. He arranges her so his knees are inside her legs, then guides her to sit straddling his lap. He keeps his legs apart so she’s balancing her thighs on his, with her poor neglected cunt over open space.
“These,” he says, and tugs on a nipple. She whimpers and he pinches the other one, then brings it to his mouth. He sucks hard, simultaneously twisting the first one and soon she’s writhing, whimpering, desperate. Every touch sends a bolt of desire down between her legs, without any satisfaction. There’s nothing even to rub against.
She’s wobbling in his lap and almost crying with frustration before he relents.
“I suppose you want to lift your skirt up,” he says, and laughs at her frantic nod. He gestures with his head and she scrabbles the fabric up to bunch in her clenched hands.
Her pussy is practically drooling. Without warning, he slaps it, and the sound is thickly wet. When he pulls his hand back, both of them staring down at it, strings of her arousal stretch with it.
“Always so desperate,” he says, tone a little mocking. “Best let you come now, so you don’t make a mess of all the sheets.”
He slides his middle finger inside her and it’s so good she actually sobs. He curls it to press against that spot at the same moment he licks his thumb and strokes it across her clit.
She comes undone.
He has to catch her, chuckling, so she doesn’t fall off his lap. Her orgasm goes on and on and by the time it’s over her face is newly wet with tears.
“Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” she says, and he tugs her forward to rest her head against his chest. She can hear his heart, slower than her racing pulse, and she breathes in his scent. His fingers creep up the back of her neck to settle in her hair again, cradling her, holding her right where he wants her.
“Good girl,” says Draco.