Chapter Text
Outside Edinburgh - 2002
The shrill ring of that fucking-forsaken telephone had him tipping back one last dram straight out of the bottle before his hand snatched up the receiver, yanking the cord from the wall.
"Alright, mate."
"You get what you needed?"
Their exchanges were clipped quick questions. Owls were being intercepted and it had taken some convincing to get these cursed contraptions instead. Manipulation, memory charms, and a few threats had persuaded the local electric company to install the lines in the heavily warded manor.
The Ministry might be catching on but they weren’t cleverer than them.
It was the underestimation by the Ministry—the assumption that Durmstrang-educated, Pureblood heirs wouldn’t dirty their hands with Muggle technology. That’s where they were wrong. They’d dirty themselves plenty if it meant refilling the family vaults.
"Yeah, we were right. It’s Colin’s crew."
"Alright."
"You handling it tonight?"
"Yeah."
Draco didn’t wait for a response before hearing the click on Theo's end and the dial tone.
"Boys—get in the car!" Draco’s shout rang through the manor, almost as loud as Nott’s call.
Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Adrian Pucey lived in a sprawling estate outside Edinburgh, Scotland.
Why? It was the gateway to the East.
Their old school ties had held strong and they exploited them shamelessly. Theodore Nott, stationed in London, worked with suppliers while the rest handled the trading.
Edinburgh was a direct route to Stavanger, then Copenhagen, funneling through Warsaw into Minsk, and finally Moscow. With so many international stops their goods moved through almost undetectable channels.
They hadn’t planned to become what they were now but after discovering that centuries of family mismanagement had drained their vaults, leaving them living off name and credit, the four of them—fresh out of Durmstrang—chose to refill their coffers and fuck their family legacies into the ground while they were at it.
"Colin’s crew?" Blaise huffed smoke from his cigarette before crushing it in the gravel under his boots as he opened the side door of their Coupe DeVille.
Draco was the only one of them who had bothered to learn how to drive—more careful than the rest. Just because there hadn’t been any nosy Aurors or indictments didn’t mean they weren’t being watched. Floo connections and Apparition wards criss-crossed the areas they frequented and Draco wasn’t about to take any chances.
"Paranoid," Pucey would snort, but Pucey was a fucking nit. He’d be the first to go down or die .
"Colin’s crew," Draco grunted, sliding into the driver’s seat. The scratchy sound of a rock 'n' roll band crackled on the radio, fading in and out as the sun set behind them.
Colin Murray was a washed-up, too-old, defunct Potions Master, heading a shoddy group of wannabe racketeers. Draco had suspected for a while now that they were counterfeiting the potions he, Blaise, Theo, and Adrian had created—slapping their labels on them and exporting them, making their names and brands far less reputable.
The only people who could ruin their names would be themselves.
Knocking Murray’s mangled teeth in would be the highlight of Draco's night, especially after the man had been on his knees just a month ago, swearing he wasn’t the one ripping them off.
Draco pulled up to the cottage just outside Tayport. It was eerily quiet—too late in the season for tourists. The gravel crunched under the tires as he parked, lighting a cigarette. He motioned for Zabini and Pucey to stay still, eyes fixed on the thin curtains as shadows moved back and forth inside.
The first shadow was tall, lean, and hunched— Colin.
The second, shorter and stockier—one of Colin’s henchmen. Two more shadows followed. The entire crew was there.
Gotcha.
“No wands unless necessary. Too easy to trace,” Draco muttered, nodding as he opened the car door. He reached into the backseat beside Pucey and pulled out a Louisville Slugger, placing a finger to his lips to signal silence. Zabini and Pucey got the message, staying quiet as they sauntered up the walk toward the entrance.
No wards.
Colin either thought he was safe or he was too pathetic of a wizard to know how to set them. Either way, it didn't matter. The heel of Draco’s boot, coupled with years of Quidditch training, had him slamming through the weakened frame of the hundred-year-old cabin
Colin’s expression twisted in shock as Draco stepped inside and swung the bat directly into his face.
The instant rush Draco felt from the impact was a fucking high.
Teeth cracked, blood splattering across the walls like spilled paint. Blaise was right behind Draco, wrestling a ginger crony toward the whistling teapot that stung their ears. Zabini smashed the man's face into the boiling kettle before pressing it down onto the red-hot coil of the stove, the stink of burning flesh swam beside agonised screams.
Draco swung his bat again, bringing it down hard on Colin's skull.
"Malfoy! Malfoy!" Colin begged.
They always begged , but nothing compared to the raw power of using brute force against a man’s bones. It was better than any spell he could conjure. He understood the Muggle's need for physical violence—the satisfaction of it—after years of being told it was savage and uncivilised.
Lucius Malfoy had clearly never crushed a hand beneath dragonhide boots.
It was almost as good as shagging.
Draco had grown up with repressed rage and lust. Years spent at an all-boys pureblood magical school that teetered on the edge of unsavoury would do that to anyone. Plenty of the other boys, in their throes of puberty, had secretly fucked each other, trying not to get caught. It was just as taboo as letting in Muggle-borns. But cock had never interested Draco.
What he had craved was the heat of a woman’s cunt.
The first time he’d felt it—within the coldness of Durmstrangs stone walls—had been with an easy Beauxbatons brunette. She’d got off on being passed around the sixth-year dorm during the French school's two-week visit to "explore the north’s magical properties."
That’s when Draco realized the two things he loved most were breaking bones and fucking. And, for him, they went hand in hand.
After soaking in another man’s blood, beating him senseless, he’d shag the plain-looking married witch at the pub. He’d slam her against the sink in the loo, pelvis thrusting against her arse as she begged for his cock. Draco would spit out crude grunts about her ignorant cuckold of a husband—the pub bartender who pretended not to notice that Draco filled his wife every other weeknight. And,when he was finished, he’d toss some Galleons on the counter, stalk out, and walk back to the manor to wash it all away.
"Oh, fucking hell, Colin. Stop your begging. The time for that is over." Draco’s voice was cold and calm as he pressed his boot harder onto the man's neck. "You told me you weren’t selling your shite to the Russians. And guess what? You lied to me, Colin. I don't like being lied to."
He glanced back at Pucey. "What happens to liars?"
"They die."
With two muffled pops, Pucey fired a pistol, and the two men—one pinned against the wall, the other kneeling by the counter, pleading for mercy—crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Draco noted how unceremoniously they fell, as most bodies did. Just limp, collapsing quietly, a pathetic end to their miserable lives. Draco swore he’d make sure his own end wouldn’t be so boring, wouldn’t just keel over like these fucking fools.
“Please ... I didn’t ... it’s just—” Colin spat through blood and broken teeth; his words barely coherent. Nearby, the third man, the one Blaise had pinned, had either died or lost consciousness, his pink, charred face glued to the stove.
"We're going to raid the rest of your cottage; take everything you've got. Then I'm going to burn it to the ground with Fiendfyre, turning your bones to ash," Draco continued, almost lazily. "Zabini will make it look like a Muggle oil fire. By the time they arrive, they’ll buy it.”
"Don't... Malfoy ... I can help you..." Colin gargled, crimson pooling in his mouth.
"No, Colin, you can't. You could have... but you chose to fuck with me." Draco crouched, smiling as he saw the fear bubbling in the man's eyes. "Nobody fucks with me. Or them. Or our products. We’ve worked hard to build a reputation for the cleanest, most potent illicit elixirs on the market, and you almost ruined that. Now you’ve got to pay our price."
His grin widened as he leaned in closer. "So, how do you want it, Colin? Want me to beat you to death? Or should I let you burn alive?"
“Let me go!” Colin’s final, desperate plea was met with silence.
Draco straightened up, already bored of the conversation. "Pucey, check the storage rooms. Empty it into the car. Zabini, start cleaning up."
Pucey and Zabini nodded.
They all had their roles.
Zabini could make any scene look like a grisly Muggle accident, while Pucey had a knack for sniffing out illegal products, herbs, and magical creatures like a bloodhound.
Draco lit another cigarette as he looked around.
This would all be over soon, and the job would be done cleanly. Just like always.
London – Diagon Alley
Theo hung up the phone and paced around his flat, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He’d spent the entire day beating the smuggler Fletcher into a bludgeoned mess.
Thwack.
“Who?”
“I don’t know, mate. I don’t know!”
Another thwack, his knuckles raw and stinging, covered in blood—some his, most not.
“Who?”
Theo rinsed his hands, still feeling the phantom ache from his earlier confrontation with Fletcher. He wasn’t proud of it, but sometimes violence—and a flick of his wand—got results. Mungundus had broken the moment Theo whispered the possibility of an Unforgivable, his already black and blue face paling at the threat.
"Fucking coward," Theo muttered.
But Malfoy got his answer.
They had sent him to London to cultivate a relationship with some Muggle-born potioneer—a mental one, mixing Muggle chemistry with magical herbs, fungi, blood, creature hair—whatever strange ingredient you could think of, this bastard was using it.
Theo couldn’t complain, though. London was a far cry from the dreary isolation of Newburgh. Draco might call him with other tasks here and there, but at least in London, he could escape. He wasn’t stuck going to the same cursed pub outside their warded estate, where Draco would occasionally shag that ugly barmaid.
It felt fucking liberating to stroll into the Leaky Cauldron, where no one gave him a second glance. The place was packed with witches and wizards who’d gone to Hogwarts—Greengrasses, Parkinsons, and other Purebloods who remembered him as a boy but didn’t know the man he was now.
He’d shagged Pansy Parkinson a few times since being back, despite her being engaged to some Flint bloke. Not that it mattered . Flint’s name barely counted as Pureblood anymore.
Still, Theo needed to shake the whole Pureblood-versus-Muggle-born mindset. He’d been raised with it, ingrained in every thought, so it wasn’t easy to completely purge it from his head. But the deeper he got involved with Muggles, Muggle-borns, Purebloods, and the aristocracy—hell, even the corrupt Foreign Ministries—the more he realised they were all the same.
Debauchery had no bloodline.
His loafers clicked against the cobblestones as he walked toward the pub, the Weird Sisters blasting into the street. People spilled out onto the pavement with their pints and Theo hummed along. He preferred Muggle music, but he knew waltzing in humming "Night Fever" wasn’t going to get him into the knickers of a Slytherin blonde.
He’d learned quickly that Hogwarts alumni, especially Slytherins, were often the easiest to bed. They'd always lead with their house when he introduced himself as.
“Theodore Nott,”
That name still carried weight.
The bar was packed, bodies pressed together in a humid crush as Theo weaved his way through the crowd. He ordered a Firewhiskey, his eyes scanning the room as he took a long gulp. That’s when he saw her. She was laughing with a pretty redhead, tossing her curls back with a loud, carefree laugh, her whole presence vibrant and alive—autumn wrapped in human form.
Theo didn’t usually think of women in terms of seasons. He usually imagined them naked, plain and simple.
But this one... she radiated warmth, like a bonfire on a chilly night. Comforting. Inviting.
And, damn it, now he needed to know her.
His eyes lingered, and just his fucking luck, she must’ve felt it. She turned, catching his stare with a half-smirk, her olive skin glowing under the dim lights as if she soaked up the sun just to carry it with her. She wore a black strappy dress that casually hung off her curves and pooled at her hips.
Definitely Hogwarts, he thought.
Theo ordered another whiskey, chugging it down as the scent of vanilla somehow cut through the stench of stale booze and rotting limes. The woman was beside him now, calling out to the overworked bartender.
"Gin and tonic," she quipped, not sparing him a glance as she rummaged through her tiny black clutch, clearly struggling to find the galleons.
"Five galleons," the bartender barked, hands full even with enchanted bottles mixing drinks behind him.
" Extendable charm ... just give me a moment," she muttered, still digging through her bag.
Theo tossed ten galleons on the bar in front of her and the bartender. She snapped her clutch shut with an annoyed huff.
"Thanks, but I do have it," she said, her voice cool, but her cheeks flushing slightly.
"I believe you," Theo replied with a smirk, "but half the bar would’ve sobered up by the time you found it."
Her cheeks deepened in colour.
"Does the kind stranger who bought my drink have a name? I don't recognize you, and I thought I knew everyone here—it’s a bloody reunion."
"Theodore Nott, but you can call me Theo."
"Theo," she repeated, a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger."
"Hermione Granger, Granger..." Theo mused, letting her name roll off his tongue. "Hogwarts, I assume?"
"We all are," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Except for you."
"And how do you know I’m not an alumnus? Maybe I’m just some bloke you all forgot about," he teased.
She gave him a slow once-over, her gaze lingering in a way that surprised him. "I’d have remembered you."
Cheeky witch, this Granger.
"Durmstrang," he said.
"Ah, that was my guess." She tilted her head slightly. "Tell me, does Theodore Nott of Durmstrang dance? My friend’s leaving soon, and it’s far less fun without a partner."
Theo hesitated. He wasn't much for dancing, especially not in front of a crowd. And Hermione Granger was the kind of woman who drew eyes without even trying. As it was, he’d already noticed a trio of Quidditch playing looking oafs watching her from across the room, clearly hoping for their chance to get close.
"Unfortunately, I’m not much of a dancer, Granger."
"Shame." She flashed him a playful grin, then twisted on her heel, moving through the crowd with graceful, feline ease before Theo could convince her that staying and talking to him would be far more interesting than a dance.
She was intriguing—more than he expected.
Music pulsed, the crowd ebbing and flowing around him as he stood at the bar, his stare focused on her. Hermione moved in waves, arms lifting to run through her curls, letting them tumble back down as she swayed, always dodging the hands of men trying to edge into her space. Each time one of them got too close, she slipped away, untouchable. But Theo knew he had to act before one of them succeeded.
Before he fully registered it, his feet were moving, each thrum of the bass driving him closer. The strobe lights flashed, illuminating her in brief, glowing intervals—her face, her body, each sway mesmerising him more. Then, he was there, inches from her, his breath hers. His hands slid to her waist, and instead of pulling away, she leaned into him, her body pressed against his, her lip caught between her teeth.
The music blasted around them, but all Theo could hear was the pounding of his own blood, the heat of her body seeping into his as her fingers gripped his forearms. Her hips moved against him in rhythm with the beat, sending his senses into overdrive.
"Come home with me,"
He knew it was forward—hell, it was brazen—but something about this woman had him completely ensnared.
"I don’t know you," she breathed, beads of sweat glistening as they trailed down her cleavage.
"Then get to know me," he murmured into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "I’m worth your time, I promise."
She hesitated. "You seem very sure of yourself," Though her voice was less certain now.
"I’m so fucking sure of myself, Granger," he choked with all his faux confidence. "I went to an all-boys school; I’ll bury my face between your thighs all damned night just because I’ve been starved for it my whole life."
Her breath stopped and her eyes locked onto his, wide with both surprise and something else—something that made his pulse skyrocket. Her grip on his arms tightened, her body stilling against his.
She nodded.
Theo spun her around, pulling her flush against him, her back pressing firmly into his chest, her arse aligning perfectly with his groin.
Without a word, he guided her through the crowd, their bodies moving as one as they stepped between sweaty bodies, her curls brushing against his face with a light floral scent. His clasp on her wrist was firm, feeling her heart thrumming under his palm, but she kept pace with him, allowing herself to be led towards the exit.
Cold night air hit her bare arms, causing shivers to erupt on her skin.
They stepped onto the dimly lit street, the full moon casting a silvery glow over her face. Theo knew he wasn’t supposed to Apparate—Malfoy had warned him about keeping magic use to a minimum, to avoid leaving any traces.
But he wasn’t about to give Hermione a second to reconsider her choice to leave with him.
She looked up at the sky, her lips parting as if she was about to say something, but he silenced her by crashing his mouth against hers, pulling her close as they spun on the spot.
The world twisted around them, and in the blink of an eye, they landed on the hardwood floors of his flat, their bodies stumbling slightly from the jolt. She pulled back slowly, her chocolatey eyes watery as she caught her breath, her lips slightly parted in surprise.
"You could’ve gotten us splinched," she teased.
Theo smirked, putting his mouth to her ear. "If I was going to split you open..." his tone dropped to a low growl as his hands slid down her thighs and pulled her closer as he bunched the fabric of her dress. "It wouldn’t be from Apparition, love."
A weak moan slid from her lip as her hands moved to his shoulders. He kept on course, pushing the hem of her dress up, his tongue brushing the side of her neck.
“Theo…”
The sound of his name in her strained tone sent a heady punch to his groin.
“I like that,” He rasped as his fingers teased the fabric higher, exposing more of her stomach.
“I don’t usually … do this ,” she admitted, her voice faltering, and for the first time, Theo believed it.
There was something about the way her body trembled under his touch, the goosebumps rising on her skin, her breath uneven. It wasn’t the usual coy line he’d heard before, not from Pansy or Tracey or any of the others.
This time, he could feel the truth in it.
“But you want to, don’t you?" he asked softly, his eyes searching hers as he pulled the dress over her head, letting it fall to the floor. Her curls tumbled back down over her shoulders, framing her face like a halo.
She hesitated, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, before giving a small, almost imperceptible nod.
His lips crashed on her neck again, trailing over her skin with pressed kisses and teasing nips. Her low groan was all the encouragement he needed as he sucked at the spot just below her earlobe, his tongue flicking out to soothe where he bit. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, clumsy in her eagerness.
In one deft motion, he gripped the back of her thighs, lifting her. Hermione let out a small squeak but quickly wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing herself closer.
Theo wondered if she’d be too shy, wondering if her initial hesitation would hold her back, but the way her hips ground against him told him there was a fire in her—a fire he was intent on stoking until it roared.
He carried her through the door of his bedroom, kicking it shut behind them. His flat was nothing special—minimalist, a bachelor’s haven.
He tossed her onto his bed, watching with starvation as she bounced lightly on the mattress. Her body sprawled out in front of him, her modest bra and knickers the only barrier between him and what he wanted.
There was something unexplainably sexy about how simple they were, dull even, and that drove him mad. She wasn’t dressed for seduction, and that made her earlier words all the more real.
She wasn’t prepared for this—wasn’t used to this—and yet, here she was, trusting him, wanting him. Hermione Granger hadn’t gone out tonight with the intent to bed a man, but it was an ego stroke unlike any other that she’d crawled into his.
He shrugged off the remainder of his shirt and watched as her eyes roved over his chest.
"Scars," she questioned, her voice curious about the marks etched into his skin.
"Yeah," he muttered, undoing his belt with deliberate slowness, his trousers hitting the floor. "Got a few of those." He stepped out of them, revealing the hard length of his cock pressing against his briefs, her throat bobbing as he tugged them off.
“How’d you get them?” Her breath dropped an octave as she stared at him, and he couldn’t help but smirk at her.
"Nosy witch, aren’t you?" he teased as he climbed onto the bed, caging her beneath him. His hands back on her thighs, slipping her drenched knickers aside and dipping into her heat without hesitation.
"Fuck..." she whined, her body jolting at the sudden intrusion, her hips instinctively rolling against his hand as his thumb brushed over her clit.
Theo’s lips captured hers again, kissing her with a messy frenzy. "I’m going to fuck you first," he growled against her mouth, pulling away, their lips still connected by a strand of spit. "I need to feel you wrapped around me."
She nodded, her breath shaky, anticipation drilling into her eyes as he lined himself up. Keeping her knickers pushed to the side, he pressed forward, the head of his cock sinking into her tightness.
The way her body gripped him, squeezing him as he pushed deeper, was enough to make his vision blur momentarily.
"Fucking Merlin..." he grunted, his voice strangulated as he bottomed out. "I’m going to drown between your thighs and make you cum on my tongue. Then you’ll ride my cock until morning."
She clenched around him and he swore under his breath. The sensation was pure hell and heaven—dark magic as if he was being swallowed whole.
She gasped, her head falling back against the pillows, and her body shook with every inch he gave her. Theo grinned wickedly as he pulled back slightly, then thrust forward, setting a slow, torturous pace that had her moaning his name on repeat.
“You like the sound of that?”
“Gods yes.” She hooked her legs tighter around his waist, locking him in, keeping him so deep that his movements were restricted to shallow thrusts, each inch pulling a foul curse from her lips.
When the sunlight filtered into the room the next morning, Theo knew he was fucked.
Normally, he felt nothing but relief when dawn broke—ready to unceremoniously kick the witch from his flat—but today was different.
He lay there, captivated by the curve of her bare back, the tangle of hair spilling over his pillow, and the way her tits pressed into the sheets, still asleep in his bed.
The witches he usually shagged were docile, letting him have his way without complaint. But her? She had been something else entirely. After her first orgasm, she had sworn and cursed beneath him, driving him bloody mental with her unbridled lust.
Theo couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had bucked her hips against his face, how her hand had gripped his hair as she demanded more and more as she dripped down his chin, or how she had ridden him as if it was her right, her body a force of nature.
Feral.
That’s what it was—feral. She was raw and wanton, far removed from the polished, prim Slytherin or Beauxbatons sluts who tried to pass themselves off as debutantes waiting for the right man to marry.
She was nothing like them. And gods, that made her dangerous.
Theo’s thoughts drifted to his friends—Malfoy, Zabini, Pucey. What would they think of her?
He swallowed hard at the thought. It wasn’t her blood status or her background that worried him. No, none of them cared about that. It was her —her fire, her demands, the way she drew him in with every touch and sound.
They would be just as captivated by her allure as he was, and the thought of sharing her, of them wanting her, made his chest tighten.
No. They would never meet her— especially Malfoy.
Theo wasn’t ready to let her go. Not yet . But he knew their time together had a limit—he’d be called back to Scotland soon and she’d stay in London.
He could visit, of course, but he knew how this would play out. He was already thinking about how to keep her close, how to keep her hidden from the others. How to make her his, without anyone knowing.
What a fucking wanker he was, lying there plotting after spending only one night between her thighs.
But he couldn’t help it.
There was an unspoken rule among him and the others—no girlfriends, no wives, nothing that could complicate their plans. They were going to get filthy fucking rich again, reclaim their families' power, and then disappear when it was all done.
But after that? He could come back for her.
Yes, he’d keep her a secret until then, and when the time was right, he’d come back for her.
Shifting closer, Theo dragged his tongue down her spine. His hands slid over her tits, massaging them as he pressed kisses into her neck. He could feel himself hardening again, his cock throbbing against her arse as he pulled her thigh over his, straightening himself with her.
Sleepy moans sounded as he thrust into her still-swollen cunt—waking her by filling her to the brim.
"Good morning, love," Theo rasped, as he pulled out and thrust back in, her body welcoming him with that wet heat he was beginning to obsess over.
How the fuck was she always so soaked? And first thing in the morning—this was a breakfast he could indulge in every day.