Chapter Text
Hermione banishes a bloodcurdling curse from the ornate silver hairbrush hovering above her worktop. It emits a faint scream.
The brush clatters onto the table’s surface, a cursed object no more.
She smiles.
A job well done, all things considered. She’s happy she chose the Selwyn estate trunk. Horrifying little objects, most of them, but nothing like the Lestrange vault Draco got stuck with.
She glances through the window of her testing room door, across their shared laboratory, and through the door of the matching testing room that Draco currently occupies. He circles a hovering velvet box, casting diagnostics and uttering silent incantations.
Of all the partners she could’ve gotten when she joined the Department of Mysteries as a Cursebreaker, Draco was the best. It took a bit for them to warm up to each other, but his extensive knowledge of uncommon curses and fluency in Latin rendered him useful off the bat.
And Hermione has always had a weakness for useful people.
She finishes nullifying the last of the Selwyn objects—an enchanted mirror that traps the viewer in its reflection until the next unfortunate victim comes along—and diligently documents her findings and the countercurses used in her daily log.
A long, hot bath in her soaking tub awaits her when she gets home, along with a glass of Chablis and her newest purchase from Flourish and Blotts.
She’s tidying up her desktop—she loves coming in Monday mornings to a clean workspace—when she hears it. A cry of pain and a garbled string of curses from Draco’s testing room.
Shit.
Hermione runs over and waits for his all clear before opening the door.
He stumbles out and hisses through his teeth, doubled over in apparent agony.
“How bad is it?”
“Bad.” Draco grits his teeth and grips the edge of their worktable.
Bad could mean so many things. Bad could mean irrevocable blood curse. Bad could mean painful boils. Bad could mean a splinter in his index finger. (Hermione respects Draco as a coworker, but he does have a flair for dramatics.)
“What happened?” Hermione scans him up and down, looking for evidence of injury—blood, scratches, contusions. But nothing appears amiss.
“Hidden curse in one of the Lestrange objects. I should’ve sensed it, but I—I let my focus slip.” He shoots her a sideways glance before his eyes squeeze shut and he releases a pained groan.
“What hurts?” She lays her hand on his arm, her touch gentle.
Still, he hisses and tugs his arm back. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not fine—”
“Granger, drop it. I mean it.”
She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and rolls it around while she thinks. It’s not like Draco to be so cagey. He’s usually so by the book—or at least, when he isn’t, he has a very good reason for it.
“We can’t keep working if you’re hurt. I’m not going to risk you getting injured further. Or me, for that matter. Did you even get a chance to remove the curse?”
“Trust me, this curse wouldn’t affect you.”
“You can’t know that.”
He huffs out a strained laugh. “Believe me, I can.”
“Why wouldn’t it affect me?”
“Granger.” Everything about him tells her to shut up—his tone, his tensed shoulders, his gritted teeth and slightly hunched posture.
But Hermione’s never been good at doing what she’s told. “Can I help?”
At this, Draco laughs again. He sounds deranged.
“Can you—? No, Granger, you can’t help. I need to figure out the countercurse…” He trudges over to the shelf of cursebreaking books in the corner, each step accompanied by a wince.
“And how long will that take?”
“Longer than I’d like,” he mutters. He scans the shelves and pulls out three books, then places them carefully on the table, flipping through their contents.
“Want me to help you research?”
“The only thing I want is for you to leave me in peace so I can focus.”
Fair enough.
She waltzes over to her testing room, her hand lingering on the doorknob. “If you need me, you know where I am.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I certainly do.”
An hour later, it’s nearing the end of their workday, and Draco’s muffled grunts and curses have only gotten worse.
“No luck?” she calls from the small lab, her door propped open so they can communicate.
Draco only grunts in response.
“Suppose that’s a no.” Hermione shucks off her gloves and rejoins Draco. He’s seated at their table on a high-backed wooden stool, chest hunched over one of the open books. Sweat beads at his hairline, and his cheeks are flushed.
So flushed. Like, bright crimson. At some point, he must’ve run his hands through his artfully arranged hair, because the pieces hang over his forehead, all mussed and dishevelled.
It’s not a bad look.
“Are you ill? Do you have a fever? Did you cast a diagnostic?” She strides over and whips out her wand to do just that, but Draco grabs her wrist and shoves her away.
“No. I don’t need a diagnostic charm. I know what’s wrong with me.”
“Yet you haven’t found a way to fix it?”
His fingers dig into his knee, knuckles whitening. “Obviously.”
She speaks softly, so as not to spook him. She knows he won’t like her suggestion. “We should bring you to St. Mungo’s then, for evaluation.”
“I’m not going to St. Mungo’s.”
Just as she thought. “Draco, you’re obviously in immense pain. Whatever it is clearly can’t be resolved without a detailed countercurse, and unless you tell me what you’re looking for, I can’t help you. If you’re not going to let me help, then at least see a professional, you stubborn mule.”
Draco grimaces and hangs his head. His jaw ticks; a muscle in his cheek jumps as he works over his predicament. “Granger. I’m serious. Leave me—”
“You’re getting worse.” She can see it—the way he bites the inside of his cheek, the creases in his forehead, the heat and sweat spreading to his chest, peeking through the top two buttons of his shirt. And beneath the blush blooming on the surface, his skin is paler than usual—washed out and ghostly. He looks on the verge of death. “How much worse are you going to get? Is this going to— Is there a chance you could—?”
“I’m not going to die,” he scoffs. “At least, I don’t think.”
“What is it with men and refusing to seek medical treatment? You’re not invincible.”
“Clearly.”
“Then swallow your pride, get your coat, and hold onto my arm because I’m apparating you—”
“I can’t!” The frustration in his voice nearly keels her over. “This is mortifying. That’s why I’m not going. Not because I think I’m invincible, but because I would rather suffer for months than let any Healer near me lest they leak my affliction to the front page of the Prophet. How much do you think a reporter would pay for humiliating news about the Malfoy heir?”
Hermione grimaces. She supposes Draco isn’t wrong. “Alright then. I won’t make you go to St. Mungo’s.”
“Thank y—”
“On one condition.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “I should’ve known.”
“You’ll tell me what happened so I can help you get rid of it.”
Draco freezes. His nostrils flare, and his head lifts to the ceiling. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was uttering a prayer.
“If you don’t tell me, I will cast a diagnostic, and then I’ll definitely know, so you might as well get it over with.”
Draco exhales slowly and mutters something unkind—(probably)—under his breath. “God, you’re insufferable sometimes.”
“Only sometimes? I need to up my game.”
“Cute.”
“So…? Are you going to tell me, or do I need to—”
“Fine. But you have to promise you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. I mean it.”
This must be bad. “I won’t, I promise.”
“And you have to swear you won’t make fun of me. I tell you, you help me fix it, and then we forget this ever happened. Yes?”
Her burning curiosity outweighs any hesitation. “Agreed.”
Draco shifts in his seat. He tugs at the fabric of his trousers. “It’s…it’s an old curse. Family magic. Marital magic.”
An old family curse? Marital magic?
Oh god.
“You mean—? We’re not—?”
“Merlin, Granger, no. We’re not married. That wouldn’t cause me physical harm.”
“Emotional harm only, I’m sure.”
He makes a noncommittal noise but otherwise ignores her. “The curse was trapped in an old wedding ring from the Lestrange estate. I didn’t sense it because it was layered under other, more insidious enchantments. But it makes it… Fuck, I don’t even know how to say this. Maybe it’s better if I…”
Draco stands. Hermione scans his body, but aside from his clear physical distress, everything appears in order.
And then he pulls out his wand and lifts the Disillusionment Charm on his trousers.
And…
She can’t help it. She glances down.
And keeps looking.
Oh.
“You’re— Why—?”
Her eyes grow wide, and Draco hurries to explain. “It’s the curse. I’m not—I’m not coming onto you. Merlin, this is so inappropriate. Fuck, I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine.” Hermione is mortified to hear how breathy her voice sounds. She clears her throat and tries for a more unaffected tone. “So the curse is like…magical Viagra?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It…Well, it gives you…that. An erection.” Good lord, this is too much to handle. Because her body is suddenly warm and aware all over, a sort of buzzing sensation building beneath her skin. She’s supposed to be the professional here. The curse didn’t affect her.
“The difference—I presume—is this isn’t fun. It fucking hurts, and it’ll continue to hurt until I—”
His bulge is…prominent. God, it even looks painful. It must ache something awful.
“Does the curse make it swell up too?”
He rears back as if offended. “No.”
“So that’s…normal?” Hermione bites her lip and tilts her head as she admires his considerable size.
“Er. Yes?”
“You’re unsure?”
“No, I’m just— Could you stop looking at it?” he grits out.
Warmth blooms in her cheeks. “Oh! Right. Sorry.”
“It’s—fine.”
Hermione whirls around to face the wall, needing a reprieve. Because good lord, his cock is… Well. It’s something. Figures, honestly, the way Draco carries himself. So sure of himself. Confident. Apparently, he has reason to be.
“Can you, you know, take care of yourself? Use one of the testing rooms? I can leave.”
Draco calmly replies as if she didn’t just suggest he masturbate. At work. In their shared laboratory. “Unfortunately, that’s not the way it works. This one is an old Lestrange curse, but lots of the old families had them. Terrible magic. They’re meant to encourage consummation and procreation after a marriage. Extend the bloodlines and whatnot. So they make it unbearable to not—”
“To not procreate,” she supplies. She turns around because she can’t help herself.
“No.” Draco shakes his head. “To not…to not be inside…”
Heat rushes straight to Hermione’s core. It’s one thing to be saddled with a hot, devastatingly competent coworker. It’s another to stand a mere two feet away from him while he confesses that he needs to fuck something for his pain to go away.
Not something. Someone.
She’s so turned on she can hardly breathe. Out of nowhere. This is not how she imagined her Friday night going.
“So the pain won’t go away unless…?”
“Unless I’m actively inside someone, it’ll hurt. At least, assuming this is the curse I think it is, which I’m pretty certain it is.”
“Will it go away on its own in time?”
Draco shrugs. “Days, minimum. Possibly weeks.”
“Weeks?” Hermione blanches.
“They’re meant to encourage consummation,” he reminds her. “And then procreation. So depending on the time of the wedding, and a witch’s fertility cycle…”
“Right.” Hermione swallows.
She is not freaking out. She’s not. It’s totally normal that her coworker is discussing ovulation and fertility and conception with her. Totally normal.
“And these aren’t…still used, are they? I mean, you wouldn’t have to—if you got married—?”
“Salazar, no. Most of them were outlawed decades ago, if not longer. Besides, they’re not exactly…nice for the woman.”
“Why—? Oh.”
He grimaces. “Precisely.”
Hermione squirms. Discomfort mingles with desire, which is so wrong, because Draco doesn’t really want this. And she shouldn’t. She especially shouldn’t like the idea of him not being able to control himself. Of being so desperate, his cock aching and aching without release, that he would—with her—and he wouldn’t get release until he was buried deep—
“What’s that look?”
“Absolutely nothing,” she says, praying her blush doesn’t give her away. “Right. Now that I know what to look for, pass over some of those texts. Between the two of us we should be able to figure this out quickly.”
He passes over some old medical journals, jolting when their fingers brush, and they both get to work.
Here’s the thing about Hermione: she’s nearly always right. She would bet on herself every time, circumstances be damned. And she would nearly always win.
Unfortunately, today is not one of those times. Hermione was, in fact, very incorrect. Because two hours pass, and they’re no closer to identifying a countercurse than when they started.
“If you know what it is, why don’t you know a way to stop it?” she grumbles, pushing a few misbehaving curls away from her face.
She looks up, and Draco’s eyes flick away quickly, like she caught him doing something illicit. “Just because I know what it is doesn’t mean I know how to fix it. I recognised the Lestrange crest on the ring, but I have no idea what the underlying curse entails.”
“Worth a shot.”
Draco grunts. Apparently additional words are beyond him.
They work in relative silence for the next fifteen minutes or so, until Draco’s breathing grows so loud and so ragged that she can’t ignore it.
“Could you kindly knock it—” She glances up and freezes, her mouth forming a perfect “O.”
Draco’s quill trembles between his fingers, his usually pristine handwriting suddenly shaky chicken-scratch, bad enough to rival Ron’s. He’s unbuttoned two more of his shirt buttons, the fabric gaping across his chest, exposing a pale, flushed torso and silver, criss-crossing scars. His forehead glistens with a faint sheen of sweat, his deep onyx pupils are blown wide, and his jaw threatens to snap in half from the force of his clenched teeth.
He looks wrecked.
“It’s gotten worse,” she whispers.
“Brilliant deduction,” he grits out. Pain lances across his expression, like it hurts to talk.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to—”
“No. Healers.”
Hermione swallows. “Right.”
This is awful. Draco looks half on the verge of death. She can’t imagine the pain he’s feeling. And pain mixed with arousal? Unbearable. Their research shows little promise, and Draco won’t let her take him to St. Mungo’s, so she’ll be forced to sit here and watch him writhe around in abject agony until…what? Weeks pass?
No can do.
If only there were something she could do. Some way for him to ease the ache without…
An idea comes to her. It makes her stomach flip for reasons she doesn’t care to examine further.
“Do you—” She clears her throat and starts over. “That is to say, have you thought about—?”
“Spit it out, Granger.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
His brows lift incredulously. “Are you asking me out right now?”
“What— No,” she splutters. “I only meant, is there someone you could call? Someone you’re with, who could…”
Draco laughs. The sound is harsh. “If I were seeing someone, do you think I’d still be sitting here with you instead of buried deep inside her right now?”
Her thighs squeeze together on instinct. Hermione flushes, for multiple reasons.
One: the crude words spark something electric inside her. Thinking of Draco fucking someone, with his apparently massive—
Two: the dig is unnecessarily cruel. Humiliating, really. She’s well aware he doesn’t think of her like that, but he doesn’t need to harp on it.
“Obviously I’m not your first choice of companion,” she says, eager to put her embarrassment behind her.
“That’s not—”
“There’s no one you could see on a Friday night? I find that hard to believe.”
“Whatever you might think, I don’t have a dossier of witches in my back pocket who are sitting around waiting for my Friday evening floo call.”
“No one? Really?”
“Merlin, Granger, rub it in, why don’t you? No, please, do keep going, I love being kicked while I’m down.”
She blanches. “Sorry, you’re right. I didn’t mean— It’s just that you’re…” She gestures up and down at his body.
Tall. Lean. Cut with the exact right amount muscle (in her book). And his face is annoyingly pretty.
His lips curve into a teasing smirk—the first approximation of a smile she’s seen all night. “Is that right?”
“Oh, hush, you know you’re attractive.” She rolls her eyes and refocuses her attention on her open book. Complete jargon—something about contraception charms. Unhelpful.
“I’m flattered. But attractive or not, I have no way of resolving my current situation, so…keep reading.”
“Fine.” The flutters in her stomach don’t fully subside, and her sympathy for Draco’s predicament remains, but she does as he says and continues reading.
Even though it’s too bad he doesn’t have a girlfriend or a casual partner or anyone who could…help, part of her is…relieved?
Huh.
But she does not have a crush on him. That would be…
She does not have a crush.
Draco is an ideal coworker—competent, thoughtful, and innovative. If she’s feeling any sort of protectiveness, it’s over her colleague. Because if he started going on dates and got a girlfriend, he’d probably spend much less time at work. He’d never stay late, and he’d likely stop delivering her Wednesday morning coffee.
Not Monday morning coffee, because she starts each week rather chipper, full of energy. By Thursday, the weekend looms close enough that she gets a little pick-me-up. But Wednesdays? Wednesdays are killer. And Draco knows this. It makes the mid-week slump a bit more bearable, walking into the office to a steaming coffee from her favourite cafe around the corner.
So…that’s all.
And unfortunately, while it comforts her to know he won’t be ditching her for some pureblood heiress at the drop of a hat, it doesn’t help their current predicament.
Hermione dithers as Draco hunches over his table, clutching his stomach in apparent agony. His trousers are tented as ever, obvious and obscene. They tried pain relief charms earlier to no avail. Nothing brings him comfort. Nothing.
If only there were something she could do to help. Something she could offer. Something she could…
Ah. That could be— Well, could it? Maybe. It would be insane. Diabolical, really. It would change their working relationship for good. But what other options are there? He’s stubborn as all hell and refusing medical treatment, the curse is only getting worse, and Hermione hates to see anyone she cares about in pain.
And Draco is her friend.
“What if…” Hermione bites her lip, and the offer sticks in her throat.
“What now?” he groans, head in hands.
“What if you did have someone you could…you know. Who could help.”
“I’ve already told you I don’t,” he seethes. “As if this isn’t humiliating enough.”
“No, not— I meant that I could help you.”
The room stills. Even Draco’s breathing vanishes into nothingness.
He chokes. “You—how—?”
“It’s not conventional, but given the rapid worsening of your symptoms, it’s only a matter of time before you’re out of your mind. If you don’t black out from the pain, you’ll certainly go mad. And since you’re refusing treatment and we’re here researching anyway…” She shifts her weight and tucks her hair behind her ears—a perpetual nervous habit. “The research might go faster if you were able to concentrate. If you had some relief.”
“Relief,” he repeats, his tone flat.
“If it’s as simple as you say, then yes. Thirty seconds from now, you could be pain free.”
Draco’s eyes glaze over. His pulse jumps in his neck, and his fingers grab onto the edge of the table like he’s trying to hold himself upright. His gaze tracks down the length of her body. When he gets to her thighs, he stops. Swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. The pink in his cheeks deepens.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds,” she confirms, a bit less confident than before.
Because Draco actually seems to be considering it. Hermione half thought he’d laugh her off and turn her down without question. And then she could go on feeling both vaguely disappointed but also guilt-free, knowing she’d offered him a way out.
But this might happen. The thought is both terrifying and arousing.
Terrousing?
“There’s no way you would want to do that,” he says. “That’s not...”
“I’m offering.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, feigning casualness. “Because you’re my friend and you’re in pain. And it’s not some great burden. It doesn’t need to be anything more than it is. I’ll sit on your—lap while we research the countercurse, and then once we get you all healed up, we’ll go back to being friends and coworkers and forget this ever happened, just like you wanted.”
He bites down on the inside of his cheek. “Right. Like I wanted.”
“Yes,” she says, unsure of his sudden bitterness. “You said you wanted to forget this ever happened. But you need help. I can give you both. So that’s my offer.”
Draco tugs at his hair. His face scrunches into a tight ball, pain lacing each movement. “It’s getting—so much worse. Fuck. Like the magic knows that you offered, and it wants to me to—”
Oh no. No, no, no. Did Hermione inadvertently create a magical compulsion? A sex compulsion? She wouldn’t delude herself into thinking Draco actively wanted this under any circumstances, but if she worsened the curse, made it so he couldn’t refuse…
“I can leave,” she offers. “I would never want to coerce you. God, I feel horrible.” She grabs her coat and bag from her desk.
“Don’t go. Please. It’s not— I want to—”
Hermione pauses, her arm halfway encased in her bag, feeling around for her floo token.
“Are you certain? Because I can—”
“Please,” he repeats. “Don’t make me beg.”
Time stands still, because all Hermione can picture is Draco begging. Draco, down on his knees, pleading for a chance to slip inside her. For access to her body.
Draco, desperate.
For her.
She sets her belongings back down on her desk and strides over to Draco. Her knickers are soaked. Have been for hours, truthfully. Ever since she saw the proof of his affliction, straining against the confines of his trousers.
“And if I asked you to beg?”
He peers through his fingers, pupils dilated and black. “I would.”
Hermione thrums with power. She could make him do anything right now. Anything for a chance to fuck her.
But she’s not that cruel.
Hermione stares down at the formidable impression between his thighs, pushing against the placket of his trousers. She rolls her lip between her teeth involuntarily. How nice it might feel to take him. To stretch and stretch until he fills her up. Until his grunts of agony turn into groans of needy delight.
However…
If she wants to have any chance of salvaging their working relationship after tonight, she needs to treat this like any other task.
Straightforward.
Uncomplicated.
Perfunctory.
This is a professional courtesy and nothing more.
Hermione unzips her trousers and shimmies out of them. Too bad she didn’t wear a skirt—she wouldn’t have had to remove it at all. She can’t remember whether she used a dilapatory charm lately. Not that it matters. Not for this.
(Still, her fingers subtly run down her thigh and confirm that she has indeed used one. The feminist in her laments the importance she grants the matter, but the witch in her sighs with relief.)
Nonetheless, she doesn’t remove her knickers. After all, perfunctory is the name of the game.
Not that Draco seems to have gotten the memo. He stares at her thighs, then drops his gaze to her feet. Up and up his gaze travels, from her ankles, to her calves, to her black cotton knickers.
“Fuck.”
Hermione steps closer. The fabric of her knickers sticks to her lips, drenched and plastered against her core.
“Take your trousers off,” she orders.
He startles but quickly recovers. “Your wish is my command.”
Stripped down to his boxer briefs, Draco is magnetic. His white button-down hangs low, partially covering his thighs, and the sight is so intimate that Hermione feels like she’s intruding on something she’s not supposed to be a part of it.
Seeing Draco like this makes her want.
But she can’t get carried away.
“How do you want to…?” She gestures at his crotch and then herself, cringing at the juvenile motion.
“Probably easiest if you climb up here and then…”
Hermione screams internally. Because what is happening? Yes, she offered to do this, but now it’s here and it’s real and in less than a minute, Draco’s cock will be inside her.
She reaches down to free him from his briefs, because why waste time? But as soon as her fingers brush his length through the cotton fabric, Draco lets out the most unhinged, pitiful groan.
He jolts back and holds a hand out to stop her.
“Sensitive,” he manages.
“Right. Sorry.” She’s too greedy—always has been.
“It’s fine, it’s— You’re—” Draco shakes his head and digs his nails into his upper thighs. “Do you want me to…?” He nods towards her knickers.
She looks down. “Want you to what?”
Strangely, his cheeks colour. “I’m not exactly small, Granger.”
Hermione stutters out a laugh, because how dare he?
“Well aren’t we full of ourselves? You think I can’t take it?”
Draco groans and tugs at the hem of his briefs. “No. God, I know you can, but— Can I at least warm you up, or—?”
Oh.
That’s…thoughtful of him.
As much as she wants to feel his fingers inside her, she doesn’t need it. She’s been worked up for ages, her traitorous wetness sticking to her thighs.
“I’m—I’m good. Where do you want me?”
Draco finally—finally—tugs his cock free from his briefs. Hermione can’t help but stare.
It’s as massive as the outline under his briefs suggested. Pink and flushed and swollen, with a thick vein running along the underside. The head is wider than the rest, and Hermione can’t help but imagine how it will feel as it stretches her open—bigger than anything she’s used to. Thicker than her fingers. Longer than her toys.
But she needs to remember why she’s doing this, lest she get ahead of herself.
“Just…” He helps her up, guiding her over his lap. Her shoes land on the footrest, her knees spread wide, locked outside of Draco’s.
Her thighs burn as she holds herself up, hovering over Draco’s lap.
This is so weird. Her bum is in his face, his hands are on her (bare) thighs, and the heat radiating from him burns her.
“Pull your knickers to the side,” he rasps.
She listens.
It’s absolutely wild, how wet she is. And from what? Talking about taking Draco’s cock? Picturing it? Watching him battle the persistent ache of the curse?
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You weren’t kidding. You don’t need it.” He tugs her down until his cockhead rubs along her lips, dragging through her slick.
“Don’t make fun.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Not while— oh, fuck.”
Hermione lowers her hips an inch more, letting his tip push against her entrance. He’s barely breaching her, and already it’s so much.
Her body vibrates, her muscles strained, tension winding through her veins.
“Are you sure?” he whispers.
But even as he asks, his hands grip her hips and tug her downwards. She rests her forearms on the table, and that’s the only reason she doesn’t sink down onto his length in one movement.
Still, his tip is enough to work with. Hermione squeezes her inner walls, her entrance overly sensitive from being stretched so thoroughly.
“Christ,” he gasps. “That’s so—”
Hermione dips a few inches more and relishes in the plaintive groan that escapes Draco’s throat.
“Granger.”
His cock twitches. Hermione works herself down. Draco’s cock stretches her exactly as much as she thought it would. Which is to say, a lot. He stimulates every last nerve ending, sating a hunger she didn’t know she had.
Glorious, glorious, glorious.
More. She needs more. She lifts back up and sinks down again, fucking the tip of Draco’s cock ever so slowly.
“Don’t—I’m going to—”
“Oh, come on. You’re barely inside me.”
“Granger, I’ve been on edge all afternoon. Aching. I thought you knew that.”
She hadn’t realised it was quite this bad.
“Are you actually going to come right now?”
He whimpers. “I might. You feel—”
Well, if that isn’t an ego boost. Hermione swivels her hips back and forth, forcing herself to accept Draco’s cock, stretching her overworked walls. She’s drenched, and that’s the only reason it doesn’t hurt. Normally, she’d take her time. But she’ll be damned if she doesn’t earn top marks.
When she sinks down fully onto Draco, she melts into his hold and leans against his chest. His hips buck upwards—once, twice, and then he’s pressing his face into her whirlwind hair as he trembles uncontrollably.
He comes as soon as she envelops him, apropos of nothing.
“God, that’s— Fuck, Granger.”
Warm and wet and oh so good, he pulses inside her. Fills her.
“No, no—fuck—” He buries his face against her neck and holds her close. “I’m sorry. I usually don’t— I swear I’m better—”
“Draco,” she gasps. “I believe you.” It’s no wonder he spilt so quickly after hours of desperation. Hours of wanting. Hours of an aching cock and relentless need.
It’s weirdly…hot.
Hermione tries to calm her breathing. She needs to collect herself.
Besides, she can’t come. This is a professional courtesy and nothing more. She can’t make it weird. Draco can come—Draco did come—but she is under no such influence. She offered help as a friend. As a colleague. It would be weird if she got off on this.
So she tries to ignore the way he fills her. To ignore the way her nerves light up. The way her cunt clenches around him of its own accord.
Draco twitches. She pulses.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
“Don’t be. Is this— Are you okay?”
“I’m ex-excellent. Is this helping? I mean, clearly it helped—” She tries to ignore the rush of heat in her face “—but is it still—? Does it feel better?”
He chokes out a raspy, disbelieving laugh, and his cock thrusts a little with the movement. It makes her jolt. “Yeah, Granger. It feels better. You’re— I can actually think again. So…thank you.”
“What are colleagues for?”
His arms tighten around her waist. “I certainly hope this isn’t how you treat all your coworkers.”
“No,” she gasps. “This is the Draco Malfoy special.” His cock twitches inside her, and she belatedly realises it didn’t soften at all after he came. She swallows thickly. “You’re still hard.”
“Thank you for noticing,” he quips.
“No, I mean— How—? You just—”
“I think it’s the curse,” he says into her back, his voice muffled. “In a bid to encourage its desired outcome, it seems to have done away with any potential obstacles, such as refractory periods.”
God. If he has no refractory period, there’s no telling how long this could last. She could sit on his cock and use him and use him as long as she wanted, and he’d stay hard for hours—for days—
She squeezes him without thought. “Are you going to come again, do you think?”
Draco groans. “I will if you keep doing that.”
She can’t help it—his words make her flutter around him again.
“Granger.”
“Sorry. Let’s— We should research. That was the whole point of this, yes?” She lifts off him a bit and reaches for the stack of books across the table, dragging them closer. When she falls back down, they both groan. Because god, it feels good. The friction, the way he hits some sensitive spot along her back walls—it makes her want to keep fucking him. How good it would feel to slide up and down, to rest her hands on his thighs for leverage as she works herself over his cock until they both come.
“Give me that.” He wrenches the topmost book in the pile from her hands and flips it open.
Hermione follows suit with a text of her own.
Draco’s chin rests on her shoulder as he reads. It’s intimate and nerve-wracking and somehow cozy. Hermione can feel the rise and fall of his chest, and when he moves his head, his breath tickles her ear. If she turned her cheek, she could kiss him quite easily.
Draco would probably be an excellent kisser. His steadfastness and attention to detail—not to mention his athletic prowess—would undoubtedly pay off. He’s attuned with his own body, and he’d be attuned to hers too. His hands too—they span the width of her waist, and she can’t help but imagine them cupping her face, a thumb running along her jawline, fingers twisting in her curls as his tongue delves between her lips.
Newfound warmth that has nothing to do with his cock rushes through her. Her chest pangs, fraught with—desire? How can she want more when he’s inside her, deep as he can be?
Hermione clears her throat and tries to focus on the research.
She skims a few chapters on bonding rituals and fertility potions. A few more on ancestral land and warding magic.
It’s warm in the room, made worse by the relentless heat pouring off of Draco’s body, sinking into hers. The undersides of her knees are slick with sweat. It clings to their bare legs.
The anticipation only continues to build. Her cunt flutters with every micromovement—each minuscule shift in their position. Her toes curl in her shoes around the bars of the stool.
Torture.
Sweet, inescapable torture, keeping her legs spread wide. Because all she wants—all she needs—is a hint of pressure on her clit. And she would come. If she squeezed her thighs together, if she dropped a hand between them, if Draco swirled his fingertips over the sensitive bud—if he even rested his fingers there…
That would do it.
But she can’t. She can’t. It’s wrong, and it will only makes things worse.
“Have you found anything?” Draco’s voice is thinner now. More ragged.
“There’s a potion that will either cure you instantly or rid you of your magic forever, so…”
“So no then.” He sighs and drags his hands down to her thighs absentmindedly.
Hermione makes a little noise—half squeak, half whimper. She freezes, embarrassed by her automatic reaction, but Draco nuzzles her neck—well, her hair—and shushes her.
“It occurs to me that I haven’t thanked you for this yet. Forgive my oversight. And thank you. I know this isn’t—conventional—”
“Of course,” she murmurs. “It’s—it was the only way.”
“Not the only way, surely.”
“Correction: the only way that didn’t involve you passing out from the pain or me stunning you and then dragging you to St. Mungo’s against your will.”
He shifts in his seat and moves her with him, his grasp on her thighs confident and firm. She punches out a breath, the ache in her core becoming unbearable.
Draco picks up on her quiet desperation. His touch drifts further up her inner thighs, straight to the crease.
His fingertips ghost over her clit. Hermione shudders. The featherlight touch is enough to catapult her close to the edge. How easy it would be, to let him bring her to orgasm. How badly she wants it. How badly she clenches around him, full to the brim but still unsatisfied.
His touch dips down to where his cock connects with her body. He runs his thumb along her lips and groans. He holds it up to the light—glistening, sticky with his release.
“Fuck, you’re dripping with me.” His hand drops back between her thighs. “Can I…?” ”
Hermione whimpers.
Give in.
Her brain repeats the directive, urging her to succumb. To let Draco please her. To come with him inside her. It would take less than thirty seconds.
But…
But. She can’t.
“Draco, it’s okay. I don’t need—”
“This feels remarkably uneven if I don’t.”
“No, I’m—I’m helping a friend.”
He stills. “A friend.” He huffs. “Right.”
“Let’s keep researching.”
And she tries, she really does, but her concentration is shot.
Five minutes later, Draco takes the words right out of her mouth.
“This is ridiculously unbearable.”
“Is the pain back?”
“No, just— Fuck, it’s almost too good. I have the urge to lift you up and drop you back down on my cock until I come. It wouldn’t take much.”
She goes a bit breathless at that.
“Maybe the curse needs you to come. Maybe it won’t relent until you do.”
“No, Granger,” he laughs. “This is the usual ache. Nothing to do with the curse.”
“Then why don’t you?” Her left hand reaches behind her and grips the outside of his thigh. Her nails dig into the skin, pressing against hard muscle.
“Because the point isn’t to get off,” he scoffs. “The point is to take away the pain. You don’t need to fuck me properly to do that. This is plenty.”
“If you say so.” She leans back against his chest and sinks into his hold. The lessened strain on her abdominal muscles is an immediate relief, and she resolves to get serious about her core exercises. Starting tomorrow.
She shifts her hips and positively melts when Draco’s cock rubs against a delightful spot on her front walls. It renders her a bit mindless, and she rocks her hips back and forth without thought, chasing that remarkable pressure. Her ankles hook behind Draco’s calves, steadying her.
“Granger.” Draco bites out a warning but doesn’t stop her.
He bites down on her shoulder, and now she definitely isn’t stopping. A strangled moan escapes his throat and travels up her neck, raising gooseflesh along her skin.
His hands skate along her thighs and dig into her hips. He could probably pretend he was trying to stop her, if he wanted, but Hermione feels the subtle pressure, the way he guides her, helps her work herself over his cock.
Their research lies forgotten on the table. It’s useless anyway. If there were a cure in one of the books, they would’ve found it by now. Now, all Hermione can focus on is making Draco come. Because easing his pain is no longer enough. She thinks about the way he lost control as soon as he slipped inside her, the relief too great to bear.
It wasn’t enough.
Her thighs burn, her nipples ache, and her clit screams for attention, but Hermione doesn’t relent. She rocks back and forth until Draco trembles, breaking down into pieces.
“Let yourself go,” she says.
He sounds nearly on the verge of tears. “I can’t—”
“It’s okay,” she gasps. “You can come, it’s okay, I promise—”
“Fuck, you’re so— Why are you—”
“Draco.” She grabs one of his hands and brings it to her chest, encouraging him to squeeze and rub her neglected tits.
“Jesus, Granger. Perfect— I shouldn’t—”
“Do it,” she begs. “Come, Draco. Please. I want you to.” She clenches her inner walls as hard as she can, pulsing in an uncoordinated rhythm. Anything to make him give in.
She’s already soaked, dripping with his earlier spend. And she’s drenched—wetter than she’s ever been in her life. She’s a mess.
Sticky.
Slick.
She could come. She could, if she kept squeezing, just like this—if she worked her muscles and succumbed to the press of Draco’s cock inside her. Owning her.
But she resists.
And it’s a good thing, because Draco’s fingers dig in. He holds her tight and keeps her in place as his hips buck upwards, thrusting into her from below. From this angle, he doesn’t have enough leverage, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already so deep, and the friction is enough, because his cock grows harder, twitches—
“Fucking Christ— Oh, god—”
Hermione can feel him coming inside her. Already slick and dripping, but he pumps her full of him. He breaks down and holds her down. Holds her deep. Hermione cries out, teetering on the edge. She grits her teeth and holds her breath because she can’t come. Not with her clit untouched, with only a cock inside her. With Draco inside her.
She flirts with danger. Her climax looms large, taunting her, threatening to grab hold, and all it would take is the simplest brush of friction in the right place.
Don’t come.
Don’t come.
Don’t. Come.
By some otherworldly miracle, she holds off. Lets the ache of unfulfilled need pulse through her limbs in the form of shudders; through her cunt in the form of flutters.
Draco sags in his seat, and Hermione folds with him. His lips press against her neck, his breath hot and heavy against her nape.
She resists the urge to moan and beg him to kiss her—and maybe bite her—elsewhere.
After all, this is only a favour. A courtesy.
She regains her breath slowly, the ache in her cunt never fully subsiding. Draco’s thigh twitches beneath her fingers. “How did that compare to the first?”
“You’re asking me to stack rank my orgasms?”
She grins, even though he can’t see it. “I suppose I am, yes.”
“That one was… Christ, you felt good. The first one was so quick. More relief than pleasure.”
She hums and clenches around him again for good measure. “And you’re still hard. It doesn’t hurt? Not too sensitive?”
Draco chokes out a laugh. “Believe me, I’m very sensitive. But it’s too good to stop. And I’m afraid…”
“The curse will come back.”
He doesn’t need to confirm. They both know what awaits him as soon as this is over and they both head home. Only pain and agony and a sleepless night.
And they haven’t gotten any closer to finding a real solution.
She’s failed him.
There’s nothing to do but keep trying. So she reaches for two more books and cracks one open for Draco.
“Another?”
By the end of the night, he’s come in her four times.
Four.
Four times, and neither of them bothered to vanish any of it. His mess drips down her thighs, half of it dried and sticky.
They haven’t found a countercurse, but they have a few promising leads, some of which Draco will follow up on. The Malfoy library is privy to texts and journals the Ministry isn’t, particularly from old, pureblood houses.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?”
“I’ll make do. Nothing for it but to try.”
He helps her off his lap, and they both groan. Hermione, because she’s empty and needy after being stretched full for hours without release. Draco, because his pain is back, if his wince is any indication.
“That bad already?” Her gaze drops to his cock, shiny and coated in their shared mess. It’s quite pink still—flushed and hard, like he could easily go another round. Or four.
“It’s not terrible. Mostly, I’m a bit dizzy.”
“The, er, blood flow will do that to you. You should eat something. And if you have any other symptoms, call a Healer. Swear it.”
“Alright, alright, I swear it. At least the pain appears to have reset, so hopefully I’ll have several hours before it’s truly unbearable.”
“If it gets really bad… If you can’t sleep, I…” She rocks back and forth on her heels but forces herself to maintain eye contact. She’s a grown woman who just sat on Draco’s cock for three hours. She can handle this. “I could help again, I mean.” She rambles while he redresses, tucking his hard, still-leaking cock into the waistband of his trousers. “It doesn’t have to be— There are no strings attached, if that’s what you’re worried about. But you’re my colleague and, more importantly, my friend. You don’t deserve to be in pain. And fuck the Lestranges for creating such a horrid curse in the first place. So anyways… the offer stands. If you want it.”
He stares at her for so long she begins to second-guess herself. Nerves flutter low in her stomach at the way his ice-grey eyes bore right through her.
Draco wets his lips. He shoves his hands in his pockets and steps closer. So close that he towers over her, and has to tilt his head down to meet her eye.
“Until we find the cure…”
He reaches out and squeezes her wrist. An affectionate gesture.
Then drops it. “I could use all the help I can get.”