FIC: The Heat of Battle (NC-17)
Feb. 17th, 2015 06:23 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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hpkinkfestTitle: The Heat of Battle
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ningloreth
Prompt Number: 148, submitted bylady_of_clunn
Kink Showcased: Enemies with Benefits
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Summary: In the heat of battle, Hermione and Draco get close. Years later, Draco comes back into Hermione's life...
Warnings/Content Notes: Set in an AU where the war has dragged on for years; minor character deaths; some apparent dub-con (though Hermione is actually willing); brief erotic strangulation; and, um, murder mystery.
Word Count: ~ 6,500
Author's Notes: Thank you tolady_of_clunn for submitting this prompt; I do hope you find the result kinky enough! Thank you to the mods for running the fest.
The basic idea for this story came from a commentunseen1969 made on another of my ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_kinkfest stories, Mudblood (though this isn't a sequel), so thank you to her, too! The plot was also influenced by the first few episodes of Murder in the First. At some point, years ago, I mixed up film!Crabbe and film!Goyle, so I always visualise Crabbe as Goyle and Goyle as Crabbe, and you'll see why this is relevant if you read on :-)
The illustrations were made by me, using photo-manipulation and digital painting.
Hermione grabbed a handful of his hair and, pulling him close, attacked his mouth.
Malfoy rammed her against the wall.
Later, she would relive it again and again, marvelling at the way his hands—in no way gentle—had inflamed her body as they wrestled her jeans down to her knees and ripped her panties aside; at the way he'd lifted her, as though she weighed nothing, and pinned her against the brickwork; at the way his cock had filled her—Oh god, yes!—thrusting into her, fucking some animal part of her that had never been awakened before...
Now, she simply abandoned herself to it, letting him—grunting and thrusting—fuck her up the wall, every bit as desperate as she was.
God only knew how such violence could feel so good.
She came abruptly, helplessly, her climax bursting out of her and making the entire world spin around her.
When she came back to herself, Malfoy had stilled and was leaning, hunched over her, eyes closed, panting raggedly, his fingers still digging into her bare backside. Hermione's pussy clenched again with aftershocks.
Malfoy swore and, pulling out of her, stepped away and fumbled himself back into his breeches.
“Go,” he said, roughly. “Run! Quick!”
Hermione pulled up her jeans and, on shaky legs, ran.
...
She found Harry, Ron, and the others, waiting anxiously.
“Are you all right?” Harry asked. The concern in his voice almost broke her.
“Yes,” she lied, “I'm fine.”
“Did you see anything?” Ron asked.
“I...” She couldn't look at him. “Yes. They're”—for a split-second, she considered lying to them, and leading them away from Malfoy—“they're holed up in the school,” she said, truthfully. “They've put a Protection Spell, I think, around the playground, but there are lookouts on the outside. I saw Malfoy in an alley round the back...”
“Right,” said Moody. “Let's get 'em.”
...
They didn't get 'em.
By the time they got to the school, it was empty. Hermione supposed that Malfoy had put two and two together, and warned the others.
She and her companions took refuge in a nearby house, wedging the broken door closed and moving the scorched furniture aside—all of them trying not to think about what the Death Eaters might have done to the Muggles who'd lived there.
Hermione unscrewed the cap from a tube of Savlon she'd found in the bathroom cabinet, squeezed out some ointment, and smoothed it onto her grazed behind, screwing her eyes up tight to banish the memory of Malfoy's fucking.
...
She woke from an erotic dream, just a moment too soon.
Dazed and disappointed, she was still alert enough to wonder what had disturbed her. She peered around her temporary bedroom, scanning it anxiously, until she spotted a shadowy figure outside the window, and her body, recognising him before she did, jumped at the sight of him.
She scrambled from her bed, and—thinking, This is crazy!—dismissed the wards from the window, and opened it.
She didn't say anything, and nor did Malfoy. He stepped from his broom onto the windowsill and dropped inside, immediately reaching out to grasp her and manoeuvre her onto the bed.
I shouldn't be doing this, she thought, as he pushed her down and, leaning over her, freed his cock with his other hand. I really, really...
I should scream! Yes—no, I should Stupefy—
His cock filled her pussy.
—oh god!—I should—should what?—what should I—
Every heart-stopping thrust was pure, physical pleasure...
—ohhhhhh, god!
He fucked her hard—all muscular thighs, powerful buttocks, and need—and Hermione fucked him back, bringing her knees up and digging her heels in, meeting his strokes eagerly, encouraging him with her hands and her mouth—begging him.
His fucking was nothing like the sex she'd had in the past—the sex she'd thought she loved—it wasn't sweet and gentle; Malfoy grunted and sweated and shagged her raw until, with one final, savage thrust, he gasped, “I'm coming...” and she felt his seed flood her insides and, grasping his head and claiming his mouth with hers, she stifled her own cries against his lips, her body jerking in orgasmic convulsions.
...
...
He knows where we are!
Malfoy had left her, lying on the bed in a sexual stupor, at least half an hour earlier, and it had only just occurred to Hermione to wonder how he'd found her.
She dragged herself up and quickly got dressed, checking herself in the mirror for any tell-tale signs left by his mouth or hands, and trying to think of a convincing story.
She had to persuade the others to move, somehow.
...
A week later
The Order attacked the Ministry of Magic knowing it was their last chance—that if they lost this battle, they would have lost the war, for there were so few of them left now.
Hermione was leading the first wave, a rag-tag bunch of old, young and—so far—lucky witches and wizards, sent to create a diversion outside the underground toilets whilst Harry, Ron, Moody and Lupin, suitably disguised with Polyjuice Potion, used the confusion to sneak into the Ministry and deal with Voldemort and his inner circle.
As the battle spilled along the streets of Whitehall, Hermione fought furiously, casting Stunners left and right, securing the fallen with Body-Bind Curses, all the time wondering whether Malfoy would be round the next corner, wondering what she would do if she and Malfoy came face to face.
She darted across the street—
“EXPELLIARMUS!”
—and, for a split second, she left her back exposed. Her wand flew from her hand and skittered away, across the pavement.
Hermione turned to face her nemesis, and was almost happy when she saw that the eyes behind the silver mask were not Malfoy's but Vincent Crabbe's.
She held her breath...
Crabbe hesitated, and Hermione seized her chance. “Acc—” she began.
Crabbe pitched forward, and hit the ground with a thud.
Hermione looked up from his senseless body.
...
...
As he rushed towards her, his wand outstretched, her saviour pulled off his Death Eater mask, but Hermione already knew who it was, and she reached for him, fear and anger turning to need.
Malfoy shoved her against the railings.
They were out in the street, where anyone could see them—and either side might capture or kill them—but it didn't matter; Malfoy's mouth was devouring her, his hands bruising her, his hard, impatient cock driving her out of her mind.
Hermione tore at his breeches—
High above them, a jet of light shot into the sky and exploded in a ball of stars that showered down upon them, hitting the ground in streams of pure gold.
“That's the signal,” Hermione panted, pulling away from Malfoy. “It's all over! Harry's won.”
...
They stared at each other, neither of them sure what to do next.
For Hermione, it was as though Malfoy had been wearing a glamour that Harry's signal had dispelled, and now she no longer recognised him. Her heart was telling her that he was the enemy and she must take him prisoner, but her head was reminding her how much she owed him, not only for saving her life, but also for giving her—when things had been at their worst—the physical release she'd so desperately needed.
Should she let him run?
Or, maybe, just give him a head start, and then go after him?
“Surrender,” she said. “Surrender to me—I'll tell them how you saved me from Crabbe, and they'll go easy on you. It's your best chance, Draco.”
She saw his face harden.
He raised his wand.
Then he flipped it over, and held it out to her, butt first.
...
Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and the wizarding world began the long and painful task of rebuilding. Kingsley Shacklebolt was appointed Minister for Magic, and immediately made a deal with the Muggle government.
Voldemort's followers were prosecuted for war crimes, and—at the Muggle Prime Minister's insistence—given particularly harsh penalties for their crimes against Muggles.
Lucius Malfoy was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Draco—who, it emerged at his trial, had always managed to avoid harming Muggles—was sentenced to two.
Vincent Crabbe was given ten years.
Five years later
Hermione awoke from a recurring nightmare and, disoriented, scanned her bedroom.
A shadowy figure was tapping on the window. “No,” she murmured, “it can't be...”
Oh my god, it is!
She climbed out of bed and—cautious but curious—opened the window.
Malfoy stepped from his broom onto the windowsill and dropped inside.
For several long moments, they stared at one another. Then Malfoy said, “Will you close the fucking window, Granger?”
Any spark of attraction Hermione might have been feeling was instantly snuffed out. “What d'you want?” she growled, pushing past him.
“Well, I'm not here to shag you, if that's what you're hoping.”
“You...” She turned back to him, fully intending to rip him a new one—
Something's off, she thought. He was dressed immaculately in traditional robes, like a younger, leaner version of his father. But he hasn't shaved, or combed his hair, in days.
“What's happened?”
“You don't know?”
Hermione shook her head. “I'm just back from Australia.”
“I'm in trouble, Granger.” He reached inside his cloak, brought out a copy of the Daily Prophet, and handed it over.
Hermione read the headline:
DRACO MALFOY WANTED FOR MURDER
FORMER DEATH EATER STRANGLES FIANCEE
“When it's all sorted,” he said, bitterly, “I'm suing that fucking rag. I'm taking those bastards for every Sickle they've got.”
...
Murder.
Hermione stared up at him, conflicting thoughts whirling through her head: Stupefy him!—Block the Floo—Call Harry!—Cast a Protection Spell!
Innocent or guilty, the right thing to do is turn him in!
Innocent or guilty, my track record's complete crap when it comes to Malfoy and doing the right thing...
She blocked the Floo, cast her Protection Spells, and an Imperturbable Charm, and—for good measure—a white noise spell, sat him down at the kitchen table, and made some coffee.
“What,” she asked, as she handed him a mug, “d'you think I can do for you?”
Malfoy shrugged. “You're a lawyer, Granger. Everyone says you're brilliant. You've always been able to wrap Potter and the others round your little finger. And”—he fixed his huge, grey eyes on her, and Hermione felt the full power of their past connection—“we have a past connection.”
The echo brought her back to her senses. “No, we...” She looked away. “I mean, that was ages ago, Draco, and...”
She couldn't bring herself to say 'it meant nothing to me' because, in truth, it had shaped the entire course of her life—it was the reason why, at thirty, she was still single—because Malfoy had shown her a side to herself that would never be content to have a husband, two kids, and sex now and then, provided they could get a sitter.
“It wasn't important,” she said, lamely.
“No?” His smile nearly melted her bones.
“You're pretty full of yourself for a man accused of murder,” she said, crossly.
Malfoy changed tactic: “I saved you,” he said. “Outside the Ministry. You owe me a life debt.”
“I've already—”
“All you did,” he interrupted, “was take me prisoner.”
Hermione sighed; there was no way she was going to win this argument. “All right,” she said, “tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened.” He took a sip of coffee, and winced. “Ergh! Don't you have anything decent to drink?”
Hermione got up from the table and padded over to the cupboard where she kept a few bottles of spirits, Christmas presents from grateful clients. “Something must have happened,” she said, selecting a bottle of Firewhisky and cracking the seal.
“I was at Pucey's with Blaise and Theo. We were there until about two—”
“In the morning?” She poured him a whisky.
“Mmm.” He took a swig. “Good stuff, Granger—leave the bottle. Yeah; Blaise and Theo were working on a couple of witches. I'd already—well, I, um—I went home to Astoria. And I found her dead.”
Hermione sighed. “Are you deliberately being vague?” She summoned a sheet of parchment and a self-inking quill. “Right. Let's start at the beginning.”
...
...
It took a lot of effort to tease out the basic facts, and they weren't particularly helpful.
He found Astoria lying on a rumpled bed, naked—
“Did she normally sleep naked?”
“Doesn't everybody?”
Hermione made a note.
—he went straight to the fireplace, and called the Auror Office over the Floo—
“You didn't touch the body?”
Malfoy looked shifty. “I may have covered her up,” he said.
“With what?”
“Her negligee.”
“But I thought...”
With a sigh, Hermione made another note.
—but before he'd had a chance to speak to 'Potter', a pair of skrewts—presumably Aurors—blasted the door open, and arrested him—
“How did you get away?”
“Creevey was supposed to fly me back to the Ministry whilst Cattermole stayed at the flat and... did whatever it is Aurors do. Creevey's Handcuffing Spell was pathetic. I was able to block it and, when he took off, I pushed him off the broom—”
“He fell?”
“Only a couple of feet—”
“Shit!” Hermione ran into her bedroom and opened the window. The broom was still outside, propped on the window ledge, where Malfoy had left it. “Don't you know,” she said, pointing her wand, “that Aurors put Tracking Spells on their brooms? Oblitero!”
They watched the broom turn to dust, and the dust scatter on the wind.
“You make a pretty handy accomplice, Granger,” said Malfoy, “but I'd already dealt with the Tracker.”
Hermione frowned. “How did you know where I live, Draco?” she asked.
“Mmm?”
“You came to my home. How did you know where I live?”
Malfoy shrugged. “I memorised your address,” he said. “You never know when you might need to call in a life debt.”
...
Back in the kitchen, Malfoy poured himself another Firewhisky.
Hermione picked up her quill and tapped it against her teeth, thoughtfully.
Malfoy's relationship with Astoria Greengrass seems to have been...
ODD, she wrote, and circled the word twice.
Their engagement was arranged by their parents, but Malfoy seems to have been resigned—
“How did they know Astoria was dead?” she asked.
“What d'you mean?”
“You say you were still waiting to speak to Harry when the Aurors blew your door open—how did they know that Astoria was dead?”
“The old git downstairs reported a disturbance.”
“What sort of disturbance?”
“Screaming—or something. How do I know, Granger? I wasn't there.”
Hermione regarded him suspiciously; Malfoy met her gaze with his huge, pale eyes.
She'd seen him at his worst, many times, at school, and at his best, outside the Ministry of Magic. She'd felt his passion and a self-absorption that could so easily have turned to callousness, or to downright cruelty...
On the whole, she thought, he's an arsehole. And he gets away with stuff because he's rich and confident, and sexy...
But does that mean he's a cold-blooded murderer?
“Did you do it?” she asked.
Malfoy's gaze didn't falter. “Course not, Granger.”
Hmmm.
“Well,” she said, “we'll talk more tomorrow. Right now, I need some sleep. You can have the spare room.”
...
She woke to find Malfoy standing in her bedroom doorway wearing nothing but a very impressive erection.
Oh. My. God.
She pulled back the bedclothes, and he climbed onto the bed, planting a knee either side of her.
“Oh...” Hermione reached up.
Malfoy allowed her a few moments to her express her admiration, then, using his hand, he guided himself into her pussy, sinking into her with a deep, sensual groan.
Hermione wrapped her arms and legs around him and, once he'd found a rhythm, she joined him, meeting his strokes almost angrily, crying out as, with each powerful thrust, he rammed into her. They both came, within seconds of each other, holding nothing back, letting everything out in roars and screams of satisfaction.
...
...
“You're still a phenomenal fuck, Granger,” said Malfoy, with an appreciative sigh.
He hadn't gone back to the spare room, as Hermione had expected, but had stayed in her bed, stretched out beside her. She wondered what that meant, and why the possibilities turned her on so much...
She rolled over and straddled him. His cock immediately responded, and she bore down on it, rocking her clit against its hard ridge as she leaned in to pin his wrists and possess his mouth.
He let her have her fun for a while, then he freed his hands, and—still returning her kisses—grasped her breasts, cupping them hard, and Hermione knew that if she didn't have him inside her again, right away, she would die.
Their second bout was even better than the first. Malfoy seemed more aroused—rock hard and set to last for ages—fucking her until Hermione was so sated, her pussy so ravaged, she was forced to beg him to stop.
He pulled out of her and she watched him greedily, working his cock with his hand until he climaxed, shooting ropes of thick, white come all over her belly and between her breasts.
...
Hermione woke at dawn, feeling like Superwoman.
Malfoy was sleeping beside her and, for a few moments, she stayed quite still, enjoying the sight of his pale, muscular body, and of his cock, lying semi-hard and thick on his thigh...
Is it any wonder, she thought, that none of my relationships ever last?
She turned onto her back. She had made up her mind—sort of. I need more information.
She slid out of bed without disturbing him, had a shower, put on her work robes, and penned a note:
DO NOT LEAVE THIS FLAT.
I'll be back by 6.00.
There's plenty of food in the fridge.
H
She laid it on the pillow, where Malfoy would see it the moment he woke up.
...
At that hour, the Ministry was practically empty.
Hermione made her way to the Auror Office, cheerfully greeting the security wizards patrolling the corridors.
All the Aurors on the night shift knew her, and no one seemed curious when she entered Dennis Creevey's cubicle. Malfoy's case file was lying on the desk. Hermione pointed her wand at it, whispered, “Geminio,” and slipped the copy into her little, beaded bag.
...
A few hours later, having studied Malfoy's file, and obtained a copy of the Daily Prophet, Hermione went to Harry's office.
“I've just seen this!” she said, showing him the headline.
“Nice to see you, too, Hermione, after three weeks away.”
“Sorry.” She leaned over his desk, and kissed his cheek. “Nice to be back, Harry.”
He nodded towards a chair and Hermione sat down. “How was Australia?”
“Fine.” She waved the newspaper. “How's the investigation going?
“You know I can't discuss specifics with you.”
“Well, no, but—I mean—this is Malfoy.” She grinned. “It's sort of like old times—us against him.”
“Yeah... Sort of.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“Why're you so interested?”
“Because it's Malfoy!”
Harry fixed her with a hard, green stare.
He knows me too well, she thought. “I want him,” she said. “As a client—to defend him—I mean. It, um, it would be a challenging case...”
Harry sighed. “I'm under pressure to deliver a quick result,” he said. “And Creevey's convinced he did it.”
“But you're not?”
“We've still to collect all the physical evidence from the crime scene,” he said, “but Cattermole's initial sweep found no trace of anyone but Malfoy... And the timing seems to fit.” Harry opened his copy of the case file. “Zabini and Nott both say that Malfoy left Pucey's club at about two. One of our new See-see-TV Spells caught him relieving himself in the doorway of Borgin and Burkes's old shop—”
“Oh, god,” said Hermione.
“—at two ten. His downstairs neighbour reported Astoria's screams at two thirty-five. Creevey and Cattermole arrived at two forty-seven to find Astoria dead, and Malfoy about to use the Floo. The problem—”
Hermione had read the file, and knew where the problem lay, but she let him continue.
“—is that Astoria was a screamer, and the neighbour was used to hearing her yell the place down. That night, he thought she sounded 'different' in some way, but he hesitated for a while before he reported it, so we can't fix the exact time of the disturbance.”
“And you can't get the time of death from the body?”
Harry shook his head. “The fire had been stoked up and the place was roasting, which kept the body warm, and throws off our diagnostic spells.”
“Hmm,” said Hermione. “The timing's iffy—in Malfoy's favour.” She looked at him, thoughtfully. “But there's some other reason you're not entirely convinced he did it.”
Harry closed the file. “Gut feeling,” he said. “I saw him on the Astronomy Tower, and—over the years—I saw him in battle, and I never saw him kill anyone. He'd use a Stunner, or petrify, just like us. Don't get me wrong, Hermione, I don't think the man's a saint; I'm just not sure he's a killer.”
Hermione chewed her lip. Harry was right. If Malfoy had killed Astoria, it had to have been a crime of passion. Unless, she thought, he strangled her accidentally, in the throes of kinky sex...
Hmmm.
“Could she have been killed before Malfoy left for Pucey's?” she asked. “Would the fire have kept her warm for—what?—six hours?”
Harry shrugged. “The neighbour heard her screaming much later than that.”
“Right.” She rose from her chair. “Thanks, Harry.”
“Hermione,” he said, as she was opening the door to leave, “you forgot to ask me the most important question.”
“What's that?”
“Have we caught him yet?”
Hermione bit her lip. “Have you?”
“You know we haven't.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his stomach. “I'll give you twenty-four hours, and then I'm coming to get him myself. But be bloody careful, Hermione.”
...
...
“Thank Merlin you're back,” said Malfoy. “I'm starving.”
Hermione hung her keys on the hook. Malfoy appeared to have spent the entire day sprawling on the couch. Last night's Firewhisky bottle sat empty on the coffee table, together with a half-empty bottle of Vodka.
He still hadn't shaved.
“Your liver will be shot,” said Hermione. “And I told you in the note: the fridge is full of food.”
“What use is that to me? Muggle contraptions and no house-elves—what? I pay my house-elves, Granger.”
“Yes—I mean, no, it's not that.” She sat down beside him. “You have house-elves. So where are they? Where were they when Astoria was killed?”
“They're witnesses...”
“They must be. But they're not mentioned in your case file.” She pulled the documents out of her little, beaded bag and handed them over. “I don't think that Creevey and Cattermole even know you have them... I need to search the crime scene.”
She turned to Malfoy. “You, stay here.”
The look on his face made her smile. “Just open the fridge door, take out some butter and some cheese, and close the door. There's fresh bread in the bread bin.”
...
Hermione popped into the Leaky Cauldron and, after locking herself in the Ladies' loo, pulled her disguise out of her little, beaded bag. She changed her clothes, then dropped a single ginger hair into a vial of muddy brown potion, waited for the potion to turn fiery red, and drank it in one, shuddering as the transformation racked her body.
A few minutes later, she was breaking the yellow 'CRIME SCENE – KEEP OUT' tape sealing Malfoy's door with a confident, “Harry just wants me to check a few things.”
The Auror on guard had no reason to question Ronald Weasley.
Malfoy's flat, off Diagon Alley, was on the top floor of a converted Victorian hotel. The walls were covered in rich, antique papers and intricate, hand-painted plasterwork, the vaulted ceilings decorated with mosaics of cerulean blue and bright gold leaf, the doors and windows set in fluted Gothic arches; the vast, Victorian rooms were divided into modern, multi-level living spaces with slabs of pure, dove grey marble.
It took Hermione's breath away. It must have cost a fortune!
She dragged herself away from the sitting room windows, with their fascinating views of Muggle London, cast a Coverall Charm over Ron's body, and set to work.
Where do I start?
In the bedroom.
The imprint of Astoria's dead body was still visible on the crumpled bedsheets. Hermione knew from the case file that Cattermole had cast a Black Light Spell on the sheets, and had found traces of semen on them—Do bears shit in the woods? she thought.
She cast her own Black Light Spell, sweeping her wand to and fro across the room, but—aside from showing that Malfoy and Astoria must have had sex on every conceivable surface, including several places on the staircase—No wonder Astoria was always screaming—the results were inconclusive.
Hermione sat down on a clean step.
In truth, she was way out of her depth...
Look for the house-elves, she thought.
She climbed the stairs to the top room in the flat, a clinical, marble mezzanine that Malfoy obviously used as a gym, and found nothing of interest.
Back in the bedroom, she searched the wardrobes and the bedside cabinets, and minutely examined the walls for hidden compartments, first using spells, then tapping with the butt of her wand.
She repeated the procedure in the palatial bathroom, the kitchen, the dining room, and both spare bedrooms—
She heard the Floo whoosh, and ran into the sitting room to find Malfoy emerging from the fireplace.
He saw her, and went for his wand.
...
...
“I told you to stay in the flat,” Hermione hissed.
“Granger? That's sneaky!” Malfoy re-sheathed his wand.
“How'd you get past the Aurors' wards?”
“You think they could keep me out of my own place?”
“Well, if they find you here, Draco, it's all over. Seriously. The prosecution will argue that you came to destroy the evidence...” She realised what she'd just said, and eyed him, suspiciously.
“Now that expression,” said Malfoy, “is pure Weasley. As it happens, I came to help you find the evidence.”
Together, they searched the entire flat again and, this time, Malfoy found them—a small, elderly female in a tiny red dress and Minnie Mouse shoes, and a young male, wearing a dark green waistcoat and a green and silver tie—stuffed up the chimney in one of the spare bedrooms.
“The bastard killed them,” he saidy, angrily. He reached out, straightened the little, striped tie, and smoothed the waistcoat. “Poor old Parsnip.”
That's it, then, thought Hermione, my only lead, gone—“OH!”
Malfoy looked up at her. “What?”
The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off! Hermione ran into the bathroom and locked the door.
...
She emerged fifteen minutes later, in her own body, washed, and wearing her own clothes, to find Malfoy lounging on the sofa with a glass of Firewhisky in his hand.
“You ever had sex right after you used Polyjuice Potion?” he asked.
“What?”
“You took a bit long getting dressed, but there may still be enough of it left in your veins...”
He put down his glass and came for her, moving like a big cat; he was obviously aroused—and when he pulled her against his body, Hermione felt concrete proof.
“No! Now's not the time, Draco,” she gasped. “We need to preserve any evidence that may be on the house-elves, and then—” Malfoy had backed her up against the sideboard, and he lifted her onto it. “If you get caught because we're—ungh!” She pushed him away with all her might, ducking her head to avoid his hungry mouth. “The Auror would hear us, Draco!”
“His problem.”
“No! No, it's crazy... Honestly... At least cast—cast a—ah! Oh, god!” He'd ripped off her panties and his hands were between her legs.
Hermione's head was swimming. Malfoy had been right—her newly-restored body was still thrumming with the after effects of the transformation, and that, plus the fact that an Auror was standing guard just a few feet away from them...
It was as though every one of her senses—far, far more than a measly five—was being overloaded.
She felt Malfoy's cock inside her, and it was too much to bear—she came too soon, riding him desperately in the struggle to make her climax match the intensity of her need...
“That's just the appetiser,” Malfoy whispered.
Hermione's body sagged and Malfoy pulled out of her, and—one hand still gripping her thigh—burst all over the floor, his other hand hovering beside his cock until the main explosions were over and the final spasms needed some help.
Frustrated, Hermione drew her wand and angrily Scourgified the marble. Her body was screaming that it wanted more, but there was no way she was going to admit it, to herself or to Malfoy.
“Can we both get out the way you got in?” she asked.
“Give me a minute, Granger,” he replied.
...
Five minutes later, he was fucking her on Astoria's death bed, taking her from behind as she lay with her upper body over the edge of the mattress, her hands braced on the floor.
God, she needed it!
And it was so—sooo—sooo good, Hermione had to grit her teeth to stop herself telling the entire world just how good it was.
She fixed her eyes on a spot on the rug, and—
“Draco,” she gasped, trying to ignore the lure of an orgasm she knew was going to blow her mind, “Draco, stop! Stop! I—I've found something!”
...
It was a slip of coarse, grey cloth, printed with darker grey stripes—one of the ties from an Azkaban prisoner's uniform.
“I hoped I'd never see that stuff again,” said Malfoy. He'd fetched a bottle of Firewhisky and a glass from the sitting room, and he poured out a large whisky and handed it to Hermione.
“When prisoners are released,” she said, setting the drink on the bedside cabinet, “are they still wearing prison clothes?”
“No.”
“Then whoever was wearing this”—she waved the bit of cloth—“must have escaped.”
Malfoy took a swig from the Firewhisky bottle. “Must have.”
“Well... Then it shouldn't be too hard to identify him.” She got up off the bed. “Someone who's recently escaped, with a grudge against you—or maybe against Astoria. I need to get this to Harry as soon as possible.” She spotted her sex-wrecked self in the mirror. “But I could really do with a quick shower first.”
“Be my guest,” said Malfoy, nodding towards the bathroom door.
...
“So,” said Hermione, checking her watch, “I'm back with almost sixteen hours to spare.”
Harry was examining the cloth through a magnifying glass. “You say this was in Malfoy's bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“Was Malfoy there with you?”
“Well.. Yes, he was.”
“Then how d'you know that Malfoy didn't plant it?”
“Oh, Harry! Where would he have got a bit of prison uniform from? Since Sunday morning? Unless you think he already had it tucked away somewhere, saved for rainy day?”
“I wouldn't put that past him,” said Harry.
“Has anyone escaped from Azkaban? Vincent Crabbe, for example?”
“Why d'you mention Crabbe?”
Harry's reaction to the name was suspicious; Hermione spoke with more confidence: “Because Malfoy stunned Crabbe, during the Battle for the Ministry, which means that Malfoy was directly responsible for Crabbe's capture. And then, because he'd done it to save me, Malfoy got a shorter sentence—only a fraction of what Crabbe got—I'm right, aren't I?”
“Crabbe escaped from Azkaban on Friday night—”
“The day before Astoria was killed! Yes!” Hermione cried, triumphantly.
“We're trying to keep it quiet, while the search is still on. There's a Gagging Spell on the Daily Prophet press... Get Malfoy to turn himself in. We'll hold an emergency hearing, and release him with a Tracking Spell, pending further investigations.”
“It looks good, doesn't it—for Malfoy, I mean?”
“Crabbe is a plausible suspect,” said Harry, guardedly.
...
Malfoy was waiting in her flat.
Hermione explained the bargain she'd made with Harry.
“You really are something special, Granger,” he said, almost sounding fond of her, and, reaching out, he stroked her breast, teasing the nipple with his thumb, through the layers of silk and lace...
Hermione shuddered. “Did you ever meet a woman you didn't seduce, Draco?”
Malfoy swung round to face her properly and, bringing up his other hand, slowly unbuttoned her blouse and opened it...
With a sudden jerk, he pulled her bra cups down under her breasts, leaving them exposed but lifted, like the silicone-filled tits of some cheap porn star. Hermione watched him devour her with his eyes, his gaze so intense, so hungry, she was forced to look away, only to have her own eyes fall upon his erection, big and curved inside his trousers...
“Ohhh,” she whispered, and—her hands far less steady than Malfoy's—she unbuttoned his fly and released him from his boxers.
God, it's beautiful, she thought, fondling his sturdy shaft and smooth, broad head. I am going to give you the blow job of your life, Draco Malfoy.
Leaning in, she took him in her mouth, curling one hand around him and bobbing her head as she sucked him, cupping his balls with her other hand, lifting them and holding them, and pressing her fingertips against the firm flesh behind his sac.
“Yes,” he panted, grasping her head. “Yes! Blow me, Granger! That's it. Blow me! Make me come...”
...
Malfoy leaned back on the couch, one hand lying on his chest, his eyes closed in a smile of exhausted satisfaction.
Hermione wiped her face. “God, I thought it was never going to stop.”
Malfoy's smile broadened...
Then he opened his eyes and, suddenly energised, lifted her onto the couch, laying her down and straddling her and, after making short work of her panties, he slid right into her, slick with his own come and with Hermione's saliva.
...
...
Hermione lay back, letting Malfoy do all the work, revelling in his fucking—in the long, deep strokes and the sudden, heart-stopping jerks...
God, I could happily die like this—
Malfoy's hands closed around her throat.
What...?
“Nnnnnnooo!” She grabbed his wrists and, panicking, tried to pull his hands away, her entire body writhing as she struggled, trapped beneath him, impaled upon his cock, unable to escape...
Suddenly, he released her. “Don't like that, do you, Granger?”
“No,” she croaked.
“Okay. Pity...”
He took up his delicious, slow-jerk, slow-jerk rhythm again, and kept it going until Hermione, her heart still pounding, her body still trembling from the fright he'd given her, came hard, swearing like a fishwife.
...
Hermione watched Malfoy wake up, stretch, begin to get up from the couch, and stop dead when he saw her wand aimed at his chest.
“You were compromising the crime scene,” she said. Far too disturbed to sleep, she'd spent the past couple of hours thinking it through. “You touched the dead house-elves, you fucked me on the bed—you deliberately turned me face down so I'd spot the piece of cloth you'd planted when I was locked in the bathroom... I'm your alibi after the fact, aren't I? I wouldn't be surprised if it was you that made me think of Vincent Crabbe, somehow.”
Malfoy gave her a slow hand-clap.
“What happened Draco? Mm? Did you come home, find Astoria with Crabbe, and lose it?”
“You can do better than that, Granger.”
“Tell me what happened,” said Hermione, coldly.
“Put the wand down first.”
“No way!”
“Okay”—Malfoy raised his hands in mock surrender—“but don't shoot me. Yes,” he said. “I found Crabbe with Astoria. But not in the way you mean. You're not the only one who can use Polyjuice Potion, Granger.”
“I...” Hermione frowned. “I don't understand.”
“Well now you're disappointing me.” He lowered his hands, and settled back against the cushions. “I came back from Pucey's—like I said—to find myself—myself, Granger—throttling my fiancée. I drew my wand, but... “
He sighed. “But I was a bit the worse for drink, and Vince beat me to it—he always was faster with a Stunner than me, all things being equal—and by the time I'd recovered, Astoria was dead, and he'd got away. You know what happened next.”
“Why didn't you tell me any of this?” She tried to process the new information.
“I didn't kill her, Granger, but all the evidence was saying I did. I needed you to convince Potter that I'd been framed, and I knew that to do that with all your patented, know-it-all certainty, you'd have to 'discover' it for yourself.”
“God, I've underestimated you,” said Hermione. “I always knew you were clever, but I thought that I was cleverer.”
“I know you did. That's why it worked.” He shrugged. “You are better at book-learning than me, and your magic's... pretty impressive. But I'm sneakier. And I have a rare instinct for self-preservation. Now—can I get up? I'm dying for a pee.”
“God, Draco,” she said, lowering her wand, “how will I ever know when you're telling the truth?”
Malfoy shrugged. “When will you need to?”
Oh, god, she thought; she realised she'd been thinking of them as a couple when they weren't, and that she'd just given herself away. “So I can sleep at night,” she called after him.
...
Three days later
Hermione awoke with a weird feeling of deja vu. A shadowy figure was tapping on her bedroom window and her body, recognising him before she did, was turning cartwheels at the sight of him.
She got out of bed and opened the window.
Malfoy stepped from his broom onto the windowsill and dropped inside.
For several long moments, they stood face to face, staring at one another. Hermione had no idea what Malfoy might still want from her. Crabbe had been captured and had confessed to the murder of Astoria Greengrass, and Malfoy had been cleared. He had already made it painfully obvious to her that they weren't a couple...
At last, he broke the silence: “Don't worry, Granger,” he said, grasping her by the hips and manoeuvring her towards the bed, “the life debt's paid. I'm just here to shag you.”
...
Enemies with Benefits?
Author:
ninglorethPrompt Number: 148, submitted by
lady_of_clunnKink Showcased: Enemies with Benefits
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Summary: In the heat of battle, Hermione and Draco get close. Years later, Draco comes back into Hermione's life...
Warnings/Content Notes: Set in an AU where the war has dragged on for years; minor character deaths; some apparent dub-con (though Hermione is actually willing); brief erotic strangulation; and, um, murder mystery.
Word Count: ~ 6,500
Author's Notes: Thank you to
lady_of_clunn for submitting this prompt; I do hope you find the result kinky enough! Thank you to the mods for running the fest.The basic idea for this story came from a comment
unseen1969 made on another of my hp_kinkfest stories, Mudblood (though this isn't a sequel), so thank you to her, too! The plot was also influenced by the first few episodes of Murder in the First. At some point, years ago, I mixed up film!Crabbe and film!Goyle, so I always visualise Crabbe as Goyle and Goyle as Crabbe, and you'll see why this is relevant if you read on :-)The illustrations were made by me, using photo-manipulation and digital painting.
Hermione grabbed a handful of his hair and, pulling him close, attacked his mouth.
Malfoy rammed her against the wall.
Later, she would relive it again and again, marvelling at the way his hands—in no way gentle—had inflamed her body as they wrestled her jeans down to her knees and ripped her panties aside; at the way he'd lifted her, as though she weighed nothing, and pinned her against the brickwork; at the way his cock had filled her—Oh god, yes!—thrusting into her, fucking some animal part of her that had never been awakened before...
Now, she simply abandoned herself to it, letting him—grunting and thrusting—fuck her up the wall, every bit as desperate as she was.
God only knew how such violence could feel so good.
She came abruptly, helplessly, her climax bursting out of her and making the entire world spin around her.
When she came back to herself, Malfoy had stilled and was leaning, hunched over her, eyes closed, panting raggedly, his fingers still digging into her bare backside. Hermione's pussy clenched again with aftershocks.
Malfoy swore and, pulling out of her, stepped away and fumbled himself back into his breeches.
“Go,” he said, roughly. “Run! Quick!”
Hermione pulled up her jeans and, on shaky legs, ran.
...
She found Harry, Ron, and the others, waiting anxiously.
“Are you all right?” Harry asked. The concern in his voice almost broke her.
“Yes,” she lied, “I'm fine.”
“Did you see anything?” Ron asked.
“I...” She couldn't look at him. “Yes. They're”—for a split-second, she considered lying to them, and leading them away from Malfoy—“they're holed up in the school,” she said, truthfully. “They've put a Protection Spell, I think, around the playground, but there are lookouts on the outside. I saw Malfoy in an alley round the back...”
“Right,” said Moody. “Let's get 'em.”
...
They didn't get 'em.
By the time they got to the school, it was empty. Hermione supposed that Malfoy had put two and two together, and warned the others.
She and her companions took refuge in a nearby house, wedging the broken door closed and moving the scorched furniture aside—all of them trying not to think about what the Death Eaters might have done to the Muggles who'd lived there.
Hermione unscrewed the cap from a tube of Savlon she'd found in the bathroom cabinet, squeezed out some ointment, and smoothed it onto her grazed behind, screwing her eyes up tight to banish the memory of Malfoy's fucking.
...
She woke from an erotic dream, just a moment too soon.
Dazed and disappointed, she was still alert enough to wonder what had disturbed her. She peered around her temporary bedroom, scanning it anxiously, until she spotted a shadowy figure outside the window, and her body, recognising him before she did, jumped at the sight of him.
She scrambled from her bed, and—thinking, This is crazy!—dismissed the wards from the window, and opened it.
She didn't say anything, and nor did Malfoy. He stepped from his broom onto the windowsill and dropped inside, immediately reaching out to grasp her and manoeuvre her onto the bed.
I shouldn't be doing this, she thought, as he pushed her down and, leaning over her, freed his cock with his other hand. I really, really...
I should scream! Yes—no, I should Stupefy—
His cock filled her pussy.
—oh god!—I should—should what?—what should I—
Every heart-stopping thrust was pure, physical pleasure...
—ohhhhhh, god!
He fucked her hard—all muscular thighs, powerful buttocks, and need—and Hermione fucked him back, bringing her knees up and digging her heels in, meeting his strokes eagerly, encouraging him with her hands and her mouth—begging him.
His fucking was nothing like the sex she'd had in the past—the sex she'd thought she loved—it wasn't sweet and gentle; Malfoy grunted and sweated and shagged her raw until, with one final, savage thrust, he gasped, “I'm coming...” and she felt his seed flood her insides and, grasping his head and claiming his mouth with hers, she stifled her own cries against his lips, her body jerking in orgasmic convulsions.
...
...
He knows where we are!
Malfoy had left her, lying on the bed in a sexual stupor, at least half an hour earlier, and it had only just occurred to Hermione to wonder how he'd found her.
She dragged herself up and quickly got dressed, checking herself in the mirror for any tell-tale signs left by his mouth or hands, and trying to think of a convincing story.
She had to persuade the others to move, somehow.
...
A week later
The Order attacked the Ministry of Magic knowing it was their last chance—that if they lost this battle, they would have lost the war, for there were so few of them left now.
Hermione was leading the first wave, a rag-tag bunch of old, young and—so far—lucky witches and wizards, sent to create a diversion outside the underground toilets whilst Harry, Ron, Moody and Lupin, suitably disguised with Polyjuice Potion, used the confusion to sneak into the Ministry and deal with Voldemort and his inner circle.
As the battle spilled along the streets of Whitehall, Hermione fought furiously, casting Stunners left and right, securing the fallen with Body-Bind Curses, all the time wondering whether Malfoy would be round the next corner, wondering what she would do if she and Malfoy came face to face.
She darted across the street—
“EXPELLIARMUS!”
—and, for a split second, she left her back exposed. Her wand flew from her hand and skittered away, across the pavement.
Hermione turned to face her nemesis, and was almost happy when she saw that the eyes behind the silver mask were not Malfoy's but Vincent Crabbe's.
She held her breath...
Crabbe hesitated, and Hermione seized her chance. “Acc—” she began.
Crabbe pitched forward, and hit the ground with a thud.
Hermione looked up from his senseless body.
...
...
As he rushed towards her, his wand outstretched, her saviour pulled off his Death Eater mask, but Hermione already knew who it was, and she reached for him, fear and anger turning to need.
Malfoy shoved her against the railings.
They were out in the street, where anyone could see them—and either side might capture or kill them—but it didn't matter; Malfoy's mouth was devouring her, his hands bruising her, his hard, impatient cock driving her out of her mind.
Hermione tore at his breeches—
High above them, a jet of light shot into the sky and exploded in a ball of stars that showered down upon them, hitting the ground in streams of pure gold.
“That's the signal,” Hermione panted, pulling away from Malfoy. “It's all over! Harry's won.”
...
They stared at each other, neither of them sure what to do next.
For Hermione, it was as though Malfoy had been wearing a glamour that Harry's signal had dispelled, and now she no longer recognised him. Her heart was telling her that he was the enemy and she must take him prisoner, but her head was reminding her how much she owed him, not only for saving her life, but also for giving her—when things had been at their worst—the physical release she'd so desperately needed.
Should she let him run?
Or, maybe, just give him a head start, and then go after him?
“Surrender,” she said. “Surrender to me—I'll tell them how you saved me from Crabbe, and they'll go easy on you. It's your best chance, Draco.”
She saw his face harden.
He raised his wand.
Then he flipped it over, and held it out to her, butt first.
...
Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and the wizarding world began the long and painful task of rebuilding. Kingsley Shacklebolt was appointed Minister for Magic, and immediately made a deal with the Muggle government.
Voldemort's followers were prosecuted for war crimes, and—at the Muggle Prime Minister's insistence—given particularly harsh penalties for their crimes against Muggles.
Lucius Malfoy was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Draco—who, it emerged at his trial, had always managed to avoid harming Muggles—was sentenced to two.
Vincent Crabbe was given ten years.
Five years later
Hermione awoke from a recurring nightmare and, disoriented, scanned her bedroom.
A shadowy figure was tapping on the window. “No,” she murmured, “it can't be...”
Oh my god, it is!
She climbed out of bed and—cautious but curious—opened the window.
Malfoy stepped from his broom onto the windowsill and dropped inside.
For several long moments, they stared at one another. Then Malfoy said, “Will you close the fucking window, Granger?”
Any spark of attraction Hermione might have been feeling was instantly snuffed out. “What d'you want?” she growled, pushing past him.
“Well, I'm not here to shag you, if that's what you're hoping.”
“You...” She turned back to him, fully intending to rip him a new one—
Something's off, she thought. He was dressed immaculately in traditional robes, like a younger, leaner version of his father. But he hasn't shaved, or combed his hair, in days.
“What's happened?”
“You don't know?”
Hermione shook her head. “I'm just back from Australia.”
“I'm in trouble, Granger.” He reached inside his cloak, brought out a copy of the Daily Prophet, and handed it over.
Hermione read the headline:
FORMER DEATH EATER STRANGLES FIANCEE
“When it's all sorted,” he said, bitterly, “I'm suing that fucking rag. I'm taking those bastards for every Sickle they've got.”
...
Murder.
Hermione stared up at him, conflicting thoughts whirling through her head: Stupefy him!—Block the Floo—Call Harry!—Cast a Protection Spell!
Innocent or guilty, the right thing to do is turn him in!
Innocent or guilty, my track record's complete crap when it comes to Malfoy and doing the right thing...
She blocked the Floo, cast her Protection Spells, and an Imperturbable Charm, and—for good measure—a white noise spell, sat him down at the kitchen table, and made some coffee.
“What,” she asked, as she handed him a mug, “d'you think I can do for you?”
Malfoy shrugged. “You're a lawyer, Granger. Everyone says you're brilliant. You've always been able to wrap Potter and the others round your little finger. And”—he fixed his huge, grey eyes on her, and Hermione felt the full power of their past connection—“we have a past connection.”
The echo brought her back to her senses. “No, we...” She looked away. “I mean, that was ages ago, Draco, and...”
She couldn't bring herself to say 'it meant nothing to me' because, in truth, it had shaped the entire course of her life—it was the reason why, at thirty, she was still single—because Malfoy had shown her a side to herself that would never be content to have a husband, two kids, and sex now and then, provided they could get a sitter.
“It wasn't important,” she said, lamely.
“No?” His smile nearly melted her bones.
“You're pretty full of yourself for a man accused of murder,” she said, crossly.
Malfoy changed tactic: “I saved you,” he said. “Outside the Ministry. You owe me a life debt.”
“I've already—”
“All you did,” he interrupted, “was take me prisoner.”
Hermione sighed; there was no way she was going to win this argument. “All right,” she said, “tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened.” He took a sip of coffee, and winced. “Ergh! Don't you have anything decent to drink?”
Hermione got up from the table and padded over to the cupboard where she kept a few bottles of spirits, Christmas presents from grateful clients. “Something must have happened,” she said, selecting a bottle of Firewhisky and cracking the seal.
“I was at Pucey's with Blaise and Theo. We were there until about two—”
“In the morning?” She poured him a whisky.
“Mmm.” He took a swig. “Good stuff, Granger—leave the bottle. Yeah; Blaise and Theo were working on a couple of witches. I'd already—well, I, um—I went home to Astoria. And I found her dead.”
Hermione sighed. “Are you deliberately being vague?” She summoned a sheet of parchment and a self-inking quill. “Right. Let's start at the beginning.”
...
...
It took a lot of effort to tease out the basic facts, and they weren't particularly helpful.
He found Astoria lying on a rumpled bed, naked—
“Did she normally sleep naked?”
“Doesn't everybody?”
Hermione made a note.
—he went straight to the fireplace, and called the Auror Office over the Floo—
“You didn't touch the body?”
Malfoy looked shifty. “I may have covered her up,” he said.
“With what?”
“Her negligee.”
“But I thought...”
With a sigh, Hermione made another note.
—but before he'd had a chance to speak to 'Potter', a pair of skrewts—presumably Aurors—blasted the door open, and arrested him—
“How did you get away?”
“Creevey was supposed to fly me back to the Ministry whilst Cattermole stayed at the flat and... did whatever it is Aurors do. Creevey's Handcuffing Spell was pathetic. I was able to block it and, when he took off, I pushed him off the broom—”
“He fell?”
“Only a couple of feet—”
“Shit!” Hermione ran into her bedroom and opened the window. The broom was still outside, propped on the window ledge, where Malfoy had left it. “Don't you know,” she said, pointing her wand, “that Aurors put Tracking Spells on their brooms? Oblitero!”
They watched the broom turn to dust, and the dust scatter on the wind.
“You make a pretty handy accomplice, Granger,” said Malfoy, “but I'd already dealt with the Tracker.”
Hermione frowned. “How did you know where I live, Draco?” she asked.
“Mmm?”
“You came to my home. How did you know where I live?”
Malfoy shrugged. “I memorised your address,” he said. “You never know when you might need to call in a life debt.”
...
Back in the kitchen, Malfoy poured himself another Firewhisky.
Hermione picked up her quill and tapped it against her teeth, thoughtfully.
Malfoy's relationship with Astoria Greengrass seems to have been...
ODD, she wrote, and circled the word twice.
Their engagement was arranged by their parents, but Malfoy seems to have been resigned—
“How did they know Astoria was dead?” she asked.
“What d'you mean?”
“You say you were still waiting to speak to Harry when the Aurors blew your door open—how did they know that Astoria was dead?”
“The old git downstairs reported a disturbance.”
“What sort of disturbance?”
“Screaming—or something. How do I know, Granger? I wasn't there.”
Hermione regarded him suspiciously; Malfoy met her gaze with his huge, pale eyes.
She'd seen him at his worst, many times, at school, and at his best, outside the Ministry of Magic. She'd felt his passion and a self-absorption that could so easily have turned to callousness, or to downright cruelty...
On the whole, she thought, he's an arsehole. And he gets away with stuff because he's rich and confident, and sexy...
But does that mean he's a cold-blooded murderer?
“Did you do it?” she asked.
Malfoy's gaze didn't falter. “Course not, Granger.”
Hmmm.
“Well,” she said, “we'll talk more tomorrow. Right now, I need some sleep. You can have the spare room.”
...
She woke to find Malfoy standing in her bedroom doorway wearing nothing but a very impressive erection.
Oh. My. God.
She pulled back the bedclothes, and he climbed onto the bed, planting a knee either side of her.
“Oh...” Hermione reached up.
Malfoy allowed her a few moments to her express her admiration, then, using his hand, he guided himself into her pussy, sinking into her with a deep, sensual groan.
Hermione wrapped her arms and legs around him and, once he'd found a rhythm, she joined him, meeting his strokes almost angrily, crying out as, with each powerful thrust, he rammed into her. They both came, within seconds of each other, holding nothing back, letting everything out in roars and screams of satisfaction.
...
...
“You're still a phenomenal fuck, Granger,” said Malfoy, with an appreciative sigh.
He hadn't gone back to the spare room, as Hermione had expected, but had stayed in her bed, stretched out beside her. She wondered what that meant, and why the possibilities turned her on so much...
She rolled over and straddled him. His cock immediately responded, and she bore down on it, rocking her clit against its hard ridge as she leaned in to pin his wrists and possess his mouth.
He let her have her fun for a while, then he freed his hands, and—still returning her kisses—grasped her breasts, cupping them hard, and Hermione knew that if she didn't have him inside her again, right away, she would die.
Their second bout was even better than the first. Malfoy seemed more aroused—rock hard and set to last for ages—fucking her until Hermione was so sated, her pussy so ravaged, she was forced to beg him to stop.
He pulled out of her and she watched him greedily, working his cock with his hand until he climaxed, shooting ropes of thick, white come all over her belly and between her breasts.
...
Hermione woke at dawn, feeling like Superwoman.
Malfoy was sleeping beside her and, for a few moments, she stayed quite still, enjoying the sight of his pale, muscular body, and of his cock, lying semi-hard and thick on his thigh...
Is it any wonder, she thought, that none of my relationships ever last?
She turned onto her back. She had made up her mind—sort of. I need more information.
She slid out of bed without disturbing him, had a shower, put on her work robes, and penned a note:
I'll be back by 6.00.
There's plenty of food in the fridge.
H
She laid it on the pillow, where Malfoy would see it the moment he woke up.
...
At that hour, the Ministry was practically empty.
Hermione made her way to the Auror Office, cheerfully greeting the security wizards patrolling the corridors.
All the Aurors on the night shift knew her, and no one seemed curious when she entered Dennis Creevey's cubicle. Malfoy's case file was lying on the desk. Hermione pointed her wand at it, whispered, “Geminio,” and slipped the copy into her little, beaded bag.
...
A few hours later, having studied Malfoy's file, and obtained a copy of the Daily Prophet, Hermione went to Harry's office.
“I've just seen this!” she said, showing him the headline.
“Nice to see you, too, Hermione, after three weeks away.”
“Sorry.” She leaned over his desk, and kissed his cheek. “Nice to be back, Harry.”
He nodded towards a chair and Hermione sat down. “How was Australia?”
“Fine.” She waved the newspaper. “How's the investigation going?
“You know I can't discuss specifics with you.”
“Well, no, but—I mean—this is Malfoy.” She grinned. “It's sort of like old times—us against him.”
“Yeah... Sort of.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“Why're you so interested?”
“Because it's Malfoy!”
Harry fixed her with a hard, green stare.
He knows me too well, she thought. “I want him,” she said. “As a client—to defend him—I mean. It, um, it would be a challenging case...”
Harry sighed. “I'm under pressure to deliver a quick result,” he said. “And Creevey's convinced he did it.”
“But you're not?”
“We've still to collect all the physical evidence from the crime scene,” he said, “but Cattermole's initial sweep found no trace of anyone but Malfoy... And the timing seems to fit.” Harry opened his copy of the case file. “Zabini and Nott both say that Malfoy left Pucey's club at about two. One of our new See-see-TV Spells caught him relieving himself in the doorway of Borgin and Burkes's old shop—”
“Oh, god,” said Hermione.
“—at two ten. His downstairs neighbour reported Astoria's screams at two thirty-five. Creevey and Cattermole arrived at two forty-seven to find Astoria dead, and Malfoy about to use the Floo. The problem—”
Hermione had read the file, and knew where the problem lay, but she let him continue.
“—is that Astoria was a screamer, and the neighbour was used to hearing her yell the place down. That night, he thought she sounded 'different' in some way, but he hesitated for a while before he reported it, so we can't fix the exact time of the disturbance.”
“And you can't get the time of death from the body?”
Harry shook his head. “The fire had been stoked up and the place was roasting, which kept the body warm, and throws off our diagnostic spells.”
“Hmm,” said Hermione. “The timing's iffy—in Malfoy's favour.” She looked at him, thoughtfully. “But there's some other reason you're not entirely convinced he did it.”
Harry closed the file. “Gut feeling,” he said. “I saw him on the Astronomy Tower, and—over the years—I saw him in battle, and I never saw him kill anyone. He'd use a Stunner, or petrify, just like us. Don't get me wrong, Hermione, I don't think the man's a saint; I'm just not sure he's a killer.”
Hermione chewed her lip. Harry was right. If Malfoy had killed Astoria, it had to have been a crime of passion. Unless, she thought, he strangled her accidentally, in the throes of kinky sex...
Hmmm.
“Could she have been killed before Malfoy left for Pucey's?” she asked. “Would the fire have kept her warm for—what?—six hours?”
Harry shrugged. “The neighbour heard her screaming much later than that.”
“Right.” She rose from her chair. “Thanks, Harry.”
“Hermione,” he said, as she was opening the door to leave, “you forgot to ask me the most important question.”
“What's that?”
“Have we caught him yet?”
Hermione bit her lip. “Have you?”
“You know we haven't.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his stomach. “I'll give you twenty-four hours, and then I'm coming to get him myself. But be bloody careful, Hermione.”
...
...
“Thank Merlin you're back,” said Malfoy. “I'm starving.”
Hermione hung her keys on the hook. Malfoy appeared to have spent the entire day sprawling on the couch. Last night's Firewhisky bottle sat empty on the coffee table, together with a half-empty bottle of Vodka.
He still hadn't shaved.
“Your liver will be shot,” said Hermione. “And I told you in the note: the fridge is full of food.”
“What use is that to me? Muggle contraptions and no house-elves—what? I pay my house-elves, Granger.”
“Yes—I mean, no, it's not that.” She sat down beside him. “You have house-elves. So where are they? Where were they when Astoria was killed?”
“They're witnesses...”
“They must be. But they're not mentioned in your case file.” She pulled the documents out of her little, beaded bag and handed them over. “I don't think that Creevey and Cattermole even know you have them... I need to search the crime scene.”
She turned to Malfoy. “You, stay here.”
The look on his face made her smile. “Just open the fridge door, take out some butter and some cheese, and close the door. There's fresh bread in the bread bin.”
...
Hermione popped into the Leaky Cauldron and, after locking herself in the Ladies' loo, pulled her disguise out of her little, beaded bag. She changed her clothes, then dropped a single ginger hair into a vial of muddy brown potion, waited for the potion to turn fiery red, and drank it in one, shuddering as the transformation racked her body.
A few minutes later, she was breaking the yellow 'CRIME SCENE – KEEP OUT' tape sealing Malfoy's door with a confident, “Harry just wants me to check a few things.”
The Auror on guard had no reason to question Ronald Weasley.
Malfoy's flat, off Diagon Alley, was on the top floor of a converted Victorian hotel. The walls were covered in rich, antique papers and intricate, hand-painted plasterwork, the vaulted ceilings decorated with mosaics of cerulean blue and bright gold leaf, the doors and windows set in fluted Gothic arches; the vast, Victorian rooms were divided into modern, multi-level living spaces with slabs of pure, dove grey marble.
It took Hermione's breath away. It must have cost a fortune!
She dragged herself away from the sitting room windows, with their fascinating views of Muggle London, cast a Coverall Charm over Ron's body, and set to work.
Where do I start?
In the bedroom.
The imprint of Astoria's dead body was still visible on the crumpled bedsheets. Hermione knew from the case file that Cattermole had cast a Black Light Spell on the sheets, and had found traces of semen on them—Do bears shit in the woods? she thought.
She cast her own Black Light Spell, sweeping her wand to and fro across the room, but—aside from showing that Malfoy and Astoria must have had sex on every conceivable surface, including several places on the staircase—No wonder Astoria was always screaming—the results were inconclusive.
Hermione sat down on a clean step.
In truth, she was way out of her depth...
Look for the house-elves, she thought.
She climbed the stairs to the top room in the flat, a clinical, marble mezzanine that Malfoy obviously used as a gym, and found nothing of interest.
Back in the bedroom, she searched the wardrobes and the bedside cabinets, and minutely examined the walls for hidden compartments, first using spells, then tapping with the butt of her wand.
She repeated the procedure in the palatial bathroom, the kitchen, the dining room, and both spare bedrooms—
She heard the Floo whoosh, and ran into the sitting room to find Malfoy emerging from the fireplace.
He saw her, and went for his wand.
...
...
“I told you to stay in the flat,” Hermione hissed.
“Granger? That's sneaky!” Malfoy re-sheathed his wand.
“How'd you get past the Aurors' wards?”
“You think they could keep me out of my own place?”
“Well, if they find you here, Draco, it's all over. Seriously. The prosecution will argue that you came to destroy the evidence...” She realised what she'd just said, and eyed him, suspiciously.
“Now that expression,” said Malfoy, “is pure Weasley. As it happens, I came to help you find the evidence.”
Together, they searched the entire flat again and, this time, Malfoy found them—a small, elderly female in a tiny red dress and Minnie Mouse shoes, and a young male, wearing a dark green waistcoat and a green and silver tie—stuffed up the chimney in one of the spare bedrooms.
“The bastard killed them,” he saidy, angrily. He reached out, straightened the little, striped tie, and smoothed the waistcoat. “Poor old Parsnip.”
That's it, then, thought Hermione, my only lead, gone—“OH!”
Malfoy looked up at her. “What?”
The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off! Hermione ran into the bathroom and locked the door.
...
She emerged fifteen minutes later, in her own body, washed, and wearing her own clothes, to find Malfoy lounging on the sofa with a glass of Firewhisky in his hand.
“You ever had sex right after you used Polyjuice Potion?” he asked.
“What?”
“You took a bit long getting dressed, but there may still be enough of it left in your veins...”
He put down his glass and came for her, moving like a big cat; he was obviously aroused—and when he pulled her against his body, Hermione felt concrete proof.
“No! Now's not the time, Draco,” she gasped. “We need to preserve any evidence that may be on the house-elves, and then—” Malfoy had backed her up against the sideboard, and he lifted her onto it. “If you get caught because we're—ungh!” She pushed him away with all her might, ducking her head to avoid his hungry mouth. “The Auror would hear us, Draco!”
“His problem.”
“No! No, it's crazy... Honestly... At least cast—cast a—ah! Oh, god!” He'd ripped off her panties and his hands were between her legs.
Hermione's head was swimming. Malfoy had been right—her newly-restored body was still thrumming with the after effects of the transformation, and that, plus the fact that an Auror was standing guard just a few feet away from them...
It was as though every one of her senses—far, far more than a measly five—was being overloaded.
She felt Malfoy's cock inside her, and it was too much to bear—she came too soon, riding him desperately in the struggle to make her climax match the intensity of her need...
“That's just the appetiser,” Malfoy whispered.
Hermione's body sagged and Malfoy pulled out of her, and—one hand still gripping her thigh—burst all over the floor, his other hand hovering beside his cock until the main explosions were over and the final spasms needed some help.
Frustrated, Hermione drew her wand and angrily Scourgified the marble. Her body was screaming that it wanted more, but there was no way she was going to admit it, to herself or to Malfoy.
“Can we both get out the way you got in?” she asked.
“Give me a minute, Granger,” he replied.
...
Five minutes later, he was fucking her on Astoria's death bed, taking her from behind as she lay with her upper body over the edge of the mattress, her hands braced on the floor.
God, she needed it!
And it was so—sooo—sooo good, Hermione had to grit her teeth to stop herself telling the entire world just how good it was.
She fixed her eyes on a spot on the rug, and—
“Draco,” she gasped, trying to ignore the lure of an orgasm she knew was going to blow her mind, “Draco, stop! Stop! I—I've found something!”
...
It was a slip of coarse, grey cloth, printed with darker grey stripes—one of the ties from an Azkaban prisoner's uniform.
“I hoped I'd never see that stuff again,” said Malfoy. He'd fetched a bottle of Firewhisky and a glass from the sitting room, and he poured out a large whisky and handed it to Hermione.
“When prisoners are released,” she said, setting the drink on the bedside cabinet, “are they still wearing prison clothes?”
“No.”
“Then whoever was wearing this”—she waved the bit of cloth—“must have escaped.”
Malfoy took a swig from the Firewhisky bottle. “Must have.”
“Well... Then it shouldn't be too hard to identify him.” She got up off the bed. “Someone who's recently escaped, with a grudge against you—or maybe against Astoria. I need to get this to Harry as soon as possible.” She spotted her sex-wrecked self in the mirror. “But I could really do with a quick shower first.”
“Be my guest,” said Malfoy, nodding towards the bathroom door.
...
“So,” said Hermione, checking her watch, “I'm back with almost sixteen hours to spare.”
Harry was examining the cloth through a magnifying glass. “You say this was in Malfoy's bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“Was Malfoy there with you?”
“Well.. Yes, he was.”
“Then how d'you know that Malfoy didn't plant it?”
“Oh, Harry! Where would he have got a bit of prison uniform from? Since Sunday morning? Unless you think he already had it tucked away somewhere, saved for rainy day?”
“I wouldn't put that past him,” said Harry.
“Has anyone escaped from Azkaban? Vincent Crabbe, for example?”
“Why d'you mention Crabbe?”
Harry's reaction to the name was suspicious; Hermione spoke with more confidence: “Because Malfoy stunned Crabbe, during the Battle for the Ministry, which means that Malfoy was directly responsible for Crabbe's capture. And then, because he'd done it to save me, Malfoy got a shorter sentence—only a fraction of what Crabbe got—I'm right, aren't I?”
“Crabbe escaped from Azkaban on Friday night—”
“The day before Astoria was killed! Yes!” Hermione cried, triumphantly.
“We're trying to keep it quiet, while the search is still on. There's a Gagging Spell on the Daily Prophet press... Get Malfoy to turn himself in. We'll hold an emergency hearing, and release him with a Tracking Spell, pending further investigations.”
“It looks good, doesn't it—for Malfoy, I mean?”
“Crabbe is a plausible suspect,” said Harry, guardedly.
...
Malfoy was waiting in her flat.
Hermione explained the bargain she'd made with Harry.
“You really are something special, Granger,” he said, almost sounding fond of her, and, reaching out, he stroked her breast, teasing the nipple with his thumb, through the layers of silk and lace...
Hermione shuddered. “Did you ever meet a woman you didn't seduce, Draco?”
Malfoy swung round to face her properly and, bringing up his other hand, slowly unbuttoned her blouse and opened it...
With a sudden jerk, he pulled her bra cups down under her breasts, leaving them exposed but lifted, like the silicone-filled tits of some cheap porn star. Hermione watched him devour her with his eyes, his gaze so intense, so hungry, she was forced to look away, only to have her own eyes fall upon his erection, big and curved inside his trousers...
“Ohhh,” she whispered, and—her hands far less steady than Malfoy's—she unbuttoned his fly and released him from his boxers.
God, it's beautiful, she thought, fondling his sturdy shaft and smooth, broad head. I am going to give you the blow job of your life, Draco Malfoy.
Leaning in, she took him in her mouth, curling one hand around him and bobbing her head as she sucked him, cupping his balls with her other hand, lifting them and holding them, and pressing her fingertips against the firm flesh behind his sac.
“Yes,” he panted, grasping her head. “Yes! Blow me, Granger! That's it. Blow me! Make me come...”
...
Malfoy leaned back on the couch, one hand lying on his chest, his eyes closed in a smile of exhausted satisfaction.
Hermione wiped her face. “God, I thought it was never going to stop.”
Malfoy's smile broadened...
Then he opened his eyes and, suddenly energised, lifted her onto the couch, laying her down and straddling her and, after making short work of her panties, he slid right into her, slick with his own come and with Hermione's saliva.
...
...
Hermione lay back, letting Malfoy do all the work, revelling in his fucking—in the long, deep strokes and the sudden, heart-stopping jerks...
God, I could happily die like this—
Malfoy's hands closed around her throat.
What...?
“Nnnnnnooo!” She grabbed his wrists and, panicking, tried to pull his hands away, her entire body writhing as she struggled, trapped beneath him, impaled upon his cock, unable to escape...
Suddenly, he released her. “Don't like that, do you, Granger?”
“No,” she croaked.
“Okay. Pity...”
He took up his delicious, slow-jerk, slow-jerk rhythm again, and kept it going until Hermione, her heart still pounding, her body still trembling from the fright he'd given her, came hard, swearing like a fishwife.
...
Hermione watched Malfoy wake up, stretch, begin to get up from the couch, and stop dead when he saw her wand aimed at his chest.
“You were compromising the crime scene,” she said. Far too disturbed to sleep, she'd spent the past couple of hours thinking it through. “You touched the dead house-elves, you fucked me on the bed—you deliberately turned me face down so I'd spot the piece of cloth you'd planted when I was locked in the bathroom... I'm your alibi after the fact, aren't I? I wouldn't be surprised if it was you that made me think of Vincent Crabbe, somehow.”
Malfoy gave her a slow hand-clap.
“What happened Draco? Mm? Did you come home, find Astoria with Crabbe, and lose it?”
“You can do better than that, Granger.”
“Tell me what happened,” said Hermione, coldly.
“Put the wand down first.”
“No way!”
“Okay”—Malfoy raised his hands in mock surrender—“but don't shoot me. Yes,” he said. “I found Crabbe with Astoria. But not in the way you mean. You're not the only one who can use Polyjuice Potion, Granger.”
“I...” Hermione frowned. “I don't understand.”
“Well now you're disappointing me.” He lowered his hands, and settled back against the cushions. “I came back from Pucey's—like I said—to find myself—myself, Granger—throttling my fiancée. I drew my wand, but... “
He sighed. “But I was a bit the worse for drink, and Vince beat me to it—he always was faster with a Stunner than me, all things being equal—and by the time I'd recovered, Astoria was dead, and he'd got away. You know what happened next.”
“Why didn't you tell me any of this?” She tried to process the new information.
“I didn't kill her, Granger, but all the evidence was saying I did. I needed you to convince Potter that I'd been framed, and I knew that to do that with all your patented, know-it-all certainty, you'd have to 'discover' it for yourself.”
“God, I've underestimated you,” said Hermione. “I always knew you were clever, but I thought that I was cleverer.”
“I know you did. That's why it worked.” He shrugged. “You are better at book-learning than me, and your magic's... pretty impressive. But I'm sneakier. And I have a rare instinct for self-preservation. Now—can I get up? I'm dying for a pee.”
“God, Draco,” she said, lowering her wand, “how will I ever know when you're telling the truth?”
Malfoy shrugged. “When will you need to?”
Oh, god, she thought; she realised she'd been thinking of them as a couple when they weren't, and that she'd just given herself away. “So I can sleep at night,” she called after him.
...
Three days later
Hermione awoke with a weird feeling of deja vu. A shadowy figure was tapping on her bedroom window and her body, recognising him before she did, was turning cartwheels at the sight of him.
She got out of bed and opened the window.
Malfoy stepped from his broom onto the windowsill and dropped inside.
For several long moments, they stood face to face, staring at one another. Hermione had no idea what Malfoy might still want from her. Crabbe had been captured and had confessed to the murder of Astoria Greengrass, and Malfoy had been cleared. He had already made it painfully obvious to her that they weren't a couple...
At last, he broke the silence: “Don't worry, Granger,” he said, grasping her by the hips and manoeuvring her towards the bed, “the life debt's paid. I'm just here to shag you.”
...
Enemies with Benefits?
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Ho wow!
Date: 2015-02-17 12:50 pm (UTC)Enemies with benefits? I could live with that. :-D Loved it. What a great story!
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Date: 2015-02-17 04:09 pm (UTC)an "O" for storytelling, ning!
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Date: 2015-02-17 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-18 01:52 am (UTC)Re: Ho wow!
Date: 2015-02-18 10:45 pm (UTC)I had a struggle with it, because 'enemies with benefits' = risk, but Hermione is a bit too trusting -- and naughty, using Ron's body like that! And I couldn't bring myself to make Draco guilty, but I suppose he could have used an Imperius Curse to get Crabbe to 'confess'...
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Date: 2015-02-18 10:47 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you found it hot! I did enjoy writing the sex scenes. I think maybe Hermione's too trusting, but who can blame her?
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Date: 2015-02-18 10:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-18 10:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-03 08:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-04 01:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-04-25 01:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-04-25 11:34 pm (UTC)Wow, I hadn't even thought of that, but I think you may be right! Thanks so much for the review :-)
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Date: 2015-06-06 01:56 am (UTC)