DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

BETA READER: silverbluewords

WARNINGS: Explicit sexual situations, hard kink, mild violence, psychological trauma, and strong profanity.

CLEAR THE COUNTER

Seven months had come and gone. Seven months, since that fateful day—the day that Hermione watched her best friend walk to his death, only to rise again and defeat the greatest Dark wizard of all time, fulfil all the prophecies, and save the world. Life, as she knew it, had changed forever. But some things never did. In the end, Harry had surprised everyone with his decision to bury the Elder Wand back with Dumbledore. He said that he'd had enough trouble for a lifetime, and Hermione couldn't agree more. She too had her own choices to make.

Once Kingsley Shacklebolt had taken over for Minister of Magic, the Auror Office in London had certainly wasted no time in flocking towards her and her friends with a flurry of owls, stuffed up to the beak with glorious career propositions. But she too had surprised everyone by turning down every position offered to her. She had her reasons, even if she didn't fully understand them herself.

Until that precise moment when she'd stepped off the Hogwarts Express, without Harry, without Ron, she had yet to come to terms with the true magnitude of her decision. Gazing out across the platform at the masses and masses of nameless students, drowning in the sea of their awed stares, pointed fingers, and poorly hushed whispers, she'd felt more alone than she had in years.

It had taken her another month or so of overly cheerful correspondence and self-reflection to finally realise that she and Ron could never have a future together, at least not in the sense that she'd secretly dreamed of since girlhood. He had a good heart, but no ambitions of his own. Like always, he'd followed Harry into the Auror program without a second thought as to his own future. Despite his lifelong dream of someday playing for the Chudley Cannons—a terrible team, yes, but a dream nonetheless—he'd admitted to her that once they'd finished rounding up all of the remaining Death Eaters, he planned to continue supporting Harry and help George out with the shop.

Despite her initial misgivings, it hadn't hurt that much to let him go, because now she knew better. That schoolgirl crush she had once mistaken for love didn't actually represent an infatuation with him, but rather the idea of him. Her best friend. The safe option. The one the rest of the world expected her to end up with. The one that she'd settled for, because it seemed most logical, and had the highest, most approved rate of success. She would marry Ron, Harry would marry Ginny, and they could all live together forever as one big, happy family, bound by blood, friendship, and marriage.

Then, after the War, things changed. She began to doubt her own perceptions of life and what she wanted out of it, after having nearly lost it several times over. Yet she had survived. She had the chance to live. And every time she laid in the darkness, thinking of Fred, thinking of Dobby, thinking of their beloved Headmaster, thinking of cold faces that she would never know, but could never allow herself to forget, and thinking of all the people that had given their lives to build a brighter future for those that remained, she knew that she had to make it count.

She loved Ron still, would always love him, but not in that way. Not anymore. She could no longer lie to him, and she could no longer lie to herself. She couldn't spend the rest of her life, the life that she'd rightfully earned and fought for, as Harry Potter's sidekick, and as selfish as it might sound, Hermione felt as if she'd spent all her years at Hogwarts living for Harry, living for Ron, and living for everyone else. This time, she deserved to find her own path.

She needed to return to Hogwarts. She wanted to properly complete her education, without taking any of the shortcuts offered to her, simply because of her connection to the Boy Who Lived. She wanted to earn her own way. But most of all, she wanted to relive the last year of enchantment and youthful wonder that the War had snatched away from her.

She never did find her parents after the War, or her wand, but she refused to give up hope. Unable to bear the tomblike silence of an empty house that she had once shared with her family, she moved out soon after the start of term, using her savings to rent out a cheap Muggle flat near Diagon Alley. As for her wand, she vowed to tame Lestrange's former accomplice, teach it how to use its power for good, and redeem it from the sins of its deceased mistress.

On some days, she would entertain the notion of buying another cat, but she would always find some excuse not to, some fault with even the most good-natured specimen available for purchase. Although she tried her hardest to deny it, deep down, she knew the reason why. Despite the futility of it all, she just couldn't make herself let go. She just couldn't. She just couldn't silence that pathetic, useless whisper of hope that lingered in her heart, whimpering that Crookshanks would come back—that he would somehow, miraculously find his way home to her. That he had survived, and forgave her for abandoning him during the attack on the Burrow.

Luna had once said that the things they lost always had a way of coming back to them. Unfortunately, Hermione had never really believed in fate. She made her own way, and old bats like Trelawney and the rest of the whole, fluffing Divination department could bugger off. Fate hadn't kept her alive. She'd kept herself alive, against the clutches of fate. Fate served only to condemn and kill. It took good people away from those who loved them. It snuffed out those who had brightened the world with their smiles, while corpses ravaged with evil continued to walk amongst the living. It tore people apart, as early as birth, simply because they had different parents. It could rape something as pure and innocent as love, and defile it with sin.

In all her years at Hogwarts, people had always accused her of her "painfully limited," "narrow," and "close-minded" philosophy, but the War had taught her a great deal about the harshness of reality. That sort of knowledge didn't exist within the pages of a book. And yet, despite it all, she had discovered that hope still thrived, even in the darkest, cobwebbed corners of the unlikeliest places—not because fate had put it there, but because she had taken her own initiative to shine a light, clear out the debris, and wash the stains away herself.

Now, at long last, the holidays had finally arrived, and Hermione could truly take the time to appreciate her new home. She loved the privacy and convenience of having her own flat. She loved falling asleep without the constant fear of Snatchers and Dark wizards crawling up her spine, not to mention the endless doubt that always niggled at her whenever Harry or Ron took up watch outside the tent. She loved sleeping in a bed, for Godric's sake. She loved eating anything she wanted, whenever she wanted, and not worrying about which hapless victim she would have to steal it from. And by Merlin, she loved hot showers.

Humming contentedly, she towelled herself off and dried her hair, swaying her hips in an outrageous fashion. Seizing her hairbrush, she belted out a ridiculous rock anthem well beyond her vocal range into the handle, striking exaggerated poses into the mirror as if starring in some ludicrous music video by that new American tart, Britney Spears. Hell's bells, she could prance around in her knickers as much as she bloody wanted to. She no longer had any unruly boys or gossiping bimbos to fret about. No, sir! Not one!

Wait, how did that song go again? Oh, right! Now she remembered…

With a mischievous grin and a sassy waggle of her eyebrows, she warbled in her most distinguished and nasal impression of an American accent, "My loneliness is killing me! AND I! I must confess, I still beli-eve! STILL BELIEVE! When I'm not with you, I lose my mind! Give me a siiiiiiign! Hit me, baby, one more—

"ACK! RUDDY HELL!" she shrieked, toppling over in terror and blindly flinging her faux mike at the pale vampire trespassing in the doorway of her loo. He smoothly sidestepped the poorly aimed projectile and now had a glorious, unimpeded view of her lady garden. Great Godric, only a handful of people had access through her wards, and here stood the last person that anyone would suspect, including her. Well, perhaps Luna "Loony" Lovegood could've seen it coming, but she didn't really count.

"Did I frighten you, my little lioness?" he purred, a predatory shadow creeping into his slate-grey eyes as they roamed over her fresh, vulnerable body. Normal people would've taken offense at the near-decapitation, yet on the contrary, the violence served only to arouse him. He licked his lips with a lecherous smirk, stalking towards her with explicit intent.

"D—Draco!" she yelped, frantically clutching the edges of her towel against her bare skin. "You're early!"

"So? It's not like I have anything better to do," he snorted, halting in disbelief as Hermione kicked him in the shin and struggled to shield herself.

"Well, has it ever occurred to you that I might?" she retorted.

"Oh, right, like hugging your bookshelf and the usual, needless bout of swotting over the holidays," he taunted.

Harrumphing in the most dignified manner she could muster, she picked herself up and regained her bearings. Of course, the perverted bastard didn't lift a finger to help her. He merely proceeded with the optical molestation, even as he drawled sardonically, "My life is simply smashing, by the way. Thanks for asking. My father still refers to me in the third person, even when I'm sitting directly beside him, and my mother acts as if I've contracted Spattergroit."

As Draco prattled on, Hermione took a deep breath, calmed herself, then brushed past him into her bedroom and shrugged on her Hogwarts uniform, which she'd carefully laid out upon her bed before hopping into the shower. "The paintings of my dear ancestors howl in agony every bloody time I walk past, cursing me with infertility and a thousand years of misfortune, but wait! That's not even the best part! No, the best part is Astoria! Lovely Astoria, who visits me every bloody day at precisely half past four to try and convince me to 'like women again!' Fuck, I should've just lied and said I was staying at school over the holidays… Honestly, Granger, do you have any idea how much SHITE my parents have put me through since you got me involved in this… this… complication? Fuck it, you might as well just move in with me already and have done with it—"

"No," she answered, without a moment's hesitation.

He gaped at her with an incredulous expression. "What?"

"What's wrong with my flat?" she asked conversationally as she dressed, the corners of her mouth draped with a secret smile at the observation that Draco had also donned his uniform.

Hermione loved her House colours. They reminded her of Christmas, her favourite holiday—all that red entwined with green, and silver tinsel tangled between gold. She cherished each and every moment of the experience, from unravelling surprises amidst cries of joy, to the sweet taste of creamy pudding upon her tongue, and the roaring fire that consumed her very soul with its resonating warmth. She loved it all. She loved—

"Try asking me what's not wrong with your flat," he jeered, jolting her back to reality. "Much easier to answer that one."

The nerve of that—that—complete arse!

"NO, how about I tell you what's wrong?" she snapped. "You think your life is so terrible? DO YOU? Well, what about ME? Has it ever occurred to you that I've got my own problems, you insensitive prick? I'm having premarital relations with the same racist cretin who's bullied me and everyone around me since I was eleven, and who even wished me DEAD in my second year, gobbled up by a giant snake, no less—"

"I only said that ONCE! I didn't even know it was a snake! Fucking hell, Hermione, you know I was just pouring it on thick for Crabbe and—hang on! How did you—"

"—not to mention the fact that my best friends haven't even the faintest idea that I'm in said relationship! Oh, silly me! I accidentally used the 'r' word, didn't I? NO, you know what, Malfoy? You're absolutely right! 'Complication' is a much more accurate rephrasing of the situation—"

"Hey, I never said—"

"I AM NOT BLOODY FINISHED!" she screeched. "How many times do you want me to say it? I—CAN'T—PIGGING—MOVE IN WITH YOU! If my friends find out that I'm living with you, you will die, because they'll think you've kidnapped me and are holding me against my will, and I will die, because I'm sure your family would be thrilled at the prospect of me sullying the only heir to the Malfoy bigotry—"

Draco bluntly confirmed, "It's not like you can contaminate me any more than you have already—"

"Honestly, one would think that the lot of you would've learned something after Harry saved all of your sorry arses from Azkaban—"

"He saved our arses? Pothead wouldn't even BE here if it wasn't for my mother—"

"—and don't get me started on your BARKING aunt, who tortured me in your drawing room, while you just stood there and did NOTHING—"

"What did you EXPECT me to do? Dash in, save you, Potty, and the Weasel, and get us ALL killed?"

"—AND I LIKE MY FLAT! Because unlike you, I can survive on my own, WITHOUT magic—"

"If those filthy Muggles have survived this long without magic, then I bloody can too—"

"HA! Oh, please, Draco! Don't make me laugh! Honestly, the only thing that's good about you is your wand—"

"Yeah? Well, I certainly didn't hear any complaints last night—"

"You wouldn't even last a DAY without magic! Merlin, you don't even know how to cook! If you can't cook, you can't eat, and if you can't eat, you DIE! All your life, you've done nothing but thrive on the sweat and labour of your poor, mistreated house-elves, who feed you, bathe you, clothe you—"

"HOUSE-ELVES? I have no bloody house-elves LEFT because of you and your fucking 'spew' campaign—"

"IT'S S.P.E.W., you daft git! The Society for the Protection of—"

"BOLLOCKS!"

Their raucous row blazed all the way out to the dining room, at which point Draco finally leapt off his rocker, shouted at Hermione to take a seat, and stormed off into the kitchen. "MARK MY WORDS, GRANGER, YOU'LL BE EATING YOURS!" he roared.

She gave a disgruntled huff and parked her bum in her chair. Why did she tolerate this bugger again? She honestly couldn't remember.

After a moment or two of foreboding silence, a cacophony of clanging, clunking, and cursing pervaded her ears, peppered by the occasional "FUCK!" She bit her lip and anxiously rose to her feet.

Oh, sod it! She cared, alright? She bloody cared about that miserable, snotty-nosed ferret!

Almost as if he sensed that the chair had lost contact with her bum, he bellowed from within, "SIT DOWN, GRANGER! I CAN FUCKING HANDLE THIS!"

Hesitantly, she plunked her bottom back on her seat. She worried her lip, practically itching with the suspense. At this rate, she'd go spare from her own restlessness. Meanwhile, the banging and shouting persisted.

One minute crawled by. Then another. And another.

By the time that Draco finally emerged from the depths of destruction, unbelievably intact and not a hair out of place, Hermione had already lost track of how many hours she'd aged. Tersely, he plunked a slightly dented spoon and a smoking dish down in front of her that bore a disturbing resemblance to one of Hagrid's rock cakes, except burned and bloated up to three times its original size. She smiled valiantly at the horrific concoction.

An awkward silence ensued.

"Well, try it," he growled.

Carefully, she picked up her spoon and extracted a small sample of maimed… um, vegetables? Or so she assumed… Out of the corner of her eye, she observed several emotions at war upon Draco's face, fighting for dominance.

She admitted that it had taken her the better part of nine knackering weeks, but she had finally mastered the subtle art of deciphering Draco's body language—a necessary skill, for he hardly ever voiced his true sentiments out loud. That clenched jaw meant he really wanted to tell her something, but held it back because of his pride. When his eyes melted into mercury, he feared for her safety. When that pronounced scowl marred his handsome face, it signified shame or humiliation. And when he crossed his arms, he had closed himself off and braced for rejection.

Through great discipline and a supreme effort, she did not spit the scalding morsel back out. "Mm," she gulped. One could've easily interpreted the noise in a variety of ways. Draco's cold, unyielding eyes bored into hers. He now stood directly beside her, hovering—a clear indication that he expected her to finish it. All of it.

She knew that if she couldn't make it through the swamp of ash upon her plate, he would immediately fly into a rage. She knew from experience that Draco directed these incensed outbursts mostly towards himself, but it wouldn't stop him from saying things he would regret later, further adding to his sense of guilt and internal self-mutilation.

Honestly, she mused to herself, as she bravely swallowed another spoonful of tar, I must have the disposition of a saint to love this tosser. He kept an unnervingly close watch on her throughout the entire meal, if one could even call it that, as his eyes narrowed in accusation, all at once daring her to mock him, and at the same time, afraid that she really would. A dark smog churned and coiled through his eyes, torn between her welfare and not wanting to admit defeat.

At long last, his concern for her won out. He snatched the spoon away and brusquely whisked the plate off the table.

"Draco, I wasn't finished—" she began.

"PISS OFF, GRANGER! I don't need your fucking pity! Just—JUST SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE!" He stomped back into the kitchen, and she winced at the blast of running water, the grating onslaught of scraping, shattering, more cursing, and then… silence.

She hated it when he shut her out like that and just walked away. It made her feel so useless and insignificant. The War had taken its toll on them both, but they pushed each other to move forward. She needed him. And dared she hope, he needed her. Overwhelmed by a crushing compassion that constricted her chest and prickled her lashes, she silently crept into the kitchen.

She found him hunched over the sink with his head down, a death-grip on both sides of the basin. He shook violently, whether out of rage, indignation, or sheer mortification, she couldn't tell. Timidly, she approached Draco and wrapped her arms around him, gently laying her cheek against his back and squeezing tight. He stiffened, and for a second, she feared that he would spurn her pathetic Gryffindor antics and storm off again. Instinctively, she tightened her embrace, wordlessly beseeching him to see reason.

At long last, he let out a weary sigh. "Fucking hell, Granger, I told you to leave me alone."

"You thick git," she gently chided him. "How can I possibly leave you alone when you've just made me the best meal I've had all week?"

He immediately tensed, ripping himself out of her grasp and snarling in her face, "DON'T FUCKING LIE TO ME! I'm not one of your FUCKWITTED, fairy friends! GET OUT of my sight if you're just going to give me a load of sodding sympathy and other PISSING noble shite I don't need—"

Sighing in frustration, she finally threw herself at the dozy sod and shut him up.

It seemed as if they both abused that strategy on a daily basis. When all else failed, just snog the other person senseless.

At first, Draco couldn't taste anything other than the rancid substance he'd coerced Hermione into consuming. The poison permeated his tongue, and he remained unresponsive for several seconds, desperately suppressing his gag reflex. But soon, his groans of disgust morphed into a different kind altogether.

Despite all the weeks they'd spent shagging each other, Hermione had never instigated such a searing kiss on her own, at least not without a bit of crafty, premeditated seduction on his part. Tentatively, he snaked his arms around her, pressing his hard muscles into her soft curves. Heat seeped through the thin layers that separated them, and their hearts slammed against each other, their union harmonised by smothered shouts of exhilaration.

Brazenly, she mewled, tilted her head to allow for optimum penetration, and squeezed her lips around his tongue, practically swallowing him. She sucked him deep, wringing out his essence with every draw. In and out, she siphoned his tongue into her wet heat with rhythmic strokes, tightening her lips mercilessly as she slid down its length. Lightly, she flicked the tip with warm, tantalising licks that retreated far too quickly. Trapped in his pants, his dick immediately jumped up in fury, jealous of his tongue.

Moaning helplessly, he traced salacious patterns down her back, his hands wandering lower and lower into forbidden territory. Unable to restrain himself, he cupped her arse and gave it a firm squeeze. Then, with equal enthusiasm, he distracted her from his bold manoeuvres by frantically shoving his tongue into her suckling slit and making love to her mouth. She whimpered delightedly with each slick invasion. Slyly, he lifted her skirt, bit by excruciating bit. With a growl of impatience, he delved his hands beneath the folds, yanking the filthy tease up against his arousal in a blatant proposition to fuck her.

She gasped, promptly releasing his tongue, which darted back of its own volition and greedily slavered over her lips, determined to wipe all traces of ingested pollution off of her until she tasted only of him—and nothing else.

"You—idiot," she panted. He nipped and nuzzled her as she spoke, the cadence of her voice wavering between moans. "I didn't—say it was—the best—tasting meal! I said it—oh—was the best meal, because it—oh, God—made me the happiest—ah—I've been all week!"

Graciously, he postponed the assault, leering at the inflamed markings that branded her as his, as well as the breath-taking flush that had bloomed across her lovely face.

"You were so adorable, in your own peculiar Malfoy way," she giggled, peering at him shyly from beneath her lashes, suddenly timid about how he would perceive the words "adorable" and "Malfoy" together in the same sentence.

Automatically, he scowled in protest, biting back the instinct to berate her for her audacity. Then, he realised something—something utterly diabolical. If he played this game just right, he could find a way to put her in her place, avenge his fallen pride, and score something much better to eat tonight than the leftover sustenance in that baffling Muggle icebox. So what if he couldn't cook to save his own life? He had a better use for that counter anyway…

Growling gutturally, he lunged at her and proceeded to frenziedly mate her mouth with an animalistic intensity that rivalled one of those nature programmes he'd once seen on the "telly," or whatever Hermione called that horrendously oversized Muggle picture frame.

Roughly, he slammed her onto the counter, which he hastily cleared with mindless fervour. Pots and pans went clattering onto the tiles, a volley of serrated rinds and dismembered shrubs fleeing in their wake, but he hardly cared. He only saw one thing in his lust-induced haze—the bewildered witch sprawled recklessly before him, who he planned to ravish with such violence, she'd remain bedridden for at least forty-eight hours once he'd finished with her.

"Draco, what are you—" she squeaked, her eyes widening in alarm as he unbuckled and unzipped his slacks, letting them fall ever so slightly. They caught at his hips, and at long last, his inner monster strained towards freedom.

"Draco, wait!" she pleaded. "I left my wand in the dining room! I'm only on Muggle contraceptives! You can't—you don't know what you're—Draco, I'm not ready to have your baby!" Terrified, she jolted her legs shut against his advance, which only served to incite him further. Silencing her with a possessive snarl, he seized his woman, wrenched her open, and brutally ploughed into her, the bint's knickers barely preventing him from impaling her upon his enraged shaft.

Cursing, he mounted her and feasted upon her muffled cries, claiming them for his own. He dry-humped her unrepentantly against the counter, his engorged cock weeping its frustration onto her moist, cloth-covered seam. The hardness of the cold marble competed with the hardness of his heated wood, urging him on. Over and over, he rubbed his throbbing tip between the puckered lips of her slit, grinding against her so hard, she shrieked with agonised need and clamped her legs around his waist. Her skirt rode higher and higher, and he eagerly continued to shove it up and out of his way, baring more of her sweet, creamy flesh to his gluttonous ministrations. Revelling in their sweat, he cruelly chafed his hips against her trembling thighs. Fuck, her exquisite, succulent body fit so perfectly with his… Salazar forgive him, but he had to have her, right on this bloody counter, or he'd fucking die.

His mother might have had a point after all. He and his Muggle-born lover would both burn in the fires of Hell for these dangerous liaisons, consumed by the wicked throes of passion.

He swore to Salazar that this cock-teasing bookworm existed merely to torment him. She, and she alone, provoked him in every way imaginable, from her prissy sass to her maddening brilliance, her untamed hair, and that vexing innocence that plagued him with the constant urge to defile her.

And did he mention the fan-fucking-tastic role-play with the school uniforms? Last night, he'd bound her hands to the bedpost with his tie, and she'd blindfolded him with hers. Then, she'd straddled his stonker between those lush legs and rode him so hard that he literally came with red and gold sparks in his eyes. Fuck, just thinking about it now sent a thrilling spasm through his cock…

Abruptly, he jerked back, thrust his hands up her skirt—her properly prudish, Hogwarts skirt, which she stubbornly kept at that mouth-watering, virginal length she always had—and ripped her knickers straight off.

She yelped with indignation, shrilling in protest, "DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY, YOU DID NOT JUST SHRED MY KNICKERS, YOU SADISTIC PRAT! I just bought those! I've hardly even worn them yet! Not everyone is filthy rich like you, MORON! I actually have to work for what I have, not that you would know! You have no earthly idea what it means to feed, clothe, and scrape a living for yourself, you useless LUG! You are the most HOPELESS, immature sack of—"

Beyond her screaming his name, Draco didn't hear a word she said. The damp scrap of lace he now held in his hands had thoroughly entranced him. He marvelled at how it glistened in the light, soaked with her arousal. The scent of her sweet dew wafted towards him, and his tongue slipped out. Moaning with longing, he lapped up the trail of sticky desire her delicious cunt had smeared onto her knickers, savouring her taste. His eyes flickered closed from the sheer ecstasy. Blindly, he rocked his hips and subdued her flailing limbs, slowly sliding into her sopping entrance.

WHACK! She slapped him soundly across the face. "Are you LISTENING to me? Get your—your—thing—OUT of me this instant!"

Draco's eyes dilated at a precarious rate, smouldering and blackening with the impact. She'd slapped him—actually slapped him. And then, she'd proceeded to lecture him in that bossy tone of voice that sent his head spinning and his blood rushing south. Merlin, he'd fantasised about this moment for far too long.

He didn't even give Hermione a second to react. Without warning, he chucked her ruined knickers aside and slammed her hands back down upon the counter, his palms crushing hers. Then, with a bestial roar, he punished her with his cock.

"DRACO!" she wailed, powerless to resist the onslaught. Her pussy shuddered and sobbed, clenching his thickness desperately with each pass, determined to take him prisoner and milk him dry. Her hands leapt against his with every rippling surge he shoved into her womb.

With the savage pace he had set, he rammed at her from angle after angle until he found the one that had her screaming and bucking with each feral stroke. He entwined his fingers with hers as the erratic jerks of her hips lodged him deeper inside of her. Over and over, he pounded her pussy with a bone-jarring ferocity that startled even him, their mating serenaded by the fleshy smacks of his sack slapping against her quim.

Her breasts brushed against his chest, and he hissed with the impulse to tear her uniform into shreds and nurse upon her cherry-tipped mounds. He'd bathe those gorgeous tits in his saliva, swirl his tongue in dizzying circles around her rosy buds, latch on with his teeth, and tug up with just the right amount of pressure and suction to make her arch off the counter and scream whom she belonged to. Seething with frustration, he debated whether or not to let go of her hands. He couldn't very well strip Hermione and pin her down at the same time. Well, not unless…

Fuck it. He'd corner her later. Hell, maybe he'd just abduct her and strap her onto his bed with every Slytherin tie he owned. Then, he'd truly have her at his mercy.

Driven by lust and the primitive instinct to dominate his female, he lunged forward with renewed vigour and voraciously sucked at her lips, lashing her tongue with his. She tasted divine. Even as he fucked her mouth, her silken cunt tightened its clutches and slathered her fluids all over his aching member. He worried that one of these days, he would tear her, but when a sudden gush of their combined passion flooded her tiny opening, trickled down his thighs, and dripped onto the creaking counter, he lost all capability for rational thought.

During their usual role-play sessions, he would lean down and whisper dark obscenities into her ear, calling her dirty names, like a filthy little Mudblood whore, and cajoling her into creaming all over him. But right then, he hungered so desperately for her, he couldn't think straight. His vision had already begun to blur, and with each vicious pulse that engulfed his steely length, he nearly saw double.

Merlin, he wouldn't last long at this rate. Every time they did this, she stripped his manhood down to an elementary sublevel that brought him to his knees with the slightest brush against her bare skin. Hastily, he pulled his tongue out, ceasing his relentless plundering of her bruised, wet cavern. And yet, every moan that continued to part her luscious lips threatened to make him come all over the place, her dulcet cries echoing across the tiles. Ravenously, he devoured the erotic contortions of her face with his eyes, even as hers fluttered shut in surrender—unable to deny the domineering rapture that he, and he alone, could bring her.

"Ah!" she whimpered. He threw his head back and heaved his hips forward, accelerating his momentum.

"Ah!" she whined. He laughed with dark triumph, rewarding her pleas by thrusting harder.

"AH!" she wailed, quivering upon the brink of madness. He grunted with the overwhelming urgency to fill her with his cum, driving himself deeper and deeper into the depths of decadence and relishing her sobs of joy.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!"

Draco thought he'd die from the pleasure.

The orgasmic rush that dragged him over the edge with her had them both drenched in a matter of seconds. They came so hard together, his cock choked and spluttered with each contraction, helplessly expelling every drop of milky liquor her kitty demanded of him. He couldn't even say a word as his vision blacked out and Hermione screamed his name like a prayer.

The spasms seemed to go on and on, until neither one of them could bear the vigorous copulation any longer. The two of them slumped onto the tarnished counter in a sweaty tangle of soiled, sticky uniforms, their hands still clasped together and his cock buried snugly inside of her insatiable, leaking pussy. Once he'd regained the ability to breathe properly, he returned her weary kiss with a wet caress of his tongue, tenderly lathing her swollen lips and smirking with shameless satisfaction as he did so.

Sometime in the aftermath, as they lay nestled in carnal embrace, the conniving witch had undoubtedly taken advantage of his dysfunctional state to extort a confession or two out of him, but at this point in their… complication… those three little words that every doe-eyed wench wanted to hear from a bloke had faded away into a gross understatement. True, he rarely ever said them to her because he just didn't do sappy, but also because the truth of his obsession would probably frighten her.

Hell, he'd hidden it from her for almost four years. He'd hidden it from everyone. Surely, he could hold out a bit longer. He only wanted to fuck one woman for the rest of his life, even if the witch in question didn't know that quite yet. After all the shite that his deluded family and the entire, bleeding War had put him through, he'd descended into somewhat of an unstable wreck, and he knew it. Yet somehow, he'd ended up with her, and he refused to relinquish his claim upon the one thing that he'd ever done right—the one thing that his wretched existence had ever truly blessed him with.

Once he'd bound her to him, irrevocably, he'd have all the time in the world to live out every debauched fantasy that his depraved, virile mind could up with, and she'd never deny him. No, he'd make dead sure that she loved every second of it. In fact, he planned on fucking her brilliant brains out until she cried and begged for more.

Imagine what she'd do to him if he actually succeeded in making her the best bloody meal she'd ever eaten! Shite, just thinking about it now made him want to fuck her all over again. By the end of spring term, he would own her. And no matter what she said, he definitely needed to get her out of this accursed Muggle flat. Slytherin's rod, what he wouldn't give to see the look on Weasley's face…

But first things first! Tomorrow morning, he needed to stop by the tailor's and commission a set of teacher's robes, or he wouldn't make it to his appointment on time. His naughty pupil required a few… private lessons. Always the perfectionist, she needed to constantly practise her techniques if she wanted to earn an "O" in his class. Bugger his school uniform.

Ms Granger had a late-night detention with Professor Malfoy.

THE END