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Chapter Text

It was clearly a campsite. Abandoned, but only recently.

The Death Eater knelt and skimmed a hand across the floor of leaves, until the small, muggle band-aid came fully into his view.

Lifting it, he felt a surge of elation at the sight of the small spot of blood it contained.

It was all he needed to find them.

“Be careful, ‘Mione.”

Ron gave her this speech each time she did a supply run. It was quite sweet, in a way. She knew he didn’t doubt her competence, he just worried.

At first the reward posters picturing their faces had been a nuisance, but not a surprise. Every magical town had them, Ron had explained, and the ministry used them for as long as he could remember. Seeing their own faces under a ‘wanted’ sign had been uncomfortable initially, jarring even, especially in tandem with the insidious descriptions of their alleged crimes.  After a time though the posters had started to blend in with the rest of the scenery.

That had all changed now.

Their last supply run had been Harry’s turn. He had returned to the camp looking grim, and slightly nauseated, copies of the new posters in hand.

The reward value for each of them had increased, dramatically. They would no longer blend in with the other every day wanted signs; these numbers would be noticed.

It was Hermione’s poster that had turned Harry’s stomach sour though, so much so that he had a hard time showing it to them. Her picture had been changed. Instead of the school photos that had been used for each of them, Hermione’s now depicted an image of her just after Victor Krum pulled her from the Black Lake during the Tri Wizard Tournament. She was dripping wet, her clothes clinging tightly against her curves. The angle, the way her eyes fluttered open and her lips parted, gave her a sensual appearance.

Erotic.

In addition to the photo, they had also given her a new title, no longer “Potter’s Mudblood.”

Golden Girl.

Rumors had been spreading about the revels, too. How the Dark Lord had taken to entertaining his followers with “free use” of prisoners; most female, but all preferences were considered. According to some whispers, his most loyal followers were given private gifts; people never seen again, tucked away by their owners for their on-going and exclusive entertainment.

Hermione, it seemed, was no longer wanted. She was a reward.  Voldemort’s regime barely attempted to veil their message; it was a blatant display of the power he now held. A power he believed he could hold, once he had Harry. Hermione’s image had simply been shifted to sweeten the bounty already on her friend’s head.

They were always careful. Every few days they made a point of evaluating their protocols again, checking and re-checking to see if they were missing anything. They’d had a few close calls, but it was working well.

“I’ll be fine,” she smiled reassuringly at both Ron and Harry. “In and out, like always.”

She refused to give up her rotation for the supply runs in town. They used Polyjuice or glamour charms to disguise their appearance, and she argued that it didn’t matter which of them went. She would pull her weight, just like she always had. If any of them should stay back, it was clearly Harry. He’d also refused to surrender his part in the rotation, which added further weight to Hermione’s argument.

“If you see any hint of trouble, or even feel like something is off, you get out quick, alright?” Harry’s voice was serious.

“I will, I promise.”

The Death Eaters’ apparition ambush on the campsite was swift and surgical. The blood tracking charm had led them straight to its location.

Harry and Ron reacted fast, but not fast enough. They barely had time to raise their wands before they were overwhelmed by the larger force, caught off guard by the sheer precision of the assault.

The air cracked with magic from the spells; Stunners, Diffindos, and hasty Protegos from Harry and Ron clashed against a barrage of disarming hexes and body-binding curses from the encircling Death Eaters. Neither side attempted a killing curse, Voldemort wanted Harry alive.

It was over in moments.

Ron and Harry lay bound, disarmed, and unconscious, sprawled within a tight ring of black-robed soldiers.

A dark robed figure approached the tracker with an air of a mentor addressing his protégé.

“You’ve honed your skills well and delivered a valuable prize. The Dark Lord will be quite pleased.”

The voice contained a note of pride.

“I’m honored to serve the cause, as are we all.” Came the smooth reply from the tall, robed figured next to him.  

A laugh echoed from the group. None of them served out of a sense of altruism, but they each understood the necessity of playing toward the Dark Lord’s ego.

“Come, you led a successful hunt, now you get to deliver the spoils to our Lord.”

A gloved hand clapped the tracker’s back, warm and congratulatory.

“I’ll leave the honor to you sir, if you don’t mind.” The masked figure demurred.  “I’m sure you will do me justice in your report to our Master. My hunt in these woods is not yet complete.”

The older man chuckled but did not protest.

“Suit yourself. Just remember, to the victor’s go the spoils. And spoils are meant to be enjoyed, son.” 

With that, the Death Eaters apparated away with their prisoners, leaving only the tracker behind.

He stood silent and still for some minutes, assessing the campsite carefully. Walking to the tent, he stopped at the entrance, focusing his attention on the Velcro where the flap met the tent wall. After a moment, he drew his hand up and pulled a single, long curly hair away from the structure and held it up to the light for inspection.

She had been with them, which meant she would return.

The town was small, as were all the places they stopped. They picked the sites carefully to avoid detection, and true to form, Hermione observed nothing out of the ordinary as she entered.

She was quick and efficient with her supply run. Her glamour spell was good, but quickly in, quickly out mitigated unnecessary risk. They had each become adept at this.

The glamour would hold for at least a few more hours, keeping her a light blond with honey tanned skin. Her eyes were harder to change, they remained their normal rich chocolate brown, but with enough small changes elsewhere it wouldn’t get her recognized.

The light had begun to dim as she neared their campsite, and she looked forward to getting off of her feet. They didn’t apparate near towns, the risk of the magical signature being picked up was too great.

She sighed when the tent was finally in sight, and called out to Harry and Ron as she flipped open the fabric of the entryway and let herself in.

The empty interior wasn’t immediately alarming, the tent contained several extension charms allowing for them each to have a private space away from the common area. It wasn’t until she was several paces in that she paused.

It was unusual for Harry and Ron to retire to their personal sections so early.

Dropping her bags, she shifted for her wand but never made it, as an arm reached out from behind and yanked her against a hard, unyielding chest.

A gloved hand pressed hard into her wrist, forcing her to drop the wand with a cry of pain. She wrenched herself away from her attacker, who seemed content to let her go now that she was disarmed.

She turned to face him just in time to see him tuck her wand in his boot, out of her reach.

Her heart pounded into her throat as she stared at the dark robes and menacing mask of the Death Eater.

She felt her chest heave as her breaths came in pants; it took sheer force of will to calm her body. She had to collect her wits and remember their plan.

Speaking slowly, and with as much confidence as she could muster, she said “My name is Penelope Clearwater. I’m on a camping trip with my friends. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The man in the mask cocked his head, assessing her.

When he spoke, his voice rippled with the horrid masking magic that further concealed the identities of the Death Eaters. It was deep and undercut with a promise of violence. Every part of their uniform was designed to inspire fear.

“We both know who you are, and I don’t like lies.”

She noticed now that the walls of the tent had a small shimmer. He had cast one-way wards, allowing her to enter, but blocking her from leaving.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?” His stillness was unnerving.

She fought a shiver as cold fear spread through her core.

“Say your name, and tell me the truth now.” The smooth, dark voice crooned.

“I…” Hermione had never felt so helpless. She needed information to know how to handle the situation, and she had very little. She decided to deflect with a question back.

“Who are you?”

He laughed, but the sound contained no humor.

“Oh pet, we will have to work on obedience.”

He stepped toward her now, his stride long. She took four quick steps back, away from him.

“Shhh” the dark voice soothed “it’s better if you don’t put up a fight. You won’t win, not against me.”

“What do you want?” she could hear the fear in her voice, and she knew he could too.

“The Dark Lord promised you as a reward to anyone who delivered Harry Potter to him. I’ve done that, and now I’ve found you.”

Her intake of breath was sharp and ragged at the mention of Harry.

The tall figure again tilted his head. “We have both of your friends; they are being delivered to my master as we speak. Now come my pet, let’s put you back into your own form, hmm? I want to have a look at you.”

She barely registered the tingling of her glamour falling away as he waved his wand.

Her mind spun and her heart sank at the confirmation that Harry and Ron had been captured, temporarily distracting her until the increased closeness of his body as he crowded her snapped her attention back to him. 

Tears began to fall from her eyes, unbidden, and unstoppable.

He reached out a gloved hand and caressed her hair, ignoring her cries.

“Beautiful. Just like I remembered. Let’s get you home now.”

The whisper held a dark menace that only increased her terror as the hand gripped into her hair and pulled her toward him, just before the crack of apparition sounded and the tent around them faded.

The room he brought her to was clearly feminine. It had double high ceilings, and a sense of luxurious softness that contrasted heavily with her mud caked boots and muggle clothing.

The Death Eater remained masked as he let her go, stepping away from her only slightly. Her terror, combined with the sudden apparition, had sucked the breath out of her lungs and she sank to her knees, gasping for air.

“Who are you?” It took effort to formulate the question. 

He knelt to meet her at eye level, though the mask only displayed black voids where eyes should be.

“Patience. You haven’t earned the right to my name yet, but we will get there.”

Standing again, he said “Let’s get you calm, you’re nearly hyperventilating.” He cast a quick series of spells and Hermione felt her airways open, and her lungs fill with oxygen.

The panic left her, replaced with an unnatural serenity that reminded her of the effects of a calming draught, though there was no potion in sight. Her limbs felt like they didn’t want to move, almost like she was swimming in jelly. Everything she did was in slow motion, while the world around her continued as normal.

“That’s better,” he hummed. “I can’t leave you this filthy though.” His finger traced the edge of her hip, sliding down with his gaze toward her dust caked hands and splattered clothing.

“Time for a bath, I think.”

Cognitively, she knew she was afraid. Whatever the spell was, it simply stopped, or rather, slowed, her physical fear response. His words though, chilled her to the bone. She wished she could run, or even back away, but she could barely move.

He bent and scooped her up, then carried her into the large adjoining bathroom with ease, before setting her on the edge of the tub.

She tried to squirm, to fight him, but her movements were so slow they barely registered as he knelt and pulled off her shoes, then her socks.

“Living in the woods for so long must have been hard on you,” he mused. “I wonder how long it’s been since you’ve had a real bath? Slept in a real bed?”

Her mouth, like the rest of her, moved too slowly for her to form words. It didn’t seem that he actually required an answer.

He turned the water on, and checked the temperature setting, adjusting it several times before it met his approval.

“These, I’m afraid, aren’t salvageable.” He ran his hands over her clothes as he spoke. “Not to worry, I have much prettier things ready for you.”

A quick, wandless, slicing spell slid from his fingers and severed the fabric of her shirt. He peeled it away from her and cast it aside, before deftly tugging on her belt, unclasping it, and pulling it away too.

She registered her arms as they slowly moved up to her chest, pressing protectively against her bra. The severing charm sliced through the denim of her jeans next, and he tugged them away with equal efficiency.

Goosebumps, both from nerves and the sudden exposure of her skin to the air, pebbled her skin. 

“Almost there, just a little more, and we’ll get you into the warm water, sweetling.”

He pulled her arms aside and took her bra next. She wished he would use the severing spell on her underwear, but instead he knelt in front of her and slowly, painstakingly, tugged them down, exposing her core to his gaze.

“So pretty for me.” He murmured as he reached up a gloved hand and stroked a thumb down the soft hair between her legs, like he was petting a kitten.

He slid her panties into his pocket, rather than discarding them. “There, all done.” He stood back up, then looked deliberately at her, moving his gloved hand up to caress her breast next.

She wanted to flinch away from his unwelcome fingers, but the magic prevented her.

“It will take time to acclimate you to my touch pet, but if you’re good I promise it can be pleasant, not just for me. Now let’s get you into the water.”

He lifted her gently and tucked her down into the tub.

The water smelled good, hinting of spices and flowers, but she barely registered it as she watched him hiss out an unfamiliar spell. The Death Eater robes he wore over his own clothing vanished, and he slowly uncuffed one sleeve at the wrist, rolling the dark fabric up his forearm, then repeated the process on his other arm. His mask remained.

“I imagine your muscles are sore too, living in a tent can’t have been comfortable,” he mused as he knelt next to her tub.

A soft, soapy cloth appeared in his hand and he gently rubbed her face, down her neck, and lower. He was clinical, efficient, in almost all areas as he washed her.

He slowed deliberately at her breasts, toying with them and lightly pinching each of her nipples as he went. Playing.

When he reached down between her legs his fingers stroked her mons, almost soothingly, several times. She couldn’t move quickly enough to bat him away, but he chuckled as she tried.

“The stasis magic will wear off soon, don’t worry. You’ll be fighting me in no time. Just not tonight.”

He pulled her out of the tub and stood her on a mat where he proceeded to carefully, methodically, dry every part of her.

She stood before him naked and trembling when he finished.

“There, all clean.”

He seemed satisfied with his work.

“Now we can put you in something a little prettier, hmm?” Picking her up again, he carried her back into the cavernous bedroom and placed her down in front of the lit fireplace. She felt her nakedness more keenly in the large open space than she had in the confines of the bathroom, especially when compared to his fully clothed form.

He approached her again with garments in hand and again knelt in front of her. This time he shifted her feet carefully into a pair of white kickers with little pink ribbon accents. He slid the fabric unhurriedly up her legs, over her thighs, until they were tucked into place. Again, he took his time before rising, stopping first to run his thumb over the gusset, stroking her through the fabric.

She gasped as he leaned forward and pressed his mouth lightly where his fingers had just been. It was soft and quick, but intimate and violating.

He rose and tugged out the next garment.

“Arms over your head pet, you can do it,” he waited patiently for her to comply, as she slowly willed her arms to lift. He slid a matching white cotton nightgown over her, tugging it into place over her breasts as he went.

It was the softest fabric Hermione had ever felt, and while simple, it was strikingly feminine.

He moved behind her next, and pulled her hair into his hands, tying it back with a matching pale pink ribbon.

He treated her like a doll, something to dress, and play with. Not a human.

“Much better,” he hummed when finished. “You’ve had such a long day, and you’ve done well darling. I’m so proud of you, off to such a sweet start. I’m going to give you Dreamless Sleep for tonight, you need the rest. Now tilt your head back for me, there’s a good girl.”

He’d pulled the potion from his pocket and tugged her head back, nudging her lips open with the bottle before pouring the potion into her mouth. He kept his finger under her upturned chin until she swallowed it down, then rewarded her with a caress across her lips with his finger before sliding his hand to the small of her back and guiding her toward the bed, where he tucket her in like one would a wayward child.

“Rest now, precious. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The potion must have been strong. The fog of sleep began to pull her under almost as soon as her back touched the bed.

Theo Nott looked at Draco Malfoy as they sat in his personal study and sipped fire whisky.

“Is she everything you hoped she would be?”

The blond grinned into his drink before responding.

“She’s perfect.”

Chapter Text

Hermione woke slowly, emerging from sleep as if pulled through honey. Her limbs felt heavy, wrapped in the lingering remnants of magical sedation. For a moment, the soft weight of the blanket, the faint crackle of fire, and the scent of lavender might have fooled her into thinking she was somewhere safe.

Then it all came back.

She bolted upright, heart pounding, the silken nightgown clinging to her damp skin. The ribbon in her hair was still tied.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, her feet brushing against a thick rug woven in blues and greys. Her balance swayed, her nerves were still soaked in calming charms. Every motion felt like pushing through water.

She moved anyway. One foot, then the other, toward the door.

It didn’t open.

She jiggled the handle. Nothing. The silence pressed against her.

A small table stood by the window, a silver tray resting atop it. Poached egg, a bowl of berries and cream, half a grapefruit, pumpkin juice in a crystal glass.

Her stomach clenched.

The click of a lock turning behind her made her spin.

He entered with the elegance of someone who didn’t need to rush. Masked, gloved, robed in dark layers of luxury. Every step radiated ownership. He didn’t speak, didn’t introduce himself, just stared at her like she was already his.

Hermione stepped back, fingers curling unconsciously, her hand twitching for a wand that wasn’t there.

“Who are you?” she asked again, trying to hold her voice steady against a tremble.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he advanced with slow, confident steps; predatory, dominant, unhurried. The room wasn’t cold, but her skin pebbled in her soft, feminine nightgown while she backed away from his war-clad form. But it was no use, he had her trapped.

Her back hit the wall. He caged her in with both arms, braced on either side of her head, a gloved fist thudding softly against the molding behind her.

He didn’t touch her this time, not like before.

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away, but it didn’t stop him. The cold press of a silver mask skimmed her temple, her neck, her hair. Then he inhaled slowly, deliberately. A whimper escaped her lips.

He was smelling her.

“Please,” she whispered, voice low and cracking, “just let me go.”

He didn’t reply. Not immediately.

When he did, his voice was altered by dark magic—smoothed into something inhuman. “He wouldn’t like that,” he murmured, “I don’t think I would either.”

“The Dark Lord doesn’t have to know I was ever here,” she tried, reaching for logic, for a deal.

He pulled back, not in response to her words, but to look her over slowly. She hated the way he took his time, like he enjoyed what he saw, despite her rising blush.

“The Dark Lord doesn’t care what we do with our prize.”

The voice, while similar, had a different cadence. She jolted at the sound. It hadn’t come from the Death Eater in front of her, but from the doorway where another now leaned casually. His tone had been light, as if he were amused at the sight of them.

He stepped in, and the latch clicked shut behind him.

The man in front her now looked over his shoulder and addressed the new arrival. “I see what you meant. She smells delicious.”

A low chuckle responded from behind the other mask. His gate, intonation, and posture were all subtly different from the looming figure pinning her against the wall, and she realized with a shudder that he was a new threat; not the man who had brought her here. She recoiled on instinct, not logic. One was as likely as the other to cause her harm.

“I think you’re scaring our doll, love.” Her captor spoke from across the room, though he was closer now. “We need to get her fed.”

His tone softened slightly when he spoke again, like he was comforting a frightened animal.

“Come here pet,” he stretched out his hand for her, “we won’t hurt you. Not yet.”

One of the arms holding her trapped shifted, giving her an out. She darted away from him in favor of the devil she knew; only registering his words after she’d moved. Realizing neither man was safe to approach, she tried to change direction, but it was too late. He caught her hand and quickly tugged her fully against, while a clear laugh rumbled through his chest.

“It seems she likes me better, that is a surprise. What did you do to her before I arrived?”

She tried to pull away, but he ignored her efforts in favor of keeping her pinned to him. His other hand rose to her back and stroked soothingly down her spine. The gesture brought more fear than relief.

“Hardly a thing,” came the bored reply, “just smelled her a bit, and looked at her. I thought Gryffindors were brave, but she seems skittish.”

They spoke as if she wasn’t in the room.

The gloved hand stroked her hair now, and her captor responded:  “She’s had a terrible fright, and is likely still a bit fuzzy from the potion. Her fire will come back, she just needs time.”

The second figure stepped in closer, assessing her.

She flinched under his gaze.

“I don’t remember her being this skinny. She’s mostly bones.”

“She’s been on the run in the woods for months, I’m sure it’s been hard on her. I doubt she’s had regular access to full meals, the food rations at the campsite were sparce.” The hand petting her hair never stilled, but his tone sounded defensive.

He began to move and her heart lurched to her throat, unsure of his direction or intent. He stepped toward the breakfast table and shifted gracefully into the chair next to it, tugging her with him. She again tried to pull away, making small noises of protest, but he paid them no attention; nestling her between his knees, he pulled her into his lap until her bum was perched on his thigh.

She struggled, but he ignored her attempts, and forced her to settle.

“Now Granger,” he admonished her, “you can eat your meal like a good girl, or we can skip to more diverting activities. The choice is yours.”

His insinuation was clear, and her blood ran cold.

She’d known this could happen, especially after the vile posters had been put up. Her stomach still turned; knowing of the risk didn’t mean she was able to mentally prepare for a torture in this form. Especially since she had no experience to pull from.

She’d shared an innocent kiss with Victor Krum at the Hogwarts Yule Ball, and nursed a slight crush on Ron early the next year. This formed the entirety of her sexual experience.

He clearly felt her tense in response to his words, and she tried to comply. When she reached obediently for the fork next to the plate of food, her hand shook so hard she could barely hold it steady enough to secure a bite of food.

They both noticed, masks tilting to her tight grip.

A sigh sounded in her ear, but it was not unkind. He reached out his gloved hand and stilled her wrist, then pulled the fork from her fingers.

“Perhaps she’s cold.” The statement came from the other Death Eater.

“She’s nervous,” came her captor’s soft reply. Nevertheless, his fingers ran up and down her arms as he spoke, creating a warming friction. “I gave her a strong calming draft last night, she shouldn’t have another this soon.” He seemed to be considering their options.

His friend responded by pulling off his glove, and stepped closer. His presence was less imposing this time as he stood in front of her again and reached his lean, tanned fingers toward her plate. He plucked a berry up between them, scooping some cream with it, then brought it up to her mouth, where he held it, waiting.  His intent was clear.

Slowly, she opened her lips and accepted the food.

“That’s it little dove, much better.” Though the magic continued to distort his voice, he now sounded encouraging. Kind, even.

He addressed the man behind her. “The sugar should help, but what she really needs is protein. And carbs.” He looked back at her, then added. “Some vitamin potions would also be prudent. At least for a while.”

She watched his hand shift back again to the plate, where he crumbled a piece of sausage into a bite sized morsel, before raising it to her mouth. She opened her mouth again, accepting the food.

“I could get used to this. Feeding her by hand.”

The words were both surreal and chilling.

The arms that held her tugged her closer.

“So could I,” the voice was soft, “but we have a lot of work to do with her yet.”

Hermione looked between them, her throat tight as she forced a swallow. “What are you going to do with me?”

Neither of them immediately spoke, but she sensed they were communicating, silently.

The new Death Eater turned back to her. “Draco wants to coddle you, love, whereas I want to train you. We’re going to have to find a balance.”

His mask dissipated into a cloud of smoke as he spoke, until the clear green eyes of Theo Nott were staring back at her.

Chapter Text

Hermione lurched forward out of the lap of the man holding her, but her efforts were fruitless. 

His arms only clasped tighter as she redoubled her attempt to break his hold. A soft chuckle at her ear made her freeze; he was laughing at her.

“Granger, pet, it’s no use. You aren’t a match for me,” he said, then added, “at least not physically.”

Her eyes went wide at the sound of his undisguised voice. Worse still, it was Draco Malfoy who’d called her his pet. Stripped her. Bathed her. Touched her. And now he held her between his spread legs, her back to his chest and her arse on his thigh. 

“Let go of me,” she hissed between clenched teeth. Several curls pulled loose from the ribbon he’d used to tie them back, falling into her face like a veil of defiance.

Theo frowned as he watched the struggle unfold. His gaze flicked to Draco in quiet assessment before returning to her.

“I thought she’d be calmer without the Death Eater masks.” He said, tone flat, like he was offering casual commentary on a new painting rather than observing a woman thrashing helplessly in the arms of a man twice her size.. 

“She likely would have been if it was just you,” Draco replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. “She doesn’t like me very much.”

A squeal of shock and rage erupted from her as he tugged down the neckline of her nightgown, teasing the top edge of a pink nipple, just barely bringing it into view.

“Shh. Stop struggling if you don’t like it. Good girls get to wear clothes. I can have you naked in seconds without ever letting you off my lap.”

She stilled then, panting and flushed. He hummed contentedly, pulling her tight against his chest once more.

“That’s better,” he said, head tilted to smile against her ear. His tone was soothing, but his next words were not. “You’ll get used to it soon.”

He had her facing forward, trapped against him, but from the side of her eye she could just make out the pale skin and blond hair she knew far too well. His head hovered near hers, and though his grip hadn't relented, his fingers now traced slow, languid strokes across the flushed skin of her chest.

Once she caught her breath, she rasped out her question again—similar to before, but this time edged more in anger than fear.

“What do you want with me, Malfoy?”

His nose nuzzled into her curls as she tried, unsuccessfully, to pull away. He took it as invitation and nipped at her bare neck, eliciting an indignant yelp from her throat.

“I’d answer that, but I suspect it would only make you more angry,” he replied, clearly enjoying her rising frustration

Her pulse spiked. She kicked at his legs from her perch on his thigh, a movement that didn’t appear to phase him in the slightest, especially when her nightgown rode higher up her legs as a result. A string of curses—his name peppered throughout—tumbled from her mouth.

A hand gripped her throat. Firm. Final.  

Theo’s iron grasp forced her still, and there was no amusement in his expression as he leaned in.

“You may be a pretty little thing my partner fancies, witch, but let’s get one thing straight. If you hurt him, it will be me who punishes you.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His presence alone made her blood chill.

“I am not gentle with anyone who hurts the people I love. Do you understand?”

She could only nod; shock and oxygen deprivation making speech impossible.

“Good.” He released her throat but didn’t look away. “I’ve already told you what Draco wants, but I’ll repeat it. He wants to coddle you. To pull you out of a life where you were hunted by men and beasts who would tear your body apart before they even got around to fucking you. He wants to keep you safe. Fed. Pampered. Alive.”

Theo straightened, but didn’t break eye contact.

“I don’t expect gratitude. Or for you to understand how close you came—more than once—to becoming Fenrir Greyback’s chew toy. It was never luck that saved you; always Draco or me. Intervening at just the right moment so you could get away. The Death Eaters, snatchers, and wolves saw you as a reward long before we convinced the Dark Lord to formally promise you to anyone who brought him Potter. Once he did, Draco hunted for weeks to get to you first.”   

His voice lowered.

“I expect you to survive this war with our help. And whatever comes after. Because we take care of our belongings. I suggest you hope he never tires of you.”

A chill crept up her spine and settled deep in her gut.

“Theo, my love,” Draco crooned, “we’re trying to get her calm. I don’t think this is helping.”

Theo’s green eyes softened as they turned to the man who held her fast.

“Don’t be too soft with her,” he replied. “If she doesn’t stay in line, I’ll step in.”

Draco was gentle with her. Physically. Verbally. Not like the childhood bully she remembered. He didn’t demean her, but he also didn’t care that she disliked his touch. He wasn’t aggressive without cause, but he crowded her, and forced her submission to his proximity through sheer force of will.

He didn’t strip her again. Didn’t touch her breasts, her arse, or between her legs. But he helped himself to everything else, walking right up to the unspoken line and toeing it.

On the second morning, an elf arrived and ran her bath; a simple task, but impossible without magic. When she stepped out, the clothes she’d set aside were gone, replaced by nothing more than a fresh pair of knickers and a bra. He was already in the bedroom when she emerged, her dress held loosely in his hand. If she wanted to be clothed beyond her underthings, she had no choice but to walk to him. Her skin burned with humiliation as he dressed her, each button and clasp a quiet declaration of control.

The next day, she tried to avoid the ritual by refusing to bathe. It made no difference. The elf reappeared and vanished her nightgown with a snap of its fingers, leaving her naked. The replacement undergarments didn’t appear until she had stepped from the water. 

And they were a gauzy lace. 

His eyes roamed her freely when she entered the room, her fists clenched and her teeth gritted as she approached him, hating that he’d won. 

This time, he didn’t dress her right away. Instead, he made her stand still while he slowly worked lotion into every inch of her exposed skin. His touch was unhurried, deliberate, and thorough. It was a punishment, and he wanted her to know he enjoyed it. 

She didn’t test the routine again.

After a few days he began to bring her books, asking which ones she liked and which she didn’t. More oddly, he played games with her. Chess. Mancala. Alquerque. He seemed entertained by her frustration as she learned, but more so by how quickly she adapted. Eventually, she began to hold her own against him. 

Whenever she asked about Harry, Ron, or the Order, he shut down. The lack of information was an ever-present reminder of her status. They may not have her in a dungeon, but it was a prison nevertheless. 

Worse still were his eyes, how they followed her. Lingering. Hungry. It was clear that whatever held him back from doing more than he had thus far wouldn’t hold forever. She felt like she was walking a tightrope, and the tension could snap at any moment.

Theo was different. Where Draco was entertained, even enamored by her presence, Theo was hard. Quiet. Dominating. A wolf held at bay only by the whim of his mate.

He joined them each night for dinner in her room, and stayed after, watching as Draco taught her games, or talked about her reading that day. He was mostly silent. Always observing, assessing and guarded. Indulgent, even.  

Until he wasn’t. 

A week went by in captivity. And then another. 

Her room was luxurious, with high ceilings, large windows, light ivory walls and creamy ornate moldings. A gilded cage.

Despite their delicate appearance, the windows refused to crack; even when she applied the full force of her weight behind a chair to try to break them. She was sealed in by more than hard walls and closed doors. 

Hermione tracked the house's rhythms, tested the limits of the room, and kept looking for weaknesses she could exploit to escape.

The moment she could run, she would. 

And she was uncomfortably aware she needed to figure out a way to do just that before Draco’s hesitance to claim her came to an end. The fact that she didn’t know what he was waiting for kept her on edge. 

A week and three days into captivity, she discovered they didn’t use spells to lock her door, and a plan began to form. No spells meant they favored wards, likely blood wards attuned to both Draco and Theo, who could enter and leave at will, and seemed altogether unconcerned that other visitors to the Manor would be able to enter, except for the house elves. 

Most of the time the elves apparated in and out, unless they brought meals. These they delivered by trolly through the door, which meant they had been added to the blood wards, too. 

As much as she hated herself for it, she knew between Draco, Theo and a house-elf, the house elf would be her easiest target.  

She let her nails grow long over the next few days, and applied polish from the stock of beauty supplies they provided. 

The evening before her planned attempt, Draco was reclining in her room, toying with a lock of her hair. His gaze roved over the long lines of her legs as he drawled, “We’re leaving you soon, pet.”

She tilted her face in his direction, a silent acknowledgment of his words. Internally, she worked to quiet her racing mind, keeping any semblance of unusual edge from her demeanor. Her plan was to leave late that night, after the occupants of the Manor were asleep, but it would be better to wait until they were gone entirely. It didn’t mean the house would truly be empty, but two fewer Death Eaters to contend with was a win.

“Do you think you’ll miss us?” His face took on his characteristic smirk, though it lacked malice.

She gave him an exaggerated smile that was all teeth. “They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Then, “When do you leave?”

“In three days,” the answer came from Theo. “And we’ll be gone for three more.”

The full moon was in three days. She doubted werewolves would be on the grounds during a shift, but it was possible they would be nearby. She could use the first day alone to finish her preparations, then leave the second; after the full moon, but before they returned. 

“Planning to hunt, kidnap, or kill anyone I know?” she asked. 

Draco chuckled and continued to play with a curl. “Do you want us to bring you a friend, darling? Someone to keep you company when we can’t?” His tone was light, teasing.

“I am starved for polite company, but I’d rather my friends keep a safe radius from your particular brand of moral decay,” she said sweetly. “Ideally a few hundred miles. Preferably across a border. My only regret is that I can’t join them there.”

“Polite company, Granger? With your manners?” Theo arched a wry brow. ”You aren’t nearly housetrained enough for that yet.” 

He ignored the glare she leveled at him. Draco simply laughed and pulled her into his lap, where he situated her before shifting to tug her hair out of its ribbon. He seemed to like it loose.

“How about a souvenir then? Something for you to play with?” he asked.

She didn’t bother putting up a fight. They both knew how this went; he’d treat her resistance like foreplay and find a way to torment her further until he got his way in the end. He always did.

“I don’t even know where you’re going,” she replied, “and I’d rather not receive the plundered belongings of whomever you plan to attack.”

That earned her a playful grin. Draco turned to Theo with mock pride. “She doesn’t even know who we’re fighting, and she still assumes we’d win. She’s halfway to joining our fan club—just needs a proper uniform.”

“Maybe we should bring her back a muzzle. Something to control that biting tongue.”

Draco tugged at her bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger, capturing it briefly. “Our kitten is cute when she acts tough.” Then, thoughtfully, “Perhaps a pretty little collar, though.”

The morning after their departure, she kept to her normal routine. Without magic, she would be traveling on foot through the woods, defenseless. Leaving at night would give her the cover of darkness to make her escape unseen. 

The elves didn’t notice the bits of food she tucked away into pilfered napkins, or her nails carefully filed to points against the rough brick fireplace between meal deliveries. She carefully applied a deep crimson polish over them; one that would closest match blood. 

When the elf cleared her dinner table, Hermione took her chance. 

“This sludge is barely edible, not fit for a pig. Are you trying to starve me with bad food, you impudent little thing?” She lashed out, slapping the small creature across the cheek, letting her nails scrape deep into skin while she snarled the words. 

The elf cried out but did not resist.

“Apologies Miss! Tinny is sorry, Tinny will do better!” The distraught creature bowed low, before snapping away the food and plates with a crack of magic and quickly following. 

She sighed as she looked down at the blood stuck beneath her nails, perfectly camouflaged under the polish. Walking to her nightstand, she scraped out under each nail carefully into her glass, dipping her fingers into the water to get every drop. 

Then she finished her preparations while waiting for darkness to fall. 

They had given her no shoes, no protective clothing. Only pretty dresses with which to idle in. So instead, Hermione ripped apart the sheets from her bed, tearing them into long strips to wrap her feet, legs, and arms. Some protection against the elements was better than nothing. Winter wasn’t fully here, but the evenings in their camp had turned cold in the weeks before her capture. It would be worse now. 

When night had finally set, she mixed the dried elf’s blood with water and pressed it to the door’s knob. 

It opened. 

She stepped out hesitantly, waiting for some alarm to sound, but the Manor remained dark and silent. The dark tones of high walls stretched out ahead, a dangerous path toward freedom. 

She’d taken care to listen for Theo and Draco’s footsteps over the prior weeks, alerting her to the direction they came. She followed their course now, and was eventually rewarded with the sight of stairs leading down to the main floor. 

The house stretched out before her, dimly lit by the dying embers of wall sconces and the soft glow of moonlight leaking through tall, arched windows. The corridors were wide and still, their polished floors reflecting warped shapes of shadow. Portraits hung like sleeping sentinels, their slumbering figures half-lost in the dark. 

Every padded step she took echoed loudly in her mind, and she envisioned a shriek piercing the night at any moment, thwarting her escape, but it never came. 

Her journey through the Manor brought her to the conservatory, where a wrought-iron door led to the grounds. She barely dared to breathe as she reached a blood-crusted hand forward and gently pressed it open. 

Fresh air hit her like a drug. She resisted the urge to sprint, instead picking a route along the Manor’s walls, deep within its shadows, until she could dart through the garden. Her progress was slow and careful, prioritizing stealth over speed. She had hours before anyone would miss her; being seen was the greatest risk. 

When she finally reached the tree line and stepped into the forest, she allowed herself twenty more paces before collapsing to her knees. Shaking. 

Shaking, but free. 

It took several minutes for her breath to steady. Above her, branches swayed gently, letting the moonlight filter through the canopy in pale, fractured beams. The deep shadows and dense foliage promised cover from pursuing eyes. She could go faster now that the danger of being observed or heard was minimal. Finally she stood, ready to move. 

A slow clap of applause sounded several paces to her right.

Hermione froze in place.

A figure leaned casually against a tree. Black Death Eater robes blended with shadows, but his face was unmasked. 

“That was a very clever escape attempt, pet.”

Theo.

Her pulse stuttered, then quickened, each beat echoing in her ears like a warning drum as the reality of his presence sunk in. 

His eyes were cold, intelligent, and held a glint of something that looked like hunger. He may not dote on her like Draco did, but still he wanted her. The perfect, calm, control that radiated from him terrified her to the marrow of her bones. 

He hadn’t drawn his wand. Against her, he didn’t need it. 

She inhaled sharply, fear rising in her core. 

He tilted his head, watching her in the dim light. 

“I have seen bodies like yours torn to pieces in these woods, Hermione. Heard screams from girls braver than you dying with their throats torn to bloody ribbons.” 

He pressed forward on his feet, each movement fluid. Controlled. Predatory. 

“I won’t let you ruin what Draco’s worked so hard to protect,” he said. But his posture, his voice, his gaze—none of it aligned with his words. He may not want her dead, but he wasn’t her savior either. 

A smile crossed his lips, worse yet, it met his eyes. “Still, that doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun together.” 

He began to circle where she stood in the little clearing. She turned with him, tracking his movements carefully, not taking her eyes off of him for a moment. 

Something primal in her screamed a warning: danger, run. 

He seemed to sense it, and his grin widened. “Oh pet, I suggest you think twice before trying to run from me. I’d enjoy the chase far too much, and you wouldn’t like what happens when I catch you.” 

He paused, contemplating.  

“Then again, perhaps you need someone who's willing to bite back.” His eyes turned dark, calculating. “I'll let you decide. Come to me now, and I’ll take you home to the Manor, put you in your pretty little room, and leave you there. Safe, and untouched.”

He stepped in, and she matched it with an instinctive step back. His voice dropped to a near-purr.

“Or run… and I’ll give you ten seconds before I follow. If you make it to Draco, or the Manor before I catch you, you’re safe.”

He extended his hand, palm up, offering the first option. 

The silence between them grew thick and charged. The air felt brittle, pulled taut between two fates she didn’t want.

His hand remained outstretched, but only one option held the possibility of freedom. 

When she didn’t move, the glint in his eye turned feral. 

“One.”

She bolted. 

Her barely covered feet hit the wet, uneven earth as she sprinted away from him. Branches tore at her face, clothing, and skin. Leaves slapped her cheeks as she pushed past low limbs, the night air sharp in her lungs, cutting her from the inside. 

Seconds later, the crackling of twigs under heavy footfalls told her Theo wasn’t far behind. 

She didn’t look back, couldn’t afford the cost of slowing down as she ran until her legs burned and her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Trees blurred into walls around her, their shadows like claws reaching to pull her under. She didn’t know where she was going, and it didn’t matter. She just had to get away. 

Brambles snagged at her clothing, ripping and cutting as she yanked herself forward; uncaring as sharp thorns frayed the fabric and scratched into her flesh. Cold air licked across her thigh as she stumbled, nearly fell, then caught herself on a tree trunk slick with moss. She shoved against it, pivoting as she pushed herself harder. 

Then she hit a hard wall of muscle in the darkness. Hands seized her as her feet were kicked out from under her. The breath burst from her lungs when he drove her down onto the forest floor, pinning her on her back beneath his full weight.

A scream, wild and guttural, rose in her throat but there was no oxygen left to back it. Instead she kicked at him, scratched, bit, and shoved like a feral creature. 

He met her move for move. Graceful. Lethal. Powerful. 

Undeniably stronger. 

She gasped as he flipped her forward, pressing her chest to the cold ground, trapping her arms against his body behind her. 

His palm smacked against her backside–the sound echoed against the trees and she cried out. It was followed by a slow, primal grind of his hips; hardness rubbed against her supple curves. 

The chase, their struggle, had only primed him for this. 

He slid a hand into her hair, and she flinched—but all he did was hold it tight at the base of her neck, breath warm at her temple. When she finally sagged, spent and heaving, he leaned in and whispered: “Draco thinks you’re beautiful when you fight.” 

Then, “He’s not wrong.”

“Theo…” Her voice was a whimpered plea.

“He and I agreed whoever caught you tonight would be the first to take you, Hermione,” he said softly. “It seems I’ve won.” 

She let out a broken sound, half sob, half rage, when he seized her by the waist, lifting her with sudden force into his arms as he stood. 

"Shh, pet, save whatever fight you have left for when we get home—I promise—you’ll need it.”

Her legs dangled and her feet kicked air, but his grip didn’t falter as he carried her back through the trees.

Back to the house.

Back to the gilded cage. 

Chapter Text

Hermione bucked and thrashed against him as he carried her through the front entrance of the Manor, putting her full fury into the struggle, desperate to free herself before he locked her back into that cage. Her stomach clenched from her place on his shoulder, unable to break free from the rough hands pinning her legs. 

He let the doors slam shut behind them; the sound reverberated through the cavernous foyer.

“Tinny!” Theo barked, keeping her firmly in his grip as she pounded against his back with her fists.

A sharp crack announced the elf’s prompt arrival.

“Tell Draco I have her.” His stride didn’t break as he called out the instruction.

Hermione was vaguely aware of the chattering portraits, fully awake around her. The sconces, dim when she’d left, flamed brightly now, illuminating her struggle with thrown shadows on the walls. Theo ignored her snarls and attempted kicks as he stalked deeper into the Manor.

Another door flung open with a crash ahead of her, then slammed shut as Theo reached their destination. Hermione paused her assault to gaze up at the dark green walls and rich chocolate leather furniture illuminated by the warm glow of a fire. She realized with a start that it wasn’t her room. 

It was his.

He moved to set her down and she twisted in his grip just long enough to scratch at his face. He blocked her with a raised arm, and she sunk her teeth around his wrist, tasting the salt of his skin as she bit into hard muscle. He responded with a growl, slamming her body against the door as his arm shoved deeper into her mouth. The angle pinned her head to the side and exposed her throat. 

Then he bit back.

Hard.

Her startled scream was equal parts pain and shock. The act was purely aggressive, fully dominant. Primal and uncivilized. 

Heat flared through her nerves, a wild surge of panic and adrenaline crashing into something darker, heavier, buried deep in her gut. Her hands flew to his chest, pushing him off with every ounce of strength in her body as her breath hitched, chest heaving against his, the air suddenly thick—too hot, too sharp—as if her lungs couldn’t draw enough. Her pulse thundered in her ears, a frantic drumbeat of confusion, fear, and something traitorously electric. 

He pressed himself more brutally against her and dug his teeth in tighter, wordlessly demanding she submit or die. 

Her mind spun into overdrive, but he was too strong to shake off. Immoveable. If she wanted to live, she had to surrender. 

Her eyes stung and her throat burned as she stilled in his arms, going limp, then tilted her head back to reveal more of her neck to him. 

An animalistic act of submission.

He held her in place a few moments longer, reinforcing their respective roles until her soft, sad mewl echoed through the air.

With the noise, his intentions shifted. The bite softened against her neck, pressure easing just enough to make room for his tongue, hot and slow, as it dragged across her skin. Once, twice, then again. He was staking his claim on her body, proving he owned her now.

And would taste her if he wanted.

Hands slid down her body, punishing and possessive. He palmed her breasts, squeezing until she gasped. Then he pinched her nipples, sharp and deliberate, yanking her hips against his. Cold air washed over her as he ripped her dress off in one smooth motion, fibers tearing, as he released her from his hold just long enough to let the tatters fall to the soft carpet beneath her feet. For a moment he stared at her, eyes hooded, mouth parted, intoxicated by the sight of her. Every breath he drew in seemed thick with the weight of need. A possessive gleam lit his features, as if her body, her nakedness, belonged to him now. Then his mouth returned to her throat where he sucked and scraped, not hard enough to hurt, but a reminder that he could.

Her heart raced; she felt hot and cold at the same time. Shivers mixed with sweat. Horror and confusion twisted in her gut as heat flooded her core with the sharp, humiliating clench of arousal. 

“Fucking perfect.” The words were a groan against her neck, joined with a thrust of his hardness between her legs, against the dampness of her underwear. “You taste just like you smell.”

He slid a hand up her back and unhooked her bra with a practiced flick. The straps slipped down her arms and he pulled it away, exposing taut, pink nipples. His hand stroked her breasts, gentler than the harsh touches a moment before. Now he kneaded, lifted, tested their weight in his hands and flicked his thumb over the sensitive buds until they tightened with every pass.

She screwed her eyes shut, begging her body to stop betraying her. But his scent was everywhere; dark and warm, clinging to her skin and coiling through her blood. Cloves. Smoke.

Dangerously male.

It filled her lungs, curled low in her belly, igniting something she didn’t want to feel. Something she shouldn’t crave… but couldn’t ignore.

His thigh slid between her legs, pushing up to her core until he pressed against it. 

“Merlin, your panties are soaked already, witch.” He guided her hips over his leg, grinding her slick heat against the muscle, dragging pleasure from her whether she wanted it or not.

“I can’t very well leave you in such wet clothes now, can I?” The question dripped with taunting amusement, and he followed it with a wandless spell. She gasped, then whimpered, as her panties vanished, stripping her completely naked before him.

“How do you want to come, kitten?” A croon, soft and coaxing, wrapped his words, making them almost affectionate… if not for the control threaded beneath. His gaze glinted with dark amusement, roaming her body with the slow hunger of a beast about to toy with its prey. 

She remained silent.

“Answer me, pet.” A palm smacked against her breast, hard enough to sting. Her eyes flew open in surprise.

She tried to comply. Tried to form words, to give him something, anything—but her voice trembled and broke.

“I don’t—won’t be—can’t—Theo!”

He snapped her head back against the wall, eyes flaring as if her hesitation was meant to defy him. “I said—how do you want me to make you come? On my fingers? My tongue? My cock? You will answer.”

His thumb pressed right where her cunt met his thigh, just enough pressure to make her hips jerk in response.

“Which do you like best when you're with a wizard?”

Her eyes went wide, panic blooming. She didn’t have an answer. Couldn’t, because she didn’t know. No one had touched her this intimately before, except for Draco the first night he took her. What he’d done wasn’t for her pleasure, or to fully gratify his own. It didn’t help her answer Theo’s question at all. The truth tumbled out before she could stop it, mortifying in its honesty.

“I’ve never done any of this.”

His hands froze. His eyes snapped to hers, scanning her face with piercing intensity as he looked for a lie that wasn’t there to find. 

“You’ve never done…any of this?” he echoed, voice lower now, unreadable.

She tried to regulate her breaths, to hold herself together, but she was overwhelmed. Instead, she looked up at him, pleading, willing him to understand.

His expression hardened, and he leaned in. “You were in the woods. In a tent. For months with your boyfriend.” Each word was clipped, laced with insinuation and sharp disbelief.

She shook her head quickly, denying the insinuation. People assumed she and Ron were together, but they hadn’t been. Her crush had faded before it became anything real. Ron may have developed deeper feelings for her more recently, but she’d chosen to preserve their friendship instead.

“Victor?” He spoke the name like a challenge.

“He kissed me at the Yule Ball, that was it. I don’t know why he picked me for the tournament, we weren’t—we didn’t—I didn’t know him that well.”

The silence that stretched between them was thick and charged.

“Fuck.”

He dropped his thigh, letting her feet touch the ground again. But he didn’t back away; if anything, he shifted subtly closer to the trembling, naked witch.

“Hermione, look at me.” Chocolate eyes met sea green, wide and searching. “You knew what would happen when you made your choice in the woods.”

It sounded like a statement, but his eyes held a question.

Slowly, deliberately, she nodded.

His grip on her waist tightened and his voice dropped lower. “We aren’t good men, Hermione. There was never going to be a future where Draco let someone else have you. And there is no future where we have you and don’t fuck you. Do you understand?”

Her breath hitched, but she managed another small nod.

His fingers traced the side of her waist, feather light. She followed their path up the side of her body, to the round curve of her breast and the hollow of her throat, finally finding her chin and lifting it to meet his gaze.

“There is no future where we let you go.”

He let out a low sigh at the words as his stare ghosted downwards.

That same hand slid back to her breast as if to reiterate his intentions., circling her with slow, deliberate precision. Soothing the sting from the slap. Her nipple was sensitive under his touch, and a soft sound escaped her throat. Hermione flushed, lips parting. 

She did understand. She’d known this would be her fate if they ever caught her.

“I’m not gentle.” His voice was thick now. “I want you to fight me every step of the way. Bite, kick, slap and scratch until I grind my cock deep into your cunt or your tight little arse. Until you moan my name and shatter under me.”

His hand drifted lower, parting her thighs.

“I want to break you, Hermione,” he said, with an almost reverent tone. “Break you so hard… you’ll beg me to do it again.”

And she believed him.

She gasped when he slipped a finger inside her, pushing deep and curling it forward. Her cheeks burned when she felt herself drip out in response, a new wave of wetness coating his hand.

He closed his eyes, the hard line of his mouth becoming expressionless, before he returned to her. “But that shouldn’t be your first time,” he finished, softly.

The door to the room clicked open softly, then shut. She drew a sharp breath as Draco entered, then instinct took over. Her arms flew to cover her bare chest and she turned toward Theo, using his body as a shield. Theo didn’t stop her. Didn’t leer or tease. Instead, his hand found the small of her back and began to rub slow, grounding circles.

But his body stayed still. His voice, when it came, was tight, controlled, and tense.

“Drake,” he said, “she’s completely innocent. Never fucked. Barely even kissed a bloke.”

Footsteps approached, followed by the heat of another body. She refused to look, pretending that if she didn’t see Draco, he couldn’t see her shame. Theo’s hand remained between her thighs, though with her front turned toward him, she didn’t think Draco could see. Not yet.

Something silent passed between the two wizards, a form of wordless communication she was sure she’d seen them use before. Draco lifted a gentle hand to Theo’s face, running his knuckles across Theo’s cheek to his parted lips. 

“You can be soft.” Draco’s whisper was intimate, one lover guiding another. “But I’ll help if you want.”

She felt, rather than saw, Theo’s nod.

“Alright. Come to me now, pet.” Draco’s hands tugged at her shoulders, drawing her into him until the cloth of his robes brushed against her bare skin. The movement created space between Theo and herself, effectively removing him as her shield, exposing her to both of them.. Her arms remained crossed over her breasts, and her legs were pressed tight together, wrapping around Theo’s wrist.

“Slide your finger out,” Draco’s voice was low, but rippled with an authoritative edge.

The hand slid away.

“Taste her.”

To her shock, Theo lifted his slick fingers to his mouth, dragging his tongue slowly up his palm, collecting the wetness she’d left behind. He inhaled deeply against his hand, breathing in her scent.

“Fuck, Drake,” he panted, his eyes scorched hers.

“Share, Theo,” Draco ordered.

Theo raised his hand toward Draco, not breaking eye contact with Hermione. Looking up, she saw Draco’s tongue dart out across Theo’s glistening finger, licking lasciviously as he closed his eyes.

“Oh kitten,” Draco drawled. “You are delicious. You taste like an Amortentia dream.”

Draco lifted her without warning and walked her with him to the couch, where he settled her on his lap. She moved to tuck her legs together between his, the position now familiar, but he chided her.

“No pet, spread for Theo, let him see you.” Draco’s hands moved her legs to fall on the outside of his own. Then he opened his stance wider, spreading her further open as he tugged her back to recline against his chest.

She felt him frown at her hidden breasts.

“Hands at your sides kitten,” he gently but firmly grasped each of her wrists, pulling her arms down until her palms were pressed to the smooth leather of the couch beneath them. “He wants to see your pretty tits, too,” Draco’s voice was soothing in her ear. “There, much better. Be a good girl and keep your hands here precious.”  

In this position she was fully exposed to Theo’s gaze, and also to Draco’s. He hummed in appreciation as he took in her nipples, lifting his finger to softly touch one, then the other.

“Theo, come lick these.” The brunette approached and Draco added, “No biting them, but you may suck.”

She twitched against him; Draco’s lewd instruction and casual perusal of her exposed body made her want to fold in and cover herself. Feeling her writhe against the length of his body, Draco stroked her hair and tilted his mouth to her ear.  “It's alright, pet. Daddy has you. We’ll figure out what makes you a happy little witch for us.”

Slowly, Theo knelt and pressed himself between their spread thighs, then bent his head down to her chest, forehead meeting her sternum as he took a deep inhale. The bridge of his nose lifted, feathering across her skin until she felt a long, hot lick of his tongue against her nipple. His mouth, in tandem with Draco’s filthy words, created a swell of heat that licked through her core, melting everything it touched. 

She wanted to pull her knees inward, to gain friction where a burning emptiness throbbed; but Theo’s hands rested on each of her legs, pressing them down against Draco’s thighs so she was pinned. Together, they kept her spread.

“Draco—” His name was a gasp from her lips. “Please.”

Her back arched as Theo’s finger twisted her other nipple, just enough to draw a gasp before softening into lighter, teasing strokes. Each flick sent a fresh shiver down her spine, while his mouth worked the opposite peak—sucking, releasing, then blowing a cool breath across the damp tip. She trembled as it pebbled harder beneath his gaze.

“Use your words, princess. Full sentences,” Draco chided.

She answered with a groan that turned into a keen half-way out, and tried helplessly to squeeze her legs shut again. Pale, lithe fingers slid down to stroke her mons, right at the apex of her thighs. A mock comforting motion that just fueled the fire of need.

“Theo,” Draco’s voice was a purr. “See if she likes being kissed on her lips.”—he emphasized the word—”Start light, only small pecks. We don’t want to overwhelm her.”

Theo released her now wet, sucked-swollen breasts, and instead of rising to face her, he sank further to his knees. Hermione was perplexed for a moment, until his gaze dropped straight to where her legs were spread wide before him, at her exposed cunt.

Her mind whirled. He couldn’t plan to—not there—not with his mouth.

But he did.

She watched his gaze turn lupine, as he registered her surprise. Hot breath hit her a moment later, right before his first kiss  brushed her folds, followed by more tiny, teasing pecks across her slit, her lips—starting high at the top then trailing lower—all across her pussy. He didn’t stop, even as her whole body started to shake and tremble with a violent need.

“Theo!” She was begging, but she didn’t know what for. He stopped only long enough to look up at her wickedly, his tone chiding. 

“Your daddy told you to use full sentences, darling. Pay more attention, disobedient girls will get spanked.” The tip of his tongue flicked out across her clit after the warning, a quick lick before his teasing kisses returned.

Her moan and shudder were undisguised, and Draco seemed pleased. 

“Does our pretty baby want something she isn’t getting?” the blonde Death Eater crooned in her ear, watching the madness unfold before him.

The muscles between her legs pulled against air. Empty and frustrated as Theo stayed well away from her entrance, darting to her clit once then away again, like this was all some sort of game.

“Yes, please, Draco. I need more.”

He chuckled into her hair. “You want us to forgive you, reward you, after you tried to run away?”

She groaned, understanding then that he meant to work her up but not give her relief. Desperate, she moved her own hand between her legs, seeking friction.

Theo yanked her hand away and delivered a swift, smarting smack straight to her clit. She yelped—first in shock, then in anger—as she glared down at him. The sharp sting radiated outward, turning every nerve hyperaware. Her clit throbbed in the aftermath, over sensitized and aching, the heat of the slap lingering like a cruel echo of pleasure and punishment.

Before the wizard between her legs could act on the gleam in his eye, Draco cut in. “Behave, both of you.” His tone was final.

Shifting to Hermione, Draco spoke again. “You were a brat tonight, baby. If you left when you originally planned this little stunt days ago, you would have been eaten by werewolves, instead of licked by a wizard.” Everything about his words was a hard reprimand, and she shrank underneath it.

Theo resumed his ministrations, but apparently Draco expected her to hold conversation with him despite the rippling sensations in her core.

“If you want to come before Theo fucks you, then you’ll need to tell me you’re sorry. Properly.”

Draco pinned her arms beneath his as he reached down where Theo was stationed. Two thumbs pulled her labia outward, exposing her hole and making her squirm. Another unspoken conversation passed between the two wizards, and Theo caressed a finger through her opening, then slid in deep.

“She’s a needy little thing,” Theo said between soft kisses across her belly, mons, and cunt. “Had to get the escape attempt out of her system.”

“She’ll apologize or she won’t come,” Draco bit back, nipping at the crest of her ear.

Hermione clamped her mouth tight shut until Theo curled his finger forward, hitting a spot that made her buck hard against his hand. He did it again, over and over, until she was whimpering and the room filled with the sound of sloppy squelches where he fucked her on his fingers. Her ears burned at the unholy noises but she couldn't stop them, or control how her body reacted to their practiced movements. 

Then, to her horror, her body did something it never had before, didn’t know it could do.

Squirted.

Confused and mortified, she froze, then stammered something that sounded like an apology.

Theo’s hand snapped to her throat, his eyes were hard as he demanded she look at him. 

“Never be sorry for that, pet.” His gaze flitted to Draco’s. 

“The apology did sound pretty, though—all flustered and mixed with a moan. I think we should accept it.” Theo’s voice was light, but his eyes weren’t. Need laced his expression.

“It was technically what we asked for.” Draco acquiesced as he took in the hungry look on the wizard’s face. 

Theo stood and let his eyes roam the naked witch while unbuttoning his shirt in a steady, deliberate motion. He shucked it to the floor as he snapped away his shoes and unbuckled his belt. Each movement was practiced, precise, but unhurried. A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth when he caught Hermione looking back. It was just a tiny peak under her lashes, before her eyes shifted lower with a note of guilt.

“You can look, princess. He doesn’t mind.” Draco’s voice was a croon. “There’s no need to be shy. I like his body, too.”

The snap of the belt as he ripped it free of his pants caught her attention, and her eyes moved to where he held it. He folded it but didn’t cast it aside right away, as if he was considering an alternative use for it.

“No, Theo.” Draco’s voice was again firm.

Theo’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t protest. Instead, he raised his right hand to his trousers and popped open the button. The hearth’s glow bathed his face in gold and shadow that contrasted with the darkness in his eyes as he moved to the deep leather sofa across from them and sat. He placed the belt deliberately next to him, within reach, but not in use. 

Hermione shivered at the implication.

In the next moment, his hands went back to his fly, opening it. When he pulled his hard cock free and began to stroke it, Hermione looked sharply away.

“My belt could make her arse as pink as her cheeks, more sensitive, too.” Arousal dripped from between her thighs at Theo’s words. She swore they could smell it on her. “I think she might even like it.”

For a moment she was afraid he would do it, that Draco would let him, but then Draco responded. “She’ll be sensitive enough before the night is over. Besides, we need her to focus.”

He shifted Hermione in his lap, lightly angling her hips to the side of his thigh so he could see her face more clearly. 

“Kitten,” he addressed her sweetly,. “Have you ever seen a hard cock before?”

“I know what an erect penis looks like, Malfoy.” She refused to look at Theo, fixing her gaze on the gilded ceiling above.

Draco hummed but kept pushing. “I don’t mean from a book darling.” 

She didn’t answer, but he understood her silence. Reaching up, he tilted her face toward the other wizard.

“Theo, move your hand.”

Theo dropped his grip down to the base of his cock, seemingly perfectly at ease. The light from the fire rippled across his tanned skin, muscles highlighted in a dance of light and shadow.

He really was beautiful.

“Kitten,” Draco said, hand still gripping her chin as she stared. “I’m going to put you on top of that cock. It’s going to be tight because it’s your first time, and it will hurt a little before it starts to feel good. Theo is going to stay very still though, to give you some control while your body  adjusts.”

She didn’t miss the qualifier. Despite the wetness between her legs and her state of arousal, she still flinched when she looked at the large appendage Theo languidly stroked with the same fingers that had already made her feel full. 

Hermione tensed as Draco stood, lifting her effortlessly with him in the process.

He walked to Theo and placed her onto his lap so she faced him, straddling his legs. Draco pressed behind her, holding her on the edge of Theo’s thighs so she could still see his cock between them. Then Draco reached around her and wrapped his hand around it, stroking it in a milking motion. 

“See, pet?” His lips brushed her ear. “Not so scary. You try now.”

Theo’s hand reached out and tugged hers forward, placing it lower on his shaft under where Draco gripped him. His head fell back slightly as her fingers closed around him, eyes fluttering shut as his lips parted in a shaky breath. When he raised his head and looked at her again, his gaze was black; pupils blown, jaw tight, like her touch had dragged him to the edge of something he wasn’t ready to fall into. 

Draco slid his fingers down over hers and guided her hand in a long pumping motion that made Theo swallow back a groan of pleasure.

The sensation wasn’t what she’d expected. It was hard, but somehow still soft and pliable under her stroking motion. The skin moved with her hand over the rod beneath. A small bead of wetness appeared at the tip as she worked. 

Theo saw her looking at it, then swiped it up with his thumb and pressed it to her lips. Slowly, curiously, she parted them and let his finger slide over her tongue. The taste of salt and sweetness mingled as she closed her eyes, humming around his thumb. Theo moaned, then his hips bucked in her hand, just once. She suspected it wasn’t deliberate.

“Drake.” Theo’s voice was pained, edged with strain, barely controlled.

“I know, Theo, I know.” Came the reply. Then Draco’s lips returned to graze Hermione’s ear while his hands moved to her hips. “Put your hands on his chest, kitten.” 

She realized why right as Draco lifted her, and quickly complied, needing to balance herself.

Two sets of hands moved her down against Theo’s cock. She braced herself for the pain of an intrusion, but Theo slid it against her cunt instead, coating it in her wetness.

When the tip finally aligned with her, it was slick with lubrication. Still, she couldn’t help but suck in a sharp breath when his head breached her entrance, already more of a stretch than she’s ever felt before. Draco kept her still, both hands tight on her hips, not letting her sink further onto it. Theo held his position, face strained with want but body controlled. His thumb found her clit and he began to rub slow circles across it as his other hand fisted into her hair, fighting the urge to force her down on him. 

Draco lifted her up slightly before sinking her down again, just a little farther. She took another inch as her breath hitched around the stretch. Together, they repeated the motion—slow, deliberate—each time forcing her cunt to take a little more, until his cock met the firm, unyielding barrier of her maidenhead. She whimpered at the stretch, but the discomfort blurred by pleasure sparking through her clit and Draco’s soft kisses against her throat.

When they’d held her there long enough for her to adjust to Theo’s considerable length, Theo reached up, fingers firm beneath her chin, tilting her face toward him.

“Breathe in deep for me, kitten.”

But there was too much tension beneath Theo’s softness, the edge of something savage held barely in check. Draco’s hands tightened on her hips, bracing her for the moment Theo laid claim to her innocence. Right as realization struck, Theo slammed upward with a brutal thrust that shattered her open around him, tearing a strangled sound from her throat. But there he stopped.

Her body convulsed around him, instinct clashing with sensation as her nails dug into Theo’s chest, seeking purchase, control, leverage, anything. But there was none. 

They held her caged between them, impaled to the hilt, forcing her to feel every maddening inch. Her breath came in stuttering gasps that wouldn't settle, as if her lungs had forgotten how to breathe.

Theo didn’t move. Just held her there, throbbing inside her, eyes wild with hunger. 

“Fuck, Drake,” he panted, his voice thick with awe and possession. “She’s so tight.” 

Theo’s gaze locked on hers, fever-bright and unblinking, like he was memorizing the moment down to the last breath. His mouth was parted, breathing ragged, eyes burning with the strain of holding back the next thrust.

“Don’t move yet.” Draco’s voice rumbled low, the sound a dark vibration against her spine—more growl than command—as his eyes locked with Theo’s. Draco’s arm anchored her tight to his chest, the other hand splayed wide across her belly and hip, steady and protective.

“You’re doing so well for us, princess. So perfect.” He kissed a slow line along the top of her spine, nipping the round knob he found there. His breath was warm as it fanned over her slick skin.

“Draco…” she whimpered, turning her head to meet the bridge of his nose. 

Draco’s white-blonde hair tickled her temple as he spoke into her mouth. “I know, baby,” he crooned, his voice a balm. “Just a little longer. It'll feel good soon.”

Theo stirred before her, awareness flickering through his expression. His hands slid from her hips to the soft of her belly. A whispered, wandless spell hummed from his lips, and cooling magic spread through her core. It was gentle. Cleansing. Strangely tender. Her eyes fluttered shut, breath loosening as the ache melted into warmth.

“Better?” Theo murmured, lips coming forward to brush her nipple as his fingers found her clit with unerring precision. The pleasure that bloomed there made her arch between them, and she gave an instinctive roll of her hips. Then another. And another. Each motion sent sparks flaring down her spine.

She was moving without thought now, chasing the friction, the heat, the high. Her legs trembled, as her toes sought to find the carpet flooring, but Theo’s legs had pushed her too wide and so she hung in mid-air relying only on their combined hands to guide her through it. Her brow knit in desperate concentration. She was close—so close.

“Drake. Please,” Theo grit out, his voice hoarse with restraint. Despite her motion, he still hadn’t moved an inch beneath her.

Draco cradled her cheek, tender amidst the onslaught. “She’s ready now.”

“Thank Merlin,” Theo growled as his hands clamped to her waist. No longer gentle, they were claiming. He slammed her down onto his cock, impaling her as he drove upward. Draco’s hands slid to her breasts, teasing and pinching, guiding their rhythm with precise, possessive control. 

Theo set a merciless pace, moving her like a doll, slamming her down in hard, deliberate thrusts that left her breathless. Her body jolted with every movement, strung between the two of them, every nerve raw and exposed. Each brutal pounding felt like possession, like punishment, as if he was imprinting himself on her body. 

“Fuck, I can feel you everywhere—tight, wet, cunt choking my cock like you were made for me,” Theo rasped the words, rough and edged need. 

The tips of his fingers bruised into her flesh, his body tensing with a growing ferocity until he glistened with the sweat of his movements; but he wouldn’t relent. Wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let her go until he had everything he wanted.  

“Look at you, trembling and dripping over Theo’s cock, about to break for us.” Draco’s voice rumbled in her ear while he drew her nipples between his fingers, pinching and tugging. “You’re breathtaking, kitten. Give in, let him take you. I’ve got you.”

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. This was what she’d needed, what she never could’ve given herself. Theo pistoned into her, every thrust shaking her to her bones. Draco whispered into her ear between kisses, his words a litany of worship: perfect, clever, ours.

Her head fell back, a cry tearing free as she shattered. Her orgasm ripped through her like fire—wild, consuming, complete. She felt her thighs tighten around his girth, her muscles clenching and pulsing in response to him, sucking him deeper until the waves finished their onslaught, leaving her hollowed out and full all at once. 

Somewhere beyond the flood, she heard Theo groan her name, felt the heat of his release spurt inside her. But she didn’t care. She was floating, weightless and completely undone.

Chapter Text

“Does she need that?”

“I want her rested.”

Hermione’s legs were still wrapped around Theo’s lap, and her back was nestled against Draco’s chest. She distantly heard voices speaking but didn’t register what they were saying beyond a few words. Lips pressed to her ear as a firm hand wrapped itself around her throat, tilting her head back.

“Drink this for me, baby.” She trusted the voice and opened her lips against the dark vial that was pressed to her mouth, allowing the cool liquid to roll over her tongue. It felt good, and she realized she was parched. Without thinking, she began to guzzle the drink. Her hands reached up to clasp around the ones holding the vial, as if he might take it away.

A heaviness began to weigh over her eyelids before she even drained the glass. It continued to flow down her body and out to her limbs. Urging her to rest, to sleep.

Something clinked, as if from far away. Possibly a glass being set against a table. But Hermione didn’t care, because she was snugly cocooned against someone warm and soft and strong and he smelled good and she felt good and everything was wonderful as blackness fell around her.

“Mistress is to wake up now.”

She tried to ignore the voice, curling deeper into the soft blankets around her instead. 

The blankets flew from her, and cool air hit her bare legs as the demanding little voice restated its command. “It's time for the Mistress to wake up, the Master is saying so.”

The cold draft in her bedroom, coupled with the insistent words, forced Hermione to leave the comfort of her slumber and return to the waking world.

The walls of her room came into view around her, along with a grumpy house elf, its petite features scrunched into the embodiment of consternation.

“Miss has slept quite long enough and must bathe now.”

She groaned as reality sank in. Her entire body ached .

Slowly, memories of running through the forest, Theo chasing her, catching her and pinning her to the ground, flashed behind her eyes. Then, Theo in his room, touching her. Stripping her. Groaning against her as she put her hands on him. Someone guiding her hips from behind, instructing. Whispering words that made her spine tingle. The bridge of her nose had turned to find Draco’s open mouth at her ear, his cold eyes alight with yearning.

Oh God.

She sat bolt upright as the memory solidified, and a soft gasp escaped her before she could stop it. She took several deep breaths and focused on the familiar pale walls of the room that was her gilded cage, centering herself back firmly into the present. 

“The bath is ready for Miss.” The elf accompanied the statement with a rap of its tiny fist against her thigh. Apparently she had offended the elves with her escape attempt. She sighed, knowing she deserved this.  

Gingerly, she slid her legs out of the bed and stood, taking inventory of her aches and pains while she moved. At first she was surprised not to feel sore between her legs, but then she remembered Theo’s healing magic. It must have been quite targeted, since the rest of her still protested against each movement. He’d only healed what he had broken during sex, not any injuries stemming from her escape attempt.

When Hermione arrived in the bathroom, guided by the very put-upon house-elf, she slipped out of the nightgown which she had no memory of putting on. The gold filigreed mirror before the vast marble tub flashed her reflection and she realized she was much mistaken. Her arms, sides, breasts, and neck were covered in fingertip shaped bruises and suck marks. A deep, mottled bruise filled with the red indentations of teeth stood out in stark contrast to the pale, freckled skin of her neck.

Theo hadn’t simply ignored her other markings, he’d left the evidence of his claim for everyone to see.

She winced at the heat of the water when her feet sank into the tub, followed by the rest of her. The burn felt good. The sharp smell of spearmint, or perhaps tea tree oil, rose with the steam over the water, stinging at her myriad of lacerations. The elves might be mad at her, but at least they’d provided bath oil to aid her stiff muscles.

“The elves don’t choose your bath oils, pet. I do.”

Her eyes flew open at the voice, until she met Draco’s gunmetal stare. He stood in the doorway, framed by the warm bedroom light behind him. Not yet in his Death Eater robes, the closely tailored cut of his shirt and pants highlighted toned muscles that were used to action. His stance was as casual as the rest of him was lethal.

“But it's cute you think I’d let them dictate how you smell.” His eyes slowly roved her exposed skin, which was only barely obfuscated by the water.

She turned so her back faced him while her hands flared over her breasts. “Get out!” The words came out as a harsh bark, but she knew she had no bite to back it up.

He knew that, too.

Despite the events of the night before, she blushed under his heavy gaze. It only deepened when he strode forward and knelt next to the tub. His hands folded over one another at the lip as his chin sank down to rest on them. His breath fanned across the surface, sending little ripples to crest across her body.

“Come now, kitten, don’t be shy.” His voice was soft and sweet. If she didn’t know better, she’d say almost tender. A finger released from under his chin and hovered just over the top of the water. He swirled it in a circular motion, creating a small whirlpool with just a touch of his magic. She felt caught in it, unable to resist his call. “I just came in to finish healing you. Water acts as a gentle conduit for the magic. Stops the sting.” That same finger drifted towards her, skimming along the surface like a skipping stone until it met her skin. She stopped breathing as it whispered over her breasts up to the bite on her neck.

She turned her face away, refusing to look at him.

“Sink down a little lower, pet.” He pressed down on her shoulder, helping her submerge deeper into the water. “There’s a good girl.”

In the next moment, his wand touched the top of the bathwater and a warm glow radiated outward, and then sank down through the liquid, until she was bathing in golden glowing light itself. She braced for the familiar sting of healing, closing her eyes, but it faded without any pain.

“There, all better now.” He sounded satisfied.

Hermione shifted in the tub, scrunching her eyes back open to find the bruises over her arms were gone, and the rest healed, too, from what she could see in the low-light of the bathroom. She wouldn’t uncover herself to check though, not while he was there. He paused a moment longer, letting his fingers brush over an errant curl that floated at the water’s surface like seaweed, before rising and walking out of the room without a backwards glance.

At his exit, she felt like she could breathe again.

Hermione remembered then the previous night, and how Draco had supervised and instructed, but hadn’t taken from her. Now that Theo had, and with their ‘agreement’ satisfied…there was nothing stopping him.

So why hadn’t he just now?

She felt a shiver run down her spine, then another when she realized the first wasn’t purely horror, but also arousal. Her body remembered how it had responded. Where Theo seemed to barely control his desire to ruin her, Draco was entirely the opposite. He could, would , play her body like an instrument. Precise, exact, and devastating.

The water chilled and her fingers pruned before she left the tub. Even then, she moved slowly through the rest of her routine. Delaying the inevitable for as long as she could, until the house-elf appeared with a stack of warm towels and leveled her with a glare.

When finally Hermione stepped back into the bedroom, a small exhale slipped from her.

It was empty.

Instead of waiting to dress her like Draco had every other morning, he’d laid out a long gold dress on the bed and seemingly left her to it. She stepped forward and touched the fabric. It slinked through her fingers, heavy, but also fluid in its movement and shine. Not something she would normally wear during the day, or Merlin, even the night , nor had she even seen it in her closet before. It was decadent and luxurious. Something she might imagine wearing one day, in a future so distant it didn’t feel real. 

The fabric felt cool against her skin as she slipped it over her head. She found it had just enough stretch and give to make it easy to slide into, before it pulled back taut and boldly clung to the curves of her body, unapologetic as it conformed to each contour and orb.  

A gold dress… for the Golden Girl. She winced.

Despite the formalwear, the day continued on as if it were any other. Neither Theo nor Draco came. She wasn’t sure why she thought they would, they didn’t normally. But  some part of her expected they would be eager to continue her torment.

A small voice in the back of her mind challenged the thought. Was it torment when she’d been left dripping and senseless? Her body had even squirted , for Merlin’s sake.

She paced the room while lost in thought, and her hands clenched into fists while a war raged within herself.

Striding to a chair, she forced herself to sit and release her rigid muscles. It was ironic how their absence indirectly drove her mind to thoughts of how very present they had been the prior day, and the memory of what they had done made her blush. At least her own mind was private, and neither of them knew how conflicted she felt. 

It was that thought that made her sit up sharply.

“Merlin, damn him!”

Draco had known what she was thinking. He’d responded directly to her thoughts in the bathroom earlier and she was so distracted by her injuries and his proximity to her exposed body that she hadn’t noticed… until now.

Her mind raced as she considered the many moments of unspoken communication between Draco and Theo, then to how they had seemed to anticipate her escape. And what had they said about it?

“If you left when you originally planned this little stunt days ago, you would have been eaten by werewolves...”

A cold chill washed over her as the pieces fell into place.

Draco Malfoy was a Legilimens. 

She hadn’t even felt his presence inside her mind, and she was certain he hadn’t cast the Legilimency spell, which meant…he must be a natural-born Legilimens. 

Snape once told her they existed, but were incredibly rare. She expected them to be once in a generation, like a parselmouth. Unlike a trained Legilimens, someone born with the innate magic could slip in and out of most minds without the subject becoming aware of the intrusion. Worse, they could plant ideas and false memories. With enough time, they could even manipulate someone’s entire perception of reality.

Theo’s words flashed through her mind. “ There is no future where we let you go.”

Her breath hitched and her chest tightened. The beat of her heart, fast and loud, filled her ears and her head felt light. The room went in and out of focus in rapid succession, leaving her nauseous, while pinpricks covered her arms and face.

Surely he wouldn’t change her … wouldn’t manipulate her like that… but he could… he had no reason not to… might even think it was fun…

The walls of the room closed tightly around her. Everything felt bright, intense, too vivid . Something rational in the back of her mind told her this was a panic attack, but the voice was useless against the waves of adrenaline crashing through her system.

A sharp sting rang through her knees, and she realized she had slipped out of the chair and onto the floor. Her palms pressed against the cool wood, but the room refused to refocus, her lungs couldn’t expand, she was gasping, she couldn’t breathe, she was… she was –

A warm presence brushed the edges of her mind, velvet-soft, seeping in like hot sand over cold skin. Images of her parents smiling, calling her name, feeling safe and loved, bubbled up. Her happiest thoughts began to play like a movie behind her eyes, nudging all her positive emotions forward.

Her lungs finally loosened, enough for her to gulp in fresh air as the scene changed.

Hogwarts appeared, familiar classrooms. Assignments with logical start and end points. Things she could control. Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes, shining on her with pride. The year she’d been granted the time turner came next. Feelings of competency, reminders of her ability to trust in herself, swelled forward.

Then finally, a warm hand—gentle, firm, grounding—pressed to the center of her back. It wasn’t a part of her memories though. It was here, in this room with her. It was neither demanding, nor intrusive. Just there. A voice followed, low and steady, threading through the chaos.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you. Breathe with me.”

He stayed close, letting her feel the rhythm of his breath, slow and even. An arm slid around her shoulders, tucking her against the solid heat of his chest. Her hips found that familiar place on his lap. His other hand found hers, thumb coaxing her clenched fingers to loosen. The tremor in her muscles ebbed, replaced by an aching, exhausted relief.

Her heartbeat didn’t slow all at once, though the jagged edge of panic began to dull. The trembling eased, but was replaced by a broken sob as her body shook.

And then—damn him—he murmured, “I’m not going to hurt you, kitten. I could. But that’s not why I wanted you.”

Long minutes ticked by before she felt steady enough to speak. Even then, her words came out between rough hiccups, undercutting the seriousness emanating from her deep brown eyes. 

“Please don’t manipulate my mind.” It was a plea. “Anything, I’ll do anything you want, anything but that...”

“Shh, kitten.” His soothing tone returned, but his brow stayed furrowed, and she wasn’t convinced.

“Malfoy– Draco , please…” It came out as a whimper and she hated herself for it. But she wasn’t above begging, not when her mind was on the line—her entire understanding of reality.

Not finding the answer she sought, Hermione tore her eyes away from his, remembering that eye contact was useful for Legilimens. She squeezed them shut, as if that could protect her.

But part of her knew it wouldn’t. Not from his kind of magic.

Nothing could protect her from that, not while he had her prisoner.

His hands shifted, tightening their hold on her wrists.

‘Hermione, look at me.’

The demand cut through her consciousness, effortless, and wordless. He was in her mind.

Her heart raced as fear returned full-force. Panic threatened to pull her under again.

But Draco didn’t move, instead he simply waited. Eventually, the panic tamped down as his steady heart beat against her ears where he had her pressed to his chest. It might have been minutes or hours, but when she turned back to him, she was calm once more. The need to know if she was bargaining for her sanity outweighed the anxiety that was heavy in her chest. At the very least, she needed to understand what he truly wanted from her.

He could have any number of gorgeous, pureblood witches. Wizards too, and in fact he already had one. Whatever his reasons for taking her were, it wasn’t just physical. Of that she was certain.

So she met his grey, waiting eyes. Something in his jaw ticked as he stared back, deliberating.

Finally, he seemed to come to a decision.

“Slughorn’s classroom, sixth year,” he began, eyes boring into hers, as if willing her to understand something he hadn’t yet explained. “The Amortentia.”

She remembered the assignment, remembered the smell. Of course she had. It was potent and visceral, hardly an experience any student would forget. Yet, looking at his searching expression now, he seemed to be waiting for something.

Hers had smelled like him , she’d never forgotten and never told anyone. Was it that he knew? No. He probably did know, but that wouldn’t matter to him. Lots of witches—people—found him attractive. 

The only other odd thing was that his had…

His expression changed the moment it clicked.

Draco’s brewing station had been across the room. He and Theo worked closely together, like they always did in potions. She’d smelled him, them even, in her cauldron and looked up, catching Draco’s eye for the briefest fraction of a second. But in that moment, she had known without a doubt that he’d smelled her, too.

Silence stretched between them, and his words hung in the air.

He didn’t understand. Snape had tried to teach Harry Occlumency, which involved the study of Legilimency, too. Hermione’d tried to help him, but she had been terrible at it. They all had been.

Draco shook his head, following her thoughts. “Textbooks aren’t written for natural Legilimens, the techniques are all wrong, have us focusing on the wrong things.”

Us. He’d said “us.”

Hermione shook her head, though her stomach tightened. “I’m not a Legilimens.”

His face relaxed slightly, letting just the hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth as he raised a finger to tug a curl.

“You were raised by Muggles, kitten. Your first exposure to mind magic was from my Godfather—Snape.” A hint of mirth twinkled in his eye, before his expression turned serious again. “He’s a strong textbook Legilimens, one of the best, but he has no natural aptitude for it.”

His fingers returned to their earlier motion, tracing soothing circles over her shoulder while his other hand splayed open and warm over her back. Every gesture, every movement, intended to be comforting.

“People just assumed you were a very clever swot, so much so you believed that's all it was, too. I doubt you ever realized you were skimming the minds of everyone around you, gleaning insights and information.”

She shook her head in protest. “No, Draco, I wasn’t—”

His gaze was piercing as he assessed her. “Muggle brain studies show the subconscious mind is always filtering input, delivering what it thinks we should know while shoveling out the rest.”

A beat passed, then he continued.

“It is thought that natural Legilimens pick up the thoughts of those around them before they are even born. As a sensory input, it becomes so normalized for us that it’s easily funneled into our subconscious. In a way we have to ignore it, otherwise the constant noise would be overwhelming. After that, the signs of it get chalked up to intuition, or cleverness, like they did for you.”

Too many thoughts bombarded her at once, and she worked deliberately to sort them, prioritizing and strategizing, before she spoke.

She swallowed hard. “If I were—like you—what would it matter?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and poignant. Whatever the answer was, it felt like it would be the key to understanding his motivations, understanding him .

A flicker of something like pain rippled across his face, so brief she almost missed it. His voice was calm and clear when he spoke, revealing no hint of discomfort.

“Natural-born Legilimens have a tendency to go insane, over time,” he murmured. “Either that, or they kill themselves.”

Her chest went tight. “Why?”

The flicker almost returned, she was sure of it, but his face schooled into his mask of control, quicker than before.

“It’s…hard. Being able to understand the experience of others, deeply and exactly, is a powerful thing. Until it returns like a boomerang, and the reality that you will never be seen, understood, or known—not really, not in the way it counts—sinks in. You eventually have to accept that the way you understand human connection, experiencing it through the lens of others, will never be reciprocated. It’s a life sentence of isolation.”

The soft strokes on her shoulder never wavered. The gesture, she realized, was as much comforting for him as it was for her.

“Theo…?” She wasn’t sure how to verbalize the question, but also realized she didn’t truly need to. Not if Draco was in her head.

He smiled again, just a little. “I’m not always in your head, kitten. I do try to turn it off. And yes, Theo has a more than average aptitude for mind magic. He’s intuitive and can read people, but not like us. His abilities were cultivated at a young age, and were necessary for his survival… but it's not the same as natural born magic… like ours.”

Her thoughts were coming too fast, slipping over each other. “So you won’t… manipulate my mind?”

He frowned again but answered. “I don’t plan to influence you in a way that hurts you. I entered your mind, and yes, manipulated it to help you through the panic attack before I arrived. And it did help. So I won’t promise not to do things like that. I’m years ahead of you in practice, but that also means you’ll have access to my mind while you learn to control it. Over time, the playing field between us will level out.”

It sounded like he was saying she would be safe.

“No, pet.” His voice cut through her fragile hope like a blade. “We’re on opposite sides of a war, and there’s a Dark Lord who wants your kind dead. He doesn’t care about you right now because he isn’t thinking about you. But eventually, he will. And when he gets curious about what exactly we’ve done with you, he’ll use Legilimency to find out.”

His eyes turned cold. One hand slid from her back and wrapped around her neck, firm and unyielding.

“Theo will never be able to block him fully, but he’s become an expert in redirecting him. As long as there are real, viable memories to offer the Dark Lord, he can hide the ones we want to remain unseen. If you train with us, you’ll get there, too. But it’ll take years to reach that level of control. So, no, you aren’t safe .”

Hot breath kissed her face, and his lips skimmed over hers. Not lingering, just enough of a touch to demonstrate his power.

“You are mine .”

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach at his touch, and she wondered if he would keep going, before shoving the thought from her head and hoping he hadn’t seen it. She didn’t want to react this way to him—to them.

She cleared her throat before speaking. 

“What do you plan to do with me?” It was the same question she’d asked weeks ago. ‘ Draco wants to coddle you, love, whereas I want to train you. We’re going to have to find a balance.” ’ Theo’s reply had been cryptic and incomplete.

A smile spread across Draco’s lips as he continued to hold her neck, his grip like a vice. 

“Everything” came his whispered reply, just before his lips grazed hers again. 

This time he didn’t pull back, but deepened it. His tongue darted across her mouth and he tugged her top lip into his, sucking and licking it before turning his attention to the bottom one.

She stayed frozen in his arms, not daring to move. Trying not to feel what he was doing to her, or how her body was responding.

“I’m going to taste all of you,” His lips never separated from hers while he spoke, “Going to take all of you.” The hand not holding her neck moved down her side, leaving a hot trail of tingling need in its wake. When he arrived at her knee he fisted the gold of her gown, tangling the fabric in his hand so that it slid up her calf. Cool air swirled around her legs, which she pinned tightly together.

“Don’t fight it, pet,” his voice was smooth, coaxing. “It’s okay to enjoy it. Guilt and denial won’t help anything.”

The fabric reached her knees and she gasped when he tugged it higher, then released it to fall like a pool of silk in her lap, leaving all but the very top of her legs bare.

“That’s it,” he encouraged at the sound that escaped her. “Just like that.”  

Long skilled fingers swept down her legs again until he reached her ankle, where he began to thread slow, teasing swirls lightly across her skin, letting his path trail upwards. The unrelenting grip on her neck contrasted with the gentle, featherlight movements on her leg.

Done with waiting, Draco’s tongue pressed against her lips, demanding entrance. She wanted to fight him, refuse and reject every bold claim he made upon her. But his touches over the last weeks had started to feel good. His hands and his scent were now familiar. And Merlin help her, he tasted exactly like he smelled. Rich, decadent, exquisitely perfect. Exactly like the Amortentia she remembered from sixth year. It was what she thought about in the dark of the night for months, years even, after that day in Potions class. Her guilty secret.

Instead of refusing, her lips parted of their own accord, and a low moan escaped her. Mortified, she prayed Draco hadn’t heard.

But it seemed none of her prayers in this place were ever answered. There was only Draco, and he was intent on her pleasure, not her guilt.

“You have no idea how often I’ve dreamed of that sound,” he rasped.

His fingers had reached her thigh, caressing the soft skin inside. It was harder for her to think clearly, to not think of the wetness at her core. Of how her body was craving him, now that she knew what intense pleasure felt like.

“Draco—”

She’d meant to refuse him, but his name came out as a needy keen. Her hands rose and splayed against his chest, intending to create a barrier between his body and hers. Leverage she could use to push him away.

Instead her fingers began to explore the hard muscle beneath her hands. Touching Theo had been the result of frenzied necessity and demand. With Draco it felt like she could explore, that it would be alright to let her guard down. All the previously forced touches created familiarity that now felt useful.

Fingers caressed the lips between her legs, making her buck with arousal and wiggle back from embarrassment at what she knew he’d find if he kept going. To her surprise, he relented and twirled his soft strokes back to the tops of her inner thighs where it was safer.

A sigh fell from her lips.

He shifted his hand under her knees and stood, taking her with him. She yelped in protest at the sudden feeling of being lifted, and reached her arms around his neck for balance. He ignored her as his mouth moved to her throat, walking them toward her bed with long strides. Reaching it, he turned with her still held tight in his arms and settled her on top of himself as he laid back against the high stacked pillows. He stretched his legs around either side of her so she was nestled between them, then he adjusted her to face him. 

She moved to pull her hands away, suddenly bashful by the intimacy of the position, but he captured them firmly and placed her palms down onto his chest.

“Explore, kitten, it's alright.”

Her eyes shifted to his, searching to be sure. He leaned further back against the headboard, perfectly at ease, and gave her an encouraging smile while he tugged at an errant curl.

“Go on, I won’t bite.”

Carefully, shyly, she let her fingers splay over his chest. Even with his button-down shirt, she felt the firmness beneath her touch, and continued to explore his neck, shoulders, then out to his firm, strong arms, back to his chest and down to his stomach. He kept a hand against her head while she worked, playing with her hair like he always did, but otherwise stayed perfectly still.

When her hands reached his belt she bit her lip. The outline of his thick, definitely aroused cock was visible from where it pressed against the constraints of his pants. She’d only seen Theo’s before this. Hadn’t ever really explored a male body. Her logical mind told her it was clearly fine, given what they’d done to her. Still, she hesitated.

Cool fingers clasped over her hand and tugged it lower, until her palm closed over the hard bulge there. He pressed his hips up into her palm, eyes shut tight for a moment, before he relaxed backward, allowing her to go at her own pace.

It was bigger than she imagined it would be, thicker too.

Emboldened by his reaction, she slid her fingers over his belt, unclasping it. She paused to give him time to protest, but he didn’t. The buttons followed, one by one, until he lay open. She could just see the muscles of his stomach peeking from beneath his shirt, and she tugged it up higher to see more.

Curious, she cleared her thoughts and opened her consciousness. She tried to emulate exactly how she’d felt that day in Potions, to repeat what her mind had done. While her hands and eyes explored his body, she mentally reached out, looking for him.

Her hand slid down his torso, feeling the chiseled abs twitch beneath her touch. She closed her mouth and inhaled, letting the scent of him anchor her and draw her closer, physically and consciously. When her hand slid beneath the waistband of his undershorts, finally brushing the hot skin of his member, they both gasped. 

Him, from the touch of her hand. 

Her, from the shock of registering his thoughts.

—stay still. Don’t spook her, she’s still inexperienced and needs this. Gods, she smells so fucking good. Can’t wait to bury my face against her cunt. Make her moan like she did for us last night—

Hermione’s eyes flew wide as she registered the filthy words, spoken in his voice but not out loud, were real. More than real. And he was fully and completely alright with what she was doing. 

With this realization in mind, she grasped his cock firmly in her hand. Meeting his eyes, she stroked down. 

His throat bobbed in a deep swallow and his hands dropped to grip the sheets, the veins in his forearms stood out in contrast to his ivory skin where his cuffs were rolled, bulging with the flex of his grip.

She repeated the motion, watching him. Listening.

But his mind was oddly silent.

Until it wasn’t.

Granger, if you keep doing that I am going to lose the last sliver of control I have left. If you want to keep exploring before I fuck you into this mattress, you need to move your hand off my dick, now .

His directed thoughts didn’t have quite the impact she would have expected. She didn’t recoil at his words, or back down. Instead she felt…

Powerful.

More powerful than she could ever recall feeling before this very moment.

His body was reacting to her, he was reacting to her. And she was in his head, truly touching his mind with innate magic that she did, in fact, possess. Magic that was rare, and lethal, and hers.

She gripped his shaft tighter and slowly pumped him again.

Do your worst, Malfoy. Make me like it.

His eyes widened and a cutting smirk splayed across his lips.

Oh, kitten. 

He moved suddenly, rolling her beneath him, before he ripped her dress up. His forearm pressed against her chest, pinning her in place exactly how he wanted her while his other hand yanked her panties down to toss them aside before he pressed his full weight back over her. 

Trapped open by his body between them, her legs splayed apart. Firm pressure tugged one of her arms upward, then the other, until he had both her hands pinned under a single one of his. 

His hips pressed against her center, rutting his cock along the edges of her entrance until he was slick with her arousal. The top of her dress tugged downward until a breast was exposed, then the other. He rose just enough to look down and see them, without stopping the irreverent motion between their hips. 

‘Look at you, flushed such a pretty pink.’

He bent his head and the wet heat of his mouth enveloped her nipple. Rough, but undeniably sensual. Her back arched upward in response, begging for him not to stop, asking for more. 

‘Draco.’ 

She formed his name in her mind, wondering if he would hear. 

‘Say it out loud, Hermione,’ came his clear reply. ‘ I want to hear my name on your lips while you’re filled up with me inside you.’

She felt the head of his cock align with her entrance, right before he pushed in with a deep thrust that made her moan and writhe under his weight. He did fill her, stretched her and pushed her to a limit she didn’t know she had. But she still somehow wanted more. 

“Draco!” She let his name slide from her mouth like plea and prayer. 

He answered with another long, deep thrust and a series of sucked kisses against the most sensitive parts of her throat. She tugged at his grip on her arms, not to ask for release, but to feel the deliciousness of his tight grip when he refused to give her a single inch of reprieve. 

‘You’re so perfect. Made for me.’

He raised a hand and sunk it into her curls until his fingers were lost in them. Her hips joined his steady rhythm, pushing up to meet him thrust for thrust while the tension inside her built. The length of him enraptured her, spreading heat throughout her body at the delicious intrusion of each pounding rut. The heat spreading through her sparked into fire, electric and burning but still taut with unreleased, building tension. His movements were exact and specific, intended to draw out every ounce of pleasure she could possibly feel. 

‘Draco–I’m close.’ 

She would have said it out loud if she thought she could manage words, but she was too far gone. His steel grey eyes met hers, holding her in a silent, intimate connection while expertly bringing her the rest of the way. 

‘Fuck–Granger–I never imagined you could feel this good–not even in my filthiest fantasies–’

He thrust again, and the fire in her ignited into an uncontrolled explosion that radiated from her core through every part of her mind and body. She registered his final groans as his body began to pulse with hers, pleasure cresting through them both in shuddering, pulsing waves of release. 

He relinquished his grip on her wrists to curl both hands into her hair, cradling her head as he sank down over her, before rolling so she was tucked tight to his side. Instinctively, she moved her now free hands around his body, locking him to her. 

Neither of them was willing to let go. 

Theo felt the weight of fatigue coupled with the satisfaction of a job well done as he walked down the corridor toward Hermione’s room. It had taken him and Draco quite a bit of planning and, if he did say so himself, ruthless cunning, to facilitate Potter and Weasley’s escape without implicating themselves in the process.

When he arrived at her room he was greeted by a sight that made his heart lodge in his throat.

Hermione, curls tussled and wild, wrapped tightly in Draco’s arms. Both were sound asleep. The evidence of their coupling written across their skin, Hermione’s flushed and Draco’s marked with love bites and scratches.

In the dim light of the room, the remnants of her golden gown shimmered brightly against Draco’s Death Eater robes and harshly forged, yet currently forgotten mask.

The image of them entwined together would make a beautiful painting, Theo thought. Maybe one day, after she’d honed her skills enough for her and Draco to fully control Voldemort’s mind and end his mad regime for good, he would extract the memory so an artist could render it on canvas.

He’d call it, “A Light in the Darkness.”  

Yes. When this was all over, that would be a perfect reward.