Chapter Text
Chapter one
If Hermione Granger were forced to pinpoint the exact moment her life had spiralled so irreparably off course, she would without hesitation or apology lay the entire catastrophe at the elegantly shined shoes of one Draco Lucius Malfoy.
That singular, damning thought was all that occupied her mind as she stared up at a man who, by every law of nature and consequence, ought to be dead. Not vaguely dead, not theoretically dead. He should be utterly, irrevocably, decomposed-and-dusted dead. And yet. Here he stood: younger than she had ever known him, maddeningly handsome, and alive in the most inconvenient, infuriating, and thoroughly unacceptable way imaginable.
Blood still streaked across her skin like war paint, raw crimson slashes etched with the pulsing energy of unfinished runes. The floor beneath her buzzed with unstable magic, a whirring hum of ancient power awakened and at the very center of the chaos, Malfoy’s cock was still buried inside her.
“This is your fucking fault,” the bastard snarled, blocking her view once more as if she had personally imperiused him into unleashing this particular brand of magical idiocy. As if he hadn’t been right there with her; shoulder to shoulder, wand to wand, gleefully wading into arcane lunacy like a man possessed.
Her hand shot up to his throat, fingers digging into pale skin with enough force to leave bruises, dragging him down until their mouths were only inches apart. Her voice, low and venomous, cut through the charged air. “You’re the one who said the Black Family’s ancestral magic wouldn’t interfere. Ergo, this is your fucking fault.”
Malfoy’s grip on her other wrist, still pinned above her head tightened with warning. She felt it then, that cursed, traitorous spike of heat blooming through her body. Lust, anger, and magic swirled inextricably together, and his cock twitched inside her with infuriating enthusiasm. Of course it did. Which he only emphasised by keeping up a brutal pace that had her clit throbbing and a desperate need to cum building.
“And you’re the one who insisted we perform the ritual here “the veil won’t interfere,’” he mocked in a sing-song falsetto, his deep voice a vicious parody of hers.
“Oh get fucked, you smug, aristocratic cunt!” she spat, driving her heels into his back, forcing him deeper inside her with punishing force before snapping back with a parody of his own voice. “Mother was magically adopted, Granger, it’s not a significant enough link!”
“Do not mention my mother while my cock is still buried inside you!” Draco bit out, said cock changing angle until her pussy was clenching around him obscenely. “We could have picked anywhere other than here!”
“Where the fuck else were we supposed to test the hypothesis?”
“In the house, like a rational person,” he ground out, punctuating the statement with a vicious thrust that dragged a groan from her throat despite her fury. “Not on the literal precipice of death magic!”
“We agreed no more blood rituals in the house,” she snapped. “You know how temperamental it gets. I’m not waking up to another bed full of reincarnated amphibians because you couldn’t keep the wards stabilised!”
“That was one time!”
And just like that, they were lost again to the cycle: another vicious, sex-fueled argument driven by ego, lust, and the catastrophic intersection of brilliant minds with no impulse control. His hips slammed into hers with a punishing rhythm, every thrust laced with insult, every moan ripped from her lips chased by another round of furious accusation.
Hermione was already clawing her way toward another orgasm, a second climax lit beneath her skin like a fuse, when the universe, never content to let them have a moment, rudely intervened.
A voice, low and gravelly, rolled into the room like thunder. “As much as I’m enjoying this little hate-fuck horror show you two have going on… one of you had better explain what the fuck I’m doing here.”
They both froze.
“Fuck,” Hermione breathed.
“Fuck,” Malfoy echoed.
The man in front of them, no longer just a memory, no longer just a name carved in stone, folded his arms and waited. Very much alive.
Very much Sirius Black.
Yes this was entirely Draco fucking Malfoy’s fault for not keeping his hands to himself in sixth year.
*
If Draco Malfoy, at wand point, naturally, were ever forced to identify the precise moment when the meticulously orchestrated ambitions of hundreds of pureblood generations unravelled into absolute ruin, he wouldd have to admit it was the instant he caught sight of the ridiculous, gravity-defying curls spiralling out of Hermione Granger’s infernal head. Those blasted curls. The origin, the herald, the bloody siren song of the obsession that had plagued him ever since.
And if he were feeling particularly masochistic, he could elaborate further, because self-sabotage was a Malfoy specialty, by saying that the moment she opened her mouth, he was irrevocably damned. It had been a gateway, a veritable abyss of infuriating brilliance and profanity, and once he had stepped through it, there had been no return. Quite the opposite. Draco had come to the appalling realisation that he actually enjoyed it; the sparring, the venom, the gleam in her eyes when she called him a bastard with academic precision.
He would also, for the record, like to emphasise that it was her mouth that started this entire catastrophe.
If she had only had the good sense to keep it shut, he would never have had to find increasingly inventive ways to silence her. And if he hadn’t needed to silence her, they would have remained at the perfectly acceptable level of exchanging murderous glares in hallways.
Which meant they certainly would not, under any conceivable definition of sane relationship progression, have ended up spending their date nights experimenting with archaic, almost certainly illegal blood magic in the Department of Mysteries’ Room of Death, because apparently, in Hermione Granger’s (and his he could begrudgingly admit) world, romance required existential risk.
He would, of course, have to blame it on the Black blood in him. They were a family renowned for three things: melodrama, questionable morals, and an uncanny ability to lose the ever-loving plot with style. Which suited Draco perfectly, because at this particular moment, he was both incandescently furious and, regrettably, very much a Black.
His orgasm was ruined and to make matters worse, there was now a tall, disgustingly handsome man glaring down at them like some gothic statue come to life. All lean muscle, storm-grey eyes, and that irritatingly noble jawline that screamed heroic suffering. Oh, and the tattoos, because of course there were tattoos. The Blacks never did anything in moderation, least of all body art.
But none of that was the point. The point, the absolutely outrageous, history-altering point was that his witch had just had the audacity to blame him. Him! Draco bloody Malfoy! For their current situation.
“Fuck off, Granger,” he snarled, feeling her pretty pussy clench around his cock. Perhaps their orgasms weren’t lost after all, “if anyone couldn’t keep their hands to themselves in sixth year, it was bloody you!”
Hermione flushed a furious shade of crimson, which Draco found deeply gratifying, given the circumstances. Not nearly as satisfying as the burn of her nails scratching down his back leaving a bloody trail in her wake as she arched into his thrusts, her pussy clenching around his cock almost painfully. Pleasure danced under his skin as his balls tightened, ready to fill her pussy with his cum.
“I’ll not listen to this slander!” she snapped. “You were the one who put your hands on me first - ergo, this is your fucking fault!”
“And then you climbed on my cock,” Draco shot back, voice rising as their orgasms finally reached a crest, crashing over him hard enough to have his eyes rolling back. But not so much that he couldn’t manage to get the last words in “ergo, your fucking fault!”