Archive of Our Own

A very unexpected, perhaps slightly uncomfortable, thought hits Hermione when she walks into the oh-so-familiar corridor on the eighteenth floor of Azkaban.

Draco Malfoy changed.

He looks different—he is different.

It’s not the first time she sees him after his trial; it’s not even the first time she’s seen him this year, and yet, there’s something about him that wasn’t there before. A defining quality Hermione Granger can’t quite define .

A newly-found confidence of some sort, but one that he definitely didn’t have before. It radiates off him from yards away, the shift so powerful it envelops the whole floor with its intensity. 

Hermione hates that she doesn’t know exactly what changed; why it changed. How anyone allowed this to happen. 

Whatever it is, it fits him like a glove; moulding into his features so easily it unnerves her.

Malfoy at school was a pretentious little fuck, an entitled snob whose only insult in his limited arsenal was to call her a Mudblood.

Malfoy during and right after his trial was a man broken; defeated. She felt bad for him when they forced him to sit through a sixteen-hour-long trial in a cage fit for a middle-sized dog, not a grown-up man.

She’s never found him attractive before. 

She does now.

This version of him… this man glaring at her from where he’s sprawled on his worn-out cot… is something she’s not prepared to face. It’s like he was an unfinished puzzle all his life and, somehow, in the last three months, someone found the missing piece and put it together.

For a man who doesn’t get to leave his cell more than once a month, he looks surprisingly… put-together. His hair is longer (too long according to the protocol), almost shoulder-length and curling softly at the ends. He keeps half of it in a messy bun on the back of his head, strung together with a strap of leather Hermione’s certain is also against the Azkaban protocol.

“Madam Deputy Head Auror,” he drawls mockingly as a greeting, puffing out a cloud of grey smoke, eyes heavy-lidded and half-closed. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to tell me they finally managed to break the wards in Malfoy Manor and found more illegal dark objects? Or have you freed all the House Elves and deemed it necessary to tell me?”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Slowly, he unfolds his legs and lowers them to the ground, starting with the right and then the left. He’s so casual, spreading his arms in a mocking welcome to my mansion gesture, and she can’t help but stare at the long fingers for a second too long. She brushes the uncomfortable warmth coiling in her stomach away. Sheswallows thickly, the dim light of her wand casting a faint gleam on his aristocratic pale skin, accentuating his already pronounced cheekbones and the annoyingly attractive slope of his nose.

“No?” He shrugs, his expression a depiction of glorious boredom that belongs to a Michelangelo’s sculpture, not a man locked in an inhuman cell. “Don’t tell me I’m up for a kiss.” Though he’s joking, there’s a hint of uncertainty peeking through the mocking lilt of his voice at the mention of the Dementor’s Kiss. “After three years of exemplary behaviour—”

Hermione snorts incredulously at that. “Your behaviour can hardly be considered exemplary. Surely you’re aware why you’re not allowed to leave your cell on a daily basis.” 

The list of his offences is so extensive it doesn’t fit on one regular parchment scroll: initiating fights with other inmates, disrespecting prison guards, illegal possession of magical objects, refusing to obey orders—any orders—and so on and on, and on. 

“Humour me.”

She neither wants nor needs to recite it for him. He knows what he’s done better than her, and, besides, Hermione is fairly certain the official prison records are only the tip of the iceberg of his actual felonies. After all, it took her less than thirty seconds to notice at least three illegal things in his cell. Thirty bloody seconds. 

“I didn’t come here to humour you—”

A single brow rises high on his forehead, nearly reaching the hairline. It’s perfectly styled and plucked as though he did it just before her arrival. “Then why are you here? Did you finally grow bored of Scarhead and Weaselbee? Want to become friends with the biggest scum that ever walked this Earth? ” He lets out a humourless snort. Hermione glares. “Not my words, obviously. I personally don’t think I am that bad to be friends with. Easy on the eye—”

Draco Malfoy, if given the opportunity, could talk her to death. She read that in his folder, too. Charming and charismatic when it suits him. Hyper-intelligent and strategic. Excellent at reading people. Sociopath? Hermione adds in her head, wondering if her assessment of her old classmate is, in any way, correct. 

It may be. 

But it’s not Malfoy she wants—or needs—to dissect today. There is a bigger fish to fry, as her boss has reminded her at least half a dozen times this week, and as much as she’d love to learn what happened to Malfoy in the last couple of months, she has a stack of reports waiting for her on her desk that need to be read and filed three days ago.

She goes straight for the throat; no fucking around anymore. 

“When was the last time you’ve heard from Theodore Nott?”

The question seems to pique his interest. But then he says, only mildly intrigued, “Theodore Nott is dead.”

“Interesting,” Hermione replies, crossing her arms over her chest.

There’s nothing interesting about that.

She looks over her shoulder, giving the two guards a silent order to leave them alone. It’s not in line with the protocol per se, but she flashes her shiny Deputy Head Auror badge at them, and it seems to do the trick well enough. One of the men, Andrew-something, hands over the key to Malfoy’s cell with a frown that’s more concerned than anything, but she shakes her head and shoos him out of the corridor.

Then, she waits; waits until their footsteps grow quieter and quieter, and finally, the sound of their heavy boots clicking against the crooked concrete is too distant to hear.

“You’re not afraid to be alone with me?” Malfoy asks the second he realises there’s no one else but the two of them left on the eighteenth—the penultimate and one of the most haunted—floors of Azkaban. A chill runs down her spine and she tightens her grip on her wand, the only comfort and protection against Malfoy she has. “Come closer, little lioness. I won’t bite.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“So come in.” He coaxes her, voice dropping low, grey eyes darkening and narrowing at her like it’s her who’s locked and cornered, not him. “Come in and ask whatever it is that you want to ask.”

It’s tempting.

Hermione can’t explain why, but there’s something about being alone with Draco Malfoy in that small cell—who treats it like his kingdom, and he’s its mighty king—that just does it for her. 

She knows nothing will happen between them. She’s visiting Malfoy in a purely professional capacity and it’s not like she’s truly interested in him, in any way. There’s an investigation she needs to conclude as soon as possible unless she wants to kiss her promotion dreams goodbye. Even though she didn’t volunteer to come here, she knows she’s the only person qualified to interrogate Malfoy

“These things kill,” she tells him as he pulls out a box of Muggle matches and uses one to light another cigarette. She doesn’t even want to know how on Earth he managed to smuggle them into the most secure building in Wizarding Britain. 

He takes a drag, eyes fluttering shut on a deep inhale. Silver, thick ropes shimmer around his wrists, the skin underneath them burnt to the crisp and yet still bleeding, and Hermione has to look away from the wounds and scars spreading across his forearms like spiderwebs. Malfoy doesn’t seem to care, or notice, even as his skin and flesh hiss as the magical manacles etch deep enough to cut through the bone.

Ash flickers and falls to the floor, dusting the already filthy bricks and the tips of Malfoy’s old boots. “There are a lot of things here that kill, Granger,” he snickers, bitterness dripping from his words like venom. “This, at least, doesn’t make me want to strangle every fucking person in this world. This helps .”

“Who would’ve thought,” Hermione counters, twisting the old rusty key between her fingers. “Draco Malfoy indulging in Muggle stimulants.”

Malfoy releases more smoke through his nostrils, a smirk forming on his lips. “My ancestors are rolling in their graves, I’m sure.” He winks at her, then takes another drag, the serenity in his expression as he inhales the nicotine somehow calming her, too. “If only I wasn’t the last Malfoy alive, they would’ve already disowned me seven ways into my next life.”

“You don’t seem to care.”

“Because I don’t.” Malfoy replies simply. He sighs as he stubs his cigarette, then smiles sourly at her, “I’ll be here for another twenty-two years. When— if I’m ever out, I’ll be either nuts or half-dead already, so what’s there to care about?”

Malfoy’s honest to the bone.

Somehow, Hermione doesn’t like that.

Probably because he’s right; probably because, deep down, she knows he doesn’t deserve the sentence he got. The Ministry made an example out of him; out of his name, even though Hermione can name at least a  dozen people who should be in that cell instead of him.

He’s not innocent by any means, especially not if the rumours about him and Theodore Nott conspiring against the Ministry turn out true. But twenty-five years for the crimes he did commit as a minor and under extreme duress is extensive.

But he’s a Malfoy. 

The perfect poster boy for the Ministry to gloat about how well they had handled the aftermaths of the war. 

Nothing says we have everything under control than locking up an eighteen-year-old brainwashed boy and plastering his face behind bars all over the country. 

The truth? Nothing is under control. Malfoy ended up in prison because of his name, yes, but also because no one else was left to prosecute. Most of Voldemort's followers have either been killed during the final battle, run away (like, for instance, Theodore Nott, who is now trying to establish himself as the new Dark Lord) to Merlin knows where, or taken the plea deals the Wizengamot offered them. 

Malfoy has not been offered such a deal, but she’s sure he wouldn’t take it anyway. 

“Prison treats you well,” Hermione offers in a conversational tone, given Malfoy doesn’t seem to be too interested in talking about Theodore Nott and his attempts at destabilising the barely-formed government. She hates to admit that he’s good, really fucking good. In fact, he is so good that an entire special task force team of Aurors can’t prove he’s alive, let alone find him. 

He snorts, raking a hungry eye over her body. His gaze lingers a little too long on her breasts, then her legs, until it flickers back to her face. “Yes, a diet that primarily consists of fags and booze is stellar for me.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Booze?” Just how many things he isn’t supposed to have access to does he actually have in his cell?

With a half-assed attempt at an innocent shrug, Malfoy reaches for something from the single shelf above his bed. There’s a picture of his mother that looks like it’s been folded over and over again one too many times, a couple of books that someone should look closer to, and there, behind the thick titleless tome, a bottle of Firewhiskey. 

“Care for a drink?” He asks, uncorking the bottle with his teeth, utterly unbothered by the fact that he’s admitting to possession of illegal contraband and drinking said contraband in front of a Ministry official. It’s her fault, obviously. She’s always been too lenient with him. As if reading her thoughts, Malfoy dares to take a large sip of the whiskey, grey eyes blazing with a challenge like liquid mercury. “There are no glasses, though. But you’ve lived in a tent for a year, haven’t you? I’m sure you won’t mind some… less than luxurious conditions.”

She rolls her eyes. It’s of no use to confiscate the booze, she knows. He’ll get another bottle, which, if she cared enough, she’d investigate the origin of. She really, really doesn’t though. “Will you answer—”

He grins when her eyes drift to his chest, a faint blush tinting her cheeks.

Only then, when the hem of his white shirt rides up to reveal a strip of well-defined muscle rippling with each of his breaths, Hermione realises Malfoy has been working out. She sees it more clearly now that she knows where and what to look for—broad shoulders that have nothing to do with genetics, narrow waist and hard muscle filling out the flimsy prison clothes. Somehow, he managed to make the plain trousers and linen shirt look impossibly good on him.

Like it was designed just for him. 

The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the Dark Mark—slightly faded, the contours blearing as though he keeps it exposed to sun twelve hours a day; and there are parts of it, irregular lines crisscrossing one another, completely ruined by the magical manacles. 

He has a couple of other tattoos that Hermione is sure were not there during his trial: a massive dragon on his right arm, its jaw inked in black all over Malfoy’s hand and knuckles, the sharp teeth coming alive as he clenches and unclenches his fist; there are runes on his left hand, three on each finger; but what stands out the most is a blue narcissus over his left elbow, the ink stark against his skin—starker than the black dragon, starker than the skull and serpent that cost him at least ten extra years in prison.

Considering the cruel scars on his forearms, she supposes the placement of the narcissus is not accidental. It’s supposed to be visible, she thinks, but safe from the destruction of Azkaban. It’s supposed to be a reminder of what and who the war cost him, Hermione believes, and perhaps it’s some kind of a self-inflicted punishment, too.

“I’ve got more,” he says with wicked amusement, waggling his eyebrows at her. “Wanna see?”

“I’m not here for a tattoo tour, thank you very much.”

He hums in agreement, but the wicked gleam in his grey eyes tells her he doesn’t believe her at all. 

“So you keep saying,” he muses. “Not here to humour me, not here to gawk at me, not here to appreciate skin art… and yet you’ve been here, entertaining me with your empty threats and nice arse, for almost half an hour now. You better hurry if you don’t want the guards to come back and drag you out of here by your hair for breaking the rules.”

“I outrank the guards.” She snaps. “They touch me, I have the authority to curse them.”

Malfoy snickers as if they’re two friends chatting in a bloody pub. “You sure? They’re not the brightest bulbs on the Christmas tree, but they will notice you’ve been alone with me for a long time. Eventually.”

“If you had answered my question, I would’ve been gone by now.”

A sly smile spreads across his lips. “Maybe I don’t want you gone.” There’s nothing warm, nothing vulnerable about the way he says it; just a primal, predatory need to be close to someone, to be with someone. 

She doesn’t know why she likes it so much; why she likes him feeling like that about her. Granted, he doesn’t get any other visitors—he neither has any family left nor is he allowed to see other people—but she feels oddly flattered by the hunger in his eyes. By how on edge he is when she’s around even if he tries to hide it.

She keeps reminding herself that it’s her job, and she absolutely cannot allow this to go on further than some clandestine, harmless flirting through the iron bars; with the safety of Azkaban wards separating them like a brick wall. 

“Come in,” his fingers wrap around the bars, the runes for relentlessness, courage, one she can’t decipher, and one for self-control, mocking her as she focuses on the way his hands don’t tremble, on the way he keeps his nails clean and manicured. It’s weird; he’s weird. Like he doesn’t belong here, behind bars. “Don’t be a coward, darling. You know I can’t hurt you.”

It’s true, and yet. Yet.

She doesn’t trust him, a man who somehow managed to bypass at least two dozen prison rules judging by the state of his cell and all that illegal contraband; the tattoos and grown-out hair. Perhaps he has found a way around the very first spell that’s literally inked into each prisoner after their sentence is passed. 

“When did you get those tattoos done? I am fairly certain the only ink on your skin by the time of your confinement was,” she pauses, her eyes drifting to the Dark Mark in a lazy, nonchalant manner, “this.”

She’s glad it doesn’t terrify her anymore; that she can look at it without her heart threatening to burst out of her chest. Although it took months of therapy and even more months of working as a field Auror-and seeing things that even war didn’t desensitise her from-but she’s free of that fear now.

Malfoy doesn’t respond for a long while, which is not a surprise, really; Hermione doesn’t expect him to admit that he had illegal tattoos done in Azkaban and possibly incriminate another inmate while doing so.

He gives her a sly look. “Is that what the Ministry is wasting funds and resources on now?” The tone of his voice makes her teeth grind together, jaw clenched tight. “Golden Girl, sent to deal with illegal tattoo parlours and her old school bullies. Very underwhelming, if you ask me.”

Her eyes flash, but she keeps her frustration in check, unwilling to give him more ammunition than he already has. She doesn’t get it, how the man who was a shadow of himself only a couple of months ago is now so confident and smug; an odd kind of power radiating off of him. How, she wonders, is it possible that he has no wand, no access to his magic for years, no physical power over her, and yet it’s he who dominates this little space between them. It’s Draco Malfoy who holds all the cards.

“What happened to you?”

“Can you be a little more specific?” He tilts his head to the side, a scoff slipping past his lips. “If you want to hear the whole story of my life, I suggest you get comfortable. It’s a rather long one.”

She rolls her eyes, the weight of the key heavier and heavier in her palm. Malfoy’s eyes drift between the lock and the key, wicked amusement flickering over his face like shadows. Hermione glances up at him, and their eyes meet, neither of them willing to back down from the challenge.

It’s only a matter of time before someone does, and she’s fairly certain it will be her. It has to be her, she knows, if she wants intel from him.

“You’re different,” she finally says. “You’ve changed since the last time I saw you. You look like you—”

“Like I don’t want to die anymore?” He finishes with a snicker, and the weight of his confession almost makes her drop the key. The words feel wrong coming out of his mouth; they feel wrong when they hit her like a brick to the face, a punch in her gut.

She lets out a shaky breath, hoping he doesn’t notice. The sour smile stretching on his red, chapped lips suggests otherwise. “Like your life has purpose again.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, but he doesn’t dignify her with an answer. There’s no need for one, she supposes; not when his eyes tell her everything she needs to know. He’s always been good at this, communicating with his eyes instead of words.

Finally, Hermione fits the key into the lock, her heart thudding so fast in her chest she thinks it may break her rib cage. Deep down, she knows Malfoy is not lying about this. And even if he’s using this as a bargaining chip, or even a trap, she doesn’t find it herself to care.

So, she falls right into the trap he set for her.

The key twists in the lock, loud and damning, and Malfoy has the audacity to smirk at her–triumph and mischief oozing out of him–as the iron bars slowly open. Then, Hermione pulls her wand out of the leather holster strapped to her thigh and disarms the wards; first the basic ones, then the ones placed specifically on this cell.

Malfoy’s brows rise high on his face, a mixture of surprise and curiosity, as she mutters spell after spell under her breath. They both know she can lose her job for it; quite frankly, she can lose it for so much as dismissing the guards earlier. Everything she does, everything she’s done since she checked in almost an hour ago, is against protocol.

But this, dislodging the prison wards and getting into Malfoy’s cell, may as well be considered a crime itself. Possible charges of conspiracy and treason if someone hates her hard enough; and she knows there are plenty of people who do. Not openly–she is the Golden Girl, after all–but still.

The funny thing is that she doesn’t feel scared at all. She should, but she can’t muster even an ounce of fear. Sometimes, she thinks she lost any sense of self-preservation during the war in that godforsaken room in Malfoy’s Manor when Bellatrix Lestrange pinned her to the floor and sliced her open.

Being here, alone with Draco Malfoy, the very man who was there when it happened, should make her feel something–anything. And yet it doesn’t.

“Scared?” Malfoy asks, his tongue sweeping across his bottom lip as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking about. She shakes her head slightly but it’s enough for him. 

“You surprise me sometimes, Granger.”

“Theodore Nott?” She urges the second the iron bars shut close. She’s not going to waste any more time than she already did. He doesn’t move, not yet, but it feels like he’s assessing her, glancing at her from beneath thick eyelashes. A predator ready to pounce. “What are the two of you planning?”

Malfoy laughs. “He’s dead, sweetheart. We’re hardly planning anything when he’s buried six feet under.” His patronising tone makes her wish violence was still an acceptable way of handling prisoners. She doubts anyone would mind if she roughed him up a bit, but, as it happens, she actually does have morals. “Are there any other dead friends of mine you’d like to discuss?”

“Let’s not bother with lies, Malfoy.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he says mockingly, hand pressed to his chest. “I’m sure you’ve seen his death certificate. Such a horrible, horrible death, I have been told.”

Stupidly, she slides her wand back into its holster and unclasps the three heavy buttons of her cloak, discarding it on Malfoy’s bed. “And yet you’ve been sending letters addressed to him back and forth for the last two months.” If he’s surprised she knows about their correspondence, he doesn’t show it. “Unless he figured out how to be your writing pal from beyond the grave, I’d say he is very much alive.”

“He’s always been a genius,” Malfoy shrugs and slowly unfolds his arms from where they were crossed over his chest. There’s an odd hint of pride when he talks about his friend, like Theodore Nott is someone worth admiring, not a psychopath who wants to wipe half of the wizarding population off the surface of the Earth. 

“Maybe he learnt how to cheat Death, too. I wouldn’t put it past him, you know. Horcruxes are very much a thing,” he adds with a cruel wink, and Hermione can feel herself pale at his words; at the realisation that they didn’t even consider that possibility. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, sweetheart. Theo wouldn’t do that.”

Even though his reassurance is supposed to be comforting, Hermione can’t shake off the terror that crept into her bones. “Is this funny to you?”

“Hilarious.”

She grits her teeth, an eyelid twitching. 

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life here? We might not be able to catch your pen-pal, but you will be found guilty of conspiring with him and charged with treason one way or another.”

His expression falters for a split second, the shift barely noticeable before he puts the mask of nonchalance and glorious boredom back on. “So what, it’s either a lifetime in this shithole or turning my hypothetically alive friend in?”

“No,” Hermione says simply. “It’s not only a lifetime in prison you will be facing.”

“Splendid.” Malfoy replies drily to the unspoken words.

She sighs, leaning against the brick wall. “I suggest you start talking. And,” a pause, “perhaps pick your friend more wisely next time. You don’t have a good track record, if I’m being honest. First Voldemort, now a Dark Lord-wannabe… you really are not good at reading people, are you?”

A snort escapes his throat. “I am excellent at reading people, Granger.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers, always watching, always seeing more than she allows him. “Dark Lord-wannabe? Theo would be thrilled to hear that nickname.”

“So you admit he’s alive?”

“Did I say that?”

“For Christ’s sake—“

“Promise me.”

She furrows her brows in confusion. “Promise you what?”

“That I won’t get the kiss if I tell you everything I know about Theo and his plans. Promise me that there’s a reason—a valid reason—I’m selling my fucking soul and betraying my best friend for.” Bitterness drips from his words like venom. His eyes are blazing when they meet hers, the realisation that she’s asking him to sacrifice yet another part of himself settling in uncomfortably. “Promise me, Granger.”

She should lie to him.

She should tell him whatever it is that he wants to hear. She should promise him a fucking unicorn if he asked for one, if only that would get him to talk. And yet. A tiny, small voice inside her head tells her not to.

Don’t break him, it tells her.

But what if he’s already broken?

“I can’t,” she says quietly more to herself than to him. Betrayal crosses Malfoy’s expression, and suddenly it’s Hermione who feels guilty, as if she’s the convicted criminal. She wills steadiness and authority into her voice as she repeats, “I can’t promise you that.”

Slowly, as if not to startle her, Malfoy closes the distance between them. His eyes never leave her face, never stop searching–though she doesn’t dare to ask what exactly he’s looking for.

“You can’t.”

It’s not a question, but she shakes her head nonetheless. No, she can’t promise him that. No, she can’t guarantee they won’t send him straight to the gallows either way. She could promise to fight for him, but she doubts a promise like that would mean anything to him.

“Well then,” he murmurs, voice dropping at least an octave, and lifts a hand to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. Run, run, run, her instincts yell. Get your bloody wand, now. “I’m going to need something else from you. A payment, if you will.” He’s so quiet she doesn’t know if he’s speaking at all, yet his words reverberate in her head. 

He clears his throat, then adds, “In weekly instalments.”

He isn’t seriously suggesting she fucks him once a week, is he?

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think you are getting anything out of it. Especially this,” she seethes, her body locking into a fighting stance on muscle memory. “This isn’t a bargain, Malfoy. Tell me about Nott, and I’ll do my best to keep you safely locked in that cell. With your soul intact.”

“You’ll do your best,” Malfoy echoes her words bitterly—the mocking tilt returning to his voice.

Again, it’s not a question.

Again, she answers with a nod of her chin.

Malfoy clicks his tongue, his throat bobbing as he swallows once. Twice. Three times. He’s so close she can feel the cheap prison soap mixed with something sour—like apples—on his skin; the stench of Azkaban’s laundry detergent on his clothes. Instinctively, she finds herself leaning into that scent, into him. And then he laughs. “I guess your best isn’t enough for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, taking another half-step forward. Warning bells ring in her head, alarm roaring like a wild beast. “Oh. And it’s not a bargain.”

Before she can reach for her wand, something she should have done an eternity ago , Malfoy’s hand is on her throat, and he uses the grip to spin her around, manhandling her like she’s a ragdoll, not a bloody Auror sent to handle him —the dangerous ex-Death Eater rotting in his Azkaban cell. With his free hand, he reaches for her wand and throws it across the cell, the sound of wood hitting brick echoing in her hand like a funeral march. 

She is no damsel in distress; she can defend herself without magic — but not when she’s being held in the exemplary death embrace from the Auror playbook. How Malfoy knows about it, she has no idea, but there is no escape from it. 

Not unless he makes a mistake. 

And Draco Malfoy, despite all his despair, bitterness, and frustration, doesn’t seem like a man who makes mistakes; especially not in situations that can—and will —change the course of his life forever. 

“This is an attack on a—”

Malfoy doesn’t let her finish. He rolls his hips, the evidence of exactly how much he is enjoying the power he has over her, pressing against her back.

He presses her right cheek against the iron bars, ignoring her whimper at rust smearing across her face, and chuckles darkly as his stubbled chin scratches roughly against her other cheek. 

“Not a word, Granger.” The pure demand in his low voice sends a shiver down her spine, and Malfoy swiftly moves his hand to her face, calloused palm covering her mouth. “That’s a good girl. Looks like you can still follow instructions, hm?”

He lets out an appreciative whistle as his fingers skim her waist, the touch so gentle, so featherlight, she’s not sure if he’s admiring her or the suit. “Is this dragonhide?” 

“Yes,” she says, voice strained. If she wants to run, and she should want to run, now is the perfect opportunity to do so. Malfoy’s giving her an opening and one she should take.

“Mhm,” he hums, his breath hot against her skin. His hands move to her hips, squeezing, scratching, testing. “I liked the other one better. Though I must admit, the way this fits you… it leaves very little to imagination.”

“I’m not wearing it so you can ogle me.”

His dark chuckle reverberates through every bone in her body, setting her nerves aflame, and then he’s even closer, his chest a steady weight on her back. She wraps her hands around the iron bars and tries to wriggle herself out of his hold, even though she knows there’s no point in trying to fight him.

If anything, her pathetic efforts seem to be a great source of entertainment and, yes , arousal for him. “I usually don’t mind a little fight, but we’re on a very tight schedule today, sweetheart. So stop,” he pauses dramatically, one of his hands reaching to undo the button and zipper of her trousers, “being a brat.”

“Get your fucking hands off—“

She’s cut mid-sentence by his thumb on her clit, pressing and rubbing and pinching, and then he’s palming her cunt through the fabric of her cotton knickers—slow and steady as if he has all the time in the world. His long fingers tease her slit; tease at the entrance to her core as he pushes her underwear aside, earning a small whimper from her in the process.

He doesn’t do anything else, just lets himself explore slowly and frustratingly meticulously, all while she gets enough clarity to try to slip from his embrace. But again, she’s met with a wall of muscle behind her back; with a strong and steady arm keeping her locked in on one side, and then there’s the grip he literally has on her cunt.

“Stay still,” he orders, tugging at the seam of her knickers. “Don’t fight me, sweetheart. I know you want it.”

Hermione shakes her head. “I don’t.”

“Then why haven’t you called for guards yet?”

She curses under her breath. “They won’t hear—”

He pinches her clit, clicking his tongue in mock disapproval, the sensation making her whimper. “Such a liar, aren’t you?” 

“Let me go, Malfoy.”

He laughs in her ear, his stubble scratching against her tear-stained cheek. She knows now that it’s a choice of his—the stubble, the long hair, the shabby prison clothes—everything is a fucking choice because, apparently, it doesn’t matter he’s in Azkaban.

A few seconds later, he pulls his hand out of her knickers and grabs one of her wrists, pinning it above her head and forcing her to wrap her fingers around the bar. “Keep it like this,” he demands, and this time, she obeys.

He murmurs something under his breath that may be a good girl, but she can’t be sure, not when he’s already moving behind her, not when her mind seems to have gone completely blank. Malfoy manoeuvres her other hand above her head, too, and then there’s something being strung around her wrist, thin and soft and surprisingly resilient. A quick glance up reveals it’s the leather strap he uses for his hair.

Once he makes sure her wrists are properly bound to the iron bars, Malfoy simultaneously presses a kiss to her temple and slaps her arse, the duality of his gestures giving her a whiplash. His hands skim her inner thighs, his touch scorching even through the form fabric of her Auror suit. She’s sure it’s going to leave marks.

“Now you won’t get any stupid ideas when I fuck these thighs.” He—what ? Hermione attempts to look over her shoulder at him, desperate for eye contact, but his arm snakes around her chest, and he grabs her by the throat, keeping her in place. “Has anyone fucked you like this before, sweetheart?”

Words die in her throat, and all she can manage is a faint shake of her head and a whimper.

“First time’s always so magical. Unforgettable,” he says mockingly. She wants to slam his stupid head against the wall. “Do you want me to make it unforgettable for you?”

Hermione doesn’t respond, and she supposes Malfoy doesn’t expect her to. He seems to be very busy shoving her dragonhide trousers down her thighs and lower, until they rest slightly above her knees so she can’t really spread—or move—her legs any further than what he allows. “I’ll take care of you, don’t fret.” She can feel the smirk spreading on his lips as he fumbles with his own trousers. “But first, you’re going to make my cock nice and wet for me, yeah? I’m afraid lube isn’t on the Azkaban’s priority needs for their inmates.”

The sound of Malfoy spitting on his palm sends another shiver down her spine, and soon, her whole body is trembling, fear giving way to lust and want. His body is hot against hers, blanketing her in an almost protective manner. 

Without preamble, he drags his thumb up and down her slit, collecting the traitorous evidence of her own arousal with a hum of purely male satisfaction. “You little whore,” he chuckles amused, replacing his thumb with something thicker. Bigger. Suddenly, she’s glad he doesn’t want to really fuck her; just… whatever fantasy he has in his head about her thighs. She’s ninety-three percent certain she wouldn’t be able to take him. 

“You like it, don’t you?”

He slides his cock between her folds, coating it with the slick juices gushing out of her pussy at the low tremble in his voice; at the way he is pressed against her; at the fact that she shouldn’t be doing—let alone enjoying—this in the fucking prison, and yet. Yet. 

She doesn’t deny, but she doesn’t confirm either, deciding that she needs to keep at least some infinitesimal shred of her dignity intact. 

“Remember to keep quiet or someone will find you here,” Malfoy murmurs, and though his words are meant to be a threat, she finds herself more and more worked up. He squeezes her hips, his cock buried between her folds, and urges her to clamp her thighs around it. “Tighter, sweetheart. I’m not going to fuck the air between your legs.”

“No?” She mocks, her voice strained. “I’d pay good money to see this.”

“Good to know what you’re fantasizing about. Next time, perhaps.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond as he shoves three fingers in her mouth and slides them until the calloused pads hit the back of her throat. She gags instinctively, unused to the fullness in her mouth, but Malfoy doesn’t care. “Your legs, Granger.” He fucks her throat with his fingers, giving her a test thrust between her thighs as she finally obeys his command. She’s dripping all over him, down her thighs and knees, and his cock slips from his preferred position once, then twice. “Now.”

Tears stream down her cheeks, the fingers in her mouth rough, and his touch unrelenting. She squeezes her legs tighter after he repositions himself once again, and it finally seems to do the trick. 

Malfoy lets out a satisfied groan that makes her toes curl when he begins thrusting into the small, tight space between her thighs. It’s hot—the pressure nearly enough to make her fall apart—unnervingly hot as Malfoy threatens to shatter her entire world with a couple of thrusts of his hips. 

The wet sounds of skin on skin are obscene, and Hermione hates to admit it, but they’re doing something to her. He pulls his fingers out of her mouth, smearing drool and tears across her cheeks and skin, and grips her hips tightly; tight enough to bruise. 

Her legs start to shake slightly as the head of his cock hits her clit over and over again; and when Malfoy notices her body’s reaction, he slows his movements down and rolls his hips, rubbing against that bundle of nerves and smirking against her neck as she moans. 

“I’m gonna make you cast a Silencing Charm next time you come here,” he says, his pelvis slapping hard against her arse. She can already feel bruises purpling on her sensitive skin; can feel the hickeys forming on the juncture of her neck when he sucks into her skin. “And then I’ll let you scream all you want.”

She laughs at that. 

He is not only ridiculous, it appears, but delusional too. 

“I am never coming—”

He shuts her up with another thrust of his hips, harder and more erratic. Malfoy’s close; she can tell by the way he tightens his already impossibly tight grip on her; by the way his breathing grows ragged and louder. Then, “If you say so, darling. Remember you asked for it.”

“What—”

“I told you to be quiet,” he growls, pulling at the makeshift binds until they snap and spinning her around and pushing her to her knees in one impressive—and fucking disrespectful— manoeuvre. Her kneecaps hit the bricks with a loud thud, and, for a second, Malfoy looks like he’s sorry, but then he shakes his head and steps closer to her. “Open your fucking mouth.”

“No.”

“Bratty. Have it your way, then,” he laughs, tracing the seam of her lips with his thumb, tugging at the lower lip until she yelps in pain. Well, not so much as pain as discomfort, but he doesn’t need to know that. He strokes himself languidly with his other hand, precum dripping heavily down the length of his cock. 

It’s not really a surprise he uses the very first opportunity to shove his cock into her mouth the second she opens it to take a deep breath. It’s her fault, really, if she thinks of it. Everything that happened today is her fucking fault. 

He’s thick and heavy on her tongue, the tip bruising the back of her throat, but she’s relaxed enough from the previous assault of his fingers to successfully suppress her gag reflex this time.  

“Had I known the only way to make you shut up was to stuff your swotty mouth with my cock, I would have done this hours ago.” She moans her displeasure at his words, but instinctively hollows her cheeks as he fucks slowly into her mouth and throat. He gives her shallow thrusts, one hand fisting her hair, the other gripping her shoulder to keep her in place. “Salazar's tits, Granger—fuck ,” his hips stutter, and she doubles her efforts. The sooner he comes, the sooner this will be over. “If only you could look at yourself, taking a Death Eater cock like a good little slut that you are.” She swallows around him, working him closer and closer to completion. “Fuck, baby.”

Heat coils in her core, throbbing between her legs, and she really—really—hates herself for these reactions. She squeezes Malfoy’s thighs, nails sinking into the hard muscle. God, she is not going to come from having her mouth fucked, is she?

It’s embarrassing. Humiliating. 

She sucks harder, and this time it’s Malfoy who can’t control his groans and a series of expletives spilling past his lips as she uses one hand to cup his heavy sac. 

Malfoy comes a few thrusts later, his hot load spilling down her throat; the rest dripping down her chin. She’s a mess when he pulls out, hair caked with sweat; cheeks stained with tears; chin covered in cum and drool. 

He taps his softening cock against her cheeks and lips, smiling triumphantly, before tucking himself back into his underwear and collapsing on his cot with a loud sigh.

“Next time I’ll paint your face white. Do remember to bring some tissues.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

He hums under his nose, not an approval but just another way to annoy the shit out of her. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

And then, when a momentary silence falls, the realisation of what just happened hits her like a freight train. 

She fucked Malfoy. Or, technically, Malfoy fucked her. In a fucking prison cell. Hermione let that happen; she let him use her; she gave him so much leverage there’s possibly no coming back from this.

She feels dirty, used, and, most importantly, fucking frustrated. 

She didn’t come. 

“No, sweetheart,” Malfoy tuts when she slides her hand between her legs. She supposes there’s no need for shame now, not when she doesn’t have any left after Malfoy fucked unceremoniously fucked her and she didn’t even fight. “Get up.”

“You can’t be serious,” she whines, feeling less like one of the best Aurors in the country and more like a little girl who’s been denied her candy.

“Sluts don’t get to come, baby.”

She fixes him with a death glare, anger blooming in the pit of her stomach. He doesn’t get to treat her like that , to call her a whore, even if this is exactly what she likes. 

He can’t know that; he already has too much power over her. 

“You don’t give me orders.”

He arches an eyebrow, his expression laced with mischief. “Get up.”

And then a wand—her own wand—is pointed at her, and she knows Malfoy is not joking. On trembling legs, Hermione stands up and quickly fixes her uniform. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, making a disgusted noise at the mess she finds there. 

“How do you rate your first thigh-fucking experience, sweetheart?” He asks innocently, tossing her wand up in the air. 

Hermione snorts. “Are you going to send me a customer service satisfaction survey?”

Malfoy smiles. “Have I accidentally fucked some sense of humour into you?” She has the urge to strangle him again. She wishes she could. “Let’s talk about what’s going to happen next, shall we?”

“I’m going to tie you to your bed and torture you until you tell me everything there is to know about Theodore fucking Nott,” she snarls, but her voice is strained; her throat dry after being fucked raw. “That’s what’s going to happen, Malfoy.”

“Kinky,” he smirks. “But I don’t think so. We are not—”

“Why?” She interrupts before he distracts her again. “Why are you here—why are you doing this? Pretending to play a good prisoner, signing up for book clubs when it’s obvious that Nott could get you out of here before anyone blinks?”

There’s a moment of silence that feels almost sinister. 

Malfoy smiles wickedly, tilting his head to the side, once again enjoying the unexpected power imbalance between them; enjoying how easy it was to overpower her, make her obey him. She can still feel the salty taste of his cum coating the back of her mouth, the feeling of his hot body against hers. Can feel his teeth sinking into her shoulder, leaving marks and bruises all over her skin. 

Blush blooms on her cheeks and neck, and with her cloak on the floor, there is no way to hide it from him. Silver returns to his eyes as he glances at her red and swollen lips, then her throat and swell of her breasts. 

Finally, he says, “You’re right. Theo could get me out of prison, yes.” She raises an eyebrow as if to ask: so, are you finally admitting he’s alive? It’s a pointless question because she knows Nott is not dead, but she needs someone to actually confirm it for her. Malfoy shrugs. “But I would have to run if he did. I would have to hide—and I don’t want to hide, Granger. I want my money, I want my inheritance, and I want my freedom. I want everything that’s owed to me and more. The Ministry has to pay for what they’ve done to me, but I am a very patient man,” he pauses, his gaze flickering up to meet hers. “I can wait but I am going to be a free man, and you… you are going to help me.”

She laughs in disbelief—actually laughs. “You’re delusional if you think—”

Just like before, he takes her by surprise, pouncing from his bed like a wild animal. He’s no longer amused or mocking; he’s no longer playing. He shoves her against the wall and grips her throat, demanding every ounce of attention from her. “You’re going to come here every week, wearing that pretty suit and nothing else and we’re going to have some more fun. And you’re going to listen to me feed you made-up stories about Theo and his whereabouts, and then,” he lowers his head to her throat, teeth grazing the pulsepoint and hips pinning her to the wall, “then, you’re going to make sure I walk free man out of here. I don’t care what it takes or what you will have to do to make it happen. I don’t care if you have to fuck or kill half of the Ministry, but you will get me out of here.”

“Or?”

“Or everyone will find out what a whore you are,” his voice is gravely in her ear, making goosebumps erupt on every inch of her skin. He’s hard again, and she wonders if she could fuck herself out of this situation, but Malfoy seems to read her better than she thinks possible. “Britain’s Golden Girl, begging for a Death Eater cock? Oh, darling,” he drags his tongue down the column of her throat, sending shivers down her spine. “I will ruin you one way or another.”

She knows. 

She fucking knows he will. 

“You have no proof.”

He pulls away ever-so-slightly, his eyes glistening with amusement. “Mandatory memory check-ups once a month, remember?” He taps her wand against his temples. Her blood runs cold, and her jaw goes slack. “And what if I would suddenly forget what Occlumency is? How fast would the news spread, hm?”

Jesus fucking Christ. 

She doesn’t even know how he’s able to use Occlumency without having access to his wand. Or how he's able to practice one of the most complex kinds of magic after taking magic suppressants twice a day for the last three years. It shouldn't be possible, but she has read his records, all thirty-eight of them; and unless they are all fabricated, Draco Malfoy has indeed played them all like bloody fools. 

And quite frankly, she’s not sure she wants to know how any of this happened.  

Because he’s right. She’s fucked either way. 

A deep sigh slips past her lips. Malfoy seems to bathe in her fear; in the hopelessness of her situation. He sucks in a sharp breath, victory settling into his otherwise bored expression. “Do we have a deal, darling?”

Darling, sweetheart, baby. The pet names are a mockery, but her body shudders whenever he uses them nonetheless. 

She's weak. Pathetic. 

Malfoy knows he has her in his web; a spider-like smile splits his face in half as he waits for her answer. 

She swallows thickly. There’s nothing else she can say; nothing she can do unless she plans to kill him, which is a tempting option, but not entirely possible. She leans her head against the wall, eyes still fixed on Malfoy. “We have a deal.”