Claiming Hermione

Draco threw himself into work with single-minded determination. He was like a speeding bullet hurtling through Hogwarts. By the middle of the first week, he had met with professors asking who their top students were, what topics each year struggled with, and noting the hours they themselves could commit to helping students. By the end of the week, he’d delegated recruitment tasks to the house prefects and got them started. He would have done the recruiting himself, but he doubted he’d receive a warm reception from the other three houses, with the exception, perhaps, of the simpering girls who fawned over him. And they weren’t usually the sort you sought out for their brains. By the end of the second week, he had written a questionnaire to help profile the tutors, begun a cross-referenced cataloging system that took over the wood filing cabinet next to the cubbies, and started writing a pamphlet of guidelines and helpful tips for new tutors.

For the most part, Hermione was astounded at his unstoppable drive. She knew he kept up just as well with his regular coursework because he’d taken to camping out at one of the desks in the HRC and, though she was loathe to think about it, he’d actually outscored her by two points on their last Potions exam and tied with her on their last Arithmancy exam. But, she couldn’t deny that she understood him all too well. The harder he worked, the less time he had to dwell on his loss. She supposed she would probably react the same way.

At first she’d been greatly annoyed that he started using their common room. He had previously only come to meet with her, the prefects, or to pick up his messages. Then, one evening he used one of the desks to complete an essay. Hermione scowled to herself the whole time and when he left a small stack of books and an inkbottle on the desk that night Hermione resisted the urge to knock them onto the floor.

After the fourth night of trying to ignore the scratching of his quill, she gave up the fight. It was his room too and it wasn’t all that difficult to ignore him. And he didn’t seem to have any problem ignoring her either. One evening, a few weeks after he “moved in”, he dropped a small booklet on her desk while she was bent over an Arithmancy problem. She had grown so used to him that she completely forgot he was there and she leapt up so fast at the sudden sound that she banged her knee on the edge of her desk hard enough to cause a small gash and making her let out a small howl of pain.

“Shit, Granger, I’m not going to bite you!” he said affronted and taking a step back.

She rolled her eyes and sat back down to examine her knee. “I was just startled!” she clarified in an annoyed tone. There was blood streaming out of a small cut and running down her leg, staining the cuff of her knee-high socks. She grimaced. Draco turned quickly and walked away. She slapped her hand on the cut and pressed down in an attempt to stem the flow of blood, wincing at the pressure on the purpling around the gash. It wasn’t that bad of a cut, but apparently knees bleed a lot. Draco returned a moment later carrying a wet washcloth and he knelt down on one knee in front of her. To say Hermione was shocked was an understatement. She was so stunned, in fact, that she could do nothing but stare at him. With the first soft swipe of the warm cloth up her calf from the edge of her sock, Hermione’s stomach flip-flopped and she bit her lip. He gently grasped her wrist, pulling it from her knee, and turned her palm up, capturing her fingers in the open washcloth. Hermione’s breath became suddenly shallow and erratic as he pulled the cloth over each of her fingers and made slow, thorough passes at her blood-covered palm. He placed her hand in her lap and went back to her knee. Draco refolded the now pink washcloth and made soft upward passes on and around her knee, being extra gentle around the purple and sickly yellow bruise surrounding the opening. When all the blood, save for that soaked into her sock, was gone, he blew softly on the cut. Hermione gasped audibly and Draco froze. He got up quickly without looking at her and walked into the bathroom. Hermione stared down dumbly at her sock, pushed down a little on her calf, with wide eyes, feeling shaken and off-kilter, and her heart inexplicably thumping in her chest. She was only vaguely aware of Draco packing his bag and saying something about tutoring guidelines as he reached the door. She nodded absently.

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Draco’s long stride took him quickly to his room where he carelessly dumped his bag and walked straight into the bathroom. The candles came to life at once casting the room in a warm glow. Using his wand, he started the water filling and spoke, “Lavender.” Draco felt mildly hysterical as he hurriedly toed off his shoes kicking them into the corner and pulled his tie roughly over his head. Moments later, his clothes lay in a messy heap on the floor and he was stepping down into the bath. Taking a deep breath, he felt his heart rate slow almost instantly.

What the fucking hell what that?

Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the edge of the bath. An unbidden image of Granger’s knee danced behind his eyelids. He groaned and suddenly the image was replaced with a moving scene of his own long pale fingers wrapping around her tiny tanned wrist, of her small fingers being sheathed in the washcloth in his hand, and finally of her palm open turned up in surrender to him. His heart gave a low thud. His chest felt constricted… and lower. There was no use fighting it so he gave in easily. His cock was waiting, hard and swaying gently in the hot water, and he let his hand wrap around it. In the back of his mind – the very small part that was capable of rational thought at the moment – he couldn’t believe he was going to wank over Granger’s knee and dirty fingers. He wasn’t a fucking nervous virgin who got hard if the wind blew his trousers a certain way. And she was….Granger! The most insufferable, holier-than-thou, know-it-all, frizzy-headed, freckle-nosed, completely-not-sexy-in-any-way girl that he knew. And my God! his cock was hard as iron. There was nothing to do but go with it. He let the images take over as he slowly stroked his hard cock in the warm water, the lavender oil making it slick in his palm. The washcloth was white and there was no blood, only her golden brown thighs. He was slowly rubbing the cloth in small circles over her knee and then up on the top and inside of her thigh, leaving wet trails glistening on her skin. The washcloth disappeared beneath her skirt and, even in the fantasy, he was coaxing her, convincing her. Her legs parted a little when he reached the top of her thigh and he traced the outline of her white cotton knickers with the wet cloth soaking the fabric and making it translucent. She opened more to him and he pressed the cloth over her sex, watching the thin cotton saturate and cling to her folds, defining her pussy lips. He wondered what sound the prissy Gryffindor would make when he pulled the fabric up, capturing her lips tightly in the soaked cloth, biting into her delicate skin, inflaming her clit. Draco smirked to himself as his grip tightened. He bet that if he wanted to, he could make her scream a kalidescope of noises she didn’t know she was capable of. If he wanted to.

Draco was a good lover. He knew it and he prided himself on it. Of the hundreds of things he was boastful of, though, he chose to keep this one to himself. He considered it an ace up his sleeve. A secret weapon only to be used when it pleased him to do so.

It wasn’t just about fucking. Anyone can fuck. Shit, monkeys fucked, cockroaches fucked! But he understood that each body needed to be touched in it’s own unique way, in it’s own order, at it’s own pace. So his “skills” were more of a manifestation of keen powers of observation and an active imagination, which he had in spades.

Don’t get the wrong idea, he wasn’t born with it, or anything. He’d fumbled as much as the next guy in the beginning. But, his senses had been refined by his surroundings and he was always watching closely for the affect he was having on others. (It was this same trait that made him so good at taunting Granger.) He understood how language, touch, sound and smell could combine to create a mood, a separate world, and he used that knowledge to his advantage. And he’d come to realize - the secret , the most important thing– that made all the difference in the world, was that it started in the mind. Desire. Control. Anticipation…

He also knew that the mind was an imperfect and tricky thing, and sometimes the lines might get a little crossed, and for that reason he wasn’t terribly concerned that he was hard over something so mundane as a knee or even over a Gryffindor. But the fact that it was Hermione Granger was a thorn in his side that he was dutifully ignoring.

Draco’s fantasy quickly evolved to series of disconnected imagined sights and sensations as his face and neck flushed and his hand picked up speed. Running his palm strategically over the tip and down to the base with a twist, being sure to hit that super sensitive spot just below the head, he let the images come. Her legs spread and tied to legs of the chair, his fingers playing her clit through her soaked knickers, his tongue shoved into her hot, wet pussy lips, grabbing her by the wrist as he had done and wrapping her small fingers around his hard cock, her orgasm pulsing around him as he drove into her hard, her riot of curls bouncing on his pillow and her amber eyes half closed… His body tensed and his head came forward off the edge of the bath. With a long, heavy grunt he came in the hot water.


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