Until Next Time

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Rowling owns them all. I merely play with her characters.

The tiny buttons take forever to fasten. Each pull of the soft fabric of her shirt rubs against her bare nipples as she languidly buttons every single one from her belly to neck. There are thirteen buttons. She has counted many times over the years when she dressed in the mornings for class, but she has had no reason to repeat this number for a few years now. The shirt still fits, though it is tighter around the swell of her breasts than it was when she was a teenager. She thinks that may be because she has not put on a bra to bind her breasts since she knows they are basically the same size now that they were when she was seventeen.

The school tie brings back memories as she slides the material over her hand. She puts it on and instinctively recalls how to tie it with only a slight moment of forgetfulness. Over, under, through the loop and she pulls it tighter before she smoothes down her collar. Hermione makes sure it is perfectly in line before she will move on to the next article of clothing. This stubbornness has often driven her friends crazy but it is now something familiar she clings to in a world that has changed and no longer seems to make sense to her. She changes with the world.

Once the tie is in place, deep burgundy and gold bright against the pristine whiteness of her shirt, she picks up the pair of knickers. The fabric is silk and cool against her palms as she spreads the material and puts one foot then the other into the leg holes. She pulls it up slowly, enjoying the feel of silk against her legs and the way bending over causes her breasts to rub against her shirt. The knickers barely cover her, the skimpy material low in front and snug in back. She idly notices that the dark brown curls between her legs aren’t contained very well at all.

Her skirt is next. The material is rough and scratchy, familiar in its contrast, and she shimmies into it rather easily. She sucks in a breath so she can fasten the skirt but the material stretches slightly and is soon comfortable. It rubs against her upper thighs and barely covered arse, her sensitive skin turning pink no doubt. She picks up her stockings, the only change to her previous uniform. She will not wear tights this evening. Instead, she pulls on soft stockings that are sheer and end at her thighs. When she turns quickly, her skirt flies up and shows off her firm arse and pale skin above the top of the sheer black stockings.

This is the first time she has ever taken such care while putting on her old uniform. When she was a child, she rushed in the mornings and paid no attention to the feel of the material or the subtle sensuality obtained by foregoing her bra. She’d have been shocked by such behavior, in fact, despite her own fantasies at the time that came to her at night in the privacy of her own bed. Her hair falls down her back in thick unruly curls that are still bushy on a bad day and somewhat manageable on a good day. She looks in the mirror as she brushes her hair, noting the differences in face and body since she last wore this uniform several years ago.

She is older now; still in her early twenties but there is a maturity and knowledge in her face that makes her seem far older. Her body has filled out in ways that it still hadn’t when she was a teen, and there is a subtle confidence about her now that she lacked in her youth. Sex is no longer something clinical to her, not a subject to be researched but an activity to be enjoyed without shame or fear.

She slips on her old school shoes and is taken back to a simpler time when all she had to worry about was Harry surviving another year and revising for NEWTs. She looks away from the mirror, no longer certain she likes what she sees, turning her back on the idealistic young girl she used to be because there is no place for her here. Little girls grow up and realize the world is an ugly place, cruel and harsh regardless of politics, and her earlier bemusement at the transformation she’d undertaken gives way to the cynicism that is far too familiar.

The dressing area is screened off from the main room. She steps around the curtain and sees that the room has also undergone a transformation. It had been empty before, waiting for its instructions in a way similar to the Room of Requirement at dear old Hogwarts. Now it looks like a classroom from her old school right down to the smell of ink and parchment that she always associates with school.

No, not a classroom, she decides as her gaze surveys the room: a professor’s office. She shudders slightly and can feel her nipples harden beneath her shirt as she steps into the room to wait. There is no point going to the door. It is locked just as surely as the entire room is under a muffling charm to prevent anyone from hearing what goes on inside. This room keeps its secrets well.

The wait is not very long. She looks up when the door opens and she inhales sharply when she sees who enters. His cold gray eyes sweep over her before he snorts dismissively. It is always like this with him, a game of hatred and concealed desire. Her body reacts even as her mind screams for her to run and attempt to escape. There is no escape. This is her world now and all she can do is embrace it.

“Miss Granger. Why am I not surprised?” His tone is languid and sensual, a cold danger underlying every word he speaks. He is wearing a heavy robe in the darkest of greens, trimmed with silver in an unsubtle homage to his former House, and his pale blond hair is loose for once, falling past his shoulders and caressing the side of his face. He is powerful, sexual, and dangerous, a heady combination to be certain.

“You do not like surprises, Mister Malfoy,” she reminds him with just a hint of calm strength.

“Someone is feisty this evening,” he muses as he stalks her, his gaze never leaving her as he moves closer. He raises his hand and uses the silver top of his cane to brush his hair away from his face, his eyes narrowing as he reaches her. “I must admit that I’m pleased you’re showing spirit. I do so love breaking you, Miss Granger.”

“You have never broken me, Mister Malfoy,” she says defiantly, her words truth.

“We have different definitions of breaking, Miss Granger,” he tells her in a sensual purr that makes her body tremble. His smile is predatory as he watches her. “Hearing you beg for me, seeing you so willing to do whatever I wish regardless of how depraved and wicked, watching you fall apart, seeing you become nothing more than the Mudblood whore we both you truly are, feeling your body shudder beneath mine as you beg me to fuck you like a little slut. You are broken then, Mudblood, because your pride lies at your feet as soon as you beg for my cock.”

“I don’t beg,” she denies even as she sways towards him. If she admits that truth, he will win. It is always more enjoyable if he has to fight for success. She glances at the door, the optimistic voice of youth whispering to her, but she finally looks away. It is too late for any of that. It has been too late for several years now.

He smirks as he puts his cane down, daring her to try to grab it, and removes his robe. Beneath the green material, he is wearing a white shirt and gray trousers a few shades darker than his eyes. “We shall see about that,” he says simply as he sets the robe over the back of one of the few chairs in the room. He picks up his cane and faces her. A quick glance around the room and he sneers. “Really, Miss Granger, how unimaginative. Shall you call me Professor or Headmaster?”

“What would you prefer?” she asks as a shiver of awareness spreads over her. It has begun.

“I believe you wish for me to be Professor,” he tells her as he moves the smooth side of his cane against her cheek. “Are you here for extra credit, Mudblood, or have you been a very bad girl?”

Hermione blinks at him, uncertain what he wants. She finally says softly, “I’m here for extra credit, Professor.”

“Of course you are,” he replies. He twists his wrist and lets the teeth of his cane head scrape her jaw. “I believe we can work something out, Miss Granger. Show me what a dirty little whore you are and I’ll reward you with extra points.”

“What would you like me to do, Professor?” she asks as she feels her knickers grow damp. She should not have favorites, not in these circumstances, but he is the one she prefers to see arrive at this room. The others are never like this, though one is close but simply a pale imitation. It is usually fast and hurried, finished soon so they can leave, and she hates the feel of their hands and bodies against hers. Lucius Malfoy, however, knows how to play and her body does not care that he is a Death Eater who has murdered many people even as her mind rebels at the idea of enjoying his touch.

“Unbutton your shirt for me, Miss Granger,” he commands huskily, unable to conceal his own reaction to the circumstances.

She nods and smiles demurely, playing the innocent as she shyly unbuttons her shirt. Her breasts tumble free as the fabric gives way, nipples hard as the cool air strokes them. He is pressed against the front of his trousers, hard and ready, by the time she gets to the last button. Her tie rests between her breasts, her shirt falling open to reveal herself to him.

“You have beautiful breasts, Mudblood,” he says as he raises his hand and grips her tie. He pulls her against him and lowers his head, licking her nipple lazily and sucking her breast into his mouth before he bites down lightly then repeats the lick. When he pulls back, he smiles smugly when he sees her obviously flushed face and hears her breath exhaling in soft pants. He unfastens her tie and pulls it off her, holding it in his hand as he grips his cane.

“Thank you, Professor,” she replies quietly, wondering what he plans for her next. He is not only dangerous but unpredictable, and she hates that she can never anticipate his next move.

“You filthy whore,” he mutters in an almost affectionate tone as he slides his cane beneath her skirt. She feels the teeth of the snake snag on her knickers, her tie rubbing against her leg, and then he’s pulling them down slowly. “Whatever would your friends say if they knew what a dirty slut you really were? I can smell you, Miss Granger. You stink of arousal and need. It excites you to be used by me, to have my cock inside you as you beg for more, to know that I could truly break you if I chose.”

Hermione closes her eyes, her lips parting as she moans when she feels his fingers against her leg. He shifts and his soft hair brushes across her breasts, her nipples even more hard and her breasts heavy with desire as she breathes slowly.

“Such beautiful breasts,” he says again and she knows he’s looking at them.

He likes her breasts and doesn’t seem to care that they’re not too big. They’re firm and full, complimentary to her frame, and she likes that they distract him. Her knickers are tangled around her upper thighs, her arse bare beneath the scratchy skirt. Moments pass where they simply breathe and she finally raises her arm, her fingers lightly touching his wrist as she waits.

She hears him chuckle knowingly, a low sound that is husky, barely above a whisper, and very familiar. His hand moves from her leg, sliding along her warm skin until his fingers brush against the wetness between her legs. She gasps at the first touch of his finger against her, knowing what he will find.

“You’re wet, Miss Granger,” he informs her as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Should I fuck you now, Mudblood? Perhaps I’ll have you kneel and I’ll fuck you like the bitch whore you are until you’re begging for me to allow you release. That would be a reward, though, and I don’t think you’ve earned my cock yet, do you?”

“No, Professor,” she stammers as the head of his cane brushes against her. She spreads her legs and whimpers when the teeth of the snake scrape against her clit.

“I could allow you to fuck my cane,” he muses as he presses the round head against her wet lips. Her eyes flash open and she stares at him in panic. He smirks and pushes the head upwards slightly, just enough to press against her cunt. “It’s really all a Mudblood whore deserves to fuck, after all.”

“Please,” she whispers as she rolls her hips, enjoying the pressure but not wanting his cane inside her.

His eyes narrow and she can sense his power and control as he pushes it up sharply, letting it push inside her as she whimpers, before he removes it. He brings the cane to his mouth and licks the wetness from it before he tosses it on top of his robe. “When you beg to come, Mudblood, it will be because of my cock not a piece of molded silver,” he tells her in a firm voice that makes her tremble with anticipation. She hears fabric rip when his hand moves beneath her skirt and watches him throw her knickers to the ground. “Get on the desk and touch yourself.”

The request surprises her and she studies him for a moment to make she’s heard correctly. Finally, she says, “Yes, Professor,” and walks to the desk. She starts to take off her shirt but stops when he tells her to leave her clothes on. She does remove her shoes, however, and he makes no protest. Hermione faces him, noticing that he’s now seated in the chair with his trousers unfastened and his cock free.

“On the edge, Miss Granger,” he commands silkily as he lazily strokes his erection. “Lift your skirt and spread your legs for me. I want you to fuck your hand for me but do not come. If you come, I’ll spank you until your arse is red and then I’ll open the door and let everyone here fuck you wherever they’d like.”

She glances at the door and then back at him, knowing he speaks the truth. She doesn’t dare disobey him and he knows it, reveling in the power that she allows him to have over her. Her skirt falls around her waist as she sits on the edge of the desk and spreads her legs, moving so that her feet are on the end of the desk.

“You’re so wet, Mudblood whore,” he tells her as she begins to move her finger over her cunt. “Fuck yourself like a good little girl and I may allow you a reward.”

Hermione lies flat on her back and stares at the ceiling as she moves her fingers, teasing and stroking until she pushes two inside her. She listens to his breathing as she fucks herself for him, spreading herself wide as she moves her hand. She cups her breast, squeezing it firmly and tugging her nipple as she presses down against her hand.

She’s so lost in the pleasure of having her fingers inside her that she doesn’t hear him move. His hand wraps around her wrist and pulls her wet fingers from her cunt. She looks up at him, her skirt around her waist and her shirt spread open to bare her breasts, and he smirks as he suddenly thrusts completely inside her without warning.

“Oh,” she gasps as he fills her, her body stretching around his girth as he begins to move.

“Such a pretty little slut,” he murmurs as he fucks her hard, each thrust sending her against the wood desk. He moves his hand beneath her skirt and grips her hip tightly, fingers bruising her pale skin as he moves in and out. His other hand squeezes her breast roughly, kneading and pulling the flesh as his lips move over her bare skin. He licks, bites, and sucks until she is whimpering and moaning beneath him.

She is a slut, she realizes yet again. With him, she’s nothing more than a whore who craves his cock and his masterful hand to control her. God, is it so wrong of her to love that? She wraps her legs around his waist, her heels pushing his trousers down until she feels the firm muscles of his arse. His hair brushes against her sensitive skin, soft and gentle swipes that add yet another sensation to their coupling.

He comes first. No more than a half dozen deep thrusts then his hips jerk and he’s grunting against her nipple as he spills inside her. She feels his sweaty face against her chest and grips the side of the desk tightly so she doesn’t touch him. A soft brush of her fingers through his hair or a gentle caress to his face would change the rules, the dynamic, and neither of them can have that shift.

His teeth scrape against her belly as he pulls out of her, come dripping from her cunt as her legs languidly lie over the edge of the desk. Then his tongue is there, lapping up his release and licking her until she’s thrashing on the desk, her mouth open in silent cries and low moans. “Come for me, Miss Granger,” he urges huskily as he pushes three long fingers into her. “Come for me like the whore you really are, Mudblood.”

That’s all it takes for her eyes to close and her body to arch off the desk. She whimpers as she comes against his face, his tongue licking her clit as she shudders from her release. When she’s finally finished, she sits up and pushes him back, sliding from the desk and leaning over him. She kisses him then, hungry and desperate, licking and sucking his tongue as he kisses her back. His fingers are in her hair, pulling and stroking, and she tugs on his own hair as they forget everything except passion, hate, desire, and need.

When she pulls back, she licks her lips and turns away. She hears him stand followed by the zip of his trousers. Her robe is hanging where she left it and she removes her wand, turning to face him. He is dressed and aloof once again, his eyes cold as they survey her and flick to the wand she is holding. She performs a cleaning charm on him, which earns her a smirk.

“Removing the evidence of our fucking does not change what happened or who you truly are, Miss Granger,” he tells her with a hint of amusement.

“I prefer not send you back to your cell stinking of sex, Mister Malfoy,” she informs him coolly. She puts her robe on and picks up her tie, rolling it up and pushing it into the pocket of her robe. Her knickers are gone and she glances at him. He merely arches a brow and she doesn’t say anything, doing her best to ignore the slight shudder that runs through her at the idea of him wanting to keep her wet, torn knickers.

“Very conscientious, Miss Granger,” he says dryly.

“I could end our discussions if you’d prefer, Mister Malfoy. Your son seems to have no such issues with conversing with me,” she tells him casually, watching with satisfaction as he sneers at her hollow threat.

“My son is a pathetic excuse for a man who could never possibly give you what you crave, Miss Granger,” he replies with far more knowledge of her than she finds comfortable. His gaze drifts over her slowly, seeing her nude despite the heavy robe she now wears, and he is smug when their gazes meet. “I’m the only one who gives you that, Mudblood. You are mine. It’s why you keep coming back every week despite the questions you are most surely asked.”

“There is a wonderful benefit to being one of three who saved this world, Mister Malfoy,” she informs him with a smug smile of her own as she walks to him. “No one questions me on such matters nor do they care if I use you or your fellow prisoners to satisfy my particular needs so long as I return you safe and unharmed.”

“Manipulative, intelligent, and beautiful; it’s really a pity you’re nothing more a Mudblood whore,” he muses as he finishes buttoning his robe and picks up his cane. He smirks as he bows mockingly. “Until next time, Auror Granger.”

Hermione knocks twice on the door, nodding politely at the guard who comes to retrieve Lucius, glancing at the guard only to ensure that he has been trained to look away. She turns her gaze back to the prisoner who has become an irresistible addiction over the years. She reaches out and tucks a lock of blond hair behind his ear, her fingers lingering on his cheek before she drops her hand. “Until next time, Prisoner Malfoy.”

The End