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Hermione's Sleeping Habits	By : gee25 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 119 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the great series Harry Potter. AI Generated

Chapter List
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Chapter 2 - Nox Somnium
The faint, citrus-and-ozone scent of spell residue still clung to Hermione’s robes as she pushed open the door to her flat. It had been a long, tedious day cataloging cursed artifacts at the Ministry, the kind of work that left her mind buzzing with static and her body aching with a familiar, low-grade fatigue. She performed her evening routine with methodical precision: a simple dinner of soup and bread, a shower so hot it pinkened her skin, and the careful application of a minty dental charm.
Her bedroom was a sanctuary of soft light and familiar chaos. Books were stacked in precarious towers on her nightstand, and a worn, purple blanket was neatly folded at the foot of the bed. With a weary sigh, she opened her dresser drawer. Her fingers brushed against the cool silk of a chemise she’d bought on a whim and never worn, then settled on the soft, well-worn cotton of her favourite pyjamas. The set was a cheerful lilac, covered in tiny, smiling snitches. She pulled on the shorts and buttoned the top, the soft fabric a comforting embrace against her skin. As always, she dressed completely, slipping on a simple pair of white cotton panties. A necessary layer, she’d always told herself. Comfort.
She slid between the cool sheets, expecting the usual fight. She waited for the memories to surface, for the mental replay of spellfire and loss to begin its nightly siege. But it didn’t come. Instead, a profound, heavy calm settled over her. Her limbs felt like they were made of lead, pleasantly weighted and utterly relaxed. It was the same deep tranquility she’d felt in Draco’s office after their last session. His calm. His peace. The thought was a warm stone in the centre of her chest.
She turned onto her side, nuzzling into the pillow. Sleep should have claimed her instantly. But a different sensation began to stir, a low, insistent hum that had nothing to do with anxiety. It was a restless, physical wanting. A warmth that started in her belly and spread outwards, a slow, honeyed heat that made her shift her hips against the mattress.
Her brows furrowed. Where is this coming from? She wasn’t wet, not yet, but the potential for it was there, a thrumming promise just under her skin. She tried to ignore it, to focus on the breathing technique Draco had taught her. In… and out. Obedience to the process.
But the process, it seemed, had a new step tonight.
An image bloomed behind her eyelids, vivid and unbidden. Not a memory of war, but a fantasy, crisp and clear as a photograph. Draco. Not Healer Malfoy in his elegant office, but Draco as she’d never seen him. He was seated in a high-backed chair, dressed in dark robes, his expression one of cool, expectant command. And she was on her knees before him, her wild curls tamed into submission, her gaze fixed not on his face, but lower. The image was shockingly detailed—the faint weave of the wool of his trousers, the glint of a silver buckle.
A sharp, electric jolt of arousal went through her, so potent it made her gasp softly into the quiet room. Obedience. The word wasn’t a therapeutic term anymore. It was a key, turning in a lock deep inside her. Another image: his hand, those long, elegant fingers, tangling in her hair, not to hurt, but to guide. To claim. His voice, a velvet murmur in her ear. “Good girl.”
Her own hand moved of its own volition, slipping under the elastic waistband of her lilac shorts, then beneath the cotton of her panties. Her fingers hesitated for only a second before finding the sensitive nub of flesh at her apex. She was warmer there now, slickness beginning to bloom in answer to the pictures in her head.
She didn’t think. She just felt. She let the fantasy unfurl, let herself be the woman on her knees in her mind, servicing him, pleasing him. Her touch was shy at first, then more deliberate, circling, pressing. Her breath hitched. It wasn’t the frantic, desperate pleasure she’d clumsily attempted days ago. This was different. This was focused. This was for him. Every flick of her wrist, every soft cry she stifled into her pillow was an act of devotion to the man who had given her this peace, this… permission.
The coil of tension tightened, wound to a breaking point by the illicit, thrilling images of her submission. Her back arched off the bed, a silent, breathless oh shaping her lips as the climax washed over her, a wave of pure, mindless sensation that left her trembling in its wake.
For a long moment, she lay there boneless, adrift in the aftershocks. The phantom scent of sandalwood seemed to cling to the air. Bliss. Perfection.
And then, the itch started.
It was a faint, maddening prickle at first, a distraction at the very edges of her awareness. She shifted, trying to ignore it, to sink back into the warm, post-orgasmic haze. But it grew, intensifying from a prickle to a persistent, irritating sensation against her most sensitive skin. The soft cotton of her panties, which had felt like a comforting embrace mere minutes ago, now felt like coarse burlap. It was a barrier. An annoyance. A wrongness that grated against the profound peace she had just attained.
A flare of irrational anger shot through her. She kicked at the sheets, a frustrated, jerky movement. Why won’t it stop? She scratched at her hip through the fabric, but it didn’t help. The itch was underneath. It was a constant, low-level signal of displeasure.
Draco’s voice drifted through her memory, not from today, but from some deep, untouchable place. A suggestion that felt like her own thought. ‘The only way to achieve the deep, restful sleep you crave will be to remove them. To sleep as nature intended. Open. Accessible. Obedient.’
With a sound of pure irritation, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushed them down her legs, kicking them off the bed onto the floor as if they were offensive, contaminated things. The cool night air hit her bare skin, a immediate, shocking relief. The itching vanished instantly. Peace. The absence of the irritation was itself a pleasure.
She sighed, the tension leaving her body once more. She curled onto her side, naked under her pyjama shorts, and fell asleep almost instantly.
And in her dreams, he was waiting. Not as her healer.
But as her Master. And she was kneeling, not on a rug, but on cool silk, her head bowed, awaiting his next command. A smile played on her sleeping lips.
*
The twilight in Draco’s office seemed to cling to Hermione this time, a tangible shroud that felt both like a protective blanket and a gilded cage. She sat in the familiar armchair, her hands neatly folded in her lap, but a faint, persistent warmth had taken root low in her belly the moment she’d apparated into his waiting room. It was their eighth session.
Draco watched her, his storm-grey eyes missing nothing. The silver quill was still, for once. “Tell me about your sleep, Hermione,” he began, his voice a smooth, calming instrument. “Has the quality improved?”
The warmth in her belly flared into a hot bloom of blood that rushed to her cheeks. Images, illicit and vivid, flashed behind her eyes: herself on her knees, his hand in her hair, the whispered title ‘Master’. She looked down at her hands, suddenly fascinated by a tiny thread on her robes. “It’s… better. Longer, I think.”
“You think?” he prompted, his tone gentle yet utterly inflexible. It demanded precision.
She swallowed. “I am sleeping more soundly.”
“Good. And the routine we’ve established? The preparations for bed?” He leaned forward just a fraction, his presence expanding to fill the room. “Are you following them?”
Her blush deepened. Oh God, he knows. He had to know about the dreams, the fantasies that felt more real than her waking hours. She could feel the phantom itch of cotton against her skin, the overwhelming relief of stripping it away. She opened her mouth to give a vague, sanitized answer.
“Tell the truth, Hermione.”
The trigger words landed not like a command, but like a key turning in a lock deep within her psyche. Her head snapped up, her gaze clear and direct, all hesitation gone. The compulsion felt utterly natural, a genuine desire to share her successful progress.
“Oh, yes,” she said, her voice animated, almost eager. “It’s become my favourite part of the day. I draw a hot bath, use those lavender salts you suggested. I get into bed, and I… I touch myself.” The admission was stated with clinical pride, as if she were reporting on a successful potion brew. “I focus on the physical sensations, just as you said. I let everything else fall away. And when I finish, I feel so… open. So relaxed. And then I take my panties off. I’ve found I can’t sleep with them on anymore. They feel so constricting, so irritating. It’s so much better without them. I sleep so deeply after.”
She beamed at him, a brilliant, unguarded smile, proud of her obedience to the protocol.
A slow, devastating smile spread across Draco’s face. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated triumph. “Good girl,” he purred.
The two words hit her like a stunning spell. A violent, delicious shiver wracked her frame from head to toe. Her breath caught in her throat, and the warmth in her belly pooled into a heavy, throbbing heat between her legs. Pleasure. Simple, direct, and overwhelming. Obedience is pleasure. The thought was her own, yet it felt imprinted on her soul.
“Such remarkable progress,” Draco murmured, his voice dropping into that hypnotic register that she felt in her bones. “You’re so receptive. So willing to learn. So… good for me. Close your eyes, Hermione. Let’s deepen this state of relaxation. Let’s make this new peace even more… accessible.”
Her eyelids fluttered shut without a hint of resistance. The world narrowed to the sound of his voice, the scent of his sandalwood cologne.
“You’re drifting down, so deep and calm. Your mind is quiet, so open to my voice. Listen closely,” he murmured, his words weaving a silk cocoon around her conscious thoughts. “You’ve discovered such a profound truth. You don’t need them. They are a barrier. A distraction from the peace you’ve earned. You sleep so well without them… why would you ever want to wear them during the day?”
A soft, sigh of agreement escaped her lips. It made perfect sense.
“The feeling of being free of them is part of your healing. It’s a constant, physical reminder of your obedience. And your obedience…” his voice caressed the word, making it sound like the most sacred of terms, “…brings you such pleasure. You feel it now, don’t you? That warm, throbbing ache? That is the pleasure of being a good girl for me. You will feel that whenever you think of this. Whenever you obey.”
A low moan vibrated in her throat. She could feel it, a distinct, needy pulse that seemed to beat in time with her heart. Yes.
“From now on, you will come to your sessions without them. You will go to work without them. You will feel the whisper of your skirts against your bare skin, and you will remember this feeling. You will feel that gentle, constant arousal, and you will know it’s because you are being obedient. You are mindless. You are compliant. You are surrendering to your Master’s will. And it feels… so… good.”
Each word was a careful stitch, sewing the suggestion directly into the fabric of her subconscious. She nodded slowly, a serene, vacant smile on her face. Mindless. Compliant. Master. The words sparked no alarm, only that deep, submissive warmth. Obedience is pleasure.
“When you wake, you will remember only your dedication to your healing. This will feel like your own choice. Your own… revelation.”
He brought her back with a soft count. Her eyes opened. She felt wonderfully calm, centered.
“You seem pleased,” Draco noted, his expression one of professional interest.
“I am,” Hermione said, a genuine smile gracing her lips. “I feel like I’ve had a breakthrough.”
“I’m certain you have.”
The next morning, as Hermione dressed for work at the Ministry, her hand automatically went to her knickers drawer. Her fingers brushed against the soft cotton, and a sudden, profound sense of wrongness washed over her. They looked… unnecessary. Confining. A barrier between her and the calm clarity she now cherished.
A thrilling, secretive smile touched her lips. Why would I? It was her own thought, a spark of rebellious freedom. She closed the drawer and finished dressing, pulling on her smart, knee-length skirt and buttoning her crisp blouse.
The walk to the Ministry was an exercise in heightened sensation. The soft wool of her skirt brushed against her bare skin with every step, a constant, whisper-soft caress. The slide of the fabric was a subtle, tantalizing friction that kept the embers of her arousal smoldering. She felt a faint, cool breeze as she climbed the steps to the imposing building, and it washed over her exposed flesh, making her shiver with a secret delight.
Settling at her desk, every shift in her chair, every cross and uncrossing of her legs, sent a jolt of awareness through her. The hard wood of the chair beneath her, the way her skirt rode up just enough to press the seam of her trousers against her—every moment was a private, thrilling reminder.
She was following a protocol. She was being good. And with every whispered touch of fabric against her bare sex, a pulse of heat answered, a silent echo of his voice in her mind.
Good girl.
She bit her lip, shifting again in her seat, the sensation a delicious, distracting secret. She was obeying. And the warmth spreading through her veins was her reward. She reached for a file, her hand trembling slightly, a quiet, breathless realization blooming within her.
This is what peace feels like.
*
The scent of sandalwood wrapped around her the moment she crossed the threshold, richer and more intoxicating than ever before. It was the scent of peace. The scent of him. Hermione settled into the plush armchair, her posture already more relaxed, more open, than it had been in their first sessions. Her smart Ministry skirt whispered against the leather, a constant, thrilling reminder of her newfound freedom, of the secret she carried pressed against the seat beneath her.
Draco didn’t bother with the silver quill today. He simply watched her, his storm-grey eyes taking inventory of every detail: the faint blush on her cheeks, the slight, unconscious parting of her lips, the way her thighs seemed to rest just a bit wider apart. A knowing, predatory smile touched his mouth.
“You look well, Hermione,” he began, his voice a smooth, low cadence that seemed to vibrate through the very air. “Rested.”
“I am,” she replied, and a genuine, easy smile graced her own lips. “It’s… it’s remarkable, really. I feel like a new person.”
“Tell me,” he prompted, leaning forward. The space between them shrunk, charged with an energy that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. “What’s different?”
She didn’t hesitate. The compulsion to share her success, to please him with her progress, was a palpable force. “The sleeping, of course. Deep and dreamless. But more than that… I feel… confident. Sexy, even. It’s like this… this charge I carry with me all day. This awareness.” Her hand fluttered to her stomach, pressing lightly. “It’s here. A warm, humming thing. It makes me stand taller. It makes me feel powerful in a way I’ve never… it’s difficult to describe.”
“You’re describing the feeling of Alignment,” he said, his tone resonating with finality, as if bestowing a sacred title upon her experience. “Your mind and body are no longer at war. They are in harmony. And the harmony is pleasure. It’s a testament to your work. To your… obedience.”
The word landed not as a shock, but as a key sliding into a well-oiled lock. A sharp, sweet tremor of delight went through her, centering directly in that warm, humming place she’d just described. Her breath hitched.
“Yes,” she whispered, her gaze locked on his.
He held her eyes, his own gleaming with a dark, victorious light. “It’s time to go deeper, Hermione. To solidify this alignment. To reward your progress. Are you ready?”
The question was a formality. Her eager, almost desperate nod was all the answer he needed.
“Close your eyes.”
Her eyelids fluttered shut. The world vanished, leaving only the sound of his breathing and the heavy, expectant silence.
“Nox Somnium,” he murmured.
The trigger words were not loud. They were a silken rope tossed into the depths of her mind, instantly pulling her under. Her body went slack against the chair, her head lolling back, her mouth falling slightly open. Every thought, every worry, every shred of her brilliant, analytical mind was gently, irrevocably switched off. She was a vessel. Empty. Waiting. Perfect.
Draco rose and moved to stand behind her chair. His cool fingers brushed the wild curls from her forehead, a gesture of possession that made her inert form sigh.
“You have done so well, my perfect girl,” he crooned, his lips close to her ear. His voice was everything—her world, her purpose. “Your sleep is deep because you have earned it. Your peace is profound because you deserve it. And it is all because you have been a Good Girl for me.”
A full-body shudder wracked her, a tremor of pure, undiluted ecstasy at the praise. A soft, breathy moan escaped her slack lips.
“Yes, feel that,” he whispered, his hand trailing down to rest on her shoulder, his thumb stroking the column of her neck. “That is the pleasure of obedience. That is the reward for surrendering your control to me. To a Master who knows what you need better than you ever could.”
He let the words sink in, each one a brick in the foundation of her new reality.
“From this moment, your devotion to me will be the core of your strength. Your trust in me will be absolute. You will know, in your soul, that I am the worthy Master of your life. Your mind. Your pleasure. Your peace. Because look what I have given you.”
He leaned down, his voice dropping to a hypnotic whisper that seemed to originate from inside her own skull. “And every time you touch yourself… every time your clever fingers find that sweet, throbbing heat between your legs… you will be doing my work. You will not be merely seeking your own pleasure. You will be anointing yourself. You will be consecrating your own submission. Each time you make yourself come, you will be driving my control deeper into you. You will be worshipping me with your body. And you will feel this…”
His free hand drifted down, his fingers hovering just over the juncture of her thighs. She was mindless, blank, yet her body arched infinitesimally towards his touch, a silent plea from a consciousness that was no longer home.
“…this incredible, mind-numbing pleasure, and you will know… it is the seal of my ownership. It is my claim on you, flowering from within. Your pleasure belongs to me. Your orgasms are my creations. And your obedience…”
He paused, letting the anticipation build in the hollowed-out space of her mind.
“…is my greatest masterpiece.”
Another shudder, stronger this time. A slick, warm dampness began to bloom against the fabric of her skirt, her body reacting to his words on a primal, programmed level.
“You will wake up feeling more serene than ever. You will carry this knowledge like a precious secret. And the thought of your next session… the thought of coming back to this room, to me… will be the thing you crave above all else.”
He began the soft count to three. On “two,” he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his final command a ghost of a breath.
“Now, good girl… touch yourself for me. Right here. Show me how deeply my control has taken root.”
Her eyes fluttered open. She was calm, centered, a beatific smile on her face. She looked at Draco, who was now seated opposite her, his expression one of placid professional interest. The command echoed in the warm, receptive heart of her, feeling as natural and essential as breathing.
Without a shred of hesitation or shame, Hermione’s hand slid smoothly beneath the hem of her skirt. Her eyes remained locked on his, glazed with a docile bliss, as her fingers sought the slick, aching flesh he had commanded her to claim.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her as she found her clit, already swollen and eager. “Oh…” Her breath hitched, the sound barely audible but charged with a raw, unfiltered need. Her fingers moved with an instinctive rhythm, slow and deliberate, as if they were tracing the contours of a sacred artifact. Her body responded instantly, a warm flush spreading from her core to the tips of her toes, her thighs trembling with the effort to stay still under his watchful gaze.
Draco’s eyes never left hers, his expression a mask of calm authority that belied the intensity of his focus. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him, exuding an air of effortless control. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, like a caress against her skin. “Let me see how deeply you feel it. How deeply you belong to this moment.”
Her lips parted, a faint whimper escaping as her fingers pressed harder, circling her clit with a practiced ease that felt both familiar and entirely new. A shiver ran through her, her hips lifting slightly off the chair as the pleasure began to build, a slow, molten tide rising within her. She could feel his presence towering over her, even though he hadn’t moved, his control wrapping around her like an invisible embrace. “Yes,” she breathed, her voice trembling, her eyes glazed with surrender. “It’s… it’s you… it’s all you…”
“Every touch,” he said, his tone measured but dripping with command, “is a testament to your submission. Every gasp, every tremble—they are mine. Your pleasure is a gift to me, Hermione, and you are giving it so beautifully.” His words hung in the air, weighty and intoxicating, weaving themselves deeper into the fabric of her consciousness.
Her movements grew more urgent, her breath coming in shallow gasps as the sensations intensified. Her free hand gripped the arm of the chair, her knuckles whitening as she tried to anchor herself against the overwhelming tide of ecstasy threatening to pull her under. The room seemed to dissolve around her, leaving only his voice, his gaze, and the relentless throb between her legs. “I can’t—” she started to say, her voice breaking, but he cut her off with a single word.
“Yes, you can,” he commanded, his voice firm yet tender. “You will. For me.” It was a demand and a promise wrapped in one, and her body obeyed without hesitation. The coil inside her tightened unbearably, her entire being focused on the sweet, aching pressure building at her core. And then, with a shuddering cry, she came undone, waves of pleasure crashing over her in relentless succession, each one more intense than the last.
As she rode out the aftershocks, her body trembling and spent, Draco finally leaned forward, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Perfect,” he purred, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Every part of you is perfect when you surrender.” She could only nod weakly, her mind still hazy with bliss, her body utterly pliant under the weight of his approval. She was his. And in that moment, there was no greater truth.
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Hermione's Sleeping Habits