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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 3 - Anything
The warm, sandalwood-scented air of Draco’s office felt like a homecoming. Hermione settled into the armchair, her posture relaxed, her hands resting easily on her thighs. The faint, constant hum of arousal that had become her new baseline seemed to intensify here, as if the room itself were vibrating in tune with her submission.
Draco watched her, his storm-grey eyes missing nothing. He didn’t reach for his quill. “Your sleep, Hermione,” he began, his voice a smooth, familiar cadence that coiled around her like a silken rope. “Tell me.”
A shy, uncharacteristic smile touched her lips. She looked down at her hands, then back up at him through her lashes. “It’s been… transformative. I feel more rested than I ever have.”
“And the dreams?” he prompted, leaning forward just a fraction, his presence expanding to fill the space between them.
“Not dreams, exactly,” she murmured, her voice soft. “More like… feelings. A sense of… of surrender.” She took a shaky breath, the confession feeling both terrifying and liberating. “I’ve been thinking… perhaps what I need… what I truly crave… is to surrender completely. To a… Master.”
The word hung in the air, charged and potent. Draco’s lips curved into a slow, devastating smile. It wasn’t a Healer’s smile. It was the smile of a predator whose prey had just walked willingly into its den. “Go on,” he urged, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur.
Emboldened by his encouragement, the compulsion to please him overriding any lingering vestiges of doubt, she continued. “I’ve been thinking of you. Specifically. I trust you. I trust you with… with all of me. I want to fully surrender to you. My mind. My will.” Her blush deepened, a hot flush of heat that spread down her neck. “Everything.”
His gaze was molten silver, searing into her. “It’s perfect, Hermione. To be your anchor. To be the source of your peace. I don’t mind it at all. I am here to help you, in all means.” He made it sound like the most natural, noble purpose in the world. “You’ve made me so very proud.”
The praise washed over her, a wave of pure, chemical delight that made her shiver. She smiled, a beatific expression of utter contentment.
“Close your eyes now,” he commanded, his voice shifting into the hypnotic register that she felt in her very bones. “Let’s deepen this connection. Let’s explore this beautiful surrender.”
Her eyelids fluttered shut without protest. The world narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the scent of his skin.
“Nox Somnium.”
The trigger words were a soft click in her mind, a key turning in a well-oiled lock. Her body went pliant against the chair, her head lolling back, her lips parting on a silent sigh. Every conscious thought was gently extinguished, leaving only a dark, serene void, perfectly receptive to his voice.
He moved silently, standing behind her chair. His cool fingers brushed a curl from her forehead. “You are so perfect like this. So open for me. Your desire to surrender is the most beautiful gift. And I will reward it. I will show you a new depth of pleasure, one that is entirely mine to give.”
A soft, breathy sigh was her only response.
From his pocket, he drew a slender, polished mahogany wand. But it was not his own. It was shorter, smoother, with a subtle, pearlescent sheen. With a whispered, nonverbal charm, a low, resonant hum filled the silence, a vibration so deep it was felt more than heard.
“This is a new sensation, Hermione. A tool to amplify your obedience. To make your pleasure a physical, tangible thing that we can shape together.”
He gently guided her further back in the chair, until she was fully reclined, her legs falling open in a posture of complete vulnerability. The hem of her skirt rode up her thighs. The cool air against her bare skin was a shocking contrast to the heat building within.
He knelt beside the chair. The humming wand hovered just above the delicate, gossamer-thin fabric of her knickers. The vibration seemed to penetrate the cotton, a thrumming promise against her most sensitive flesh. A sharp, involuntary gasp tore from her throat. Her hips twitched, seeking the source of the sensation.
“Stay still,” he murmured, his voice a firm caress. “Your only task is to feel. To receive.”
He pressed the humming tip gently against her, right over the slick, aching nub of her clit.
The effect was immediate and electric. A bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure shot through her, so intense her back arched off the chair. A strangled cry, part shock, part ecstasy, escaped her lips. The vibration wasn't just on the surface; it seemed to travel deep into her core, resonating in her very bones, setting every nerve ending ablaze.
“This is the edge,” he explained, his voice a calm, instructional counterpoint to the storm he was unleashing in her body. “The precipice of release. You will learn to reside here. To feel the pleasure build, and build, and build, until you are breathless with it.”
He moved the wand in slow, torturous circles, the relentless hum lighting up her entire nervous system. The coil of tension in her belly wound tighter and tighter, a scream of need gathering force. Her breath came in ragged pants. She was climbing, faster than she ever had alone, hurtling towards a shattering peak.
Just as she felt herself begin to fracture, the sensation vanished.
The sudden absence was a physical agony. A desperate, broken whimper escaped her. Her hips bucked wildly, searching for the lost contact.
Draco’s low chuckle was a dark, thrilling sound. “Not yet. Your orgasms are not your own to take. They are mine to give. Every edge you experience is an offering to me. A testament to your devotion.”
He applied the wand again, and she sobbed with relief as the unbearable pleasure-pain flooded back, even more intense than before. He guided her up the dizzying slope once more, her body trembling violently, her fingers clawing at the arms of the chair. She was a live wire, every atom of her being focused on that one point of devastating contact.
And again, just as she was about to splinter apart, he pulled it away.
The cycle repeated. Up, and up, and up, to that terrifying, glorious brink. And then… nothing. Each denial was more exquisite torture than the last. Each time, the need became more frantic, more all-consuming. Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation slid from the corners of her closed eyes.
“Each time you touch yourself without my permission,” he whispered, his voice weaving through the haze of her need, “you will think of this. You will feel this desperate, empty ache. And you will know it is because you are craving my cock inside you instead. You are craving the fill only I can provide. Your body is learning its true purpose. To be empty without me. To be full only when I allow it.”
The words sank into her, layering over the physical torment, making it psychological, fundamental. Her whimpers became a constant, pleading mantra.
On the fifth edge, as she was mewling and thrashing, lost to everything but the desperate need for release, he finally granted it.
“Now, Hermione. Come for your Master.”
He pressed the humming wand firmly against her and curled his free hand over her mouth, muffling the raw, guttural scream that was torn from her soul as the orgasm detonated. It wasn’t a wave; it was a cataclysm. It ripped through her, convulsing her entire body, wiping out every thought, every memory, every shred of herself that wasn’t this blinding, shattering pleasure. It seemed to go on forever, endless waves of ecstasy wracking her frame, all given to her by him.
Slowly, gently, he removed the wand. Her body continued to tremble with aftershocks, utterly spent, drenched in sweat and her own release.
He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear as she floated in the blissful, hollowed-out aftermath. “You will forget these commands consciously. They will live deep within you, guiding you, shaping your desires. When you wake, you will simply remember a very productive, relaxing session.”
He began the soft count. “One… two…”
On three, her eyes fluttered open. She blinked, a serene, slightly dazed smile on her face. She felt wonderfully loose-limbed and calm, the way one does after a particularly satisfying meditation. There was a pleasant, slick warmth between her legs, but she paid it no mind, attributing it to the profound relaxation.
“That was… incredibly effective,” she murmured, stretching languidly like a cat.
Draco was back in his seat, the picture of professional composure. “I’m glad you found it beneficial. You’re making exceptional progress.”
She rose, a little unsteady on her feet, but feeling more centered than ever. “Until next time, Draco.”
“Until next time, Hermione.”
As she closed the door behind her, she licked her lips, a faint, lingering taste of salt and something else, something metallic and wild, on her tongue. She dismissed it. Just a nice session. Nothing more.
*
The frustration was a physical weight in Hermione’s chest, a tight, hot coil that had been burning for two unbearable days. She lay in her bed, the sheets tangled around her ankles, her lilac pyjama top damp with sweat. Her bare thighs were slick, her fingers tired and aching. The apex of her sex was swollen, hypersensitive, and throbbing with a need that refused to be satisfied.
Twenty times. She had lost count after a dozen, but the number twenty echoed in her mind, a monument to her failure. She had tried everything. Her own frantic fingers, circling and pressing until the sensation blurred into a numb, frustrating ache. Her favourite silicone vibrator, its buzz now an annoying irritant against her overstimulated nerves. Even the bewitched ivory dildo, charmed to mimic the exact texture and temperature of warm skin, had been useless. It had filled her, yes, a hollow, mechanical imitation that only made the emptiness inside her feel more profound.
Each time, the peak would approach, a glorious, shimmering promise of release. Her breath would hitch, her back would arch, her entire world would narrow to that single, brilliant point of impending bliss. And then… nothing. It would simply vanish, like a snitch darting away at the last second, leaving her gasping and empty on the precipice.
A choked sob of pure irritation escaped her. Her mind, traitorously, supplied the same image it had for every single attempt: Draco. Not his face, not his stormy eyes, but the imagined feel of him. The lean, powerful shape of him above her. The phantom weight of his body. The imagined, thick heat of his cock, a stark contrast to the cold, useless toys scattered around her.
It was maddening. Exhausting. With a final, defeated sigh, she gave up. She stumbled to the kitchen, drank a full glass of water with trembling hands, and collapsed back into bed, falling into a black, dreamless sleep out of sheer, frustrated exhaustion.
The next morning, the need was still there. It was a constant, low thrum in her blood, a distraction that made her skin feel too tight. It was utterly out of character. Her schedule was sacred. But the urge was a physical demand, more potent than any planner entry. Just a few minutes, she told herself, her hand already slipping under the waistband of her knickers as she sat on the edge of her bed. Maybe now, with a clear head…
She thought of him again. Of his commanding voice, his cool, assessing gaze. Her touch was more desperate this time, fueled by a night of deprivation. She rubbed frantic, tight circles, her breath coming in sharp gasps. The peak built, swift and certain this time. Yes, oh God, yes, finally— And again, it dissolved into nothing. A flat, empty sensation that was worse than no arousal at all.
She snatched her hand back as if burned. No. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong. A strange, icy clarity cut through the fog of her arousal. This was his doing. It had to be.
The workday was a special kind of torture. Every shift in her Ministry chair sent a whisper of fabric against her bare skin, a constant, teasing reminder of the need he had programmed into her. But now, instead of a secret thrill, it was a taunt. She snapped at a junior intern over a mis-filed report, her professional facade cracking under the strain of her own denied body. She needed answers. She needed him.
She didn’t floo. She didn’t owl. She simply apparated directly to the hallway outside his office, not caring about protocol. She burst through the door, her curls a wild mane around her flushed face.
Draco looked up from his desk, not at all surprised. His expression was one of cool, knowing amusement. “Hermione. I wasn’t expecting you until Thursday.”
“I can’t…” she started, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and raw, humiliating need. “I can’t… finish. It’s been two days. Nothing works. What did you do to me?”
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. A slow, predatory smirk touched his lips. “Perhaps you simply can’t come without my touch. The mind is a powerful thing. It can create blocks as easily as it can remove them.” He let the implication hang in the air between them. “Would you like me to try? To see if I can… unblock you?”
It was a blatant, arrogant admission. And she was too far gone to care. The frustration and the relentless, aching emptiness overshadowed every warning bell. “Yes,” she hissed, the word ripped from her. “Just… try. Please. I need to sleep.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly, rising with that fluid grace. “Your well-being is my primary concern. If you’ll permit me to touch you…?”
She nodded, a quick, jerky motion. “Anything.”
“Then undress for me.”
The command was delivered with such casual authority that she was moving before the words had fully registered. Her fingers, which had fumbled so uselessly on her own body, now worked with efficient haste. Buttons were undone. Her blouse fluttered to the floor. Her skirt followed. She stood before him, naked, her skin pebbling in the cool office air, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Now, lie on the daybed. On your back. Legs apart.”
She obeyed, the soft leather cool against her heated skin. She stared at the ceiling, at the abstract painting that seemed to swirl with her chaotic emotions. She heard him move, then felt his presence beside her. His scent of sandalwood and magic enveloped her.
His touch, when it came, was not what she expected. It was not the clinical, wand-assisted torment of their last session. It was his bare hand. His long, cool fingers trailed gently up the inside of her thigh, a whisper of contact that made her whole body tremble. He was a craftsman assessing his material. His thumb brushed over the needy, swollen flesh of her clit, and she jolted, a sharp cry escaping her lips.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his voice a dark melody. “Just feel. Let me work.”
And he did. His touch was masterful. He knew her body better than she did. He explored every fold, every secret, hypersensitive spot with an artist’s precision. One finger, then two, slid into her with effortless ease, curling inside her, finding a spot that made her see stars. His thumb continued its torturous, perfect circles on her clit. The pleasure built not in a frantic rush, but in a slow, inexorable tide, higher and higher, a flawless, overwhelming ascent. This was it. This was what she’d been missing. What only he could give her. She was panting, her hips moving against his hand of their own volition, begging silently for the release that was seconds away.
And then he stopped.
His hands withdrew completely.
The loss was a physical agony, a cold, devastating shock. The peak that had been moments away shattered into a million pieces of frustrated anguish. “No!” The word was a raw, desperate scream. “No, no, no! Please! Don’t stop! Let me cum, please, I need it, I’ll do anything!”
He looked down at her, his stormy eyes gleaming with absolute victory. His smirk was cruel and beautiful. “Anything?” he purred.
“Yes! Anything!”
“If you cum,” he said, his voice dropping to a hypnotic, possessive whisper that coiled in the air between them, “you’ll be mine. My devoted thing. My sex slave. Your mind, your body, your pleasure… they will belong to me, irrevocably. Do you understand the price?”
The last vestiges of Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of Her Age, the war heroine, screamed in silent protest. But she was drowned out by the frantic, primal thing he had created, a creature of pure, desperate need. She didn’t care about the price. She only cared about the reward.
“I don’t care!” she sobbed, thrashing against the leather. “I’ll be whatever you want! Just let me cum! Please, Master, let me cum!”
The title, begged from her lips, was the final key. His expression shifted into one of pure, ravenous triumph.
“As you wish.”
His mouth descended on her.
It wasn’t his hand that returned. It was his tongue. Hot, wet, and devastatingly skilled, it lashed her clit with a precision that bordered on violence. His fingers plunged back inside her, crooking, stroking that perfect inner spot. It was too much. It was everything. The orgasm didn’t build; it detonated. It was a supernova behind her eyes, a convulsing, screaming release that wracked her entire body, tearing a guttural, endless cry from her throat. It was not pleasure; it was obliteration. It was surrender.
When the last shuddering wave finally released her, she lay utterly spent, boneless, her vision swimming. Draco leaned over her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze possessive and satisfied.
Hermione blinked slowly, the crashing waves of endorphins and dopamine receding to reveal a new shoreline. The frustration was gone. The emptiness was gone. In its place was a warm, heavy, and utterly profound sense of… devotion. It settled over her like a favourite blanket, quieting the last whispers of resistance. She looked up at him, at her Master, and a serene, blissful smile touched her well-fucked lips.
Of course, she thought, the idea dawning with the clarity of absolute truth. This is where I belong.
*
The iron gates of Malfoy Manor groaned open not with a creak of disuse, but with a smooth, silent, magical hum that spoke of immense power and impeccable upkeep. Hermione stood just behind Draco, her hand enveloped in his. The immense, foreboding structure should have terrified her, a place of nightmares and remembered pain. Instead, a wave of profound calm washed over her. This was his home. Her Master’s home. Therefore, it was her sanctuary.
He led her through cavernous, opulent halls, their footsteps silent on polished black marble. Portraits of sneering Malfoys watched her pass, but their silent judgments were mere static against the roaring signal of his presence. He didn’t stop in a sitting room or a library. He led her directly to his personal chambers.
The door clicked shut behind them with a sound of absolute finality. The room was vast, dominated by a massive, canopied bed swathed in black silk and silver. A fire crackled in a grand hearth, casting dancing shadows that made the room feel alive, predatory. The air was thick with his scent—sandalwood, old books, and raw, masculine power.
Draco turned to her, his storm-grey eyes burning with an intensity that made her knees weak. “This is where you truly begin, Hermione. This is where the world falls away, and there is only obedience. Only us.” His voice was a low thrum that vibrated deep in her chest.
He didn’t ask. He simply guided her to her knees before him with a gentle, unyielding pressure on her shoulder. The plush rug was soft beneath her. Looking up at him from this position felt more natural than standing had ever felt. It was her place. He unbuttoned his trousers with deliberate slowness, his gaze locked on hers, a silent command to watch, to learn, to anticipate.
When he freed his cock, her breath hitched. It was exactly as she had imagined in her most secret fantasies—long, thick, and proud, a pale column of flesh crowned with a flushed, leaking tip. The scent of him, musky and primal, filled her nostrils, and a fresh wave of slickness soaked her own nakedness under her skirt.
“Your first duty in your Master’s house,” he murmured, his voice thick with promise. “Show me your devotion.”
He didn’t need to guide her head. She leaned forward, her curls brushing against his thighs, and took him into her mouth.
The taste of him was salty and clean, utterly intoxicating. She started tentatively, her tongue swirling around the broad head, exploring the silken-soft skin and the iron-hardness beneath. A low, guttural groan rumbled from his chest, a sound of pure approval that shot a bolt of lightning straight to her core. She moaned around him, the vibration making him hiss through his teeth.
“Yes, just like that, my perfect girl. Use that brilliant mouth for its true purpose.”
Encouraged, she took him deeper, her lips stretching to accommodate his girth. Her world narrowed to this single point of connection—the feel of him sliding over her tongue, the weight of him on her lips, the sound of his ragged breathing above her. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking firmly as she drew back, then plunging forward again, establishing a rhythm that had his fingers tangling in her hair, not to force her, but to anchor himself.
She lost herself in the act, in the worship of him. Her own pleasure was a distant, throbbing echo, secondary to the all-consuming need to please him. She could feel the tension coiling in his hips, the subtle jerks becoming more pronounced. The muscles of his thighs tightened under her hands. He was close. So close.
“Oh, fuck, Hermione…” he growled, his voice ragged. “I’m going to—”
She prepared herself, ready to accept his release, to swallow every drop of his pleasure as her reward. But just as the first pulse began to build at the base of his cock, his hands fisted in her hair and he pulled her off with a sharp, decisive yank.
She gasped, her lips swollen and wet, looking up at him in a daze of denied completion. His eyes were wild, blazing with a possessive fire.
“Not there,” he breathed, his voice a dark promise. “Not yet.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, he hauled her up from her knees and flung her onto the vast bed. Her back hit the silken duvet, and before she could even process the movement, he was on her, his body a heavy, welcome weight. He shoved her Ministry skirt up around her waist, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her—now utterly superfluous—knickers, tearing them aside with a shredding sound that made her cry out.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her slick, aching heat. He was everywhere, his scent, his weight, his power, overwhelming every one of her senses.
“This,” he growled, his lips against her ear, his voice raw and commanding, “is your reward for being a good girl.”
Good girl.
The words slammed into her with the force of a spell. Her entire nervous system, conditioned and primed by weeks of his careful work, exploded with sensation. Every touch, every sound, every sensation was suddenly magnified, dialed to an almost unbearable intensity. The slide of the silk beneath her, the heat of his skin against hers, the ragged sound of his breath—it was all too much, and yet not enough.
He drove into her in one long, relentless thrust, filling her completely, stretching her in a way her own fingers or toys never could. A scream, raw and unfiltered, was torn from her throat. “Oh, GOD!”
He didn’t pause. He set a brutal, punishing pace, fucking her with a wild, possessive abandon that stole the breath from her lungs. Each thrust was a claim, a branding. Her nails scrabbled at his back, finding purchase on the fine fabric of his shirt before digging into the hard muscle beneath. Her head tossed back and forth on the pillow, a litany of broken sounds falling from her lips—wordless cries, choked sobs, and his name, over and over.
“Draco! Yes! Oh, please!”
He leaned down, capturing one of her peaked nipples through her blouse with his mouth, sucking hard. The dual assault—the deep, pounding friction inside her and the sharp, exquisite pain on her breast—made her vision whiten at the edges. She was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough with his own building release.
Her eyes, blurred with tears of ecstasy, fluttered open to meet his fierce, stormy gaze.
“This pleasure is mine to give,” he panted, driving into her with deep, measured strokes that hit a spot inside her that made her see stars. “Your body is mine to command. Your screams are mine to claim. And you will always, always call me Master. Do you understand? Whenever you answer me, whenever you call for me, it is Master.”
The command, issued at the height of her sensitivity, woven into the fabric of her very being with each primal thrust, was an irrevocable truth. It was the final, perfect stitch in the tapestry of her submission.
“Yes!” she screamed, her body bowing off the bed as another shattering wave of pleasure crashed over her. “Yes, Master!”
Her surrender, her acceptance of the title, was the trigger for his own climax. With a final, guttural roar that was pure triumph, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep within her. The feeling of his hot release triggered a second, even more powerful orgasm for her, a convulsing, mind-blanking seizure of pleasure that left her sobbing and limp beneath him.
He collapsed atop her, his weight a warm, comforting anchor in the aftershocks. The only sounds in the room were their ragged breaths and the crackle of the fire. He shifted slightly, brushing his lips against her sweat-dampened temple.
“Again,” he murmured, his voice already thick with renewed hunger.
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Hermione's Sleeping Habits