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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter 5 - Healed
The door to Draco’s office clicked shut behind her, sealing her in the sandalwood-scented sanctuary. Her fingers, moving with a practiced efficiency that felt both automatic and deeply satisfying, went to the buttons of her blouse. There was no hesitation, no thought. The fabric whispered away from her skin, pooling on the floor with her skirt and bra. Her knickers, the delicate, enchanted thong that had been her constant, tormenting companion all day, were the last to go. She stepped out of them, naked and exposed, and stood before him.
He was seated behind his desk, watching her undress with a lazy, possessive gleam in his storm-grey eyes. A slow, devastating smile spread across his face.
“My perfect slut,” he purred, his voice a low thrum that vibrated deep in her chest.
The words were a key in a lock. A sharp, sweet spasm of pleasure, a mini-orgasm, clenched her core, making her knees buckle slightly and a soft, breathy sigh escape her lips. The sensation was instantaneous, a hardwired physiological response to his praise. Obedience is pleasure.
He didn’t move from his chair, simply steepled his fingers. “You have been so very good, my slut.”
Another wave, another perfect, shuddering climax, this one making her toes curl against the Persian rug. A faint sheen of sweat bloomed on her skin. “Thank you, Master,” she breathed, her voice already hazy with bliss.
“Tell me about your day,” he commanded, his gaze dropping to her naked form, drinking in the sight of her flushed skin and the slight tremble in her thighs. “How was work for you?”
She didn’t hesitate. The compulsion to report, to please him with the details of her obedience, was a palpable force. Her voice was clear, though laced with a submissive, dreamy quality. “This slut’s day was productive, Master. This slut filed three reports on cursed artifacts without error. This slut attended a briefing with Robards and offered two strategic insights that were well-received. This slut felt the toy you gifted her every moment, a constant reminder of your ownership. It was… distracting. This slut had to focus very hard to appear professional.” A faint, proud smile touched her lips. “This slut was very good. This slut did not come.”
Draco’s smirk was one of pure, unadulterated triumph. “I know you didn’t. I would have felt it.” He rose then, a fluid, predatory motion, and circled her. His fingertips trailed lightly over the curve of her shoulder, down her spine, making her shiver. “Such a good, clever girl. Holding that edge for me all day. You must be aching for it.”
“This slut is always aching for you, Master,” she whispered, her head tilting back as he moved behind her.
He guided her to the familiar armchair, the same one where her transformation had begun. “Sit.”
She obeyed, sinking into the soft leather. The cool material was a shock against her heated skin, a delightful contrast. She kept her legs parted, her posture open and waiting, a display of utter trust and submission.
Draco stood before her, his gaze searing. He was still fully dressed, the fine wool of his trousers a stark contrast to her naked vulnerability. The power differential was a tangible thing, a heady aphrodisiac. He placed a hand on her knee, his touch cool and commanding.
“After such exemplary behavior,” he murmured, his thumb stroking circles on her inner thigh, “you’ve earned a reward. You may come.”
The permission was a detonation. The coil of tension that had been wound tight inside her for hours, days, weeks, finally snapped. A raw, guttural scream was torn from her throat, so loud and visceral it felt it must be echoing through the Ministry itself. “Thank you, Masterrrrrrr!” Her body bowed off the chair, back arching violently as the orgasm ripped through her. It was a cataclysm of release, waves of blinding, mind-wiping pleasure crashing over her one after another, her channel clenching around the emptiness in a frantic, rhythmic pulse. Her grunts and cries were animalistic, primal sounds of surrender.
He watched, enthralled, as she convulsed in the chair, his perfect creation unraveling beautifully under his command. Only when the last shudder had subsided, leaving her boneless and panting, did he move.
With deft, efficient motions, he unbuckled his belt and pushed his trousers and briefs down just enough to free his cock, already hard and eager. He grasped her hips, pulling her to the very edge of the armchair. He didn’t bother with preliminaries; they were far beyond that. Taking himself in hand, he guided his length through her slick folds, coating himself in her release, before thrusting into her in one smooth, deep stroke.
She cried out, a hoarse sound of pure satisfaction, as he filled the emptiness he had so meticulously cultivated. He set a brutal, possessive pace from the start, his grip on her hips iron-tight, each powerful thrust driving the breath from her lungs. The chair creaked in protest under their combined weight and force.
“This cunt belongs to me,” he growled, his voice rough with his own building need. “This pleasure is mine to give. Your screams are mine to claim.”
“Yours! All yours, Master!” she sobbed, her nails digging into the leather arms of the chair, her head thrown back in ecstasy. The friction was exquisite, the feeling of being so utterly filled and claimed washing away the last remnants of Hermione Granger, leaving only his blissful, compliant slut.
He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more erratic. She could feel the tension coiling in his body, the telltale tightening of his muscles. He was close.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his rhythm never faltering.
Her glazed, pleasure-drunk eyes fluttered open to meet his fierce, stormy gaze.
“You will come with me,” he panted, the words a guttural order. “The moment I spill inside you, you will fall apart for me again. Now, slut. Now!”
His final thrust was deep, a punctuation mark of ownership as he emptied himself into her with a low, triumphant roar. The sensation of his hot release triggering her own, second, cataclysmic orgasm, as he had commanded. Her vision whited out, a silent scream on her lips as her body milked his, convulsing around him in perfect, obedient synchrony.
They stayed like that for a long moment, joined and breathless. He finally softened and slipped out of her, and she slumped back into the chair, utterly spent. A profound, dopey smile spread across her face, her eyes rolling back until the whites showed, a picture of completely sated, mindless bliss.
Draco tucked himself back into his trousers, his own breathing slowing. He looked down at her, at the beautiful wreck he had made of the brightest witch of her age.
She looked up at him, her expression one of pure, adoring devotion. “Thank you, Master.”
*
The cool, dark silk of the blindfold was a familiar comfort now, a promise of the sensory world he was about to construct for her. Hermione stood in the center of his hidden room, her wrists secured in the velvet-lined manacles that hung from a chain above her head. The position forced her onto her toes, elongating her body, presenting herself. The air was cool on her naked skin, raising goosebumps.
She heard the soft click of a glass vial. Then, a new sensation, so shocking she gasped. A cube of ice, perfectly smooth and impossibly cold, traced a path from her collarbone down to her navel. Her back arched, a sharp hiss escaping her lips as the freezing trail ignited every nerve ending it passed. The cold was a bright, painful sting, and just as she began to shudder from it, it was gone.
A different heat followed in its wake. Not the heat of his hand, or even a flame. It was a magical heat, dry and focused, like holding her hand over a candle without the flame. It followed the exact path the ice had taken, a wave of soothing, penetrating warmth that sunk deep into her muscles, banishing the chill and leaving a tingling, hyper-sensitive awareness in its place.
Draco said nothing. He simply alternated. Another searing trail of ice down the outer curve of her breast, making her cry out and strain against the cuffs. Then the magical fire, chasing it, making her moan as the pleasure-pain ignited a throbbing need between her legs. Ice on the inside of her thigh, so close to her core she jerked violently. Fire blossoming there, so intense she was sure she’d climax from that alone.
Her world narrowed to the anticipation of each new sensation, her entire being focused on the next point of contact. She was panting, whimpering, a live wire of overstimulated nerves.
“What do you think this is about, Hermione?” His voice was calm, conversational, a stark contrast to the torment he was inflicting. The ice circled a nipple, tightening it into a hard, aching peak.
“P-pleasure, Master,” she gasped, her head lolling.
“A component,” he conceded. The fire washed over the same nipple, and she screamed as the sensation magnified a hundredfold. “But incomplete. The ice is a shock. A reminder of vulnerability. The fire is the reward for enduring it. It is the cycle of service. Discomfort, and the profound relief found in obedience. But there is more.”
He left her hanging there, sensing his movement around her. The silence and the lingering, heightened sensitivity of her skin was its own torture.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice suddenly right in front of her. “What else do you think it means to be a slave? Not just my patient. Not just my slut. My slave.”
Her mind, fogged with pleasure and pain, scrambled for an answer that would please him. “To… to serve. To obey.”
“Again, true. But superficial.” His fingertips, blessedly normal-temperature, brushed her cheek. “A slave’s purpose is to please her Master. In all things. In every way. This includes her very appearance. It is a reflection of my taste. My ownership.”
The ice touched her lower lip, and she instinctively opened her mouth, her tongue darting out to taste the cold. He pushed the cube in slightly, and she sucked on it, the act feeling lewd and submissive.
“I have a particular… aesthetic,” he continued, his voice dropping into that hypnotic register that she felt in her soul. “A perfect sex kitten. Always poised. Always elegant. But with a promise of filth beneath the surface. A sleek, beautiful pet, perpetually ready to be used.”
He removed the ice cube and replaced it with two fingers, sliding them into her mouth. She sucked on them obediently.
“You will take pride in your appearance, for it is my preference made manifest,” he murmured, the words weaving into the fabric of her consciousness. “You will see your face in the mirror and you will think, ‘Does this please my Master?’ Your wild hair will be tamed, not to hide its beauty, but to showcase it. Your skin will be flawless. Your lips will be red and inviting. You will learn the art of makeup not for the world, but for me. To be the perfect image of elegant, classy readiness. A kitten in silk, whose only thought is to be a pretty thing for my enjoyment. To look… fuckable.”
The word, paired with the intensity of his gaze she couldn’t see, sent a fresh gush of warmth between her legs. A phantom pulse echoed from the enchanted thong she wasn't currently wearing.
“This knowledge will feel natural to you,” he whispered, his lips now at her ear. “An idea you’ve always had. A desire to be more attractive, more alluring. You will feel a new confidence. A lethal kind of beauty. You will walk through the Ministry and know that you are mine, and that your very aura is a signal of my ownership. You will enjoy the compliments of others, because you will know they are admiring my handiwork.”
He bit her earlobe, not hard, but enough to make her jolt. “Do you understand, kitten?”
The new term of endearment landed like a physical caress. “Yes, Master,” she breathed, her voice thick with submission and a dawning, exciting new purpose.
He released the manacles. She collapsed forward, her trembling legs unable to hold her, but he caught her easily, sweeping her into his arms. He carried her to the bed, laying her down on the cool silk. The blindfold remained.
His possession of her then was slow. Deep. A claiming that felt like a seal on everything he had just imprinted upon her. Every thrust was a punctuation mark on his commands. She came with a soft, broken cry, her body accepting his ownership inside and out.
When she awoke the next morning in her own bed, the memories of the session were a pleasant, sensual blur. But one thought was crystal clear, vibrant and exciting. She felt a sudden, intense desire to look… different. To look perfect.
At her vanity, her hands moved with a new assurance. She tamed her curls not into a strict bun, but into a sophisticated cascade that framed her face, a few artful strands left free. She applied makeup with a deftness she didn’t know she possessed—a touch of charcoaled kohl to accentuate her eyes, a swathe of crimson to make her lips look like a sin waiting to be committed. She felt a thrill, a powerful, feminine confidence.
From her wardrobe, she selected a dress she hadn’t worn in years. It was a sleek, dark green sheath of charmeuse silk, sinfully clingy, with a neckline that plunged just to the edge of propriety. It felt amazing against her skin. She pulled her Auror robes over it, a secret of silk beneath the wool.
Walking through the Ministry felt like a revelation. Her heels clicked with a new authority. She held her head higher. She felt eyes on her—not the usual glances at the Brightest Witch, but looks of open admiration, of masculine interest she’d always brushed aside. Today, she met them with a small, enigmatic smile. You are admiring my Master’s property, she thought, and the idea sent a secret thrill through her.
“Merlin’s beard, Granger,” a passing wizard from the Magical Games department stammered, nearly dropping his stack of Quidditch posters. “You look… wow.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a low, confident purr. The compliment warmed her, just as Draco had said it would.
She reached her desk, the memory of yesterday’s torment a distant echo. Robards stepped out of his office, his rugged features set in their usual stern expression. His piercing eyes scanned her, did a double-take, and lingered. A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face, transforming his commanding demeanor into something decidedly more… seductive.
“Well, now,” Robards said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor. It was a sound that carried weight, the kind of tone that made even the most seasoned Aurors straighten their posture. His piercing gaze lingered on her, sweeping from the artful cascade of her tamed curls to the crimson curve of her lips, down to the hint of silk peeking from beneath her Auror robes. “Somebody’s had a good weekend. You’re glowing, Granger. That new look is… lethal.”
He leaned against her doorframe, his muscular frame blocking the light and casting a shadow that seemed to envelop her. The faint scent of his cologne—something earthy and commanding—drifted toward her, mingling with the authoritative aura he always carried. His smile was slow, almost predatory, but there was an undercurrent of genuine appreciation in it. “Almost makes a man forget you’re the best Auror on my team.” His eyes dipped again, lingering just long enough to make her pulse quicken. “Almost.”
Hermione felt a flush of warmth spread through her chest, but not from embarrassment. It was the kind of warmth Draco had promised—the kind that came from knowing she was being admired, that her efforts to embody his vision were succeeding. She tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a small, enigmatic smile. “That’s quite the compliment, sir,” she purred, her voice low and smooth. “Though I assure you, my focus remains firmly on my work.”
Robards chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Granger. But there’s no harm in admitting you’ve got a bit of a… distraction factor now.” He pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, his presence filling the space around her. “You’ve always been brilliant. Now you’re downright magnetic. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been holding out on us.”
She laughed softly, the sound laced with a confidence that felt foreign and exhilarating. “Perhaps I’ve just decided it’s time to embrace all aspects of myself,” she replied, her words carefully chosen to deflect while still leaving room for interpretation. Inside, though, she reveled in the way his gaze lingered, the way his voice carried a tinge of something more than professional admiration. You are admiring my Master’s property, she thought again, the idea sending a secret thrill through her veins.
Robards studied her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable but his eyes alight with curiosity. “Well, whatever the reason,” he said finally, stepping back but keeping his gaze locked on hers, “it suits you. Keep it up, Granger. Just don’t let it interfere with your edge.” He turned toward his office but paused, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. “Though I have to admit, it’s nice to see you embracing… something other than work for a change.”
As he disappeared into his office, Hermione felt a ripple of satisfaction. The encounter had been brief, but it left her feeling powerful in a way she hadn’t anticipated. The best Auror on his team, she thought, her smile widening as she settled into her desk. And now, something more—a sleek, elegant pet, every inch of her bearing the mark of Draco’s ownership.
*
The air in his office was different today. The usual scent of sandalwood and power felt charged, anticipatory. Hermione stood before his desk, her posture one of placid readiness, awaiting his command. Her mind, once a whirlwind of plans and anxieties, was a still, clear pool. A perfect reflection of his will.
Draco did not smile. He did not command her to undress. He simply watched her, his storm-grey eyes tracing the lines of her face with an intensity that felt… new. It wasn't the look of a Master surveying his property. It was the look of a man assessing a great and terrible risk.
“Sit, Hermione,” he said, his voice softer than usual, devoid of its commanding edge.
She obeyed, settling into the patient’s chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The silk of her new, sleek dress whispered against the leather. Her tamed curls brushed her shoulders. She was the picture of the elegant ‘sex kitten’ he had crafted.
He did not take his seat behind the desk. He paced slowly in front of her, a caged panther. “The work we have done… the progress you have made… it is substantial. Your sleep is perfect. Your focus at the Ministry is unparalleled. You are, by every metric, healed.”
“Thanks to you, Master,” she said, the title flowing from her lips with the ease of a breath.
He stopped pacing, turning to face her. A flicker of something—regret? conflict?—passed over his sharp features. “Is it, though?” He paused, choosing his words with a care she hadn’t seen in him before. “The mind is a fragile ecosystem. A healer can introduce a new species to restore balance. But if that species becomes too dominant… it chokes out everything else. It becomes the only thing that can survive there.”
Hermione tilted her head, a faint line of confusion marring her smooth brow. “I don’t understand, Master. The… the peace… it feels so natural.”
“It is a graft, Hermione,” he said, his voice low and serious. “A beautiful, thriving graft. But it is not the original tree.” He took a step closer, his gaze boring into hers. “I want to show you. I am going to wake her up. The you from before. Just for a moment.”
Her heart, so placid moments before, gave a sudden, hard thump against her ribs. A primal fear, the fear of a slave facing the unknown, lanced through her. Wake her up? The thought was terrifying. That version of her was weak, fractured, insomniac. That version did not know the bliss of surrender.
“Master, please,” she whispered, a note of pleading entering her voice. “This version of me… she serves you. She is happy. Why would you want—?”
“Because I cannot keep you this way,” he interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. “Not forever. It is… unsustainable. For me.” He admitted it quietly, as if the words cost him. “Nox Veritas.”
The trigger phrase was not one she recognized. It was not a key to a deeper level of submission. It was a lock being picked.
A dizzying disorientation washed over her. It was like surfacing from a deep, warm ocean into a cold, blindingly bright atmosphere. She blinked, her hand flying to her temple as a headache, forgotten for weeks, began to pulse behind her eyes. The serene pool of her mind was suddenly muddied, swirling with conflicting currents.
She looked around Draco’s office, her eyes wide. The last clear memory she had was of frustration, of begging him to let her come. Everything after was a sensual, blissful, submissive haze. A beautiful dream.
“Wha… what did you do?” she breathed, her voice her own again—laced with intelligence, with suspicion, with the sharp edge of Hermione Granger.
Draco reached into a drawer and withdrew a hand mirror with a simple silver frame. He held it out to her. “Look.”
Hesitantly, she took it. The woman staring back was… a stranger. Her hair was tamed into a chic, sophisticated style. Her makeup was flawless, accentuating her eyes, making her lips look like a painted promise. The dress she wore was elegant, expensive, and clung to every curve in a way her old, practical skirts never would. She looked… radiant. Confident. Lethal.
“This is you,” Draco said softly. “This is the woman who has been sleeping eight hours a night. The woman whose reports are pristine. The woman who walks through the Ministry and commands a room without saying a word.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “The woman who came to me broken, and who I made whole. But I made her whole… my way.”
The pieces clicked into place with a horrifying, devastating clarity. The docile obedience. The instant, physical response to his praise. The title ‘slut’ that brought her to her knees with pleasure. It wasn’t a choice. It was conditioning. The most complex, intimate, and violating spellwork she had ever encountered.
She dropped the mirror onto the rug, her hands trembling. “You… you rewrote me.” The accusation was a whisper, choked with betrayal and a dawning, awful understanding.
“I gave you what you asked for,” he corrected, though his gaze held a trace of shame. “Peace. I just dictated the terms.” He gestured to her. “Look at you, Hermione. You are healthier than you have ever been. The circles under your eyes are gone. Your magic is settled. You are thriving.”
She was. And that was the most terrifying part. The evidence was in the mirror. The proof was in the deep, restful sleep she now took for granted. Her body, her mind… they were better. But at what cost?
“Why are you telling me this now?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Draco took a deep breath. The arrogant Healer, the possessive Master, was gone. In his place was just a man, looking more vulnerable than she had ever seen him. “Because the graft has taken too well. The slave is all there is. And I find… I do not want a slave.” He met her eyes, his grey ones earnest. “I want a partner. I want you. The brilliant, infuriating, brave Hermione Granger… and the devoted, sensual woman I helped you discover. I want to merge them. To let both exist together. To let you keep your health, your peace, your sleep… but to let you decide what to do with it.”
He stood and walked around the desk, kneeling before her chair so they were eye-level. It was a gesture of profound humility. “I am asking you… to be my girlfriend. To let me court you. Not as your Master, but as Draco. And to let me perform one last, delicate procedure. To weave your two selves back together. You would not always be thinking of me. You would be your own woman. But the parts of her… the confidence, the pleasure, the peace… they would be yours to command.”
Hermione stared at him, her mind reeling. The conflict was a physical pain. The part of her that was still the slave was screaming in panic at the thought of losing his direct control, of the haze of devotion lifting. The part that was Hermione Granger, Auror, war heroine, was horrified by the violation, and yet… dazzled by the results. And intrigued by the man kneeling before her, offering not ownership, but love.
“I… I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It’s too much. It’s all too much.”
Draco’s face fell, a frown marring his perfect features. It was a small thing, a fleeting expression.
But the slave in her, the part that was still deeply connected to him, saw it and panicked. Her Master was sad. She had displeased him. A whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it. “No, don’t—don’t be upset. Please.”
The reaction was visceral, automatic. She reached out, her hand trembling, and cupped his cheek. The touch was electric for them both.
He looked up at her, surprise in his eyes. She saw the conflict within herself reflected in his gaze.
“I’m so conflicted,” she admitted, the words tumbling out. “But… you’ve only ever helped me. Even… even this.” She gestured vaguely, encompassing the entirety of his manipulation. “You pulled me out of a hell I couldn’t escape. I am healthy. I am happy. That day in your office, when I surrendered…” A blush heated her cheeks, a real one, not one of arousal but of remembered, shocking honesty. “I was honest. I had never felt such pure relief. Such rightness.”
She took a shaky breath, her decision crystallizing not from logic, but from a deep, fused well of emotion—her own gratitude and his programmed devotion working in tandem. “I want to merge. I want to try.”
Draco’s eyes searched hers. “Are you sure, Hermione? There is no turning back from this. I do not know what we will find at the end of this tunnel. It is uncharted magic.”
She nodded, her resolve firming. “I was honest then. I’m honest now. I want to see what’s at the end of the tunnel with you.”
A slow, true smile spread across his face, one devoid of manipulation or triumph. It was a smile of sheer, unadulterated relief and hope. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.
It was not the claiming kiss of a Master. It was the tentative, passionate kiss of a man kissing the woman he loved for the first time. It was soft, searching, and it held the promise of a future.
When he pulled away, his eyes were bright. “Then let’s begin.” He rose and moved to his potions cabinet, selecting vials of shimmering liquid. “This will blend the conscious and the subconscious. The warrior and the lover. You will feel… everything. The weight of all you were, and all you have become.” He began mixing them in a crystal goblet, the potion emitting a soft, pearlescent glow. “It will be intense. You must drink it all.”
He turned, the filled goblet in his hand, its contents swirling with galaxies of light. He offered it to her.
Her hand was steady as she reached for it.
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Hermione's Sleeping Habits