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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
- 5
- 6
Chapter 6 - A Synergy
A sharp, sweet tremor, devastatingly familiar, clenched her core. Hermione’s eyes flew open as a soft, fractured gasp escaped her lips. Her back arched off the silk sheets of its own volition, riding out the tiny, perfect aftershock of a climax born not from touch, but from thought.
The final threads of the potion’s disorientation faded, the last wisps of a beautiful dream giving way to a hyper-lucid reality. Her mind, usually a meticulously organized library, now felt like a grand, open-air cathedral – vast, airy, and illuminated by a single, brilliant light. Every thought was crystalline. The war. The nightmares. The sleepless nights. The surrender. The training. The peace. The pleasure. It was all there, not as conflicting fragments, but as a harmonious, integrated whole. She was not two people vying for control. She was one. Entire.
She turned her head on the pillow. Draco was watching her, his storm-grey eyes intent, his expression unreadable but for a faint tension around his mouth.
“Did it work?” he asked, his voice a low, careful thrum in the quiet room.
Hermione’s lips curved into a slow, sultry smile that felt both utterly new and as ancient as sin. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lower lip, and she saw his gaze drop to track the movement. “Oh, it worked,” she purred, the sound a husky promise. “This slut is all yours, Master.”
The title, once a trigger, now felt like a choice. A delicious, earned privilege. Another tiny, answering pulse of pleasure fluttered through her. His eyes darkened, the storm in them gathering.
“Describe it to me,” he commanded, though his tone was softer, more curious than dominant. “Your thought process. What does it feel like?”
She shifted onto her side, propping her head on her hand, the black silk sheet pooling around her waist. Her free hand, seemingly of its own accord, drifted down her stomach. Her fingers traced idle, whisper-light circles on her lower abdomen, just above the thatch of curls. The touch wasn’t frantic or needy. It was… proprietorial. Appreciative.
“It feels like… coming home,” she began, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur. Her eyes never left his. “The part of me that was so tired, so fractured… she’s here. She remembers the war, the fear, the bone-deep exhaustion. But she’s… cushioned. Wrapped in this profound, unshakable calm. She knows she never has to face any of it alone again.”
Her fingers dipped lower, slipping through her curls. She sighed, a soft, contented sound, as her middle finger found her clit. She began to stroke it in a lazy, circular motion. Not to climax, but to feel. To connect.
“And the other part of me… the one you built…” She bit her lip, her hips giving a tiny, involuntary rock against her own hand. A soft moan escaped her. “Oh, Merlin… she’s here too. She’s not a separate thing. She’s the confidence I always pretended to have. She’s the permission to want, to take pleasure without guilt. She’s the part that sees you not just as my healer, or my…” she smirked, “…Master, but as the brilliant, infuriatingly handsome man who saw a broken thing and decided to make it a masterpiece instead of throwing it away.”
Draco’s breath hitched. He was watching her hand, his own fingers flexing where they rested on his thigh. He slowly, deliberately, brought his hand to the waistband of his trousers, palming the obvious, hardened length of himself through the fine fabric. A low grunt rumbled in his chest. “Uh… continue.”
The sight of him touching himself, spurred on by her words and her own touch, sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. Her circling finger pressed a little harder, a little faster.
“My thoughts are… integrated,” she breathed, her words starting to come between soft, panting sighs. “I can think about the precise wand movements for a complex healing charm… and in the same second, I can picture the exact curve of your cock… and wonder how it would feel to have you fuck me with it after I’ve perfected the charm… Oh! ”
She moaned, her eyes fluttering closed for a second as a particularly good stroke of her finger sent a jolt through her. She forced them open, locking onto his hungry gaze.
“It’s not a conflict. It’s a… a synergy. My intelligence serves my devotion. My bravery serves my submission. They’re the same thing now. Needing you… wanting to serve you… it feels as fundamental and as right as needing to breathe… or needing to learn.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, thick with awe and arousal. “It’s all just… me.”
Her hand stilled its motion, though she kept it nestled against her heat, savoring the throbbing aftermath. She was gloriously, achingly wet. She saw the muscles in Draco’s jaw clench. The air between them was thick enough to taste.
“So,” she said, her voice regaining a sliver of its old, Gryffindor boldness, now laced with a new, devastating sensuality. “Now that this slut has explained herself… may this slut serve her Master?”
Draco’s gaze was molten silver. He gave his length a slow, deliberate stroke through his trousers. “I still want to court you,” he said, the words seeming to cost him. “To take you on proper dates. To woo you.”
Hermione’s smirk returned, wider this time. She began to move, sliding down the bed with a sinuous grace that would have been impossible for the old Hermione. She stopped when her face was level with his groin.
“That can wait,” she murmured, her breath warm against the straining fabric of his trousers. Her fingers went to his belt buckle, working it open with an efficiency that spoke of her newfound confidence. “I am your slut first. Your girlfriend second.”
He raised an eyebrow, a spark of his old arrogance flashing in his eyes even as he lifted his hips to help her pull his trousers and briefs down. “It seems you’ve already decided to become my girlfriend.”
Her hand wrapped around his freed cock, and they both groaned at the contact. She leaned in, her lips a hairsbreadth from his throbbing length, her wild curls brushing his thighs.
“I don’t think anyone else could handle me now,” she whispered, her hot breath ghosting over his sensitive skin. “In my entirety.” She looked up at him through her lashes, her expression a mix of wicked challenge and utter devotion.
*
The taste of him was a revelation, a salty, musky flavor that was uniquely Draco and utterly intoxicating. Hermione took him deep into her throat, her eyes locked onto his stormy grey ones, refusing to look away. She could see the surprise there, the flicker of shock at her boldness, before it was consumed by a wave of pure, unadulterated lust. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking firmly as she drew back, then plunged forward again, taking him deeper and deeper with each bob of her head. Her throat relaxed, accommodating his length, a skill that felt both new and as natural as breathing.
A low, guttural groan ripped from Draco’s chest. His hands, which had been resting on the arms of his chair, came up to fist in her wild curls, not to guide her, but to anchor himself. “Fuck, Hermione. Look at you. Taking my cock like you were made for it.”
She moaned around him, the vibration earning another hissed curse from above. She was made for it. For him. The thought sent a fresh rush of wetness between her own legs. She increased her pace, her rhythm becoming more sure, more desperate. Her world narrowed to this singular point of connection—the feel of him sliding over her tongue, the weight of him on her lips, the raw, animalistic sounds of his pleasure.
“Is this what you wanted, Master?” she breathed, pulling off him for a moment, her voice husky and ruined. Her lips were swollen, glistening with saliva and his precum. “Is your slut pleasing you? Is she a good girl for surrendering like this? For obeying?”
The words were a litany of devotion, and they had their intended effect. Draco’s eyes blazed with a possessive fire. “You are my perfect slut,” he growled, the praise rough and heartfelt.
The word—slut—slammed into her like a physical blow. It was the key he had forged and she had accepted. A sharp, sweet, mini-orgasm spasmed through her core, an instantaneous, hardwired response to his chosen title. Her thighs clenched, a choked cry escaping her as she rode out the tiny, devastating wave of pleasure. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second before she forced them open, needing to see his face.
The sight of her climaxing from a single word was his undoing. With a snarl of pure need, his control shattered. His hands tightened in her hair, pulling her off him with a sharp, possessive yank. In one fluid, powerful motion, he surged from the chair and flipped her onto her back on the silk-covered bed, spreading her legs wide before she could even process the movement.
He buried his face between her thighs without preamble. His tongue was not gentle; it was a brand, a claim. He lapped at her hungrily, his nose buried in her curls, drinking in her scent. “So wet for me,” he muttered against her flesh, his voice muffled and darkly erotic. “All this… all for me.”
His tongue traced lazy, torturous circles around her clit, and Hermione’s back arched off the bed, a broken sob torn from her throat. “Oh, gods, Draco!”
“Master,” he corrected, his voice a dark hum against her most sensitive flesh. The vibration alone nearly sent her over the edge.
“Yes! Master! Please!” she cried, her fingers tangling in his platinum hair, not to push him away, but to hold him closer, to grind herself against his brilliant, wicked mouth.
He teased her relentlessly, his tongue flicking and sucking, while his fingers explored her dripping wetness. One finger, then two, slid into her with ease, curling upwards to stroke that perfect, hidden spot deep inside. The dual assault was unbearable. He was everywhere, his scent, his taste, his touch, overwhelming every one of her senses. She was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
“Are you happy like this, Master?” she begged, her voice pitching higher as his fingers pumped into her, scissoring, stretching. “Having your slut surrender? Having her obey?”
His answer was to suck her clit into his mouth, applying a devastating pressure that made her see stars. He released her with a pop. “I have never been happier,” he panted, his breath hot on her wet flesh. “You are everything.”
He drove her higher and higher, a master composer conducting the symphony of her pleasure. She could feel the climax building, a tidal wave of sensation gathering deep in her core, ready to shatter her. She was babbling, a stream of consciousness filled with pleas and praises and his name.
And then, suddenly, he stopped.
He pulled back, leaving her empty, aching, and trembling on the precipice. She whined, a sound of pure, animal need. Draco rose above her, his own breathing ragged, his cock hard and leaking against her thigh. He positioned himself at her entrance, his gaze fierce.
He drove into her in one long, relentless thrust, filling the emptiness completely. They cried out together, a single sound of perfect connection. He set a brutal, frantic pace, fucking her with a wild abandon that stole the breath from her lungs. It was raw, it was primal, it was everything.
It didn’t take long. The buildup had been too intense, the edge too sharp. With a final, guttural roar, Draco buried himself to the hilt, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep within her. The feeling of his hot release, the pulsing of his cock inside her, triggered her own orgasm. It ripped through 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, synced breaths. Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her.
Hermione lay boneless, floating in a sea of endorphins. But a tiny, insistent ache remained. A thrum of unmet need. The denial from his mouth had been its own exquisite torture, and her body remembered.
She turned her head on the pillow, nuzzling into his neck. “Master?” she whispered, her voice small.
He shifted to look at her, brushing a sweat-damp curl from her forehead. “Yes, my perfect slut?”
Another tiny tremor shook her at the name. “You… you own my orgasms.”
A slow, soft smile spread across his face. He kissed her forehead, her temple, the bridge of her nose. “That I do.” He shifted down the bed, his movements languid and tender. “Then let me take care of your orgasm, indeed.”
He settled between her thighs again, but this time, there was no frantic hunger. This was worship. He licked her with a fervent gentleness, with the skill of a sex god who knew every secret of her body. His tongue was devoted, tracing every fold, every sensitive nerve, lapping up their combined release. He focused on her clit, sucking it gently, rhythmically, coaxing the tension back to its peak with an infinite patience that made her want to cry.
Hermione moaned, her hips giving tiny, involuntary rocks against his mouth. The edge he was building was softer than before, but infinitely higher, an unimaginable threshold of pleasure. She could feel herself tightening, coiling, the pressure building to a critical mass.
Draco felt the change in her, the telltale flutter of her muscles around nothing. He lifted his head slightly, his lips glistening. His whisper was a hot promise against her slick flesh. “Come for me, Hermione. Come all over your Master’s face.”
The command, spoken with such possessive tenderness, was her undoing. Her orgasm exploded out of her, a white-hot burst of ecstasy that was somehow both violent and serene. A gush of release followed his words, and he didn’t pull away. He lapped at her, drinking her in, as she shuddered and screamed his name, her body convulsing under the relentless, gentle waves.
When the last tremor subsided, he kissed each of her inner thighs softly before moving back up to cradle her against his chest. He summoned a warm, damp cloth with a silent spell and cleaned her with a reverence that made her heart ache.
In the quiet aftermath, he held her close, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her back. “Thank you,” he murmured into her hair, his voice sincere.
She tilted her head up to look at him. “For what?”
“For your decision,” he said, his stormy eyes soft. “To accept me. To let me court you. To let me… change you. To merge you. It was a terrible risk. And you took it. For us.”
Hermione smiled, a genuine, contented smile that reached her eyes. She leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Well,” she whispered against his mouth, her voice full of a love and devotion that was now entirely, beautifully her own. “It’s my pleasure. I am your slut, Master.”
END.
- 5
- 6
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Hermione's Sleeping Habits