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Notes: The Re-establishment of Endangered Species	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 5048 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from anything in the Harry Potter universe -- stories, characters, settings, prior art.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
At (Truly) 40
It’s critically important to remember: the preserve should not become their permanent home. They belong in their native environments, not some magically cultivated high-end ‘zoo’. Some will never leave the confines of a protected area for good reasons. Nevertheless: no matter how attractive or well-meaning, a cage is still a cage.” — The Bureaucrat’s Guide to the Rehabilitation and Re-establishment of Endangered Species page 497
Leaves, crisp and sere, swirled madly about the pavilion as the sun relinquished the day to an aggressive moon who showered the Keep in creamy spectral light. Eventually their guests — those most cherished and battle-tested — bid their hosts adieu, snuggling sleepy young ones in their arms as they apparated home from the preserve.
Hours after enjoying fall foods and games galore (topped off by a huge cake with 200 candles — courtesy of Draco and Scorpius), the “secret" couple stood before the floo in Draco’s study, having returned their own brood to Hogwarts,

“You’re finally mine, Lioness.”
“Am I?” she purred, well aware of where the night could lead.

In slow motion he spun her ‘round, admiring the full breasts and curvaceous legs he’d memorized. She stared, half in terror of his next actions and half ravenous for them.

“Relax, Kitten…”

His lips alighted hers, lighter than dawn’s touch on a distant horizon and equally scalding. The sensation invoked remembrance of the “Imbolc kiss” — the actuation of her body that ignited one long night’s passion…
His kiss that night, desperate and forceful, had been snatched as the hourglass sprinted towards the end of the festival, the end of their stolen moments. He’d assaulted her mouth, dominating her response while crushing her lips against her teeth.
Her need for him flared, compelled by the ancient magic within the Imbolc circle of blessings. Thank the goddess she’d cast that contraception spell at the start of the ritual consecration. Neither had control or restraint left to stop this.
Sympathetic magic scorched the earth at their bare feet on the path — blazed into the ground by her power — to their private tent. Upon entering, her magic stripped her bare without breaking their contact — and terminated her contraception without conscious intent.
He’d initiated this witch into the realm of physical pleasure during their second year at uni. With Nott and Higgs on their “Hedonist Tour” for the holiday — their last bacchanalia before involuntary obligations to the pure-blood family companies — they'd had Higgs' villa to themselves. He’d taken his time — subjected her to hours and hours of attention — before her desperation drove her to plead for release; only then did he mount the witch and sear their hearts to one another, reciting Druid rites with each stroke, each touch, each release.
Their first Imbolc set a pattern for Druid celebrations until each graduated — and Draco married Astoria Greengrass, a doomed beauty of grace, intelligence, wit and compassion...
Their festival absences held until Astoria, pregnant and dying, gave permission to renew their bittersweet celebration of Draco's coming heir and his deep Druid heritage. His wife could never share another Druid holiday with him in this way.
Draco knew his witch’s body as well as he knew his own. He’d mapped her erotic areas at each precious encounter. Snogging her full and refined lips stoked the combustion pilot under her arousal. Done the right way at the right time, he could bring her to climax with just a sensuous kiss. While she appreciated attention to the skin of her face and neck, she ignited with attention to her ears — especially that tender spot just behind her perfect lobes.
Hermione loved a slow, patient climb to the precipice; if he took his time, she shattered when he pounded her, preferring that to his talented fingers or skillful tongue and lips on her personal flower. He used her lovely breasts — sporting a pair of uncommonly large and sensitive nipples — as remote controls for cranking up her craving.
She fit him, bespoke in length and just the right tightness for a man blessed by the Druids with ample assets. There was no need for careful stroking or partial entry into her when they found their rhythm; Hermione’s every ridge and ripple made him hard and kept him that way as his seed exploded out of him over and over again. Their last Beltane at uni saw him hard and coming for nearly six hours — a personal record he meant break in this tent.
Draco’d planned to convince her, with his head planted between her thighs, of the many ways to enjoy each other. But the gods of his ancestors had other plans for this offering…
Too drunk with desire to think straight, he forced her backwards — towards the tent’s feather-stuffed linen-sheeted mattress — while he frantically ripped his shirt off (buttons pitched and rolling everywhere) as she gathered enough wits to work at his trousers.
The haze of lust meant neither noticed their proximity to the bed and both fell when the edge caught the backs of her legs. He landed atop her, still encumbered by the trousers now ringing his ankles.
“I’m going to fuck you witless, witch.”
“Well,” she smirked, scrambling backwards to give him room to operate, “that will be new.”
Inside the hallowed confines, the tent was suffused with the scents of sex, intoxicating the lovers.
“Self-confident little cunt, aren’t you?”
Hermione’s addiction to dirty talk was known only to him; words reached out and lapped at her core.
“Dragon…”
Supported on his forearms, he kissed his way to her breasts — her erect tits quite prominent for a woman with no children. Each lick of his tongue reminded her of what was gone from her life — and her bed — since his engagement.
“You smell so good, Kitten. Good enough to eat.”
“Wait… What?”
Her query came too late for discussion. She felt his greater weight shift as his heaving chest pressed her into the makeshift bedding. The adjustment allowed him access to both breasts with only a slight head turn — and he greedily gave himself permission to indulge.
“Sweet, Circe!” Her groan squeezed the stretched skin ‘round his knob tighter, evoking a low growl at the exquisite discomfort the change caused.
“Tight-Tight-Tight…” he chanted as a distraction to his sac, already contracting in the wind-up to release.
Raising her knees, she angled herself up and against his cock where it lay trapped between them; the maneuver freed sufficient space for his headstrong spear to drop into place, straining towards her like a hound at leash. The sensation stimulated throbbing she could feel to the tips of her hair.
“You will be the death of me.”
“And you won’t of me?” he gasped.
With his staff playing at the entrance to all good feelings, he ground his hips into hers — and the mating magic of Imbolc accelerated her towards release.
“Draaaaagon!” was all she could manage as she was breached.
“Merlin’s balls, witch! Meant to taste you until you screamed but my cock’s lost patience with me,” and he’s pumping, thrusting for all he’s worth, Imbolc blessings and years of want bolstering his efforts.
The words carried the seduction to the seat of her arousal — her enormous brain. Words — laced with lust and love — always released her pent need during late nights at the villa during uni.
He’s built for her — goddess-built in feel, in “fit”; she’s wordless and brain-dead except for her magic; magic drove her to let go again and to take Draco with her this time.
“LIONESS!” he ejaculated, as if the shaggy-maned mascot were his own, and then released a stream of teeming, tingling, molten gel that does so much more than fill her.
When he collapsed upon her, endearing expletives expressing his opinions on what they’ve shared (and would again when he recovered moments later), her logical brain briefly revived and considered if caring this deeply could ever be wrong…

She returned from reverie and found herself carried, by the sinewy arms of a still virile man, into his bedchamber. Her feet landed lightly and he spun her slowly to face him.

Hands draped her rounded hips, pale thumbs lightly stroking her tummy. Draco’s expression recalled his scandalously stolen glances when he’d passed the recently married Ronald Weasleys in Diagon Alley; the looks at her expanding middle were covetous and unapologetic.

“The preserve needs a new manager…” he murmured, fingers soothing the exposed skin on her arms, making their way to her lovely neck.
“You carried me up those endless stairs to discuss this? Interesting seduction method.”

In slow motion he claimed her lips, softly tugging each to a slight pucker and ravishing them to a rosy glow. When she yielded, he languorously ended the kiss and spoke.

“Let Kingsley have the Ministry. Take over the preserve and stay with me.”

Stunned by his Slytherin machinations, Hermione took a step backwards, frustrated.

She’s pissed off, alright…

“So that’s your purpose? Fuck me into giving up my career to be your live-in sex toy?”
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Notes: The Re-establishment of Endangered Species