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In Control	By : Qestral Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 12455 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-In Control
- 1
In Control

This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

She's having a hard
time focusing on anything, especially when she can hear Ron and Harry
discussing sex in a tone that's struggling to be quiet and
unassuming. Struggling and failing, because while they've been
talking about it she's been hearing and trying not to think about it.
They sound conspiratorial, and every now and then an explanation of
some sexual action – Probably wrong, Hermione thinks
irritably, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs – makes one of
them exclaim and the other hush the first in a very unsubtle manner.

They don't talk to her about sex. They're sixteen, so she supposes
that it makes sense for neither of them to want to talk to a girl
about sex, even if it is Hermione and she already knows
all the important information. She's a girl, and that would just be
embarassing.

She bristles at this thought, building a mental argument against
their stupidity (“That's not nearly as easy as you make it
sound, even from a girl's perspective! You have to...”), and
after hearing Harry hush Ron for a slightly-too-loud “Bloody
hell!”, she slams her book shut and leaves the library.

“Children,”
she mutters under her breath.

Their discussion wouldn't have been so aggravating on most any other
day. She'd heard everything they said, even if they didn't think she
was listening. She could have corrected them, given them a technical
explanation, but since she doesn't think either of them can say the
word “penis” without giggling, she considers it a useless
idea to even try.

And she's very horny. Thinking about sex when she's like this will
only make the problem – and it is a problem – worse.

This happens every month, right before she starts menstruating. It's
something that happens to all women, the luteal phase, and Hermione
suspects that it's the only way the human race is able to carry on:
if women didn't get unbearably horny when they were postovulatory,
there would be an almost non-existent chance of propogating the
species.

Thinking about the rationale behind it from a biological point of
view doesn't actually help fix the problem. It does objectify it, and
for Hermione – who likes to think of things in a pragmatic way
– objectifying makes it easier to cope with.

She wanders the halls, wondering if she should go to the Gryffindor
common room to study, or find somewhere less obvious and get some
time alone. She just wants to study, she reminds herself, though
she's also considering privacy in case her desire gets to be too much
to handle. If it's interrupting her focus, then it's justifiable to
get herself off.

Rather than focusing on where to go, though, she realizes she's only
wandering, looking at her male schoolmates in contemplation. She
feels predatory, the way she eyes them from a safe distance.

Purely hypothetical, she assures herself, considering Justin
Finch-Fletchley in less than a second – a super-ability
bestowed on women. She sizes him up with less formality than most
people put into picking a bunch of bananas. For reasons she's only
dimly aware of as having basis in science – women are very
selective when choosing a mate, and judges quickly whether or not he
would make good offspring – she decides he's just “not
her type.”

Hermione hugs her books to her chest, and feels the corner of one
brush the tip of her breast. She wonders absently if anyone would be
surprised that, yes, books can turn her on.

She passes Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom, Colin Creevey, and a
disturbing number of underclassmen boys that make her uncomfortable
because as each one passes she thinks “Hmm...” instead of
“Absolutely not.” Every step she takes makes her thighs
rub together, and her knickers shift just enough to tease but not
feel even remotely gratifying.

It's just hormones, she thinks, passing Zacharias Smith and
giving him more thought than she would ordinarily think he deserves.
They make eye contact that lasts just a little too long. She
remembers his offer for a date “or something” sometime,
and some wicked little thing inside her is actually pausing to
consider taking him up on that.

“It'd just be
the one time,” the wicked thing tempts. “You wouldn't
have to do it again. Or he could be some sort of friend with
benefits...”

No! I will not even think about that!

Hermione takes a few deep breaths, trying desperately to not look at
any other students, but her peripheral vision is very sharp and she's
still catching herself thinking, “Hmm...”

She wishes there were some spell to ward against this need for sex,
the feeling that if she doesn't get some she's going to scream or cry
or hit someone or – worse – lose her self control and
jump the first thing with a penis she can find. She refuses to let
her judgment slip on this, and she struggles to stop entertaining the
thought of propositioning someone. Any other week, there would be no
difficulty; a boyfriend might be nice, but she didn't need one, and
she certainly didn't need sex. But oh, god, weeks like this were
murder for her self control. The temptation to lower or drop all
standards and inhibitions in the name of having raw, sweaty, loud sex
was almost overpowering. No quick lay would be satisfying; she wanted
and desperately needed to get fucked until she couldn't think
straight. Fucked until the world stopped making sense.

It was a ridiculous idea (she squashed the voice that added
“Especially considering who you have to choose from”)
that she should have anything like that available to her, muchless
actually need something like that specifically. She can wait
until night or until she finds a quiet enough spot to frig herself
into submission, to work that frustrating and ridiculous and
intrusive sexual desire out of her system.

What Hermione grudgingly acknowledges – every month, about the
same time – is how badly it scares her that some part of her
wants the world as she knows it to be dashed into nonsense by sex.
She knows how in charge of herself she is; her body and her mind is
all she can directly influence, and with that knowledge, she keeps a
very tight leash on herself. She makes allowances for what is
necessary from a biological standpoint (she can't control how much or
little sleep she needs, nor can she deny her sexual urges any easier
than she can change her hair color), but all else is kept in neat,
perfect order.

It terrifies and entices her that anything could make her want that
frame of mind to be shattered.

But I'll always have to come back to reality, she reminds
herself. Any choice made by sex-induced stupidity won't be erased
by temporarily destroying my ability to perceive logical thought.

Hermione realizes she's in a bad way, though, when she passes Draco
and thinks “Well maybe...”

Ohgod. She averts her eyes and walks faster, heels
tic-tic-ticing on the floor. This can't go on.

*

Hermione is only faintly aware she's not thinking clearly when she
returns to Gryffindor Tower and wishes for Ron to show up.

I could just give him some sexual pointers, she thinks. Some
hands-on sexual education. She pauses. Literally, even.
She contemplates where she might be able to get him alone for about
an hour, and how much 'material' she could teach him in that time,
and wonders if he'll have enough skill with his mouth at least to
make the experience worth her while. She wonders what his face looks
like when he orgasms, and whether or not he makes a lot of noise in
the process – yelling, or moaning, or maybe a sharp cry?...

A barely discernable but more grounded voice in her head cries, This
can't be a good idea! Don't do this!

He's a good friend, she argues back. He wants me anyway,
and if he could at least act like he's got emotional capabilities I'd
like him even more. I'm not doing this completely out of a desire to
get off, at least.

But her own reasoning doesn't sit well with her conscience, so when
Harry and Ron arrive in the common room, she looks at Ron and makes a
split-second decision.

Not like this.

This is not how she wants her first time with Ron – kissing or
fucking or anything even suggestive of being 'together' – to
end up. She doesn't want anything between them to start (or possibly
end as well) just because she's out of her mind for needing sex and
turns to him for help. In a twisted sort of way, maybe the show of
trust in him would make up for it; however, Hermione knows herself
well enough to know that she couldn't be happy starting a
relationship with anyone on these terms. Especially not with Ron; his
friendship means too much to risk on such a stupid gambit.

On the way out through the portrait hole, she tries to make some
excuse for rushing off so quickly. Nothing comes to mind or to mouth,
and as the portrait closes behind her she hears Ron say to Harry,
“What's up with her?”

Hermione hurries down the stairs and through hallways at an alarming
pace, tears building and throat constricting as she tries not to cry
from frustration. It's wrong to want to seduce one of your best
friends, and she knows this; how close did she just get to trying
anyway? She's angry at herself for letting hormones get the better of
her, and as horny as she is, she's not sure she can even get herself
off now. She's too outraged with herself to focus on frigging herself
properly.

This, she thinks angrily, is precisely why I want to be
fucked senseless. I won't have to think about who I'm fucking or what
the consequences are or anyone's opinions of anything. It'll just be
fucking without fucking up.

Stone floors and walls pass her, statues and portraits and tapestries
that she's not even paying attention to. Unconsciously, she seeks
dark and quiet, and she's not surprised when she finds herself in a
side hallway near the Slytherin dungeons.

It's chilly here, but she's grateful for it; moving so quickly and
being so upset and hot-and-bothered makes the cool air a welcome
relief. Hermione allows herself to just sit and cry properly (Crying
relieves stress and tension in adults) before taking several deep
breaths and reassessing her situation.

She's still horny. She's also still completely disinterested in
getting herself off – her thoughts are too scattered to make
even trying a helpful idea. Once again, Hermione thinks of Draco and
how good he might be (Pansy often spoke like she knew from
experience) and wonders if she could trick him into doing her if he
just so happens to wander in her direction. She shoots the idea down,
hoping that not thinking about it will at least not make the current
problem worse.

She thinks again about Ron, and this time she's horrified at how
close she was to destroying their friendship. She cries again, angry
with herself for even thinking of anything so stupid, and
guilt-ridden for even contemplating using Ron in such a manner.
That's all she'd be doing, too – using him. Ron might be
foolish and frustrating, but he's not just a tool for her to use as
she wishes.

On the way back towards the Gryffindor dormitories, Hermione passes
Draco in the hall. Her heart jumps in fear and preemptive regret, and
she's grateful she managed to collect herself before seeing him. He
sneers at her in an unfriendly way, and Hermione realizes she
probably still looks she's been crying.

Even though it's early in the evening, Hermione decides to go to bed.
It satisfies nothing, but there's a dim hope that all will be better
in the morning. She's exhausted by the time she gets to her dormitory
– crying, lots of walking and some running will have that
effect – and though her hand drifts to her knickers once she's
in bed with her curtains drawn, she only rubs in an unconscious and
disinterested manner. To actually get herself off would take more
energy than she feels she has at the moment, but the pressure is
enough to make her feel less manic as she slides into sleep.

*

They're only
having sex because it's convenient, and that's fine by her. She and
Draco pardon themselves from the rest of the company they're keeping
– some miscellaneous school acquaintances, no one particularly
important – and go to the next room. Hermione's aware that
they're in her house, but it's not really her house; too many levels,
and this is not her bedroom.

Even though it
is. Sort of.

It's no big
deal, though; she's getting naked, and he's getting naked, and
because she feels it's important to work up to the big moment, she
gives him a blow job. Just the thrill of sucking his cock is enough
to make her come, and she does as she swallows his. It's just a
dream, so she isn't disgusted by the taste.

Draco goes down
on her, too, and he puts her over the edge repeatedly. First just
with his mouth, his tongue licking with incredible pressure over her
clit and ohGOD does that feel so fucking good, the way he flicks it
back and forth and how his lips feel when he presses his mouth over
her and sucks. Then, when she's done screaming, he sticks his fingers
in and finds that right spot and rubs with just the right pressure
and uses his tongue on her clitoris again and she's coming and
screaming some more.

When they decide
it's time to fuck, she has him lay down on the floor. He's well
endowed, though she might just be dreaming. Hermione is so
unnecessarily concerned about whether or not he's using a condom,
which is silly since it's not real and they can use magic to prevent
pregnancy anyway, but she takes a few moments to make sure he's
properly 'wrapped'. Then she spears herself on him, and she can
barely move because her whole body is buzzing and singing with the
sensation of being fucked. He only moves his hips a little, but it's
enough to rub that spot inside of her and it keeps her coming again
and again and again and oh how she has wanted this, she doesn't even
need to think about it because it feels too good to concentrate on
anything but the feeling of raw, unconnected and delirious sex...

*

Hermione wakes up, and while she had been sleeping only a moment
before, the sudden wakefulness doesn't feel abrupt. It feels relaxed
and strangely refreshing. It's black outside, probably around one am,
and she's still very sleepy.

She smiles, though. It might be a ridiculous hour to wake up, even if
it's just for a few minutes, but she's pretty certain that the next
twenty-four hours will feel blissfully more sane than the last. She
delights in the human psyche's ability to compensate for a lack of
real, outward stimulus, especially on days and nights like this.
Maybe it's not really sex, but it feels so much like it that she
doesn't care. Just dreaming has saved her from frustration or a
potentially huge mistake.

When Hermione falls asleep again, she feels in control. She feels
like she is safe.
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In Control