RP: Satin, suspenders and serpents
Date: October 12, 1998
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Location: 44 South Vinewood Avenue
Status: Private
Summary: Draco has a restless night. Mature content.
Completion: Complete
Nightmares sucked, Draco decided, rolling out of bed and yawning. He was out of the potion he'd been taking when they were particularly bad, which was his own fault, considering that he hadn't made time to go and get some more. It meant visiting Knockturn Alley, which understandably, wasn't something he was rushing to do any time soon. He didn't exactly have many friends there...
If he didn't take something, though, he wasn't going to be able to get to sleep for the rest of the night, which meant he'd be going into class tomorrow looking thoroughly wretched, and probably sleeping through lunchhour, which wouldn't help in the longrun. No - he'd eaten more biscuits than actual food in the past month...
The little bag from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes just seemed too easy. One little bag, sitting on the top of a pile of books, the top folded over. It wasn't a potion, but it might clear his head. Sure - what was a little Quidditch Fantasy, after all? If he could forget the glowing red eyes, and the giant snakes and spiders, then maybe he could just get some sleep...
Draco slipped off the bed, but hesitated just as he reached the bag. It was a Weasley product, after all. Could they be trusted? And it was a really complicated and clever bit of charmwork...
Maybe it'd be better just to do some revision, and see if that helped - there was no point playing the flute at this time of night.
After a moment he sighed and snatched the bag up, returning to his bed and sitting down on the edge of it. "Allright, Weasley...let's see how good you really are, shall we?" And hey - if it worked, it might be better for him than all of those sleeping draughts.
Inside the nondescript box was a beautiful medallion - well, it might have been beautiful if it wasn't for the fact that Fred and George Weasley were looking out at him, grinning and winking like lunatics. He turned it over, revealing the incantation on the opposite side, and breathed in and out again, relaxing. It was alright - just a charm. Nothing surprising or awful was about to happen.
Draco got himself comfortable under the blankets, and blew out the candle again. With any luck, the nightmares would go away. He spoke the incantation, and dropped his head back onto the pillow.
He didn't even have to close his eyes - the darkness above him morphed and moved, and in seconds he was creeping through a dark corridor, down, down, wet stone under his feet, and dim candles lighting the way, flickering as they were tousled by a faint, musty breeze.
Draco didn't have the slightest clue where he was, but it was no Quidditch pitch. His heart thundered in his chest. This was worse than the nightmare he'd been in before - worse, because he had no idea where he was; whereas in his nightmares, he always knew, because he was always running through the grounds at Hogwarts, ducking between people and monsters and running, and never looking back, because he didn't know what was there.
He placed his hand on the wall and recoiled. It was clammy, and he rubbed his hand dry on his robes. This was strange...the charm was so perfect.
At the end of the corridor was a stone statue of a horse, rearing up on its hind legs. Draco stopped beside it, reaching out to run his hand over the stone head of the horse, feeling the texture of the mica under his fingertips. He stopped, and looked both ways, but the two corridors looked identical.
Which way to go, though? Draco wasn't entirely sure. This wasn't the fantasy he'd bought, he was sure of it. But maybe...maybe it had just been the wrong one in the box. Either way, it'd be over soon. The box had said '30 minutes'. He still wasn't sure it was going to help with his nightmares.
He moved away from the statue, walking forwards. The lights began to be spread further apart, until they were just illuminated pools of light between dark places, and Draco slowed his walking, nervously, reaching for a wand that wasn't there. "This isn't funny..." he said, and his voice echoed in his ears. In the next pool of darkness, Draco stopped entirely, thinking that he'd heard something.
"Who's there?"
"Who do you want to be here?" asked the darkness, and Draco hitched in a frightened breath. The voice sounded alien in the darkness, echoing; unfamiliar.
"Who's there?" Draco repeated, his voice bristling now. He didn't like this...
He was surprised to see Hermione step out into the pool of light ahead of him. Well...not any Hermione he was familiar with. Her hair was pulled back, neatly tamed, like he remembered it being at the Yule Ball; framing her face, rather than smothering it. And such a face; lips red and full, eyelashes laden with mascara, bringing out eyes that might otherwise be quite plain. Beautiful eyes that shone like polished Tiger's Eye.
His eyes, although determined, did not remain on hers. She was thoroughly distracting, flaunting her assets, as it were, with the flamboyance of her dress. The cut of the corset lifted her bosom handsomely - perhaps too handsomely - and she arched her neck to let the light caress the full contour of her flesh.
This wasn't the Hermione that Draco knew. It might look like her...some parts of her... Draco lifted his hand to cover his eyes before he could look again, because if he let his eyes drift down to those legs he would be lost.
"See something you like?" asked Hermione, her voice like a sharp blade at his throat, almost threatening. When she spoke again, she was much closer; at his side in the darkness, her breath falling on his ear. "There's no need to keep pretending, Draco. I want you."
"No," Draco said, quickly. "No, you don't." Granger. Granger. It was bad enough wanting to play the flute for her, or inviting her to tea, or dancing with her, or...oh Salazar... "Wh-what are you doing to...my ear..." His knees felt week - but she caught him, pushing him up against the clammy stone wall. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?" she asked, her breath cool on his moistened earlobe. "This?" she licked again. "Or this." Her hand slid into the pocket of his robes, and then firmly clasped his groin.
Imaginary. She was imaginary. An imaginary Muggleborn. But if Draco was fantasising about... It was so hard to think about anything when she was doing that with her tongue -- with her teeth.
"Stop!" he gasped, and she laughed at him.
"I say when we stop, Draco," she told him, imperiously, and then stepped away, apparently pulling on something that Draco couldn't see. A fraction of a second later, he was almost pulled off his feet by the force of the leash at his throat. A leash?!
"I'm not a dog!" he shouted. What kind of weird fantasy was this, anyway? The longer it went on, the more he was sure that this wasn't an accident. This was bloody Weasley's doing; he knew it! But he wasn't about to be pulled about on a lead! He reached up, pulling at the leather strap, but it wouldn't come free, no matter how hard he fought it. All this time, he'd had to follow her, rather than throttle himself, or fall over.
"You'd do better to learn to do what you're told, puppy," Hermione told him, curtly. "Isn't that what Death Eaters do? What they're told?"
"Don't you even..."
"Oh no; mustn't upset the poor puppy."
Draco shook his head. This was nothing like Hermione. Nothing like her. But it was - if only in the form that she had taken. Draco had to admit that she was attractive. And if he was attracted to this Hermione... He shook his head. No, it was silly. He wasn't attracted to Granger. He'd have to be completely insane: for a start, she was a Muggleborn. But she was also Harry's friend, and it was clear to him that that made her off limits. Oh Salazar - the scandal. His father would disown him.
Those legs.
Suspenders somehow made it worse; with them, the concealed flesh was even more tempting than that which was revealed. Patterned serpents writhed up from the buckles of her heels, around a shapely calf, tickling the back of her knees, hissing their flickering tongues urgently in their upwards ascent towards...
Control, Draco.
This was wrong.
He wasn't that kind of man. But he was. He wanted her. So much.
He'd never be able to face her again.
"Help me," he asked, and she answered, stepping back towards him, stiletos clicking on the cobblestones.
"It's alright," she said, "I know just how to help you." How was a man supposed to resist? Draco couldn't summon the urge to fight back as her fingers moved to his throat, and then down, undoing buttons. Her mouth moved after them, lips devouring pale flesh, flickering tongue tasting the scar that ran ragged across his breast.
"Help," he said, again, but it was pointless. He was spiralling out of control, and so aroused. So wrong. His robes fell down around his feet, abandoned, and he could feel the air around him, hot and clammy, like on a Summer's evening. She even smelt like Hermione, he realised, as she leant up, finally, to kiss him; as he'd been acheing for her to do since those lips had first fallen on his chest.
Her lips tasted like cherries. It might have been the lipstick, he supposed, but he didn't care. He'd never know what Hermione tasted like, so what did it matter what his mind suggested? She was nothing like Pansy - her kiss was ferocious, dominating. He leant down towards her, but it was she that turned his head, that plundered his mouth with her writhing serpent's tongue, bruised his lips with her teeth. She left him gasping for breath.
"Get down, puppy," she commanded, and then let him go. Draco's crumpled at the knee, dropping to the floor, quite against his will. He'd never wanted to kneel for another person in his life. He'd sworn it. And now his vow was broken, and it was all George Weasley's fault. He was going to kill him...
The floor was cold, but Hermione, when she moved down over him was warm. He moved his hands, because he could not resist, exploring the curve of her breasts, moving down along the bones of the corset, and then down onto soft satin; still further onto the hot flesh of her thighs. He moaned, and she smiled down at him; that little smile that she always gave him when she was surprised by something.
Hermione bit her lip, and moved down, kissing across his scar, then down his breast bone, along the xylophone keys of his ribs. He flinched, tickled by strands of loose hair as she moved. He didn' t know he was tickling th--oh Merlin.
He must have said it out loud, because she was looking up at him, her thumbs still coiled around his waistband, where she'd yanked down his underwear suddenly. She leant forward, danger in those tiger's eyes, before that devilish tongue flickered out, lizard fast.
"Not fair," he whimpered, closing his eyes tightly. The first time he'd ever done something like this, and it would be in one of Weasley's bloody fantasies.
Hot, wonderful heat enveloped his arousal, and Draco's whimper rose to a strangled moan. It was better than he could have ever imagined. Her mouth was velvet, warm and wonderful, and the grace of teeth wrought another groan from him. It couldn't get better than this. But it did. That tongue.
"Don't," he said, but he wasn't even thinking any longer. He couldn't think. It was just a word, falling out with a hundred others as he tried to regain some modicum of control; something.
But Draco was only eighteen years old, after all.
The darkness of his bedroom couldn't have been any brighter. It was absent of beautiful women of any breeding, absent of candlelight and satin and whalebone. And Draco had ruined his sheets, which were tangled around his legs, and he'd knocked the candle on the floor in all of his thrashing. The medallion was still held tightly in his right hand, the faces of Fred and George imprinted on his palm when he slowly uncurled it, still panting, the sweat clinging to his skin in the chill October night.
He was going to kill him. And send his remains back to his family. Oh Salazar. Draco pulled himself free of the sheets, pushing them away from himself, disgusted. How could he have allowed that to happen? Especially since he still had class with Hermione? Draco pulled his knees up to his chest and dropped his head down onto them, finally managing to catch his breath, but now very cold without his blankets.
He was not attracted to Hermione Granger. Not now, and not ever.
How could things keep getting worse for him, even after all this time? It wasn't fair.
He was doomed.
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Location: 44 South Vinewood Avenue
Status: Private
Summary: Draco has a restless night. Mature content.
Completion: Complete
Nightmares sucked, Draco decided, rolling out of bed and yawning. He was out of the potion he'd been taking when they were particularly bad, which was his own fault, considering that he hadn't made time to go and get some more. It meant visiting Knockturn Alley, which understandably, wasn't something he was rushing to do any time soon. He didn't exactly have many friends there...
If he didn't take something, though, he wasn't going to be able to get to sleep for the rest of the night, which meant he'd be going into class tomorrow looking thoroughly wretched, and probably sleeping through lunchhour, which wouldn't help in the longrun. No - he'd eaten more biscuits than actual food in the past month...
The little bag from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes just seemed too easy. One little bag, sitting on the top of a pile of books, the top folded over. It wasn't a potion, but it might clear his head. Sure - what was a little Quidditch Fantasy, after all? If he could forget the glowing red eyes, and the giant snakes and spiders, then maybe he could just get some sleep...
Draco slipped off the bed, but hesitated just as he reached the bag. It was a Weasley product, after all. Could they be trusted? And it was a really complicated and clever bit of charmwork...
Maybe it'd be better just to do some revision, and see if that helped - there was no point playing the flute at this time of night.
After a moment he sighed and snatched the bag up, returning to his bed and sitting down on the edge of it. "Allright, Weasley...let's see how good you really are, shall we?" And hey - if it worked, it might be better for him than all of those sleeping draughts.
Inside the nondescript box was a beautiful medallion - well, it might have been beautiful if it wasn't for the fact that Fred and George Weasley were looking out at him, grinning and winking like lunatics. He turned it over, revealing the incantation on the opposite side, and breathed in and out again, relaxing. It was alright - just a charm. Nothing surprising or awful was about to happen.
Draco got himself comfortable under the blankets, and blew out the candle again. With any luck, the nightmares would go away. He spoke the incantation, and dropped his head back onto the pillow.
He didn't even have to close his eyes - the darkness above him morphed and moved, and in seconds he was creeping through a dark corridor, down, down, wet stone under his feet, and dim candles lighting the way, flickering as they were tousled by a faint, musty breeze.
Draco didn't have the slightest clue where he was, but it was no Quidditch pitch. His heart thundered in his chest. This was worse than the nightmare he'd been in before - worse, because he had no idea where he was; whereas in his nightmares, he always knew, because he was always running through the grounds at Hogwarts, ducking between people and monsters and running, and never looking back, because he didn't know what was there.
He placed his hand on the wall and recoiled. It was clammy, and he rubbed his hand dry on his robes. This was strange...the charm was so perfect.
At the end of the corridor was a stone statue of a horse, rearing up on its hind legs. Draco stopped beside it, reaching out to run his hand over the stone head of the horse, feeling the texture of the mica under his fingertips. He stopped, and looked both ways, but the two corridors looked identical.
Which way to go, though? Draco wasn't entirely sure. This wasn't the fantasy he'd bought, he was sure of it. But maybe...maybe it had just been the wrong one in the box. Either way, it'd be over soon. The box had said '30 minutes'. He still wasn't sure it was going to help with his nightmares.
He moved away from the statue, walking forwards. The lights began to be spread further apart, until they were just illuminated pools of light between dark places, and Draco slowed his walking, nervously, reaching for a wand that wasn't there. "This isn't funny..." he said, and his voice echoed in his ears. In the next pool of darkness, Draco stopped entirely, thinking that he'd heard something.
"Who's there?"
"Who do you want to be here?" asked the darkness, and Draco hitched in a frightened breath. The voice sounded alien in the darkness, echoing; unfamiliar.
"Who's there?" Draco repeated, his voice bristling now. He didn't like this...
He was surprised to see Hermione step out into the pool of light ahead of him. Well...not any Hermione he was familiar with. Her hair was pulled back, neatly tamed, like he remembered it being at the Yule Ball; framing her face, rather than smothering it. And such a face; lips red and full, eyelashes laden with mascara, bringing out eyes that might otherwise be quite plain. Beautiful eyes that shone like polished Tiger's Eye.
His eyes, although determined, did not remain on hers. She was thoroughly distracting, flaunting her assets, as it were, with the flamboyance of her dress. The cut of the corset lifted her bosom handsomely - perhaps too handsomely - and she arched her neck to let the light caress the full contour of her flesh.
This wasn't the Hermione that Draco knew. It might look like her...some parts of her... Draco lifted his hand to cover his eyes before he could look again, because if he let his eyes drift down to those legs he would be lost.
"See something you like?" asked Hermione, her voice like a sharp blade at his throat, almost threatening. When she spoke again, she was much closer; at his side in the darkness, her breath falling on his ear. "There's no need to keep pretending, Draco. I want you."
"No," Draco said, quickly. "No, you don't." Granger. Granger. It was bad enough wanting to play the flute for her, or inviting her to tea, or dancing with her, or...oh Salazar... "Wh-what are you doing to...my ear..." His knees felt week - but she caught him, pushing him up against the clammy stone wall. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?" she asked, her breath cool on his moistened earlobe. "This?" she licked again. "Or this." Her hand slid into the pocket of his robes, and then firmly clasped his groin.
Imaginary. She was imaginary. An imaginary Muggleborn. But if Draco was fantasising about... It was so hard to think about anything when she was doing that with her tongue -- with her teeth.
"Stop!" he gasped, and she laughed at him.
"I say when we stop, Draco," she told him, imperiously, and then stepped away, apparently pulling on something that Draco couldn't see. A fraction of a second later, he was almost pulled off his feet by the force of the leash at his throat. A leash?!
"I'm not a dog!" he shouted. What kind of weird fantasy was this, anyway? The longer it went on, the more he was sure that this wasn't an accident. This was bloody Weasley's doing; he knew it! But he wasn't about to be pulled about on a lead! He reached up, pulling at the leather strap, but it wouldn't come free, no matter how hard he fought it. All this time, he'd had to follow her, rather than throttle himself, or fall over.
"You'd do better to learn to do what you're told, puppy," Hermione told him, curtly. "Isn't that what Death Eaters do? What they're told?"
"Don't you even..."
"Oh no; mustn't upset the poor puppy."
Draco shook his head. This was nothing like Hermione. Nothing like her. But it was - if only in the form that she had taken. Draco had to admit that she was attractive. And if he was attracted to this Hermione... He shook his head. No, it was silly. He wasn't attracted to Granger. He'd have to be completely insane: for a start, she was a Muggleborn. But she was also Harry's friend, and it was clear to him that that made her off limits. Oh Salazar - the scandal. His father would disown him.
Those legs.
Suspenders somehow made it worse; with them, the concealed flesh was even more tempting than that which was revealed. Patterned serpents writhed up from the buckles of her heels, around a shapely calf, tickling the back of her knees, hissing their flickering tongues urgently in their upwards ascent towards...
Control, Draco.
This was wrong.
He wasn't that kind of man. But he was. He wanted her. So much.
He'd never be able to face her again.
"Help me," he asked, and she answered, stepping back towards him, stiletos clicking on the cobblestones.
"It's alright," she said, "I know just how to help you." How was a man supposed to resist? Draco couldn't summon the urge to fight back as her fingers moved to his throat, and then down, undoing buttons. Her mouth moved after them, lips devouring pale flesh, flickering tongue tasting the scar that ran ragged across his breast.
"Help," he said, again, but it was pointless. He was spiralling out of control, and so aroused. So wrong. His robes fell down around his feet, abandoned, and he could feel the air around him, hot and clammy, like on a Summer's evening. She even smelt like Hermione, he realised, as she leant up, finally, to kiss him; as he'd been acheing for her to do since those lips had first fallen on his chest.
Her lips tasted like cherries. It might have been the lipstick, he supposed, but he didn't care. He'd never know what Hermione tasted like, so what did it matter what his mind suggested? She was nothing like Pansy - her kiss was ferocious, dominating. He leant down towards her, but it was she that turned his head, that plundered his mouth with her writhing serpent's tongue, bruised his lips with her teeth. She left him gasping for breath.
"Get down, puppy," she commanded, and then let him go. Draco's crumpled at the knee, dropping to the floor, quite against his will. He'd never wanted to kneel for another person in his life. He'd sworn it. And now his vow was broken, and it was all George Weasley's fault. He was going to kill him...
The floor was cold, but Hermione, when she moved down over him was warm. He moved his hands, because he could not resist, exploring the curve of her breasts, moving down along the bones of the corset, and then down onto soft satin; still further onto the hot flesh of her thighs. He moaned, and she smiled down at him; that little smile that she always gave him when she was surprised by something.
Hermione bit her lip, and moved down, kissing across his scar, then down his breast bone, along the xylophone keys of his ribs. He flinched, tickled by strands of loose hair as she moved. He didn' t know he was tickling th--oh Merlin.
He must have said it out loud, because she was looking up at him, her thumbs still coiled around his waistband, where she'd yanked down his underwear suddenly. She leant forward, danger in those tiger's eyes, before that devilish tongue flickered out, lizard fast.
"Not fair," he whimpered, closing his eyes tightly. The first time he'd ever done something like this, and it would be in one of Weasley's bloody fantasies.
Hot, wonderful heat enveloped his arousal, and Draco's whimper rose to a strangled moan. It was better than he could have ever imagined. Her mouth was velvet, warm and wonderful, and the grace of teeth wrought another groan from him. It couldn't get better than this. But it did. That tongue.
"Don't," he said, but he wasn't even thinking any longer. He couldn't think. It was just a word, falling out with a hundred others as he tried to regain some modicum of control; something.
But Draco was only eighteen years old, after all.
The darkness of his bedroom couldn't have been any brighter. It was absent of beautiful women of any breeding, absent of candlelight and satin and whalebone. And Draco had ruined his sheets, which were tangled around his legs, and he'd knocked the candle on the floor in all of his thrashing. The medallion was still held tightly in his right hand, the faces of Fred and George imprinted on his palm when he slowly uncurled it, still panting, the sweat clinging to his skin in the chill October night.
He was going to kill him. And send his remains back to his family. Oh Salazar. Draco pulled himself free of the sheets, pushing them away from himself, disgusted. How could he have allowed that to happen? Especially since he still had class with Hermione? Draco pulled his knees up to his chest and dropped his head down onto them, finally managing to catch his breath, but now very cold without his blankets.
He was not attracted to Hermione Granger. Not now, and not ever.
How could things keep getting worse for him, even after all this time? It wasn't fair.
He was doomed.