She's softer than he thought she'd be.
Her hair, her skin, her lips—
They're all as soft as velvet, and her breathy, gentle moans drift from her lips like cashmere.
"Like this?" she asks from her knees, parting her lips and outstretching her tongue.
Looking up at him from by his feet exaggerates the roundness of her eyes. It makes her look hopeful, innocent.
She won't be when he's through with her.
"Mhmm," he hums. "Just tilt your head back a little... further... perfect. Just like that."
Tom closes his fist in her hair, applying a firm, but light pressure to her scalp, keeping her in place.
He's thought of this. For years, every time her shrill tone cut him off in class, every time she beat him to a question, flaunted her grade, or buttered up a professor, he pictured this. He pictured it in more ways than he'd ever admit, but now that it's actually happening—
He eases forward, and the wet heat of her mouth around his cock is ecstasy.
He lets his head fall back, groaning softly as he starts fucking her mouth in shallow, considerate movements. She watches him all the while, keeping those hazel eyes locked onto him while she takes him confidently.
That look—that spark of stubbornness—gives her away. She thinks she's in control, even now.
Tom tightens his fist and slides in further. Those eyes finally flutter when he hits the back of her mouth, and her warm shallow breaths brush against the base of his cock.
"Is that all you can take, Granger?" he challenges, rocking into her gently. "I thought your mouth was bigger than that.”
She shifts her positioning forward to take his cock deeper into her mouth, her tongue stroking his underside while blinks away the beginning of tears, holding his stare.
Is that all you’ve got? her eyes say.
Tom smiles down at her and pulls back on her hair, tilting her head back just right so he can dip into the opening of her throat.
She gags around him on the first try, and at last, her eyes drift all the way closed. She pushes back on his legs, silently asking for pause, so he pulls out and lets her catch her breath.
Granger doesn't back down though. She wipes away the mess her saliva and his pre-come have started to make on her chin, and then opens wide, eager to try again.
He isn't as gentle this time.
She gags again, but holds herself steady through it, and her small hands press against the back of his legs, urging him to keep going. He does, and as he slides in all the way, the soft, tightness of her throat squeezes around him like a vice.
"Oh, fuck," he breathes without meaning to. Stars shoot behind his eyelids as he rocks against her face with tight, gentle thrusts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Granger pulls back from him suddenly, spluttering around him, and he’s so close now that he can’t stop.
He pulls free from her mouth and takes himself in his free hand, and shifts his other to hold under her chin.
Her eyes water, but her stubbornness keeps her in place and it doesn’t take much; with only a few strokes, he comes, spilling hotly into her waiting mouth.
She stays put until he's completely finished, not moving until he lets her go to tuck himself back into his pants.
"No, no," he tells her, "don't close your mouth yet. Show me."
The corners of Granger's eyes wrinkle in a wince, but she opens wide again anyway, showing him her open mouth, tongue coated with his come.
Tom laughs. He'll never forget the sight of her like this.
"You can swallow now."
Hermione doesn't immediately move despite his permission. She stays in place, eyes flaring with that same stubbornness that got her there to begin with, and then, she spits on the rug by his feet. She only just misses his shoes.
"I do hope you're intending on cleaning that up," he says.
Granger wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and rises to her feet. Her knee cracks on the way up. "I'd like to think the Head Boy would be more than capable of a simple vanishing charm,” she says hoarsely.
Tom smiles, and though the goading tone of her voice makes him want to shove her back down onto his bed face-first, he opts to wandlessly vanish their mess instead.
"Hmm. Impressive," Granger remarks, hands moving to her hips.
"The same could be said of your gag reflex."
She rolls her eyes. "Well," she says, clearing her throat. "This was… nice. Maybe we could... do this again sometime. Though maybe then, I’ll be the one to have you on your knees.”
Maybe not, Tom thinks.
"It has been nice," he agrees. From his back pocket, he draws out his wand.
Granger smiles in warm satisfaction, but then her eyes catch the movement of his wrist.
She immediately goes for her own wand. "What are you—"
Her reflexes are good. She manages to get half a grip on her wand handle, but his are better.
"Obliviate."
All night Tom wonders if Granger will suspect. Would the aftertaste give him away? Or would a sore jaw? He could've been gentler with her hair. Maybe an aching scalp would clue her in.
But the next morning, her eyes pass over him in the Great Hall with just as much spite as they've ever held. She looks only as bothered by his presence as she's always been, not any more suspicious of him than her usual.
Tom brings his mug to his lips to mask his smile.
He'd gotten away with it.
He watches on as she sits with her small group of Gryffindor friends, ignoring whatever Malfoy's prattling on about beside him. She helps herself to some toast and scoops on a healthy serve of eggs. Her eyes briefly glance up as she finishes salting them, meeting his from across the hall.
She scowls at him—what do you want?
He raises an eyebrow back.
Granger rolls her eyes and then carries on eating her breakfast. She’s unhurried about it, opening up slowly to take a wide bite.
Tom squeezes around his mug.
He can't do it again. Just once was risky enough, but the memory of her on her knees, the vivid image of his come coating her outstretched tongue lingers in the forefront of his mind.
She wasn't half so bold while she was gagging around his cock.
He shouldn't do it again, but... maybe if he were careful, then...
Just once more wouldn't hurt.
"Granger?"
It isn't hard to catch her en route between classes. They share almost their entire schedules.
She peers at him suspiciously. "Can I help you?"
"Yes actually," he says brightly, having to shorten his strides to keep in step with her. "I didn't quite catch all of what Professor Vector was saying about the inclusion of Mars in Herwing's formula. Would you mind if we caught up later on to share notes? There isn't anyone else in class who's notes I'd trust more than yours. I'm sure they're more thorough than even Vector's."
Granger doesn't flush at his flattery like the other girls. She doesn't trip over her feet or stammer her words. Instead, her eyes only narrow further.
"Tuning out during class?" she says suspiciously. "That doesn't sound like you."
He laughs lightly, the best impression of nervous he can give.
"Well. I confess I've been a little bit... distracted, as of late."
Tom glances pointedly at her lips and tries not to think about how they'd felt stretched around him.
This time, at his clear insinuation, Granger does stumble.
He takes hold of her arm to steady her, and she recovers quickly.
"I, um," she mutters, uncharacteristically flustered. "I don't know what you mean."
No. He's sure she doesn't.
Tom only smiles. "Is that a yes?" he prompts, blinking hopefully.
Granger's mouth tightens. She squeezes around the strap of her satchel and looks off into the distance, as though trying to come up with a fast excuse.
She doesn't find one.
"Um... I suppose that would be... fine," she hesitantly agrees. “Seven-thirty. East block of the Library. Don't… be late."
He nods in agreement, unbothered by her selection of a public meeting place. He knows from experience he doesn't need privacy to talk her into his bed.
"Okay then," she mumbles, and without anything more to add, she starts back off towards their class.
Tom stays put and watches her go.
"I'm looking forward to it!" he calls after her.
She glances back at him over her shoulder, frowning as though she thinks he's being very odd, and then she scurries on off.
"—now the Earth's velocity also has to be accounted for, because as we, the observers, are in a constant state of motion, the predictions will change depending on our positioning. So, we sub in twenty-nine point seven-eight into E, and the gravitational constant into G, which together go under the root—"
She points firmly to the equation scrawled on her parchment as she speaks, but it doesn't do any good. Tom takes in none of it.
Because the longer she speaks, the louder her voice gets and the more expressive she becomes. He can see her quite literally being swept away by the numbers.
It's her outlet, he realizes. It's how she vents her passion. She's so taken by her own understanding of the numbers, that it pours out of her with frustration, like she's seen something so cute that her brain gives the aberrant response of aggression.
That must've been how it'd been so easy to get her in his room the first time. She'd never made any secret of her passionate dislike for him, so when faced with the prospect of her passion becoming physical, she'd agreed, no persuasion necessary.
Would she be just as easy this time, too?
"—but I prefer to carry y to the other side now rather than later on, because even though it's less intuitive, it makes the integration of Vladimir's Eighth Law simpler," she carries on, pausing only momentarily to catch her breath. "Then, z gets cancelled out—"
Her cheeks are flushed, and Tom follows the pink warmth down to her neck as she speaks, watching the rhythmic bobbing of her throat around each word.
She's so engrossed in the math that she doesn't notice his lack of interest.
"—finally, we solve for y, and that then gives us—"
"You have... a beautiful neck, Hermione."
Granger goes abruptly quiet, her lips gently parting in the middle.
"I... I'm sorry?" she squeaks.
Tom leans across the small table, unconcerned for the mess he makes as he knocks her pot of ink over on the way.
He reaches out for her and brings his fingers to her neck to gently stroke over the thin skin on either side of her larynx.
"I think... I'd like to try something with you," he murmurs. "Something I've never done with anyone else."
With the lightest of touches, he strokes rhythmically, up and down, up and down.
Granger is frozen into place.
"Would you like me to tell you what that is?"
"Um..." She swallows loudly. Her eyes lower to his mouth.
With one look, he knows.
He has her.
"I... okay. Yes."
Tom smiles, and then, he tells her.
It's a better angle than the last time.
With her laid before him across his bed, on her back with her head tipped down over the edge of the mattress, her throat opens up easily.
And like this, even in the dim light of the Head's dormitory, he can see it, the head of his cock bulging with each drive forward into her throat.
He watches the movement, mesmerized, until she gags and her muscles protest, trying to push him out. She palms at his thigh, and Tom relents, pulling back just to give her a chance to breathe.
She gets in a fast, greedy breath of air, but that's all he lets her have before he slides right back in.
This time, he wraps his hand around the front of her neck so he can feel it from the outside as he moves in and out through her flesh. It’s surreal.
This is it, he thinks. This is the rapture that turns reasonable men into blundering idiots.
"Granger," he groans, bringing his second hand to join the first around her neck, "fucking... hell, look at you..."
He pushes in as deeply as he can get and releases her in favor of reaching for her shirt. He pulls until the buttons give way, exposing her chest. Granger's only small, so it isn't hard to push the thin fabric of her bra up and out of the way.
He palms at her exposed flesh and squeezes harshly at the same time as she starts to struggle beneath him. She scratches into thigh again, pleading for another breath.
But Tom doesn’t immediately give in and grinds in shallow back and forth motions. He watches the way her small breasts move with each forward thrust into her throat. She’s a vision.
Granger starts to claw at him with both hands, her struggles becoming desperate. She bucks beneath him, back arching from the bed, and digs her nails into his legs to the point of pain.
Tom finds he doesn’t hate it.
It even spurs him on until her grip starts to slacken.
At the threat of her losing consciousness, Tom finally pulls out with a loud groan and finishes over her chest to the sounds of her drawing deep, desperate gasps beneath him.
The sight of her like that—clothes torn, skin flushed, ribs flaring and covered with his come—makes him want to pin her down and hold her there, keep her there like the work of art she is, but she rolls out from under him all too quickly, and moves to her hands and knees to catch her breath.
Tom leans back onto his dresser and watches her clean herself off with a wave of her wand before fixing her clothes. Her hair is a bird's nest, fly-aways stuck down to her skin with a glistening layer of sweat.
When Granger notices him watching, her raw, swollen lips form a gentle scowl.
"We agreed," she snaps angrily, wiping at her chin. "Two taps meant you were supposed to stop."
Tom doesn't apologize, because he isn't at all sorry. He'd do it again any day, and she's—
He'd always considered Granger to be rather plain, but now, she's a complete and utter mess, and she's luminous. He hadn't even properly fucked her. How would she look then?
"Shit," he murmurs at the thought, and he steps over to her, roughly pulling her jaw up so he can kiss her bruised lips. Her cheeks are still moist from her reflexive tears.
Despite her irritation, she lets him kiss her. She doesn't stop him from slipping his tongue into her mouth either, and she grips at his waist tightly, pulling him closely against her.
Merlin. He could fuck her tonight. He could, she wouldn’t stop him.
Her fingers start to sneak under his shirt, and he’s sure of it, but—
Tom pulls back. "I can't," he utters aloud.
"You can't... what?" she asks, going abruptly still against him.
He rests his forehead against hers. "Do this again. I can't."
Granger pulls away from him, affronted. "Are you serious? Is... is that… all this was to you? After all you said before we...?"
Tom sighs. "That's not what I mean."
"Then what did you mean?" Granger huffs.
She doesn't wait for his answer and she hastily starts rummaging around his bed to find her shoes. "First you half-suffocate me, and then you go and say— you know what, never mind. I can see that I was right about you, I don't know why I ever doubted myself."
Tom watches her slip her shoes on, and as she crosses his room to snatch up her bag, he considers stopping her. He ponders what he might say;
Stop.
Wait.
Let me explain.
But he doesn't voice it. He takes his wand from his dresser instead, and as she turns her back on him to reach for the door, with an odd sense of wistfulness, he casts at her back once more,
"Obliviate."
Granger's hand shoots high into the air.
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
"Andromeda," Hermione answers brightly.
Professor Vector beams at her. "Correct, Miss Granger, have another point," she says. "And what do we know about Andromeda that makes it such a vital galaxy for arithmetic divination?"
Granger's hand is back up before Vector finishes her sentence. Usually, Tom's would've been too, but this time, he simply watches, doesn't bother trying to compete. He's too distracted.
"The inevitability of the collision with the Milky Way," Granger parrots like a breathing, uptight textbook. "Andromeda's destiny is tied to ours, and so its influence must be accounted for."
"Correct again, Miss Granger! It is not only bodies within our own solar system that influence future paths and trajectories, but intergalactic bodies as well. Now, who can tell me—"
Every now and then as Vector quizzes the class, Granger reaches up and massages her neck like she's got a sore throat.
He's sure she does, and Tom—
He can't stop thinking about fucking her.
Even surrounded by a stuffy classroom full of dunces, all he can think is that he wants more than her mouth. He wants to tempt her again, wants her to agree to have tea in his chambers once more so he can push her head into the stone, lift her skirt high over her hips and fuck her until she struggles to move, but—
She'd feel that. No memory charm would remove the evidence of her lost purity. A healing charm might remove any soreness, but it wouldn't stitch flesh that's supposed to be broken back together.
He can’t have that sort of baggage. As much as he wants to, he can’t.
Tom settles for his thoughts instead, picturing the way her mouth would look with his tie stuffed in it in his mind's eye.
"—Mr. Riddle, perhaps?"
Tom glances up. "Hmm?"
At the front of the classroom, Professor Vector, clearly unprepared for his lack of immediate answer, blinks. "I asked whether you would mind telling the class which of the bodies within our solar system has an opposition interval of thirteen months?”
He shoots a sideways glance towards Granger.
"Actually," he says, “I'm afraid I don't know, Professor."
There's a quiet, collective gasp around the room.
Professor Vector gapes.
Tom smiles back tightly. "My apologies."
"Oh… no, that's— that's quite all right then, I might just— would anyone else possibly have an idea— yes, Miss Granger?" Vector says, clearly relieved.
And on the other side of the room, Granger practically bubbles in her seat, grinning like all of her Christmases have come at once.
"It's Jupiter, Professor," she answers smugly, shooting him a sideways glance of her own.
Perhaps his tie would be better around her neck, Tom thinks. He could pull it tight while he fucks her, until she's red in the face— how smug would she be then?
"Thank you, that’s right! Have another five points."
Vector seems to take the hint and doesn’t dare to call on him again, and the moment the class is finished, Tom heads out to the courtyard to get some air.
It’s freezing outside, but he doesn’t mind. The sharp edge to the wind is more refreshing than anything else.
He settles on a vacant bench and leans forward onto his elbows to loosen his tie, and it’s then that he wonders if it really would be so bad to let her keep her memory.
Granger was level-headed, ambitious, just like himself. She wasn’t Lucretia. She might understand a casual arrangement.
He could always put it to her, and if she rejected him… he’d tweaked her memory twice. What was once more?
A small hand on his shoulder pulls him from his thoughts.
Granger sits down beside him, trailing her arm up across his back. She draws her hand up to the edge of his collar and touches his neck with the tips of her fingers, stroking with a feather-light touch.
"Whatever happened in there, Riddle?" she coos, smiling at him sweetly. "You almost seemed a little bit... distracted."
She crosses her legs over at her knees, drawing Tom’s attention to her thighs. He swallows loudly. “Did I?”
“Mhmm.”
Hermione bites into her bottom lip. It looks soft, pillowy.
Tom forces himself to meet her eyes. He’s better than this.
“You know what they say about final year,” he says coolly.
“Hmm,” Granger hums, a soft, humoring sound of consideration. She slowly trails her hand around to the front his neck, bringing her fingers over the sides of his Adam’s apple.
"Has anyone ever told you, Tom," she murmurs, "that you have a beautiful neck?"
He stalls. The blood rushes from his head in favor of moving south.
Granger grins widely.
“Seven-thirty. The werewolf tapestry,” she tells him, fixing his tie for him. She pats it neatly when she's finished. “Don't you dare be late."