The Art of War

“If the enemy leaves a door open, you must rush in.”
Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Setting things up was incredibly difficult. The club promised anonymous encounters for any witch or wizard that came to it, and there were a few high-ranking Death Eaters her age that wound up there. Like Malfoy, Zabini, and Nott to name a few. So she had made sure the charms on her bracelet worked and that the bracelet itself was transfigured into something else.

Checking over herself in the mirror of the bathroom, it was startling to see how different she looked. Her features were sharper, yet remained elegant. There were no circles under her eyes, her hair was a deeper shade of brown that was almost black, and her eyes were a pale blue color. She had her hair carefully taken care of, knowing she couldn't hide the texture in an illusion, and had piled it up on her head. The green dress she was in had a lower neckline to draw the eye to her breasts, a slit up the side, and her scar was gone to the unaltered gaze.

She looked stunning. Healthier than she looked without the charm. These transfigurations were going to give her a complex eventually. Well, they would if men stopped finding her attractive despite her run-down appearance. Wood and Krum really did know how to cheer a lady up, after all.

Making sure her wand was secure, her disguise in place, and her focus maintained, she walked out of the bathroom and out to the bar, waiting til her target arrived to make a plan. She could already hear other women gossiping. Asking about how many executions there had been this time and, therefore, what number they had to be aware of.

The last execution, though, was the one she had crashed. Five. With Ron being the last. It made her stomach turn, but she knew which interaction she had to be. Luckily, with a simply placed confundus charm, the women thought the number was four or three. They'd be out of the way.

Draco rarely came out of his manor unless he had to. He didn’t need the help, and his position afforded him a number of women to pine for affections he refused to bestow. Where he might have considered a wife and heirs after school, he knew all too well that family was the hostage of fortune. His interest had ended where his bloodlust had began, or so most claimed.

At Nott and Zabini’s request to take their men out for the sake of morale, he could hardly deny them.

Once inside, he’d found a table in the corner, a blonde he’d enjoyed before drawing closer to inquire his drink request.

“Old Ogden’s. Skip the rocks.”

With a nod, she had moved onto the other men around the table, barely slipping out of Nott’s embrace.

At the counter, the blonde warned the redhead about to return with drinks of the lieutenant's order. She’d been in for a rough night the last time he'd been so curt and so quick to liquor, which she knew not all her colleagues enjoyed.

The ginger brought over the drinks, settling in a lap she was pulled in after each had been served. Her giggles filled the air as a dark-haired Death Eater seemed to take fondly to her.

“Get a room,” Draco growled, taking his drink and moving to a seat near the fire. The sooner he could get the night over with, the better.

“Fancy some company?” A hopeful brunette accosted him.

“Perhaps another night,” he fielded her only to have another snake an arm around the first.

“You sure?” The blonde purred, upping the ante by implying he could have both.

“Tempting,” he drawled, which only encouraged the pair to grow closer—touching each other and beckoning him. He leaned forward with a smile before sending them off to Zabini. Let him have some fun. He certainly could use the distraction.

Reaching his chosen armchair, he sank into it and watched the fire crackle, bringing his cup to his lip. The next one. Whatever came. She’d be his fate for the night. He swallowed down the fiery beverage that had long stopped scorching his throat as it once had.

Learning her lesson from polyjuice potion, one charm on her little bracelet did the added bonus of changing her voice. It made it smoother, a bit more sultry. Sweeter. It was an odd mix between Pansy and Lavender, and while she had despised both girls for different reasons, they were useful now. As were the lessons she had learned when having to infiltrate formal events.

This wasn't the first time Hermione had used her transfiguration to get in somewhere she wasn't supposed to be. And it wouldn't be the last by a long shot. She took a shot at the bar before getting herself a glass of red wine, taking a sip of it before she left the bar and approached the fire.

She knew she looked stunning, possibly even more stunning than she usually looked, if only because she looked a bit healthier like this. and that scar that marred her skin was gone. "Not many men can resist those two when they go hunting for someone together," she chuckled, breaking the ice that way as she gave a sideways glance to the lieutenant.

While there were times he seemed to take the incredibly eager ones to bed. He seemed to like to work a little bit for it. So she wasn't going to simper. Wasn't going to fold. It was all about lowering his guard just enough to strike. Intel or no intel, she'd make sure he was taken care of. She had two and a half weeks of a deadline. And she was still an overachiever.

His stormy gaze met her blue hues, less cold than his usual, yet devoid of warmth. “I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not common,” he responded pointedly. He seldom bothered to recall the faces of the girls who worked here.

Instead, he took her in, lingering his gaze where she clearly demanded it in her state of dress. She would do, he decided.

With his free hand, he pat his thigh expectantly. Silently inviting her in.

This was the part of it that would be difficult, playing into the role of flirty and available. Even if the dress she had chosen did make it seem like that's what she was here for. The whole club was here for that exact purpose. Discretion. A neutral zone of sorts that was allowed to function for a few reasons.

Taking a sip from her wine, she seemed to consider a bit of a playful smile tugging at her lips as she slowly stepped around and moved to sit on his thigh. "I suppose it is. And lucky for the pair of us, I'd say," she murmured.

She had to stay relaxed. She'd heard what he was like in these places, and if she let him think he had control enough, she should be able to get him to relax enough to do what she needed.

His free hand roamed from her shoulder down her arm, pausing at her wrist.

“And do you consider yourself lucky?” He asked, careful with every touch. Only exposed skin, strokes that to the outside world would seem spurred by emotion, but very few would register as merely transactional. It was how he viewed such nights.

He sipped his whiskey, taking the edge off, wishing it still burned.

Considering the question, as she glanced up at him, she felt a shiver roll down her spine from that touch. "That entirely depends on how the night goes now, doesn't it?"

Playful yet cryptic. Not immediately fawning over the lieutenant. How often did he just have women fawn over him only to pull away? As far as she knew, he had been engaged or at least betrothed to Parkinson before things got serious and he climbed the ranks.

She sipped the wine, wishing she had opted for whiskey. The burn would be pleasant and a welcome distraction from the fact he was so...careful with his touches that it did make her shiver. Traitorous body. At least it would play into the ruse.

“And how do you see this night ending?” He asked, noticing the shiver that had wracked her body. It was delicious, even he could admit as much. He repeated the motion that had caused it, shifting his fingers' trajectory ever so slightly.

At least she had some composure. It made him wonder how far he could push.

Hermione had never expected him to ask so many questions. Why did he have to talk so much? Being assertive and taking what she wanted wouldn't work here. Though as he touched her again, following that same path, she shivered again. Damn it.

She did reach up with her free hand, lightly trailing her fingers back and forth along his shoulder and his upper arm. Not inherently sexual at all, just a slow back and forth as she glanced up at him through her lashes.

"Preferably with both of us satisfied." Well, her, at least. But she wasn't saying that out loud. And her mind was shielded enough that if he tried to poke around, she'd be able to tell.

Trailing back up her arm, he traced the back of her shoulder and up the nape of her neck before harshly gripping it as she touched him.

“Patience, pet,” he whispered in warning. “We both have drinks to finish before we move on.”

If he were honest, he didn’t give a damn about her pleasure. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t bring her to it.

“You’ll touch me when I ask, and the highest I’ll allow your lips is at my neck.”

He released her neck and traced her jawline with his nose. In a deep breath, he let her perfume wash over him. She smelled nice.

As his words sunk, he took her free hand and placed it on his chest. “Play by my rules, and I won’t deny you your bliss.”

The light trace of his fingers along her shoulder and up her neck had her relaxing a little bit more before that grip had her breath catch in her throat. What the bloody hell was that reaction?

Those whispered words, though, had her taking her slowly, taking her hand off of his shoulder. She had a feeling his ask would be a tell but she didn't question it.

Good. She didn't want to know what his lips were like in the first place. So that was good. The trace of his nose along her jaw had her shiver as his warm breath fanned over her neck as he breathed her in.

Thank Merlin she had a chance to actually use perfume. It would be odd if she hadn't.

Letting him put her hand on his chest, she left it there as she took a longer sip of her wine. "I think I can play by your rules," she murmured on a breath, even as her heart hammered in her chest.

Hopefully, she wouldn't have to. Hopefully, she'd be able to get her hands on him and take him out of the equation before that even came into play. Why did he have to actually know how to touch a woman, though?

A wry smile curved his lips as she reacted so wonderfully. There was something to be commended of the witches of this establishment. Beyond their discretion, they certainly knew how to make a patron enjoy themselves, even despite themselves.

“Shift closer,” he demanded, his arm ensnaring her waist. Though she was stunning, she wouldn’t feel him reacting to her like one might expect.

“This shade of green suits you,” he praised, the back of his curled fingers pressing over where he assumed her nipple was, taunting her through the fabric.

Despite not wanting to react, her heart was racing. Those wry smiles and slightly distant eyes were something she reminded herself of. He cared for nothing and no one. He was a blight to existence. And she had to tread very carefully. Strike before he took her to a room, and she'd be just as dead as she hoped to make him.

Obeying the command, she shifted closer to him, letting herself lean in more without touching him or kissing his neck. Since he had warned her after all. "I'm glad we both agree. Thank you."

There was a confidence she was funneling through even as he teased her. It had her shiver further, her nipple slowly hardening under his touch, but she was still keeping composure for now. It was just a touch. Just a bodily reaction.

At that pebbled reaction, he set his glass down to bring his other hand up her side to cup her other breast, this time using the pad of his thumb. Her smoothed gently, then firmly, giving her nipples a firm pinch before soothing them again.

“Such a good witch you are,” he praised her lightly, enjoying the mix of tension and desire in her stance. It’d been some time since he’d felt so playful. An appreciation was clear in his silver gaze.

Dear Merlin. She was going to burn for enjoying this. Her body was a traitorous thing that had her nipples pebbling under his touch, eager to be felt. Her breath hitched, and she almost gasped as he pinched her, body tensing a little as her hand pressed into his chest slightly, not moving from where he placed it.

The praise sent a shot of desire straight through her, and she hated herself for it. Being praised in bed wasn't new, but being praised like this was. What the bloody hell was he doing to her?

"Mmm. I can be very good," she murmured, lightly biting down on her bottom lip as she set her glass of wine aside.

There was a flicker in his gaze. Not quite warm, and yet easily mistaken as such. His tongue slicked over his lower lip, and she bit down on that plump lower lip of hers. Even he couldn’t deny the stir she caused. He wasn't anywhere near ready, but now that he’d let go of his drink, he wouldn’t dare bring it back to his lips. Too many odds of someone slipping something in it.

“I’m certain you can be,” he nearly purred the words, bringing her hand on his chest downward. He leaned closer to speak against the shell of her ear. “Tell me just how good you’ll be to me.”

Why did she keep talking in reply to him? Because she had to play the part. Why did guys always want to hear just how good they were or just how much you wanted something? Hermione couldn't begin to tell. But clearly, Draco was like any other man in that respect. At least he knew what foreplay was, so his lovers couldn't have been too disappointed.

Letting him guide her hand down, she trembled as his breath hit her ear, and she felt desire burn through her. Damn him. Damn her. Damn this. "I'll be as good as you want me to be," she murmured, turning her head to look at him with a bit of a smile. "Could be as bad as you want me to be too..."

A promise. A threat. What was she doing anymore? Whatever she had to do to win. That's what.

He placed her hand just shy of his length at that final statement. Damn, she was good at saying all the right things at all the right times.

“I have half a mind to take you to your room and see just which side I can muster with my tongue between your thighs.”

Before she could answer, he leaned to suck her nipple through the fabric of her dress. Whore or not, he wasn’t about to expose her for all to see. No, he was far too greedy for that.

Seizing her other wrist, he kissed along her arm, tracing that sensitive skin with his tongue on his way toward her elbow. He felt something beneath his tongue that hadn’t been visible and yet made no motion to notice. Instead, he eyed her with lust-filled eyes.

Keeping her hand where he placed it, she did let her fingers trace circles against his thigh there, so close to his length. This was fine. Just a performance. Just her body reacting. It meant nothing.

"That-" his mouth on her breast through the fabric of her dress cut her off as she gasped, the sound almost a moan. Dear Merlin. That mouth. That hateful, heated sneer of a mouth had liquid desire pooling between her legs. Fuck. As he kissed her arm, though, she met his gaze.

Clearing her throat, her voice was a little more breathy now. "That entirely depends on how good you are with that tongue...." she breathed, watching his path up her arm.

She absolutely had to kill him in that room, or he might just be the death of her. Why did he have to be good at that?

Slowly pulling back, he gave her a boyish grin. “Only one way to find out,” he taunted, keeping her dominant wrist in his grasp as he nudged her off him to stand.

He kept close as he followed her to the back, ignoring the cheers of the few of his men that remained. Fools that they were.

That grin might have stolen her breath away if they had both still been teenagers at Hogwarts. Once upon a time, she had thought him handsome and smart and then found how cold and cruel he was. She had to keep that in mind now as she faked a breathless giggle, her gaze staying on his mouth.

Getting out of his lap, she ignored the cheers of his friends. Ignored what it was that they were so happy about. Monsters. All of them. Monsters that made more Monsters.

There was no point in locking the door. The club had a way of ensuring a lack of disruptions. Pulling her close, he kissed and nipped along her neck, teasing her before shoving her on the bed.

The kisses to her neck felt divine as she shivered, almost leaning into him before he pushed her back onto the bed. That was more of what she had expected. Not the instantaneous smoothing of her thighs to push her dress up around her waist.

He was on her, towering over her as he smoothed up her thighs and down them to spread her for him. Within seconds, he was licking against that heated fabric, feeling just how hot he’d made her through it. With the lace between them, he used their buffer to suck harshly at her clit, gauging her reaction.

She could feel just how wet those lace knickers she had on were. And then he sucked. She gripped the comforter hard to keep from bucking her lips into his mouth as a moan left her lips before she bit down on her bottom lip. Fuck.

She had to wait for the perfect moment. A moment to strike when he was far too distracted to realize what it was she was doing.

As he kissed along her inner thigh, the time it took to rip her knickers and throw them unceremoniously to the ground, he eyed her.

The way she held back and gripped those covers. “Be as vocal as you wish,” he said before latching onto that hooded gem, his tongue assaulting her with a mix of strength and finesse, slicking up and down, circling and flicking. With how wet she felt, he began with two fingers, delving into her at a punishing pace only to give slow twists. He never let her find that plateau, shifting to tease and build her.

Permission. He was giving her permission to be loud. How did any self-respecting witch let him get away with that? How many of them even had self-respect left? But as he latched onto her clit, her hips bucked some as she moaned louder, hands tightening on the comforter.

With another lover, she'd have tangled a hand in their hair, guided them. But he didn't need guidance as he plunged his fingers inside of her. Focus scrambled in her head for a moment as her legs spread further apart, making it easier for him to touch her.

The teasing build had her tremble as she tried not to get lost in it, but her own control was slipping. Fading. As in control as he was, did he ever let himself lose control?

Those moans were music to his ears. The way she opened herself to him. Exposed herself. He could kill her. He knew he could, but there was something satisfying about watching her resolve crumble.

His fingers curled inside her as though he could command her to rush towards that proverbial edge. That come hither motion that hit that firm silk skin.

He didn’t let her fall over, though. Pulling away to press a knee between her thighs. He needed more, and it showed in how he pushed that dress up further, revealing her all the way to her breasts so he could tease them next, pressing his hardened length against her through his pants.

Of all the people to make him react so vividly, he’d never expected this. If someone had even suggested that he take the mudblood to bed, he would have scoffed, and probably tortured them for good measure.

Oblivious to him figuring out who she was, she felt how skilled those hands of his were. Hands that were skilled in killing. that had the blood of hundreds on them, and now her with those careful curves of his fingers. Her hips bucked, and she moaned, her head almost falling back.

Damn him. Did he have to be good at everything be fucking did? As he pulled away from those teasing touches, she almost cursed. A whimper almost left her lips, and she looked up at him, pupils blown wide with arousal. Luckily, the spell wasn't slipping despite her control doing so.

The dress was swept off of her so it didn't cover her face. She didn't want to lose sight of him in case he figured it out and plunged a knife into her or something.

Soon. He thought he was still in control. Her wand was inside the dress and still within reach. So soon. Though he looked at her with such unfiltered lust, it had her blushing.

Another wave of wandless silent magic and his attire joined hers. He let invisible hands smooth over her body as he drew closer, settling between her thighs.

He was fully exposed. Every pale scar on his chest from various duels. As he drew closer, she would likely notice how he’d rid himself of every hair that didn’t live on his head. As clean-shaven as his face, though he’d used more permanent solutions. He’d never been fond of his body otherwise.

Keeping her gaze, he brought her hand to his length, guiding her as he stroked down and twisted up.

Once she had him in her grasp, he brought her free hand over her head and nipped at her neck.

“Guide me where you want me,” he whispered, giving her that bit of control. He’d never forced himself on someone, and he wasn’t about to. Not even as his length treacherously begged to be sheathed into his enemy.

Those hands that she could feel everywhere and nowhere had her almost groan. And then she saw him, taking him in. There was the scar from where Harry had cast sectumsempra, faded against his fair skin. Other scars littered his body as a few did hers when she wasn't disguising herself. Disguising herself in plain sight.

There was a treacherous part of her that wanted to trace those scars with her hands, with her mouth, to map out his body. He was lovely to look at. If only he weren't a terribly wicked man that needed to die. Though her thoughts stalled a moment again as he guided her hand around his length.

She stroked over him even as he pinned her free hand over her head. Fuck. He'd have to slip and let go of her hand eventually. And then she'd strike. As it was, she stroked over that hard length of him and guided him to her wet entrance.

Her body wanted this. Craved it. After she guided him where they both wanted him to be, she slowly let go of his length and kept her eyes on him as she parted her lips, starting to focus on a spell.

At that silent acquiesce, he slammed into her, holding both her hands over her head. His silver gaze on her, searing over her body as he drilled her into the mattress.

Lust drove him as she surrounded him. Though every forceful thrust was enough to shift her into the bed, he took his time pulling out, nearly leaving her only to forcibly slip back all the way to the hilt.

“Fuck,” the word was almost a hiss. Her heat assaulted his sensitive length as he continued his motions, taking the time to grind against her as he did.

That slam into her made her incapable of focusing on any sort of spell for the moment. It had her cry out and arch under him as she moaned. No one took her like this. It was slow and thorough. Not nearly this intense, and it chased thoughts away. Reminded her that she was alive. And made her crave more.

"Oh god," she moaned without meaning to, her hips rolling to meet each punishing slam of his hips. He was so hard and stretched her body so deliciously. Those grinds had her arching into him to grind, chasing more of that friction.

Wordless and wandless magic was hard. If she could think of a spell that might work, then she might be able to bring him in. She'd be sexually frustrated, but there were worse fates than that.

Taking a chance that he had weapons on him, she attempted to summon knives that had been in his jacket or his trousers.

The words spoken had brought him back to reality. Reminded him of the depths of his crime. And then, the witch had the audacity to pull her magic.

If he’d even attempted to doubt, the intimacy of the moment left the taste of her spellwork on his tongue. Its metallic hint shifted to something more visceral since he’d tasted her at her very core.

Feeling that whir, he reached and seized the handle of his knife, pressing it to her throat and stilling inside her, remaining hilt deep as he threatened to break the skin.

“And you were being so very good,” he oversaw her with a hint of laziness.

Not distracted enough. A gasp of surprise left her, but as he let go of one hand to grab that knife, she had her wand. While he had the knife to her throat, her wand was to his.

Her breathing was uneven, and her body ached for him to continue. To keep that punishing pace inside of her. Feeling him stretch her body almost had her shiver, but she was attempting to bring back her composure.

As so often happened, they were at a stalemate. Mutually assured destruction if he dragged that knife across her throat. But she didn't say a word.

This was an ongoing predicament between them, always at each other’s throats. He leaned in, allowing his breath to warm her cheek, the tip of his knife pouring a single drop of garnet down the column of her throat. He had half a mind to lick it.

It didn’t deter the stiffness between her thighs. Where he likely would have lost interest, his body still raged for more.

That one small nick had her body tense, inadvertently tightening around his length as well. Her breathing was still ragged as she tried not to move and pull more blood from her neck.

Adjusting his hips, he gave her friction inadvertently. Which desire he wished to quell was still at an impasse.

The tip of her own wand started to feel like a knife, promising the same sort of end for him. His adjusting his hips almost made her squirm. Her other wrist, still in his grasp, tugged on as she barely bit back a moan.

This could not be happening. She could not still want this to continue with that knife held to her throat.

When Draco had imagined her scream, he always figured it would be on her dying breath. Not clenching around his length as she had been for most of their entanglement. And then she’d had to blow her cover. How utterly disappointing.

“This is…quite the unprecedented predicament…” There was a breathlessness in his tone he otherwise did his best to contain.

That breathlessness made her feel a little bit better as she shifted under him slightly, but all that did was create friction between them again. Dear god. Trying not to moan was difficult. Damn him.

"I hate agreeing with you.....but you aren't wrong..." she breathed, clearly able to actually agree when the statement was true. Damn him. She could feel that one drop of blood rolling down her neck.

Draco felt his length shift inside her at her next clench. His body was only further aroused by the situation. Something he couldn’t help but consider mutual.

“Unlike usual, neither of us can simply disapparate,” he continued calmly. He looked at a stranger, but he knew what hid beneath those features. In the dimness of the room, he could almost imagine her plump lips and fiery stare.

A contingency of such establishments ingrained in the very walls of their building. A way to ensure no service was left unpaid. Even less to have their goods damaged before the potential of reparations.

Well, that statement let her know he knew exactly who she was. How long had he known? She wasn't sure. But she let the illusion and change simply drop.

Her full lips were parted, her features less sharp and severe. A few scars littered her body. A scar along her collarbone, the scar on her forearm, a few on her arms from previous duels.

"No...we can't...And how long did you know, I wonder..." Her voice was colder, but her face was still flushed, still wet between her legs. Damn him.

Draco watched the plump cheeks and softer attributes fade to see her beneath him. She was battle-scarred and angular, and somehow, it made her even more attractive.

“This was your plan,” he reminded her with ice that clashed vehemently with his heat inside her. This was a dangerous game. It didn’t matter how much he faked in his tone. The blood rushing between his thighs to keep her spread around him would betray him.

"My plan was to do something you wouldn't expect. After seven years, you know what I do a bit too well," she sneered right back at him, her eyes narrowed on him as they returned to that rich brown.

His eyes on her had a shiver roll through her. Where she would have expected his desire to whither and for him to kill her, she hadn't expected to practically feel him throb inside of her.

“I’ll lower mine if you lower yours…”

Part of him wondered what he was offering. A removal of weapons or ignoring what his mind knew it had to do. Ever so slowly, he pulled away from her heat, inching out the slightest bit.

"Will you really? I find that hard to believe," she drawled, sounding uninterested. Her body was betraying her, though. And she almost clenched on him as he started to pull away. Fuck.

Taking in a slow breath, she started to lower her wand, her voice sharper now, strained. Damn him. "Fine."

As the wood slid down his throat, he did the same with his knife. Ever so cautious. It would do both of them a disservice to be caught in such a manner.

“I'd rather kill you on the field,” he reminded pointedly, his hips pausing to survive that delicious clench. “You may be a bad witch tonight…” he licked the blood off her neck, relishing the taste on his tongue. “But I rather a proper duel,” he reminded, biting down so she’d have a mark to remember this by.

Hermione glared even as she lowered her wand completely. She felt so heated. She needed him to move. Needed more of that friction. As he paused, she almost cursed again. Damn him.

"So the lieutenant has a sense of honor. Surprising," she drawled before her breath hitched as he licked up along her neck. She tugged at her wrist in his grip again, heart hammering in her chest. A treacherous part of her wanted him to keep fucking her, while the other wanted him to get the hell off of her.

That bite did pull an involuntary moan from her lips in her own voice before she bit down on her bottom lip with a hiss. It made her squirm, adding more friction once again between them.

“As surprising as you knowing your place,” he stabbed the knife deep in the headboard so neither could easily take it.

“I did make you a promise, though you did add your own rules…pity,” he taunted, continuing his cautious retreat despite his entire body wanting nothing more than to slam into her. To leave her wanting after sating himself. He repressed the thought. No, he wasn’t like his peers. Even if she did throw herself at him.

Rolling her eyes, she glared at him with such utter hatred that it least was clear she wasn't harboring secret feelings for him. "So surprised I can play pretend? Shouldn't be." She dug the words in, hoping he knew this wasn't for any kind of want on her part. He was her damn job, and she had two and a half weeks to finish this. Which meant she had to come up with another plan.

The knife buried in the headboard meant at least he didn't plan to bleed her anymore. But she slowly lifted a brow at that. "I think the only rule you gave was only to touch you when you asked. Considering I haven't grabbed you or touched you, I think I haven't broken them," she drawled.

Malicious compliance. Technically she hadn't done a damn thing. She was good at following the letter of the rules but the essence of them. Twisting them to her own ends now.

“And then you brought a knife into bed…” he reminded, but then her words registered. Was she daring him? He faltered, pausing, weighing.

“You're so needy…”

"I summoned it from your jacket. Do you often get attacked by bed partners? Is it from a lack of satisfaction?" She was digging a hole, inadvertently challenging. It had to be the damn lust that burned through her like a wildfire.

“Maybe I like to carve my moniker in their hip bone…”

It was a blatant lie. Monster that he was, even he had moral limits. Not that she knew as much.

Wood was good. Krum was good. But they didn't make her react like this. It simply had to be the danger of the situation. It couldn't be anything else.

"Needy?" She questioned with an arched brow, starting to pull that composure back around herself.

"I'm pretty sure the establishment would be against scarification. Could be wrong though. Could be why the others seem to warn other women against you," she drawled.

“Shall I invite one in? Show you how she’d beg for just the idea of being claimed by me?” He taunted. The other women warned against him? Perhaps, some nights. The ones where he had little time to recover from his work.

Lie. Blatant lie. They were warned due to how rough they said he was. If his drilling her into the mattress was the only hard or rough thing that he did, though, they were fragile. No wonder he seemed so bored. Not that she understood. At all. Never. Liar.

“Needy…” he agreed. “You want to continue this? Get yourself off.” He was nearly out of her. A few spells, and he could be dressed again. He’d need more than just a shower once he got home.

"Not like you could get me off, Malfoy." She didn't want him to. She did. The fact he was nearly out of her completely made her body crave more. More of him. More friction.

A hiss of frustration left her before she brought up her legs, hooking one around him and flipped them over. Stronger and more flexible than she looked as she sank back down onto his cock with a barely contained moan. "But I can make due, I'm sure...." she drawled as she ground against him. No realizing she was playing with fire.

He’d been so close to escape that he hadn’t seen her leg coming up or how she flipped them over. His hands gripped at her hips. She’d have storms of bruises for each digit that dug into her.

He hissed to hold back an expletive. Roughly, he reached up, gripping her breasts, pinching and twisting those nipples he regretted not having assaulted more. At least now it was hers he’d see, not the vision she had conjured.

"Hmmm, do they want you or the power you hold? Hard to tell, isn't it? I'm sure you hardly care one way or the other. Since you don't repeat partners," she drawled. Letting him see just a little bit of how closely they watched him. Perhaps paranoia would make him slip.

That grip on her hips almost made her gasp, but it did make her grind against him again. Harder this time. Dear god. She bit back the expletive and wondered if she could still accomplish the job she wanted. Deep down, she knew it was an excuse...but what if she could still manage it?

As he pinched and twisted those nipples, her hips bucked, and she gripped the headboard. Still oddly following his rules to see if that could disarm him as well. No other reason clearly. But she started to lift her hips, slowly starting to ride him with sure movements of her body.

“Everything is about power,” he grunted. It was always about power. Even she had to know that. Her on top, grinding on him, lifting to fill the forced silences between with sounds of flesh.

"Has been for seven years...." Her tone was bitter and angry despite him touching her despite the fact that she didn't mind taking control and having power here. He seemed almost like he was slipping. But so was she.

“Don’t get soft on me now,” he growled, latching on one of her breasts, wanting to spur her on. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let a woman ride him like that. Control something he hardly ever ceded.

Her hips bucked as she moaned, tempted to pull and touch that perfect hair of his. Not yet. Not while she was taking control and trying to make him lose his. But at his growl, she rode him harder, faster, with sure movements of her hips that filled the room with the sounds of flesh on flesh as she moaned.

Her words, the way she fell down on him, he stayed still a moment longer, letting her take. Take him. His gaze fell between them, where she exposed him glistening with every rise only to ensnare him again.

Had everything they’d done just been a natural escalation? Some of his men would have claimed everything was about sex. Except for sex.

Sex was about power.

She wasn’t losing herself like she had been. Wasn’t calling to her gods. He pushed her back, her head now at the foot of the bed, as he pulled her hips to fill her. With a silent summon, he brought a pillow forth. The desire to smother her with it occurred. Lingered. Instead, he shoved it beneath her so he could delve deeper.

She could tell where his gaze was, and it made her hotter. Was he thinking about who he was with or just how it felt? Why was she letting this continue when she could have gotten away?!

It had to be the constant life-or-death situations. Had to be the fact she was constantly on edge. It couldn't be him. She couldn't be that twisted inside.

As she was pushed back, she was prepared to have to hit him or do something. Instead, a surprised and louder moan left her lips as he pulled her hips to fill her again. Damn him.

As he shoved that pillow under her hips and hit deeper, she gasped and gripped the comforter again like she had when he had been using his tongue on her.

Her body was a traitor. But she didn't want him to stop. If he lost too much control and she didn't, she'd try again. Hermione had a sinking feeling, though, that if he lost control, so would she.

Those sounds, the way she gasped for air, hadn’t she made equally beautiful sounds in battle? Why were they so much more satisfying this way? He cast the thoughts aside by slamming into her, the bed creaking beneath his sharp movements. From where he gripped her thighs, he parted a hand to reach for her. Bringing it between them, using her own finger to press down on that hidden gem of hers.

Those slams stole her breath, and her eyes almost rolled back as she clutched at the bedding. Fuck. Why was he good? Did the bastard have to be good at everything? As he made her fingers press down between her legs, her hips bucked up into him again. "Oh god," she moaned again before biting down on her full bottom lip. Damn him. Damn him to hell.

“They do call me after a god…” he slammed into her, his anger palpable. “Say it,” he nearly spat the words, adding pressure to her fingers between them before stopping them just as swiftly.

She squirmed, glaring up at him with such venomous hatred with the lust and pleasure he was causing. As he added pressure, she almost cried out before he pulled her hand away. Bastard.

One hand came up, but rather than slapping or punching, her nails sank into his shoulder as she met his gaze, seeing what would happen as she moaned the blasted name they had given him. "Arawn."

It wasn’t a name he cared for, and yet on her tongue with those wampus claws digging into his shoulder, he didn’t dislike it.

“That’s right,” he praised, bringing that pressure back, keeping his motions steady in his body’s assault forward.

More. He wanted more.

That praise sent another shot of pleasure and desire through her. Fuck. Her nails dug into his shoulder as she moaned, closing her eyes.

She just had to pretend it was anyone else. Anyone at all. Because this felt far too good, and she didn't want him to be so good at it. "Fuck," she gasped before biting down on her lip again.

The way she cursed, her nails biting into his flesh, he knew she was close. Part of him wanted to leave her writhing and wanton, but she had been so compliant, even if only maliciously so.

Rather than stop, he let her spur him forward. He needed to know how she looked wrecked, smashed, and gone. Needed to see her fall apart for him, even if it would only be for his own memories.

“Come,” he demanded. There was no recourse for more words. He could barely keep himself from straying his own course. He needed to prove to himself he was in control. This was just another game. One he intended to win.

The way he slammed into her over and over had her trying to desperately hold out. She didn't want to come apart for him. Didn't want him to push her over the edge, but she felt like she desperately needed that very thing.

"Do witches normally fall apart by your command?" She taunted him, even as she was balancing precariously on the edge. Her voice was breathless, face flushed.

Anything more was going to push her over the edge. But she was going to attempt not to simply fall apart due to his uttered demand. He wasn't in control here.

Perhaps he’d misread her cues. It didn’t matter. He slowed his motions to respond, but even he knew it wasn’t nearly as controlled as it could be.

“When they want to come more than once? Definitely,” he retorted before resuming his punitive pace. They had already determined her a bad witch. It was her loss.

That slowed pace almost made her curse. Her grip on him loosened some as she glared up at him, but she scoffed even as breathless as she was. "More than once?"

She couldn't help but challenge him. Couldn’t help but try to unseat his control. Make him lose his own composure. But as soon as he picked back up that punitive pace, her breath hitched.

“Have you…” he drilled her into the bed, adding that pressure with his thumb, his free hand bringing her leg over his shoulder. He couldn’t finish the thought.

He imagined Potter, Weasley, Krum…he saw red. How could she expect anything more than disappointment from them? The Chosen One had failed his task, her exes well; they had failed more times than one. Of course, her entourage hadn’t had the stomach or control for it.

She was grateful for her flexibility at that moment, or she might have cursed from the strain. Instead, she writhed, arching into him as she tried to get a breath, but only more moans left her. Damn him. Damn him.

The only time she had finished multiple times with one person was if they had used their hands or mouths first and then fucked her. Not like this. Never like this.

A whimper of a moan left her as she clawed his back, trying desperately not to fall apart on his cock.

Those whimpers, the way she struggled to stay still, her nails digging crescent moons in his shoulder. He could nearly taste her end.

He had to brace himself. Keeping his breath steady to hold past what hell that warm cunt of hers would put him through.

He kept things steady. The same. Helping build her without letting her release slip away like others had. As he kept up that relentless pace, she cried out.

Her head fell back, her hair fraying out of the ties it had been in, cheeks flushed, and eyes closed as her nails dragged down his back. She tightened on him, clamping down on his cock as if her body never wanted it to leave.

Those claw marks would haunt him for days, and he was fine with that. The sharp pain kept him from spilling as her inner walls sucked him mercilessly, begging for his release, which he denied it.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it, now pet,” he smoothed a hand over her leg and the other up her front. Shoving her leg off, he moved her again, keeping her more balanced on the pillow before resuming.

Just knowing how sensitive she would feel in those first moments after climax had him return to those harsh thrusts. He’d have these sheets soaked with her pleasure. He imagined her that way, breathless and ashamed. It had him lean forward, allowing his body to grind after every thrust.

As he smoothed a hand down her leg, it was a stark contrast to the way he fucked her. The way he made her body tremble and quake. And then he shoved her leg off his shoulder and adjusted her again.

Those harsh thrusts had her writhe, whimpers leaving her lips at the over-sensitivity that almost tipped her over the edge again. Those grinds against her, stealing her breath as her cheeks flushed not just in arousal but shame and pleasure as well.

"Mmm, it was alright," she lied, even breathless as she was. She couldn't help but goad him. Make him think she'd had better. He slowly seemed to lose himself in trying to make her a mess.

Alright. alright? A l r i g h t !? The single word was venom in his veins. A stark contrast to her breathy, glazed-over appearance. He knew she was fucking with him. Now, it was personal.

If that was the case, why bother with her? He gripped her throat and drilled her into the mattress. He had given her hers, and he was going to take his.

“Easily said on your back, taking it like a good little…” he had no idea how he would even finish that statement. Witch? Mudblood? Whore?

It was too late. He’d lost his precious control. He was spilling over. No. Exploding. Filling her with years of repression and anger. He could feel the heat of it as he abandoned himself between her thighs.

His cheeks were red. He hadn’t wanted to spill into her. Her of all people. Still, his length remained inside her, deflated as he calculated his next move.

That rage, the venom he looked at her with, blended with a dark determination she could see in his eyes. She didn't have a moment to contemplate if she had pushed him too far before he drilled into her as he clutched at her throat.

Pleasure. Lust. Abandon. All of them blended through her as she arched, her moans muffled as he gripped her throat. With how he pounded into her, it tipped her over the edge again with how sensitive she was.

What was he about to call her? Did she care? Not in the least at the moment as she tried to catch her breath. Her mind was scrambled. Hair tussled. Face flushed.

If she could focus, she could do something. He'd lost it. If she could think fast enough, she could still kill him or capture him. But thinking was...difficult.

“I…shouldn’t have done that.” It wasn’t easy to admit. It was the closest she’d get to an apology. It was sobering despite the haze.

Stretching a hand, he summoned his wand. Rather than point it at her throat, he prepared to clean her sheen off himself. The mess of both their climaxes clinging to every inch of his length.

Pulling away, he fought every aching muscle, protesting his choice. He needed to get clean. To wash off the night.

"No...you shouldn't." Sitting up as he pulled away, she summoned her own wand to clean herself up with a spell. She could feel and see the bruises blooming on her hips and could only imagine the bite on her neck. Damn him.

His spell work was less effective as he dressed. His robes were in the slightest disarray. It hadn’t stopped him from plucking the discarded remains of her undergarments.

“I’ll enjoy knowing you left here without your pants,” he jeered, summoning his knife back.

As she dressed, she was about to summon what remained of her knickers and repair them before he plucked them from the floor.

She was seething once again. Summoning a knife with her wand, twirling it in her hand. A throwing knife that she had no problem burying in the man's chest.

"Will you also enjoy knowing a Mudblood had you lose all that hard-won composure?" She drawled just a moment before she threw the knife.

"It was just a shag. One that will lead to nothing of consequence," he shrugged and paused, putting her knickers in his pocket and pulling a sickle. "I suppose you did earn a tip," he jeered. It was cold, detached. He knew she wouldn't get pregnant. He took precautions when visiting such establishments the few times he did. He knew his potions would work. "I'd tell you not to get your knickers in a twist..."

Before she could throw her knife, he slammed the door behind him, needing distance.

A shag. Just a shag. Yet he had seemed unhinged even as he took her knickers. She needed to end a Death Eater. Now. And she also needed to scrub her skin raw to erase his touch from her skin. His smell....

She wasn't worried about pregnancy. She took potions to suppress that, and even if she didn't, she was likely malnourished enough that she wouldn't even have her period if she wasn't on the potion.

The knife buried into the door neatly, and she waited several moments, waiting till he was gone before she plucked the knife from the door with her disguise back in place as she stepped out of the room and apparated to a safe house.