Chapter Text
WRAPPING CHAOS, Part 4
Enchanting Lips
Hermione rushed to the bathroom, completely horrified by what had just happened. For a thousand reasons. She had let Draco fucking Malfoy chase her down—even though, she had taken monstrous pleasure in the situation—and he had had the audacity, the fucking arrogance, to push his bloody wand between her legs. She had come three times, damn it, a record for Hermione.
Her core pulsed at the memory of his rough voice, his dark, filthy promises against her skin, each word ringing like a delicious poison.
Ginny's words struck her mind violently, like a slap, yanking her back to reality. She pinched her lips, a bitter taste creeping down her throat at the recollection. She had failed her task: she was supposed to make things difficult, make him believe he had a chance, mislead him, and then escape. But she had failed. She had given in to temptation.
Her fists clenched, a deep, simmering rage rising within her. She had to fix this, no matter what. A thought, as delicious as it was captivating, warmed her cheeks, and a cruel smile curved her lips.
Oh.
He had no idea what was coming for him. He thought he had the upper hand—but she would show him just how much worse she could be than his filthy words. A cold, savory vengeance clung to her skin, like a slow and dangerous caress. She already imagined the scene, her plan taking shape under the illusion of her lips moving on him, a new power she had never explored on Malfoy. She could barely contain her impatience to destabilize him, to push him into losing control.
She already savored the idea that he wouldn’t walk away unscathed.
Forget, really?
Nott and Blaise were sprawled across the couches in a secret room on the third floor, a conspiratorial smile on one’s face and a hand pressed to cover the discomfort of the other. Malfoy watched their silhouettes, a smirk playing on his lips.
Hermione had fled to the bathroom, mortified. He completely understood her embarrassment. His fists clenched in anger. And to think he was this close to being able to sink into her, to explore her warmth, and to bend her in two with the force of his thrusts. The pain still lingered between his legs —he shifted his position to release the tension, and Theodore finally cracked. The tense silence was his nemesis—he hated not being able to speak. Draco furrowed his brow, feeling the irritation flicker across his skin.
“We put a tracker in your drinks,” he announced, his voice cracking the atmosphere like a whip. “It will dissolve within the next thirty hours.”
Malfoy tensed. He didn’t have time to spit out his anger before Zabini continued with a calmer tone, trying to lessen the threat of potential murder. Draco was dying to strangle Nott, who wore a smug grin ever since he’d seen Hermione tense, submissive. The knuckles of his fists whitened.
She was his. For his eyes, for his lips. No one else’s.
“We thought we were doing the right thing,” Blaise justified. “Seeing how you couldn’t stop chasing her like a maniac, acting like an ogre, we figured you’d end up insulting her again.”
Nott chuckled, a sound massively annoying to Malfoy’s ears. He shot him a death glare, and the fool had the decency to shrink back into his seat.
“But…” Zabini’s voice faltered, and an uncomfortable expression replaced his features.
“What a surprise to find out you’ve been using your tongue for more than insults. She enjoyed it, I suppose?” Theodore mocked, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
Malfoy gripped his wand, a threatening gleam in his eyes. Theo stammered, his heart pounding. He straightened his arms in jerky movements.
“Don’t cast a spell with that monstrous wand of yours,” he grinned, seeing Draco’s lack of a sharp movement. “I’m already surprised I didn’t die from mortification watching what you’ve turned that into,” he gulped, pointing at the object between Malfoy’s fingers. “But it would be an honor to be touched by something that managed to pierce Hermione’s cunt.”
Malfoy rose with such speed that Nott didn’t have time to react. His hands wrapped around the idiot’s throat, who screamed like a cat in distress in a puddle of water. Blaise had sat up at the action, his eyes wide, screaming like a banshee.
“Damn it! Are you bloody insane?”
“Let him go, now! ”
“Look how red he is! Are you trying to rip his head off or what?”
Malfoy released him, and Theodore gasped for air, a fit of coughing bursting from his lips.
“At least he didn’t use his destructive weapon, I’m relieved,” he grumbled, rubbing his neck, his face still red, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
Draco conjured a spell, and his wand returned to its usual size. Blaise sighed, collapsing back into the cushions, his face defeated.
“What did you do for her to accept… this treatment?” Blaise swallowed, as if the idea that Hermione could want something like this was ludicrous.
Malfoy winked at him.
“I don’t share my secrets.”
“Thank the Lord,” Nott added, rolling his eyes.
Draco, his gaze dark, looked down at his friends, rubbing his knuckles. He was thinking.
“Sorry to do this, but I can’t let you continue the night with those memories. Not after what just happened.” He glanced nervously toward the bathroom, where Hermione was hiding.
Zabini stretched in his chair, a smirk on his face. “To be honest, Mione caught me with Pansy in a compromising position, so I guess we’re even. But…” He stopped, lips pinched, his neck reddening. “I’d prefer to forget the sounds she makes and… damn it. Erase everything. It’s torture.”
“You’re really a wimp, Blaise!” Nott groaned, raising his arms to the sky. “You’re just scared of dreaming about Malfoy’s monstrous wand between Granger’s legs every night.”
Zabini shot him a glare, but the look in his eyes betrayed his discomfort. Malfoy smirked, amused.
“I’m the only one with that right,” he growled condescendingly. “Now…” He raised his wand toward Nott. “You’ll be my first victim, since you clearly enjoyed watching me fuck her with my wand.”
Theo tried to escape, but Blaise grabbed his collar, forcing him to stay put. The spell was quick; the idiot’s eyes widened, drained of any emotion.
“Take care of her and… keep doing what you do,” Blaise whispered with effort, one eyebrow arched in playful defiance. “You’re pretty good at it.”
“Shut up,” Malfoy chuckled, amusement in his voice, before casting the same spell on him.
They had been the voyeurs of their sexual tension, but the next time Malfoy dealt with Hermione, there would be no more barriers to stop him from bending her in two under his desires. He would become one with her. His smile deepened in the darkness.
He eagerly anticipated the moment when his teeth would sink into his prey.
Try not to aim for my heart, darling
The festive atmosphere was in full swing as Blaise urged Hermione and Malfoy to join the game of magical darts. The rules were simple: each player threw a dart, aiming to hit the best possible target, while the magic made the enchanted board tremble—making the task considerably more challenging.
There were five rounds, and in each, the player who scored the highest earned the right to challenge one of the participants. Refusing a challenge meant downing a drink of alcohol laced with a hint of Amortentia. Hermione shuddered, realizing what that implied. No matter what she was asked, she would comply. She had no choice— it was crucial, or else… the consequences could be dire. Hermione bit her lower lip, lost in thought.
The last time she had encountered the infamous potion at Hogwarts, she had been horrified to discover that its scent resembled Draco Malfoy’s. She mentally slapped herself, her cheeks burning. There was no way she was going to admit such a thing—not in this life, nor the next.
Her gaze landed on the assembly—Pansy was enchanting the darts to ensure that any cheater using magic to direct the targets would experience a boomerang effect, risking a sharp tip in their backside. Hermione chuckled softly. It was so typical of Parkinson to come up with such games. As if sensing her presence, Pansy turned around and winked at her. She set down her findings to embrace her, eyes sparkling.
“I can’t wait for you to open your presents,” Pansy whispered in her ear.
Hermione pulled away with a smile. “Me too. I think Blaise is going to hate me for eternity when he finds out what I’ve prepared for you.”
Pansy let out a laugh, wrapping her arm around Hermione’s neck.
Hermione scratched her cheek, recalling a moment from the evening—a very sultry one—when Parkinson had found herself kneeling between her boyfriend’s thighs. She swallowed.
"Is this a habit of yours?" Hermione asked in a barely audible breath.
Pansy leaned in, tilting her head. She was an expert at forgetting embarrassing moments. Perhaps she didn’t even remember them herself.
"Welcoming your guests—me, in this case—with Blaise’s cock between your lips?" Hermione pinched her friend's cheek, a falsely disgusted expression on her face. "Did you at least rinse your mouth?"
"Oh, shut it, Granger!" Pansy growled with a laugh. “What were you even doing in there, anyway?”
Hermione averted her gaze, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She wouldn’t give in—she wouldn’t say anything. She—
“I let Malfoy chase me like a desperate rabbit, and he made me come three times—once on his wand, and I thought I was going to die from the orgasm.”
She had spilled this information so quickly that she almost hyperventilated. Oh God. Couldn’t she just shut up? Pansy choked on her saliva, her eyes nearly popping out of her head.
“I beg your pardon? Did my friend fuck your cunt with his wand?”
“Yes. A big, thick one. ” Hermione wanted to slap herself. Bloody Merlin’s tits.
Pansy burst into laughter, her body doubling over, and the pink hue on Hermione’s face deepened to red.
“What a naughty boy! I knew he had—” Pansy’s voice trailed off, and her expression shifted as she spotted a towering man in the corner of the room, his blonde hair hanging in front of his face, in a corner of the room.
Malfoy was staring at Granger with a dark look, downing his drinks as if they were mere juice. Parkinson flashed a grin, elbowing her friend in the abdomen.
Hermione groaned in pain. “What was that for?”
“Oh, I wanted you to bend over for his gaze. I know his preferences, and your lovely ass is part of them.”
Pansy’s tone was syrupy. Hermione frowned, confused, before feeling something hard against her back. Fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, and she struggled to hold back a moan. Malfoy. What was he doing here? Couldn’t he survive an evening without constantly touching her? She threw a brief glance at him before slapping his hand away dismissively. She vaguely heard his outraged exclamation before stepping toward the small group, a mocking smile plastered on her face.
Oh, she was going to love this evening.
She had promised Ginny that Draco would regret it. The game was starting. Now.
“Everyone!” shouted Theodore Nott’s shrill voice, arms raised to quiet the murmurs.
Blaise silenced the music with a flick of his wand, and Hermione rubbed her thighs at the memory of what Malfoy had done with his. She could still feel its rigidity and width against her hips. Her lips pressed together, warming from the desire that flushed her cheeks.
Draco had told her that Nott and Zabini were no longer a problem—they didn’t remember their little escapade. Thank fucking God. That was the only consolation Hermione had, because outside of his words, she couldn’t focus on the essentials. All she could picture were Malfoy’s hands on her backside, violent, slapping, and delicious. And his fingers—
Hermione coughed to hide her moan. She could feel his gaze on her, studying every pore of her skin. Automatically, she rubbed her arms, her heart pounding furiously.
Hold it together, damn it.
“Now that the rules have been clarified,” Blaise gestured toward the crowd, encouraging them to settle into the sofas. Hermione positioned herself in front of a large window. It was dark outside. Streetlights illuminated the dirt paths.
The participants paraded, planting their darts into the walls, some attacking other wizards. The sound of laughter echoed through the room. Pansy stepped forward, determined, as Zabini pressed against her back. He whispered words into her ear. Hermione analyzed the brief, lascivious smile on Parkinson’s face before she threw her dart—it landed right in the center of the moving target, drawing excited exclamations from the guests.
Hermione moved forward, lips pressed together. If Pansy won this round—she had a feeling of what the next challenge would be. She wouldn’t escape Parkinson’s sexual grip. Her friend knew full well about the blatant interest and the tension-filled exchanges between Draco and her. The electricity pulsed in the air when they looked at each other. They hated each other like a cat and dog. But the passion in his gaze, the warmth of his hands—Hermione couldn’t forget them.
“You hold that dart like you hold your wand—without conviction, Granger. Maybe you need something more satisfying between your fingers to motivate you,” Malfoy drawled, a sly smile tugging at his lips.
He glanced down at her—once again.
“And yet, I always hit my target. Unlike you, who only manages to get on people’s nerves,” she shot back sharply, dragging her nails along the dart with a mocking smile. “You should learn to tread carefully—or risk getting impaled. Not exactly a favorable outcome, is it?”
Laughter erupted, but Malfoy ignored it, leaning toward her. His lips brushed her cheek, and he only broke their gaze when his fingers traced the curls of her hair, his expression darkening.
“You didn’t feel that when my fingers were inside you. Should I remind you what my hands can do?” Malfoy gripped her chin, locking his gaze with hers. There was only that electric charge, that silent battle neither of them dared to stop.
Hermione’s breath faltered, an irregular melody to Draco’s ears. His pupils dilated, he leaned in, his hair brushing against Granger’s upturned nose. Each heartbeat seemed to resonate in their veins like a drum, a wild, disordered rhythm, impossible to control.
Words didn’t come. They weren’t needed anymore. Malfoy didn’t need language to express his desire, and Hermione couldn’t contain her arousal, nor the pulse between her legs. Her lips parted in an urge to say something, to make a request, as uncontrollable shivers ran up her spine.
Hermione couldn’t break their exchange. She threw her dart, hoping to succeed without putting the conviction into it. She vaguely heard the muffled sound of the target and excited exclamations. But she didn’t care. There was only him in her peripheral vision, and—anger began to rise along her arms. Why couldn’t she move on? It had been years. Bloody years she’d thought about him, drooling over his silhouette, his finely sculpted jaw, and his broad shoulders, V-shaped.
Since their meeting in that damn office. Since he’d dared to mock her—that was nothing new. Her crush on Draco Malfoy had started during their time at Hogwarts, but she had buried those silly feelings in a corner of her mind. The ogre’s interests were clear, he didn’t like her blood or her personality, but he did like her body. He took flagrant care to lick it, gripping every surface.
Hermione, if she didn’t force herself to muzzle her desires, would throw herself into his arms for more—from his lips, his indecent words. Instead, she gave him a smile; fiery, wicked.
“Do you think you can do better?”
Malfoy smirked, an unreadable gleam flashing in his eyes.
“We both know my target is different from everyone in this room,” Draco growled before stepping back.
He conjured two arrows and slammed them into the wall violently. Theodore screamed in horror as the sharp tips pierced through his tailor-made shirt, pinning him to the wall. Malfoy grinned slyly. It was a tantalizing scene—and most of all—very familiar.
Nott was raving in anger, and Hermione rushed to the poor fool to help him get out of his miserable situation. Theo seized the chance to slip a lock of hair behind Granger’s ear. Malfoy saw red. He was sure Nott had done it on purpose. He moved forward, but Pansy’s sharp voice sliced through the atmosphere. She had won the first round, with difficulty. Hermione had almost dethroned her.
“Mione,” Pansy whispered. She moved her index finger in such an insulting gesture that Hermione rolled her eyes. “You need to participate.” When Granger was at her height, she whispered in her ear, “Could you not drive him mad? He’s about to kill Theo.”
Hermione turned, locking eyes with Draco, who raised an eyebrow, puzzled. What could they be discussing?
“That’s actually the point,” whispered Granger.
“Killing Theo?!”
“No.” Hermione rolled her eyes, swatting an imaginary speck of dust from the air. “Driving him mad.”
“Well, you excel at it. It’s almost funny how he bites your hand. Poor thing, looks like he’ll end up with a stiffy all night if you keep teasing him without giving him a treat.”
Hermione burst into laughter at Pansy’s words. “Could you help me?”
Her request got lost in the cacophony of guest noises. Malfoy wanted to approach, but Blaise stopped him, draping his arm over his shoulders in a somewhat threatening hug.
“So… what was that exchange with Mione?”
“Nothing.” Draco frowned.
“Oh really? And pinning Theo to the wall is nothing too? What did I say before the evening?” Blaise grumbled with boredom.
“I can’t hex Nott tonight, right. But I didn’t.”
“Well…” Zabini rubbed his nose, amused. “True, but you could use a different approach. You know, be fucking original. Pinning him to the wall? That’s getting cliché, Draco.”
Don’t touch my woman
"I’ve made my choice!" Pansy’s voice rang out, cutting through the room with sharp finality.
Malfoy tilted his head, the cool metal of his ring brushing against his lips as he observed Hermione from across the room. Her hair cascaded down her face in soft waves. Standing at an angle, she ignored him entirely, a behavior Draco found unusually deliberate.
“It’s time to add a little... spice to this evening,” Pansy announced, pausing just long enough for her mischievous gaze to sweep over the crowd.
Malfoy pressed his lips into a thin line. This wasn’t good—at all.
“The challenge is for the bold,” Pansy continued, her grin widening. “For those who have no fear... or hesitation with their tongues. ” Her laughter rang out, a crystalline sound echoing off the manor’s high walls.
Her fingers slid languidly along the rim of her half-filled wine glass.
“You’ll need to trace your tongue along your partner’s body—choose wisely, darlings; I won’t accept excuses—and retrieve a shot glass held between their lips. And of course, not a single drop is to spill.”
She took a deliberate step forward, locking eyes with Draco. Her voice softened, dipping into a conspiratorial whisper that still carried across the room.
“So, who’s ready to play?”
Several participants moved toward the central table, reaching eagerly for the small pink vials meticulously arranged in a neat display. A heady, intoxicating aroma wafted from them, sweet and utterly irresistible. Hermione lingered at the edge of the room, her hands clasped behind her back, her face composed and unreadable.
With purposeful strides, Malfoy closed the distance between them, every step deliberate and charged with intent. His choice was clear—there was no alternative. He would be the one to trace his tongue along her skin, igniting her with a desire he could barely contain, consuming her until she yielded and followed him to a room. He had waited for this moment since their last encounter, his longing for her growing into a suffocating obsession.
But his thoughts shattered into a storm of fury as his gaze landed on a bald-headed wizard with piercing blue eyes standing before Hermione. The fool was about to ask her to be his partner. Draco’s entire body coiled with tension, anger rippling through him in searing waves. He saw red, black—all the fucking colours describing his rage.
He drew his wand and pressed it firmly against the man’s back in a single, fluid motion. He didn’t care about the wizard’s name—why should he? The idiot was insignificant, and above all, no one touched what belonged to Draco.
Hermione was his prey, his cherished obsession, the haven he clung to in life’s chaos.
“You’ll walk away quietly,” he murmured, his voice cold and sharp as a blade, his breath ghosting against the petrified man’s neck, “and leave me with my woman.”
The patience of an ogre
Hermione was lying on the fluffy rug, like several other participants. She controlled her breathing with as much confidence as a cat in front of a laser.
Malfoy smirked as he watched her. He hovered above her—Hermione's long legs, which could tempt even a saint, wrapped around his hips, her heels pressing into his back, grazing his rear. He grunted as his gaze dropped. With her skirt raised, he could almost see the delicate fabric covering her intimate area. He inhaled slowly, his hands clenched at either side of her face. Hermione didn’t make a sound—she couldn’t. Her slightly parted, swollen lips, moist and pressed against a small glass, held it like an offering from the heavens.
He muttered under his breath at the image. A real torture. If he managed to have a conversation with Pansy Parkinson, he would make her regret her actions. How could he resist such temptation, her beneath him, with dozens of guests filling the room?
His gaze fixed on the partygoers to distract himself, his groin rubbing against the rough fabric of his trousers. Hermione and Malfoy weren't the only ones taking on the challenge. Thank God. Maybe his painfully disproportionate erection would go unnoticed. He hoped so.
Hermione shifted once more beneath him, moving her hips and rubbing their pelvises together. He pressed a hand under her buttocks to squeeze, caress, and she moaned, the glass trembling against her lips.
“Easy, Granger. We don’t want it to fall,” Draco teased. His fingers traced the curve of her hips through her clothes, and she tensed, briefly closing her eyes, shivers running sharply up her arms.
A satisfied smile spread across Malfoy’s face. He loved making her lose control—having her at his mercy; lying there, patient and obedient.
“Did you touch yourself and used your sex toys thinking of me?” he growled against her ear. There was no space left between them. The only barrier that resisted was their clothing, and he longed to remove it.
Hermione shivered, her legs instinctively tightening around him. She didn’t give him a single glance. But Malfoy didn’t need her attention—he had won. She could pretend to be indifferent, but—
“I imagined you tense, bound, and drenched for me. Just for me. For years. Fucking years.”
Hermione whimpered, forcing herself not to meet his fiery gaze, the glass still between her lips. Malfoy slid his thumb along the graceful curve of her hips, rising up to her ribs and brushing, with infinite slowness, the side of her breasts. There—her pupils widened.
“Do you like to beg, Granger? Do you want me to tell you how good you are?”
His hands slid over her skin, the caresses light as feathers, grazing her flesh, testing her limits. His fingers slipped under the slit of her skirt, slowly inching upward, in a soft torture. His grip tightened. Hermione felt like mush, stunned by anticipation.
“Good Girl.”
He settled more comfortably, and Hermione’s hips bucked instinctively. Her eyes were wide, her lips moist around the glass. Fuck, the view was obscene. His cock throbbed, desperate to free itself from their restraint, and Draco inhaled slowly. He needed to stay calm—there were spectators. The idea of kissing Hermione in front of an audience thrilled him, but—he gripped her hips tighter, imagining bending her towards him to slap her ass. The waiting was torturous for Malfoy. He wanted to kidnap Hermione, throw her over his shoulder, and find a fucking bed to devour her.
When the signal echoed through the room, Pansy clapped her hands and whistled with hysteria, Malfoy lowered himself toward Hermione's magnetic silhouette, locking eyes with her dilated pupils. He did not look away for a moment, his lips tracing from her belly button to the curve of her exposed breasts beneath her neckline.
Hermione moaned, the glass twisting under her gasp. Draco kept her in place, one hand pressing against the tangle of her thigh and her buttocks. He gripped her flesh, hard, and she lifted her hips again, driven by an urgent need to fill the emptiness.
Malfoy obeyed her silent request, pressing his palms against her rounded ass to slowly rub his pelvis against her. His lips scattered across her skin with delight, his tongue lapping, his teeth biting every fiber. When he moved up to her throat, Hermione was nothing but a limp mass against him, arching her trembling hips. Malfoy rubbed his cock against her core with force, the friction slow and heavy. Hermione kept her eyes closed, her lips pressed against the glass.
Draco imagined his cock gradually sinking into her throat and groaned. He bit her neck and a spasm cascaded down Hermione's spine.
The damp trace of his lips drove her wild. Malfoy could feel her warmth even through his trousers. He tensed, his blood pounding furiously in his groin.
“You're fucking killing me,” he managed to whisper against her ear.
He left the imprint of his teeth on her shoulder, but he knew that if he kept going, Hermione would forget the guests. Just like him.
His kisses warmed her cheeks, her jaw, then he wrapped his mouth around the glass, tilted his head, and drank it down in one go. Malfoy tensed, his eyelids closed, as a strange sensation spread through his body. His head spun, and Hermione’s labored breathing beneath him drove him mad. He had to resist, fight against this desire, damn it. He buried his nose in her neck, licking the fresh bite on her skin.
Granger’s legs tightened, her eyes rolling.
“Malfoy,” she moaned.
“Not here.” It was both an order and a desperate plea.
He needed her to be the sensible one. He fell on the edge of a cliff. Lifting her trembling body to press her against his chest, he kissed her ear.
“Join me in the bathroom upstairs and lock the door behind you.”
“But—” Hermione interjected, her voice a whimper.
“Fuck the game. Tonight, you’re mine only.”