DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

BETA READER: silverbluewords

WARNINGS: Explicit sexual situations, hard kink, mild violence, and strong profanity.

NOTE: As part of our Summer 2011 DM/HG Kink Exchange, BlueRosesJane requested 1) Draco, fully decked out in all of his Quidditch glory, 2) Hermione's resultant ovarian explosion, 3) gratuitous amounts of scatologia (a.k.a. "dirty talk," not to be confused with scatology, which is a different story altogether), 4) more of my infamous snogging sequences, and 5) use of the word "siphoning." I hope that I have sufficiently met expectations...

QUARRELS & QUAFFLES

Draco Malfoy was livid. He stormed off down the nearest corridor, dragging Hermione unceremoniously through the freezing mud puddles that dripped from his rain-sodden robes onto the stone floor. Still, he marched onward, completely uncaring of the consequences, his battered green and silver Quidditch uniform plastered to his sweat-soaked skin. Without needing to utter a single word, he sent any fuckwit that dared to approach him scarpering in the opposite direction. Nosy sods. She was his property. He owned her. He could do whatever the fuck he pleased with her, and she would have no choice but to submit.

He'd hardly slept this past week, forcing her through rough, rigorous sessions that pushed their endurance to its very limits. Perhaps later, he'd strap her down and give her a little trim to keep her bushes all smart and groomed, but that could wait. Right now, he was sore, knackered, and irritable from riding her hard for hours on end, and still, he had fuck-all to show for it. Yes, a true Slytherin was patient, determined, willing to resort to any means to achieve his or her ends… But he'd just about had it with the maddening cockteaser.

Fuck it! Fuck it all! He'd waited long enough. He'd tried being patient, being understanding, but NO—nothing he did was ever good enough! It was about fucking time he took matters into his own hands. It wasn't his fault that he had to resort to such drastic measures. It wasn't his fault that it had come to this. Some people just needed to learn the hard way. Some people… Just liked it rough. And he was very willing to oblige.

With Hermione in tow, he charged up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, bellowed the password at a bewildered Fat Lady, and burst through the portrait hole, startling the two girls who, at that precise moment, had the dire misfortune to be the sole occupants of their hideous common room.

"You two," he snarled. "Up the stairs. Now." They immediately scrambled to their feet and shakily escorted him up the enchanted staircase, barely keeping pace with his menacing strides and tripping over themselves in their haste. Fucking Charm. Fucking Founders. Fucking Gryffindors. Fucking women!

When he finally reached his destination, he shouted at the blithering bints to make themselves scarce and, without even bothering to knock, barged straight into the Head Girl's private quarters, slamming the door shut behind him, and shoving Hermione to the ground. She toppled to his feet. Growling in annoyance, he kicked her aside. She rolled over dejectedly, but the fleeting, petty satisfaction that he derived from such cruelty wasn't enough. It was never enough. He kicked her harder. At this point, he was no longer concerned about her welfare.

Honestly, what was the point of being Head Boy if he had to slink about like some dodgy criminal just to have a proper, remotely civilised conversation with the Head Girl? What was the point of being Captain of the motherfucking Quidditch team if he was just going to get his arse handed to him by Scarhead in the finals? What was the point of crushing the Hufflepoofters in today's match like a fistful of Flobberworm fritters if he had to slog through a sodding hailstorm to do it? And what was the point of pulling off the most fan-fucking-tastic Wronski Feint ever, IF THE WOMAN HE'D NAMED HIS BLOODY BROOM AFTER WASN'T EVEN THERE TO SEE IT?

"GRANGER!" he roared.

"Yes, Malfoy?" a voice responded coolly from across the room.

As usual, the bitch hadn't even bothered to turn about and give him the light of day. His thunderous trespass into her dormitory didn't seem to faze her in the least. No, the real Hermione Granger was currently bent over her trunk, swathed in her regulation-length robes and humming to herself as she rummaged through the contents, hardly even acknowledging his existence. Typical. Just twatting typical.

"Care to explain why you weren't at the match today?" he barely managed to grit out between clenched teeth.

"Why would I be at the match?" she asked, playing the part of the naïve, innocent maiden far too well to ever be truly convincing.

"BECAUSE I WAS IN IT!" he snapped, a tad louder than he might've intended. That impudent little shrew always made him lose control so easily…

"Mr Malfoy, I regret to inform you that I simply cannot fathom why that particular, irrelevant fact should be of any interest to me—"

"IT BLOODY WELL SHOULD!"

"Really, now? And what, pray tell, could have possibly lead you to that conclusion? As far as I'm concerned, Mr Malfoy, we are neither friend nor foe, merely acquaintances. After all, you were the one who specifically stated, and I quote, 'This is not a relationship, merely a complication'—"

"AND WHOSE FAULT DO YOU THINK THAT IS, O BRIGHTEST WITCH OF OUR AGE?"

"I sincerely hope, for your sake, that you are not implying that you have anyone to blame but yourself—"

"I'M NOT IMPLYING ANYTHING, GRANGER! I'M SPECIFICALLY STATING THAT ALL OF THIS BLOODY SKULKING AND SNEAKING ABOUT IS YOUR FAULT, AND YOU CAN QUOTE ME ON THAT, YOU STRAITLACED PRIG—"

"My fault? Dear Merlin, you have gone around the twist—"

"LIKE BUGGERY, I HAVE! YOU'RE THE PIGGING GRYFFINDOR WHO CAN'T EVEN TELL POTHEAD AND YOUR PLEB OF AN EX-BOYFRIEND THAT YOU'VE BEEN FUCKING ME FOR THE PAST FOUR MONTHS—"

"My friends are the least of your problems, Malfoy. Why don't you try telling your parents first, and I might actually consider your point valid—"

"LEAVE MY PARENTS OUT OF THIS, GRANGER! I DON'T HAVE TO TELL THEM SHITE, SEEING AS HOW WE'RE CLEARLY NOT IN A RELATIONSHIP! I'M FREE TO FUCK ABOUT WITH ANY SLAG WHO'LL SPREAD HER LEGS FOR ME, AND YOU DON'T HAVE THE RIGHT TO SAY ANYTHING, BECAUSE IF YOU DID, YOU WOULD'VE BEEN AT MY MATCH THIS MORNING!"

"Oh, Godric, not this again… For the fifty-second time, Malfoy, I don't even like Quidditch! It's a completely nonsensical sport, devised by a steaming load of ruffians for the sole purposes of glorifying a single individual and fuelling inter-House rivalry—"

"BOLLOCKS! FOR SCARHEAD AND WEASELBEE, YOU'LL EVEN POSTPONE YOUR FUCKING 'SPEW' MEETINGS JUST TO GO WATCH THEM PRACTISE—"

"You know perfectly well that I would rather risk death, or worse, expulsion, than allow myself to be seen out in public, wearing your ghastly House colours, sighing and batting my eyelashes like a bimbo, and breathlessly clapping along with the rest of your witless harem—"

"SO, IT'S ALRIGHT TO BE IN POTTER'S HAREM? FUCKING GOLDEN TRIO! MORE LIKE THE GOLDEN THREESOME—"

"Honestly, you have more insecurities than a six-year-old girl—"

"HOW OLD DOES THAT MAKE YOU? SIXTY?"

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, do not raise your voice at me!"

"I'M NOT WEASLEY, GRANGER! YOU CAN'T FUCKING TELL ME WHAT TO DO—"

She immediately slammed her trunk shut, ripping her robes off and snapping her last suspender into place with a decisive, crisp smack of leather against skin. Hold it—a suspender?

All notions of slander hitched in his throat, the spiteful barbs shrivelling and spluttering into nothingness. The fog of rage that had blackened his senses slowly began to dissipate, and by the time he finally realised what she'd been dressing herself in throughout their entire row, it was too late.

Corset.

Heels.

Stockings.

He had to physically clench his jaw shut to keep it from coming entirely unhinged and clattering to the ground like some pathetic twat who was capable of thinking only with his dick and not his head.

But speaking of head, if she was giving it to him in that outfit, he wasn't complaining. That sassy, pert mouth of hers was such a good little cocksucker—NO, what the fuck was she doing to him? He should be doing her! NO, THAT WASN'T RIGHT EITHER! He should be more concerned about why his property was dressed like a minging trollop instead of her usual prudish, bookish, pseudo-virginal self! Forget about his throbbing trouser tent! He needed to get her to the hospital wing! With haste! He needed to cover her up! He needed to—

Merlin's rod, was that a thong?

He hungrily devoured her movements as she lightly ran those petite hands of hers beneath the straps stretching down her thighs and skimmed over her curves, checking the span and elasticity of the material—always the perfectionist, his studious little bird. Unconsciously, he licked his lips, besieged by a tantalising image of himself tearing those garters off with his teeth, holding her down, slowly peeling that tease of a thong down her pretty arse, shoving his fingers into her cunt, and forcing her to suck every last drop of her sweet, sticky cream straight off of them. He could just imagine her moaning his name like a little whore, enjoying every fucking second of it…

WHAT IN THE BLAZES? He was supposed to be shouting the roof down and teaching that bint a lesson, not succumbing to that wicked tart's pitiful attempts to appease him! Such underhanded tactics might have worked on a lesser man, but not Draco Malfoy! No, sir! He was the sole heir to the Malfoy fortune—to centuries of pureblood ancestry, and no Muggle-born was going to get the best of him!

Wait, why was he angry again?

"Mr Malfoy, you really shouldn't stare. You're making me blush," she tittered with feigned bashfulness, bending over to lock her trunk in an exaggerated, leggy fashion that surely belonged only in a Muggle porn video. Not that he'd ever seen any.

He struck without warning, slamming her down against her trunk. At long last, the snake would finally claim its lioness. He ensnared the bounty of female flesh that wriggled before him inside the cage of his body, constricting his prey and breathing hotly down her neck as he leaned over her, poised to strike. Roughly, he seized a fistful of her lush, brown curls and gave her a good yank to assert his domination. She yelped and shivered in anticipation.

"Not yet, I haven't," he promised her darkly. "But don't fret, my little lioness. I plan on fucking you from behind and pounding against this sweet arse until it's as red and swollen as your cunt will be when I'm through with it. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You like it when I bend you over and slam my cock into you—fast, deep, hard, and without mercy, like you fucking deserve, you filthy, little Mudblood whore."

He groped her arse with feral possessiveness, squeezing her taut, succulent cheeks and spanking her hard. She bit her lip in a vain attempt to conceal the deep, animalistic moan that threatened to wrench its way out of her. Smirking sinfully, he tugged his gloves off and tossed them aside, tracing his bare fingers along the scant scrap of lace that stretched over her kitty.

"Why, Ms Granger, you naughty little girl," he taunted, his voice thick with arousal and gravelly with barely concealed hunger. "You're getting all wet."

Over her knickers, if one could even call them that, as they left very little to the imagination, he lightly stroked and teased her sobbing cunt with the very tips of his fingers, cutting off her needy moans with an abrupt, vicious shove that wedged the thin strip between her soaking folds. The more she dampened it, the more it clung to her sensitive hole, chafing against her slippery, lower lips with every movement.

Chuckling with cruel satisfaction, he pulled his hand away, resumed his lascivious fondling of her rear, and proceeded to rub his gleeful erection between her luscious cheeks. Up and down he slid, steel and starched cloth grating against softness and skin, tormenting her with what she couldn't have—yet. With every surge of his hips, the unabashed bulge in his trousers pulsed and swelled to the point of pain. Gritting his teeth, he bit back the urge to sink his cock into that tight, virgin arse and fill every hole in her body with his cum—

Suddenly, she gasped and stiffened, an unexpected shudder wracking her small frame. "Draco," she whimpered, the quivering cadence of his name—his given name—betraying tears.

Fuck. Immediately, dread began to override his lust. They never used each other's first names during role-play, only when they served as a warning. Shite, had he been too rough? Did he hurt her? He'd never pushed her over the edge before. He'd fucking burned and blistered through HELL just to get into this frumpy swot's knickers! He couldn't afford to bollox this up!

Less than two weeks into their alleged "complication," she'd subjected him to a full-scale inquiry regarding his sexual history, forcing him to consume what he swore to Salazar was ten times the normal dose of perfectly, albeit illegally, brewed Veritaserum. Of course, despite his assurances that, unlike that ginger dosser that she'd almost given her cherry to, he'd yet to stick his dick into any blonde, shite-for-brains slags, she'd merely wrinkled her nose with distrust and cryptically responded that, at the very least, she wouldn't have to take him into a Muggle hospital for "testing," whatever the fuck that meant. Then, she'd hunted him down after supper and chained him to a desk, forcing him to compile a detailed, comprehensive checklist of his preferences and personal boundaries, which she then confiscated for "administrative purposes." Following that trial, she'd forced him to study her list, and wouldn't let him within three metres of her until he could recite the contents from memory.

So, yes, he fancied that he knew Hermione Granger rather well when it came to such matters—at least better than Potty and the Weasel ever would, at any rate.

"Hermione?" he rasped, halting his ministrations. Taking great care not to distress her any further, he brushed aside her mussed curls, swallowing back his dismay when she flinched at his touch, and placed a tender kiss upon her neck, rubbing her back as soothingly as he dared. Shite, he'd really done it now. Choking back the impending onset of panic and the bitter ashes of guilt that permeated his palate, he tried again, "Hermione, what's wrong?"

"Draco," she whispered, trembling in his arms. "Are you still wearing your Quidditch uniform?"

"Oh, fuck!" he cursed. "Sorry, love, I came here straight after the match, and I… er… sort of forgot. Fucking hell, I'm all sweaty and shite! Bloody disgusting… Right, well, I reckon I'll have a bath right quick and take this blasted thing off—"

"NO!" she shrieked, nearly causing him to bolt upright. "DON'T TAKE IT OFF! PLEASE!"

Stunned by her vehemence, he cautiously pulled back and stood there like some dozy sod, frowning in confusion and peering curiously down at Hermione. She fidgeted and moaned, apparently waging some sort of internal war with herself. Suddenly, she stilled and simply proceeded to lie there. Just lie there. And for a moment, silence prevailed. Slowly, and against his better judgment, he took an uncharacteristically brave step towards her. Sensing the disturbance, she bristled and growled, literally growled, and before he even had a second to react, she pounced.

She shoved her tongue so far down his throat that the sensation shot straight to his groin. His sack tightened at the raw, uninhibited tang of need that pervaded his tongue as she repeatedly thrust herself into his mouth, her intentions clear. She wanted him to fuck her. And suddenly, nothing else mattered. He moaned and sucked her tongue hard, stroking the underside of the slick, hot flesh with feather-light flicks, daring her to dive deeper.

Tell me what you want, he beckoned her with his tongue. Show me how you want me to fuck you.

In response, she shamelessly crushed her legs about his waist, heels digging into his arse and grinding her overheated pussy against any part of him that came in contact with it. Together, they pantomimed her fantasies in a heady rush of sleek, rhythmic slides, carnal entwinement, wet pulls, and echoing, fevered moans.

Her hands roamed over his backside with about as much restraint as he demonstrated upon hers. With a corresponding set of handprints branded upon their buttocks, they violently mounted one another, her slender legs trapping him into a precarious standing position. She whined and raked his back with her nails, mindlessly plunging her hands through his hair as he grinded into her at the same, insistent pace dictated by her tongue.

Consumed and enflamed with passion, he staggered to the floor, taking her with him. She straddled him with enthusiasm and seized her prize, entangling her tongue with his and siphoning him into a searing, open-mouthed kiss that blatantly begged him to fuck her warm and willing hole. He obliged, shoving his tongue in at a vicious pace, relishing the feel of her hot little mouth sliding and squeezing around him, swallowing every drop that he flooded her with, and taking him deeper and deeper with each long, slick invasion.

Briefly, he registered her struggling with his trousers, fumbling with the button and frantically tugging on his zip, thoroughly overwhelmed by his rough snogging. Saliva leaked, unchecked, down his chin as they fed upon each other's flesh, neither of them able to contain their pleasure. Releasing him to lap up the deluge, she wildly bathed his face with her tongue as he gripped her hips and grinded her down hard enough to bruise. She gasped at the penetration, despite the fragile barriers that hampered their mating, and he desperately nipped at that temptress tongue of hers whenever it ventured near enough to strike. Every time, she managed to dart just out of his reach. Snarling in frustration, he yanked her legs further apart, ramming his trapped cock into her hidden snatch with such ferocity that their hips rose a proper three or four centimetres off the floor. He captured her screams and thrust inside with reckless abandon, savouring the salt of his sweat that lingered upon her tongue.

She forcibly tore her mouth away, but not before he'd slavered several more claims upon her burning and swollen lips. He growled in pursuit, lunging forth to resume the assault, but she slammed his shoulders back down against the ground, crying out in agony, "NO, DRACO! I need you! I need you inside of me now!"

He'd never seen her like this before. The sight of her rocking back and forth on him, biting her lip, whimpering, and moaning as she screwed her eyes shut and erratically jerked her hips down, again and again, desperately trying to make herself come—it aroused in him an inexplicably depraved fascination. She hadn't listed this in his study guide—and for good reason. It all made sense now. Potter, Krum, McLaggen, even that shite-stabber, Weasley… And now him. Hell, it wasn't any bloody wonder that she'd turned Longbottom down in their fourth year. That salad dodger couldn't ride a broom to save his own fat arse, much less her.

HA! For someone who didn't even like Quidditch, she certainly appreciated its players well enough. Fancy that—Ms "Iron Knickers" Granger had a weakness after all…

As a Slytherin, he had to admit, she did well to withhold this delectable little titbit of information from him. The wench kept her friends close, but her enemies closer. No one would ever suspect the prim and proper Hermione Granger of harbouring a dangerous fetish for Quidditch uniforms. But now he knew. And he would make her pay.

"Feels hollow, doesn't it? Your pussy?" he hissed. "It's just aching to be filled."

"Draco, please! Please don't talk to me like that when you're wearing your Quidditch uniform!" she begged. The throaty, desperate keen that howled through the elongated vowels of his first name made it evident that she was no longer role-playing. The mere sight of him in his uniform had completely destroyed her. She was practically wetting her knickers in her excitement, her puckered little pussy lips sucking his cock through his breeches and leaving behind sticky, musky stains in their wake. It would be so easy to just give in… To give them both what they wanted… What they needed. But he wasn't finished playing with her just yet.

He snaked his hand in between her legs, momentarily prying her off of his protesting prick. Tracing the outline of her thong with his long fingers, he whispered menacingly, "Should I shove my fingers into your cunt? Fuck it hard like I fuck your mouth with my tongue?"

"No!" she cried, as he slid his fingers past the soaking strip and slicked them in and out at a savage pace. "No, it's not enough!"

"No?" he mocked. "Your pussy doesn't seem to agree. It's dripping all over my fingers. Can you feel it? How desperate it is to get fucked? It'll take anything. My fingers. My tongue. My—" He paused dramatically, and with a sinisterly alluring arrogance chiselled upon his handsome, aristocratic features, whispered the final word in his dark spell: "Cock."

She sobbed in frustration, unable to speak. Using his free hand, he easily divested her of her flimsy knickers, tossing the ruined scraps aside with a careless flick of the wrist. She panted, trembling uncontrollably, her little hands grasping at him, clearly driven mad at the sight of him in his uniform and between her legs. He ignored his own burgeoning discomfort, silently retaliating by delving towards her clit. Smirking evilly, he proceeded to stroke it—very lightly.

Her mouth fell open and she screamed, "NO! Don't stroke it! DRACO, please! You're going to make me come!"

He ignored her pleas and pinched it. She shrieked, shattered, and spilled all over his hands. He barely restrained himself from spaffing in his pants like an overeager schoolboy by plastering a mask of cold indifference upon his face as he ruthlessly shoved her fluids back inside of her, making sure that she could hear every obscenity murmured by the slick, sticky suction. Slowly and deliberately, he withdrew from her weeping slit and licked off the last few droplets of nectar that clung to his fingers, locking his heated gaze on hers as he deftly ran his tongue over the tips.

"Fucking delicious," he groaned. "If your pussy weren't already so dripping wet for me, my tongue would be shoved up into hot little hole of yours right now, and you'd be coming all over my face. But mark my words, Granger—later, it will be."

"Draco, Draco," she wept. "Draco, take me! Draco, please take me now!"

"Now, now, love," he sadistically chastised her. "If you don't behave, I'm going to have to punish you. And this time, you're not going to like it. You can shove your little fingers into your cunt and pretend all you want that it's my cock, but I promise you, you're going to be left with an ache that you know you won't be able to take away with your fingers alone."

That did it. A feral gleam overtook her once gentle, brown eyes, leaching away the warm hues until her eyes had darkened beyond recognition. Hermione Granger could only play the role of the submissive kitten for so long before the lioness came roaring to the surface, lusting for blood. Abandoning all pretence, she ripped his breeches open. His proud stonker stood straight up into the air, all twenty centimetres straining towards the only source of true satisfaction it would ever know.

Immediately, she struck without warning, swiping her tongue across the engorged tip. The more dew he leaked, the harder she licked, each lingering swish earning her a desperate thrust of his hips as he shouted his approval.

"Holy mother of Merlin!" he swore. "Hermione, I will wear my Quidditch uniform for you every fucking day, I swear to Salazar—"

She grabbed him by the horn, abruptly severing whatever inane comment he had just blurted out. Clearly, she was done playing with her food. Now, she hungered for flesh. With barely restrained violence, she went in for the kill, impaling herself upon his shaft and throwing her bushy mane back in a delirious sob of joy.

He cried out with her, bucking hard up into her tightly clenching sheath. She went along for the ride, tears streaking down her flushed face and screaming in such absolute pleasure, it sent chills of pride and amazement rippling down his spine to see her so unhinged. Fuck, she'd never ridden him so hard! Even her cunt wept for him, unable to handle his thickness as he rutted her like a man possessed.

And just like that, she came. Barely even two passes, and he'd reduced her into a shuddering, besotted mess. He groaned with agonised satisfaction, losing himself in the scalding, suckling spasms that lodged him even deeper inside of her.

"Like that, do you?" he goaded her. She assented to his demands with a low whine, incapable of coherent speech. "How does it feel, having your pussy so full of cock?"

Her reddened lips froze in a silent scream as she speared herself over and over with his cock, wanting the unbearable eroticism of him filling her up and stretching her to the brink of pain to never end. She established a death-grip upon his shoulders as he continued to glide inside her, their fluids smearing across his lower body. Glancing down, he watched his glistening cock pierce her tiny opening, drenching itself in her moist heat. As he withdrew, he could actually see the delicate skin of her canal clinging to him with increasing desperation. Fuck. He wrenched his eyes away and stared unfocusedly at the ceiling—to no avail.

Hands. He needed to occupy his hands. Fervently, he caressed the sable silk of her corset, rustling the fabric against her taut nipples. She gasped, arching her tits into his palms. He cupped the over-sensitised mounds and asserted his indisputable ownership with a firm squeeze, pushing them up and out of their confines and shredding her bodice in the process. His mouth watered and parted in desire, and his tongue slipped out of its on accord. He chafed her hardened peaks between his fingertips, longing to taste them. Next time, his stormy eyes promised her.

He let her go, allowing her breasts to bounce haphazardly as she slid up and down his length. She whimpered, protesting the loss of his touch. He shushed her with a resounding smack upon her cute bum. She yelped, evidence of her arousal trickling down her thighs. Grasping her hips, he screwed her down hard and flexed his arse, shoving himself in up to the hilt, easily fucking her into a third convulsive scream.

"Ride me!" he hoarsely commanded. "Oh, fuck, yeah! Ride me like I ride my broom, you little slut! Fuck your wet pussy with my cock!"

"Draco, you're driving me absolutely bonkers!" she cried. He knew from the distinctive tightening of her impossibly narrow passage that he could easily make her cream all over him at least two more times before he finally shot his load into her.

"Draco, Draco," she moaned helplessly, chanting his name over and over in a haze of sin and prayer. "Oh, God! OH, GOD! OH, DRACO!"

Bracing himself with his feet flat on the floor, he slammed into her hard enough to temporarily dislodge her, letting the impact of crashing back down on him take her soaring up towards euphoric, new heights.

"DRAAAAAAAAAAAACOOOOOOO!" she wailed with abandon. Her pussy clamped down on him with a vengeance, instinctively fighting against his escape with a dizzying grip that distorted his vision and threatened to destroy his resolve. Somehow, he managed to pull out, nearly blinded by the effort. Her pussy wanted a taste of his cum. And it wanted it soon. He wouldn't last much longer. Determined to take her over the edge with him, he ferociously chafed his rigid abdominal muscles against her clit with every rising lunge.

Sensing that he intended to fuck her into her another mind-blowing orgasm, even more tumultuous than the last, she sobbed, "No, Draco! Draco, please! I can't! I can't take this anymore! Draco, I'm too sensitive!"

But she would not deny him. Her body would have no choice but to ride and ride until he released them both and drowned her in his seed.

"Draco, you're going to get me pregnant!" she wailed.

He'd held back on reaching for his own satisfaction with such intense focus that he no longer had the stamina to fuel rational thought. Instead of terrifying him, her cries recklessly spurred him on. Suddenly, the frighteningly compelling notion of impregnating her, owning her, and forcing her to bear his child thoroughly intoxicated him, blackening his sensibilities and hatching a feral beast deep within him that lived for one purpose, and one purpose only—to claim its mate.

With a bestial roar, he fucked them both into unconsciousness, driving into her so deeply that he rammed against the entrance into her very womb. She hung on for dear life, unable to keep up with the aggressive pace. She rode the unbridled bucks of his hips as if her life depended on it, her dishevelled curls whipping across her flushed face. He shagged her demandingly, causing a few sweat-soaked strands to adhere to her stained and rosy cheeks. His bollocks coiled and tensed as he watched her unravel, seconds away from detonation. It took only a single, determined thrust to trigger the explosion.

They hung, fused and suspended in mid-air, paralysed by the sheer ecstasy of their union. He lost himself in her—her screams, her scent, her sweat, her love, her face as she shattered into pieces for him. Their bodies continued to indulge themselves in shallow, fitful jerks as he flooded her with his cum and she milked him for more, sparing not a single drop. He groaned long and hard, finally surrendering his essence to her greed.

When her kitty had drank its fill, she collapsed on top of him, bestowing a tired smooch upon his bruised lips and tucking her curly head beneath his chin. Her pussy refused to relinquish his flaccid member, still clenching him too tightly to pull out just yet, but he didn't mind. Their chests heaved, but their hearts pounded in harmony. They remained sprawled on the floor, both too weary to move or speak. Her laboured breaths blasted across his fully clothed chest, his uniform sticking to his waterlogged and pleasantly aching muscles, but he couldn't bring himself to peel it off.

Once he'd recovered from his brief blackout, he summoned the last of his strength and wrapped his arms around her, nestling her even closer. Salazar knew he loved falling asleep with his penis buried inside her. Even better, he loved waking up hard in the morning and fucking that pretty pussy with his wood as she laid unconscious, recovering from the night before, only to awaken to yet another screaming orgasm—

"Draco," she piped up suddenly. "Do you love me?"

Fuck. Why did she always want to talk? They'd practically shagged each other's brains out! What more could she possibly need?

"Honestly, woman," he scowled, his derisive tone concealing the mortifying flush that had suffused his cheeks. How did she expect him to react? The brazen bint had just sprung it on him, out of nowhere!

But he'd already told her once before. And he hadn't died. Yet.

"You know I do," he muttered. Bugger him sideways, but he did. She drove him spare, and knackered him out to the point where he could keel over from the exhaustion, but he'd never felt so complete, so… content.

"Good. Because I love you too," she whispered back.

He gulped and cleared his throat, decidedly uncomfortable with this abrupt turn of events and not trusting himself to speak. Her words sent shockwaves of joy screaming through him, but he didn't want to look like a milksop. He had to calm down, blast it! For a moment, they simply laid there in silence—the sort of silence that always made him feel incredibly awkward, but which suited Hermione just fine. Any self-respecting bloke would've done a bunk for the hills at that point, especially if he risked enslavement to Hermione Granger, of all the idealist, commitment-seeking bits of skirt in the world—actually, any self-respecting bloke wouldn't have fallen victim to her swotty ways and confessed in the first place—but he stayed. He always stayed. Because he loved her. Yet more than anything, he feared that if he really let his guard down, she would finally realise how much power she had over him, and she would leave.

Suddenly, he remembered something—something that sent enough gut-wrenching panic twisting through him to completely dissipate all post-coital bliss. Swallowing back his trepidation, he plastered the Malfoy mask of authority and poise upon his face, dutifully announcing, "Hermione, if, indeed, you have conceived as a result of today's exertions, I will arrange for our immediate elopement to France, and will see to it that appropriate measures are taken to ensure that—"

She laughed. Actually, pissing laughed at him.

"I'm not fucking about!" he snapped defensively. "My father wouldn't give us his blessing in a million years! Hell, I'm his only son, and he doesn't even like me! Any child of ours would be considered an abomination to society, and I wouldn't put it past that fucker to hire some wizard hit squad to assassinate the baby—"

"Don't be so melodramatic," she snorted. "I'm on Muggle contraceptives, you dolt." He gaped in shock, honest-to-Salazar boggled, but then she tilted her head up and shyly added, "I only said that because it felt—well—sort of exciting. A bit like breaking the rules, really. And I find that I—rather like breaking the rules with you."

Fuck a duck. She liked the idea as much as he did. His heart began to accelerate once more, responding to the mating call. His dick stirred within its confines, pumping any remaining blood out of his brain and into its thickening girth, which most likely accounted for the schoolboy howler that inopportunely tumbled out of his gob:

"Hang on, Muggle contraceptives?"

"Contraceptives are contraceptives, Draco," she answered somewhat waspishly. "It doesn't matter who makes them."

"But—do they work?"

"Obviously. Otherwise, you would be alone, in your dungeon, wanking yourself off."

"No, I meant—never mind. Just forget it."

"You meant what, Draco?" Shite. There went that tone. And when she used that tone, one wrong move could mean sudden death.

He mustered all of the Slytherin cunning in his arsenal, charming her with his silver tongue, "It's nothing, love. I was merely concerned about the fact that Muggle chemists design their products with, well, Muggles in mind. The composition of a pureblood wizard may be slightly different—"

"I assure you, Malfoy," she interrupted coldly, "that as a human being, you are not exempt from the standard laws of biology."

Once before, Hermione had shown him some of her Muggle science books during one of their "study sessions" last week, but he could've sworn that they were written in another language. Indeed, the textbooks employed the Roman alphabet, but he could barely decipher any of the words. Honestly, Ancient Runes made more sense than that useless Muggle rubbish. She'd claimed that they were written in English, but she had another thing coming if she thought she could pull that wool over his eyes. As usual, that led to another blazing row, which ended with them shagging against the bookcase and no longer screaming anything but each other's names.

He didn't care one whit about what the standard laws of "bialeje" were, but he did know this: he should've kept his fucking mouth shut. Then, he'd be fucking her. He'd be in her hole instead of digging his own.

"Right, well, you are the authority on such matters, and I have complete faith in your judgment," he assured her. There. That was smooth enough.

"Fortunately for you, Malfoy, Ronald asked me the exact same question, albeit in a far less eloquent manner, before he decided that he'd much rather take his chances with the purebred Ms Brown. Thus, I am going to attribute your woeful misconceptions of genetic superiority to a tragic case of ignorance, rather than outright stupidity. After all, ignorance can be cured. Stupidity, I'm afraid, is forever."

Unfortunately, at that precise moment, he couldn't decide which insult was worse. He could feel her starting to pull away, and he instinctively tightened his hold on her. She bristled, but eventually settled back down and huffed, "Honestly, sometimes I feel as if Harry's the only one who ever really understands me—"

WHAT IN CUNTING HELL? WHY WAS IT ALWAYS HARRY FUCKING POTTER?

Demonic visions of that fame-whoring bastard getting cosy with his witch stained his vision redder than blood. She went to his Quidditch matches! She always sat by his side at meals! She flung her arms around his neck in public! She laughed at his jokes! They probably "studied" in their fucking common room late at night and discussed fucking MUGGLE SCIENCE with each other!

BY SALAZAR, HE WOULD DECORATE THE QUIDDITCH PITCH WITH THAT SCARHEADED CLOT'S CARCASS AT THE NEXT MATCH! HE WAS GOING TO HIT THAT TWUNT WITH ALL OF THE BLAGGING, BLATCHING, BLURTING, AND COBBING HE COULD GET AWAY WITH UNDER THAT OLD BAG OF A REF'S NOSE, AND BEST OF ALL, SHE WOULD BE THERE TO SEE IT, BECAUSE SHE WAS ALWAYS THERE FOR TOSSPOT POTTER! HE RECKONED SHE LIKED WATCHING THE WANKER IN HIS UNIFORM TOO, THE LYING, TRAITOROUS BITCH—

NOOOOOOO! HERMIONE! WHY? FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! It was no use! He might as well pitch himself off the Astronomy Tower and have done with it—

"Speaking of empathy, when are you planning on apologising to Jane?"

Her completely irrelevant query momentarily jolted him out of his self-destructive rage spiral. "Who?"

"Jane."

"Who the fuck is that?"

"Honestly, Draco—the transfer student from Salem!"

"Oh, it's that bitch! I swear to Salazar, if she ever comes near me again, I will fucking—"

"Actually, she's a very nice girl, even if she does happen to be in your House," she remarked, with the barest hint of scorn.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he growled. "And why the fuck do I owe that chav an apology?"

"You were awfully rude to her the other day, when she attempted to join you for lunch. The poor girl was beside herself, but she seemed to recover well enough once we'd established what a complete and utter cad you are."

"I'm the cad? That whore tried to rape me in front of the whole fucking school!"

"She didn't try to rape you, she was trying to talk to you—"

"Oh, right, my mistake! Was that before or after that moose stole the food off of my plate, tongued my silverware, stripped me with her eyes, called me 'Drakey-Poo,' or tried to hump my leg?"

"Even so, you could've handled the situation with significantly more tact—"

"What would you suggest? That I should've just let her have her way with me?"

"Well, she does seem rather taken with you, but I assure you that she's going to be perfectly fine. Now that she knows about our 'complication,' a vast majority of her affections have been redirected towards much more worthy candidates, such as Harry—"

"Hold it, you fucking told her about us?"

"No, she guessed. After all, the only reason why she was able to steal your sausages at breakfast was because you were too busy molesting me with your eyes—"

"You're the one who has to physically restrain yourself from ogling me in my Quidditch uniform—" He broke off, suddenly overcome with a mad and brilliant idea. "Granger!" he shouted enthusiastically. "Granger, I've got a brilliant idea!"

"Do tell," she implored with poorly concealed sarcasm.

"I'm going to put her on the Quidditch team!"

"Who? Jane?"

"Yes, Jane!"

"Please don't tell me that this is going to involve composing another song about Ron—"

"It wasn't just a song, Granger, it was psychological warfare! And it fucking worked! But I'll need something much more straightforward to take down that toffee-nosed half-breed! Don't you see, Granger? That spunk bucket, Jane, is stark raving mad, and if she tackles Potter with even half of the savagery that you used to tackle me, I can definitely win the Quidditch Cup!"

"Ignoring the fact that our children will also be half-breeds, I'm listening—"

"Right, picture this! We're on the field, and Potter reaches for the Snitch, only to be brutally knocked off his broom and raped dry by that trout! Meanwhile, I catch the Snitch and Slytherin WINS!"

And then, I'll snog you senseless in front of the whole sodding school, and shove my tongue so far down your throat that EVERYONE, including Pothead, knows you're MINE, he added in his head.

"In any case," she interjected, carrying on as if he'd said nothing of real importance, "you should've just calmly explained to her that you were seeing someone else—"

"Then Pansy would've assaulted me and demanded to know who it was!" he yelled, indignant at her prissy tone and the way she treated him like some vapid, underdeveloped child.

"This might be news to you, Malfoy, but not every girl in school is lusting after your body—"

"Just because you're doomed to spend the rest of your miserable life as a frumpy-arsed prude doesn't mean—hang on! Why the fuck are we even rowing about this? Don't you feel threatened? Or jealous? At all? Honestly, I turn other girls down, and you ask me to apologise to them!"

"This isn't about you turning them down, you daft git. I find that highly admirable, actually. And astonishing. No, it's your callous treatment of people in general, particularly those who are of little or no interest to you, that I find exceedingly distasteful—"

"Well, there's no point in shagging other bints, is there? Even if I did, I'd be thinking about fucking you anyway, so why settle for some paltry substitute when I can just have the real thing—"

"I can't decide whether that's romantic or just plain pig-headed—"

"Oh, please, Granger. Don't act as if you care," he spat bitterly. "All I am to you is a fucking schoolgirl fetish, and once you're bored of this sick game you've been playing with me, you'll just go flitting back to the Boy Who Lives to Annoy the Fucking Shit Out of Me or find some other Quidditch-playing toy boy who tickles your fancy—"

"You think this a game? How dare you insinuate that I have ever shared my bed with any other man except you? And I more than bloody care, because if you ever betray me, Salazar have mercy upon your worthless soul, because I will hell-to-the-mother-fluffing castrate you!"

"Me? What about when Weasley betrayed you? Why haven't you castrated him?"

"Because, Malfoy, there's nothing to castrate."

He blinked. Did he hear her right? Did she just willingly admit that he was packing a monster compared to Weasley? That he was more of a man than Weasley would ever be? That she would actually be affected enough by his theoretical betrayal to resort to such drastic measures? Suddenly, he'd never been happier in his entire, fucking life to listen to her threaten his manhood.

"Wipe that stupid smirk off your face," she snapped.

"Why? Is it getting you wet?" he countered.

She snorted.

"Fine. Don't tell me. I'll find out soon enough," he smirked.

She slapped his hands away as they wandered past the sway of her hind, gasping at the feel of him hardening inside of her.

"Again?" she squeaked. For the briefest instant, she tensed as if to spring off and make a run for it. But he would only revel in the hunt, and she knew it all too well, having fallen prey to that misjudgement several times over. Thus, with a wicked leer on her face, she immediately switched tactics, rolling back on her knees and straddling him once more. "Oh, silly me, I almost forgot that you like it when I spank you like a naughty little boy."

"Oh, fuck me!" he moaned.

Usually, Gryffindor versus Slytherin would be the opening match of the season, but Professor Dumbledore had decided to reverse the order this year. Hermione suspected that it had something to do with sending the "Harry Potter" generation off with a bang. And it worked. The tension between the two rival Houses was at an all-time high. Getting booed and shoved accidentally-on-purpose at least seventeen times a day was starting to become a regular occurrence. In a way, she much preferred them to the heinous antics of the more flamboyant extremists. Godric forbid that her friends and that hypocritical failure of a Head Boy were among them. To tell the truth, she stubbornly believed that the Headmaster's little "twist" was completely contradictory to his cause, considering that he was always encouraging the student population to strive towards inter-House unity. Honestly, what was it with men and Quidditch?

But seeing as how she couldn't exactly do anything about it, an excruciating truth that irked her to no end, she reckoned that she might as well enjoy herself. After all, unless she could somehow miraculously convince every testosterone-crazed male and bloodthirsty female out there to boycott the final showdown between the legendary Harry Potter and his arch-nemesis, she was stuck accompanying her best friend on his endless, strategy-revising sit-ins. In other words, discreetly stalking the opposing team's practices.

While Harry was busy analysing every movement on the pitch with those calculating, Slytherin-green eyes, she paid special attention to one team in particular. Every time that certain someone rode out on his broom, she would peer up ever so slightly from her current task—a book, a roll of parchment, conversing with Harry, snapping at Ron to pay attention—knowing that no one, except for her partner in crime, would see the flush in her cheeks, that distracted look in her dilated eyes, and the way she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

After all, Hermione Granger was a proper young lady. She didn't ogle or molest boys with her eyes, especially not when said boy happened to be Captain of the enemy team. The notion was simply preposterous. She would never fantasise about riding a man so hard, they both had carpet burn and could barely walk the next day.

Unconsciously, she licked her lips as he mounted his broom. He glanced over in her direction and smirked knowingly. Instantly, she felt that familiar clenching in her womb and the sudden rush of stickiness that dampened her knickers. Inwardly, she cursed at her own folly. It was embarrassing, really, how desperate her nether regions were for his attention. Merlin, that man was hung like a horse, and had the stamina to match! He took her at least six times a day, twice with his—his thing, once with his fingers, thrice with his tongue, and she still couldn't get enough! He seriously threw her monthlies off cycle, because her confused and over-stimulated hormones kept expecting her to get pregnant, what with this virile male mating her multiple times a day…

Suddenly, she was struck by inspiration and she dazzled him with an overly sweetened smile of her own. Sure enough, he'd paused, hovering in mid-air, his eyes guarded in public—but she knew him too well not to know the effect it had on him. Inside, she'd probably liquefied him into a pathetic pile of Hufflepuff gloop.

Goodness gracious, did she just make a Hufflepuff joke? Clearly, he was a very bad influence on her.

WHAM! A stray Bludger from one of his dim-witted cronies collided into him. She thought it might be Crabbe. Or Goyle. Or any of the other nameless, brainless thugs that Draco had drafted into his team to fulfil his intimidation quota. As he whipped about, undoubtedly dead set on hunting down the poor sod that was responsible, Hermione turned and waved to Jane as she flew past, looking absolutely stunning in her new Chaser Uniform. After sharing a conspiratorial wink with her unlikely new friend, she turned her attention back to Draco, giggling to herself as the raging Slytherin Captain barked abusive remarks at the perpetrator, clubbed him upside the head with his own bat, and resumed his position as slave driver, ruthlessly tripling the intensity of their training routine. Then, as he sensed her watching him, he scowled and pinpointed her with an icy glare, his eyes promising retribution. Good. She would hold him to that later.

But, of course, not another soul noticed any of these things, because Hermione Granger was a good girl. She wore her red and gold on the outside, so that no one could see the green and silver ensemble she wore underneath.

THE END