Entry tags:

~hp:d/hr

In the Library by ~ Monique ~ [NC-17]


Valentine For: theghostowl

Title: “In the Library”
Author/Artist: ~ Monique ~
Type of Valentine: Fic
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling. No profit is being made. [I also do not own “Play Girl”.]
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexuality and nudity, language
Notes: *blushes* Lots of technical difficulties (I thought it’d posted, but it didn’t *>.<*) and personal issues kept me from being on time, and I am so sorry for that! This is my first HP exchange, which is always exciting news. All my love to The 3 Keys Ladies, whom I adore and appreciate immensely, with special, huge shouts to the indescribable Sage for her gift to me. To theghostowl: I hope reading this brings you a taste of the pleasure writing it brought me. *^.~* Enjoy, hun!
Summary: Sometimes it was “At the Pitch”. Sometimes it was “Under the Stands.” This time, it was “In the Library.”

“In the Library”


Of all the things that could be said of Libraries, Hermione always loved the scents. An odd, comforting mix of ancient, warm dust on crisp texts was a constant of every wise old tome she had ever encountered. It takes her back to early days in safe rooms without hurry, and with what always seemed to be an endless array of snacks and books to pass the time. On the other hand, the scent of freshly printed pages carries along with it the press of phantom smiles as it triggers memory and imagination, pushing her to crack open the new manuscript and begin reading – learning, verifying, debating, experiencing – once more.

Still, she could not say if “new book” scent was better than “old book” scent. To break the tie, she, more often than not, tried to decide which (of the scripts she was comparing) had the best semblance of what she deemed “Draco scent”. Some time ago, Hermione had learned that it was – rich but subtle, and musk but fresh, with traces of soap and sweat and some cologne she couldn’t possibly know the name of, but found no significance for knowing either way – complicated; but she couldn’t deny her affinity to it.

Hermione imagines the Malfoy Manor Library to be much like “Play Girl” – stores of literature for pleasure and in abundance. There is also the added bonus, in her mind, of absolutely every chair, desk, and book being immersed – tainted – by whatever it was Draco smelled like. She wishes she could satisfy her curiosity, test her theories and fulfill her fantasies, but the lure of a space much closer to her current station pulls the corners of her mouth higher; she happily smiles around her Muggle pencil. Grabbing said pencil she scribbles in her book, the stylized ‘HG’ in the lower, right cover-corner reflecting prettily in the candlelight when she closes it quickly and all but skips out of the classroom.

Draco knows the specific book, on the specific table, in the specific room; he knows which page (last time, Hermione had said “227”, before leaving him to his shower, still wet and naked beneath her robes). She smiles again, wishing she could see his face when he comes to the specific page, at the specific time, and reads the message left specifically for him.

- - - - - - - - -

Draco loves books.

Well, not loves like he loves Quidditch, admiration, or sex – but he is quite fond of them. Especially those deemed to be of interesting content; such as old, powerful bloodlines, matured, strong magics, or new, fast brooms. But those he finds especially close to his heart, and interests, belong to Hermione Granger.

Hermione possesses a natural talent to enchant by way of scribbling, in the neatest, smallest print, the most intriguing things: observations, test/homework answers, leads/plans to destroy You-Know-Who – etcetera.

She also left the best sorts of messages: “At the Pitch.” for example; “Under the Stands.” This time, it was “In the Library.”

If any of his friends ventured to guess what had those pleased smirks dancing across his face, they had yet to say a word.

- - - - - - - - -

“In the Library” is indeed where he finds her – tiptoeing, stretching, so as to return a book to a shelf just out of her reach. Her messy curls fall back and to the side of her as she tilts her head away from her over-extended arm. She isn’t wearing her robes or her jumper; they are on a table, the one she goes to when she wishes to remain entirely undisturbed and unseen. Here, she disappears in the silence and solitude, and has yet to be found by anyone not using a magically enhanced item.

Draco appreciates the privacy. Here, he can openly stare, unconcerned and uninterrupted, at her face, her movements, her body; the way it bends and turns, the fine lines and curves of her structure. Her skirt shifts about her legs, one raised into the air for balance as she rises to the tip of her toes on the other. Her blouse is tight against her torso, emphasizing the length of her arms, the size of her breasts, her tie resting above them arched away from her straining body, and the curve of her small waist. The shirt is tucked into her skirt, her hips emphasized by the pleated fabric fastened about them. Her socks are tight against her legs, ending above her knees just shy of her shapely thighs.

He rakes his eyes across her before pointedly clearing his throat.

The sound is loud in the silence, and she jumps, her body tense, away from the bookshelves. Tossing her hair from her face with a brisk movement of her head, her large, brown eyes snap towards the source of the sound, landing a sharp stare on his amused face. ‘It can be a rather nice face’, she thinks through her annoyance and the rapid beating of her startled heart, ‘Shame he looks so damned snooty. A more pleasant expression is in order.’ The thought brings an answering smirk to her face; her heart’s rhythm still quickened, but now from excitement as she takes in his appearance.

His tie is loose around his neck; one more tug is all it would take to remove it completely. The white uniform shirt is already un-tucked and unbuttoned, its sleeves rolled to just beneath his elbows. She can see the muscles in his forearm flex as he adjusts his hold on his robe and jumper, shifting to hold them against his abdomen, emphasized by the tight, white undershirt conserving his modesty (‘As if he has any modesty.’). She can see his breathing quicken as she scrutinizes him, her own pleasure evident in her flush.

Tired of just looking, Hermione crouches low enough to gently place the book on the floor. She watches him shift, lowering his head to maintain eye contact with her, and she sighs, loudly, her lips parting enticingly. Draco smirks, beginning to walk towards her, intent on satisfying his growing arousal, when a sharp shake of her head stops him. Arching a brow, he stands still as she slowly straightens again, tugging at her clothes as if to straighten them, and walking towards him instead.

When she’s close enough to touch, he lifts his unoccupied hand towards her, but she smoothly side-steps, evading his grasp. Crooking her finger, a sign for him to follow, she walks towards the table, on which rest a variety of her things – her robe, jumper, books, and wand. Glancing at him over her shoulder, she walks to the other side of the table, shifting to keep their gazes interlocked, and places her hands on the flat surface – one, the right, by her wand, and the other, the left, by a green crystal bottle. When she speaks he nearly flinches, for the air is heavy, laden with tension and arousal in their anticipation and silence.

“Malfoy.”

“Granger.”

She smiles, prettily, as if she isn’t aware of the reason he is here. As is she didn’t call him for that very reason. Again. “Well, aren’t you a sight?”

He smirks. “Always. Now, what’s all this about?”

Her smile never wavering she lifts the bottle with her left hand, twirling it slowly with her fingers, “Ah, well, I’ve been thinking-”

“I’m shocked.”

“-and I’ve come to the conclusion that a little aphrodisiac never hurt anyone, prat.” Uncapping the bottle, the scent of lavender and sweetness assaults Hermione’s senses. She can’t hold back the Mmm of satisfaction as she inhales deeply. She nearly drops the bottle when she feels Draco’s hard body flush against her back, his long, warm fingers closing around her hand, pulling it closer to his face, now beside her own.

“Mmm,” he nearly sighs, “well, that seems interesting. What is it?” He means to sound suspicious, but the huskiness in his voice is a perfect match for the hardness pressed against her behind. Hermione finds deep pleasure in the warm breath against her ear and she turns slightly to watch him swallow thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort.

Her reply is breathy, low. “It’s lavender essence, honey, and wine, with just a dash of magic. Very interesting.” Pulling the bottle, his hand still gripping hers, to her lips, she takes a long, slow sip. She can’t help but tilt back her head, her eyes closing in satisfaction, as the liquid slides down her throat, swirling warmly in her belly, and spreading as if fire fueled by her blood. Her gasp is loud, the resulting sigh breathy against their joined hands. “Wow.”

Her hands fall to his thighs as he pulls the bottle from her loose grip, drinking from it quickly. The sensations overwhelm him almost instantly, and Draco can’t help but push against Hermione; the resulting friction makes him groan. Shakily placing the bottle on the table his hands find her hips, his grip strong and demanding as he pulls her against him. “Not a bad idea, Granger.”

Holding back pleasure-filled groans, she manages to smirk. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a bad idea, Malfoy. Except,” - a moan - “maybe,” - ah - “fucking you.”

She can feel his answering smirk against the back of her neck, where he had begun kissing and nipping in time to his thrusting. “Hmm. Who’s fucking – mmm – who, Granger?” With that he forcibly turns her body, his lips falling onto hers, his vigor forcing her to bend slightly in response. Scant seconds later, his tongue, moist against her pulsing lips, licks and pushes against her, demanding entrance; demanding reciprocation. She, naturally, does not disappoint.

Gradually, Hermione’s back meets the table, Draco’s body lying above hers provocatively. He pushes at her knees and her legs spread, accommodating his body, wrapping around him, ankles locking above his thrusting hips. His hands, now free to roam, find purchase at her thigh and breast, which he massages with a scant too much force to be gentle, but not enough to be rough; they have already learned which pressures were sure to bruise, to hurt, and which merely teased and caressed. They have learned which sounds were pain, and which were pain, but neither had ever asked to be handled gently – neither felt the need to be. There is animosity between them, jealousy, resentment, pain – but there is also heat and passion and sex, and, for this, they try to ignore the bigger picture, the higher calling, for as long as they can.

Hermione’s hands grab his tie and pull him onto her, chest-to-chest, and her lips find his once more. Kissing him wetly, harsh breaths shared and passed between them heatedly, her hands move from his tie to his shirt, pushing it from his shoulders, his arms, and away from his body. Her hands dart to his trousers, undoing the buttons and zipper with the usual (‘Why is this backwards, dammit?!’) annoyance, which is quite difficult to hold on to with Draco’s lips and tongue trailing from her mouth to her chin, her jaw, her neck…

Kissing the juncture of her neck and shoulder, Draco grunts in slight frustration before deciding to divest her of her tie and blouse. She’s pushing down his trousers as he finishes unbuttoning, and they lean back to pull the articles of clothing off their own bodies. Moving her hands to her skirt she stops at the zipper when Draco’s larger hand flattens it against her body. “Leave it” is all he says before flipping up the pleated fabric and falling to his knees.

He hooks a finger into the underwear – some pretty, lacy white things – and pulls it down her legs, his other hand massaging one of her thighs roughly. The undergarment comes away on his finger and gets bunched between her other thigh and his hand as he holds open her legs to gain access to her center. Smirking, he takes a long, wet lick from her opening to her clit. “Aah…” she sighs/moans as he repeats the action, her blood coursing hotly through her most sensitive regions.

Draco licks and sucks and bites in the ways he’s learned she likes, and is rewarded by her pants and moans and fingers pulling and pushing at his hair. He shifts and slowly pushes one long finger into Hermione’s open mouth, which she quickly closes around the digit; sucking and licking at it in the ways he’s taught her to pleasure him. Taking the finger from her mouth he pushes it into her opening, delighting in her scream of pleasure and nearly-surprised when she begins to tighten around him. Recognizing the signs, unexpected though they might be, he intensifies the suction at her clit, adding another finger to the one thrusting in and out of her, and brings her to orgasm with a flush of pride.

“Oh…wow…” Shaking her head, as if to clear it of a haze, she watches Draco straighten, his ‘Yes, I’m good, and…?’ smirk firmly in place. Hermione moves her still quivering limbs, pushing herself into a seated position and slowly sliding off the table. “So…ready?”

“You have to ask?” Trailing his touch across her tightened nipples, her slightly quivering belly, Draco grips her hips, turning her to face the table. Hermione braces herself across the top with her arms, her legs spreading, her ass high, as she prepares herself for his entrance. She can feel the head of his member, hard and soft and thick, sliding against her, being lubricated by her wetness and bumping against her clit, but not entering her as she wants him to.

“Oh, jeez, Malfoy…” She trails off, knowing he enjoys making her beg. She likes it just as much, but with the aphrodisiac still burning through her system, games are her last concern.

“What’s that?” He teases, but the effort is grand, and he knows he won’t be long in waiting for his release.

“Just do it already, for Merlin’s sake!” His grunt of satisfaction is his response, as he pushes into her, smoothly, roughly, his pelvis flush with her ass. Draco is still for mere seconds – or hours, or days – enjoying the feeling of being encompassed by her tight, moist heat. When she begins pushing back into him he knows enough time has passed, and he pulls nearly completely out of her, before thrusting into her as quickly and roughly as before. Her shouts of pleasure and encouragement spur him on, his thrusting gaining tempo, his movements erratic and strong with his need.

One hand at her hip, the other buried in her massive curls, he pounds into her, steadily, then erratically; he encourages her to rest one leg high on the table. Now, he can go deeper – so he does – and she can arch her hips just so – and she does – and they can push and pull and bite and yell – and they do; until, finally, they can’t anymore for the _feeling_ of it all. They are in and out and front and back and hot and wet and – “Ah!” they both cry as he stills, tense, while she shudders frantically around him. The rush of their orgasms builds and hits and falls, and they come down slowly, lazily; they are smiling indulgently by the end of it all, their release and sweat making them sticky and cool in the aftermath.

Separating, they dress, glancing at one another every now and again, unembarrassed, but always a little ill at ease after their sessions together; never enough to stop, but always enough to remind them who they are, what, and why.

Hermione feels his gaze on her and she looks up, an amiable expression carefully painted on her, the rush of her orgasm still ebbing away. “118.” It is all she says and all he’s waiting for, so he turns, shouldering his robes on as he walks away from her and out of the Library.

Sighing contentedly, Hermione shakes her head. She rolls the crystal green bottle back and forth in her hands, missing the swooshing sound that had been there only moments earlier. Sighing, she watches him go, only until she can’t see him anymore – and she certainly doesn’t listen to the sounds of his echoing footsteps, straining to catch them as they fade back to silence – and then she’s at her desk, arranging her materials for some actual studying.

It is only later – when she returns to the shelves, bending over to collect the books she had abandoned for their playtime, and feeling the drafts against her sensitive areas – that she realizes her tie and panties are gone.

She smiles anyway.


- - - - - - - - -

- Fini -

- - - - - - - - -


Final Notes: *Request: Fic; A green crystal bottle, sex in a library and wizarding world setting. No OOC Hermione and Draco, no depressive or fluffy story (please, no marriage!); NC-17 or R