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Hermione Granger has learned to be careful around unlabeled potions in Draco Malfoy’s laboratory.
Black Apothecary had long ago regained the reputation on Diagon Alley that it had held before the First Wizarding War. Draco Malfoy vanished the reminder of current events with his effortless charm and the skills taught to him by the greatest Potions Master in the Americas. Even so, Hermione has purchased enough illegal and experimental potions in the back room to know that he is not keeping things above board, despite the parameters of his official Ministry pardon.
There’s a Polyjuice that lasts more than an hour. An aeresolized Veriteserum. And an elixir for neutralizing the negative side effects of an Obliviation spell that the Ministry hasn’t yet approved.
Hermione comes in every Saturday to get the elixir for her parents.
Loitering behind the thick purple curtain that separates the legitimate side of the business from the illegitimate, Hermione’s eyes linger on three bubbling cauldrons.
One is a pleasing shade of peacock. Another, a ghastly, lumpy concoction that has her pinching her nose. And the final one is a rich gold and it catches her eye.
Approaching the third cauldron, Hermione catches a whiff of parchment and fresh-cut grass. Amortentia, then? But not the distinctive mother-of-pearl, and the steam isn’t rising in spirals. Against her better judgement, Hermione leans over the potion and gives it an experimental sniff.
Her nipples immediately harden.
“Calling it Liquid Lust, though the name is a bit on the nose.”
Hermione turns on her heel at the deep voice of the man approaching her. Draco Malfoy. His height shot up after Hogwarts, as if he had been an undernourished orchid kept low by service to Voldemort. Now, he towers above her, hair a pale halo that Hermione knows is a ruse. It is only the shade of gray, swimming in his eyes, that belies his true nature.
“You think the Ministry will approve this one?”
Draco shrugs and crosses the small laboratory to hand her the vials she’d ordered. “Not planning to run it by them first. I have a few buyers interested in purchasing.”
“Selling the formula?”
“Just the finished product. I’ll make more money over time, and can sell to more clients.”
Hermione’s never known why Malfoy answers her questions so freely. Perhaps he knows that he has her under his thumb, supplying the potion that keeps her parents’ memories from disappearing again.
She takes the offered potions and tucks them into her handbag. Black Apothecary automatically withdraws from her Gringotts vault each month so no money changes hands.
“Thank you,” she says briskly and, their business finished, she gives the golden potion a final, lingering look before backing away.
His hand shoots out and his palm closes around her wrist. Large. Warm. A firm grip.
“Would you like to try it yourself? First time is free.”
Hermione hesitates. While she doesn’t fear for her safety when it comes to Malfoy’s brews, she’s less certain about trial potions. She raises a brow.
“Am I your first test subject, Malfoy? Starting with experiments on Mudbloods?”
He winces and his grip tightens on her wrist.
“I do not allow people to use that term in my presence, Granger.” He pulls her off of her center of gravity, so that their chest nearly touch. “Not even you.”
Hermione blinks and the already-warm space suddenly heats from the intensity of his stare and his presence in her personal space. He’s pretty and dangerous. Powerful and haughty. Meticulous and untouchable.
She pulls her hand from his and he releases her at once.
Her suspicion remains, but he has piqued her interest. And Draco Malfoy has never offered her anything for free.
“Why? What’s in it for you?”
She expects him to grin. To flash the same smile as he does to the little old biddies that circle around him, asking for his expert opinion on chopping fairy wings or crushing shark eggs. She doesn’t trust that grin a wink.
But instead, his expression sobers.
“You look stressed, Granger. Big, important Ministry job. The weight of the wizarding world on your shoulders.” He extracts a vial from his robes and, with a deft hand, pours the golden potion into the glass container, stoppering it with a single smooth push.
Hermione’s transfixed by his long, elegant potioneer’s hands. It stalls her responses, and by the time she plucks the vial out of his hand, she knows she’s taken too long. Thankfully, he breaks the silence.
“Go home, take that, wank for a couple of hours, and watch your stress disappear.”
Hermione nearly drops the vial. “A couple of hours?” she shrieks, failing to lower her tone as she knows she should in the private back room.
Malfoy’s grin turns lascivious. “You’ve never wanked for hours at a time?” The grin grows. “You’ve at least fucked that long, haven’t you, Granger? Rutted until you were sore and covered in sweat and fluids and then teased one another and fucked all over again?”
The heat has now moved from Hermione’s brow to between her legs, and the sexual frustration - and regular frustration - of the last several months coalesces into a longing she’s been pushing to the side.
He’s still entirely too close, and though Hermione knows she should back away, instead she clenches her fist around the vial in her hand and watches in slow motion as Draco Malfoy reaches up and gently brushes his thumb across her bottom lip.
“I have a little room upstairs, if you want to try it out right now. If you just can’t wait to get those knickers off.”
Malfoy’s mouth is opened in a slight pout at the exhaled final word, released as a whisper that Hermione can nearly taste. She nods, purely against her will.
“You want that? To climb in my bed and soak the mattress while I’m down here, closing up shop?”
Hermione isn’t sure if it is the heat of the room or the scent of the Liquid Lust in the air or just the fact that she hasn’t had an orgasm in weeks, but she finds herself nodding again, and in a minute she’s deposited in a room upstairs with a small bed in one corner and a long table in another - obviously the place where he sleeps during difficult, multi-stepped brews.
What in Godric’s name is she doing?
Before she comes to her senses, Hermione shimmies off her outer robes, lays them on the back of a chair along with her handbag, and downs the unlabeled potion in a single gulp.
For a moment, she doesn’t feel anything.
And then she feels everything.
Her knickers, which had grown damp from her conversation with Malfoy, are now soaked through, and her breasts ache with the need to be touched. Hermione unbuttons her blouse and the fabric flutters to the ground as her hands firmly squeeze her breasts and her thumbs toy with the nipples until they are as hard as wandtips.
She wriggles out of her knee-length skirt and vanishes her panty hose so that she can shove one hand down the front of her white cotton knickers and stroke the flesh there.
Her clit is huge and swollen, nearly throbbing with need, and it takes a single sweep of her fingertips to make her entire body incendio into an orgasm.
Hermione’s cunt is clutching around nothing, empty and wanting, and the orgasm does nothing to dampen the lust running through her veins. She vanishes what is left of her clothes, but cannot make it to the bed before she’s shoving two fingers inside her core, pinching a nipple, and erupting again.
Now Hermione’s thighs are absolutely soaked. She’s never been this wet in her entire life. The world outside this room is gone, and all she can think about is her body’s need to be sated by orgasm after orgasm.
Hermione releases a needy whine as she slips a third finger inside of herself and desperately curls them to find the spot that feels the best. Three pumps and she’s coming again, but this one is shallower than the first two. She needs more. Why didn’t she just go home? She has sex toys there. Hermione withdraws her fingers and lightens the touch on her clit, attempting to relax her body so she can enjoy the waves, rather than be overwhelmed by them.
Three delicious orgasms later, there is a knock on the door, and Hermione, who has found some presence of mind to lay back on the bed, moans as an unexpected peak has her cunt clenching, and she forgets to tell the intruder to stay away.
So they don’t.
Or, rather, he doesn’t.
It is Draco Malfoy, entering the room where Hermione is sprawled across the bed, naked and flushed, pinching her clit and plucking her nipple and groaning like an animal in heat.
“Ah.” His expression doesn’t give much away, but she detects amusement dancing in his eyes as they linger on her exposed flesh. “The potion is working.”
“Fuck!” Hermione shouts. She wandlessly sends a pillow flying at Malfoy’s smirk, but he dodges it easily and summons a parchment and quill from the table.
“How many?” Malfoy asks calmly.
Hermione whimpers, her cunt leaking and her heart racing and her cheeks crimson. She wants the arsehole to go away and she wants him to come closer. Her eyes linger on his crotch, attempting to hold back another whimper.
“How many orgasms?” Malfoy asks again.
“S-s-seven,” Hermione moans. Malfoy’s face breaks into a smirk and another orgasm rips through her, fast as lightning. “Eight,” she amends, weakly.
Malfoy makes a note on his parchment. He sets the items down to cross the room, each step bringing her next orgasm closer and closer as Hermione’s middle finger lightly circles her clit. She should throw another pillow on him, shove him out of the room. She really should come to her senses and curse him for violating her like this.
“My last batch was not nearly as potent.” Malfoy’s calm voice is a contrast to the want raging through Hermione. She feels like a wild animal and he’s a cool flowing stream. Even his fingers, which dance up her calf and toward her center as he perches at the end of the bed, are cold to the touch.
“Adding the subject’s own hair to the brew at the start has increased efficacy by a quotient of at least three.”
Hermione’s body betrays her as Malfoy’s thumb presses on her swollen clit and her entire body seizes with the most pleasurable orgasm yet. Her hips leap off of the mattress, pressing into Malfoy’s touch, and Hermione nearly begins to cry as his long, cold fingers dip inside of her and find that place she’d been reaching for, vaulting her into yet another peak.
“You- you arsehole,” she whimpers once the waves have passed through her. “You awful, awful aresehole.”
His fingers curl and she yelps. “Were those better than the first eight, or were they the same?” There is a clinical, detached nature to his question, at great odds with the intimate teasing of his digits. “Your honest answers are crucial to future experiments with the brew.”
Hermione has a weakness for correct data. Or maybe she’s too drunk on this Liquid Lust.
“B-b-better.”
Malfoy hums and removes his fingers. He examines them. They are dripping with her, the moisture obscene.
“I’m curious if my hair in the potion made the difference, or if any additional partner would increase the pleasure over a solo release.”
Hermione reaches out to summon her wand and curse Draco Malfoy to hell and back, but his hand returns to her center, three thick fingers filling her up, curling inside of her as his thumb taps her clit, and the largest orgasm yet tears through her body, sending her on her own voyage to heaven and then a gentle return back to earth.
“Do you often ejaculate?”
Her eyes are too heavy, her body too exhausted, but Hermione still finds the ability to open her eyes and meet Malfoy’s cool stare.
Her entire lower body is covered in her cum. Thighs soaked. A thin sheen on her stomach. Dripping from Malfoy’s hand. Her cunt clenches again and she realizes he’s removed his fingers, the bastard.
It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
Hermione shakes her head to answer his question, and he nods slightly, cataloguing her response.
He makes no move to touch her further. But Hermione is still burning up, and she senses that nothing will be enough until he’s here in the Liquid Lust with her, writhing and moaning, soaked and aching.
“You- you arsehole,” she reiterates. Malfoy’s eyes sparkle. He’s still that cruel bully she grew up with.
Fueled by lust and rage, Hermione sits up and grasps a handful of his snow-white hair to tug him toward her soaked core. Draco inelegantly falls down face-first into her cunt and his surprised hiss against her folds nearly sets off another orgasm.
She grips his hair with two hands, like a set of reins, and shoves his pointy face against her dripping center. He tricked her, but he didn’t defeat her.
“Let’s see if your saliva increases efficacy.”
As it turns out, Malfoy is just as meticulous with eating cunt as he is with brewing potions. Focused, attentive, and with a mean streak. His teeth on her clit has her seeing stars, and the way his tongue fills her core nearly has him suffocating from the way her thighs hold him in place.
“What- what about exposure to seminal fluid?” she whimpers after five more orgasms. Malfoy’s mouth has finally left her folds and he’s moved to her breasts and sucking a mark into the side of one of them. She’s fairly certain that he hasn’t taken the Liquid Lust himself. But he’s as ravenous as if he had, and she holds him to her flesh, hips searching for his cock, yelping when his hardness presses down between her legs.
“I predict stronger orgasms, but not more,” Malfoy grunts. Hermione’s fingers are working his buckle, his zip. She finds his straining length and wraps her fingers around it.
This is what the Liquid Lust wants. This will fix her.
“Brew… needs… refinement…” Malfoy huffs, shimmying out of his trousers, aiming his blunt head at her center. “You… you… going to help me again?”
He pauses to meet her eyes. There’s desire there. Rare vulnerability from Malfoy.
Two hands on his arse pull him down to her. He fills her up deliciously. Perfectly. Calming her frenzy. She comes apart before he’s even buried himself.
Once she’s recovered, she draws his face down so she can breathe into his ear as she begins to thrust up.
“Next time, you take the potion, Malfoy. We’ll need additional data points.”