Chapter 22: The Locked Door Vigil
The borrowed clothes were a quiet luxury. Soft charcoal trousers, a simple black jumper of fine wool—all clearly his, tailored for his taller, broader frame, but charmed to approximate her shape. They hung on her, but comfortably. The fabric carried his scent, and with every move, it wound around her, a subtle claim.
She found the kitchen downstairs—a minimalist space of dark stone and gleaming chrome. A covered plate waited on the island, under a stasis charm. Scrambled eggs, toast, sliced fruit. Simple. She ate standing by the window, watching the rain smear the world into watercolors. The food was good. The normalcy of it was almost offensive.
Her body had other ideas. The manageable thrum from the morning was building, a slow coil of heat tightening low in her belly. It was different now. Less panic, more intent. A deep, liquid pull that made the wool of the trousers feel abrasive, the air too thick. She washed the plate by hand, focusing on the tactile sensation of warm water, the glide of soap. It didn’t help.
The cottage was silent except for the storm. She wandered, a ghost in his machine. A study lined with potions journals and legal tomes. A sunroom overlooking the sodden gardens. A library, smaller than Malfoy Manor’s, but curated—ancient magical texts alongside modern arithmancy theory. Her fingers trailed over a spine. He’d read this. They might have debated it.
The ache sharpened, a sudden cramp of raw need that made her gasp and clutch the bookshelf. Wetness bloomed between her legs, saturating the borrowed trousers. Fuck. It was coming back.
She stumbled out of the library, back toward the stairs. She needed the room, the closed door. A retreat. Her skin was fever-hot. The scent of her own arousal, sweet and heavy, filled her nostrils, and she knew, with horrifying certainty, that it would be filling the house.
Draco was in the sitting room. He stood before the fire, one arm braced on the mantelpiece, a crystal tumbler of amber liquor in his hand. He didn’t turn as she paused in the doorway, but his knuckles whitened on the stone.
“It’s back,” she said, her voice strained.
“I know.” His reply was gravel. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The air was thick with it.
“The draught… Blaise’s…”
“Is for the peaks. To prevent a bonding fever. It’s not a cure. The cycle has to run its course.” He finally turned. His eyes were glazed, the grey almost black. His gaze dropped to her trousers, to the visible damp patch, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. “You should go upstairs.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a threat. A promise.
She fled.
Back in the guest room, she locked the door. The click of the bolt was absurdly final. As if a piece of wood could stop what was coursing through her veins, through his. She leaned against it, panting. The heat was a live wire now, sparking under her skin. It centered between her legs, a throbbing, empty ache that demanded to be filled.
Her own touch was a pathetic substitute, but it was all she had. She shoved the trousers and knickers down her legs, kicked them away. She fell back onto the bed, the duvet soft and cool. Her hand slipped between her thighs, and she was already soaked, her folds swollen and slick. She gasped at the contact, her back arching.
It wasn’t enough. The friction was shallow, maddening. She needed pressure, fullness. She remembered the hard line of his body against hers in the bath. The possessive grip of his hands. The way he’d looked at her—like he wanted to devour and protect her in the same breath.
“Fuck,” she whispered into the empty room.
She shoved the jumper up, cupped her breast, thumb circling a tight nipple. It sent a jolt straight to her core. She imagined it was his mouth, his teeth. She plunged two fingers inside herself, crying out at the stretch. It was better. But it was wrong. They were her fingers, slender and knowing, not the thick, unfamiliar invasion she craved. Not him.
She fucked herself with her hand, hips jerking off the mattress, the wet, rhythmic sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. She pictured him. Not the polished prince from the Ministry galas. The raw, furious boy from the bath. The one whose control was shredding. She imagined him on his knees, pushing her legs apart, his breath hot on her inner thigh.
“Draco,” she moaned, the name a secret she’d been keeping from herself.
She added a third finger, stretching, seeking that deeper spot. Her other hand pinched her nipple hard, the pain a bright counterpoint to the building pleasure. It was a clumsy, desperate rhythm. The coil wound tighter, tighter, but it wouldn’t snap. It hovered, taunting her. She needed his weight. His smell. The sharp bite of his teeth on her neck. The brutal, perfect stretch of his cock.
“Please,” she begged the emptiness, fucking herself harder, faster. The headboard tapped a dull beat against the wall.
Her climax crested suddenly, a wave that broke with a fractured cry. She clenched around her fingers, body bowing, a shimmering release that left her trembling. It ebbed quickly, leaving a deeper, more profound emptiness in its wake. The heat didn’t break. It purred, satisfied for a moment, but very much awake. She was still wet, still aching.
She lay there, spent and shamed, her own scent thick around her. And then she heard it. A faint shift of weight outside her door.
He was there.
Her breath hitched. She slowly pulled her fingers from her soaked cunt, bringing them to her lips. The taste was musky, primal. She didn’t break eye contact with the door as she sucked them clean.
Silence from the hallway. But she could feel him. A pressure against her mind, against her skin. The bond was a plucked string, vibrating.
Then, a sound. The softest scrape of fabric against wood. He was leaning against the door.
She heard his breath, a controlled, ragged inhalation. He’d heard everything. He’d smelled everything. He knew how wet she was, how she’d chanted his name when she came.
Shame evaporated, burned away by a new, daring heat. Let him hear. Let him know what he was doing to her. What he was denying them both.
She spread her legs wider, letting the cool air kiss her swollen flesh. She trailed her own slickness up her stomach, over her ribs. She moaned, not faking it, letting the frustrated need color the sound.
A low growl answered from the hallway. A real, animal sound that vibrated through the wood and into her bones.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She was playing with fire. With a predator.
She did it anyway. She slid her hand back down, circling her clit, already sensitive from her first orgasm. She whimpered. “Draco…”
A thud. His fist, softly hitting the doorframe. Not in anger. In agony.
“Granger.” His voice was stripped raw, barely recognizable. “Stop.”
“I can’t,” she breathed, knowing he could hear. She dipped two fingers back inside herself, a slow, wet slide. “It won’t stop.”
The groan he let out was pure torment. She heard him slump against the door, pictured him with his forehead pressed to the wood, eyes screwed shut, cock painfully hard in his trousers.
“You’re killing me,” he rasped.
“You’re just standing out there,” she accused, her movements growing more urgent. “You can smell it. You know what I need.”
“I know.” The admission was torn from him. “I know exactly what you need. And it’s taking every fucking ounce of will I possess not to splinter this door and give it to you.”
Her fingers stuttered. The raw truth in his words was more potent than any fantasy. He wanted to. He was choosing not to.
“Why?” she whispered, her pleasure stalling, replaced by a confusing ache in her chest.
A long pause. She heard him swallow.
“Because you asked for the door,” he said, his voice dropping to something intimate, meant only for the space between the wood and her ear. “And because breaking you now would break you forever. And I… I can’t have that.”
Tears, hot and sudden, pricked her eyes. The last coil of her heat-tension, intertwined with something far more vulnerable, snapped. Her second orgasm washed over her silently, a deep, full-body tremble that left her boneless and crying softly into the pillow.
For a long time, there was only the sound of the rain and her slowing breaths.
Then, his voice again, softer now, thick with an emotion she couldn’t name.
“I’m here,” he whispered through the door. “I’ll always be here.”
She believed him. And for the first time, the thought wasn’t a prison sentence. It was an anchor in the storm. She curled onto her side, facing the door, as sleep, heavy and complete, pulled her under. On the other side of the oak, Draco Malfoy slid down to the floor, rested his head back against the wood, and waited for dawn.