Chapter 4: A Very Educational Bath
The steam in the Prefect’s Bathroom was thick as opium, curling in lazy plumes around the polished marble pillars. The scent of lavender and cedar from the bubbling, emerald-green pool did little to mask the more pungent, human smell of sweat and sex. Hermione’s knees ached against the hard, wet floor, but the discomfort was a distant thing, secondary to the weight of him on her tongue, the salt-bitter taste of him at the back of her throat.
Draco leaned back on the wooden bench, his head lolling against the wall, his eyes slits of silver watching her. His fingers were tangled in her curls, not guiding, just holding, a possessive anchor. His hips gave shallow, involuntary thrusts, each one pushing a little deeper, making her eyes water. A soft, choked gurgle escaped her.
“That’s it,” he breathed, his voice raspy with lust. “Take it. Just like that.”
She relaxed her jaw, letting him slide deeper, her nose pressed into the coarse blonde hair at the base of his cock. She could feel him twitch against her palate. His thighs trembled.
The door creaked.
It was a small sound, wood groaning against stone, utterly foreign in the room’s liquid silence. Draco’s head snapped up, his body going rigid. Hermione froze, her mouth still full of him.
Harry stood in the doorway, one hand still on the polished brass handle. His glasses were slightly fogged from the steam. He was still in his school robes, the fabric dark with damp from the humid air. His face was a blank canvas of shock, every feature etched in stark, disbelieving lines. His green eyes were wide, uncomprehending, fixed on the scene before him.
Hermione tried to pull back, a muffled sound of panic in her throat, but Draco’s hand tightened in her hair, holding her in place. He didn’t look away from Harry. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face, a smile that didn’t touch the cold challenge in his eyes.
The moment stretched, thin and brittle. The only sounds were the gentle lap of water from the pool and the hum of the pipes.
Draco’s hips shifted, a deliberate, slow roll that pressed himself deeper into Hermione’s mouth. She whimpered, a sound of protest and shame that seemed to snap Harry from his trance.
“What the fuck,” Harry whispered, the words barely audible.
Draco tilted his head, a panther considering its prey. His gaze was icy, arrogant, drenched in a sense of ownership that made Harry’s jaw tighten. “You have a password for a reason, Potter,” Draco drawled, his voice rough but controlled. “Manners.”
“Get off her,” Harry said, his voice gaining strength, laced with a building fury.
Draco laughed, a short, harsh sound. He didn’t move. Instead, he looked down at Hermione, her face flushed, tears beading at the corners of her eyes from the strain. He used his grip on her hair to pull her back just enough so that his cock slipped from her lips with a wet pop. She gasped for air, a string of saliva bridging her mouth to his glistening tip.
“She doesn’t seem to want me to stop,” Draco said, his thumb stroking her cheek in a mockery of tenderness. His eyes flicked back to Harry. “But since you’re here…” He let the sentence hang, his smirk deepening. “Well, Potter? You just going to stand there? Or are you going to take that tight little cunt she’s been keeping warm for you?”
The vulgarity hung in the steam-choked air. Hermione flinched as if struck. Harry’s face flushed a deep, violent red. His hand went to his wand, then stopped, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. His eyes darted from Draco’s triumphant face to Hermione’s—pleading, horrified, yet dark with a confusion even she couldn’t parse.
“Hermione,” Harry said, her name a strangled question.
She couldn’t speak. Shame was a hot wave crashing over her, but beneath it, coiling low in her belly, was something else. Something reckless and defiant, stoked by Draco’s audacity, by the sheer taboo of the moment. The same thing that had made her foot seek his under the table. She looked at Harry, really looked at him—his hurt, his betrayal, the undeniable heat in his gaze that matched the heat pooling between her own legs.
Draco watched the silent exchange, his grey eyes missing nothing. He moved then, with a languid, predatory grace. He released Hermione’s hair and stood, his erection jutting proudly. He stepped around her, placing himself between her kneeling form and Harry. He was a pale, sculpted barrier.
“He’s wanted it for years, you know,” Draco said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. He reached back, his hand finding Hermione’s shoulder, urging her to stay down. “Haven’t you, Potter? All those nights in the tent. Watching her. Wondering.”
“Shut your mouth, Malfoy,” Harry growled, but there was no force behind it. It was the sound of a defense cracking.
Draco ignored him. He turned slightly, looking down at Hermione. His expression was unreadable. “Get up,” he murmured, his voice for her alone. When she hesitated, he said it again, softer. “Hermione. Get up.”
She pushed herself up, her legs trembling. The tile was cold under her bare feet. She clutched the edges of her open robes, pulling them around her, feeling more exposed now than she had on her knees.
Draco didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes locked on Harry. “You can leave,” Draco stated, his voice losing its taunting edge, becoming flat, serious. “Go back to your dormitory. Pretend you never saw this. We’ll all go back to pretending.” He paused, letting the alternative hang unsaid in the fragrant steam. “Or you can close the door.”
Harry didn’t move. His chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. He looked at Hermione again, a silent, agonized plea in his eyes. Is this what you want?
She didn’t know. The world had narrowed to the thrumming of her own blood, the charged space between the three of them. She thought of Ron’s bubbling pumpkin juice, of the righteous anger she’d have to face. She thought of Draco’s shirt wrapped around her in the dark of the Shack, of the terrifying freedom she found in his cynicism.
Slowly, so slowly, she gave the barest nod.
Something in Harry’s posture broke. The righteous anger bled out, replaced by a raw, hungry defeat. He stepped fully into the room and pushed the heavy door shut. The click of the latch was deafening.
For a long moment, no one moved. The three of them stood in a tense triangle amidst the swirling steam.
Draco broke the silence. He walked to Harry, stopping just inches from him. He was slightly taller. “The famous Harry Potter,” Draco murmured, his voice dripping with a contempt that was somehow intimate. “Always saving everyone. Who saves you from what you really want?”
Before Harry could react, Draco’s hand shot out, not with violence, but with a startling purpose. He grasped the front of Harry’s robes and pulled him forward, into a hard, bruising kiss.
Harry stiffened, a grunt of shock muffled against Draco’s mouth. Then, after a heartbeat that seemed to last an age, his shoulders slumped. His hands came up, not to shove Draco away, but to clutch at his bare arms, fingers digging into muscle. He kissed him back, a messy, desperate collision of lips and teeth.
Hermione watched, her hand pressed to her mouth. The sight was more blasphemous, more earth-shattering than anything she could have imagined. Her two worlds—the bright, loyal hero and the haunted, cynical sinner—colliding in a tangle of steam and need.
Draco broke the kiss, pushing Harry back slightly. Harry’s glasses were askew, his lips swollen. He looked utterly unraveled.
“Her,” Draco commanded, his voice hoarse. He nudged Harry toward Hermione.
Harry stumbled forward, his eyes dazed, fixed on her. He reached for her, his movements clumsy. His fingers fumbled with the clasp of her robes until they fell open, then pushed them off her shoulders. They pooled at her feet. She stood before him in just her plain white knickers, her skin pebbled with gooseflesh and beaded with condensation.
He touched her then, his hands rough and unsure on her waist, sliding up to cup her breasts through her cotton shirt. He bent his head, his mouth finding hers. His kiss was different from Draco’s—less practiced, more frantic, full of years of pent-up longing. She kissed him back, her hands coming up to tangle in his perpetually messy hair.
Draco watched, a silent orchestrator. He moved behind Hermione, his body a solid, warm line against her back. His hands slid around her waist, over Harry’s, his long fingers splaying across her stomach. He kissed the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his teeth scraping the skin.
“Take her shirt off,” Draco murmured against her skin, the words a vibration she felt deep in her bones.
Harry obeyed, pulling the damp cotton over her head. The cool air hit her skin, followed instantly by the heat of their bodies surrounding her. Harry’s mouth descended on her breast, his tongue circling her nipple while Draco’s hands roamed her bare stomach, dipping into the waistband of her knickers.
She was caught between them, a nexus of sensation. Harry’s worshipful attention, Draco’s possessive, knowing touch. It was overwhelming, a sensory overload that short-circuited her guilt and fear, leaving only a deep, thrumming ache.
Draco’s fingers found her core, slick and hot. He stroked her, his touch firm and intentional, while Harry sucked and laved at her breasts. She arched back against Draco, a moan tearing from her throat.
“See how wet she is, Potter?” Draco’s voice was a dark whisper in her ear. “All that time. All for you.”
Harry made a pained, hungry sound against her skin. His hands went to his own trousers, fumbling with the fastenings. Draco helped, pushing Harry’s clothes down his thighs. His erection sprang free, thick and flushed.
“On the bench,” Draco ordered, directing Harry backward until his knees hit the wooden seat. Harry sat, his eyes glazed, fixed on Hermione.
Draco turned her in his arms to face Harry. He kissed her hard, a claiming, then guided her down, so she was straddling Harry’s lap. The rough wood of the bench bit into her knees. Harry’s hands gripped her hips, his breath coming in ragged pants.
“Do it,” Draco said, standing over them like a phantom. His own cock stood rigid, ignored for the moment. “Take her. She’s yours.”
Hermione reached between their bodies, guiding Harry inside her. He was big, stretching her, filling her in a different way than Draco did. He felt… earnest. Needy. He cried out as she sank down, his head falling back against the marble wall. His hips bucked upward, driving himself deeper.
She began to move, rocking against him, her hands braced on his shoulders. The rhythm was awkward at first, then found a syncopated beat. Harry’s hands clutched at her, roaming her back, gripping her arse, pulling her onto him with each thrust.
Draco watched, his hand stroking himself slowly. His eyes were like chips of flint, taking in every detail: the way Hermione’s breasts swayed, the desperate focus on Harry’s face, the slick, wet sounds of their joining.
“Fuck her harder,” Draco said, his voice low and taut. “Don’t be gentle. She doesn’t want gentle.”
Harry obeyed, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, pounding up into her. The bench creaked a frantic rhythm against the wall. Hermione’s cries became sharp gasps, punctuating the wet slap of skin on skin.
Draco moved then. He knelt behind her on the bench, his body caging hers against Harry’s. Harry stared up at him over her shoulder, a flicker of challenge in his dazed eyes.
“Look at him,” Draco hissed in Hermione’s ear, his hand coming around to fondle her breast, pinching her nipple. “Look at the Chosen One fucking you.”
She turned her head, her eyes meeting Harry’s. What she saw there wasn’t triumph, but a shattered, vulnerable need. It undid her. Her orgasm ripped through her with shocking force, her inner muscles clamping down on him in violent pulses. She threw her head back against Draco’s shoulder, a raw, broken scream tearing from her throat.
The sensation tipped Harry over the edge. With a guttural shout that was half her name, half a sob, he buried himself inside her and came, his body shuddering violently beneath hers.
They slumped together, a sweaty, spent tangle of limbs, Harry’s face buried in her neck. Hermione felt boneless, utterly hollowed out.
Then Draco’s hands were on her hips, pulling her off of Harry’s limp form. He turned her roughly, bent her over the bench beside Harry. Harry, dazed and breathless, could only watch.
“My turn,” Draco growled, and he pushed into her from behind without preamble.
She was oversensitive, still throbbing from her own climax and filled with Harry’s release. Draco’s entry was a burn, a stretch that made her cry out. He didn’t care. He set a brutal, punishing pace, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips. Each thrust was a statement, a reclamation.
Harry watched, his expression shifting from sated confusion to something darker. A flicker of jealousy, of possessiveness, twisted his features.
Draco saw it. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him close. “Watch,” Draco commanded, his breath coming in harsh grunts. “Watch me take what you just had.”
He fucked her harder, deeper, the sound obscenely wet. Hermione clutched the edge of the bench, her knuckles white, her world reduced to the sensation of being filled, owned, contested. She came again, a smaller, sharper climax that wrung a choked sob from her lips.
Draco followed soon after, with a final, deep plunge and a raw shout that echoed off the marble. He collapsed over her back, his weight pressing her into the wood, his breath hot on her shoulder.
Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing and the perpetual trickle of water. The steam seemed thicker now, a curtain hiding them from the world.
Draco pulled out and stepped back. He picked up a towel from a nearby rack and wiped himself off with a detached, clinical air. He tossed another towel to Harry, who caught it automatically, still staring at Hermione’s curved back, at the evidence of what they’d done glistening on her inner thighs.
Hermione slowly straightened, her body aching