Chapter 5: Daddy's Rules
The silence in the Prefect’s Bathroom had curdled. Steam still clung to the marble, but it felt cold now, a shroud over their sweat-slicked skin. Hermione stood with her back to them, trembling as she pulled her shirt over her head. The cotton felt like a penance. Behind her, she heard the soft, wet sound of Draco wiping himself clean, the rustle of fabric as Harry pulled his trousers up.
She couldn’t turn around. Her body hummed with a sick, spent energy, every nerve alive with shame and a terrifying, lingering thrill. The taste of Draco was still in her mouth. The feel of Harry inside her was a phantom ache.
“Well,” Draco said, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier taunting heat. “That was… enlightening.”
Hermione finally turned. Harry was sitting on the bench, head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. He looked ruined. Draco leaned against the wall, now fully dressed, his expression unreadable, a porcelain mask once again in place.
“Harry—” Hermione began, her voice cracking.
“Don’t,” he interrupted, not looking up. “Just… don’t, Hermione.”
Draco pushed off the wall. “No regrets, Potter. It happened. We all wanted it.” He walked over to Hermione, his movements deliberate. He reached out and tucked a damp curl behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek. The gesture was paradoxically tender. “Didn’t we?”
She flinched, her eyes darting to Harry. He was staring at them now, his green eyes bright with a storm of emotion—betrayal, longing, self-loathing. “You set that up,” Harry accused Draco, his voice low and rough. “You knew I’d come.”
Draco shrugged one shoulder, a lazy, elegant gesture. “I had a feeling. You have terrible timing and a hero’s predictable need to check on the damsel.” He let his hand drop from Hermione’s face. “She’s not a damsel, though. Are you, Granger?”
She hated him then. Hated the cool calculation in his eyes, the way he reduced the cataclysm between them to a game of chess. But she also hated the part of her that had nodded, that had wanted it, that was still throbbing from it.
“You’re a bastard,” Harry said, standing up. He swayed slightly.
“Yes,” Draco agreed easily. “But I’m the bastard who gave you what you’ve been dreaming about for years. You should be thanking me.” He turned to leave, then paused at the door. He didn’t look back. “The password’s changed. Don’t follow me.”
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Hermione alone with Harry in the hollow, perfumed silence.
Weeks bled into a tense, unspoken truce. The three of them moved around each other in the common room, in the Great Hall, like celestial bodies trapped in a faulty orbit. Ron noticed nothing, immersed in his Keeper training and a new, blissful ignorance. Hermione threw herself into her N.E.W.T. revisions, her quill scratching frantic parchment late into the night, trying to drown out the memory of steam and skin and two very different sets of hands on her body.
Harry watched her. Always watching. His gaze was a physical weight, heavy with unsaid words and a hunger that hadn’t been sated. It had only been awakened.
She found a note in her Advanced Arithmancy textbook, folded into a sharp, precise square. The handwriting was slanted and elegant.
The abandoned classroom on the third-floor west wing. The one with the cracked chalkboard. Midnight. Come alone. - D
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She shouldn’t go. It was a madness. But her skin remembered the cool command in his touch, the terrifying freedom she found in his darkness. And another part of her, a traitorous, wanton part, wondered if he would be alone.
The third-floor west wing was shrouded in shadows, the only light a frail moonbeam slicing through a high, grimy window. The door to the classroom groaned on its hinges. The air inside was still and thick with dust. Peeling wallpaper curled like dead skin. A single, guttering bulb cast a jaundiced, flickering light over rows of abandoned desks. In the center of the room, two figures waited.
Draco leaned against a teacher’s desk, arms crossed. He was all in black, a shadow with platinum hair. Harry stood a few feet away, tense as a bowstring, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. They weren’t looking at each other.
Hermione stopped just inside the doorway, her breath catching.
“You came,” Draco said, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.
“You knew I would,” she whispered.
Harry finally looked at her, his eyes gleaming behind his glasses. There was no friendly warmth there now, only a stark, predatory intensity. “We need to talk,” he said, but the words felt like a lie.
“Talking’s overrated,” Draco murmured. He pushed off the desk and walked toward her slowly. “You’ve been thinking about it. Every day. Both of you. Don’t lie.”
Hermione’s mouth was dry. She couldn’t deny it.
Draco stopped before her. He didn’t touch her. “Last time was… improvisation. Tonight, there are rules.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of silvery fabric. A conjured silk rope. “Your hands, Granger.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She looked past him to Harry, who was watching, unmoving, his expression conflicted but his gaze unwavering. A silent consent.
Slowly, she turned and placed her hands behind her back. Draco’s fingers were deft, cool. He looped the silk around her wrists, knotting it tight but not cruelly. The binding was a surrender, an admission. A spark of illicit excitement cut through her fear.
“Good girl,” Draco breathed into her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. He guided her to a chair and made her sit facing the center of the room. “Now watch.”
He turned to Harry. There was a silent communication between them, a look Hermione couldn’t decipher. Harry’s jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod.
Without a word, Harry began to undress. His movements were jerky, as if fighting himself every step of the way. His shirt came off, revealing the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen, the old scars a familiar map Hermione had never seen so vulnerably displayed. Then his trousers. He stood naked in the dusty light, half-hard already, his face a mask of defensive arrogance to cover his shame.
Draco shed his own clothes with practiced ease, his body pale and sharp in the dimness. He approached Harry, who stood his ground, chin raised in defiance.
“On your knees,” Draco said, his voice low.
For a heartbeat, Harry resisted. Then, with a ragged exhale, he sank to the dusty floorboards. Draco stepped closer, his cock now fully erect, thick and flushed. He brushed the head against Harry’s lips.
“Open.”
Hermione watched, bound and utterly captive, as Harry obeyed. He took Draco into his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut. Draco’s head fell back, a soft sigh escaping him. He placed a hand on the back of Harry’s head, not forcing, just guiding.
“See how he learns?” Draco said, his gaze finding Hermione’s. His grey eyes were molten silver in the low light. “See how eager he is to please?”
Hermione bit her lip, the coppery taste of blood blooming on her tongue. A fierce, aching need clenched deep in her stomach. She was wet, the silk bonds feeling like both a restraint and a caress.
Draco began to move his hips, gentle at first, then with more insistence. Harry took it, his own hands coming up to clutch at Draco’s thighs for balance. The sight was profoundly obscene—the hero of the wizarding world, on his knees, servicing his former enemy. The wet, slick sounds filled the silent classroom.
“Look at him, Hermione,” Draco commanded, his breath coming quicker. “This is what he wanted. To serve. To belong.”
Harry’s eyes opened, finding hers over the moving length of Draco’s cock. His gaze was cloudy with need, with surrender, and with a challenge. See what I’m doing for you, that look seemed to say. See what you’ve done to me.
Draco pulled out suddenly. “Up. On the desk.”
Harry rose, his legs unsteady. Draco pushed him backwards until he was perched on the edge of the heavy teacher’s desk. He turned Harry around, bending him over the scarred wood.
Hermione’s breath hitched. She knew what was coming.
Draco spat into his hand, slicking himself. He positioned himself behind Harry. He didn’t prepare him, didn’t ask. He just pushed, one firm, relentless thrust.
Harry cried out, a sharp, pained sound that melted into a deep groan. His fingers scrabbled against the wooden desktop. Draco buried himself to the hilt, his own face a grimace of intense pleasure.
“Fuck,” Harry gasped, his forehead pressed to the wood.
Draco began to move, setting a ruthless, driving rhythm. The desk scraped against the stone floor with each thrust. He held Harry’s hips in a vice grip, his own muscles corded with effort. He looked over at Hermione, watching her watch them.
“He’s so tight,” Draco grunted, his voice ragged. “So fucking tight for me. You see that? The Chosen One, taking my cock like a whore.”
Hermione squirmed in her chair, her thighs slick with her own desire. The sight of Harry being taken, of Draco’s absolute domination, ignited something primal in her. She wanted to touch herself, but her hands were bound. She was a spectator to her own ravishing.
Harry was moaning now, low and continuous, his body pushing back against Draco’s. “Harder,” he grunted, the word torn from him.
Drago complied, his thrusts becoming punishing, animalistic. The slapping sound of skin on skin was loud in the derelict room. He leaned over Harry’s back, his mouth near his ear.
“Tell her,” Draco panted. “Tell her whose cock you love.”
Harry turned his head, his cheek against the wood, his eyes glazed with pleasure. They locked onto Hermione’s. “Yours,” he moaned, but the word was ambiguous, a plea meant for both of them.
Draco smirked, a feral, triumphant thing. He fucked into Harry harder, deeper, until Harry was shouting, his curses and pleas echoing off the walls. Draco’s control snapped. He slammed into him with a final, brutal series of thrusts, his own shout joining Harry’s as he came.
He stayed buried for a moment, panting, before pulling out. Harry collapsed onto the desk, spent.
Draco turned, his cock glistening. He walked slowly toward Hermione, his gaze predatory. He knelt before her chair, his hands on her thighs, pushing her knees apart. The cool air hit her soaked knickers.
“You’re dripping,” he observed, his voice hoarse. “Look at you. Hands tied, watching like a good little slut. Does it ache?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her knickers and tore them aside. He didn’t remove them, just exposed her. He leaned forward and ran his tongue through her soaked folds.
She cried out, arching against her bonds. It was too much, the rawness of his mouth on her after the violent spectacle.
He lapped at her, rough and demanding, then pushed two fingers inside her, curling them. “So wet. So fucking greedy for it after just watching.” He added a third finger, stretching her. “You want his? You want to taste him on me?”
She sobbed, nodding frantically.
He stood, his fingers still working inside her. With his other hand, he grabbed her hair, pulling her head forward. “Then clean it up.”
He guided his cock, wet with his own release and the evidence of Harry, to her lips. She opened her mouth without hesitation, the complex, salty-bitter taste flooding her senses. She sucked him clean, her tongue worshipping every inch, while his fingers thrust in and out of her cunt, matching the rhythm of her mouth.
Behind him, Harry watched, pushing himself up on trembling arms, his expression one of awe and dazed possession.
Draco pulled his cock from her mouth with a wet pop. He withdrew his fingers from her, slick and glistening. “Now,” he ordered, his voice a dark promise. “Now you come. Just from my words. Come for me, Hermione.”
He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. “Think about it,” he whispered, his voice filthy and low. “Think about his hole stretched around me. Think about him screaming for it. Think about how badly you wanted to be the one getting fucked. How empty your cunt feels right now. How much you need to be filled.” His fingers returned to her clit, rubbing rough, perfect circles. “Come. Now.”
It was the permission, the raw, crude imagery, the sheer deviant ownership in his command that shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and silent, stealing her breath. Her body convulsed against the silk bonds, waves of pure sensation blinding her.
When she floated back, boneless and wrecked, Draco was watching her, a strange, almost tender expression on his face. He untied her hands, the silk falling away. Her wrists were marked with faint red lines.
He helped her stand, her legs wobbling. Harry had moved, pulling his clothes on with slow, exhausted movements. The three of them stood in the aftermath, the flickering bulb casting long, distorted shadows.
No one spoke. The dust settled around them.
Draco dressed first, his movements once again precise, controlled. He looked at Harry, then at Hermione. “This doesn’t leave this room,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. It wasn’t a request.
Harry nodded, once. He couldn’t meet Hermione’s eyes.
Hermione just stared at the cracked chalkboard, its surface a mute witness to their shattered normalcy. She felt the lines inside herself, the lines between right and wrong, friend and lover, hate and desire, blur and then vanish completely. She had crossed into a dark, thrilling country from which there was no return.
Without a word, she gathered her torn knickers, turned, and walked out into the silent, sleeping corridor, leaving the two boys and their terrible, beautiful secret behind in the dark.