Chapter 6: Library Discipline
The library after hours was a cathedral of silence. Dust motes danced in the slants of moonlight that cut through the high, leaded windows. Hermione had sought refuge here, as she always did, among the quiet company of books. The familiar scent of leather and parchment usually soothed her. Tonight, it couldn’t quiet the riot in her blood.
Every turn of a page echoed the memory of a different sound: Harry’s ragged groan, the wet slap of skin, the rasp of Draco’s command in her ear. She was supposed to be researching counter-jinxes for her Defense tutorial. Instead, her fingers strayed under the heavy oak table, her own touch a pathetic, frantic mimicry of theirs.
She was deep in the Restricted Section, hidden from the main aisles by a towering case on Cursed Artefacts of the Balkan Wars. Her head was tilted back against the cold wood of the chair, her breath hitching as her fingers circled her clit through the fabric of her robes. She was close, so close, imagining it was Draco’s mouth, Harry’s hand—
“Tut-tut, Granger.”
The voice, low and razor-sharp, came from her left. Her eyes snapped open. Draco leaned against the bookshelf, his form a study in shadows and pale angles. How long had he been watching?
Before she could jerk her hand away, another figure materialized on her right.Harry. He moved with a silent, predatory grace she’d only ever seen on the Quidditch pitch. He didn’t look at her face. His gaze was fixed on her hand, still trapped under the table, under her robes.
Her heart stuttered, a trapped bird against her ribs.
“Didn’t we,” Draco began, pushing off the shelf and stepping into the pool of lamplight, “forbid you from touching this pretty cunt without permission?” He was behind her in two strides. His hand, cool and firm, clamped over her mouth, silencing her gasp. The smell of him—crisp linen and something darkly spicy—filled her senses.
Harry moved in tandem. He captured her wand hand, pinning it flat to the tabletop with a decisive thud. His grip was unyielding. His other hand slid under the table, finding the hem of her robes.
“Such a disobedient little witch,” Harry murmured, his voice husky. He wasn’t playing the righteous hero now. This was someone else, someone who had tasted darkness and found he had an appetite for it. “Needs proper discipline.”
His calloused fingers, seekers’ fingers, found the waistband of her knickers. He didn’t bother removing them. He simply tore the flimsy cotton aside with a brutal, efficient rip. The sound was obscenely loud in the silent library.
Hermione whimpered against Draco’s palm, her body arching in a confused jolt of shock and blinding arousal. Her thighs, trapped by the chair and Harry’s proximity, fell open a fraction wider.An invitation. A surrender.
“Wider,” Draco growled against her ear, his breath hot. His free hand slid from her mouth, down her throat, coming to rest possessively over the base of her neck, not squeezing, just holding. A collar of flesh and bone.
Harry’s fingers found her soaked folds. He swore, a soft, reverent curse. “So wet for us already. Just from thinking about it.” He didn’t tease. He sank two fingers deep inside her without warning, a blunt, stretching invasion.
She cried out, the sound muffled by Draco’s shoulder as she turned her face into him. Her inner muscles clenched around the intrusion, slick and welcoming. Harry began to move his fingers, a slow, cruel piston, his palm grinding against her clit with every thrust.
“She was thinking about the classroom,” Harry said, his eyes locked on where his hand disappeared under her robes. His glasses were slightly askew. “Weren’t you? Thinking about being bound. Thinking about watching.”
Draco’s laugh was a dark puff of air against her temple. “She’s always thinking. That’s her problem.” He bit the shell of her ear, not quite gently. “Too much brain. Not enough obedience.”
Harry added a third finger, stretching her unbearably, deliciously. The burn was short-lived, drowned in a flood of deeper pleasure. He curled them, searching, and found the spot that made her see white. He rubbed it relentlessly.
“Come on, then,” Harry urged, his voice rough. “Since you started without us. Come on my fingers.”
She was hurtling toward the edge, shame and pleasure fused into a single white-hot wire. Draco’s hand tightened on her neck. “Look at him,” he commanded. “Look at the man fucking you with his hand.”
She forced her eyes open, her vision blurry. Harry’s face was flushed, his lips parted. He was watching her face, studying every twitch, every gasp. The intimacy of his gaze, combined with the brutal work of his hand, undid her. Her orgasm ripped through her, silent and seismic, a convulsion that racked her whole body. She shook, biting down on the wool of Draco’s sweater to silence her scream.
Harry worked her through it, his fingers gentling but not stopping, until she was oversensitive and shivering. He slowly withdrew his hand, glistening in the lamplight. He brought his fingers to his mouth, never breaking eye contact with her, and sucked them clean.
The vulgarity of it sent a fresh, weak jolt through her spent body.
“Not enough,” Draco declared. He released her neck and began to unfasten his trousers. “She needs to remember who she belongs to. On your feet, Granger. Hands on the table.”
Her legs trembled as she stood, her robes falling back into place, hiding the ruin of her knickers. She leaned forward, bracing herself on the polished oak. The Tale of the Three Brothers gleamed under the glass case beside her, the whispering pages now silent witnesses.
She heard the tear of foil. A condom. The practical, stark sound of it. Then Draco was behind her, his body pressing her down. The hard line of his cock nudged against her.
“Tell him,” Draco said, his voice a lash. “Tell Potter thank you.”
Hermione turned her head, her cheek against the cool wood. Harry had pulled a chair close and sat, watching, his eyes dark and hungry. His own arousal was evident, straining against his flies.
“Thank you, Harry,” she whispered, the words tasting of submission and sin.
“For what?” Draco prompted, pushing the head of his cock into her, just an inch. She was so wet, so open from Harry’s fingers, he slid in with terrifying ease.
“For… for preparing me,” she choked out.
“Good girl.”
He sheathed himself in one long, devastating stroke. Her mouth fell open in a soundless cry. He was thicker than Harry’s fingers, stretching her in a deeper, more complete way. He fucked her with a steady, demanding rhythm, each thrust jolting her forward on the table.
“You see how well she takes it?” Draco grunted, his pace increasing. The table creaked. “Like she was made for it. For this.”
Harry stood up. He moved in front of her, his hands framing her face. He kissed her, deep and searching, his tongue claiming her mouth as Draco claimed her body. It was a collision of sensations, too much to process. The taste of herself on Harry’s tongue. The relentless, filling pressure of Draco behind her.
Draco’s hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, breaking the kiss. “Look at me,” he snarled.
She opened her eyes, meeting his storm-grey gaze in the dim light. His mask was gone. In its place was raw, unfiltered need, a possessive ferocity that stole her breath. His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured control.
“Mine,” he breathed, the word a fractured thing. “You’re both mine. Say it.”
“Yours,” she gasped, the admission torn from her.
“Draco’s,” Harry echoed from beside her, his hand stroking her back. His allegiance, in this moment, was clear.
It was the combination of their surrender that pushed Draco over. With a final, deep plunge, he stilled, his body locking against hers as he came. She felt the pulse of him through the latex, a phantom warmth. He slumped over her, his forehead damp against her shoulder, his breath ragged in her ear.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the smell of sex and old books.
Draco pulled out, disposed of the condom with a quick spell. He righted his clothes, the aristocratic mask settling back into place, though his hands trembled slightly. Hermione pushed herself upright, her own robes a disheveled mess. Harry handed her the torn remains of her knickers, his expression unreadable.
The silence now was different.Heavier.
Hermione looked from one to the other. The shame began its cold creep back, but beneath it was something else, something more terrifying. A sense of rightness. This broken, beautiful symmetry between them.
Harry cleared his throat. “We can’t… we can’t keep doing this,” he said, but his eyes said the opposite.
“We can,” Draco replied, his voice weary, final. He reached out, not to Hermione, but to Harry, his thumb brushing a spot of her moisture from the corner of Harry’s mouth. A gesture of startling intimacy. “We will. It’s too late to stop.”
He turned and vanished into the shadows of the stacks, leaving them alone.
Harry looked at Hermione, the conflict in his eyes a war she felt in her own soul. He leaned in, kissed her once, softly, on her swollen lips—a kiss that felt like goodbye and a beginning all at once—then followed Draco.
Hermione stood in the lamplight, alone amidst a thousand silent stories. She slowly, methodically, straightened her robes. She wiped the dampness from between her thighs with a trembling hand. She picked up her quill.
But she did not write. She simply stared at the blank parchment, knowing the most secret, most restricted section of the library was now the one inside her own heart, and its contents were too dangerous to ever be checked out.