Chapter 4: Possession
The heavy oak door of his private dormitory clicked shut, the locking charms sliding into place with a series of soft, final whispers. The sudden silence was a physical pressure against Draco’s eardrums. He stood there for a long moment, his back pressed against the solid wood, the chaos of the common room sealed away.
His room was a portrait of curated control. Silver and emerald draped the four-poster, books on advanced arithmancy and dark arts were aligned with geometric precision on the shelves, and a faint, expensive cedar scent hung in the air. It was a sanctuary, a fortress. And she had violated it without even being present.
His fingers unclenched. The scrap of silk he’d caught—her panties—lay damp and crumpled in his palm. The intimate, musky scent of her, underscored by the sharp, clean tang of her arousal and that strange, captured magic, filled his nostrils. It was the smell of the forest, of sweat, of pure, unadulterated Serenity.
A low sound, part groan, part snarl, escaped him. He brought the fabric to his face again, inhaling deeply, letting the essence of her flood his senses. His other hand was already fumbling with the fly of his trousers, buttons giving way under his frantic fingers.
He shoved the rough wool of his trousers and underpants down to his thighs, his cock springing free, already hard and aching. He leaned back against the door, his head thumping softly on the wood. His eyes screwed shut, but it only made the images brighter, more vivid.
Her face, flushed and triumphant, staring down at him from the fireplace mantel. The way her body had moved, a fluid command, as she directed Mars and the others. The sight of that silvery energy coalescing above her skin, a power he couldn't name, born from a ritual he didn't understand. It should have been grotesque. It was the most fucking erotic thing he’d ever witnessed.
His fist closed around his length, the grip tight, almost punishing. He stroked, his thumb swiping over the leaking head, spreading the wetness, making the slide smoother, faster. The scent on the silk filled his head, becoming the soundtrack to the film reel playing behind his eyes.
Her voice, dripping with condescension. “You’re just late to the brewing.”
His hips jerked forward into his own hand. He could almost feel her there, in the room. That deceptively small frame pressed against him, that wild hair tangling in his fingers. He imagined pinning her to this very door, her back where his was now. He’d yank her head back by that hair, make her look at him while he—
While he what?
The fantasy fractured. The image of him dominating her, forcing her submission, felt hollow, a cardboard cutout. It wasn’t what he wanted. Not really.
What he wanted was the truth in her eyes when she came apart. The raw, unchecked power he’d seen in the lounge. He wanted to be the cause of that. Not the interruption, but the source.
He pictured himself on his knees instead. His face between her thighs, his tongue doing what Mars’s had done, but better, deeper, until she wasn’t just satisfied, but undone. Until she was the one gripping his hair, her thighs clamping around his head, her cries echoing in this silent room. The thought was a lightning strike to his spine.
“Fuck,” he hissed, the word torn from him.
His strokes became rougher, more frantic. The base of his cock ached with the need for release. He pressed the silk panties harder against his mouth and nose, drowning in her.
He saw the vial, glowing on her table. His calculated games, the stolen grimoire, the verbal sparring—it was all just foreplay to her. A means to an end. She was playing a different game entirely, on a board he was only just beginning to see.
He was going to have her. Not by overpowering her, but by proving he was the only worthy opponent, the only one who could match that chaotic energy and shape it into something greater.
He came with a choked, guttural groan, his seed splattering hot and thick against the dark wood of the door. He slumped against it, breathing ragged, the silk still pressed to his lips.
Her name was a whisper against the damp fabric. “Serenity.”
Slowly, he lowered his hand. He looked at the evidence of his release, at the crumpled token in his other hand. Shame tried to surface, a cold sliver of ice, but it was instantly melted by a hotter, sharper emotion: determination.
He vanished the mess with a flick of his wand, his movements already regaining their precise control. But he did not vanish her panties. He unfolded them, looking at the simple, black silk. Then he walked to his mahogany dresser, opened a drawer filled with precisely folded cufflinks and ties, and placed them inside, a hidden relic.
He had her scent in his lungs, her taste in his memory, her power seared onto the back of his eyelids. The game was indeed upgraded. And he had just decided on his next move. It wouldn't be theft, or a public challenge. It would be an offering. A demonstration that he understood the new rules, and was ready to play.
He smoothed his robes, the fabric settling into perfect lines as if rebuking the turmoil that had just gripped him. The cedar scent in the room was now layered with the salt of his own release and the lingering ghost of her musk, a combination that felt illicit. His mind, usually a chessboard of calculated moves, was freshly scorched, the strategy reforming not around conquest, but around invitation.
He needed to see her, but not to confront her. The memory of that silvery vial, pulsing with power snatched from the air of her climax, was a lure he couldn’t ignore. This wasn’t about winning an argument; it was about gaining access to the refinery where she turned base desire into something magical.
He left his room, the corridor empty and silent at this late hour. His footsteps were soundless on the stone floors, a habit born of years navigating the castle’s secrets. He didn’t hesitate outside her door; he tapped his wand against the wood in a specific, intricate pattern—a lock-picking charm he’d mastered in fourth year.
The door swung inward. Her room was dark, lit only by the greenish glow from the lake window, casting shifting aqueous patterns on the walls. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, not asleep, holding the glowing vial up to the light. She didn’t jump at his entrance; she simply lowered the vial and turned her head, her expression one of bored expectation.
“Lost something, Malfoy?” she asked, her voice cool. “I believe I gave you your souvenir.”
“I’m not here for what you gave me.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked shut. “I’m here for what you made.”
She watched him, her green eyes glinting in the dim light. He could see the faint outline of her body through her thin silk chemise, the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts. The air smelled of her—jasmine soap and that deeper, wilder scent he’d just worshiped.
“And what did I make?” she teased, swirling the vial. “A mess? A scene?”
“A point.” He took another step forward, stopping just out of arm’s reach. He let his hands hang loose at his sides, a deliberate show of non-threat. “You think this is a game of dominance. It’s not. It’s a game of alchemy.”
Her smirk faded by a fraction, replaced by genuine curiosity. “Go on.”
“You use people. Mars. Crimson. Me. As ingredients.” He gestured to the vial. “But an alchemist needs a crucible that can withstand the heat. You’ve been using brass. I’m offering diamond.”
She stood up slowly, the silk whispering against her skin. She was so much shorter than him, but she seemed to fill the space, the power radiating off her like warmth from a fire. “And how exactly does diamond offer itself?”
“By admitting it wants to be melted.” The words cost him a piece of his pride, and he felt the sting like a cut. “You win, Hawke. I’m not here to take. I’m here to be taken.”
She closed the distance between them, her bare feet silent on the floor. She reached up and touched his cheek, her fingers surprisingly cool. “On your knees, then. Show me the quality of the material.”
He sank to his knees without hesitation, the cold stone biting through his trousers. The position was humbling, but the view was a reward: the hem of her chemise, the shadowed junction of her thighs. He looked up at her face, at the triumphant, hungry glow in her eyes.
“Good,” she murmured, her hand sliding from his cheek to tangle in his hair. She fisted it tightly, pulling his head back until his neck strained. “Now, open your pretty mouth.”
She used her other hand to hitch up the silk, revealing the neat triangle of strawberry-blonde curls beneath. She wasn’t wet yet, but the scent of her was intoxicatingly close. She guided his face forward. “Tell me what you want to do, Draco.”
His voice was rough. “I want to taste you. I want to make you come so hard you forget your own name.”
“Then stop talking and start proving it.”
She pushed his face into her. His tongue found her, flat and broad against her entire slit. She was still mostly dry, but he worked diligently, lapping at her, teasing the outer lips until he felt her begin to soften and swell. Her grip in his hair tightened, urging him on.
He zeroed in on her clit, a hard little pearl under its hood. He circled it with the tip of his tongue, flicking it lightly, then sucking it gently into his mouth. Her hips jerked, and a sharp syllable, less a word and more a sound of surprise, spilled terribly powerful. Her taste exploded on his tongue – salty, musky, profoundly female, which brought with it the sort of frantic domain usually looking at the bottom of a glass.
“Fuck, yes,” she breathed, her thighs tightening around his head. “Right there. Don’t you fucking stop.”
He obeyed, losing himself in the rhythm. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upwards, finding that rough patch deep within. She was slick now, dripping onto his chin. The sounds she made were raw, uncalculated grunts and gasps, a language of pure sensation. This was the truth he’d wanted to uncover, the raw power stripped of all pretense.
“You like this, don’t you?” she panted, grinding against his face. “You like being my fucking instrument. Your brilliant mind is finally useful.”
He groaned against her, the vibration making her cry out. His own cock was painfully hard again, straining against his trousers, but he ignored it. This was about her. His world narrowed to the feel of her clit under his tongue, the grip of her cunt around his fingers, the scent of her arousal clogging his lungs.
She began to tremble, her legs shaking. “I’m gonna… don’t stop, don’t you dare stop…”
Her climax hit her like a seizure. Her back arched, and she shoved his face hard into her, muffling a long, ragged scream against his hair. He felt her inner muscles clamp down on his fingers, a series of violent, pulsing contractions. He kept his mouth on her, gentling his tongue, drinking her in as she rode out the waves.
When she finally stilled, her grip on his hair loosened. She slumped back onto the bed, breathing heavily. He stayed on his knees, his face glistening with her, watching her. The vial on her bedside table glowed brighter, as if feeding on the residual energy.
She looked down at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. “Not bad, Malfoy. For brass.”
He didn’t smile back. “The offer stands. Whenever you need a crucible.”
He rose to his feet, his knees protesting. He turned to leave, his own need a dull, persistent ache.
“Wait.”
He paused, hand on the door.
“The grimoire,” she said, her voice lazy with satisfaction. “It’s on the desk. Take it.”
He looked at the ancient book, now seeming insignificant next to the glowing vial. “Why?”
“Because I’ve copied what I needed,” she said, stretching like a cat. “And every time you look at it, you’ll remember what you just did on my floor. Now get out. I need to sleep.”
He paused, his hand still on the cool metal of the doorknob. The air was thick with the smell of their sweat and her release. “Do you?” he asked, his voice low. “Do you actually want me to leave?”
Her eyes narrowed. This room was her sanctuary, a place where she never had to perform or explain. No one had ever been invited to stay past their usefulness. The silence stretched, taut and fragile. She could lie, reinforce the walls, reassert the distance that kept her safe.
But the memory of his mouth on her, the shocking sincerity of his submission, had carved a fissure in her defenses. “No,” she said, the word leaving her lips in a hushed, almost reluctant exhale. “Don’t go.”
He turned slowly, his grey eyes searching her face in the dim green light. He saw the conflict there, the raw honesty she couldn’t quite retract. He moved away from the door, back toward the bed, his movements deliberate but not rushed.
He didn’t speak. He simply began to undress, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt with a quiet efficiency that felt more intimate than any frantic undressing. The fabric whispered away, revealing the lean, defined muscle of his torso. His trousers followed, pooling around his ankles before he stepped out of them.
He stood before her, fully erect, his cock a stark pale line in the gloom. The power dynamic had shifted, blurred into something unfamiliar and dangerously mutual.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice a rough scrape.
She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his hard length. The skin was smooth and hot, a live wire of tension. “I want you inside me. Now.”
She lay back on the bed, pulling him down with her. He settled between her thighs, the weight of him a solid, anchoring pressure. He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her slick, swollen flesh. He paused, his eyes locked on hers, a question lingering in the space between their ragged breaths.
Then he pushed in.
The stretch was immediate, a breathtaking fullness that made her gasp. He was large, and she was still tight from her earlier climax. He slid deeper, inch by torturous inch, until he was buried to the hilt inside her. They both went perfectly still, joined in a profound, shuddering silence.
“Fuck, Serenity,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers.
Then he began to move. His thrusts were not gentle; they were a claiming, a deep, relentless pistonning that stole the air from her lungs. Each drive of his hips shoved her up the bed, the sheets twisting beneath her. The sound of their bodies meeting was a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed in the quiet room.
She wrapped her legs high around his waist, pulling him deeper, taking all of him. Her nails scored his back, drawing faint red lines. “Harder,” she demanded, her voice breaking. “Don’t you fucking hold back.”
A guttural sound ripped from his throat. He obeyed, his thrusts becoming savage, animalistic. He drove into her with a force that bordered on violence, each impact jolting through her entire body. The bedframe protested, creaking loudly against the stone wall.
She was unraveling, the coil of pleasure winding impossibly tight deep in her belly. His name became a mantra on her lips, a broken stream of sound. “Draco… yes… right there, don’t stop…”
He was losing his famed control, his rhythm fracturing into something desperate and raw. His breath was hot and ragged against her neck. “Come for me,” he gritted out, his voice strained. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
The command, the sheer possessive need in it, shattered her. Her climax detonated, a white-hot convulsion that ripped a scream from her throat. Her cunt clamped down around him, milking him in violent, pulsating waves.
The sensation was too much. With a choked roar, he buried himself deep and poured into her, his own release a hot, endless flood that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed atop her, his body heavy and spent, his face buried in the damp hollow of her neck.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their struggling lungs and the distant hum of the castle. The greenish light from the lake window played over their tangled, sweaty limbs.
Eventually, he shifted his weight, but he didn’t pull away. He stayed inside her, his arm draped possessively over her waist. Her own hand came to rest on the damp skin of his back, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under her palm.
She stared at the ceiling, at the shifting aquatic shadows. Her sanctuary had been breached, not with force, but with a surrender that felt more like a victory. The vial on her bedside table glowed, its light a soft, steady pulse in the dark.
The vial on her bedside table glowed, its light a soft, steady pulse in the dark. Its rhythmic brightness marked the passage of time in the otherwise still room. Draco’s breathing had evened out, his weight a comfortable heaviness upon her.
A profound stillness settled between them, a quiet so deep she could hear the soft lap of the lake against the window. Her limbs felt heavy, saturated, every nerve ending seemingly pacified. She stared at the shifting aquatic shadows on the ceiling, her mind blissfully empty. Then his lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but of rediscovery. His mouth was warm, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear before his teeth closed in a gentle, possessive bite on her neck. A sharp, sweet jolt of sensation, entirely different from the preceding frenzy, sparked down her spine.
She should tell him to stop. The thought formed but dissolved before it could reach her lips. Her body, ultra-sensitive from her climax, responded to each touch with a fresh, startled tremor. A low, whimpering sound escaped her, part protest, part plea.
He was growing hard again inside her, a gradual, insistent reawakening that made her gasp. The feeling was strange, almost distant for him, a dull thickening encased in the lingering numbness of his own two releases. The lack of immediate, desperate need in his own flesh meant he could focus entirely on hers.
He smirked against her throat, the expression one of dark, thrilled anticipation. This was the real test, the true offering—not a frantic coupling, but a sustained, deliberate unraveling. He wanted to drown her in it.
“You’re so fucking sensitive,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress. His hips made a slow, almost lazy roll, and she cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Every little twitch. I can feel it all.”
He shifted then, his mouth moving lower. He licked a slow, wet stripe over her collarbone before his teeth found the peaked crest of her breast through the thin silk of her chemise. He suckled there, hard, and her back arched off the bed, a broken “Ah!” tearing from her lips.
His thrusts began again, not with their earlier punishing force, but with a deep, measured, and relentless rhythm. Each stroke was aimed, purposeful, rubbing directly over that swollen, electrified spot deep inside her. The coiling pressure began anew, terrifying in its swiftness.
“No, wait… too much,” she begged, the words a breathless gasp, even as her legs locked around him, pulling him deeper. Her body was betraying her, convulsing around his cock in a sudden, violent spasm. She sobbed through the climax, overwhelmed. “Draco, please…”
He ignored her, his pace unyielding. He watched her face, mesmerized by the play of uncontrollable ecstasy across her features. “You don’t mean that,” he growled, driving into her again. “You’re going to come again. And again.”
He was a man possessed, not by rage, but by a singular, focused intent. To witness her completely and utterly taken apart. Another orgasm ripped through her, this one leaving her trembling and boneless, tears welling in her eyes.
“I can’t.”
“You will.”
He flipped her onto her stomach with a fluid, powerful motion that stole her breath. He pulled her hips back, angling her ass up, and plunged into her from behind. The new angle was merciless, hitting places that made her see white behind her eyelids.
His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as he pistoned into her, the wet, slapping sounds filthy and loud. He was a machine of pure sensation, each thrust a calculated assault on her overstimulated nerves. She was unraveling, her face pressed into the pillow, her sounds now muffled, helpless mewls.
Her submission wasn’t a forced capitulation. It was a gift, offered from the depths of her satiation. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, a willing participant in her own destruction.
He leaned over her back, his chest plastered to her sweat-slicked skin. “Who does this?” he demanded, his voice harsh with his own effort. “Tell me.”
“You,” she choked out, the word barely audible. “You do.”
A sound of pure, male satisfaction rumbled in his chest. This was better than any victory he’d ever known. He showed her by fucking her through a fourth, then a fifth climax, until the sheets beneath her were soaked through, a map of her surrender. He didn’t stop for what felt like hours, reducing her to a shuddering, pleading creature who clutched at the headboard for anchor.
He finally stilled, buried to the hilt, both of them breathing in ragged, shattered unison. The vial’s light was a constant, silent witness to the hours he had spent ensuring that every tremor, every cry, every drop of pleasure was brought by him.