Tainted - {d.m. & h.g.}

ten - insanity | pastries

"I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind."

- Edgar Allen Poe

song: cry baby - the neighbourhood

DRACO

DRACO

He knows exactly what an aroused woman looks like— knows all the obvious signs and symptoms, has even had a great deal of experience with such visions leading to scenarios of pleasure.

But he's never gotten a hard on just from looking at one— or merely touching one with his fucking knee.

That is until now.

It took one fucking glance at her fucking squirming in her seat with flushed cheeks to notice— to make him want to wear her fucking thighs like a proper necklace and ease the ache in-between them with his tongue.

It had been very out of character of her to consent to such an act— but she did.

And he would blame it on his imagination, but he feels it— the area on his knee that detects slightly colder in the autumn wind than the rest of him; the proof that her body reacted to him in ways she wouldn't want to admit.

The evidence that his knee had been nuzzled in between Hermione Granger's warm thighs—watching her while her brown eyes rolled to the back of her head as she got wet for him.

Proof that he had a taste of the forbidden fruit.

And being able to torture her— stopping right before her climax, feels sweet, almost like honey slowly dripping golden strings of the viscous liquid across his tongue and down his throat in graceful patterns; and it's left him with a hangover, like he's plummeting down from a drug's lofty high.

It's now confirmed.

He could see it— anybody who could successfully occlude wouldn't be left sitting there with blown pupils and trembling hands in such a secretive scenario.

She struggles with something that comes naturally to him— occlumency.

And that feels fucking sweet too.
-

He's awkwardly tugging the frontward flaps of his woolen peacoat firmly over the fore of himself to conceal the annoyance in his trousers caused by the witch's little performance.

He and Zabini are walking side-by-side along the rugged cobblestone, and Nott, being the flirtatious bloke he is, walks ahead of them skip-hopping joyfully through the autumnal colored leaves, and blabbing his jaws about the Weasley shortcake, and how nice her hair is— how it 'really just brings out her eyes' or some load of bollocks as such.

"That's Potter's girl...I hear they're very serious— like wedding vow serious," Blaise voices, interrupting Nott's absentminded chatter.

Theo cuts his step short and turns on his heel to face them; almost causing a collision of their bodies to occur.

"Can a man not just simply admire a woman's beauty anymore? Does there always have to be a ring or mattress involved?" He raises his brows momentarily in question, but doesn't wait around for an answer to his inquiry, turning swiftly back on his heel, continuing his trek toward the creaky door of the familiar pub.

Blaise just huffs and shoves his hands into the steep pockets of his jacket; the two Slytherins just stand there awkwardly watching as Nott dramatically stomps away— and neither of them speak until his brown mop of hair disappears behind the swing of the door shutting.