She never uses magic when tying up her boys.

With Blaise, she always uses silk. Sensual, cool, growing tighter under pressure. It suits him. The flash of scarlet or cerulean against olive skin. Long fingers curl into his palm, sometimes so deep there is the faintest trickle of blood when his nails move away. Tall body stretched on the bed in this room, their private escape from the urgency and fear surrounding them in the real world. Nipples dark, muscles pulled, cock erect; always from the first touch of silk and her fingers on his bare body. She plays with him, slow and lazy, taking her time, memorizing every indention on his body, every hair, every scar, though she never makes him beg.

Straddling his sharp face, feeling his nose (so long and pointed and perfect) rub against clit, riding his talented tongue as she closes her eyes, head back, palms flat against the wall. Losing herself in the pleasure, the feelings of desire and need. Her body rocking back and forth until he earns her release, which he always eagerly laps up.

His cock, so long and curved towards his stomach, filling her as she thrusts down on it, rubbing and touching, biting her lip to keep from calling his name, not giving him that much power, not yet. Eyes opening to watch his face. Waiting until she can see a certain gleam in his eyes, sweat on his forehead, curly black hair clinging to his face, lips red and parted, and then she would give permission for him to come. His body arching up, spilling inside her, a low grunt always following the rush of come.

With Draco, she uses rope, ties, and cold metal. Rough, worn, hot, breaking skin under pressure. It suits him. The flash of emerald and silver or beige against pale skin. Long fingers stretched out, reaching for something only she can give. Slender body stretched on the bed in this room, their room, a refuge from the War in which there will be no true victors, only survivors. Gray eyes always watching her, body tight and ready to fight, nipples light against pale skin flushed from arousal, cock always erect from the first breaking of his skin. She fights with him, rough and fast, scratching and bruising and insulting, using words and her body to tease and torment, knowing his body as well as her own from frantic caresses, always making him beg.

Straddling his stomach, scratching and biting and marking until he is bucking beneath her, her words challenging him, keeping the fight in them both. They need this, the animosity before the surrender, the reminder of who they are when they are not in their own private sanctuary of escape. Her nails digging into his forearm, scratching the blemish that will forever mark him, rubbing against the smooth muscles of his stomach until she is biting her lip, not yet rewarding him with the sounds of her pleasure, her head falling back, hair brushing against his erection, hands squeezing her breasts hard enough to bruise.

Then, he asks for more. Never before there is blood dripping from his wrists, before his body is flushed and sweaty, before he is covered in bites, welts, scratches, and other reminders that he is alive, that he has not completely sold himself to someone he does not admire or respect simply because it was expected and he never considered refusing until it was too late. His cock, thick and ready, stretching her as she thrusts down on it, moving fast and deep, grinding on each downward plunge as she scratches his chest, twisting his hard nipples, biting his collarbone and bruising his pale skin. Their eyes always open, never closing them on each other. The risk heightens the excitement, losing themselves in pain and lust, a reminder that they’re alive.

Always waiting until he is begging, so reluctant, the words torn from his throat as he arches up into her, feeling her tighten around him, so wet and warm, seeing in his eyes he’d like to be free to fuck her so hard she can’t move, her own silent reply a promise that he can have her without restriction once the War is over, once he’s proven himself by staying alive in a situation where death awaits him each time the Mark burns. After the words are in the air, thick with desire and desperation, she kisses his mark, fingernails digging into his shoulder, their eyes meeting as she slams down on him, riding him urgently. He comes hard, his entire body tensing, a low groan escaping thin lips as he surrenders to her.

They never speak about it outside this room. The three of them go through classes, through meetings for whomever they’ve publicly sworn allegiance, and they keep this private. A random look, a casual touch, a silent exchange as brown eyes meet blue or gray, a subtle nod to indicate that they will meet after dinner with whatever excuse, if any, they give those around them who care to ask. And Hermione knows, after the War, if they all survive, which is not guaranteed and makes their meetings more reckless and desperate and needy, she will let them have her. She will let them see her stretched on their bed, arms bound above her head, letting them play and fight and tease as she finally gives up control for a few beautiful moments of escape. Until then, she loses her in pleasure and pain, giving them what they all need to survive these horrible times.

The End