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The sharp, wooden stake hovered just beneath the vampire's pointed chin, poised at the carotid, shaking with the effort of two powers diametrically opposed.

Darkness and Light. Unable to coexist and yet inextricably linked. Both of them uncommonly lethal. Dangerously cunning. Equally ruthless, and out for blood.

An immovable object meets an unstoppable force.

The Slayer pushed the stake a little harder, just managing to break the skin of the vampire's neck, a dark drop of his cursed blood beading at the tip. Unfazed, her would-be victim squeezed her wrist so tightly she felt the bones creak. The loathing was palpable, hanging like a dark cloud in the diminishing space between them, filling their nostrils with ozone and petrichor.

Any moment and the storm would break.

"Are the undead above using breath mints?" she spat through gritted teeth, her lip curling in disgust.

"In my defence, the peasant I last drained reeked of mouldy cheese." The vampire bit his lip, smirking with feigned nonchalance whilst holding fast to the stake with an iron grip, his eyes darting briefly to the fluttering pulse of her neck. "Give me a sip, darling, so I can wash this horrid taste from my mouth."

Let's pause that little introductory vignette, shall we, and meet our opposing (anti)heroes:

Unstoppable Force: Hermione Jean Granger.

Born: September 19, 1979, 2:05 p.m. Age 24.

Occupation: Vampire Hunter

Alias: The Slayer, aka The Actual Chosen One (move over, Harry), aka That Bloody Cunt. Two guesses who uses that last moniker.

Picked by the Fates to slay vampires, demons, and forces of darkness escaping from the local Hellmouth (found in Stoke-on-Trent of all places), imbued with super-human strength and agility.

*

Immovable Object: Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Born June 5, 1854, 9:33 a.m. Died July 28, 1877, 11:35 p.m.
Undead, beginning July 28, 1877, 11:36 p.m. Age 149.

Occupation: Rumour has it he was merely a shop clerk in the 1870s. How pedestrian. How very plain. Now, it seems his sole occupation is to be a permanent thorn in Hermione's side.

Alias: The White Devil, aka Vampyrus Perfidus, aka Dracola (he hates that one), aka The Slayer Killer.

Arguably, the most notorious vampire this side of the Atlantic. Indisputably, the biggest arsehole.

Press play.

Prague. March 2003. Vyšehrad Cemetery. Night (obviously).

It had been a run-of-the-mill evening. Patrolling graveyards, scouring seedy bars for hints of the local nest's location, then—jackpot—some vampire's willing blood bag bragging loudly about her stay at Castle Vyšehrad, bite marks still dripping down her neck.

Then it was simply doing what Hermione did best: turning dozens of blood-thirsty demons into dust.

Just another Tuesday.

That nonchalance was likely her first mistake of the night—letting her guard down on the faulty assumption she had arrived in the Czech Republic undetected.

It hadn't been unreasonable to expect as much. Her current mission was so classified that not even Remus Lupin (aka Hogwarts Librarian, aka Britain's foremost expert on the Occult, aka Actual Werewolf, aka Hermione's Watcher) had been allowed to open the missive from the Order.

The mark: Large vampire horde in Prague, growing unchecked, its leaders encouraging recruitment and not just sustenance.

The directive: Find the nest and burn it to the fucking ground.

She tracked them to the catacombs of Vyšehrad where the vamps were bedded down for the day. Got there a tad too late; the sun had already dipped below Prague's spiky skyline. A swift mass killing was likely impossible now. But Hermione relished a challenge. It kept the slog of endless slaying interesting.

Step One: Draw them out of their hidey-holes to the adjacent cemetery by setting fire to the mouldy tapestries and threadbare rugs the vampires considered gothic chic décor.

Step Two: Use that same Clipper to light the last fag in her crumpled pack and wait for the fireworks to start, letting her exhales disappear into the growing smoke pouring from the catacombs.

Step Three: Stabby stabby as the vampires ran for their undead lives from the blazing dungeon inferno.

The first wave went down easily, most of them freshly turned and as difficult to dispatch as swatting blood-sucking mosquitoes. Then there were the ones that moved too slowly, catching their rags on fire, the flames finishing the job for her.

After that, she was down to the scrappy ones, the generals, the ancients, the actual challenges. Hermione spun her stake in her hand, sizing them up before launching her lethal assault.

You'll have to use your imagination here for a satisfying slaying montage: Loud guitar riff plays over the top of numerous badass high kicks, gratuitous back flips, and masterful staking. The tension in the music reaches its apex as she's briefly knocked down only to perform an impressive kip up back to standing. The song takes its victorious flourish to the end as she flips her hair effortlessly from her face, and stabs two more vamps coming up behind her without even looking. The surprised faces frozen on their emaciated skulls are the last things to turn to ash, their piercing shrieks fading into the deadly quiet of the night. Etc.

When the last demon dissolved, Hermione sheathed her stakes, brushed off a little vampy residue that had stuck to her coat and sauntered through the cemetery, patting herself on the back for another job well done.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

A slow, steady, sarcastic round of applause echoed off the rows of pale marble and dirty stone.

This would be where Hermione's second mistake came into play. One she continued to make, over and over and over. Hermione had once again underestimated Malfoy's persistent preoccupation with her. With killing her, to be precise.

At least, it was a working theory. How else could she explain why he kept conveniently showing up to her clandestine vampire nest raids? She traversed her way across Europe, covertly, she had thought; yet nine times out of ten, no matter how classified the mark, how stealthily she moved, Hermione found his pasty arse, waiting for her. Watching her.

There was much buzz in the demon and demon-slaying circles alike about the rivalry betwixt the Slayer and the self-described Slayer Killer.

The general consensus was that Malfoy had a chip on his shoulder about This Particular Chosen One. Their feud was one for the ages, where perfectly-matched foes were forced to dance to the death over and over until finally one clear victor prevailed. It had been years now. The same devilish tango that ended not in death but with bruised egos and a few measly flesh wounds. Nothing that two beings with supernatural healing abilities couldn't fix with a good night(day)'s rest.

Remus would say this perpetual standoff had made Malfoy exceedingly dangerous—his focus was now inexorably pointed in her direction. It was obsession.

Hermione would say Malfoy was a slimy, whiny baby, butthurt that he hadn't yet managed to make the Slayer his bitch. (This Slayer, it should be clarified. Malfoy had proudly defeated the previous half dozen Slayers that came before Hermione—Remus would swottily remind her whilst pushing up his wire-rims.)

The slow clapper (what a fucking obnoxious thing to do, by the way) emerged from under the arched shadowy alcove that hosted the tomb of Antonin Dvořák, then hopped over the low iron-wrought fence to the rest of the cemetery with a playful skip.

"Excellent form, Slayer. One wonders, however, how much more efficient you'd be dusting vamps in your peripherals if you'd take care to tame that tumbleweed you call hair."

"Bite me," Hermione responded, maturely.

Malfoy grinned sinfully, arching one pale eyebrow, walking steadily closer. "Was that permission?"

As always, Hermione was nailed to the spot, helplessly frozen as she watched Malfoy saunter closer, the draw of the old vampire strong enough to dwarf her inner voice that pitifully whispered, "Flee!"

Sucking in sharp breaths in an attempt to centre herself (lest she start spewing obscenities or something even more catastrophic), Hermione found her ability to speak again once he was a stake's length away.

"Poor choice of words. Allow me to rephrase." She ratcheted her arm back quickly, ready to strike. "Suck my dick, fuckface."

Malfoy glared. "Enough foreplay."

Hermione stabbed towards Malfoy's heart, her aim true but a hair too slow. Before she knew it, Malfoy had come up behind her, one arm wrapped tightly around her waist, the other struggling to move her hair aside to reveal her neck.

"Too… many…curls—oof!"

She used his moment of delay to elbow him sharply in the solar plexus, spinning around quickly with a roundhouse kick that would cave most living men's skulls in.

Malfoy, unlike most men, living or otherwise, merely shook his head like a dog casting off water.

"Still think my hair is holding me back?" she asked tartly, before narrowly evading a punch across her jaw.

"Is that the secret to your success, Slayer?" he asked, jumping over her attempt to sweep his leg. "No need to stake men in the heart, just wield the power of your unruly curls to bring them to their knees?"

Hermione jumped onto a raised tomb with one easy leap, then launched herself towards him, stake poised to strike. She landed hard against him, and they both fell to the ground, her stake centimetres from the black hole where his heart ought to be.

Malfoy flipped Hermione backward over the top of him and she skidded along the gravel walkway several paces, gritting her teeth at the road rash no doubt left behind. She rolled onto her stomach to scramble back to standing but before she could make it past her knees, strong hands grabbed her by her hair, yanking her backwards against a hard body.

She winced as Malfoy's fingers gripped her hair a little tighter. "Maybe I've been going about this Slayer killing all wrong. Maybe I should just tie you up and shave you bald. Take away your hirsute hegemony."

"Big words for a shop clerk," she teased, hissing as he pulled her hair sharply in retribution. Hermione's hands were pinned to her sides, and she wiggled her left wrist until the stake hidden in her sleeve unsheathed itself and fell into her palm.

"Though, I don't know…" The bastard took a moment to sniff her hair. "Smells rather nice. Is that vanilla?"

With as much force as she could muster with the less than two inches of wiggle room, Hermione stabbed the stake into Malfoy's quadricep, spun in his loosened grasp, and grabbed him by the lapels of his stupid leather jacket.

Gods, she hated this jacket. This fucking jacket haunted her dreams. It was cliché and vain and fit this idiot's body far too perfectly to not have been custom-tailored.

"You bloody cunt—that hurt!" Malfoy growled.

She pressed him backwards until they hit a tall gravestone, grabbing the stake from his leg to jam it into his jugular. At the last second, his large, cold hand with its bony, albeit elegant fingers wrapped around her wrist, bringing us right back to the beginning of this story—two unrelenting forces at a head, seething, breaths heaving, lips inches apart.

Lips?! Who said anything about lips? Does Malfoy even have lips? Hermione hadn't noticed. She was too busy avoiding his fangs.

The thought snapped her out of whatever tête-á-tête they had been temporarily stuck in and she swiftly took the upper hand, lifting him from the ground by his (stupid) leather jacket and launching him in the air. He landed on top of the Slavin tomb several metres away, his ridiculous jacket caught on the wings of the marble angel perched on top.

She took a moment to catch her breath, watching him squirm helplessly, angelically entangled, a poetic way to end a demon.

When it became clear he wouldn't be able to escape his predicament without ripping his precious jacket, he stilled, limbs lax in defeat. Like a fly in a web, he waited for his fate, hers for the taking.

"This isn't sporting, Slayer. Let me down and fight me properly."

"I did fight you properly, Malfoy. This is the result. No pouting, now, or you'll cut yourself on your fang. Just admit it—I've simply outclassed you."

"Death first."

"You're already dead." She walked slowly up the steps that led to the top of the large mausoleum where Malfoy dangled, swaying her hips a little extra as she moved just because she could. "Say it. Say, 'Slayer, you win.'"

"You'll have to kill me a second time before I ever utter those words."

She shrugged. "If you insist."

Hermione spun the stake in her hand, gripped it tightly, then launched herself in the air, a sneer of victory pasted on her face.

"He got away?!"

Hermione rotated forward, sending power from her hip to her shoulder to her fist—straight against the pad held up by her Watcher, a bemused expression on his face.

"You had him on the ropes, Hermione! What happened?"

She reset to punch again; instead of the pad, she pictured a slick-haired, pointy-faced, pouty-mouthed, fang-toothed, leather jacket wearing, pickle juice drinking—

SMACK.

Remus whistled, pulling off the pad and shaking the sting from his hand. "I take it, you're coping well."

"I don't know what happened, Remus," she moaned. "Maybe my visibility was compromised by the smoke from the catacombs. Or I was worn out from the hundred vamps I had just dusted. Maybe I'd had too much svíčková for dinner." She sighed, slumping to a bench of her training gym, hosted in the basement of 12 Grimmauld Place. She pulled out her hair tie and a riot of curls fell around her face. "Maybe I need a haircut."

"Your hair is not the problem, love." Remus crouched in front of her and pulled a curl out of her face. He was only person she allowed to touch her hair, and only because he was more of a father to her than Dr Albert F. Granger (aka Dr Teeth, aka Retiree in Melbourne, Australia) ever was. "He's wriggled under your skin, is all. Put you off your game. That's why he got away."

Hermione huffed, and turned her face away, focusing instead on unwrapping tape from her hands rather than the humiliating reminder that she let her number one enemy escape unscathed. Again.

"He knew I would be there—in Prague, I mean—which means he's definitely been spying on me. This entire house might be compromised. Maybe I should lure him here on a full moon and have you finish him for me once and for all. Clearly, I'm not cut out for it."

"Oh, tut." A cold glass of water was pressed into her hands.

"He got away because…well, I'm not sure how he does it, but needless to say he's more snake than bat."

"The bat thing's a myth, remember. Unless he's an Animagus. Hmm…" A thoughtful look crossed Remus' face and he wandered to his natural habitat, a nearby bookshelf.

"He's slippery. Probably from the copious amounts of hair gel he uses. He's surprisingly limber. I wonder if he does yoga or something." Hermione stretched the back of her arms as more words stumbled over her lips. "And anyway, he hasn't wriggled under my skin, I've wriggled under his. He's the one with the issue. I'm perfectly capable of killing bloody Dracola, for fuck's sake. The problem is he talks too much. I don't recall ever encountering a more verbose vampire in my life. Really, I should just let him wear himself out, jabbering away, until the sun comes up and fries him."

She gasped for air, realising she hadn't taken a breath for the length of her diatribe.

A long silence in response to her rant brought her head up to find Remus already looking at her. Knowingly.

Too knowingly.

She squirmed a little under his assessing gaze. Could he see how her cheeks were flushed, and not just from the training he'd just put her through? Could he tell how she hadn't managed a wink of sleep after that night in Prague, too busy replaying every single second of their encounter? Was Remus aware that she had memorised the exact hue of Malfoy's silver eyes, the smoky scent of his stupid leather jacket? Did he know she could anticipate not only every kick and punch, but every smirk, every wink?

It was a problem, obviously, to be overwhelmingly attracted to someone you've been hand picked by the fates to kill. Less than ideal.

To whatever extent Remus had suspected Hermione's…affliction, he chose not to voice it and instead turned to his favourite past time, burying his long nose in a book, hopeful they contained the answers to all of slaying life's deepest questions.

Was there a volume in those stacks, she wondered, on what to do when a Slayer wants to fuck a vampire? Is there a spell one could cast? A talisman to wear? Anything would be an improvement to her current method of cold showers and shameful wanks.

What if they…just once…to get it out of her system…He would drag those long fingers along her neck, down between her breasts between her thighs…they would be so cold…she wondered what they would feel like in—

Remus cleared his throat, likely due to his allergies and not from reading her filthy mind. Regardless. Hermione poured the glass of water over her head.

It would be wrong. So very wrong. And probably not even in a hot way. Maybe. Anyway, she wasn't going to do it.

As if he would ever. He hated her. He only wanted her for her blood, not her body. And more fundamentally, he wanted to add her to the notches on his bed post, and not the sexy ones. The Slayer Killing ones.

"Slayers are meant to be unsusceptible to a vampire's thrall, right?" she asked, attempting nonchalance.

"Yes, of course," Remus responded, his voice muffled by the books. "Why do you ask? Are you feeling suggestible around Malfoy?"

Hermione felt her cheeks burn. "No, not at all." Not in the traditional sense, at least. And maybe that's what made it worse. She had no one to blame but her own horny self. "At least, I don't think so."

"Perhaps given Malfoy's history with Slayers, he's developed a way to slip past your immunity. It's an interesting question. I'll see if there's ever been a similar case." Remus' voice faded as the new idea took over him. This would keep him busy for a while.

Hermione leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to meditate as her Watcher so often recommended. After thirty seconds of imagining Malfoy bending her over a gravestone, she gave it up as a bad job.

"I have an idea," Remus called, heading back towards her with an armful of books. "To solve this stalking problem."

"So, you agree, he's stalking me!"

He slammed the pile of books on the bench next to her. A quick glance at the titles made clear they had nothing whatsoever to do with her predicament and instead his recent interest in gardening. "I think I've never known two people more obsessed with each other. And I grew up with James Potter and Sirius Black—couldn't brush their teeth without the other's advanced notice."

"What should I do?"

"You've been meeting each other on his terms. All these years, he turns up where you are, during your missions."

"I can't stop going on missions, Remus. I doubt the Order would approve of that."

"No, I only meant—you should show up to his place of business unannounced. Catch him with his pants down."

Hermione choked on her own spit.

"Like a surprise inspection."

"An inspection, eh? I'll inspect his heart with my stake."

Remus snorted. "Sure. Whatever it takes. So, that means some reconnaissance. Other than his recurrent appearances to chat you up—"

"He's not chatting me up!" she squeaked.

"The Order's been struggling to keep regular tabs on him. I'll dig up some contacts from the old days."

"Ah, your ol' Moony days. Very mysterious."

Remus winked, gave her cheek a paternal pat, then tottered out of the basement with his books, mumbling something about frost dates.

The Potteries. June 2003. Nearing Midnight.

Hermione didn't particularly like getting this close to the Hellmouth if she could avoid it.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, the Hellmouth (and there are a few scattered across the globe, unfortunately) is an access point to the demon realm. It's usually found in a cave by a sea or in a pit miners had dug too deep.

In the U.K., the local Hellmouth is situated on the outskirts of Stoke-on-Trent in the middle of a sheep farm. It is generally accepted knowledge that the owner of said sheep farm had entered a very cushy contract with the demons to keep his livestock there, for the occasional demon sacrifice, for a midnight snack if hunting humans felt like too much work, and to create the perfect cover. Goats and sheep are already a bit demonic looking. It's in the eyes.

Remus' intel, which largely came from his old werewolf contacts during the war, had led her that night to The Potteries: a community full of giant kilns and earthenware for sale, a tourist attraction in its own right, nice and toasty near the kilns for the homesick demons, and host to a very old pub owned by a very old vampire, Theodore Tiberius Nott (aka Theo, fka Jack the Ripper, now referred to as 'Oi! Barkeep!').

The Order was aware of Theo and mostly left him alone. He only took blood from "willing" humans, letting them live to keep the supply lines plentiful. When he wasn't feeding, he was slinging ale and sausage rolls, and hosting way too many trivia nights for his own good.

He'd been a good informant to the Order a time or two, but the price was steep. One person he refused to rat out was his "young friend," Draco Malfoy. Considered him a sort of grandson being one hundred odd years his senior (nevermind they both appeared to be in their mid-twenties).

Although the location of Malfoy's crypt was a very well-kept secret, if you kept your ear to the ground, you might be lucky enough to catch him on occasion at Theo's pub, The Bleeding Rose. With the help of Moony's contacts, Hermione learned of such a visit, and rushed to catch him unawares.

The pub was crawling with people that night (mostly alive), drunk and dancing, their faces flush and necks ripe for the taking. A public confrontation would be unwise, so Hermione, disguised as a sleek-haired bottle blonde, tucked herself in a shadowy corner and nursed a pint pulled by the busty barmaid, Rosmerta (definitely a demon, but which kind was unclear, other than she smelt faintly of brimstone and clomped around behind the bar on what sounded suspiciously like hooves).

A few feet away, Theo and Malfoy sat across from each other in a booth, scantily clad women under their arms, untouched beers on the table in front of them.

They had been shooting the breeze, nothing of interest or consequence. They had paused their conversation to allow Malfoy a moment to latch onto the neck of the slutty redhead to his right.

Hermione watched—totally unaffected, of course—as he kissed his way slowly from behind her ear, running his long fingers easily through the woman's straight locks, then nibbled his way to her willing vein, before sinking his teeth into her flesh.

The woman moaned like a harlot, and Hermione felt the glass beneath her clutched fingers crack.

Get a grip, Granger!

After what felt like hours, but feasibly could only be minutes lest Malfoy kill the wanton woman, he pulled away, swiping a drip from his lower lip with his thumb and sucking it into his mouth with an unfortunately arousing hum of satisfaction. Shameless!

The men returned to their conversation.

Recall, if you would, that Hermione was a Slayer. Not just any vampire hunter, but one chosen for a generation by the powers that be, blessed with preternatural strength, healing, and, relevant here, hearing. You can, therefore, accept without question that although the pub was boisterous that night, Hermione heard every word of the following conversation.

"You don't call, you don't write. You look pale..er. I'm worried about you, my boy."

"Theo, you know I hate it when you refer to me like we're not both a million years old."

Theo tutted. "You're practically a fledgling. Still obsessed with taking out the Slayers when you could settle down, grow some roots, hell, maybe even find love."

Love? Were vampires even capable of such a thing?

"This again? I'm not interested in getting my soul back, Theo."

"Sure, the process is brutal. You've killed enough I would imagine the guilt might be nearly insurmountable—"

"You're really selling it."

"But, mate, the sex? Unbelievable. I thought losing our appetite for human fare was the worst of the consequences, but the taste of cunt? I'd completely forgotten."

"Sex is perfectly pleasurable, Theo, I assure you."

Hermione was suddenly feeling very lightheaded. Also, what the hell was this soul thing all about?!?! Remus was going to freak. If vampires could re-acquire their souls… the implications were astounding. It certainly explained Theo's unique moral compass (as far as vampires were concerned), only drinking from willing participants.

"There are a lot of benefits, Draco. Opens up the dating pool, for example." Theo gave him a meaningful look.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean. Aren't you getting tired of this old schtick? Evil killer with a personal vendetta against a rather good looking Slayer he can't quite bring himself to kill."

Malfoy glared but the tops of his cheeks pinked to a deep rose. "I don't care for what you're implying, Theo. This Slayer is just particularly…"

"Sexy?"

"No! I was going to say… formidable."

Hermione couldn't help but smirk with pride.

"Well, if you ever manage—"

"It's not a matter of if, but when. When I kill the Slayer."

"That's not what I was going to say, my spirited little lad. Still so eager for violence. Maybe another half-century and you'll come to your senses."

"Then what? If I ever manage what?"

"If you ever manage to stop denying your true feelings and let yourself consider, even for a moment, what redemption might look for you—"

"Becoming an innkeeper in fucking Stoke-on-Trent? Extremely hard pass."

"—then come talk to me about what it would take. It's never too late you know."

This was absolutely fascinating. This could revolutionize her entire methodology of vampire hunting. She could be more than the Slayer. She could be their Savior! Whoa, slow down. That was rather sacrilegious. But point being, if there was a way to save these vampires' souls, put them on the straight and narrow…perhaps there was a path of reform, of peaceful coexistence. She positively buzzed with the prospect.

Figures Malfoy would reject the idea out of hand. What a tosser. If only someone could convince him… He was extremely influential in the vampire community. If Malfoy did it, others would surely follow.

Hermione almost forgot the purpose of this night of espionage when the conversation took a turn.

"Well, I'm off then. As lovely as you've been," Malfoy kissed the redhead lightly on the lips, "I'm still a soulless monster with murder on the mind."

Theo tutted again, shaking his head sadly. "So be it. Back to Wiltshire?"

Wiltshire. Was this where Malfoy lived?

"Yes, the peacocks won't feed themselves, I'm afraid. Back to the Manor for a few days then I'll see what the Slayer's up to."

Theo snorted. "Of course you will. Enjoy your denial and sub-par sex with women you're not in love with."

"Thank you. I will." Malfoy stood, swept his black leather jacket over the snug white t-shirt that left little to Hermione's imagination—and rest assured, she'd been imagining—and sauntered his way out into the night.

Wiltshire. Manor. Peacocks. That was more to go on then she or the Order had had in years. Hermione chugged her beer, then stood from her table, ready to take her leave.

"Oh, and Slayer—"

Stopping dead in her tracks, Hermione turned slowly to find Theo looking at her with amusement, his fingers stroking along the neck of his companion.

"If anyone could convince him to make the leap…it would be you."

Grimmauld Place. July 2003. A few afternoons.

Remus, upon hearing Hermione's intel that vampires could potentially re-acquire their souls, immediately packed a trunk and made arrangements to travel to Egypt where the first recorded vampires were sired. He was practically vibrating as he gave her a quick squeeze farewell, letting her fuss for a moment to ensure he'd acquired accommodations suitable for his furry little problem whilst travelling abroad. She knew she wouldn't hear from him for months, which was not unusual when an irresistible research opportunity presented itself. He was like a dog with a bone, or wolf, rather, and would be no use to her until he had cracked the case.

Meanwhile, over the course of the next month, Hermione and her team (aka the Scooby Gang, aka Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum when she was feeling salty, aka it's just Harry and Ron) gathered intel about this mysterious peacock manor in Wiltshire. Well, actually, Hermione was almost entirely reliant on whatever the boys could scrounge up. It was well-established that Malfoy had been tracking her. If she even breathed in Wiltshire's direction, Malfoy would be on high alert for an ambush.

It was a muggy, rainy day at Grimmauld when they finally had their breakthrough. Harry had popped open his laptop, cracked his knuckles and stretched his neck, before opening up an Internet browser. Now that defeating a Dark Lord was no longer on Harry's plate, he'd become a bit of a computer buff.

"I think we've been going about this all wrong," he mused, "skulking about seedy pubs and local graveyards for scraps of clues."

Hermione bristled a bit at that. She'd had great success with that form of reconnaissance over the years. They were probably just doing it wrong.

"A bit of property record research ought to confirm much more than what a wizened bartender with seven teeth tells us," he concluded, pushing his glasses up his nose with his knuckle.

"Good old Tom. But yes, hack the mainframe, Harry!" Ron called, spread out on the sofa, tipping the last of a family-sized bag of crisps into his gullet. "Engage network decryption!"

"I regret showing you Hackers," Harry mumbled, his fingers flying over the keys.

A half hour later, Harry had found an address, some public utility records, and a chain of title. Over the last one hundred years, the home had passed from a Septimus Malfoy, to Abraxas Malfoy, then most recently, in 1974, to Lucius Malfoy.

"Are these all fake names, do you think?" Harry asked as he scrolled through a three-page legal description full of indecipherable metes and bounds.

"Normally, I would agree," Hermione replied, "but his name is Draco."

Ron snorted. "Good point. Poncey name, that."

"Maybe these are family members. Descendants? Distant cousins?" Harry wondered.

"Could be," Hermione chewed on her lower lip. "Or… just him? Passing down the property to new names to avoid suspicion?"

Harry hummed in thought, then pulled up MapQuest, quickly typing in the location. "We really should have started with this." With a final exuberant tap of CTRL + P, the printer groaned to life, slowly spitting out directions.

"Excellent! Job done!" Ron exclaimed, laying back on the sofa, his arms behind his head.

"Wrong." Hermione shoved Ron's trainers from the sofa. "You need to check this place out first. I'll only have one shot at this and we need to be as certain as possible."

Harry nodded in agreement. "You're right. Ron and I'll go check it out. Do a little scouting."

"We'll go midday while the Prince of Darkness gets his beauty rest." Ron turned to Harry, his eyes hopeful. "Then stop at the Hog's Head for a pint as a reward for a job well done?"

"Obviously. Aberforth owes me twenty quid."

Her two idiots grinned at each other and Hermione left them to it, hurrying to the basement for a session with her trusty punching bag. She'd punch and kick away her anxiety about whatever antics Harry and Ron would no doubt get into.

*

"We found it!" Harry announced, barging into Grimmauld Place the very next day covered in mud, hair in disarray, his bright green eyes gleaming with excitement through his smudged glasses.

"Correction!" Ron interjected, following close behind, a half-eaten sausage roll in one hand. "We stumbled upon it. Literally." At this point, Hermione realised that Ron was also splattered with mud from head to toe.

"You fell into Peacock Manor?"

"More or less," Ron.

Hermione turned to Harry. "Explain."

"Well, we were following the directions, got a little lost—"

"Ended up at Stonehenge."

Hermione had to physically bite her tongue to prevent a scolding.

"Snapped a few pics—" Harry continued.

Ron pulled out his Nokia to show her a few blurry selfies with some random tourists.

"—then got back on track for a few kilometres before the car broke down."

"Of course," she sighed.

"Walked another couple kilometres or so in the general direction we were meant to be heading."

"Got my steps in, that's for certain," Ron noted.

"And then we hit a sort of invisible blockade."

"Ran right into it like a perfectly polished glass door," Ron interjected, his mouth full of a fresh bite of sausage roll. "Fell straight backward onto our arses in a pile of…well, hopefully, just regular old clean mud."

"Clean mud. Right."

"The barrier was obviously supernatural, so we took that as a promising sign." Harry pulled out a folded piece of paper with the map he had printed. "We walked the perimeter looking for a crack in Malfoy's wards; it's about a four-acre parcel, I'd say," Harry drew a square on the map, then added a star to one corner. "Finally found a place I think you can squeeze through, Hermione. Probably brute force your way in with your spidey powers."

"Not what they're called, but continue."

"It's definitely the place. We didn't lay eyes on the house but we heard peacocks," Ron jumped in.

Hermione looked at them both sceptically. "You know what peacocks sound like?"

Ron warbled alarmingly, the sound that emerged a cross between a crying baby and exuberant kazoo. "Sort of like that."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, and took a calming breath. She reminded herself all the times the Scooby Gang had come through for her. And sure, a lot of those times ended up with her racing across a graveyard to pull a vampire off of Ron's neck, but the point was, they were her ride or dies. And about eighty percent reliable. In any event, this was the best she would get without putting herself on Malfoy's radar.

"Very well. Time to plan an ambush."

This time, they all shared a grin.

Wiltshire. July 28, 2003. Dusk.

As she stood on the threshold of the lair of Draco Malfoy (and by lair, we're talking exquisite regency architecture with ivy-covered marble and stone, a dramatic turret with heavily-curtained windows—bingo, bedroom—with well-manicured grounds sweeping and romantic, complete with extremely pretentious albino peacocks), Hermione took a moment to remind herself of her mission.

Stake the bastard in the heart.

To be perfectly honest, she was wavering a bit on that point.

Exhibit A: she'd spent a solid half hour fussing with her hair before leaving her house. Also, her jeans were almost too tight for a full-range-of-motion roundhouse kick, but made her arse look like an irresistible peach begging for a bite. Was lipstick necessary for slaying? Technically, no, and yet… At least her cleavage was tasteful. Mostly.

Truth be told, a sly, corrupted voice had been hissing in her ear that she shouldn't be slaying Malfoy, she should be fucking him.

In theory, she could fuck him and then slay him, right? A Black Widow move. Very badass.

But what if the fucking was very good? Would she let him "live" a little longer, see if she couldn't get a few more tumbles out of him? Dangerous line of thinking, a slippery slope to becoming a two-bit graveyard slag, no better than that whorish ginger from The Bleeding Rose.

No. She should chop off his head and be done with it. One solid swipe and the madness would be over. (Oh, shoot, wouldn't you know it? She left her axe at home. Shucks.)

Perhaps it was the muddy motivation behind her entrance into the maw of the beast that caused her to stroll like a nosey tourist through Malfoy's echoing halls, taking note of his aesthetic (dark and moody, how original), admiring the art he'd accumulated over the decades, and of course, a nice long gander at his books and record collection.

Dammit. He had great taste.

Recklessly, Hermione had made the assumption that Malfoy wouldn't emerge from his coffin, or bed or wherever he laid his beautiful bones each night, until the sun had officially set. Which is why, five minutes to sundown, as she turned a corner from the sitting room, looking for a staircase to his bedroom, she ran smack dab into a hard, muscular, very pale and very bare chest.

For a full three seconds, Hermione was frozen, her nose pressed against cold skin, skin that did not smell like cobwebs and stale blood, but something woodsy with an underlying spice that made her a little lightheaded.

"Slayer?"

Malfoy's voice was rough from sleep, the sound dragging pleasantly up her spine. Still rooted to the spot, Hermione tilted her head up, her mouth slightly agape as she watched him boyishly rub the sleep from his eyes .

He took a small step backwards, blinking several times in confusion. His eyes moved methodically over her, taking in every detail. Suddenly the agony in front of the mirror no longer seemed a waste.

The delay allowed her to similarly peruse the goods. How often would she get the opportunity to ogle such a vampire from this vantage point. Malfoy was unbearably sexy—that was a hard fact and there was no getting around it. His body looked as though Michelangelo himself had carved him from marble. His usually slicked-back hair was deliciously tousled, his joggers hung unreasonably low and did not leave a great deal to the imagination (and rest assured, she'd been imagining.)

"Am I still dreaming?" he asked. His voice was husky and putting her knickers in an very precarious position.

This was going abysmally. She took a step back, biting her lip sharply to regain her wits.

"Is this an admission that you dream about me, Malfoy?" Good one, Granger.

"More like nightmares," he retorted, but the delivery seemed insincere. He continued to stare, his eyes narrowing as the aberration of her presence and the concomitant consequences were fully taking shape. "This is an ambush, then."

"That's how I've been referring to it, yes." Hermione shrugged. "Lovely home you've got here," she added, then punched him square on the nose. Hard enough to make his eyes water, soft enough not to break his pretty face.

You might be saying to yourself, 'Well, that's no way to get into a man's pants, Hermione.' But don't forget who's pants we're talking about here. One could argue this is exactly the right move to persuade this particular man to drop his borderline-pornographic joggers.

To emphasise this point, and because this narrator is omniscient, let's take a moment to review Malfoy's kinks. Let these also serve as a content warning for the rest of this encounter. Two birds, one stone.

You may have thought that a confident, infamously vicious, not to mention murderous vampire like Draco Malfoy would prefer to be the dominant partner in the bedroom. And you wouldn't be wrong…in most contexts. But when fantasies concerned the Slayer (and rest assured, there had been fantasies), Malfoy preferred a little role reversal. Maybe some degradation, mild humiliation, tie him up, and slap him around a little. Spanking, scratching, spitting, hair pulling, and biting were all on the table. It probably goes without saying, but a blood kink was standard-issue for vampires. And with the Slayer—he would inevitably beg. Beg for more, beg for release. Beg for any scrap she would give him. She was a formidable woman, he had remarked on occasion, with a brutal backhand and an arse blessed by the same gods he'd forsaken the night he lost his soul.

Of course, Hermione knew none of this. All she knew, as the tension of the imminent clash of their bodies grew taut, was that she was truly a pathetic excuse for a Slayer, pulling her punches simply because she was distracted by his—

Malfoy kicked Hermione solidly in the chest. She flew backwards, slamming hard against the wall. It cracked loudly upon impact, scattering bits of paint, plaster and dry wall across the floor.

"What terrible manners," Malfoy stated blandly, walking slowly, purposefully, unrelentingly in her direction. "You break into my home, muddy my Persian rugs with those dreadful combat boots you clomp around in—"

(Boots that he definitely hasn't imagined her wearing whilst stepping on him as he lay naked and writhing on the floor. Except, of course, he has.)

"Punch me in the face without so much as a by-your-leave." He kicked a bit of broken plaster. "And now you've cracked my wall—"

"That's obviously not my fault."

He tutted with venomous sarcasm. "Such an inappropriate invasion of my privacy, Slayer. You'll note I've never crossed such a line."

"That's because you literally can't, you buffoon."

"Even if I didn't need an invitation, I'm a gentleman."

Hermione snorted. "Do you lie compulsively, Malfoy, or are you just pathological?"

"I'll amend that. I'm a gentleman when I'm in the presence of a lady."

"And when you're with me?"

"With you…" Malfoy's lips slowly curled into a wicked smile.

He was standing very, very close now. Close enough for Hermione to feel the chill emanating from his body. She stifled a shiver and fingered the stake strapped to her thigh, her brain warring with itself about what to do next.

"Whatever am I going to do with you?" His delivery was teasing, cloying, almost decadent. She swallowed heavily as his words dripped down the back of her throat like warm blood. Malfoy was now mere inches away. Hermione opened her mouth to issue a sassy rejoinder, pursuant to their usual rules of engagement, but absolutely nothing came out.

Malfoy's hands inched over the small of her waist, pressing her more firmly against the broken wall behind her. His pupils were two solar eclipses backlit by a thin ring of silver iris, and contrary to good sense, she could not look away. He tilted his head as though she were a very complicated puzzle he'd been spending years attempting to solve, as though he was considering how to perfectly slot their lips together.

Hermione's heart was pounding, and her cheeks flushed from the unspoken reality that he could hear exactly how fast.

"What do you think, Granger? What comes next?" he asked, his voice low, his cool breath soft against her cheek.

Hermione's next decision—namely, to sucker punch Malfoy hard in the stomach, vault herself over the top of him as he bent forwards with a grunt, then strategically land several feet away in the middle of the hallway—was an interesting one, but we shouldn't fault her for it. He's a dark creature of the night, lest we forget. She would definitely be lowering her already abysmal standards by succumbing to the sweltering lust currently coursing through her veins.

"So, it's like that, is it?" Malfoy wheezed, turning around to face her once more. Then a long heated look, a strange expression of anger and desire she was certain was exactly copied on her own face. A blink and they were back at it, exchanging blows, teeth gritted, blood hot, cock hard and cunt wet.

To state it plainly, this was swiftly becoming an unmitigated disaster.

They fought down one hall, then crashed through another door, ripping it from its hinges in their exuberance. Hermione shoved Malfoy against a piano, its keys jangling discordantly as he narrowly avoided her stake. He retaliated by breaking a priceless vase over her head. After shaking the pieces of porcelain out of her curls, Hermione kicked the vampire into a bookshelf that crashed into a series of shelves behind it, each toppling over like dominoes down the long expanse of his impressive library, leaving ripped pages of irreplaceable tomes in their wake. (3,500 kilometres away, Remus shuddered as though someone had just walked over his grave.)

Stakes were thrown, knifes were slashed, all of them artfully dodged. When the stakes and knives had run out, table legs were ripped off with conveniently jagged edges. Soon, the makeshift weapons were abandoned, and they were slamming each other against walls and rolling on the floor like dogs, their chests pressed together, once with Malfoy's hips flush against hers, his hand around her throat, squeezing until she moaned. A headbutt later and it was Malfoy on his back, Hermione straddling him, his wrists pinned above his head.

It was terrible. Pure, animalistic insanity. Exhilarating, actually pretty painful at times, incandescent chaos. She'd never been so furious, so full of seething rage. Never so fucking turned on. And she never wanted it to end.

Somehow, they had fought their way to a bedroom. She would look back on this later and realise that Malfoy must have planned it that way. He had her cornered, standing between her and the door, a four-poster bed just behind her. His lip was split, one of his eyes was swiftly turning a deep purple, and he limped slightly as he edged closer.

"Have I worn you out yet?" Malfoy asked, his chest heaving and sweaty, blood dripping from where her stake had grazed his perfectly sculpted pectorals.

As a response, Hermione ratcheted back her arm and socked him hard against the jaw. He grabbed at his cheek and his eyes narrowed into a glare. She could see in his eyes the moment something inside him finally snapped. Malfoy charged her, grabbed her by the neck, and slammed her against one of the posts of the bed, lifting her high enough that her feet dangled above the floor. She scrabbled at his hands, unable to breath, her eyes bulging with the effort to escape.

"Say it, Slayer. Say, 'Malfoy, you win.'"

A snarky callback?! The absolute gall of him.

A surge of indignation burst through her body, and she kicked him squarely in the groin. Malfoy fell to his knees with a groan, and she landed on her feet, defiance painted on her face.

Hermione grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back, baring his throat, a stake at the ready. Their eyes locked.

This was the shift. This was the moment he caved.

Instead of wrestling out of her grasp, Malfoy's neck grew lax and he let her pull his head as far back as she wanted.

For a moment, there were only the sounds of heavy breaths and hammering hearts. Then, when she tightened her fingers in his hair, a whimper. Malfoy actually whimpered and nothing had ever sounded so good.

"Say it, Malfoy," she whispered. He wrapped his hands around her calves, moving them slowly up the back of her thighs. She gripped his hair a little tighter and that whimper became a moan. "Say 'please.'"

There was no hesitation in his eyes. Only bated breath and naked desire and need.

"Please." Another harsh tug of his hair. Another whimper. "Please… Hermione," saying her name like a sinner calling to his god for salvation.

What choice did she have, really?

She dragged her eyes down his pitiful form, until they landed on the very obvious erection tenting his joggers. She slowly pressed one of her "dreadful" boots against his groin, first with a relief-inducing pressure, then with smirk, she pushed a bit harder.

The kneeling deviant's eyes rolled in the back of his head as an unearthly moan escaped his lips.

"We play by my rules," Hermione said, speaking low to capture his undivided attention. When he didn't immediately respond, she tugged his head up and down in a forced nod. "I keep a stake by me at all times and you don't put your fangs on my body unless I ask you to. Understood?"

He nodded on his own this time, but she twisted her boot, ever so slightly until he gasped, "Yes—U-Understood!"

Pleased with his easy acquiescence, Hermione removed her boot, chuckling darkly at his obvious disappointment at its departure.

This was going to be fun. Depraved, certainly. But very, very entertaining.

"Take your clothes off."

Fast as a bolt of lightning, Malfoy was on his feet, ripping off his joggers and—no pants, she noted with a raised brow.

After taking a leisurely circuit to discover what exactly this nightmare of a man had been packing—turns out, there was a good reason for his cocksure attitude—Hermione decided to boss him a round a bit more.

"Back on your knees, and put your hands behind your back." He complied beautifully, his knees set wide, his cock bobbing proudly, his neck bared in submission. She could get used to this. Hermione took a steadying breath as a reminder to pace herself.

She stepped close, then swiped a finger along a drop of blood that had made its way from his left pectoral, over his nipple, to settle at the top of his abs. Malfoy's mouth fell open as she brought her blood-soaked finger to his lips. Immediately, he pulled her finger into his mouth, wrapping his lips around it eagerly, his tongue deftly licking the blood away away. Then, showing what a good vampire he could be for her, he kept sucking.

"Look at you," she huffed a laugh. "So desperate for any blood you can get, aren't you? Even your own. Do you like tasting yourself, Malfoy?"

He nodded, his mouth still wrapped round her finger, his tongue stroking the pad of her finger as though he were teasing the hood of her clit.

Reluctantly, Hermione pulled her hand away and took a step backwards. She began to undress herself, ensuring she was just out of reach. Malfoy watched unblinking as she pulled off her top, then dragged the straps of her bra down her arms, baring her breasts.

"Fuck me," Malfoy whispered.

"Only when I'm good and ready." Next, she removed her boots, then flicked open the top of her trousers. Recall (that is, if you can focus on something other than a naked, kneeling, slightly drooling Malfoy), that Hermione chose the most unreasonably tight pair of jeans for that evening's ambush. Perhaps this wouldn't be her only regret of the evening, but it now meant she was engaging in a fair amount of shimmying to peel them off. Malfoy watched every movement with rapt attention, and her initial embarrassment quickly faded straight back into ragged want.

When she finished undressing, save one stake she strapped back to a naked thigh, Hermione turned around and leisurely climbed onto the bed, ensuring her backside was pointed in exactly his direction. She turned and settled back onto the headboard, leaning against a pile of goose-down pillows.

Like the very good, very eager, very desperate little vampire that he was, Malfoy hadn't moved a muscle.

"Touch yourself," she ordered.

Malfoy's hand grabbed his cock so fast she barely caught the movement.

"Wait!"

He whimpered. Hermione was tempted to record the sound and set it as her ringtone.

"Lightly. Don't you dare squeeze. Nice and slow, nice and soft…that's it."

He followed her directions, his cock looking painfully hard, precome beading at the tip. She wondered what it tasted like. "Ah-ah—Don't touch the head. Just the shaft, up and down—"

The whimpering was increasing in intensity. Any minute now it would turn into blubbering. "Please, please let me…it's torture—" So dramatic. "I need more!"

"Oh, I'm sure you do," she smirked, then spread her legs, showing him how wet she'd become simply watching him touch himself.

The gathered precome dripped over the tip of Malfoy's cock. Any second now it would reach his fingers and give him that extra bit of traction, a smoother slide of skin on skin.

"Stop," she called. The desperate sound that climbed out of his throat would feed her fantasies for years to come. "Crawl to me."

Malfoy clenched his jaw for just a moment, then dropped onto his hands and knees, his eyes remaining on her—on her glistening, dripping cunt, to be specific. When he reached the bed, he waited for her permission before climbing to the foot of the mattress, still staring at her, smelling her, licking his lips in anticipation.

She let him drag his hands up her legs, let him push them wider as he settled on the mattress. He lowered his head to her inner thigh just by her knee, his lips hovering, once more waiting for her directive.

"Go ahead," she whispered. His mouth fell to her skin, and she twitched in surprise at how cold his lips were. But as he dragged his mouth higher, he pulled warmth from her skin until she could no longer tell where her skin ended and his began.

Malfoy paused just below where her thigh met her hips, right where the femoral artery was pulsing beneath, blood rushing back and forth, flowing faster as she watched his kisses grow hungrier. He began sucking on her thigh, pulling the blood to the surface to leave behind a mark, and when that wasn't enough, she felt a graze of his teeth.

"No fangs, Malfoy."

"No fangs," he mumbled against her wet skin, his cold breath sending goosebumps across her entire body.

Hermione's back arched off the bed in painful pleasure as Malfoy stopped holding back and bit her thigh. He had followed her rules and did not let his fangs drop, but her moan only egged him on, and he bit a little harder. She hissed, yanking him back by his head before he broke the skin.

"Malfoy!"

"Just a little taste?" he begged, his eyes wide and round, but the slightest twitch of his lips gave him away. "Please?"

She huffed in disbelief, a tad annoyed with herself by how compelling she found his request. "Such a pitiful blood slut, aren't you? Can't even bed a woman without begging for a drink?" Hermione chewed on her lip as she made up her mind, grabbing the stake from its holster on her thigh. "Fine. Control yourself."

Malfoy's mouth was back on her skin, kissing and sucking; then he opened his mouth wide, and his fangs dropped.

He paused as Hermione held her stake to his neck. "Just. One. Sip."

His eyes fluttered shut and his fangs sunk into her thigh. Hermione had thought his efforts leaving a simple hickey behind felt good, but nothing, nothing compared to the sensation of Draco Malfoy sucking blood from the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. One…two…three slow pulls from her vein, each one sending a pulse of pleasure straight to her clit, to her hardening nipples. He retracted his teeth from her leg and Hermione's eyes rolled back in her head, one hand gripping the sheets, the other pressing the stake firmly against his jugular. Another kiss, a lick of his tongue against the punctures he left behind and her skin healed over. Hermione trembled beneath him, lightheaded, miserably turned on.

Aching.

Then his mouth was on her again, this time licking straight into her pussy, his tongue still hot from the blood he had pulled from her body. Her hand holding the stake fell to her side, and it slipped from her fingers as his tongue delved deeply, finding the spot at the apex of her sex that caused her to grind her hips greedily against his face.

"Keep going, right there. Fuck, don't stop, don't stop, that feels so fucking good." Hermione was a writhing mess under Malfoy's mouth—a distant thought occurred that as a very good-looking, virile, recently-turned 150 year old, he must have had a lot of time to perfect the art of eating cunt. She was soaked—from her arousal, from his saliva still tinged with her blood. And when his lips wrapped around her clit, and two of his long, cold fingers curled their way inside of her—she broke, her body wracked with pleasure, made all the more intense from the way his bite had weakened her first. He held her down by her hips as he licked her through her climax, his fingers sliding in and out in a sultry beat as she clenched around him in rhythmic pulses.

Malfoy kept his mouth on her through her entire orgasm, his hips rolling against the mattress to find some relief, sucking up every last drop of her arousal like it was as life-giving as the blood in her veins.

When her limbs went limp, Malfoy crawled up her body, pressing kisses on her heated skin as he went, pausing to worship each breast, his teeth faintly grazing her nipples.

Hermione's brain was blank. Her instincts— the ones that screamed at her to turn this predator into dust—were completely offline. Mind blank, only the sensation of Malfoy's eyes on hers, his hips pressed against her core, the faint scent of iron and sin-sweet loam on his breath, the sound of her blood rushing in her ears as her desire for him only grew hotter.

He wanted to kiss her now. The signs were there: staring at her lips, licking his own, the hesitancy, the anticipation.

Fucking a vampire was one thing. But kissing? It was so…intimate. And soft and an indication of real feelings that extended beyond lust.

"We're not going to kiss," she said, sitting up pushing him to kneel in front of her.

The briefest flash of disappointment flickered in his eyes, before his usual mask of bravado returned. "Fine. I can think of far better uses for your mouth."

"You think you've earned it?" she asked licking her lips as she considered his cock, jutting out heavily between them, the tip leaking profusely.

"I'm certain that I haven't," he sighed, biting back a moan as she laid him backward, sliding her lips and tongue down his abdomen.

"It's good to be self-aware." She licked a stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, swirling her tongue around the swollen head. He was cold, not like the icy grip of his fingers around her wrist, but notably cool. Just as her body warmed his lips, she knew her mouth would warm his cock—and forget about returning the oral sex favour—she wanted to feel him this way in her cunt. She wanted to heat his body with her own while he was buried deep inside of her.

She pulled her mouth off of him with a pop, silencing him with a glare when he whined in protest. Malfoy's whine returned to her preferred whimper as she straddled him, placing the cool tip of his cock at her entrance.

She waited.

"Please."

"Be specific, Malfoy."

He was being such a good boy. He didn't even roll his eyes before answering. "Please fuck me, Slayer. Please let me have you. Put me inside—I need to feel—oh fuuuuuck."

Inch by cold, hard inch, Hermione lowered herself onto Malfoy's cock until he was fully seated inside her. Malfoy threw his head back, the veins of his neck raised as he strained and she had the strangest urge to bite him.

"So fucking warm," he heaved, his hands gripping her hips so hard she would have bruises in the morning to remind her of her colossal mistake.

His eyes squeezed shut as she began to rotate her hips, warming his cock without letting more than an inch leave her body. His neck was still bared, a pretty picture of vulnerable submission, and she let herself be pulled down by temptation, latching onto his neck, licking, sucking, finally biting when she found the spot that made him arch off the bed.

Her hands had found their way back into his hair, and she pulled tightly as she bit a little harder—not enough to break the skin—but enough so he, too, would have a mottled reminder of their encounter that wasn't just a black eye.

A loud smack pulled Hermione away from marking Malfoy with a surprised gasp. He had slapped her arse! He had slapped her arse. Had he forgotten who was in charge here?!

No need to keep it rhetorical. "Have you forgotten who is in charge here?"

Malfoy grinned, his hands kneading the flesh of her arse. "Your rules didn't say anything about slapping. In fact, you only gave me three rules. Stake on hand, no fangs (exceptions apply), and, apparently—" Malfoy sat up, bringing their lips dangerously close together, "no kissing."

Hermione's mouth fell open at the change of sensation from the new position, her eyelids fluttered at the proximity of his mouth to hers.

Before she caved and snogged his stupid face off, Malfoy shifted their positions again, with Hermione on her back, his cock sinking inside again. Before she had a chance to inhale, he hooked his arms under her knees to press himself even deeper, then began to fuck her. Long, steady, heavy strokes, powerful and restrained—moving as though he could keep pounding into her just like that, hitting just right there, over and over and over, and never get tired.

"Fuck, you feel so good. So bloody tight. I knew you would grip me like a vice."

"Oh, so, you've been thinking what this would feel like, have you?"

Malfoy slammed his hips a little harder, pushing the air out of her lungs and cutting her sassy backtalk short.

"Let's not pretend we haven't both been obsessing about this." He pressed himself a little deeper, Hermione's knees practically to her ears, then slowly circled his hips, his pelvis grinding against her clit.

She came suddenly, so unexpectedly, that she could barely manage a silent scream for how little air she had left in her lungs from the way he was fucking her.

"God, the way you're squeezing me—fuck, Slayer," he groaned. His hips moved faster, the slide slick and easy. He grabbed the sheets on either side of her head as he pushed and pulled, their skin slapping together obscenely.

"Go ahead, Malfoy, come for me. You've been so good," Hermione managed, completely out of breath, ruined forever. She pushed her hands through his hair, more gently this time, dragging her nails along his skull. He shivered, and tucked his face into her neck, his hips forgetting the rhythm he had set, becoming fast and frantic. He was losing control, his fangs scraping against the muscle at her shoulder, drawing a thin sliver of blood. The moment she felt his cool, wet tongue drag along her shoulder to catch a taste, Malfoy stuttered to a stop, pressing impossibly deeper as he came inside of her.

Well, fuck. How would she come back from this? The answer is she wouldn't be. This was transformative.

They laid there for a while, Malfoy heavy in her arms, her drying sweat cooling her heated skin. Before moving off of her, Malfoy bent her rules a bit and placed a lingering kiss to her neck, moving his lips exactly as she imagined it would feel against her mouth. She held him there, her hands twisted in his hair, letting him pull away and press three more light kisses down her neck, the last landing on the healing bite.

Malfoy rolled off of her, landing by her side with a deeply satisfied groan. "Fuck, that was…"

Incredible. Life-altering. A huge fucking mistake. If only she could do it again without hating herself. If only…

"Just imagine, Malfoy..." Hermione turned onto her side, squeezing her thighs together to eke out the last echoes of pleasure still throbbing between her thighs.

"Imagine? I don't need to imagine—we're past the stage of unfulfilled fantasies." He turned his head to look at her, his dopey grin sliding into confusion at the smirk on her face.

"Imagine how much better it would feel, Draco," she purred, pressing her finger down on the bruise she had left on his neck, "how much better I would taste if you had…"

His pupils widened in understanding. Hermione didn't need to finish the sentence. He knew exactly what she was implying.

Imagine what it would feel like, that fizzing chemistry, their freaks perfectly aligned, the glorious stretch of his cock, the tight warmth of her cunt, how much better it would be if he had a soul inside of him capable of experiencing once more the depth, the nuance, the aching beauty of human experience.

Malfoy didn't respond, and they stared at each other for a long time. Hermione's hand came to still on top of his heart as his eyes settled on her lips, a curl wrapped around his finger.

"When can I have you again?" he asked softly, a slight tremor of need floating to the top of his words.

Hermione leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his and sighed forlorn. "So sorry. Starting tomorrow, I only fuck people with souls."

Malfoy scoffed, pushing her away, looking a little chagrined and very put out.

"That's a lofty goal," he said caustically, his hand stretching sadly towards her as she climbed off his bed in search of her knickers. "I give it a week before you come crawling back."

Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I think we've established which one of us is more likely to crawl."

He harrumphed, then in an extremely unfair move, Malfoy stretched like a cat, his abdomen flexing, his cock growing fat as he watched her shimmy back into her jeans.

"Slayer," he called coquettishly, then pointed to a clock on the wall, the minute hand clicking towards 11:00 p.m. "It's not tomorrow yet."

His hand dropped to his cock, pulling along his length in luxurious strokes.

And really, what other choice did she have?