Draco is hungry. Hermione helps. A leisurely burn culminating in the library sex of your dreams. Featuring Sanskrit erotic poetry, a new DADA professor, and prophetic dreams.
Eighth year. Complete, with afterword. EXPLICIT - for mature audiences on...
I have crossed an ocean I have lost my tongue from the root of the old one a new one has sprung
—Grace Nichols, The Fat Black Woman's Poems
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In the Variations on Amortentia lesson the following week, an advanced unit building on their 6th-year syllabus, Draco is selected to share what he smells and hears from the potion.
His eyes meet hers and he shoots her a nasty little grin. Hermione, now a regular patroness of his devoted tongue, and skating dangerously close to the title of lady friend or something like it, groans at how cute his mouth is. Especially since she was locked in an important discussion with it just 15 minutes ago in the third-floor broom closet.
"Gryffindor, it's been twelve hours," he'd teased as he eased his head under her skirt, giving her fingers a gentle touch: Never stop telling me how much you want me. Hearing her desire straight from her courageous mouth thrills him to the core, as does her confession that her wobbly knees in class mean exactly what he thinks they mean.
As for him, a little snack between classes suits him just fine until they can find — or make — a bed for their next adventure.
She turns as red as the Kama Sutra as he steps forward, his neck flushed and his hair hastily recombed, and announces innocently that he hears a coming thunderstorm and smells the sea.
