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Summary
Hermione’s quill scratches ink across parchment, freckling her knuckles like dark stars, the library’s sconce-light bleeding over her star chart at 3:00 p.m. Dust, leather, panic thick in her throat.
Draco glides past, sling a lie, and topples her books with one cool sweep. “Careful, Granger,” he murmurs, voice silk and venom. His dragon-hide sole pins her hand to the carpet—cold, crushing—ache blooming into wet heat between her thighs. “Wouldn’t want you on the floor again.”
The Time-Turner burns deliberate against her sternum—she wants this. Her breath stutters; cunt clenches. Yes. She craves the degradation, the filth of his sneer. Click. Gold devours the world.
Loops spiral: ink, teeth, ropes, denial. Hours stretch, fracture. Sensory storms—wet silk, copper tang, dragon-hide scent—until time knots around them.
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Bookmark Notes:
👀 Good Soup 🍲 📚 📖
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Bookmark Notes:
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