Chapter Text
Late Night, Hogwarts Corridors
The Common Room fire had long since been charmed low, the last drunken whispers of the celebrations dying an hour ago. Lily lay stiffly on her four-poster bed, the shadow of the velvet hangings suffocating her. Her mind was a relentless projector, replaying the day’s brutal highlights: the snap of bone, the sight of Malfoy’s body hitting the mud, the cold, flat malice in Krum’s eyes. The golden line on her wrist throbbed, a dull, demanding ache that was worse than any pain. It was the frantic, trapped pulse of two destinies trying to reject their own collision. She tossed the sheets aside. The only way to silence the dread was to fill the silence with movement, to ground herself in the familiar, physical world.
She pulled on a thick, dark robe over her pajamas and slipped out. The corridors were vast, cold caves of shadow, lit only by the sputtering flames of distant wall sconces. Her boots made no sound on the polished flagstones—a skill honed during years of Snape’s nocturnal training. She found the kitchens, tickled the pear, and was greeted by the warm, yeasty air and the sleepy approval of a few house-elves. She accepted a thick slice of bread smothered in honey, the simple sweetness intended to coat the hollow feeling in her stomach.
It was on the dark stretch of corridor leading back toward the Grand Staircase that she heard the heavy, deliberate footsteps. She rounded a corner and stopped dead. Viktor Krum stood there, large and imposing, leaning against a suit of armour, looking like a predator patiently waiting in a trap. He was alone.
“Carrow,” he said, his accent thick with disappointment and resentment. “I was hoping to find you.”
Lily didn’t retreat. She tightened her grip on the bread and looked him straight in the eye. “The celebrations are over, Krum. Go to bed.”
He pushed off the wall and took a slow step closer, his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his midnight-blue robes. “A very passionate match. Your boyfriend, the white worm, he plays aggressively. He had to be taught a lesson.”
“Malfoy is not my boyfriend,” Lily stated, her voice low and even, the cold control a shield. “And your Beaters’ tactic was dishonorable. Why did you deliberately target him, or me?”
Krum laughed, a short, ugly sound. “You lie. The way you moved, the way you looked at him after the dance. The passion between you two… it is a waste.” He took another step, closing the distance until the shadows of his bulk fell over her. “If you are so pally with Malfoy, if you have already slept with the white worm, why not sleep with me? I am a champion. I am stronger, faster. I would know how to treat a passionate witch like you.”
Before she could articulate a response, his massive, calloused hands shot out, one cupping the back of her head, yanking her forward, the other grabbing her hip and crushing her into the cold stone of the wall. His mouth slammed down on hers, wet and demanding, tasting of something bitter and cheap. The sudden violation made the blood roar in her ears. His hand was thick and heavy on her hip, pressing crudely, searching for purchase on the soft flesh of her side.
Lily didn't scream or flail. Her body, trained by Snape and the violence of the Quidditch pitch, moved with immediate, lethal efficiency. Ignoring the brute strength that held her head, she used the leverage of her athletic frame, dropping her weight slightly and driving her knee up, hard, into his thigh, just above his kneecap. The impact was sharp and shocking. Krum let out a grunt of pain and surprise, his grasp loosening fractionally. That was all she needed.
She twisted, breaking the connection, and drove her right elbow—a weapon honed on the duelling mats—straight into the soft spot beneath his ribs. The air whooshed out of him in a pained choke. He stumbled back, clutching his side, his dark eyes wide with shock and fury. Lily watched him, her chest heaving, her spine rigid against the wall. Her face, dusted pink with rage, showed no fear. She was not running. She was standing her ground.
“You’re pathetic, Krum,” she spat, wiping the lingering, foul taste of his kiss from her mouth with the back of her hand. Her knuckles were tight, ready for a further fight, but he was too busy trying to draw breath. She turned slowly, deliberately, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her flee, and continued her walk back up the corridor, leaving the angry, gasping champion slumped against the stone. The honeyed bread was forgotten, crushed in the palm of her hand.
The contact, however brief and rejected, felt like a contamination. She needed to scrub it off. She needed boiling water and aggressive soap and the silence of marble. Hermione’s Prefect badge was pinned carelessly on her bedside table, its gleaming silver a beacon. Lily didn’t bother to return to the Gryffindor common room. She walked with purpose toward the fifth floor, the complex, musical rhythm of the Prefect’s Bathroom password forming in her mind.
***
The Prefect’s Bathroom was a world of serene, decadent indulgence. It was enormous, a riot of white marble, gold fixtures, and seven separate taps spouting anything from regular water to bubble bath and foaming wine. It was silent, save for the low, hypnotic hiss of steam that clouded the high, stained-glass windows depicting a flustered mermaid trying to capture a mischievous gnome.
Draco was standing by the massive, sunken tub, but he barely registered the room's opulence. He had stripped his robes and shirt, leaving him in black trousers, his skin slick with sweat and the oppressive heat of the room. His left arm was a swollen, rigid monument to Krum’s malice, encased in a thick layer of medical bandages. He had tried, with his good hand, to smear the final layer of eucalyptus salve onto the back of his own shoulder, but the rotation of the movement had sent a spike of blinding, white-hot pain through the shattered joint. He slammed the jar of salve onto the marble counter with a muffled curse. The jar didn’t break, but the sound was sharp in the silence.
His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. He was shaking, not from cold, but from a mixture of chemical pain and a raw, furious self-loathing that burned hotter than the physical injury. He, a Malfoy, had been brought down like cheap prey. But the true source of his fury wasn’t the injury itself, it was the raw, undeniable instinct that had caused it. He had seen the Bludger tracking Lily, he had seen the predatory intent in Krum’s eyes, and he had flown—not to win, not to save himself—but to protect her. The feeling was possessive, demanding, and utterly infuriating because it meant he was not his own, not truly free, but shackled to this volatile, maddening, beautiful witch who threatened to consume everything he was.
“Why does she have to be everywhere?” he muttered, running a shaky hand through his damp, pale hair. “Why does the magic have to do this?” He stared at his right wrist, where the golden thread pulsed faintly beneath the pale skin, confirming the truth he desperately wanted to deny. He had to keep her away. He had to hate her. But the only thing he could think of, amidst the adrenaline and pain, was the feel of her waist under his palm during the waltz, the way her body had moved perfectly with his fury.
The lock clicked—a precise series of musical tones—and the heavy oak door swung inward. A column of cool, night air rushed into the steam-filled room, swirling the mist. Lily stepped across the threshold, her face a mask of cold resolve, her dark robes falling around her. The sight of her—the green fire in her eyes, the damp sheen on her skin from the night air, the determined set of her full, plum-stained mouth—made the air catch in his lungs. He was suddenly, acutely aware of his exposed, damaged body.
“What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?” Draco snarled, his voice rasping from disuse and anger, the question a shield. “Who gave you the password, Carrow?”
Lily’s gaze swept over the room, the discarded salve, and finally fixed on the awful, unnatural tilt of his shoulder. Her breathing hitched, the cold dread from the Quidditch pitch returning, but her voice was steady. “Hermione. And what are you doing out of the infirmary, Malfoy? Trying to make your injury permanent?”
“Don’t lecture me,” he hissed, taking a step toward her, favouring his right side. “Go back to your little Gryffindor party. Go back to your champion. I saw him with you. Does he always feel the need to paw at things he can’t have?”
“You think that’s why you were attacked?” Lily felt the anger she’d been holding back all night flare. “Because of some pathetic pissing contest? You were a distraction, Malfoy! Just like I was! But that’s what happens when you decide to play hero for a girl you supposedly can’t stand.”
“I wasn’t saving you! I was… the Bludger was going to hit the goal! I was deflecting it—” The lie caught in his throat. They both knew it was bullshit. He had flown across the width of the pitch. He lowered his voice, his grey eyes burning holes into her. “Go. Get out. Before I call Pomfrey.”
Lily didn’t move. She dropped her gaze from his face to the jar of salve, then to the clean, perfect curve of his right bicep and the rigid cast of his left shoulder. All the anger, the dread, the years of cold, hidden duty and the crushing pressure of the secret, funneled into a single, wordless impulse. She shed her robe, letting the dark wool pool silently on the cold marble floor. She was wearing only silk, black, functional shorts, and a simple, athletic, deep green bralette that barely contained the lush, powerful curve of her chest and highlighted the strong, lean lines of her torso. She ignored his sharp intake of breath. The cold air hit her skin, raising immediate gooseflesh.
She crossed the space between them in two fluid strides, ignoring the anger simmering on his face. She reached for the jar of salve, scooped up a generous amount, and without a single word of explanation, placed her warm, strong right hand on the tense, bare muscle of his uninjured shoulder.
He flinched, not from pain, but from the sudden, unexpected contact. Their eyes met again, but this time, the anger was dissolving, melting away into something raw, volatile, and profoundly needy. The golden line on her wrist flared like a miniature, searing star. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling quickly in the steamy air. He didn’t stop her. He couldn’t. The desperate need for connection, for release from the relentless agony of his secret and his injury, overpowered all of his carefully constructed walls.
Lily began to work. Her touch was not soothing, it was deliberate—a warrior tending a wound. She pressed the thick, cool salve into the uninjured side of his back, massaging the knots of tension that ran from his neck down his spine, careful to avoid the bandages. Her fingers, callused from her own training and Quidditch grip, were strong and knowledgeable, tracing the clean, pale architecture of his muscles. The room filled with the sharp, clean scent of eucalyptus, which mingled with the steam to become thick and heady, intoxicating in its intensity. As her hands lingered on his tense shoulder blade, pulling the knots of pain from his good side, she registered the difference: this touch, however hostile the circumstances, felt like a current connecting them, a synchronicity she’d only ever experienced when flying or duelling.
He couldn't stand the proximity any longer. He moved. Pivoting his body with a controlled, painful effort that drew a low hiss through his teeth, he turned to face her. His good hand—the right—shot out, catching her around the back of her head, the gesture possessive and urgent. He dragged her against his slick, hard chest. Her lush, firm breasts were pressed against the cool, damp skin above his tightly bound ribs, and the sensation—the simultaneous crush of injury and desperate need—was overwhelming.
The kiss that followed was a slow, agonizing declaration, drawn out by the conflicting emotions that fed it. It was hungry and deliberate, tasting of furious control and the sharp, clean tang of the eucalyptus salve. He started with soft, teasing brushes of his lips, a slow torment, his right hand cupping the back of her skull, holding her captive. Then, the control snapped. His mouth claimed hers with a fierce, open pressure, his tongue pushing inside with slow, deep, possessive strokes. Lily met him, opening fully, her own tongue aggressively exploring the heat of his mouth. She tasted the adrenaline and the deep, rich flavour of him. He used the edge of his teeth on her bottom lip, dragging a low, shuddering "Ahhh" from his throat, a sound of pleasure so raw and unexpected it made her own body tighten with instant need. Their inner monologues screamed over the kiss: Hate him. Want him. Break me. Her hands abandoned the salve and flew to his good shoulder, her fingers digging in, anchoring herself to the only steady point in the spinning room.
He eventually pulled back, eyes locked on hers, pupils black and dilated. The pace slowed again, dangerously. His right hand left her neck and began a slow, deliberate exploration. He reached beneath the thin silk of her bralette, his palm warm and rough against the powerful curve of her chest. He caressed the heavy mounds of her breasts, his thumb brushing slowly, deliberately over the sensitive peak of her nipple, watching her face for the reaction. A whimpering sound escaped Lily's throat—a low, helpless noise she hadn't known she could make. She reached out, her hands finding the waistband of his black trousers, her fingers fumbling with the clasp.
He let out a low groan as her fingers successfully released the button and zipper. She reached inside, finding him thick, heavy, and pulsing against the slick fabric of his boxers. Lily seized him, her hand closing around the length of him, stroking him with a slow, grinding friction. The demand was immediate, and Draco tipped his head back against the mirror, his mouth opening in a silent gasp of intense pleasure. He pushed her back against the marble counter, his lips crashing back onto hers. "God, Lily. You're going to kill me," he muttered into her mouth, his tongue drowning out his own moan as the pre-cum, slick and hot, beaded on the head of his cock.
He broke the kiss, seizing the hem of her athletic shorts and tearing them away, the silk shorts pooling on the floor. He paused, his grey eyes sweeping over her dark, intimate curls, her strong, athletic thighs, and the pink flush of her inner skin. The sight was stunning, perfect. He dropped to his knees, his good hand bracing himself on the counter, his injured arm hanging uselessly. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue replacing the fury of his kissing with a devastating, focused worship. His nose pressed into her dense curls, the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin. Lily gasped, her back arching against the cold marble wall. The sound of her sudden, sharp intake of air—a choked "Oh, fuck!"—was a dark, addictive noise that resonated deep in his chest. His thick cock, already swollen and aching for release, twitched violently at the sound. He worked her with excruciating slowness, drawing out the tension. He inhaled the sweet, intoxicating taste of her arousal. It tastes like pure, unadulterated need, he thought, his own body tightening. Not like the practiced sweetness of Pansy, but something primal, something dangerous. He slipped two fingers deep inside her, slick with her own wetness, stretching her slowly, feeling the firm resistance of her training beneath the softness. Lily was shaking, her hips grinding desperately against his mouth, her eyes rolling back in her head, desperate for him to stop, desperate for him to continue, consumed by the agonizing beauty of his focus. The pain in his shoulder had completely dissolved, replaced by the white-hot focus of her pleasure.
Driven by a sudden, fierce need for contact, Draco rose, using the marble counter to brace his weight. He seized her by the waist with his strong, right arm—a phenomenal feat of pure adrenaline and strength, pulling her up and setting her on the cool, wide edge of the sunken tub. A low, ragged curse escaped him as the shattered bones protested, but he ignored it, his eyes fixed on hers. He stood between her legs, his massive erection thick, furious, and insistent. He grabbed her left ankle with his right hand, lifting her leg, positioning her over the tub, creating a sharp, painful angle that forced her wetness against his growing urgency. They began to grind against each other, slow, wet friction, their bodies melding in a silent, furious dance of control and release. Lily threw her head back, her damp, dark hair spilling over the marble, her core spasms tightening with the pressure, the sound of their wet bodies grinding filling the steam-filled space.
Lily’s hand found the hot, thick length of him again, stroking him with slow, deliberate care, feeling the weight and girth of him, a powerful ache that was different from any man she had been with. She leaned forward, capturing his mouth in a furious kiss, and as her hand glided along his shaft, he let out a muffled, desperate moan, "Ah... yes... that's it," the sound vibrating deep in her own mouth, intoxicating her. The air was thick with the demanding scent of eucalyptus and spent arousal.
He broke the grinding, pushing her gently into the warm, scented bubble bath, his eyes silently commanding her to follow. The pace slowed even more. They lowered themselves into the massive tub, the water rising around their waists. They kissed again, long, deep, teasing kisses, the water rippling with their slow, synchronized movements. He used his good hand to caress her wet skin, tracing the line of her collarbone, the curve of her body, every touch a long, deliberate promise. The silence was absolute, save for the rush of water. They were perfectly, devastatingly in sync, the rhythm of their need moving in harmony with the sloshing of the bathwater.
Lily finally reached for him, grabbing his waist and pulling herself up, mounting him. She straddled him in the warm water, her legs wrapped around his hips, the water amplifying the intensity of their physical connection. She guided him to her entrance, the slick warmth of the water making the penetration slow, deep, and impossibly smooth. Lily let out a low, shaky gasp of profound pleasure as he buried himself, his size stretching her to a stunning limit, the feeling of him deep in her abdomen an all-consuming reality. She began to ride him, slow at first, then accelerating into a furious, demanding tempo, the water splashing around them. The anger was there in the motion, in the deep, rhythmic thrusts that were less about pleasure and more about necessary release. No one has ever fit this deeply, Lily thought wildly, her control slipping, her entire focus narrowed to the incredible, invading pressure of him inside her.
Draco grabbed her hips, his right hand digging into her strong, wet flesh, his eyes locked on hers, pupils black and dilated with need. The movement and the friction were shattering. The rhythm was hard, slow, and punishingly deep. "Look at me," he choked out, his voice hoarse, a ragged animal sound of pure, unadulterated passion. He grabbed her hips, driving into her with a slow, agonizing thrust, feeling the deep ache of the connection. "You felt that, Carrow. You felt that inside you."
As she rode him, her eyes beginning to roll back in her head, the end approaching in a blinding rush, his hand flew to his wand on the tub’s edge—a familiar, habitual motion for her. But before she could react, before she could utter the counter-charm she always used with others, he completed the action himself. His voice, thick with a commanding, possessive edge, ripped through the steam. “Contraceptus,” he whispered, the charm vibrating deep inside her. Lily’s breath hitched—a sudden, shocking moment of realization that he had taken absolute control, asserting a dark, intimate claim over her body and her safety. The sound of the word, the ultimate act of care intertwined with dominance, was the dirtiest, most claiming thing Lily had ever heard. The golden line on her wrist seared with a blinding, euphoric heat.
Her control shattered entirely. She screamed, a raw, primal sound that was instantly drowned out by the sloshing water and the furious rhythm he took over. She collapsed onto his chest, her body spasming around him, her orgasm hitting with the force of an ethereal, otherworldly explosion—a vast, sickeningly sweet wave of pleasure that made her back arch and her muscles clench around his length. “Burn with me,” Draco grated out, his voice thick with a mixture of possessive fury and agonizing pleasure, the words ripped from his chest. "I can't take this. I can't," he whispered, his climax building to an unbearable, desperate peak.
His body immediately followed. He arched his back, pushing himself upward, his face twisted in a mask of pain and ecstatic release. He let out a deep, shuddering roar—a noise that was a mixture of victory, agony, and desperate surrender. He poured himself into her, hot and fast, the sensation so intense it brought immediate, stinging tears to her eyes, mixing with the steam. His long, powerful body trembled uncontrollably, clinging to her as the remnants of the agonizing, spectacular climax subsided.
They stayed tangled, locked together, submerged beneath the warm water, the air thick with the spent musk of sex and the heavy scent of eucalyptus. Draco was slumped against the cool marble rim of the tub, his right arm wrapped possessively around Lily’s waist, her head resting on his shoulder, her black hair fanning out across his pale, uninjured chest. There was no regret, no shame, only a weary, profound quiet. The golden line was quiet now, sated and satisfied for the moment.
They didn't speak of the injury, the war, or the fate that had bound them. They simply held each other, two ships broken by the storm, clinging together in the relative safety of the dark. They had fought their destiny in the ballroom and on the pitch, but here, in the secluded, steamy warmth of the Prefect’s Bathroom, they had finally surrendered to it. This wasn't love, not yet; it was a desperate, shared addiction—the only way to truly escape the impossible demands of their lives. And they both knew they would be back.