The cashmere was impossibly soft under her fingers.
Hermione pressed Draco against the dungeon wall, her hands running over the tight green sweater, feeling the muscles beneath. He gasped as she ground against him, her cock hard and insistent against his ass.
"Granger," he breathed, his voice wrecked. "What are you—"
"Shut up." She yanked his trousers down, exposing pale, perfect skin, and positioned herself at his entrance. "You and your stupid sweater. Do you have any idea what you've done to me?"
"I—ah—"
She pushed forward, and the heat that engulfed her was indescribable—tight, slick, welcoming. Draco moaned, his forehead pressed against the stone, his aristocratic composure shattered.
"Fuck," Hermione heard herself say, a word she never used, as she began to thrust. "Fuck, you feel—"
"More," Draco begged. "Please, Granger, more—"
She gripped his hips, fingers digging into the cashmere bunched at his waist, and drove deeper. The sweater rode up, exposing the small of his back, and she couldn't stop staring at the contrast—soft green fabric, pale skin, her own hips snapping forward again and again—
"I'm going to—" she gasped.
"Yes, do it, fill me—"
Hermione woke with a strangled scream, her hand clamped over her mouth just in time to muffle it.
She lay rigid in her bed, heart hammering, sweat soaking her nightshirt. Between her legs, her cock throbbed with almost painful intensity, fully erect and straining against her pajama bottoms.
Draco Malfoy, her brain supplied hysterically. You just had a sex dream about DRACO MALFOY.
She wanted to blame Pansy's vivid description of the cashmere sweater. She wanted to blame the potion. She wanted to blame literally anything except her own traitorous subconscious.
But none of that changed the fact that she was achingly hard, her body wound tight with unfulfilled need, and the images from the dream kept replaying behind her eyes, no matter how hard she tried to banish them.
Draco's voice. Draco's skin. The feeling of being inside—
A sob escaped her throat.
This was too much. It was all too much. The constant arousal, the shameful dreams, the inability to control her own body. She was Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, and she was being undone by an unwanted penis and inappropriate fantasies about ferret-faced Slytherins.
She couldn't do this alone.
Before she could think better of it, Hermione slipped out of her bed and padded across the dormitory to Lavender's four-poster.
"Lavender," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Lavender, wake up."
The curtains rustled, and Lavender's face appeared, bleary with sleep. "Hermione? What time is—" She stopped, her eyes focusing on Hermione's face. "Oh my God, are you crying?"
"No," Hermione lied, even as tears spilt down her cheeks. "I just—I can't—"
She couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't explain the shame, the confusion, the overwhelming want that was driving her mad.
Lavender's gaze dropped, taking in the obvious tent in Hermione's pyjamas. Understanding dawned on her face.
"Oh, honey," she breathed. "Come here."
She pulled back the curtains and made room on the bed. Hermione climbed in gratefully, curling into herself, trying to make her body smaller, less present.
"I don't want to talk about it," she managed. "I just—I needed—I don't know what I needed."
"It's okay." Lavender's hand found her shoulder, gentle and warm. "You don't have to explain."
They lay in silence for a moment, Hermione trembling, her arousal refusing to subside despite her distress. If anything, Lavender's proximity was making it worse—the warmth of another body, the soft scent of her perfume, the knowledge that she understood.
"It hurts," Hermione whispered finally. "Not just—not just physically. Everything. It all hurts."
"I know." Lavender shifted closer, her arm wrapping around Hermione from behind in a comforting embrace. "I know, Hermione. I feel it too."
Her hand rested on Hermione's stomach, just above the waistband of her pyjamas. A friendly touch. A supportive touch.
Hermione's cock twitched.
She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified. "I'm sorry, I can't control—"
"I know you can't." Lavender's voice was soft, surprisingly kind. "None of us can. That's not your fault."
"I should go. This was a mistake—"
"Hermione." Lavender's hand pressed flat against her stomach, holding her in place. "When was the last time you... took care of it?"
Hermione's face burned. "That's not—I don't—"
"Because I tried ignoring it too, at first. Thought if I just pretended it wasn't there, it would go away." Lavender laughed, a sad little sound. "It doesn't go away. It just gets worse. Until you're crying in someone else's bed at three in the morning."
"I'm not—this isn't—"
"Let me help you."
Hermione's brain stopped working.