This Is Definitely Against School Policy

Draco Malfoy's POV

Vivienne looks like she's about to set fire to her cocktail.

"I'm sorry," she says, voice sharp enough to slice through butter, "but who assigns professors detentions? We're supposed to give out detentions. Not get them."

Around her, everyone laughs.

Even I can't stop the grin tugging at my mouth as she glares at her drink like it personally offended her. She's clutching it with the same grip she probably uses on rogue third-years trying to sneak a broom into class. Her cheeks are flushed—either from the whisky or the indignation, I can't tell. 

Both look good on her.

"It's our fault," Blaise says, swirling the straw in his glass. "McGonagall still sees us as students. It's how she copes with us being grown adults. Some of us with kids."

"She didn't give me detention," Ginny says smugly.

"You also turn in grades on time," Hermione points out. "Unlike certain people who assign 'a vibe check' instead of actual essays."

"Oh, come on!" Vivienne huffs. "What was I supposed to assign? An essay on advanced performance in Muggle Arts? Should I make them write about... breathing in rhythm?"

Harry leans back in his chair, beer in hand, and shoots her a knowing look. "Didn't you just try to get McGonagall to waive end-of-year exams for your class entirely?" Vivienne opens her mouth, then shuts it. Her eyes narrow.

I lean forward on my elbow, watching her stew in the silence.

"She's got a point," Luna offers dreamily, "How do you assess truth-telling through dance? You can't grade that."

"I wasn't going to grade it," Vivienne mutters into her drink. "I was going to feel it."

The table bursts into laughter again.

She scowls, but it's losing steam now. Her shoulders drop a little as she groans. "Fine. Whatever. I'll do the detention. It's not like I had other plans for Saturday night or anything."

"You did," Pansy says without looking up from her menu. Oh, yeah. Pansy finally accepted the job. Professor Parkinson for Magical Theory. "You said you were going to reorganize your vinyls and listen to Billie Holiday and hate men."

"That was private," Vivienne hisses. She flips her off and then sighs like a martyr. "Right. So. Whose detention is it, this Saturday?"

She scans the table, one by one. Ginny and Harry shake their heads. Ron gives her an exaggerated shrug. Pansy looks smug—she's never gotten detention a day in her life, and she's not about to start now. Theo feigns innocence. Blaise gestures toward me.

But I say nothing. I wait.

Her eyes finally land on me.

That storm is still behind them, golden and furious, and I let it hit me full-force. She raises one brow, silently asking the question. I smirk. Take a slow sip of my drink. And then I say, low and full of promise:

"Oh, Professor Hale—I've got so much planned for you."

Her expression doesn't change.

But her mouth twitches. The corner of it tips upward. Just barely.

And in that flash of a second—I'm sure of it.

She's looking forward to detention.

Almost as much as I am.

[][][][][][]

The clock strikes eight when I unlock the classroom door. It echoes through the corridor, loud and deliberate. The room is empty. Candlelight flickers low and moody. I arranged the chairs earlier, not that we'll be sitting.

She arrives precisely two minutes late.

On purpose.

Her heels click slowly down the stone hallway, an exaggerated rhythm of defiance. She swings the door open like she owns the place—and maybe she does. Tonight, it feels like she might.

Vivienne walks in like the most glamorous violation of Hogwarts policy I've ever seen.

High-waisted black trousers. A fitted shirt tucked in tight. Her hair's up—but not neatly. Messy, deliberate, like it would take just one hand to ruin it. And that red lipstick again. Bloody hell.

"You're late," I say, just to rile her. She tosses her coat on a desk. "You're lucky I showed up at all."

"I thought you were planning to spend the night sulking with your jazz records."

"I upgraded to sulking with attitude."

I raise an eyebrow. "That what you're wearing?"

"I didn't know detentions came with wine," she says, ignoring the jab, swirling a glass she definitely smuggled in from the staff lounge. "They don't," I mutter. "Put that away."

She ignores me again, of course.

I've spent the last week trying not to look at her. And failing. Everywhere I turn, there she is—flushed from rehearsal, laughing too loud with Callahan, completely unaware of how much space she takes up in my head. Or maybe she knows. She always knows.

"You've been watching me," she says casually, crossing her legs like this is some French film and not a punishment. "I watch everyone," I lie. "Sure," she hums. "But I don't see you lurking in Herbology."

"That's because Longbottom throws compost."

She grins. And it's devastating. That kind of grin makes you forget you're supposed to have boundaries. Makes you forget you're supposed to be a professor, not a man with a pulse and a very vivid memory of the way she moaned his name into her pillow.

Focus.

"I believe this is your detention," I say, stacking the parchment neatly. "So perhaps you'd like to actually do something useful with your time."

"Like what?"

"Alphabetize the cursed object reports."

Vivienne tilts her head. "You mean the pile of handwritten horror stories you won't let anyone else read?"

"They're confidential."

She slides off the desk slowly, glass still in hand, and leans across the stack. "And yet, here I am. Unsupervised. Untrustworthy. And terribly close." She's goading me. I take a breath. Deep. Controlled. "Do you treat all detentions like seduction attempts?"

"Only the fun ones."

She's not touching me. Not yet. But I can feel her in the air. Warm, electric. Dangerous in ways that make me want to let the danger in. I reach for a report. Slide it between us like a shield. "You came here to be punished. Not to flirt."

She leans in, lips just barely brushing my ear, hands tightening around my tie. "Oh, I can do both."

And just like that, my restraint shatters like glass under pressure. I grab her wrist. Not hard. Just enough to anchor her. "You're playing a game you don't understand," I say quietly.

She smiles, lips parted. "You keep saying that. And yet..."

Her free hand trails down my chest, slow, smug. Deliberate.

It takes everything in me not to drag her onto the desk and kiss her until she forgets her name. Instead, I let go. Step back. Distance, cold and sharp, slices between us.

I could tell her to alphabetize the potions supply cupboard. Sort cursed quills from regular ones. But that would be missing the point.

"You're here because you're insubordinate," I say, keeping my voice level. "You disregard structure. Assign feelings instead of essays. And worst of all..." I step toward her. "You humiliated me."

Vivienne smiles—slow and unapologetic. "You enjoyed it."

"No," I growl. "I'm still recovering."

"Good," she purrs. I cross the remaining space between us. Her back bumps gently into the edge of my desk. "I should give you a week's worth of detentions."

"Do it," she breathes. I lean in. She doesn't move.

"Do you have any idea what you've done to me these past few weeks?"

"Driven you mad?"

"More than mad."

"Unhinged?" I cage her in with my hands on either side of the desk. She's smirking, but her breathing's shifted—faster, higher. "Obsessed," I murmur. "You've made me obsessed." She lets out a breath, and her grin fades just enough to reveal something more dangerous underneath. Real want.

"So what now?" she whispers. "Now," I say, tracing the edge of her jaw with one finger, "you serve your detention."

"And what does that involve, Professor Malfoy?" I lean in until my mouth is beside her ear.

"Submission."

She exhales shakily, just once. And I have her.

The last bit of space between us disappears. I kiss her like it's overdue—because it is. She arches into me immediately, fingers gripping the front of my robes, pulling me in hard. Her mouth is fire and demand and revenge. It's perfect.

I lift her onto the desk in one motion. Papers scatter. She wraps her legs around me like she's done it a hundred times in her mind.

The room flickers darker as candles flick out one by one—whether it's magic or instinct, I don't know. All I know is the way she moans into my mouth, the press of her hips, the heat building fast and reckless.

This is punishment. This is surrender.

And neither of us is walking out of this classroom the same.

She tastes like trouble and triumph. Like fire and the aftermath of a storm.

I drag her to the edge of the desk by her hips. The heel of her boot catches on my thigh and I don't care. I want the marks.

Her shirt's half unbuttoned already—sloppy, lazy, tempting. I finish the job with one hand, not bothering to be gentle. The buttons scatter to the floor like they've been waiting to fall.

She gasps when I push the fabric off her shoulders, when I bite just below her collarbone. "You really came to detention like this?" I mutter against her skin. "What—fully clothed?" she breathes, hips grinding forward.

"Barely." I shove her bra down, just enough. "You knew what you were doing."

"I always know what I'm doing," she says, right before I pull one of her nipples into my mouth. She shudders, curses, grabs at my hair.

The desk creaks as she leans back on her elbows, letting me feast on her, one breast, then the other. Her legs stay wrapped around me, anchoring me there like a challenge.

I slip a hand down the front of her trousers. She's soaked. It makes me curse low under my breath.

"You're enjoying detention, Professor Hale."

She doesn't answer with words. Just lets her head fall back, lips parted, breath stuttering when my fingers slip past her knickers and into heat. "You planned all of this," I hiss against the flesh of her tits, curling two fingers just right. "The show. The flirting. The friends. You knew exactly what you were doing."

She arches. "I told you," she moans, "I always know."

I'm losing patience. My trousers are undone in seconds. She helps. She's not shy. She never is.

I pull her trousers down. Her boots stay on. Her knickers too, pushed to the side—messy, rushed, necessary.

When I slide into her, she bites her bottom lip so hard I think she might draw blood. I grab her hips, hold her still, bury myself completely. "Oh—fuck—" she gasps, eyes wide now. "Draco—"

"That's more like it," I growl.

And then we're moving—reckless, hard, bodies slamming against the wood of the cupboard, paper falling to the floor, her name slipping out of my mouth like a curse. She's all heat and tension and claw marks on my shoulders.

Her legs tighten around my waist as I thrust into her again and again, rhythm brutal, deep.

The cupboard is shaking. Her breathing's a mess. She clings to me like she's going to break apart if I stop. "You want to make me lose control?" I snarl against her throat. "You have." She pulls my face back to hers and kisses me like punishment.

I feel her start to shake around me. Squeeze around me. Her hands grip the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

"Come for me," I whisper.

She does. Violently. Her whole body arches, her thighs lock around me, her mouth drops open in a silent cry.

I'm gone seconds later—buried in her, teeth clenched, every nerve on fire.

When I finally open my eyes, her shirt's twisted, her lipstick's smudged halfway down her jaw, and her smile is slow and smug and devastating.

"Well," she says, breathless. "This is definitely against school policy"

I pull her closer again.

Because we're definitely not finished.