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Our Sweet Decline

Summary:

In the wake of the War, Hermione Granger struggles to keep herself together, memories of the things she's lived through and the reality of who she has become like a snapping hound at her heels.

In the wake of the War, Draco Malfoy was freed from his shackles - from his fear. His wounds are still raw, still painful, but he takes pride in them, in the person he now dares to be.

In the wake of the War, Hermione Granger hates herself. And Draco Malfoy hates her for it.

Notes:

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the related characters. The Harry Potter series is created by JK Rowling and owned by Warner Bros. This fanfiction is intended for entertainment only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of the original Harry Potter story belong to Warner Bros.

Chapter 1

Notes:

Hello!! I hope you enjoy this first chapter! This was meant to be a one shot but it started getting out of hand so I'm just rolling with it lol. Special thanks to my dear friend Raquel for beta-reading this for me! xx

[19/01/2025: chapters 1-21 are now edited! cover made by the lovely talitasami on insta! :)]

Chapter Text

It’s all fucking bullshit. Are they truly expecting everything to just go back to normal, as if the past year hadn’t happened? As if Draco hadn’t had to shred his soul to fucking pieces over the course of months, hadn’t had to go through with acts that made him want to rip off his skin. As if he hadn’t been forced to live through that year, when all he wanted to do was disappear.

He’s so tired of all of it. Of the classes, the professors, the lower years staring at him. Of having to play nice with every-fucking-one, lest they alert the Ministry that he’s not cooperating appropriately.

And whose idea was it, really, to force them all back to Hogwarts again? As if the few of them that have survived aren’t all shadows of their previous selves.

Theo barely speaks anymore, and Draco is pretty sure he isn’t sleeping, either. Pansy is a fucking mess, and has stopped caring about most things. She cries, too—Draco has caught her several times late at night in the Slytherin Common Room, chest heaving with ugly sobs. He hadn’t done anything to comfort her.

The Gryffindors aren’t doing much better. Potter is a walking, traumatized version of himself, snapping at everyone who dares speak to him, flinching whenever someone gets too close to touch. Weasley is going through bottles of Firewhiskey as if they hold the answers to all his problems, if him showing up to more than one of their shared classes drunk off his arse is anything to go by. Longbottom and Lovegood, Draco thinks, are the only ones that seem to be holding it together. But maybe finding comfort in each other’s bodies all over the school grounds isn’t exactly holding it together, either.

And then there’s her. Granger. The Golden Girl.

It’s been four months since the Ministry told them all that they could come back to Hogwarts for an Eighth year. Well, they didn’t exactly tell Draco as much as demanded he go back, just so they could keep an eye on him. But the others, Potter’s fan club, they’re here out of their own free fucking wills, and where he can’t understand why Longbottom or Weasley or Potter decided to come back, he can perfectly guess why Granger did.

It’s because—and this Draco knows as well as he knows the color of the blood running in his veins—Granger is dead set on acting like nothing’s happened. She’s trying so hard to just go back to who she was before all the shit show, back to being the intelligent, studious girl she used to be. Always the first to class, always the first to answer questions, always the one with the best grades.

But here’s the deal—she can’t. And Draco knows it’s killing her inside. A part of him gets off on it, on knowing that try as she might, Hermione Granger is as traumatised as the rest of them.

At the beginning, Draco had been surprised by it. When he’d first set foot back in Hogwarts, he’d been expecting something of the sort from Potter. Draco had been convinced he would’ve had to spend the next few months confronted by a smiling, laughing Potter, basking in Voldemort’s defeat, urging the others to forget about it all and start living their lives again. He had been prepared to want to strangle Potter every moment, for them to snap at each other, teeth bared, as they had done in the past. But no—Potter looks as fucked up as Draco feels, and he’s not trying to hide it. Draco’s grown to respect that, and now, when they cross eyes in the halls, he gets that nagging feeling that Potter is the only one who would understand, could understand. In the end, it had been Draco’s wand in Potter’s hand when Voldemort had died.

But it’s Granger, and not Potter, that’s putting on a front, and Draco loathes it. He loathes it because Granger doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve to act all so put together, as if she’d already gotten over all the traumatising shit they went through. She doesn’t deserve to throw it all under the rug, not with everything that happened, not when it had meant so much, not when they’d had to sacrifice their younger selves to a fight they should’ve never had to deal with in the first place. Not when she bares that scar on her arm.

The good thing is that Draco knows that it’s all a lie. He knows that Granger is just acting, just holding on to the idea that maybe, if she tries hard enough to act as if everything is manageable and alright and fine, then maybe she’ll feel like that as well. And it’s this that is surprising to Draco, because Granger’s not stupid, not at all. He’s sure, down to the marrow of his bones, that Granger knows that this isn’t how things work, that trauma doesn’t simply disappear if you ignore it long enough, that faking doesn’t mend anything, certainly not the things they went through. Just like him, Granger’s been through hell. Her hands are as red and bloody as his, yet she refuses to see it. She’s chosen to act her way through life, and out of all the coping mechanisms she could’ve picked, Draco hates that she’s picked this one.

Worst of all, he hates that sometimes he believes it.

On those days, when he sees her walking down the halls, a small smile on her face, talking with some of the younger Gryffindor girls and fucking laughing, he has to clench his fists and stop himself from going over her and just yelling at her to stop. When he spots her in the Library, books sprawled on the desk in front of her, hair tucked up into a messy knot and that concentrated look on her face that tells him she’s completely absorbed in what she’s reading; Draco gets overwhelmed by a sense of injustice so sharp that his body seizes up, breath catching in his throat.

She almost looks happy, sometimes, and Draco despises it. He doesn’t want to see her happy, and he doesn’t care what that says about him.

Which is why, whenever Granger has a bad day, Draco revels in it. It’s how he knows it’s all an act, and she isn’t as well as she wants them all to believe. It’s how he knows she’s desperately trying to keep some semblance of control over her life, and miserably failing whenever she loses her grip on her emotions.

When he sees her in the halls, hair a mess, uniform and robes dishevelled, dirty and looking unkept, he wants to fucking grin. When he sees her in the Great Hall early in the morning, pushing her food around her plate, dead eyes staring at the empty air in front of her, he’s sickly satisfied by it. It makes him grin, pushes him to walk right in front of her, her gaze flicking up to his, catching on the Cheshire cat grin that takes up his whole face. It makes that emptiness in her eyes a little deeper, but there’s a part of her that’s still stubborn, that apparently still refuses to bend, that makes her stare Draco right in the eyes and fucking smile, smile like she would to an old friend, smile in a way that makes him almost, almost mad. The only reason why he doesn’t is because Draco sees the way her hands clench in her skirts, how the skin around her eyes tightens imperceptibly. How as soon as he heads to his usual place at the Slytherin table, she packs up her stuff and scurries out of the Hall.

Draco doesn’t get mad, because he knows that Granger is aware that he can see right through her act. And he thinks that scares her.

Howgwart’s Golden Girl is not so golden anymore, and Draco’s glad for it.


As the months pass, it turns into a game. How often Draco can catch her off guard, how deeply he can peer into that darkness that he is each day more convinced Granger is hiding behind those deep brown eyes.

He starts thinking about it more and more. Whether she lies awake at night, staring at those red velvet curtains around her bed, wondering why me why us why why why. Do her memories haunt her dreams when she manages to fall asleep? Does that day at Malfoy Manor replay on loop, Bellatrix’s Crucio burning hot and heavy in her veins, seizing up her muscles?

Sometimes Draco dreams of it, of how she looked on that dirty wooden floor, back arched in pain, that high-pitched scream coming out of her mouth for infinite moments.

He wonders how things are going between her and Potter and the Weasel. Draco sees her with Potter sometimes, talking quietly in the Great Hall. She’s one of the few people Potter bothers to interact with anymore. Draco’s also caught her playing chess with Weasley a couple of times, in those rare moments when he’s not drunk off his arse. Are they still friends like they used to be? Draco doesn’t think so. Salazar only knows things between him and Theo haven’t been good or easy, so why should it be any different for them? Does it pull at her soft little heartstrings to see her friends so messed up? Does it make her guilt curdle in her stomach?

The thing that pisses him off the most is that Granger, who had always been the one ready to sacrifice herself, to defend, to rage and be brave, is being a fucking coward. And Draco has grown to loathe cowardice.

For too long he’d been a victim of cowardice, been nothing but a frightened little boy doing what he was told, always too scared to do what he wanted. But Draco isn’t like that anymore—not since he chose, in the middle of a bloody battlefield, to throw all he’d been taught to believe in away in exchange for one last chance at life. He’d realised only in the aftermath of the War how good it could feel to not be a coward, how even if it all came crashing down around him, he could at least know that he’d made his own choice. That he’d been his own person.

It had tasted so sweet—not having to lie to himself to justify his actions. It had felt so good, in fact, that Draco had made a vow to himself: to never be so weak-hearted again. To never accept cowardice again. His Father had been a coward, his Mother as well, every single fucking Death Eater that wasn’t sick in the mind had been one. For too long he’d been part of it, surrounded by it, and he had grown sick of it.

Draco rejects cowardice, now. He’s accepted that he hates it, has hated it ever since he was a kid, though he hadn’t had the strength to admit it, then. The hatred had always been there. It had been the reason why, when they were kids, he’d disliked Potter and Weasley and the rest of their group so much—because they had courage, and Draco didn’t. He’d been envious of them, and hadn’t truly understood why. That same hatred is the reason why now Draco almost respects Potter, because Potter’s not hiding the fact that he’s not well. He and Potter, at last, have something truly in common. Because Draco, too, isn’t trying to hide how messed up he is. He refuses to be ashamed of it, or of who he now is and how he acts.

But Granger has chosen to be a coward.

And since Granger’s cowardice is the most loathsome of all, Draco has decided that he’s going to pull her act apart and get her to admit, to him and to everyone else, that she’s no better than them. That’s she’s as fucked up as they all are. That the War hasn’t been clement to her out of some karmic blessing. No, because if Draco and Potter and Theo and even goddamn Longbottom are fucked up, Granger doesn’t get to act as if she isn’t, too.

Distantly, a part of Draco is aware that he’s probably taking something out on her, focusing on her as a way to avoid focusing on his own problems. He’s self-aware enough to admit as much. The problem is, he doesn’t care enough to stop, or to try and understand the why of it all. Granger probably has her own reason for acting as she does, for choosing to hide all that trauma deep within herself, but Draco doesn’t care for them. In the end, he’s not doing it out of a twisted sense of duty, or out of guilt for the things that he indirectly put her through. He doesn’t care about Granger enough for it to be something like that.

No, the reason is much simpler. Granger’s threading a thin line, wobbling on unsteady feet, each day getting closer and closer to losing her balance and completely falling apart. And Draco wants to see it happen. He craves it like nothing before. He aches to see sweet little Granger break down, wants to see her messy and crying, screaming and angry. He wants to see her raw, wants to watch the damage and anguish she’s trying to hide stream down her face in ugly tears.

Draco wants to be the one to push her over that edge, watch her shatter into pieces, and leave her to pick up the remains of herself.


It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and they’ve just finished a Potions class, the Slytherin and Ravenclaw Eighth Years crammed together with the students from the year below, since there’s too few of them left to justify a class with only them. Draco had been distracted the entirety of the time Professor Terries had droned on about potions Draco had learnt in his free time during his Fifth Year.

The cause of distraction had been, of course, Granger. And that today, Granger’s apparently having a bad day.

They had just started class, the last Seventh Years having settled into their seats not a minute earlier, when the door had banged open, and Granger herself had stumbled in, hair wild around her head, tie crooked and loose over her messily buttoned up blouse. Her bag had slipped from her shoulder to her elbow, hanging loosely and half-open, and the rush she’d been in when she’d entered had caused her to drop the notebook she’d been holding in her hand, loose pages scattering all over the floor.

She’d immediately dropped down to her knees, crawling on the floor to gather them all up, muttering curses under her breath. The vision of Granger like that, messy and agitated and on all fours on the floor, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of skin right above her skirt, had caused something to perk up within Draco, as if a beast within him had cracked open an eye.

Then she’d lifted her eyes from the floor, arm still extended and reaching for a stray paper, and noticed all the eyes trained on her. Realisation must’ve quickly drawn on her that the students she’d stumbled in front of were not, in fact, Gryffindors, nor Hufflepuffs, because she’d frozen and her eyes had widened, mouth forming a small o of surprise. Her gaze had bounced around over the faces of the other students until it had landed on Draco. He’d been staring at her from over his shoulder, tapping his quill quietly on the side of the table, and when Granger’s wide eyes had locked on his, he’d let a smirk lift the corner of his mouth, letting his gaze trail over Granger’s messy appearance. The sound of paper crinkling had been the only sound in the otherwise silent room, Granger’s fingers creasing the paper she’d been reaching for. At the sound, Draco’s eyes had snapped first to her hand and the balled-up piece of parchment, and then to her eyes again, where he’d found her gaze narrowed on him, a flicker of anger in them. He’d allowed his smile to grow, and had watched in delight as Granger’s jaw tightened, letting it turn into a vicious grin when she’d rushed to pick up what was left of hers on the floor and pull herself up, leaving the classroom in a rush without even bothering to close the door behind her.

Professor Terries had cleared his throat and gone back to whatever it was he was explaining, and no one had said anything about what had just transpired. But Draco hadn’t stopped thinking about it, about that whisper of anger in Granger’s eyes, anger at him, at his mocking smile. He hadn’t stopped thinking about how she’d looked on the floor, legs tight together, arms reaching out, wondering how high up her arse her skirt must’ve ridden in that position. Draco hadn’t been able to stop himself from wondering how she’d look if her knees were to be pushed further apart, how deep her back could arch were he to press his hand down in the middle of her shoulder blades.

Hence Draco’s distraction for the rest of class.

As he leaves the classroom and strolls down the corridor towards the stairs that will bring him to the Great Hall, Draco realises that he must take advantage of the fact that Granger’s not having a good day.

The thought sends a shiver down his spine. Excitement and anticipation rise like twin waves in his blood, making it pump faster. Draco can feel his focus sharpening, his thoughts clearing, until all that runs through his mind are ways to push Granger until she breaks, to find the cracks in her and tear them open.

Draco’s going to have his fun, today, and Granger’s going to be his entertainment.


Hermione’s been on a downward spiral ever since Harry killed Voldemort, but the stubborn, unrelenting side of her that she’d used as a shield all these years to protect her most vulnerable part refuses to accept it; ergo, Eighth year so far has been—well, a mess.

Hermione doesn’t want to sleep, but she takes a sleeping potion religiously every night. She’s never hungry, yet forces herself to eat until her stomach cramps and she has to do her best to keep the food down. She doesn’t want to chat with Harry, or play chess with Ron, or gossip with Luna, but she does all those things anyway, as often as possible. She’s grown to dread studying or opening a book, her Gryffindor tie feels like a noose around her neck, and nothing holds her interest anymore.

She’s started to lose time, too. Moments where she realises she can’t remember what she’d been doing, what someone had recently told her. Sometimes it feels like she’s sleepwalking, disconnected from all that goes on around her, memories playing vicious loops around her mind until something jostles her back into the present, into this reality she doesn’t recognise anymore.

She doesn’t recognise Harry. He’s a shattered, tattered version of who he used to be. Whenever they talk, they never talk about important things. It’s always superficial conversation, like how classes are going, how their projects are coming along. They never talk about how they’re respectively doing, about the scars the past year has left on them both. Hermione doesn’t know if it’s for his benefit or for hers. Harry has stopped trying, this she knows, and whenever she thinks too long about it, an ache grows in her chest and it becomes hard to swallow, and although she wants to help him, she feels like she no longer knows how to be the friend he needs.

She doesn’t recognise Ron, either. He’s not doing any better than them. He’s taken to drinking, always chasing the next bottle. Hermione used to scold him for it, to fight for him to stop. She’d seen the look on Molly’s face when she’d found Hermione helping Ron while he vomited in the toilet yet again before they left for Hogwarts. A part of her had wanted to protect Ron from the disappointment in Molly’s eyes. But Ron hadn’t cared—he’d laughed at them both, telling them to fuck off and leave him be, and another part of her had died that day. Now, whenever she manages to convince him to play a game of chess, or to have some tea together in the Gryffindor common room, it feels like a bittersweet win.

Hermione feels lonely like never before, and she’s realized that she’s scared of it. She’s scared of it all, of this aftermath that hovers over them like a dark cloud. It shouldn’t be like this. They’d won, they’d fought until the end and they had won. Death Eaters had been locked in Azkaban, those few who had made it out of the final confrontation. The others had been left to rot where they’d died, or so she hoped. The majority of her friends had survived. They should be happy, should be filled with relief, with hopes for their futures, what they can rebuild. But Hermione feels no hope, no relief whatsoever, and it scares her.

A sick part of her wants to laugh. She almost finds it funny, the fact that she’s so scared now. She used to be brave, used to carry courage around her like an armour. Her mind and her fearless heart had been what she could always rely on, what would carry her through anything life might throw at her. She’d been proud of them, proud of herself.

Now Hermione can’t look at herself in the mirror. And she hates it. She hates it like she has never hated anything before—more than she’d hated Voldermort, or Bellatrix, or the Gods above that had cursed them all and decided that they, her and Harry and Ron, who had just been children, had to be the ones to deal with the Dark Lord.

But the thing she hates the most, the thing that turns her blood hot and makes her want to scream until her voice is hoarse, is that she’s scared of something she can’t change. Hermione has turned into someone who’s afraid of the past, of things that are good and done, things not even a Time Turner could fix.

Or better, she isn’t scared of the past per se—she’s scared of the effect that the past can have on the present. She’s scared because Harry’s past is making him walk around like a corpse, and Ron’s is turning him into an alcoholic.

She’s scared because she doesn’t know what it all means for her, what her past is going to turn her into. What it’s already turning her into. A weak, disconnected, fearful version of herself.

Hermione isn’t capable of dealing with it. She refuses to deal with it, refuses to lend the past so much power over her, over who she is.

So she fakes, and she acts—as if maybe by trying hard enough to be who she wants to be, to be once more the person she used to be, the person she’s becoming will fade into the shadows for good. And if the cost of her miserable attempt at a life is that she can’t look at herself in the mirror, if it’s that lingering taste of disgust at the back of her throat—she’s willing to pay it.


Some days it’s easier to put on her mask and act like people expect her to—answer all the questions in class, laugh with Luna and Parvati, get ahead on her work. Some days it’s harder, and sometimes Hermione feels like a failure.

On those days, Hermione swears Malfoy’s eyes track her every move.

It began by late September.

Malfoy’s actions in that Final Battle had shocked everyone, Hermione most of all, and although she recognises that they all now owed Malfoy something, it seems like no one truly wanted to acknowledge it. She definitely did not want to acknowledge it, or even think about it, but it seems that with that single act, that single choice to fight against Voldemort in the end, something had clicked within Malfoy, and he’d become king of himself.

He walks around Hogwarts with his head held high, though he looks as bad as the rest of them. His pale hair is longer, and he’s lost the hunch to his shoulders that had weighed him down in the past. Malfoy seems taller now, broader, as if suddenly he’d started occupying more space. Sometimes, Hermione watches him stride down the Great Hall towards the Slytherin table with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the Dark Mark on full display, stark against his pale skin.

Malfoy looks proud, now. Proud of being free, proud of the ugly scars that slash across his Dark Mark. Proud of who he is and unafraid to keep who he’d been hidden away. Proud in that way that only people who have nothing left to lose can be.

It makes Hermione want to rage.

Especially because it all feels like a taunt.

It feels like Malfoy’s taunting her, telling her look, this is who I’ve become, and laughing at her pitiful attempts to keep some miserable semblance of control over who she now is. It feels like a taunt every time their gazes lock in the corridors, whenever she sees him in the Library picking up a book she doesn’t recognise, every time he gives her that ridiculous, infuriating smile. Malfoy has that gleam in his eyes of someone who knows your deepest secrets, and Hermione is terribly, horribly afraid that he’s already uncovered all of hers.

As autumn creeps over Hogwarts, she’s started to become jittery, stressed. On the bad days, she finds herself looking over her shoulder, her gaze searching for a flash of pale hair, her heart beating faster every time her eyes fall on a green and silver tie. It feels like he’s always there, lurking behind the next corner, the sole constant spectator to her every failure, to her every stumble. It makes Hermione overanalyze her every move, forces her to imagine what she must look like from his perspective, if he sees her as the mess she tries so hard to hide.

The worst of it all, is that Malfoy never, ever, says anything to her. Not once, since they’ve been back at Hogwarts, has she heard his voice utter a snide comment in her direction. No, his eyes tell her everything he doesn’t have to say—that he’s judged her and found her lacking.

Sometimes, Hermione swears she sees a well of disgust in Malfoy’s grey eyes when they catch on hers, deep enough to rival Bellatrix’s.

But sometimes—sometimes she swears it’s something else.


Hermione wakes knowing she’s going to have a really bad day.

She hadn’t had enough for a full dose of her sleeping potion the night before, so she’d had a restless sleep, filled with haunting dreams that had left her with an unsettling sense of unease. Hermione snaps at Ron when she finds him sprawled on the rug in the Common Room, sleeping in a shirt covered in his own vomit, then leaves him there, rushing to the Great Hall in a frantic, bitter craze. She does her best to shovel some oats down for breakfast, conscious of the ticking clock and that she’s going to be late to class again, but stops at the third spoonful, her stomach protesting her attempts to fill it.

Still, no matter that she takes the steps two at a time, she reaches the Potions classroom with no time to spare and falls, like a fool, in her rush to get to her seat. Her notebooks slip out of her hands, stray papers flying everywhere as her knees hit the ground with a thud. Hermione tries to catch her breath, her cheeks hot in embarrassment—and it’s then that the silence registers, and makes her freeze.

It’s never quiet in a Gryffindor classroom, she knows this from many years of experience, which can only mean one thing. Hermione swallows, and raises her eyes—and all she sees is black and green and blue; Slytherin and Ravenclaw robes; unamused, cruel faces; and Malfoy’s eyes on her, watching her over his shoulder as if she isn’t worth more than that.

Frustration makes her embarrassment swell and it takes all of Hermione’s hard-earned self-control to not reach for her wand and hex him right there, in front of everyone. But her iron control almost slips away when Malfoy smiles—no, grins—like the cocky, utter bastard that he is, and Hermione truly considers casting a Bombarda at him. But instead, she grabs her things and flees the room, teeth grinding so hard her jaw cramps.

How could she have been so stupid as to get her classes mixed up? It’s Wednesday, she has Arithmancy, not Potions, for Merlin’s sake. And obviously, it had to be his class she’d walk into, of course, with Malfoy right there, with a front-row seat to her making a fool out of herself, again.

Irritation burns hot in her veins, making her flush, and she sweeps down the hall and towards the Library, heading straight for her favourite corner—towards the old oak table with scratches on its surface and slightly uncomfortable chairs. Hermione flings her bag onto it, careless of the noise she makes as she sits down and groans, letting her head fall into the cradle of her arms.

A distant part of her recognises that it all isn’t as big of a deal as it feels. She isn’t the first nor the last student to get their classes mixed up. What’s getting at her is, obviously, that Malfoy saw—saw her lose her grip on her notebook as she’s losing it on her life, likely noticed her messy and dirty uniform that she’s just been too lazy to charm clean; and dammit, he probably somehow also knows that she hadn’t slept the night before.

It has taken Malfoy one single look to make her feel completely naked and exposed, her armour vanishing as if it was made of the thinnest smoke. He makes her feel unbalanced in ways that make her wish she could crawl out of her own skin, and Hermione doesn’t know how to deal with it.

Hermione buries her hands in her curls and pulls until the stinging pain in her scalp makes her forget the last few minutes of her life. She gives herself a moment, closing her eyes, and lets her mind go quiet. When she opens them again, she smoothes her hair and pulls it back into a knot, using her wand to keep the curls in place.

Then she pulls out her notebook and a couple of her books from her bag, and gets to work.


Draco finds her in the Library.

They should be having lunch, but when he’d stepped foot into the Great Hall and hadn’t seen her at the Gryffindor table, he’d immediately turned around and headed for the place where he was sure he’d find her.

Granger sits in one of the quietest corners of the Library, surrounded by shelves which Draco knows are filled with old Herbology books. It’s not his favourite corner of the Library—he prefers the small circular tables by the History of Magic section—but he has to admit that this corner is, in truth, quite nice. There’s a tall window on the far wall between the shelves, coloured glass in the figure of a tree reflecting green and dark red shards of light on the ground and the table. One of those rays of green light is bright against the pale cream of Granger’s fingers as she traces along a page, reading under her breath; and a part of him perks up at the sight of her skin bathed in green.

Her hair’s up in a knot, her wand poking out from it. Stupid, to keep it there, he thinks. One could so easily take it from her. Draco almost wants to laugh.

Before Granger has time to fully notice him heading towards her, he sneaks into the little alcove behind her and plucks her wand from her hair. It tumbles down her shoulders in a dark wave; curls twist and coil, and Draco grins.

Granger let out a startled gasp, her hand reaching for her hair, but before she can turn around Draco leans over the back of her chair, crowding her. He grabs her hand and pins it back down to the table, then slips his arm around her and pushes the tip of Granger’s wand into the soft skin beneath her jaw. It forces her head back until it’s against his stomach, his tie tickling her curls. Granger grips Draco’s wrist viciously, fingernails digging into the thin skin there so hard Draco knows they’ll leave a mark.

Draco chuckles. He tightens his grip on her hand, so small in his hold, so delicate he wonders how much pressure it would take for her bones to snap. Grager’s skin is cold, colder even than his, though the Library is charmed so that the heat is almost stifling.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Granger hisses through gritted teeth. Her voice cuts through the quiet, sharp as ice.

Draco leans down, crowding her even more, pushing his weight onto the back of her chair until he’s close enough to whisper in her ear, “Leaving your wand so exposed, Granger?” He tsks, shaking his head, “How disappointing.”

He pushes the tip of her wand harder against her throat, until it drags a hiss from her, her head inching back until her whole throat is bared, tendons straining softly. Draco tips her chin upwards until he can see Granger’s face, just to take in the murderous expression in her eyes. It makes them look pretty, he thinks. Alive. Draco likes them more like this, filled with rage, than filled with that emptiness he sometimes see in them. A blush tints Granger’s cheeks, and her lips are white, pressed into a thin, angry line. The point where her wand is digging into her skin is pulled tight, and Draco stares as she swallows. He gets the sudden urge to wrap his hand around her neck, to squeeze until he can feel every single bone underneath, until he has her clawing at his hands and gasping for air.

Draco pushes the wand forwards harder still, and watches as Granger’s pupils blow wide, as the corners of her eyes tighten and a sneer takes over her face. It makes her look ugly, makes her look like a wild beast.

For several moments, neither of them talks nor backs down, staring at each other. The hatred in Granger’s stare is almost tangible, and Draco can imagine the thousands of names she must be calling him in her mind, but he knows she’s too stubborn to move away, to give him an inch.

Without a sound, Draco backs away. He extracts his hand from Granger’s grip but doesn’t let go of her wand. He lets go of Granger and walks around the table, sitting down in front of her. He doesn’t look at Granger. Instead, he studies her wand with a lazy sort of interest, twirling it around his fingers.

Draco’s never actually had the chance to look at Granger’s wand so closely, to study this wand from which so many clever spells have been cast—spells which played pivotal roles in the War, tipping the balance to the good side. Spells which hurt people, spells which saved them. A wand that will go down in history, right alongside his.

It’s almost unimpressive. A light brown wood, ivy curls around the stem in precise swirls. Feminine, yet not overwhelmingly so. Granger is quiet on the other side of the table, but Draco feels her eyes on him, feels the tension in the air as he waits for her to make a move. He doesn’t raise his gaze to hers, nor does he break the silence—just studies her wand like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever laid eyes on, until suddenly, it’s ripped out of his hands.

Draco smirks, slowly looking up at Granger, who holds her wand in a white-knuckled grip. His smirk turns into a smile. Granger looks like she’s about to hex him, and Draco wants her to do it—wants a reason to get angry at her, to retaliate, to unleash some of the dangerous energy running rampant beneath his skin.

But today is not that day, it seems. Granger loosens her grip and sets her wand on the table, resting her hand lightly over it. She straightens, pushing her shoulders back, and her whole face smoothes out, the mask of the restrained, diplomatic witch once again falling in place. The look of anger in her eyes vanishes, replaced by bland annoyance, as if it all is but an inconvenience to her.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” The tone of her voice makes him grit his teeth, how flat it is, how emotionless.

Draco stares, searching for any signs of the anger that was just there, but her face remains impassive, her body relaxed in her chair. It pisses him off to no end that she’s not giving him a fight, because they both know that she’s acting, that the leash she has on her emotions is pulling taunt.

It makes Draco sick to his stomach, watching her stifle her emotions like this. He wonders if she’s afraid of what she might do were she to lose her grip on her self-control, and he thinks again of what a coward she is.

Draco looks down at his wrist. Though the pain hadn’t registered, her nails had dug hard enough into his skin that she’d left red, crescent-shaped marks behind, blood pooling at the corners of some of them.

Pity, he thinks. All that fury, and she won’t let it out.

Draco lays his hands flat on the table and leans back in his chair. He taps his fingertips on the table, the soft thuds of his rings echoing in the quiet alcove.

He looks back at Granger, whose face is still flat, as if drained of all emotions, and scoffs before repeating, “How disappointing, indeed.”

He stands. Granger’s expression doesn’t change, but Draco swears he sees her fingers twitch over her wand, then still again.

Granger doesn’t say anything, so Draco doesn’t deign her with another look before leaving.

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It’s been two days, yet Hermione cannot stop thinking about what happened in the Library.

She can’t wrap her head around it. What the hell was Malfoy thinking? Up until two days ago, their interactions had amounted only to stares and glares. They hadn’t talked, or done anything more to acknowledge one another, really, and then he goes and pulls….whatever that was? Hermione can’t understand why, and something about it doesn’t settle right with her.

For a moment, when he’d had her at his mercy in that chair, wand set underneath her chin, she’d truly thought he was going to hurt her. Not kill, no, she doesn’t think Malfoy has the balls for that; but hurt, yes. He’d been towering over her, and she had never felt quite so cornered before, regardless that she had lived through much more dangerous situations. All she’d been able to do had been dig her nails in his skin, yet it had amounted to nothing. Her body had frozen, her muscles seizing up and refusing to cooperate, even when she’d been filled with such rage that it had made her head spin.

How dare he sneak up on her like that. She hadn’t even noticed him, when for so long she’d had to be constantly aware of her surroundings, of people sneaking up on her with the intention to hurt. She’d been completely taken by surprise, and then he’d taken her wand—how stupid she’d been to leave it in her hair, something she only did in the comfort of her room—and her vision had gone red. Part of it was frustration, part of it embarrassment.

When he’d pushed her wand harder in her neck, taunting her with the first words he’d directed at her since the start of the year, she’d wanted to bare her teeth at him like an animal. Then he’d moved away, so composed, so in control of every small movement of his body as he sat down in front of her and examined her wand—she’d wanted to snatch her wand back and hex him seven ways to Sunday.

It had taken her a second to realize that that was likely exactly what he wanted from her, and Merlin could strike her down before she gave him what he wanted. So Hermione had collected all the last dredges of her self-control and wiped the emotions clean from her face, channelling that version of her who wouldn’t let Malfoy’s words or actions bother her.

It had been harder than she’d liked. And the look he’d levelled her with then, a look of pure disgust, had almost made her blood curdle in her veins, her lungs seizing up as if he’d punched her right in the gut.

He could fuck right off.

Yet, it’s now been two days and his parting words still loiter around her mind like unwanted guests.

How disappointing, indeed.

They’d echoed in her ear before going to bed that night, while getting herself ready for class the next morning, and while working on her Astronomy project yesterday evening. Every time she gets distracted, or her mind slips away to those memories she’s trying so hard to escape from, she hears Malfoy’s smooth voice in her mind, like a song she can’t get rid of. Every time she catches sight of Ron or Harry and turns the other way, he’s there, whispering that one word that’s always made her flinch.

Disappointing.

It makes something burn hot and acidic in her, and her anger twists with her fears until her emotions feel so powerful and bright within her that she doesn’t know how to deal with them, how to deal with anything anymore. It all makes her tired, down to the very marrow of her bones, in a way she’d only felt before when they’d been on the hunt for the Horcruxes and she’d almost lost all hope.

Sometimes, Hermione wishes she could turn off that part of her brain or her soul or her heart—whatever it is—that makes her feel things. She wishes she could carve all of her emotions out of her, leaving herself empty, because feeling has become too hard, too much. She’s tired of having to wrestle with her emotions for control, yet she’s too scared to give them free rein, to really let herself feel all those dark and dismaying things that have started to make themselves a home in her. She imagines that getting rid of her emotions must be easier—emptying herself until nothing can touch her anymore, until the rioting ocean of herself is but a quiet, barren land.

Sometimes, her thoughts make goosebumps rise on her skin. Yet she keeps on going back to them, their temptation too strong for her to resist.

Like a guilty pleasure, Hermione keeps these thoughts tight to herself, and only lets the others see what they expect from her. Or at least she tries.

Hermione shakes her head, locking all those thoughts back up in that corner of her mind, realizing that she hasn’t heard a word of what Ginny is telling her.

They’re hanging around in one of the cloisters, basking in the pale sun that decided to show itself today. It’s November now, and although the air is cold, the sun still warms her face. They’re sitting underneath one of the cloister archways. Ginny’s laying with her back against the stone pillar, Hermione’s on the other side, her hands beneath her thighs, staring out at the small garden in the centre of the cloister. Ginny had been talking about something silly that Hermione can’t even recall, and she’d thought of how strange it still felt to talk about inane things after everything that happened, her thoughts slipping away from her again.

It’s the silence that alerts her that she’s probably missed something, and so Hermione turns her head to look at Giiny, who’s looking at her with a frown on her face, waiting for an answer to a question Hermione hasn’t heard.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Ginny huffs, and her breath turns into a cloud in the cold air around them. “Would you like to go to Hogsmeade tomorrow?” she says, and her frown deepens, her eyes turning searching as they flit over Hermione’s face.

Right. They’d been talking about the new bookshop in Hogsmeade.

Before it all, Hermione would’ve been excited about the new opening. Now, the fact barely registers. But perhaps a change of scenery could do her well, and she figures that saying yes to Ginny might not be that bad of an idea, even though Hermione doesn’t really want to go.

“Of course,” she says anyways, giving Ginny a small smile that pulls uncomfortably at the edges of her lips, “It’ll be nice. Shall we go after breakfast?”

Ginny nods and goes back to talking about a book she hopes to find at the store, one her mother had told her about. Hermione does her best to keep her attention on Ginny, humming in all the right places and asking just enough questions to keep her talking, and she manages fairly well—at least, until, from the corner of her eye, she spots a tall form walking down the corridor at the opposite side of the cloister.

Malfoy’s wearing a black coat, a thick green scarf wrapped around his neck, his hair bright and wild. Hermione watches silently as he walks, going in and out of view as the cloister pillars hide him every three or four steps. She stares as Malfoy pushes his hands through his hair, smoothing it back. A tendril of curiosity snakes down her spine. Although he’s too far away for her to make out his expression, something about the way he pulls at the ends of his hair before letting them go makes Hermione wonder what he must be thinking.

Ginny’s voice is a blur in the background, and Malfoy, for a second, holds all of her attention. Inevitably, the hair he just pushed back falls back in his face, obscuring his profile from sight.

Hermione keeps watching, half-entranced, as he slowly comes to a stop right before turning the corner. Malfoy stills, and like a fool, she holds her breath.

As if he can feel her eyes on him, Hermione stares as his head turns to the side, eyes scoping out the cloister until they land on her. He doesn’t move, his stare heavy on her, and though she can’t really know for sure, she swears their eyes meet.

What does he see?

The thought isn’t anything new. Hermione’s wondered many times how people perceive her, yet the question burns hotter and for a second, she wishes she could see the world, and herself, from Malfoy’s eyes.

Malfoy cocks his head slightly as Hermione keeps her eyes trained on him, the move reminding her viscerally of a predator, honing in on its prey. They stay like that for a few moments, until, like all other times before, Malfoy dismisses her in a heartbeat, pulling his gaze away and disappearing down the corridor.

It isn’t until he’s out of sight that Hermione releases her breath, looking down at her black boots and letting Ginny’s voice filter back in, the moment dissipating like the heat from her breath in the cold morning air.

Ginny keeps talking until the tower clock strikes the half-hour. They grab their bags, heading back to class, and all Hermione’s left with is the sticky feeling of eyes on her.

She doesn’t have to wonder who they belong to.


The next morning, she and Ginny have a quick breakfast in the Great Hall and then head out to Hogsmeade.

Hermione’s walked the path to Hogsmeade many times by now and has experienced it in all seasons, with rain and snow, with sun and clouds, yet, each time she treads the cobbled path, she’s overcome by the emotions she felt when she’d walked it for the first time as an excited, curious twelve-year-old.

It’s quiet for a Saturday morning, only a few people milling about on the High Street. She and Ginny head straight to the Three Broomsticks to get a hot drink, and Hermione has to swallow at the onslaught of memories that overcome her upon entering. From the nervous way in which Ginny plays with the necklace around her neck—a gift from Harry—Hermione thinks she must also be reliving all the conversations they had around the different tables that fill up the main room. They don’t linger long, ordering a butterbeer each to take away and quickly heading back out on the street. Hermione wraps her cold hands around her warm cup and tries not to feel guilty.

They find the new bookstore towards the end of the High Street and opposite Honeydukes. The door frame is painted a soft pink, as is the sign at the top, with black cursive letters spelling out Bells & Books. Hermione can see a few other Hogwarts students inside, and it looks like the shop holds an eclectic mixture of books. When she pushes the door open, the smell of old parchment and ink immediately welcome her.

The store is larger than Hermione expected, rows upon rows of shelves seemingly branching out in all directions. She and Ginny separate, Ginny heading towards a large shelf marked Mystery, and Hermione heading in the opposite direction, content to just wander around.

She’s amazed by the sheer amount of books the store hides. As she looks around, she spots books of all genres, ranging from history textbooks to recipe books to romances, some thick and old and covered with dust, some shiny and new.

Amongst the shelves, she spots two girls walking up a partly hidden stairwell in a dark corner of the store, giggling close together, each one holding a heavy stack of books. Hermione heads their way, juggling her cup of butterbeer from side to side as she shrugs off her coat, then folds it over her bag, which hangs loosely off her shoulder. She’d put on an old knit dress that morning, because dressing up for a morning stroll with a friend seemed like something that she would’ve put effort into before, though the dress feels uncomfortable now, as if it belongs to someone else.

Hermione tries not to think about the dress as she walks down the narrow stairwell, holding onto the black cast iron railing. It brings her to what must be a reconditioned basement, bookshelves lined neatly around the room almost brushing against the lowered ceiling. The room is dark, illuminated only by a few oil lamps hung on the walls.

Hermione strolls through the shelves, most of which are filled with old leather-bound books, the covers all dark shades of brown and black. A spot in the corner of the room catches her eye, and she walks towards it, discovering a cold, dusty stone hearth, surrounded by piles of books which rise from the ground, reaching almost to her waist.

As she takes in all the books that surround her, a bitter emotion rises up in her chest.

Once, she would’ve spent hours browsing through the store, picking up any book that caught her attention and reading the first pages of the most interesting ones. She would’ve run her fingers over the soft pages, would’ve admired the way the leather of the covers creased at the hinge, or searched for notes people might’ve left in the margins. She would’ve probably walked home with no less than three books, excited to add them to her collection, but that desire is distant, now, echoing feebly somewhere deep inside her.

Hermione can still appreciate all those things, can still run her fingers up and down the soft spines, but it feels empty, as if she’s trying to chase a feeling she no longer knows.

Perhaps the bitterness she feels is grief for who she used to be, for how she used to experience things. Maybe she’s bitter because she no longer feels in contact with that part of her who found joy in such trivial things, who would laugh and smile and feel easily and freely.

It makes her tighten her grip around her cup, aversion crawling up her throat until she can’t stand to be in the room anymore. Hermione turns, a sense of urgency making her skin uncomfortably tight, and she’s in such a rush to get up those stairs and out of this place and all it’s making her feel that she doesn’t notice the man at the top of the stairs until she stumbles heavily into him.

Hermione’s momentum causes her cup of butterbeer to get crushed between her and the other person, the warm liquid spilling out onto her hand and the dark woollen coat the person’s wearing. The heat of the spilled drink makes her hiss and she drops the cup, her skin stinging. She steps back, recoiling—and it’s only thanks to the pale hand that reaches out and grabs a handful of her dress, right over her navel, that Hermione doesn’t fall backwards and down the stairs.

She’s jerked forward by that same hand and she stumbles again, her bag slipping from her shoulder. Hermione braces her hands on the chest of the person in front of her and huffs out a breath, an apology ready on her lips, but it vanishes when she turns her head up, her eyes clashing with ones of lightest silver.

Malfoy looks down at her, expression tight, his eyes bouncing across her features. Then they dip, falling to where his hand still grips her dress.

Malfoy. Of course, it had to be him.

Hermione’s hands clench in the soft coat Malfoy’s wearing, one side wet underneath her fingertips where she’d spilt her drink. She has to crane her neck back to glare at him properly, and it makes her realize that she’s never been this close to him before, except for when she punched him.

Their closeness makes a bolt of anxiety shoot through her.

Hermione pushes against Malfoy’s chest, attempting to step back, but he pulls her forward by her dress until they’re flush against each other.

“Get off me,” Hermione says, pushing his chest again.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings, Granger,” Malfoy replies lazily, a lock of pale hair falling forward from where it was slightly tucked behind his ear.

The move causes her eyes to snag on a small silver hoop in the arch of Malfoy’s right ear. It’s so discordant with the picture she has of him in her mind that Hermione furrows her brow, eyes flicking back and forth between his eyes and the small hoop.

No matter.

She quickly removes her hands from where they’re gripping his coat, reaching for the hand he has fisted in her dress to gently pry it off, but as she goes for it, that same hand releases her dress, sliding smoothly around her her waist. Malfoy’s fingertips brush the small of her back and up her spine before sliding beneath her hair, until his hand is clenched around the nape of her neck.

His hand is freezing against Hermione’s warm skin as he squeezes her neck tightly, until it almost hurts. Hermione releases a sharp breath, her hands clenching back into fists in the lapels of Malfoy’s coat. She pushes him again, stronger this time.

“Let me fucking go, Malfoy,” she hisses.

Malfoy’s hands on her are strange, alien and unexpected. His closeness is sending her off balance.

“What had you running out of there with that look on your face, Granger?” Malfoy drawls, staring intensely down at her.

“None of your damn business,” she snaps back, pushing against him again, tempted to reach in her bag for her wand.

Malfoy’s hand tightens, the sting of it sharp and uncomfortable, and Hermione understands the warning in it. Yet she feels a blush rising up her face, and she damns her body straight to hell.

She hasn’t been this close to someone in months, since that last time she had slept wrapped around Ginny, soon after Fred’s death, comforting her and seeking some comfort herself. Malfoy is tall and cold in front of her, as if he’d just walked in from outside, his light eyes wholly focused on her, and something about it all makes her keenly aware of how little space there is between the two of them.

The blush on her face rises, until the heat of it in her cheeks becomes almost unbearable. Malfoy’s still staring down at her, and she watches as a small furrow graces his brow before it smooths over, the corner of his eyes tightening slightly as his mouth lifts with the shadow of a smirk. He hums, fingers sliding up until they tangle in Hermione’s hair, just to pull it slightly before disappearing.

Hermione’s hands drop from where they were clenched in his coat as Malfoy takes a step back, then another. He looks down at his coat, frowning at the stain now marring it before he waves his hand. With a wordless spell, his coat is clean, and Hermione acts as if the lazy show of magic doesn’t bother her.

“Not so fast,” Malfoy says when Hermione turns to leave. He takes a step to the side, blocking her path again.

Hermione halts in frustration, then surges forward, pushing her shoulder into Malfoy’s ribs to get him to move out of the way. Malfoy lets her pass, but she only gets to take a couple of steps away from him before his voice follows behind her.

“Just admit it.”

Hermione scoffs under her breath. She doesn’t care enough to turn around, but still, she stops. It’s only them in this corner of the shop, and her voice sounds uncomfortably loud in the otherwise quiet bookshelves, “I have no idea what you’re referring to, Malfoy.”

“Out of all of us, Granger,” Malfoy drawls, “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the one to cower from it all.” His tone is smooth, almost bored, but there’s a sharpness underneath that makes Hermione’s fist clench.

What does he know? In a second, Hermione’s mind re-evaluates all of their interactions in these last few months, every time she caught him staring at her, that wild, knowing gleam in his eyes, that insufferable smirk on his lips. She wants to snap her head back around, desperately wants to see the expression on his face, to get a better measure of him, of why he’s telling her this.

“You’ve taken me by surprise, I’ll admit as much,” he continues. “I hadn’t really thought about how you’d deal with it all, honestly, but this…” The way he says this, the way it drips with condescension and disdain, makes Hermione grit her teeth. “This whatever it is you’re trying to do, it’s embarrassing, really.”

Hermione can hear the taunt in his voice now, can perfectly imagine the smile that must be gracing his face. In a heartbeat her blood catches fire, a flame igniting in her, sizzling beneath her skin. In a swift move, she whips around, crossing the distance between the two of them until she’s right in front of Malfoy again, chest to chest, glaring up at him.

“What the hell do you want from me Malfoy?” she seethes, that angry flame fueling her every word. “What do you want?”

Malfoy’s eyes are bright and there’s a hungry glint in them as he looks down at her. For a split second, she considers punching him again, like she’d done all those years ago, just to wipe that look off his face.

Hermione debates acting ignorant, but she knows doing so will lead them nowhere, and she can’t stop the words from spilling out her mouth, frustration riding her hard. “For months you’ve been doing this,” she hisses out, “and I’m sick of it. So what do you want from me?”

A frantic feeling grows along with her anger as Malfoy’s expression remains unchanged, that small, intolerable smile still tugging the corner of his mouth upwards. Hermione is aware that she’s just admitted that he’s been getting to her, that his silent glances have been settling under her skin uncomfortably; but she feels unsettled by what he said, and it feels almost like something has started to snap inside of her.

“Why have you started this now?” she whispers, voice sharp, because she doesn’t need to raise her voice for her words to reach him, not when they’re this close. “Why now, why ask me these questions, Malfoy?”

She needs to know. She’s desperate to understand why he’s decided to speak, to taunt her with words now, too, when his silences had been working just well enough on their own. Was it not enough? It had all felt so overwhelming to her—every glance, every unspoken judgment, every curl of his lip whispering his unspoken disgust. She doesn’t know if she can deal with words, too. Not when she can’t predict what he’s going to say next.

The riot of emotions that’s been growing inside her, fuelled by that growing flame, slips from her control, until suddenly she can no longer understand what it is she is feeling, just that it’s wild and confusing and too much, and that it’s all because of the man in front of her.

A whine starts to crawl up her throat. She doesn’t know what she wants to say anymore, just that she doesn’t like this, doesn’t want this, doesn’t want Malfoy’s attention on her, only wants him to look away. She doesn’t want to be seen, not by him, especially because this is exactly what it all feels like—like he’s seeing straight through her and judging her harshly for what he finds.

Her emotions slip from her iron fist, and Hermione pushes Malfoy back with all the strength she has, towards those stairs behind him. He takes a half-step back, a flash of surprise crossing his face, and before he can say anything Hermione pushes him again and again, each push angrier, more violent. She feels fraught and volatile, unable to fully process what she’s feeling.

“Why do you care, Malfoy?” she says, and her voice cracks on his name. She can feel her eyes welling up with vexed tears, but she refuses to let them fall—not now, not in front of him.

“Just leave—”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence as Malfoy’s hand snaps up in her hair again, pulling hard on the strands. Hermione gasps, then grits her teeth against the sharp pricks of pain at the base of her skull. Malfoy’s grip isn’t as gentle as before, but mean and unrelenting. Malfoy takes a step towards her, leaning down until their noses brush.

His silver eyes are angry, his lips tight and pressed together.

“I do not care, Granger,” he says, the warm timbre of his voice at odds with the iciness of his words.

Hermione feels every word as a soft breath against her lips. Malfoy tugs roughly at her hair, and she instinctively reaches for his hand, trying to pry it away.

“Do not confuse my anger with worry,” he continues, voice softening even as disgust drips off the word worry. “You’ve become insufferable, Granger, and I can’t fucking stand to look at you.”

His words cut through her like blades. The contrast that is Malfoy makes her head spin, the softness of his voice at odds with the hard line of his mouth and the anger she sees in his eyes. Hermione has never seen Malfoy angry so up close before, and it sends a shiver down her spine, her emotions quieting. She’d thought him a predator, and now she knows she’s the prey, trapped in the arms of a man whose actions she can no longer make sense of.

Hermione holds herself perfectly still as Malfoy looks her up and down, unable to tear her gaze away from him. She’s certain he can see everything she’s thinking, so Hermione gathers what remains of her scrambled control and hardens her expression, narrowing her gaze in defiance, even when her instincts scream at her to drop her eyes.

Malfoy hums deep in his throat, and that tendril of amusement sneaks back into his eyes. With the hand not holding her, he tucks a curl behind her ear, and Hermione keeps still as he inches closer.

“I’ll ask you again,” he whispers, voice decadent. His lips brush against the shell of her ear and Hermione jolts at the unexpected contact, causing the hand he has in her hair to pull tighter.

Malfoy’s lips are cold as they trace down her neck, and his voice makes her shiver again as he murmurs quietly, “What is it that you’re running from, Ganger?”

Before she can comprehend what he’s doing, his lips press down on her skin, right where her blood is thrumming through her veins. She swears she hears him hum again.

Malfoy’s lips stay pressed there for interminable seconds, the touch almost tender—the opposite of the painful grip he still has on her hair. Hermione feels disoriented, her whole concept of reality narrowing down to the closeness of their bodies, to his cold lips on her throat. Her heart kicks up a galloping rhythm and she feels her blush returning to her cheeks, the heat of it replacing that of her anger. The bookshop around them disappears, replaced by the roaring of her blood in her ears; until all Hermione’s mind registers is Malfoy.

It doesn’t feel wrong.

It should, shouldn’t it?

A whisper in her mind tells her that it’s just another one of his tricks, another way to taunt her, to unbalance her, that she should push him off her immediately. It’s enough to make her frown, because although she agrees, she can’t grasp why Malfoy would want to be so close to her. He shouldn’t want to, should he? Why should he, when he can’t stand to look at her?

Malfoy’s lips trail upwards, pressing another kiss at the hinge of her jaw. He steps closer to her, until their bodies are flush together again. Hermione doesn’t back away. Malfoy’s words are nothing more than a murmur as he says, “Tell me, Granger.”

The way he softly hums her name, a velvet caress against her skin, is enough of a shock that Hermione falters, the reality of the situation clanging through her. Anger rears back from where it had quietened inside of her and Hermione pushes Malfoy away. Malfoy huffs, his grip on her hair loosening just enough for her to tear his hand away and throw it off her.

The spot where his lips had been burns like an ice-cold brand on her skin. The audacity, she thinks; and before she can fully consider her actions, her fingers are clenched into a fist, her arm drawing back to wipe that smug smirk off his fa—

“Hermione?” Hermione’s head snaps towards Ginny’s worried voice. “Is everything alright?”

Ginny’s worried expression is enough to make Hermione hesitate, fist still half raised in the air. He doesn’t look away from her, but Hermione doesn’t want Ginny to be a spectator to what she so desperately wants to do, so she curses her mentally and drops her fist, letting it hang by her side. Hermione turns away from Malfoy, ignoring him, to give Ginny a tight smile.

“Everything’s alright,” Hermione says, with a nonchalance she doesn’t feel. “I was just coming to find you.”

Ginny’s gaze flickers behind her towards Malfoy, and the furrow in her brow deepens, creasing her pretty face. She reaches for a hand towards Hermione, grabbing her upper arm and tugging her towards her.

“We should go,” Ginny says, voice strong, twisting so she’s between Hermione and Malfoy and putting a hand on the small of her back.

Hermione nods, all her energy going into keeping her expression placid, body loose even when she’s vibrating with unreleased energy.

Ginny guides her away from Malfoy and Hermione follows, only marginally surprised when Malfoy doesn’t bid her farewell with an insult. With each step she takes away from him, some of the tension that had taken hold of her body seems to drain away. As they push out of the shop, the cold air that greets them feels like a balm over Hermione’s heated face.

Ginny lets Hermione put her coat back on before linking their arms and pulling her close. “What the hell was that, Hermione?” Ginny asks furiously as they make their way away from the bookshop. “Were you about to punch Malfoy again? What did he do? I swear—”

“It’s alright,” Hermione reassures her. She doesn’t want to talk about what she nearly did. “I just bumped into him on the way up the stairs,” she says, which isn’t a lie. “He didn’t do anything.” It isn’t strictly a lie either, but it feels like one anyway.

She hasn’t told anyone about Malfoy, obviously, and she doesn’t want to start now, especially with the way Ginny’s looking at her, all worried and curious.

“It’s nothing, really,” she reassures Ginny again, squeezing her arm where they’re linked and turning to face her, giving her a small smile. “It’s not like I can’t handle Malfoy.”

Ginny looks at her for a second, her eyes heavy with unsaid words, before she smiles and shakes her head. “I would’ve paid to see you punch him, honestly,” she says, laughing softly under her breath. “Would’ve paid to see you punch him that first time, too.”

Hermione turns away from Ginny, looking down at the old cobbled street beneath her feet. A smile tugs at her lips at the memory—Malfoy’s appalled look as he held his broken nose, how satisfying punching him had felt, how much she’d laughed about it with Harry and Ron afterwards.

“Maybe I’ll get to do it again,” she says, a sardonic smile on her lips, and Ginny laughs loudly, the sound bright and pulling at something in Hermione’s chest.

They speak no more of it, and Hermione asks Ginny about the books she’d found as they head back to Hogwarts, shoving all the emotions still churning through her deep down where she almost can’t feel them. And though Hermione feels a little bit lighter, the sound of Ginny’s laughter echoing in her ears, Malfoy’s words slither through her mind, and she has to stop herself from running her fingers over that spot on her neck.

Notes:

hi again! hope you enjoyed! thanks to everyone who left a kudos on this, it really means a lot!! thanks again to my friend Raquel for beta reading this xx

Chapter 3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When he sets foot in the Slytherin Dormitory after getting back from Hogsmeade, Draco finds Pansy screaming at a younger girl, her wand pointed in the girl’s face. Pansy wears nothing more than her white silk pyjamas, and there are tears streaming down the other girl’s face, her cheeks blotched red. Draco doesn’t much care about interrupting their quarrel as he walks over to Pansy and grabs her by the arm, dragging her down the corridor to his and Theo’s shared room as the younger girl’s hiccups vanish into silence.

There’s a tightness under Draco’s skin that makes him irritated, flaring hot inside him. He’s thankful that his room is empty as he pushes Pansy inside without a word, even as she stumbles and glares at him, sniffing angrily. Draco only spares a second to take off his coat and throw it on his bed before he grabs Pansy again and pushes her against the door, locking it. Pansy’s wand clatters to the floor as she braces herself against the door, her snappish complaint fizzling into nothing as Draco grabs her silk shorts and pushes them down, letting them fall on the floor. Pansy looks at him over her shoulder, eyebrow cocked in a bland, unamused expression, betrayed by her smirk and the soft arch of her spine as she presses back against Draco’s hands.

This isn’t their first time doing this. They’ve slept together several times since being back at Hogwarts, sometimes initiated by him, most times initiated by her. It’s a mutually satisfying transaction, or at least it is to Draco, and Pansy has never once stayed longer than it takes for her to slide her knickers back up, never really talking about it afterwards, never asking why either of them needs the release.

Draco sucks two fingers into his mouth before pulling Pansy’s panties to the side. He teases her with his fingers until she’s slick, until her cunt gives way to him and she sighs his name impatiently, widening her stance. Draco’s motions are cold, almost clinical as he unbuckles his pants and pushes Pansy’s knickers to the floor, lining himself up to her warmth. She mutters the contraceptive charm just as Draco wraps his hands around her hips and pushes inside her, stifling his groan. He sets a hard, fast pace, one he knows Pansy won’t complain about, and slides a hand over her stomach to keep her close to him. He slips his fingers down to toy with her clit, the unsoft, demanding movement she favours and he’s glad to give willingly, until she comes, sweetly squeezing his cock, and he spills deep inside of her.

Draco catches his breath against Pansy’s shoulder, just for a moment, and then he disentangles himself from her, turning away and tucking himself back into his pants. Pansy casts a cleaning charm, the shuffle of her slippers on the floor the only sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. Pansy doesn’t thank him before unlocking the door and slipping out of his room, and Draco doesn’t say anything either as the door clicks shut again a moment later. He only removes his sweater and lays down on his bed, hands beneath his head, staring up at the stone ceiling.

He stays like that for the rest of the day, his mind never slowing, that tightness under his skin only growing, until Theo comes in, murmuring about dinner.

They go together, though neither one of them eats or speaks, Pansy nowhere to be found. Half an hour later, back in his bed, Draco goes back to staring at a crack in the stone ceiling above his head, the only light in the room that of the single candle on Theo’s bedside table, flickering every few moments.

Fucking Pansy hadn’t been enough to rid him of the feel of Granger’s pulse beneath his lips.

Draco knows he’s not going to sleep again tonight. Idly, he wonders whether Granger will.


Hermione dreams that night.

Dreams of hands in her hair, their grip unforgiving. Dreams of hands up her shirt; rough, hungry, as they explore every inch of her breasts. Dreams of being pushed against bookshelves, of her legs wrapping around a slim waist, of stockings being ripped and of fullness so intense it takes her breath away.

She wakes wet and aching, legs trembling and breaths coming in short bursts. Half-awake, she slides her hand inside her knicker, fingers immediately finding herself wet and oversensitive. She thrusts two fingers inside herself, the fit tight, and her other hand slides under her nightshirt, gripping her breast, nails digging in. It doesn’t take long before she’s right back to that edge, and the pressure of the heel of her palm over her clit is enough to send her tumbling over. Her toes curl as she comes again, her orgasm tearing through her, from the small of her back to the back of her thighs and up her spine. She has to squeeze her eyes shut against it, has to stifle the moan that crawls up her throat; and when the wave recedes she feels drained, boneless. She glides her fingers out, wiping them on the sheets, and turns on her side, shoving her hands under her pillow. She clenches her thighs, muscles quivering, before falling asleep again.

She doesn’t dream of anything else that night, and she doesn’t let herself think about it the next morning.


It’s cold in the Gryffindor Common Room when Hermione heads downstairs in the morning. She doesn’t have much planned, just some reading she wants to do for Transfiguration, which sets the pace for a slow, quiet Sunday. She brews herself a cup of strong black tea and then settles on the couch in front of the hearth, textbook in her lap, and starts reading. It’s still early enough that no one is around, and Hermione basks in the stillness of the room, rarely so free of chaos. The only sounds are those of the crackling fire, the turning of weathered pages and the rare, soft trilling of a rising bird outside.

In moments like this, when the world around her is quiet, a special kind of comfort washes over her.

It reminds her of when she was a child and she would wake up early on the weekend, only to walk downstairs and find her mother on the couch with a book, or in the kitchen baking cookies, gentle music pouring out of her favourite record player. She’d walk up to her, all bleary-eyed and still half asleep, and her mother would tell her about the story she was reading, or let her taste the batter she was making, and the house would be awake just for the two of them; until her father walked down the stairs and the world around them kicked back into motion.

The quiet settles something deep within her, and everything feels like it’s blurred around the edges, like time and gravity are altered to fit around her, and not the other way around, so that nothing feels truly real, and big, and scary.

As time goes on, the dorm slowly starts waking up, the quiet replaced by the soft padding of socked feet up and down the stairs and muted conversations. The Common Room comes to life, students from all years yawning as they stretch out on the various couches around the room, almost everyone still in their pyjamas. A third year goes to the Great Hall and comes back with a floating tray full of pastries, croissants and slices of pie of all types, and when Ginny finally trudges down the stairs, Hermione sets her textbook aside and has breakfast with her, stealing a slice of lemon pie for herself.

They’re chatting about the book Ginny started reading—which you absolutely have to read, Mione, you’d love the plot so much!—when the Fat Lady’s shriek pierces the air.

“Absolutely shameful! I shouldn’t even let you in!” she says, in her usual dramatic tone. “You should be embarrassed of yourself, truly!”

Hermione turns towards the entry corridor just as the sounds of muttering and someone’s laughter reach her ears, followed by the clear sound of someone stumbling into a wall, and Harry’s, “For fuck’s sake, Ron.”

Dread builds in her stomach as she turns her head towards Ginny, who’s already looking at her with a matching expression of distress. Hermione turns back around just in time to see Harry pull Ron into the Common Room by the neck of his shirt, hair a mess and what looks dangerously like vomit on his red sweatshirt.

Harry looks furious, a tight frown pulling his eyebrows together over his glasses, a red tint to his cheeks, and Hermione’s heart stutters. It’s the most emotion she’s seen on him since they’ve been back.

“Let go of me,” Ron, who’s clearly still drunk from the day—or is it days?—before says, tugging at Harry’s hand where it’s gripping his shirt. He giggles as he sways on his feet, making the picture of him all the more…pitiful, really. His clothes are dirty, his red hair, which Hermione used to love, is now way too long and filthy, as if he hasn’t bothered to take a shower in days, and she bets that he stinks like Firewhiskey.

“You’ll fall again,” Harry says through gritted teeth, and there’s a strain in his voice, as if he’d had to say this many times already. He spares a glance to the room, which has gone completely quiet, all eyes trained on the two of them. His gaze falls on Hermione’s for a second, telling her everything she already knows, before it catches on a group of younger boys sitting on one of the couches. They’re huddled together, talking rapidly, and when one of them notices Harry’s stare his eyes go wide and he mumbles at his friends to shut up, looking everywhere but at the Chosen One and his best friend.

Harry looks back at Ron, who is still trying to pry Harry’s fingers off his shirt, before he sighs and mutters something inaudible under his breath, moving towards the stairs that will lead them up to the boy’s dormitory, pulling Ron with him.

He manages to take one step forward before Ron stumbles heavily into him.

“Ron—”

“Let go of me.”

“You’ll fall—”

“Let go of me!” Ron demands, hands pushing at Harry’s arm, trying to get him to release his hold. Ron’s taller than Harry, though they’re equally as thin now, and weren’t it for his drunken state, he’d have pushed Harry away easily.

Harry’s jaw ticks as he keeps pulling Ron towards the stairs, “Just get up the stairs Ro—”

“Let fucking go!” Ron suddenly yells, all traces of humour gone from his voice. He shoves Harry back hard enough that he lets go of his grip on Ron’s shirt as he stumbles into the back of one of the couches.

Hermione’s immediately on her feet, but she doesn’t make a move to walk towards the two of them, eyes locked on Harry as he straightens up. Harry turns to face Ron again, expression gradually becoming more and more annoyed.

“I’m just trying to help—”

“I don’t need your fucking help,” Ron slurs, taking a wobbly step towards Harry. “I don’t need your fucking help, Harry. Go back to minding your fucking business.”

She watches as they stare each other down for long moments, the air around them heavy, until Harry sighs, gaze flicking up to the sky in annoyance, as if asking someone to grant him more patience.

“Ron, c’mon, just—”

“Just what,” Ron says, a vicious note edging in his voice even though his words are still slurred, “Just what?”

He stares straight at Harry, eyebrows raised, chest puffing out. “Just what, Harry? Just understand? Just stop it? Just let me help you?” His tone increases with every word, until it eats all the air from the room. “Well guess just what, Harry, I don’t want your fucking help,” he continues, spit flying out of his mouth. “I don’t want to understand, and I don’t want to stop drinking.” He rubs his hand over his mouth, as if the words taste bad. His eyes are hard and unflinching, the drunken glaze almost gone, until a hiccup makes his breath hitch and he slumps, shoulders sagging. “So let me fucking be.”

Harry’s staring at him with wide eyes, probably as surprised by this outburst as Hermione feels.

Ron had never been one to articulate his feelings, and though he had always been a sensitive person, he had the tendency to snap and turn bitter when asked to confront them, so Hermione had quickly learned not to prod him about them too much. In the end, she had also never felt quite comfortable with feeling vulnerable with someone else, either, and when they’d been together, they’d both known not to ask too much of the other.

Since Fred’s death, Ron had been even more closed off, and he’d been snappy and on the defensive those few times Hermione had tried to talk to him about it, so much so that she’d stopped trying altogether, unwilling to deal with his cutting words.

She watches, jaw slacked, as Ron takes a step forward, and then another, pushing his shoulder into Harry’s as he walks past him.

Harry’s gaze flickers back to Hermione for a second, expression inscrutable, before he looks back at Ron walking up the stairs, one hand on the handrail and the other flat on the stone wall, trying and failing not to lose his balance.

“Ron,” Harry says, voice tight, before all words seem to fail him.

“Just stop trying, Harry, we all know you don’t care anymore,” Ron throws over his shoulder, not even turning to look back at Harry. “And tell Hermione to stop trying too.” Ron laughs, body jerking, causing him to almost miss a step. “Merlin knows she’s doing a poor enough job at it.”

The words are said like an afterthought, as if Ron hadn’t even noticed her in the room, yet they slice through that tender part of her heart so viciously that Hermione involuntarily takes a step back. Harry’s eyes snap to her, as do those of all the other people in the room, and Hermione suddenly feels ridiculous standing there, staring after Ron as he turns the corner of the stairs and disappears from view.

The silence in the room is oppressive, heavy. For a few seconds Hermione’s mind reels, trying to make sense of everything that just occurred. Harry’s looking at her silently, hands still clenched by his sides, but there’s a softness around his eyes that makes her feel sick.

When Ginny puts her hand on her elbow it makes her recoil, the reaction jarring and instinctive. Someone’s gasp echoes through the Common Room, and as humiliating as it feels it snaps Hermione back to the present. She’s got the eyes of a bunch of half strangers trained on her; of Harry, of Ginny, of all the people she’s been trying so hard for, and she’s not going to let them see just how much Ron’s words hurt, how embarrassed they’ve made her feel. She refuses to be that vulnerable. Is disgusted, really, by the fact that she is, by the fact that the way Ron hadn’t even noticed her makes something feel small and sad inside of her.

In a move that shouldn’t feel quite as second nature as it does, Hermione clears any and all possible emotions from her face and sits back down in her cold spot on the worn leather couch. She doesn’t think she can bear to look at Harry, so she doesn’t, opting instead to turn towards Ginny. But Ginny isn’t looking at her, her stare fixed on Harry, and Hermione watches as Ginny swallows, unbearable sadness filling her light brown eyes, staring at her boyfriend with a lost look on her face. The sound of Harry’s steps as he walks up the stairs fills the silence of the room before chatter starts back up.

Ginny turns towards her, melting into the back of the couch and releasing a heavy sigh. When their eyes meet, the sadness that had just been there is gone, replaced by a look of downright exhaustion that Hermione feels deep in her bones.

It isn’t right, Hermione thinks. That the War has left them like this; pathetic, dysfunctional pieces of themselves. But she doesn’t voice her thoughts, and instead takes out her wand and mutters a spell, refilling their mugs with warm tea.

The tea is almost scalding on her lips but Hermione rejoices in its sting, because it momentarily takes her mind away from the ache in her chest. She takes another sip, letting the hot liquid burn down her throat. Maybe it’ll warm that part inside of her that is going cold. Maybe it’ll burn all the feelings away. She doesn’t know which one she’d like more. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Ginny hums before precariously balancing her mug on the arm of the sofa. Hermione shifts so she’s facing her friend properly, and the exhaustion that had been so clear in Ginny’s eyes is gone, replaced by some plastic emotion that Hermione can’t well define. “So, about the book.”

Hermione smiles softly, continuing to sip her tea as she listens to Ginny talk about the book and the brilliant mind of its villain, but she feels almost detached from the conversation, as if Ginny is talking to someone else and she is but a spectator to the conversation.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t check on Ron, or Harry. Nobody checks on them, either.

Hermione spends the rest of the day with a sick taste in her mouth, the claustrophobic feeling of having been exposed thick on her skin.


When Monday morning rolls around, her classes feel like a welcome reprieve from the unsteadiness of the weekend. She’s well dressed this morning, having pulled out from the back of her chest of clothes a new pair of stockings and a clean Gryffindor sweatshirt. She’d also cleaned her boots and magically re-soled them, and the sound of them on the old stone stairs as she walks between classes scratches an itch deep in her brain. For some reason, she feels better this morning, less unsure, the classes and professors and note-filled parchments making something in her relax a bit.

She still looks out for Malfoy, for his tall figure, waiting to feel his eyes on her, yet something tastes different about the way she’s watching out for him.

It almost feels, if she has to be honest with herself, that she’s almost hoping to see him. It must be the fact that she’s having a good day, and she wants him to see it, to see her doing well. It could also be the fact that a part of her still wants to punch him in the face, and if he goads her just enough, she might let herself fall into such a temptation—though, of course, she’d have to make sure nobody saw her. Or maybe it wouldn’t really be that big of a deal, considering she had already punched him once before. It would be just like old times, wouldn’t it? The thought is enough to pull the corner of her mouth upwards, to make her walk down the halls with her head held high. She catches herself actually looking for Malfoy between the seas of students as she moves from one class to the next. Her gaze strays from the Slytherin table to the Great Hall entrance more than once during lunch, waiting for him to saunter in the Hall in that new kingly way of his, praying for the occasion to bare her teeth at him and pick up where they left off.

Problem is, Hermione doesn’t see Maloy the entire day. Nor the next. Nor the one after that.

By Thursday, some of the energy she’d carried over from Saturday has disappeared, and though part of her is glad that he isn’t around—Wednesday was a bad day for Hermione—part of her is disappointed that she hasn’t had her chance to confront Malfoy. And now almost too much time has passed, and the bravado that had been urging her forwards is sputtering out, only embers of it remaining when that day it had burned with hot flames.

The fact that Hermione notices, almost viscerally, Malfoy’s absence, is also something that has left her once again unbalanced, as everything seems to do when it comes to him. During the past month, she had grown used to it, to the weight of his eyes on her, to the distress trailing cold fingers down her spine whenever she’d walk around a corner, wondering if he’d be on the other side of it. Every one of his taunting smiles had hooked somewhere deep inside of her, and now their absence feels odd. It’s similar to that sensation of having walked into a room and not remembering why you had gone in it in the first place. As if she’s misplaced something without knowing what that something was.

Pansy’s tantrum in the Great Hall on Friday evening does little to alleviate Hermione of these feelings.

Hermione’s having dinner with Neville and Harry, Neville carrying the conversation for the both of them, droning on about a weird medicinal plant that can only be found in the coldest waters of the Arctic Ocean, when movement in her peripheral vision catches Hermione’s eye. She watches, with mild curiosity, as on the other side of the Great Hall, Pansy Parkinson rises from her seat and stalks angrily towards the doors.

As usual, the Great Hall is loud, countless conversations mixing together to create a cacophony of sound, and a student getting up early to leave isn’t really that unusual, but something about the quickness of Pansy’s steps, the way her fists are clenched by her sides, captures Hermione’s attention. It looks like she’s saying something, the younger Slytherin students she’s walking behind turning in their seats to stare at her as she passes by, and whatever it is she’s saying makes them immediately turn back around to face their plates.

Halfway down the table Pansy stops and turns around, marching back a few steps, her posture tight, to say something else and point an accusing finger at… Nott? Yes, Nott, who is twisted around in his chair, staring at her.

Hermione lowers her fork, straining in her seat to get a better look. She quickly looks around to check if the others have noticed the commotion going on at the Slytherin table, but most students seem completely unaware except for a few of them, who seem as confused and excited as Hermione is starting to feel.

Pansy keeps talking, her body language progressively becoming more fraught, and from the way her chest heaves, Hermione reckons she must be close to shouting now. She watches as Pansy turns back around to make her way out of the Great Hall, only to whip around once more, saying something that makes Nott jump out of his chair. He closes the distance between them in two steps and grabs Pansy by the arm, pulling her close. Pansy’s tall, so the two of them are almost face to face as Nott leans down, whispering aggressively in Pansy’s ear. Whatever she hears tips her over the edge and Hermione watches, dumbfounded, as Pansy starts screaming uncontrollably, pushing against Nott’s chest with all the strength she must have.

The Great Hall slowly falls quiet, everyone turning to watch the two Slytherin survivors. Even Neville, who’s sitting with his back to the Slytherin table, stops mid-sentence, and Hermione catches the question in his gaze as he slowly turns to look over his shoulder.

Nott is quick to notice that all the attention has now shifted to them, gaze assessing the student tables before darting to where the Professors are quietly taking in the scene. He twists so his broad back hides Pansy from view, and Hermione feels the intense urge to know what it is, exactly, that the two of them are talking about.

Pansy keeps shouting, her shrill voice frantic, but Hermione is too far away to properly make out the words, especially with Nott obscuring her from sight. Hermione catches Nott’s flinch as Pansy struggles, trying to get out of his hold, until Nott’s deep voice cuts through the Great Hall like a knife, his violent hush! resonating around the room.

The Hall falls absolutely silent and Hermione flicks her gaze to where the Professors sit, to find McGonagall staring intently at Pansy and Nott, her fork hanging in mid-air in front of her.

The sound of rushing footsteps snaps her attention back to the two Slytherins. Nott drags a struggling Pansy by the wrist until they reach the Great Hall doors, his movements efficient and quick as he pushes one of the doors open and strides through, dragging Pansy behind him. He turns to look at the silent Great Hall just for a moment before shutting the door, the sound of the creaking hinges unnervingly loud.

The Hall bursts into sound, students at every table discussing what they’d all just seen. Hermione is sure that everyone must be judging Pansy, judging Nott, wondering what it is Pansy is screaming about. The Gryffindor table is loud around her, yet Hermione’s gaze is stuck to the Slytherin one, to the way the students that had been closest to where Pansy and Nott had stood are unnervingly quiet, a weird silence hovering over them.

Immediately, something feels off about it all. It’s not a secret that out of all the Slytherin survivors, Pansy is probably the most volatile one—Hermione had caught her crying in a girl’s bathroom once, and the tissues she’d offered Pansy had been met with a screamed fuck off—yet the fact that she’s gone and made a scene during dinner is strange, in a sense. Pansy has never been one to hide, but at the same time, she’s never purposefully put herself at the center of attention; and for her to act this way now, so openly, in front of the Professors no less, seems out of character, as if she had not been able to contain her reaction. Nott’s reaction is equally as surprising. He’d never interfered in things, really, not before the War and not during it, often preferring to skulk in the shadows, out of notice. Hermione had always thought of him as almost a background character, passive to most things occurring around him. For him to be so angry at Pansy, it adds an extra layer of weirdness to the whole situation.

It all makes Hermione’s stomach clench, and from the look in Neville’s eyes as he turns back around, she’s not the only one weirded out by what they just saw.

Hermione reaches for her glass, hoping that a sip of water may help, and turns to her side to look at Harry, only to find that he’s not looking at her. No, he’s straightened up in his seat, gaze scanning the Slytherin table.

“Malfoy’s not here,” he murmurs slowly, and Hermione can see his brow furrow behind his glasses. He turns to look at her and then at Neville, heavy gaze bouncing between the two of them.

Suddenly, Hermione’s transported back to two years ago, when Malfoy’s disappearances had been one of their greatest concerns, when tracking his every move had been a matter of survival. A knot begins to form in her throat.

“Maybe it’s just one of Pansy’s breakdowns,” Neville says, picking up his fork and shoving some food in his mouth, though he doesn’t really seem convinced of his own words. “Luna said she saw her pick a fight with some Ravenclaw Fifth years the other day.”

Harry stares at Neville for a couple of seconds before looking back down at his plate. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, but Hermione can hear the doubt in his voice, and she sees it in his eyes when he turns to look at her.

“It’s probably nothing,” Hermione hears herself mutter, not knowing why she says it when she doesn’t believe it for a second.

It could be coincidence, of course, Malfoy’s disappearance and Pansy’s outburst, but when has it ever really been coincidence when it comes to any of them? Her instincts are telling her that something about it all is strange, and during the War Hermione had learnt to listen very, very closely to those instincts. Yet those same instincts are warning her not to say anything else, not to bring further attention to Malfoy, to his absence.

Harry stares at her for a second longer, his frown deepening, before he turns back around to stare once again at his food, shrugging his shoulders. “Whatever,” he says, “Not our problem.”

Yet, Hermione thinks.

They finish their dinner quickly, Neville picking back up where he left off, filling the silence that stretches between her and Harry.

Hermione can’t help her gaze from flickering back to the two empty seats on the other side of the room, nor can she keep her thoughts from straying to what Pansy had been screaming about. What had she said? Why did Nott interfere? What is going on? and then, slithering into her mind and burrowing at the front of her thoughts, Why is Malfoy missing?

When they get back to the Gryffindor Dormitory, Hermione quickly says goodbye to her friends, walking up the stairs and into her shared room, a general sense of unease creeping over her. She quickly gets ready for bed, trying to force any and all thoughts out of her head. She doesn’t want to think about the where and why of Malfoy’s whereabouts, nor does she want to think about Pansy and Nott. As Harry had said, it very well is not her problem, yet it all feels too much like two years ago, when they had to keep track of the Slytherin’s movements day and night, for her to really ignore the situation.

In contrast to two years ago, though, Hermione isn’t exclusively concerned for her wellbeing.

Pansy’s behaviour in the Great Hall has triggered some sort of alarm deep in Hermione, and that, paired with Malfoy’s disappearance, is enough to turn Hermione’s unease over his absence into downright worry.

At least, it would be enough, if only Hermione wasn’t so adamant about not worrying over Malfoy, because why should she ever be worried about him.

No. Hermione leashes all her thoughts, cramping them into a far back corner of her brain, and gets ready for bed.

Right before tucking herself under her covers to read her book—it’s the one Ginny had bought, finished, and had then given Hermione to read—she takes out her vial of sleeping draught from where she keeps it hidden in the gap between her mattress and the bed frame. There’s barely a finger left in the small glass flask, but she reckons—and hopes—it’s going to be enough to get her through the night. Hermione makes the mental note to brew more tomorrow as she drowns the remaining pale blue liquid before sliding under her sheets and settling in.

She manages to read a couple of chapters; the story, paired with the drowsiness from the potion, enough to keep her thoughts at bay. When the words on the pages begin to blur, she sets the book on her nightstand, pulls the woollen blanket over her head and closes her eyes, praying the draught will let her have a peaceful sleep.


Some hours later, Hermione realizes that she has been staring at the back of her eyelids for a long enough time, and sighing defeat, she surrenders to another sleepless night.

Upon making peace with the fact that tonight her bed will not grant her rest, she throws the blankets off her, slipping her cold feet into her slippers. She makes sure to be as quiet as possible as she grabs her cardigan, sliding her wand into one of the pockets, and makes her way out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Hermione shrugs on the cardigan and sneaks out of the Common Room, ignoring the Fat Lady’s grumbling about her leaving in the middle of the night, again. It isn’t the first time that Hermione has gone for a midnight stroll around the school, and so far she’s been lucky enough not to encounter anyone; and the paintings have been merciful in not talking or reporting her. Perhaps they understand that sometimes students just can’t sleep, considering that others before her are likely to have found themselves in the same predicament.

Hermione fights a chill as she wanders the deserted, dark halls, wrapping her arms around herself. Hogwarts at night looks eerie, and haunted. Which it is. Not just by ghosts, obviously, but by memories as well. It has stood the test of time for so long, and the scars that the stone walls have accumulated over decades make something close to longing stir in Hermione as she walks.

The air is cold, and as she reaches the lower levels, the bite of it sends shivers skittering down her spine, her clothes not enough to fight them off. The only sound she hears is the scuffling of her slippers over the hard stone, and the sporadic background sounds of a place that never truly sleeps, like the hooting of faraway owls.

Her feet bring her along without Hermione really knowing where she’s going, and when she picks her gaze up from the floor to see the dark doors of the Library in front of her, she is not truly surprised.

The doors are locked with a nice little spell, but Hermione had learned how to undo it years ago. She grabs her wand and mutters the counter spell, the lock releasing with a soft snick. She briskly makes her way inside, locking the door behind her with the same charm she’d just undone.

The Library is dark, but soft moonlight sneaks in from the window, illuminating the room just enough for Hermione to manage to make her way down the corridor without needing to cast light herself. The smell of the Library is as comforting as it always is, and Hermione releases a long breath as she walks between the bookshelves. As she goes, she picks a random book from one of the shelves, not even bothering to look at the title, simply wanting for something to keep her company for however much time she’ll spend in here tonight.

Book in hand, she heads for her usual table, only to stop, breath catching in her throat, when she realises that someone is already sitting there.

Malfoy’s sitting in the same chair she had last seen him in, arms braced on the table and head bowed, lazily spinning a ring around his finger.

Slowly, he lifts his head, turning ever so slightly to take her in. A lock of pale hair falls into his eyes at the movement, obscuring his gaze.

“Granger,” he murmurs, and the tenor of his voice is too loud in the quiet of the Library. “Of course, it would be you.”

Hermione stands there, breath burning in her lungs, because of all the things she might’ve expected from tonight, this definitely had not been on the list.

She stares at Malfoy as he pushes one hand through his hair, the rings on his fingers reflecting the moonlight coming in from the window next to them.

There’s something about the way he’s hunched over the table, about the slump of his shoulders and the tone of his voice that tells Hermione he’d been deep in thought, and that she’s likely disturbed whatever peace he’d come looking for in this place.

Hermione holds herself still as Malfoy takes her in; her old slippers, her pyjamas and her mismatched cardigan, the book in her hand. A small smile tugs the corner of his mouth upwards.

For a second, Hermione thinks he looks beautiful, with the way the pale light seems to gently wrap around him, basking him in an eerie glow that fits around him like a glove. Her lungs scream for breath, yet she doesn’t allow for it, helpless to do anything but take him in.

Malfoy’s gaze flits to her face for just a moment before he turns around, eyes falling back to the table.

“Sit, Granger,” he tells her, and when she doesn’t move, he looks at her again from the corner of his eye. “Don’t stand there like an idiot.”

Hermione takes a second to make her decision, and then she straightens her back and walks to her usual place opposite Malfoy. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor reverberates around them as she pulls it out. She sets the book down on the table between them and sits down, laying back against her chair, as far from him as possible.

Silence stretches between them, until the words that have been on the tip of her tongue ever since she’d realized who it was, sitting at her table, escape her, unbidden.

“Where have you been?” Hermione asks, and then immediately wants to snatch the words back, hide them inside her where he can’t see them, know them. She bites hard on her traitorous tongue, yet she can’t help the curiosity, the itch deep inside that begs to be scratched.

Malfoy slowly lifts his head again, staring right at her, that small, stupid, smile on his lips. He raps his knuckles against the table, once. “Worried about me, Granger?” he asks, his tone taunting, as it so often is.

Hermione crosses her arms over her chest, not looking away from him. They stare at each other for what feels like minutes, taking the other in. She knows what he must be seeing—her messy curls, the bag under her eyes, the tension around her mouth—but she finds that something about the darkness that surrounds them, about the late night hour and the moonlight streaming in, makes her care a little less about it all.

It likely also has to do with the fact that Malfoy doesn’t look as imperial as he usually does. His hair is a mess, the lines of his face hard. He’s wearing a dark sweater, the collar of a white shirt visible underneath it, sleeves bunched up at his elbows. Hermione takes in the silhouette of a coat thrown on the chair next to his, as if he hadn’t even gone back to his dorm, but had rather come straight here from wherever he’d been.

“Where have you been?” she asks again, and there’s an accusatory tone in her voice that she can’t keep hidden, as if his absence had been a personal affront.

“It’s not any of your damn business,” Malfoy snaps viciously, before leaning back in his chair and mimicking her pose, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

They’re quiet again, and Hermione picks at a loose thread on the sleeve of her cardigan. She doesn’t want to ask again, and would much rather let it go, but the edginess that had accompanied her to bed earlier has returned, and she doesn’t feel like she can truly let it go, though she should.

Hermione keeps staring at him quietly, relentlessly, until Malfoy sighs and says, in a tone that feels too kind on him, “I had something to take care of.”

“Was is the Ministry?”

“It really isn’t any of your business. But no.”

“No?”

“No.”

Hermione wants to press him for answers but she knows that this curiosity isn’t any good, so she bites her tongue again. It’s strange enough that he’s given her these answers as is.

Abruptly, Malfoy leans his elbows on the table again, bringing the two of them closer, or as close as possible with the table between them. The movement takes him out of that stream of moonlight that had illuminated him before, and the sight of him so close, half hidden in the shadows, sends a shiver across Hermione’s skin.

“Have you missed me, Granger?” Malfoy taunts, and it feels like a caress over that spot on her neck that she’s tried so hard to ignore all week.

“Of course not,” she snaps back, irritation rising in her, because fuck him and fuck his taunting. “There’s nothing about you to miss, Malfoy.”

Malfoy laughs, a sharp, bitter thing that makes Hermione’s stomach clench.

“Sure there isn’t,” he says, and it feels like he’s making fun of her. “Haven’t you missed my eyes on you?”

Malfoy’s words make her blood freeze in her veins, Hermione’s heart stopping for a beat before picking back up, rabbiting against her ribcage.

“Don’t act like you don’t like our little game,” he continues, as if his words haven’t made her stomach drop, “I know you look for me, too.”

Too?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Malfoy,” Hermione grits out, keeping her voice as even as possible, though this conversation feels incredibly dangerous.

“Don’t act like this, Granger,” Malfoy says, eyes half-lidded as they catch on hers. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

Malfoy tuts. “Of course you are.”

“I am not.”

“You always lie.”

With every word, Hermione’s growing vexation propels her closer to him, until the edge of her table digs into her ribs and their faces are mere centimetres apart.

The closeness takes her back to last weekend, and the memory of his hand in her hair makes her insides tremble violently.

She pushes air out her nose, trying to expel the memory and regain control over her reactions, but before she can open her mouth to retort, Malfoy’s eyes drop from hers to her neck, to that spot on her neck, and reality converges to him looking at her skin.

“Did you think about it?” Malfoy whispers, and his question feels adulterous.

It definitely feels dangerous now, this conversation, dangerous for her and for her self-control, because the way Malfoy is looking at the exposed skin of her neck, the way his fingers flex on the table, as if wanting to reach out and touch, make something inside her quiver in anticipation.

“No,” Hermione whispers, incredibly aware of the way the word ghosts across his lips.

“Liar,” Malfoy purrs, his smirk turning into a full-blown smile.

It’s enough to stop her heart entirely, and when he pulls his gaze away from her neck and meets her eyes again, the heat in them is enough to make a thread inside her snap.

Heart galloping its way up her throat, Hermione retreats, her chair scraping against the floor as she hurriedly backs away from Malfoy, even though she can’t pull her eyes away from him.

She stands there for a second, like a complete fucking idiot, adrenaline and something else making her whole body shake. She can’t deal with it, with all he makes her feel. Can’t control it, can’t understand it, and it makes her scared, scared and lost because she doesn’t understand why he makes her feel all these things, why she craves and loathes his eyes on her, why she hangs onto his every word even when they cut her like the sharpest of knives.

She gathers the scraps of her control and turns around, afraid of what she might say or do if she doesn’t, but the blood rushing in her ears distracts her from the sound of another chair being pushed back, and before she can make sense of it a strong arm is banded around her middle, pulling her back against a hard chest. She immediately starts struggling, frantically digging her fingers into his forearm, agitation inching so close to the surface that it almost turns into fear, but she’s dragged back, forced to take fumbling steps until Malfoy sits back down in his chair, forcing her on his lap.

The concept of being close to him in such a way is both repulsive and intoxicating, and Hermione continues struggling against him until his other arm wraps around her too, locking her flailing arms against her chest. Malfoy pulls her further back against him, until every inch of her back is plastered against his chest, until her arse is nestled right over his crotch, the tips of her feet barely touching the ground.

“Sit still,” he hisses, breath hot against her ear, and the shock of it all causes her muscles to freeze.

Malfoy huffs. “Just so,” he breathes, and those words snap Hermione out of her shock, even as they make her shiver. She begins struggling again, trying to free her arms from under him and kicking at his legs with her heels. She must get one good kick in because Malfoy flinches, breath hitching, before he fucking growls in her ear, pulling her tighter against him, his arms almost painfully tight against her middle.

In a quick move, one of his hands wraps around her neck, right under her jaw, squeezing so tight that Hermione sputters, breath getting stuck in her throat.

Sit still.

The viciousness in Malfoy’s voice causes her body to freeze again. The tension in her muscles turns painful, and for a second all her instincts are warning her to stay incredibly still, to not move, to close her eyes and bare her throat and submit.

Hermione stops struggling, opting to try and take in air instead, but the grip Malfoy has on her throat is unrelenting, harsh, and in just a few moments she feels herself starting to get lightheaded. It causes panic to wash over her, yet she can’t bring herself to struggle again, not when she isn’t sure whether it’ll do her any good.

Right before blackness creeps into her vision, Malfoy’s hold over her throat releases, until his hand is only hovering over her skin, a solid weight that doesn’t press down but just is, heavy over her pulse.

Hermione takes in greedy breaths, swallowing between them, until her chest isn’t rising and falling quite as frantically.

She can feel Malfoy’s steady breaths behind her, and Hermione subconsciously tries to mimic him until her breathing returns to normal, though her heart doesn’t stop pounding behind her ribcage.

“Good,” Malfoy says, and though he doesn’t remove his hand from her throat, the arm across her middle relaxes a little.

Hermione’s muscles, still locked, tense at the movement, as if sensing an opportunity for her to bolt out of his grasp, but immediately his arm tightens again.

“No,” he tuts, and settles in better in the chair. Malfoy pulls her flush against him, apparently refusing to let space exist between the two of them, and says, “I don’t want you to go, Granger. Just sit here with me for a while.”

The words make her every thought halt. What?

Confusion takes hold of her, banishing all other emotions for a moment, because why the hell would Malfoy say something like that? It’s so unlike anything she might’ve expected him to say, so in contrast with his actions, with the way he brutally pulled her against him, that the dichotomy of him is enough to have her mind spinning.

Malfoy’s arm bands across her navel, his hand releasing her forearm to wrap instead around her hip, splaying wide, fingertips slightly digging in.

“Will you sit still?” Malfoy asks.

Hermione hesitates, then nods slowly, the movement not entirely her own. There’s a part of her, in the back of her mind, raging at her inaction, screaming at her to get up, to fight, to do anything but this, yet with every second that passes it becomes quieter and quieter, as if the darkness of the Library is suffocating it.

“Good girl,” Malfoy says, and this time the words makes her shiver uncontrollably.

He hitches her up again, spreading his legs apart so she fits more comfortably against him. The hand he has around her throat drops away, his fingers leaving a burning path across her sensitive skin.

Malfoy bends forward slightly, causing his body to press even closer to hers as he reaches for the book Hermione had left discarded on the table. He brings it closer, flipping it so they can both stare down at the title. Guide to the Magical Creatures of South America. Malfoy releases an amused huff, his breath playing with the hair behind Hermione’s ear.

He’s quiet for a moment before his voice brushes over the arch of her ear. “Read it to me.”

Hermione swallows past the tightness in her throat. “What?”

“Read it to me, Granger,” Malfoy repeats, as if what he’s asking her makes any sense, dropping the book on her thighs. “You came here to read, did you not?” She doesn’t correct him. “So, read.”

The tone of his voice is smooth, relaxed, normal, even though what he’s asking her to do is definitely not normal. She hasn’t read to someone in ages, and the idea of reading to him is just so preposterous, so outside the realm of normal that she can’t really wrap her head around it.

However, it lends the whole situation a sheen of surreality that almost calms her down, as if whatever is taking place here, between them, is so absurd, so not normal, that it can’t possibly be real. Which must be why Hermione slowly picks up the book, grasping it two-handedly and slowly opening it to the title page.

Her movements feel not wholly her own yet intensely hers at the same time. It feels like a spell has been cast on her, as if she’s halfway to being drunk, aware yet not that every movement she makes, every second she sits still on Malfoy’s lap is a choice she makes, a choice not to move, to stay.

It’s almost exhilarating.

I don’t want you to go.

Cold fingers brushing her hair away from her neck snap her out of her thoughts. Malfoy curls around her, dropping his chin to the hollow between her neck and shoulder. “Go on,” he murmurs, right before his lips trace down the skin of her neck.

Hermione gasps, the coldness of his touch so unexpected, so intense, that the book almost slips from her hands.

What is she doing?

Malfoy laughs, raising goosebumps on her skin, before he nudges her forward slightly. “Go on, Granger,” he nuzzles his nose behind her ear. “Read.”

Hermione swallows, eyes dropping back down to the book. She watches as her fingers flip the pages until she gets to the first chapter.

It doesn’t feel real, yet Malfoy’s body behind hers, underneath hers, his hand splayed across her hip, the other settling against her thigh—the whole of her thigh—his hands are so big—everything feels incredibly, incredibly real.

Hermione squirms, trying to release some of the tension in her body, but all that results in is Malfoy’s arm tightening across her hips, and another press of his lips to her throat.

She squeezes her eyes tightly, fighting against something, against the need that is rising up in her, starting from her belly and rising up to heat her cheeks.

“Read to me, Hermione,” Malfoy murmurs. “Now.”

Hermione’s eyes fly open at the sound of her name from his lips, and something in her perks up at the way his voice curls around her name, the way his tongue rolls softly over the syllables. How long has it been since she’s heard him call her by name? She doesn’t remember.

The effect it has on her is intense, visceral in a way that makes her want to hear it again, and again, and then some more.

She drops her eyes back to the book, focusing on the first phrase, and then lets her voice fill the quiet of the Library.

Malfoy doesn’t say anything for a while, seemingly content to just listen to her read, and it all shouldn’t feel quite as good as it does. Slowly, the tension in her muscles releases, only to be progressively replaced by a wicked sense of anticipation.

Hermione keeps reading, making her way through the chapter, acutely conscious of every one of Malfoy’s movements. Whenever he traces his lips up and down the column of her neck her breath hitches, and she stumbles over her words. When his hand flexes, thumb sweeping across her inner thigh and back, she has to stop and swallow, and Malfoy has to nudge her to get her to start again.

She knows what this is. She knows it’s still a part of his game, of their game, yet this time, Hermione finds herself incapable of not playing. That same sensation she gets when she feels his eyes on her envelops her now, only ten times as strong, enough to leave her dizzy. She knows she shouldn’t, oh she really, really knows she shouldn’t, yet the way it makes her feel is too good, too decadent to give up. She wants to feel more of it. She wants to feel, even though she shouldn’t.

As she keeps reading, the hand Malfoy has splayed on her hip moves, and his fingers find their way under her shirt, lightly dragging over her skin, up and down her flank.

Her attention snaps to every spot his fingertips touch, and Hermione feels her stomach clench. She closes her eyes against the sensation, cursing herself because what is she doing, yet she doesn’t move his hand away, doesn’t tell him to stop, to let her go; only tightens her grip on the book.

Malfoy nips at her earlobe, and Hermione tries to stifle the whine that creeps up her throat. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs before leaving another too-soft kiss on her skin.

It feels like a punishment, the lightness of his lips and fingers over her body, when she would rather have him be less gentle. She can’t deal with gentle. Not from him.

Hermione opens her eyes again, the words on the page not fully making sense anymore. She starts reading again, unsure whether she’s already read this section or not, because all she can concentrate on is Malfoy.

Every second that passes feels painful, and moment by moment Hermione can feel herself losing her mind. Why is he doing this to her? Why is she letting him do it? Why does she want more of it? She’s desperate to understand, to understand why her body is reacting in this way to him, why her mind is reacting this way to him.

She inhales a shaky breath, trying hard not to stumble over her words whenever he moves, not even registering her own voice anymore.

Then, Malfoy’s little finger sneaks underneath the waistband of her trousers, followed by his ring finger, and they start playing with it, caressing her sensitive skin under the elastic band.

She tries hard not to concentrate on it, she really does, but when those fingers sneak lower, reaching her underwear, she releases a gasp, incapable of holding it in.

Malfoy plays with the hem of her knickers for a second before his fingers move further down, until he’s cupping her, long fingers sliding down between her thighs to where she’s inevitably, irrevocably, dripping for him.

Hermione stops breathing altogether, holding incredibly, incredibly, still, though the need to press her hips against Malfoy’s hand eats her up from the inside.

Behind her, Malfoy releases a harsh breath, and she feels him curling closer around her. The hand on her thighs grips her tightly, and slowly, he pulls her leg to the side, so that she can no longer clench her thighs around his hand.

He shifts his hips lightly, and the movement is enough for her to feel him under her, hot and hard against the curve of her arse.

Hermione lets the book fall from her grasp and wraps one hand around Malfoy’s forearm, banded across her belly. Yielding to the need inside of her, she pushes her hips forward just a bit, before grinding back down against Malfoy, the feel of him so hard against her utterly decadent.

Malfoy’s breath hitches at her movement, and in retaliation he shifts his hips up as well, pushing against her in a way that sends her every nerve ending on fire.

What is she doing?

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut, lost to the sensations taking over her body, and drops her head back against Malfoy’s shoulder as she tries to get air back in her lungs.

Malfoy pulls at her thigh again, spreading her wider, and with slow, calculated motions, he pulls her panties to the side.

Hermione’s heart beats wildly as his fingertips brush against her. She’s so wet she feels it drip down her arse, her legs trembling in anticipation. Slowly, Malfoy runs two of his fingers over her, sliding slickly between her folds before making his way towards her clit. She feels his grasp on her leg tighten, and her own hand on his forearm squeezes hard.

Distantly, Hermione realizes that she can feel his scars under her fingertips, and that the forearm she’s holding is the one with the Dark Mark. The realization makes her shudder and she arches against Malfoy, pushing at his forearm, silently demanding a heavier touch.

Malfoy obliges, drawing tantalizing, slow circles over her clit that have her toes curling in her slippers, before his movements come to a stop.

His fingers stay pressed against her clit for a split second before they trace their way back to where she’s wet. In a smooth move, Malfoy slides his fingers right into her, hard but not fast, reaching deep in a way that makes Hermione whine and clench hard around him.

Malfoy’s fingers pump slowly in and out of her, and he feels so good inside of her that Hermione feels drunk on it, on him, on having something to squeeze around, something to fill all her empty spaces. She arches again, grinding against the heel of his palm, and his name burns hot on her tongue.

Malfoy breathes heavily behind her, his chest rising and falling erratically. Knowing that he’s as affected by it all as she is feels right, feels like restitution.

The hand on Hermione’s disappears to cup her breast and she arches into it, Malfoy squeezing her harshly, thumb flicking over her nipple, sensitive even through her shirt.

Hermione keeps riding Malfoy’s hand, her whole body starting to shake, to grow taunt, until, suddenly, everything stops.

She feels Malfoy’s fingers slipping out of her, his hand dropping from her breast, and she doesn’t want to open her eyes, because whatever is coming next, she knows, will not feel as good as the crest she had been so close to tumbling over.

Malfoy slides her panties back in place, pulling his hand out of her pants, and she lets go of his forearm as if his skin has burned her. Everything is quiet around them for long moments, until she hears Malfoy hum.

“Look,” Malfoy says, voice hoarse, and Hermione opens her eyes.

In front of her, his hand glistens with the evidence of where it had just been. Malfoy splays his fingers wide, strings of her arousal stretching between the digits, reflecting the moonlight as it shines upon his hand.

Her chest is still heaving, her clit still pulsing from the orgasm he had brought her to the brink of. Malfoy’s arm wraps back around her waist and he pulls her to him, turning his hand so they can both see the back of it, see the way the knuckles of his middle and ring fingers glisten, wet from her, his rings shining in the dark.

“Look,” he says again, before he pulls his hand back, and Hermione doesn’t have to turn around to know that he’s just slipped his fingers in his mouth, tasting her over his skin.

Malfoy groans deep in his chest, the vibrations reverberating through every point where they’re still in contact, arm tightening around her.

Hermione squeezes her eyes tightly, trembling at the picture that forms in her mind—of Malfoy licking his fingers clean, lashes fluttering, lips chasing her wetness. She swears the sound of it alone is almost enough to push her over the edge.

Once he’s done, Malfoy grabs her jaw again, wet fingers digging into her cheek as he bends her neck to his liking. He breathes over her throat for a second before his lips land just below her ear, pressing a soft kiss there.

Then, in a move Hermione really should’ve braced herself for, Malfoy releases her, lifting her from his lap and pushing her away.

Her feet touch the ground but her legs feel incredibly weak, and Hermione has to brace herself on the table to avoid falling to the ground.

She doesn’t turn to look at Malfoy as she hears him move his chair back.

“Leave,” he says, voice still hoarse yet so, so cold.

Hermione lowers her chin against her chest, squeezing her hands into fists, biting hard enough on her tongue to draw blood.

Stupid, stupid girl.

This time, she’s the one to leave without another word, the coppery taste of regret filling her throat.

Notes:

thank you to everyone who left kudos!! <3 its super duper appreciated <333 hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!
once again many thanks to Raquel who beta'd this for me! <3

Chapter 4

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco watches as she disappears behind one of the bookshelves, back straight, pace quick, hands—hands which had been gripping him just so tightly mere minutes ago, one around his wrist, the other right above his knee—fisted by her sides. Her steps echo in the Library, followed by the sound of hushed words as she whispers the spell to unlock the door and sneaks out, not even bothering to put the spell back in place.

He’s breathing heavily, he realizes, his heart beating a steady, powerful rhythm beneath his sternum. His gaze, which had been vacantly staring at the corner she’d disappeared behind, falls down to his hand, to his still-wet fingers, glistening in the pale midnight light of the Library.

Granger had been so… warm in his arms. So warm and tight.

When she had gotten up to leave, Draco hadn’t been able to resist pulling her back. He’d been overcome by the urge to grab her, to have her close and quiet and pliant in his lap, so that he could get what he wanted from her.

Not that he’d planned for it to go the way it had. He really, really hadn’t.

He’d thought about it before, sure. He’d wondered, at times, whether she always wore knickers under those skirts of hers or not, how her breasts might feel in his hands, how her cunt might look all red and glistening and stretched around his cock.

But he’d never really cared that much about it before. He had other people he could fuck, and although fucking Granger did have some sort of appeal—residing mainly in the concept of someone like her being fucked by someone like him—the effort of trying to get her in his bed had always seemed monumental, the idea of Granger willingly choosing to partake almost absurd.

When he’d sat her on his lap and she’d started struggling, the way her tight little body had felt in his arms had sent a rush through him. It was the reaction he’d been aiming for, to have her struggle, trying to fight her way out of his grip, fight him. He’d mainly wanted to do it to taunt her, of course, but then he’d had to pull her close, to tell her to sit still, and the way she had responded to that… that beast in him had snapped both eyes open and in a second, he’d decided that he wanted to tease her in a different way.

And oh, how sweetly she had followed his every demand.

He’d fucking asked her to read to him, for Merlin’s sake, and she’d done it, she’d picked up that stupid book and she’d read to him, her voice breathless from the start, trembling all over, stumbling over her words at every one of his caresses.

And he’d liked it.

Yes, he really had enjoyed the way she’d squirmed all over his cock, unconsciously looking for friction, the way her stomach had tightened under his hand when he’d run his fingers up her side. He’d definitely enjoyed finding her wet, her panties completely soaked.

Merlin, satisfaction had run through his veins like lightning at the sound she’d made when his finger had touched her cunt for the first time.

He’d only wanted to tease her, only wanted just one touch of her, to lock it in that vault that was their shared experiences and use it as a weapon when the right moment arose; but she’d made this tiny, trembling whimper, and the skin of her neck had been so soft under his lips, that he’d decided he’d be just a little bit more generous.

She’d been tight and wet around his fingers, grinding on his hand like a little slut, and the way she’d arched in his hold, the way she’d held onto his arm as if it was the only thing tethering her to reality anymore, fuck. For a split second, he’d had to resist the impulse to bend her over the table and fuck her there and then.

But Draco prides himself in being a man not controlled by bare impulses such as those, so he’d slowed his rhythm, and right when she’d gone taunt, undeniably on the brink of coming, he’d taken it all away from her.

He’d wanted to laugh at the annoyed whine that had escaped her then.

He’d shown her his messy hand, hoping that the picture of it would be forever imprinted in her mind. She’d tensed, and he’d almost called it a victory, but then he'd fucked up.

He’d had a taste of her.

And fuck if it isn’t still lingering on the back of his tongue. If the sweetness and muskiness of it isn’t engraving itself, undeniably, as one of his new, favourite flavours.

His cock twitches in his pants, still very much hard, and shivers fall down his back.

Draco flexes his wet hand, his signet ring catching the light, before wiping it on his trousers.

He isn’t supposed to like it quite this much.

Most definitely, he isn’t supposed to want more of it.

But he does. So, his plans for Granger must change.

He still wants Granger to show everyone her true colours, wants to force her to drop that glass mask that she stubbornly continues to wear and show everyone who she really is now, what the War has really done to her. He definitely still wants it, almost aches it, if only to bathe in the satisfaction of one day telling her see, you’re no better than the rest of us.

Yes, he still wants to see her on her knees, begging forgiveness for her actions, for her lies, for her cowardice, but where before these wants had simply culminated into an abstract desire to see regret fill her big brown eyes, now this desire is changing shape, gaining new, sharper, edges, and as he sits there on his own, in the dark of the Library, surrounded by pale moonlight, Draco understands what new shape this desire is taking on.

He wants to see her repent. To him.

He wants to see her on her knees for him, asking for his forgiveness, begging him to excuse her of her faults and show her the righteous way forward.

Yes, that’s what he wants from her. He wants more from her than this fake, half-crumbling version of herself she’s offering him. He wants her true, and raw, and naked for him, body and soul, so that he can peer inside her broken pieces.

He also wants another taste of her.

And if there is one thing that the War has taught Draco Malfoy, is that he is never again going to not try to get what he wants.


When, hours later, Draco finally gets back to the Slytherin Common Room, he finds Theo sitting alone at the small table in front of one of the large windows, a chessboard sitting in front of him, the pieces arranged on the board as if he’d just finished playing a game with someone.

Theo doesn’t look up as Draco approaches him. He’s fiddling with the Black Queen, rotating the piece around and around on its spot on the board. Draco settles in the opposite chair, the one behind the whites. He picks up a White Horse, examining the precise details of the stone-carved piece, waiting for Theo to break the silence.

They stay like that for a while, each studying their respective chess pieces, the only sound filling the Common Room that of the gentle lapping of the waters of the Black Lake against the windows.

“How did it go?” Theo asks after a while. His voice is scratchy, as if he’s on the verge of losing it. Draco lifts his eyes from the Horse to Theo, only to find him still staring at the Black Queen, a frown pulling his eyebrows together.

“Not well,” Draco replies, the weight of the last few days making itself comfortable once more on his shoulders. “They only let me see her after the interrogation.”

“And how did that go?”

“Not well.”

They sit in silence again after that. Draco looks outside the window, at the deep waters of the Lake. He almost thinks he makes out a shape in the dark, a glint of something silver, but whatever it is, it’s too far away for him to make out properly.

“Pansy received another letter from her cousin,” Theo says, forcing Draco to drag his gaze back to him. Theo’s frown has deepened. “It hadn’t been checked, the seal was intact.”

It’s Draco’s turn to frown. “How can that be?” Their letters are always checked, those of them who have the privilege to still be able to receive them.

“I don’t know,” Theo sighs. “It put her in a mood.”

“What kind of mood?”

“The scared kind.”

Theo spins the Black Queen around, and they watch as the piece twirls on itself before falling on the board, clattering loudly.

“Do you know what the letter said?”

“Something about leaving England. About having seen a club at the bottom of her teacup.”

“An attack?”

“Apparently,” Theo sighs again, lifting his eyes to meet Draco’s. “Pansy spent the day in the Divination tower.”

They stare at each other. A muscle ticks in Theo’s jaw.

“Do you find it strange?” he asks Theo.

“It can’t be a coincidence, Draco.”

“Why not?”

Because,” Theo stresses the central syllable of the word, leaning forward on the table. He reaches out for the Black Queen, picks it up again. “It’s never a coincidence when it comes to us, Draco. First my house, then they call you away, now this.”

It’s Draco’s turn to sigh this time, and the weight on his shoulders becomes heavier. Theo’s looking at him as if waiting for something, an answer perhaps, or a reassurance. Draco doesn’t have either. He wishes he did.

When the letter from St. Mungo’s had arrived Sunday morning, the first and only letter he’d received since coming back to Hogwarts, warning him that an Auror would be coming to pick him up soon, he’d been filled with anger and dread. Then they’d brought him to that cold, sterile room, and had explained to him what had happened, and he’d reversed back to that scared, sixteen-year-old boy, even if just for a second.

Then he’d cleared his mind, reaching for that silent, quiet space in himself that would let him get through this with a clear head, and they’d brought him to her room.

They hadn’t let him see her again after that, no matter how much he pressed.

Draco doesn’t want to admit to Theo that something about it had felt off right from the start, not when he doesn’t yet have a good enough picture of all the pieces at play.

“What is Pansy going to do?” Draco asks Theo, who just looks at him with that frown still pulling at his brow.

“She can’t do anything,” Theo replies, knocking the Black Queen against the chessboard, the sharp sound of stone on stone ringing around them. “You better than most should know that we can’t do anything.”

Draco drops his chin to his chest, because he knows Theo is right. They’re stuck in this school, whether they want to or not. After the trials, Draco, Pansy and Theo had been offered a choice by the Ministry: to go back to Hogwarts to finish their last year of studies—in the spirit of rebuilding and going back to normal and giving them another chance; or take a Ministry-ordained Personal Development Course—whatever that meant—so their choices had, in the end, been made for them.

What their probations come down to is that they’re stuck in Hogwarts, unable to contact anyone without having their letters torn open and read by an unknown Ministry employee somewhere. How Pansy even got her cousin’s letter is a mystery. The fact remains that they can’t do anything about it, at least not yet and not without alerting those who keep an invisible eye on them from knowing that they’re up to something.

Theo sighs for the third time, settling the Black Queen back in its correct position on the board, leaving the other pieces scattered. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see,” he tells Draco before getting up, pushing his chair back neatly and, in a very Theo fashion that reminds Draco of when they were younger and had not yet sold their souls to the devils, pulls at the cuffs of his sweater, making sure the white shirt he has on underneath peeks through just enough.

“Shall we try and sleep?” he says, and when Draco looks up at his face there’s a small smile playing on his lips, though his eyes look tired. They both know neither of them is going to sleep.

“We can try,” Draco says back, and belatedly realizes this is the most Theo has spoken to him in months.

Theo huffs out a breath that might’ve been a laugh and turns his back on Draco, heading down the barely-lit corridor that will bring him to the room where the two of them sleep, a room they’d claimed for themselves soon after coming back at Hogwarts.

Draco doesn’t follow him, but rather turns back to stare out of the window again. The water almost has a lighter tone to it now, as if high above the first rays of sun are trying to make their way towards the deep, unknown bottom of the lake.

He can’t taste Granger on his tongue anymore, her sweet flavour now replaced by the sour one of uncertainty.

When the first Slytherin student wakes up, Draco goes to bed.


Every step Hermione takes along the dark, quiet halls of a sleeping Hogwarts pulls at the threads of herself, so that by the time she reaches the Gryffindor Dormitory she feels frayed at the edges, unravelled and exposed and unable to keep herself together.

What has she done?

How could she have been so stupid? Stupid stupid stupid.

God, she’d just let him do that to her. Hadn’t fought, hadn’t complained. No, she’d let him roam his hands all over her body, under her shirt. She’d whimpered and moaned and had wanted more of him.

Hermione can’t explain it to herself, why she’d let Malfoy do that.

She still feels the ghosts of his fingertips over her belly, around her neck. Her cheek is still wet from where he’d gripped her face and she wipes it furiously, wanting desperately to destroy all of the evidence left on her body. Her legs are still weak, her underwear uncomfortably wet, and Hermione hates it, hates him, hates herself for it all.

She rushes up the stairs as silently as possible, bypassing her shared bedroom to head towards the small bathroom hidden at the top of the stairs, so out of hand that most students never use it. It’s dark and dusty in there, the lone flickering light in the small room barely strong enough to illuminate all of it.

There’s an old, uncomfortable bath at the end of the room and yes, yes a shower will do her well now, will let her scrub herself raw until she can’t feel him anymore, until her skin hurts and her mind, hopefully, stops screaming.

She tears off her clothes, throwing them into a corner and casting an Incedio towards them, watching as they light up in orange, the flames charring everything. The cloying smell of burnt cloth and smoke fills the room. Hermione breathes it in avidly, the smoke burning in her throat, her lungs, holding it in so that it devours that scent of Malfoy’s undefined aftershave that’s not letting her breathe properly.

She stands there naked in the half-lit toilet, trembling, waiting for her clothes to turn to ash.

Her body feels strange, light and far away from her, every moment seeming to take place in slow motion. It feels like reaching the ground after jumping off a height, like the second or third breath you take after being scared. Adrenaline drop, her brain suggests amidst all the shouting going on in her head, and Hermione wants to scream. She can feel it, building in her stomach, creeping up her throat, that deep-seated urge to just scream, to drown out everything with it until the world is silent again, to release all she’s feeling in the only way that might make sense.

The scream is there, but she doesn’t let it out, she doesn’t think she can, doesn’t think she knows how. It’s going to fester inside her, just beneath the surface, until either it disappears like many other screams before it; or until it turns into a rotten, blackened thing, a new mark on her tattered soul to go along with the others she already has.

The bath doesn’t have a shower curtain, but when Hermione turns on the water, it pours down from the rusted shower head clear and hard. She knocks the lever to the hottest it can go and waits as steam rapidly fills the room.

Hermione steps in, her cold toes stinging when she touches the scalding water, but the pain is a passive thing, something that registers but which she doesn’t do anything about. Like in all the other showers in Hogwarts, there’s two dispensers on the corners of the bath, a body soap and a shampoo. She reaches for the soap, pumping a couple of times to fill her shaking hand, and then scrubs vigorously at her skin, going over the spots Malfoy touched again and again.

She scratches with her nails, gouging red lines all over her tender skin. The water becomes so hot it burns and Hermione relishes in it, relishes in the way her whole body becomes tender and starts humming with pain.

She keeps at it for a while, as steadily and studiously as possible, until her skin is too tender to touch. Her mind feels quieter now that she can’t feel Malfoy’s hands on her anymore, now that her body feels her own again, not that of a stupid girl who makes stupid, stupid decisions.

Hermione reaches for the lever again and moves it so that cold water now pours over her. The contrast makes her gasp, her skin singing with the sting of it. She turns her face up to the spray, letting the water run over her eyes, her nose, her lips, holding her breath. She’s always liked the cold and this has always helped. It grounds her in a very tangible, real way. The roaring in her head quiets for a moment and under the freezing water, Hermione feels like she can finally think again.

It rolls through her mind again like a movie: seeing him in the dark, their conversation, getting up to leave and him pulling her back. Reading for him. Leaning on him. Grinding on him.

She knows in a perfect, absolute manner, that had she fought more, he would’ve let her go. A part of her had understood it perfectly in that moment that had she been truly scared, had he sensed that, he would’ve stopped.

The problem is that Hermione had not been scared at all. Well, yes, she had been scared for a moment, when his hand had wrapped around her throat, but it hadn’t been true fear for herself. It had been fear for her self-control.

Because in a single heartbeat, with Malfoy wrapped around her, his voice in her ear, Hermione had had the stark realization that she wanted to be trapped like that, by him. That she liked it. That had scared her. Not him.

Malfoy had surprised her, had been demanding and unkind and had toyed with her, and it all makes anger rise in her, at the fact that he can snare her like this, push her off balance again and again without a care for what his games might do to her, but he hadn’t scared her, regardless of it all.

And yet.

And yet she wants more of it. More of his eyes on her, of his games, of his taunts.

Hermione wants more of what his eyes on her make her feel, of how playing his games makes her feel, of the anticipation, the frustration, the anger, even, that he sparks in her.

She shouldn’t, really. Hermione’s not well equipped to deal with these sorts of feelings, with their intensity, especially when they’re the reason Malfoy makes her feel so unbalanced. Hermione knows this, yet she craves it, hungers for it, for each one of their interactions.

Part of her knows she should stay far, far away from Malfoy. She should concentrate on getting through the year unscathed, on renouncing these feelings, this eagerness that Malfoy makes her feel. Nothing good can come out of it. Yet something whispers in her to see where this road might lead, to scratch the itch that burns beneath her skin and learn all that Malfoy might make her feel because maybe, just maybe, one of those feelings will remind her of how she used to experience life before it all, before the War and the death and the pain.

It all makes her head hurt, leaving her a confused, tired, wet mess.

Hermione shuts the water off and steps out of the shower, shivering, the cold stone floor gritty against her bare feet, water dripping down her naked body in rivulets. She grabs a towel from under the sink, shaking it out to clear some of the accumulated dust before wrapping it around her body. She runs a hand over the steamed-up mirror, just enough to take in her appearance.

Her hair is stringy and stuck to her face, her cheeks red from the shower. On the side of her neck there’s a mark, a deeper shade of red than the other splotches of colour on her skin. It’s a small thing, just a spot where Malfoy had nipped her skin, and there’s two bright red scratches over it from where she’d tried to wash him off her. She leans forward, lightly brushing her fingers over the mark, eyes glued to what is now not only an invisible brand on her skin but a real, damning one.

Hermione tells herself she hates it, even though it tastes like a lie.

She forces her gaze away from it, forces herself to drop her hand, reaching for her wand instead and transfiguring two towels into a new pyjama. She murmurs a spell to dry her hair, tying it back in a loose braid as best she can. Slipping on her new clothes and her slippers, she clears away the ashes of her old clothes, and when the room looks tidy enough, she turns around and leaves.

There’s still a couple of hours before the sun is set to rise, but she doesn’t want to sleep. So she sneaks into the bedroom to take her book and walks back downstairs, settling into her usual spot on the couch in front of the hearth with a warm cup of tea.

She reads, begging her mind to stay quiet for just a little longer, and for the sun to slow its impending rise.


Like a coward, Hermione spends Saturday and Sunday holed up in the Gryffindor Common Room, going to the Great Hall either very early or very late to avoid seeing Malfoy.

She’s not proud of it. She isn’t. But she also can’t bring herself to face him yet, for some reason.

It stings her pride, that she’s letting him get to her this way, but the idea of seeing him feels too big, too much for her to deal with just yet, so she doesn’t.

She’s…embarrassed, in part. Angry, yes, of course; and frustrated, and annoyed. But she’s also embarrassed because she had been so close to coming on Malfoy’s hand that she doesn’t think she can bear to see his hands ever again without her face bursting into flames.

She’s also curious, damn her. She knows perfectly well what she was feeling that night, but she has wondered, in the past few days, what he must’ve been feeling. Why had Malfoy done it? He’d definitely liked it, at least in part, even if it was just a natural reaction to what he was doing to her. Malfoy had been hard beneath her arse, and she hasn’t forgotten the way it had made her shiver to feel him so hot and close. And the way his hands had clenched over her thigh, the way his breath had stuttered when she’d started grinding down on him, seeking release.

There’s a need, growing inside her, to push Malfoy to lay his cards out on the table, though Hermione knows it will not be an easy task. She needs to understand why he’s set his eyes on her, why he’s chosen to play this game with her, when he’d had nothing but hatred for her, for so long.

But there’s also a second, growing need inside Hermione, that she grows to loathe every day a little more: the need to be close to him again. To have Malfoy’s hands in her hair and his lips on her skin, to have him whisper in her ear and rut against her arse. To have her lips on him, even if just for a moment, to sate her desire to know what Draco Malfoy’s skin might taste like.

Hermione, very dutifully, squashes this need back into the hellish corner of her brain where it's coming from, forcing it away whenever it tries to wriggle back into her thoughts. All Saturday, and all Sunday, and on Monday morning too.

She’s still trying to ignore it when she walks into the Great Hall to quickly grab some food before heading to her first class, only for her gaze to immediately land on Malfoy, sitting at his usual place at the Slytherin table next to Nott.

He’s already staring at her across the hall, and immediately Hermione feels heat crawl up her neck and cheeks, over that fading bruise on her neck, hidden beneath the collar of her shirt and her hair.

She tears her gaze away as fast as she can, walking towards where Ginny and Harry are sitting down and having breakfast. She doesn’t sit down, opting instead to grab the first thing she sees—a chocolate muffin—from the table and muttering a quick good morning and goodbye before immediately turning around and leaving the hall again. She almost crushes the muffin in her fist but her gaze manages not to stray towards Malfoy again, though it takes more energy than she thought it would.

The whole day is spent in much the same manner. Whenever she catches sight of a tall body or pale hair in her peripheral vision, Hermione immediately tucks tails and runs the other way, without even verifying if it’s Malfoy or not. She skips lunch, and she thanks Merlin that they don’t have any classes together.

By mid-afternoon she’s feeling frazzled, jumping at every loud sound. She’s exhausted, and she can’t recall anything from her classes.

She’s annoyed at him, she really is, because for Merlin’s sake, how can he manage to drive her up the wall this way without even saying anything to her? Other than at breakfast, she hasn’t even seen him again today, yet it feels like his presence is following her around. She wants to strangle him for it, or maybe strangle her brain and convince it to stop acting so stupidly.

Hermione imagines doing just that, strangling the voices in her mind and trying to convince them that Malfoy is not, in fact, going to apparate right in front of her and call her a liar again with that deep, unwavering gaze of his—when suddenly, a hand grasps at her robes and she’s pulled through the stone wall she was walking next to.

Hermione doesn’t have time to fully absorb her surroundings before she’s pushed against a real wall, this time, her head smacking against the stone, a hard body crushing hers. Her bag is pushed off her shoulder and to the ground and her wrists are captured by cold, strong hands, pinning them against the wall next to her head.

“Are you avoiding me, Granger?”

Hermione gasps, her gaze snapping up to Malfoy’s face. He’s staring down at her, eyes hard. There’s a tightness in his face, around the corners of his eyes, that sets alarm bells ringing in her head. He looks… mean, and mad. Very much mad.

Malfoy’s wearing his usual white shirt with a grey and green Slytherin vest over it, his initials engraved over the Slytherin badge over his heart. The collar of his shirt is unbuttoned and a necklace peeks through, a simple silver chain, though the rest of it remains hidden.

Hermione glares at him. “Let me go,” she seethes, twisting to free her wrists from his hold. 

“No,” he replies, a wolfish grin taking over his face.

They’re in what seems to be a storage room, old tables and desks stacked against the far wall, random objects and boxes taking up the rest of the space. There are also cleaning supplies strewn about, a series of brooms taking up one of the corners, so it must be one of the storages the House Elves use, hidden away from sight behind a fake wall.

“Answer me,” Malfoy says, pressing closer so that Hermione is, once again, forced to look up at him. “Are you really trying to avoid me, Granger?”

“Just let me go, Malfoy. Do you think this is normal, pulling me in a storage room like this?” She huffs, scowling at him.

“I don’t like it,” he replies, bending down so that they’re nose to nose. “You’re not to avoid me.”

Oh for Merlin’s sake.

Hermione rolls her eyes, “You can’t tell me what to do. Now let me go,” she says again, quite uselessly trying to free her hands. “I’m going to kick you in the balls if you don’t, Malfoy.”

Malfoy laughs, his breath playing with the strands of her hair. “No, you’re not,” he says, and Hermione grins maliciously.

She shifts her weight, readying to raise her right knee and kick Malfoy where it hurts, but he pins her hips to the wall with his own before she can even move, leaving no space between them, their bodies flush. Hermione’s breasts press against Malfoy’s chest and she has to suck in a breath at the proximity, at how much bigger than her he really is. Malfoy’s belt presses right over the top of her skirt and his proximity scrambles Hermione’s brain, makes her momentarily lose her train of thought until all she sees is him, and all she feels are their bodies pressed close together.

Hermione can’t let him do this to her again, though she wants to. Yet annoyance is still roaring through her veins and so she gives into that, rather than the excitement that’s making her heart beat unsteadily in her chest.

Hermione slips her wrist out of Malfoy’s hold with a grunt, and before he can stop her again, she grabs a handful of his hair. The pale strands are soft as she pulls them harshly enough that Malfoy’s head snaps back, a hiss escaping his thin lips.

Malfoy’s fingers curl around her wrist, trying to pull her hand out of his hair, but Hermione doesn’t let go, tugging with all the viciousness she can muster. It causes Malfoy to bare his throat at her, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he groans, and Hermione wants to sink her teeth into that pale skin, to bite and hurt and draw blood.

So she does.

She reaches up on her tiptoes and thanks him for having gotten so close to her, because it makes it easy for her to sink her blunt teeth in the curve where his neck and shoulder meet. Hermione bites down hard, the tendons beneath her teeth flexing as Malfoy lets out a strangled shout.

In a split second, there’s a hand around Hermione’s throat and she’s being thrown back, her head knocking hard enough against the wall that she’s dizzy for a second. When the blurriness clears from her eyes, she realizes that she’s not breathing, that this time Malfoy is deliberately not letting her get enough air in. Hermione thrashes against him, trying to pull air back in her lungs, scratching at his fingers as she tries to pry them off her throat.

“Did you just fucking bite me?” Malfoy growls. He glares at her, the hand not currently cutting off her air supply covering her bite on his neck. If he was mad before, he looks downright furious now.

“Let—me,” Hermione struggles to get the words out, “Go.”

Malfoy stares at her and she watches as in a split second, his expression changes, amusement shining in his eyes, his lips twisting up and pulling into a blinding smile.

The hand around her throat drops and Hermione pulls sweet, clear air into her lungs again. Malfoy moves again and she doesn’t know what to make of the situation when he starts laughing, a loud, cheerful sound that she doesn’t think she’s ever heard him make.

It startles Hermione so much that she doesn’t fight him off when his arms wrap around her waist, squeezing tightly and crushing her to him. He’s shaking with laughter and Hermione is frozen, caught in his arms.

Malfoy’s hands drop to cup her arse and then he’s lifting her up, pushing her against the wall again. She wraps her legs around his waist, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders for balance. They’re face to face like this and Hermione can do nothing but stare at Malfoy, at the smile on his face, bright, yet still cutting, still mean, just a bit.

“I should be mad, shouldn’t I?” Malfoy says, and his voice is deep, so, so deep that Hermione shivers. “I’m really not, though,” he continues, and his grin turns into a cocky smirk.

Malfoy pushes against her, his hips right between hers, the position perfect. He’s hard, and the realization, as he grinds against her, makes Hermione’s breath hitch.

It hits her then, the fact that they’re wrapped around each other, that he’s pushing her against the wall, wide hands squeezing her arse, pulling her closer. She’s wearing knee-high socks today, no tights, and she can feel the rough fabric of his pants scratching against her inner thighs, can feel the cool leather of the belt he’s wearing.

Malfoy bends down so that he’s hiding his face in the crook of her neck. She feels the tip of his nose against her skin as he licks a long stripe over her throat, reaching up to her ear lobe, before he bites lightly at the arch of her ear.

It shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

Hermione fights against it, against the roaring need to follow him, to pull him closer, to push his head better against her neck and then lower, to her breasts.

Malfoy grinds against her again and Hermione squeezes her eyes shut, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Malfoy,” she tries, but she already knows it’s going to be useless. Wants it to be useless.

“Shh,” he shushes, trailing burning kisses all over her neck, and she bends her head to give him better access. “I’m not mad.”

He continues his path down her skin, laying a soft kiss right in the hollow of her throat, right where he’d gripped her so harshly mere moments ago.

“Three days you’ve been avoiding me, Granger,” he whispers against her skin. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Why is that?”

“I’m not avoiding you,” she lies, her voice breathless.

“Yes you are, you liar,” he says, and he grinds hard against her, right between her legs, and she digs her fingernails in his shoulders. “I don’t like it when you lie.”

With a final nip to that same spot he seems to favour, Malfoy lifts his face from her neck. There’s a flush on his cheeks that wasn’t there before, she notes, and it makes his silver eyes seem even brighter. She watches as his lips part as he releases a soft breath, his eyes roving over her face, falling first to her lips, and then her neck, and then her breasts.

She’s not wearing her sweater, having taken it off during her Herbology class since the greenhouses are always so warm, so there’s only her tie and the thin, white material of her button-up shirt covering her chest.

Malfoy shifts so that he’s holding her up with only one arm. Never taking his eyes off her, he lifts his finger until he’s toying with the first button of her shirt, his fingertips grazing the top of her chest.

Her heart is beating furiously now and she’s sure he can feel it, can feel the vibrations of it beneath her ribcage, the strong thump thump thump of its beat.

Hermione drops her eyes from his face to the space between them, watching as his deft fingers undo her first button, grazing the skin that becomes exposed until he reaches the next one, and the next, until he reaches where her shirt is tucked in her skirt. He pulls it out, undoing the last button until her shirt falls open, exposing the front clasp of her bra and her belly button.

Malfoy’s hand is steady as he pushes her tie to the side, exposing her to the cold air and to his gaze. Hermione drags her eyes back to Malfoy’s, because she wants to see his expression, her curiosity and that need to know that he’s just as affected by this as she is riding her hard.

His flush is even darker now, tinting the top of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. His pupils are blown wide, eyes following the path of his hand as it travels upwards, towards the clasp of her bra. Malfoy toys with it, sneaking his finger under it and pulling it away from her skin, only to let it snap back, the light sting of it causing her to grit her teeth or risk releasing the whimper she feels in the back of her throat.

Unconsciously, Hermione’s hands have slid into Malfoy’s hair again and she’s powerless to the feel of it, to the softness of the strands as she runs her fingers through them, lightly gripping to grab his attention.

It takes Malfoy a while to tear his eyes off her chest and look at her again, and when he does, the heat in his eyes makes Hermione tremble, her core clenching around nothing.

Her body betrays her then, and unbidden she arches her back, pushing her breast towards his hand, asking him for what she could never ask with words, all the while not taking her eyes off his. Hermione knows the moment he realizes what she’s doing because she swears she feels him shudder before his hand reaches her bra clasp again, snapping it open.

Her breasts spill out, aching, and it takes but a moment for Malfoy to hitch her higher, and then his mouth is on her chest, tongue swirling down until it reaches one of her nipples, his free hand roughly squeezing her other breast.

Hermione moans, the sound dragged out of her by the absolutely indecent way Malfoy is running his tongue over her, kissing and biting and pinching, pulling at her nipple with his teeth so hard it hurts, then soothing away the pain with more kisses.

Her head drops against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as she arches even more against him, pulling at his hair just enough to get him to let go, his mouth releasing her nipple with a pop, only for her to guide him towards her other breast, pressing his face to her skin.

He cradles her breast in his hand, his fingers wrapping around her ribs as he lifts it to his mouth, sucking hard. Malfoy groans, the sound vibrating over her skin. He grinds against her, the head of his cock notching against her entrance even through all the layers between them.

She moans, squeezing her legs around his waist, one hand pulling at his hair, the other sneaking underneath the collar of his shirt so that she can dig her fingers in his back.

God, what are they doing?

The thought sneaks into her mind but is immediately washed away by Malfoy biting down on the tender underside of her breast, teeth nipping and pulling until she knows there’s going to be a dark purple mark there tomorrow.

The thought of having another mark on her skin made by him sends her mind spinning and the last dredges of her self-control snap. She pulls him up, and she only gets a moment to register the wild expression in his eyes before their lips crash together.

The kiss is angry and savage, teeth clashing and tongues fighting. She bites down on his lower lip before sucking it in her mouth, and Malfoy makes this sound deep in his throat that makes her squeeze her legs around his waist again. His hand releases her breast to slide up to her jaw, and he forces her head to the side so that he can kiss her deeper, harder.

With every kiss, Hermione feels more and more drunk on him, on the softness of his lips, on the way he sucks on her tongue, the way he grinds against her again and again. She whimpers when he finally pulls back, opening her eyes.

He looks ravished, hair a mess from her hands running through it, his blush fiercer than ever, his lips an obscene shade of red, glistening from their kisses. His eyes are fixed on her lips as his thumb slides from the side of her jaw to her mouth, pulling at her lower lip, and Hermione can’t resist when he pushes his finger in her mouth, immediately wrapping her tongue around it and sucking.

Malfoy’s hips stutter once and he sucks in a sharp breath. He seems transfixed as he pushes his thumb further in, pressing down on her tongue. Hermione scrapes her teeth over his finger and hollows her cheeks, her lashes fluttering as she keeps licking and sucking.

He pulls his finger out and replaces it with his mouth again, kissing her furiously until they have to break apart to catch their breaths.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice hoarse, and then he’s moving away, pulling at her legs to get her to release him.

She obliges, and as soon as her feet touch the ground Malfoy grabs her hips and turns her around.

Hermionebraces herself against the stone wall, Malfoy’s hand in the middle of her back forcing her bare skin against the gritty stone, the feel of it against her sensitive breasts making her whimper.

“How wet will I find you this time?” he asks her, curling over her and pushing his cock against her arse from behind, causing her to shudder. “Shall we find out?”

Before she can reply she hears him drop to his knees behind her, his hands running up and down her legs, stopping at the hem of her skirt to push it up and over the curve of her arse, exposing her to him. He tucks the hem of the skirt under the waistband so that it doesn’t fall back again before his hands slide around her hips, gripping and pulling her forward.

He bites down on one of her cheeks, causing her to yelp, before he slaps the same spot, hard, his hand landing on her skin with a loud smack.

She gasps, her cheek exploding in pain, and Malfoy spanks her again, even harder, and then a third time. She has to bite down on her lip to keep from whimpering and screaming, but when Malfoy spanks her a fourth time she can’t help but flinch away, a gasp slipping out.

He tuts, pulling her hips back again and caressing the burning spot. Then he reaches for her panties, grabbing them from the sides and pushing them down her legs, letting them fall on the floor. She feels him grab her arse and spread her cheeks apart, and a flush crawls up her neck.

She’s so exposed to him like this, her arse in his face, completely at his mercy, but it feels dirty, and hot, and when Malfoy pulls her towards him again, angling her hips to his liking, tongue licking across her in a wide stripe, she can’t keep herself from moaning.

Fucking hell,” Malfoy groans, hands digging so hard into her hips that they’re going to leave bruises. “You’re dripping for me,” he says, before swiping his tongue over her again. “Fucking hell.”

She nods in response, though she’s not sure he notices, fingers grasping at the wall. She pushes her hips back against his face because her legs are already shaking and this time, she’s not letting him walk away before he’s made her come.

Malfoy buries his face in her cunt again, tongue dipping in and out of her entrance, leaving hard bites on her sensitive inner thighs before diving back in again. He pushes his tongue in as much as it’ll go, pulling her even closer, tilting her hips to the point where she’s standing on her tiptoes.

Every swipe of his tongue brings her closer and closer to the brink, even though he’s not even going near her clit in this position.

He moans against her cunt, tongue dipping in before his fingers join it, two of them pressing into her harshly. She moans at the intrusion, squeezing around them as Malfoy’s mouth moves away from her, lips trailing over her cheeks, leaving biting kisses wherever he pleases, at the curve of her arse, over her hip, along her thighs.

With every thrust of his fingers, she feels herself start shaking more and more. He fucks her relentlessly, setting a hard pace, grazing over her sensitive inner walls with just enough pressure that a wrecking tremble soon overcomes her. Her muscles clench tightly, walls fluttering around him just before her whole body goes lax. She feels it when she starts squirting, so much wetness spilling out that she knows there’s gonna be a puddle between her legs, the sensation of it trailing down her legs filthy and exciting.

“Fucking hell,” Malfoy groans, and then his tongue is at her entrance again, lapping up what’s still dripping from her. He moans, fingers never stopping. “You’ve made a mess, look at this.”

She whimpers, her legs feeling like they could give out any second. “Malfoy,” she breathes, desperate to reach that peak.

“Ask me nicely.”

Malfoy.”

“Say please.”

Please,” she relents, and it’s a half-broken plea.

“Good girl,” he praises, the words making her clench around his fingers again before he slips them out.

They go straight to her clit, pressing hard in tight circles, and the moment his tongue is back inside her she comes, the orgasm tearing through her with exquisite violence.

She moans, her knees buckling, only Malfoy’s hand on her hip and her grip on the wall keeping her from falling. He guides her through it, his fingers never stopping, lips still on her cunt until she’s too sensitive for it. Hermione tries to wriggle out of his grip, reaching back with one hand to grab his hair and pull him away from her. With one last lick, Malfoy relents, letting himself be dragged away, her walls clenching around nothing as the last of her orgasm washes over her.

Slowly, she turns over her shoulder to look down at him, her breath catching at the sight.

Sitting back on his heels, Malfoy looks absolutely wrecked, mouth and chin glistening with her arousal, lips swollen and red. He’s still gripping her hips and she distractedly realizes that one of his forearms is completely wet, the thin material of the shirt almost transparent and sticking to his skin.

Malfoy’s eyes are glazed, and a satisfied smirk pulls at his lips. When Hermione’s eyes drop down to his crotch, at the darker spot now marring the grey fabric, she sucks in a harsh breath, her fingers in his hair tightening.

She has to fight the sudden urge to drop on her knees and taste him, to get his zipper open and clean up the mess that he has made just from eating her out.

Malfoy lets go of one of her hips, reaching for the hand she has in his hair and pulling it away before standing up, towering over her once again.

She twists around so that she’s facing him as his hands settle around her waist, under her still-open shirt.

He leans down and kisses her again, the taste of him now mixed with the taste of her come, and she pushes her tongue in his mouth for more. At last, he pulls away, sucking at her lower lip one last time before releasing it.

She opens her eyes—when had she shut them?- to find him staring down at her, that arrogant smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Granger,” he chastises, one of his thumbs sweeping over her belly in a very distracting fashion. “That was quite a bad move.”

She glares at him, because she knows he’s right.

Damn it all to hell.

Notes:

hope you enjoyed!! once again thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments, it completely makes my day!! <3

Chapter 5

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco is unable to tear his eyes away from Granger as she glares at him, big brown eyes filled with a multitude of emotions he can’t well discern, except for the glaring annoyance in them.

Her hair is a mess, long dark curls falling around her face, a blush bringing out the sparse freckles she has over the bridge of her nose.

Her waist feels so small under his hands, his fingers wrapping completely around it, making him want to tighten his grip and leave bruises there, too.

He can’t help but drop his gaze to her lips again, lips which had been so soft and eager under his. Merlin, he’d liked it when she’d kissed him, when she’d bit and pulled and her tongue had tangled with his, trapping her whimpers between their mouths.

His eyes fall even lower, to her breasts, still exposed to the air, to him. There are red marks scattered all over her chest from his teeth, and that spot on the lower side of her right breast is already a dark shade of purple.

Fuck, he wants to see her covered in his marks.

The thought of her completely naked in his bed, her body varied shades of pink and red and purple from his teeth, is enough to have his cock stirring in his pants again.

He wants to taste her again. And again. And again.

Granger’s hands suddenly push against his chest, snapping him out of his thoughts and causing him to stumble back a step, enough for her to slip out of his grip.

Granger immediately turns away from him, covering herself with her skirt. Draco doesn’t chase after her, watching quietly as she drops down next to her bag, searching for her wand.

In less than a second, all evidence of what had just transpired is gone. The mess she’d made on the floor vanishes, his forearm magically dries and the wet patch in his pants disappears. His fingers become clean, no trace of her taste or scent reaches his senses anymore, the loss of it immediately sparking an ember of displeasure in his chest.

Granger fixes her shirt and reaches for her sweater in her bag, hurriedly pulling it on.

His hands clench at his sides as he watches her rise, pulling up her panties as she does, fixing one of her knee-high socks which had fallen down to her ankle.

That spark of displeasure turns into one of pure vexation as Granger rises fully, giving him her back, not even gracing him with the dignity to turn around and look at him as she heads for the door.

Before she can pull it even a quarter of the way open his hand reaches out, smacking against the wood right by her head as he slams the door shut once more. Granger freezes, caught between him and the door, and Draco leans in so that he’s close enough that he can smell her rosemary-scented shampoo.

“Malfoy, let me out of this room,” she tells him quietly, still not turning around. There’s a cutting edge to her voice that makes his hackles rise instantly, and he leans even closer.

“Why should I do that, Granger? So you can go and hide away again?” he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Such a lowly thing to do, hiding. Then again, it seems to have become your modus operandi.”

Granger turns around, eyes blazing. The fury in them would’ve made him catch his breath if he hadn’t been feeling quite so annoyed with her.

“What the hell do you want from me, Malfoy?” she hisses, jabbing the point of her wand in the soft skin beneath his chin. He hadn’t even noticed she’d had it in her hand. Sloppy, Draco.

“I need you to stay the hell away from me,” Granger continues, pushing the wand into his skin with such unexpected force that he’s forced to lean back. “I need you to not grab me from corridors like a stalker, I need you to not talk to me, to not look at me, to not even fucking think of me,” she says through gritted teeth, advancing with every word, pushing away from the door. “Have you understood me?”

There’s such anger tightening the pretty features of Graner’s face, pulling her eyebrows in a tight frown, so at odds with the blush still on her cheeks, with the red spot on her neck where he’d given her another hickey.

“Have you understood, Malfoy?” Granger seethes. She looks at Draco with a level of rage he hasn’t seen on her before, though he’d heard about it, heard about how that look had stopped Death Eaters in their tracks during the War. She’s breathing unsteadily, her heavy breaths filling the room, but her hand doesn’t shake where it’s still holding her wand against his throat.

Draco looks at her before saying, voice as bored as he can make it, “No.”

Granger’s eyes widen for a second before her wand pushes against his skin hard enough that he has to hide a grimace.

No?

“No, Granger.”

“Why?” she demands, and her hand finally starts shaking, her breaths starting to come more rapidly.

“Because I don’t want to,” Draco drawls.

“Too bad,” she whispers, stepping closer so that she can lock her gaze with his again. “You’re going to do just that, Malfoy, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Draco scoffs, unamused by her antics. Granger’s wand trails from the tender skin underneath his chin to the hollow in the middle of his throat, the pressure enough to make him grit his teeth against the uncomfortable sensation.

They stare each other down, neither one of them willing to cede. Draco is tempted to throw her against the wall again, to reminder her that there is nothing nice in him, and she is nothing more than a pathetic, scared girl, but there’s something about the wild gleam in Granger’s eyes that stops him.

It must be the upward curve of her mouth, he thinks. Or the fact that Granger’s hand doesn’t shake, even as anger rolls off her in waves.

The beast in Draco stretches its claws like a cat. This, it whispers, This is what we want from her.

Draco drags his eyes away from her, letting them roam over her body, over her neck, her thighs. “What will you do, Granger?” he asks her, lazily settling his gaze back on hers. “Will you hurt me? I might enjoy that, you know?”

Shut up,” Granger hisses, and for a second Draco thinks she’s actually going to hex him. Hopes for it, deep in his bones, itching for the fight they could bring to life. “Just shut up, Malfoy. Just stay away and keep your hands off me.”

“You didn’t seem to—”

Shut up.

“—mind when my hands were insi—”

Granger’s silencing spell locks his mouth shut, the magic oppressing and cloying on his tongue. Then her second spell hits him, and every muscle of his body goes rigid, locking up under his skin as he freezes in place.

Granger lowers her wand, some of the tension draining out of her as she steps back and away from him.

“Leave me alone, Malfoy,” she says, the tremor in her voice betraying the roiling fury in her eyes. “I’m serious. I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

Draco glares at her. I won’t stop, he thinks, wishing he could push the words past his lips. I won’t stop until you let that fury out and I can watch you crumble in a thousand pieces.

Granger swallows, lips pressing together, as if she’d heard his words.

She leaves him there, standing alone in the broom closet unable to so much as blink as she turns around and disappears, the door falling softly shut behind her.


Hermione doesn’t let herself breathe properly until at least half of Hogwarts is between her and Malfoy. She doesn’t let herself look at the expression on the other students’ faces as she essentially sprints all the way back to the Gryffindor Common Room. She doesn’t let herself even so much as think until she reaches the top of the stairs and that old, dirty bathroom; until she’s warded the room with the strongest of silencing charms; until she’s once again scrubbed every inch of her body clean.

Then, under the cold spray battering her face, Hermione lets herself scream.

She does not, however, let herself remember how hard she’d come, how Malfoy had kissed her afterwards, how she’d chased the taste of them on his tongue. Does not let herself recall the bored way he’d listened to her ask him to leave her alone, how indifferent he had seemed to her words, except for when she’d cast that Petrificus Totalus, and he’d looked at her with anger surging in his silver eyes.

No, Hermione does not let herself think of anything other than the fact that she has made a grave miscalculation.

She’s revealed her cards. Laid them out on a silver platter.

Essentially told Malfoy What you’ve been doing scares me, because you’re getting too close, and I don’t want you to see the mess I am.

She’d just been so angry, so disappointed in herself for giving in to him, for letting him touch her again, kiss her.

God, she’s kissed Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater.

Draco Malfoy, who’d stood there watching while Bellatrix carved that word into her arm, who’d looked her in the eyes and had done nothing.

Draco. Malfoy.

How could she have been so stupid? As if she could give in to such a meaningless thing as carnal desire. As if she could afford to pick someone like Draco Malfoy to do so with, someone who had been driving her closer and closer to paranoia every day, someone who risks exposing her as the fraud she is to everyone—because there is no doubt in Hermione’s mind that this is exactly what he plans to do.

And she’s known this for a while. And still, she’d been so weak-hearted that she’d given in to that need coiling in her gut, lurking under her skin.

Hermione doesn’t let herself look in the mirror when she gets out of the shower, shivering violently. Doesn’t let her mind linger on the soreness between her thighs as she dries her hair and glamours the marks on her body.

She forces her mind to empty as she changes into fresh, clean clothes; as she grabs her bag and heads to her last class of the day, sliding into her usual seat at the front of the class with only a minute to spare before the start.

She regulates her breathing. Four seconds in, four seconds out.

Taps her fingers one by one on the table. one two three four five. five four three two one. Back and forth again and again at a steady, systematic pace, until her fingers don’t shake anymore.

Control. She must maintain control. Must not lose it. Not again.

Hermione slides her mask back in place. Gathers all her will and reinforces every crack in it, every crevice. Lets it grow and expand until it's not only a mask but a full armour, until it turns into a second, impenetrable skin, through which nothing peeks through, through which no one can see.

She only leaves one crack unfilled, a sliver through which she lets one emotion through, the only one she lets herself feel.

Self-hatred.

Self-hatred and control. They will get her through this.


He has to give it to Granger. She’s playing it well.

It’s Tuesday evening, and the Great Hall is too loud for his liking, but he’s made the effort to come tonight, if only to see Granger again.

She’s at her usual spot at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by her friends. The Hall is messy, and she pops in and out of view as the other students keep getting in his line of sight. But even from afar, Draco can see her.

Granger’s… laughing.

She has the gall to laugh.

Salazar, he loathes it.

He shoves his plate away, reaching for his glass and murmuring a spell to fill it with wine, the red gliding smoothly down his throat, the taste rich in his mouth.

She’s just over there laughing. Laughing!

He doesn’t know if he wants to yell at her, hex her, or stick his cock down her throat until she’s crying all over it and her pretty little Golden Girl facade is torn to pieces. Maybe he’ll do all three. Maybe in that order, maybe not.

She’s over there, robes all neat and tidy, hair perfectly curled, smile gracing her lips, and it’s all a lie.

It’s all a miserable, distasteful, sickening lie.

“What are you glaring at, exactly?”

Draco flicks his gaze to Pansy, who’s sitting next to him, pushing her food around her plate with her fork.

“Nothing,” he says, draining his glass and refilling it with more wine.

Pansy picks up her glass and clinks it against his in a silent request. With a roll of his eyes, Draco obliges her, her glass filling with the same sweet red as his.

He turns his attention back to the Gryffindor table, where he can make out Granger and the youngest Weasley talking animatedly about something.

She hasn’t looked towards him. Not once.

He can’t stand it.

“You sure it’s nothing?” Pansy asks again, causing Draco to tighten his grip on his glass. “You sure it’s not our little Golden Girl over there you’re glaring at?” she sing-songs. Theo, who’s sitting in front of them, lifts his eyes from the book he’s reading, confusion etched on his face. How Theo can manage to read amid all this chaos, Draco will never know.

“No,” Draco grits out, pointedly taking his eyes off Granger to glare at Pansy, only to be met with a blood-red smirk.

“You’ve got that look in your eyes, Draco. You know, the murderous one.”

“You don’t know shit, Pansy.”

“Sure I don’t.”

Pansy’s looking at him with a knowing expression, one which he wants to rip clear off her face, because it really isn’t any of her business, but before he can say anything she looks away, her gaze landing on Theo, who is looking between the two of them with amusement in his green eyes.

“I got another letter from my cousin,” she says, eyes falling from Theo to her glass. She takes a long sip before looking at Draco again, “They’re leaving England. Don’t know if they’re ever coming back. She told me to get out, if I can.”

Draco’s eyes snap to Theo’s in time to catch his amusement turn to surprise and then sour into worry.

“Did they say where they were going?” Theo asks, slowly closing his book and giving Pansy his undivided attention.

“No,” she says, the bitterness in her voice impossible to miss. “Probably America, though. We have family there.”

She takes another sip of her wine before setting the glass down. “There’s another thing.” Her gaze flicks to Draco and he braces himself for whatever she is going to say.

It most likely will not be good.

“She told me the Zabinis are going with them.”

Theo sucks in a sharp breath. “The Zabinis? Is Blaise—”

“I don’t know,” Pansy cuts him off, a sneer pulling at her lips. “And if he is, I wouldn’t care.”

Theo glares at her. “We need to know, Pansy. We haven’t heard from him since the War, and if—”

“I don’t care!” Pansy hisses, spearing Theo with a look that had sent lesser men running.

“Well I do,” he retorts, edging forward in his seat. “If he’s still—”

Not. Here.” Draco growls, and Theo and Pansy immediately fall quiet.

A few of the Slytherin students around them have turned to look at them, clearly trying to catch a bit of their discussion, but a glare from Pansy has them all going back to their food, conversation picking up again.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Draco says, reaching for an apple from the fruit bowl in the middle of the table and biting into it.

Pansy drowns her wine before pushing her chair back and standing up, levelling a glare at the both of them before leaving the Hall, the sound of her heels clicking against the stone getting lost in the loud chatter of the room.

He ignores Theo’s looks for the rest of dinner, and as soon as the first wave of students get up and leave, he gets up too, Theo following suit.

Draco doesn’t head to the Slytherin dorm, walking instead towards the North Wing.

They cross the Covered Bridge, not a single word shared between the two of them until they pass Hagrid’s Hut and reach the shore of the Black Lake.

The crescent moon high up in the sky sends silvery shadows scattering across the surface of the Lake, and Draco makes sure not to get too close to the shore as he heads for an isolated spot hidden between the trees that surround this end of the lake, knowing that there they’ll be unseen.

He comes here often, whenever he needs a moment of true peace from his thoughts. He’d found the spot during Sixth Year, after Potter had found him in that bathroom and had almost killed him. He’d liked the solitude of the Lake, and had spent hours upon hours out here on his own during long endless nights, gazing out at the water, trying to figure out how he would survive the year.

He’d even gone into the Lake, once. Had secretly begged for one of those creatures to grab him and drag him down, deep into those black waters where hopefully no one would ever have found him again.

No one had come, and he’d had to live through it all.

Draco sits down in his usual spot, his back against an old, dark, tree, his robe not enough to shield him from the wetness of the earth beneath him.

Theo sits down next to him with a heavy sigh, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Draco takes out his wand and another bottle of wine appears in his hand. It’s a Primitivo, one of his favourites, strong but not tannic, thick and sweet. He takes a long swing before passing the bottle to Theo.

Theo takes a drink, and then another, the silence of the forest loud in the night.

“It’s good,” Theo mumbles before taking another long sip. He passes the bottle back to Draco, pulling his knees to his chest and laying his forearms on them. One of his thumbs plays with the Nott signet ring on his middle finger, twisting it around and around, and for a second Draco feels bad for him, for all that Theo has already lost in the War.

“It’s a mess, you know that, right?” Theo says, rolling his head to peer at Draco.

Draco keeps staring straight ahead, trying to catch a reflection of scales within the dark waters. “It might not be as bad as it seems,” he says, though he’s not sure he even believes it anymore.

“If Blaise is alive, he could—”

“We don’t know if he’s alive, Theo.”

He takes another drink of the wine in the silence that follows.

He shouldn’t care whether Blaise is alive or not. Shouldn’t care about what could happen to Theo. Shouldn’t care about Pansy’s moods. Shouldn’t care about any of it.

And most of the time, Draco doesn’t. He spent too many years keeping everyone at a distance, pushing away all the people he was surrounded by out of self-preservation. Theo is the only one who constantly made an effort, the only one out of them all whom Draco can call a true friend, the only one he might consider getting his hands dirty again for, though he would never admit such a thing.

Yet sometimes his emotions sneak up on him, and when they do, for that brief moment in time, he understands perfectly well why his Father had always told him that emotions could be dangerous. How easy it can be to fall prey to them and let them cloud your rationality. In those moments, Draco pities all of those who feel more intensely than he does, those who haven’t learned that only some emotions are worth feeling.

Anger. Rage. Those emotions can fuel you. Help you focus.

Most other emotions—they’re too dangerous to feel properly. Can be too much of a hindrance.

Which is why he’s annoyed at the ember of hope sparking in his chest. It shouldn’t matter what happened to Blaise, it really shouldn’t. He’d disappeared during the Final Battle and hadn’t been found in the aftermath, his body not one of those left to rot around the fields. But no matter how hard Theo had tried looking for him as they’d all gone in and out of the Ministry for trials, no one had heard even as much as a whisper about the Zabini family, or what remained of it.

Personally, Draco had thought they’d all died.

But apparently, they’d all been in hiding; and now they’re running away.

But what are they running away from? That’s what worries Draco.

If Blaise is alive, they might have a shot at getting a better picture of the playing field, an outside perspective on what’s been happening. But it’s risky, because Blaise is the only Zabini that doesn’t harbour resentment towards the rest of them, towards him, especially, and if they somehow manage to get a letter to them the risk of it falling into the wrong hands would be too high a price.

He takes another swing of the wine, the bottle already half empty.

“We need to understand what’s going on, Draco,” Theo says, but Draco doesn’t miss the resigned edge to his words. “We’re locked in this school with no idea what’s happening outside. It’s too risky.”

“I know.”

“I need to understand what’s going on, why they’re doing this to us. I already lost—”  Theo stops, his voice failing him. He snatches the bottle out of Draco’s hands, taking a couple of long pulls. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hands, and Draco hates that he notices that it’s shaking. “I don’t even have a home anymore, Draco. Gone, all of it. And I need to understand why. I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t stay here and do nothing. Not when they’re out there and could—”

“I know,” Draco repeats, because he does. This need Theo has, Draco understands it.

That doesn’t mean he likes it.

“We just need to wait a little longer, Theo. They’ll fuck up. They’ll make a wrong move. We just have to wait for it.”

Theo sighs; a heavy, tired thing. They sit in silence for some time as darkness falls around them, the sky high above glittering with stars.

“Have they given you any news about your mother?”

Draco had been hoping Theo wouldn’t ask.

“No,” he replies, snatching the bottle back for himself and draining it. “The owls won’t pick up my letters. I have to wait for them to let me know.”

Every morning, for the past three days, Draco has tried to get his letters to St. Mungo’s, but no owl had picked them up, and he hadn’t been able to get it to the hospital magically, all of his spells failing whenever he tried.

It annoys him incredibly, and leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Theo doesn’t say anything else. Draco is glad for it. There’s little else he hates in this world than sympathy.

After that, the conversation stops.

Theo conjures a bottle of Firewhiskey and they slowly make their way through half of it, both of them lost in their own thoughts as the moon makes its way across the dark sky.

When the cold seeps into his bones and he loses sensation in his fingers, Draco gets up, the world around him blurred at the edges from the wine and the whiskey, and they make their way back to the Slytherin Dormitory.

Pansy’s sleeping on one of the chaises next to the fireplace, a bottle of wine of her own loosely gripped in her fingers.

Draco leaves her be, heading for the corridor that will lead him to his and Theo’s room. The sound of Theo’s steps falters for a heartbeat, followed by a half-asleep grumble and the sound of glass clinking against stone, Pansy’s bottle now likely set upon one of the many short tables scattered around the Common Room.

Draco heads for their room, throwing his coat off and changing into a pair of black sweatpants before falling onto his bed. Theo gets in and does the same, the usual silence falling between them.

Draco lays there in the dark for a while, his fingers tracing along the scars on his forearm, right over the Dark Mark, thinking.

He knows them by heart, now. Every inch, every curve, every raised section. Where the skin pulls tighter, where he’s lost sensitivity, where it still hurts. Knows where the red, scarred skin interrupts the darkness of the Mark, still inked on his skin, though there’s no longer even a whisper of the rotten magic that had lived in it before.

They’d tried to get it off. He’d been the only Death Eater not sent to Azkaban, and everyone had wanted him to lose the Mark, him most of all. The best Healers the Ministry could offer had taken a turn at him after his trial, had tried mysterious spells that had him crying out in pain, had brewed potions that left him sick for days, yet none of it had managed to remove the Dark Mark. The magic that had put it onto his skin had been too strong, too dark, they’d said.

So Draco had tried cutting it off.

These scars were all he’d managed.

He’d wanted to hide it at first, unable to stand the sight of it, with the way it reminded him of how weak he’d been, how much of a coward he’d been to sell his soul to Voldemort this way.

Then he’d started appreciating it more exactly because it reminded him of that. Reminds him of who he never wants to be again, no matter the cost.

He carries it proudly now. A memento of his past, a guide to his future.

Draco traces his scars until he falls asleep.


The next day, Granger is still ignoring him.

Ignoring him.

It’s even worse than her avoiding him.

Avoidance, Draco can accept, because it implies that Granger has such a reaction to him that not facing him is easier than facing what seeing him might make her feel. It implicates him having an effect on her.

Ignorance, Draco cannot accept. Because it implies that he’s not getting a reaction out of her. That she’s fine with going about her day, her classes, her study sessions, without being worried about him. Without that jumpiness, that nervousness, that Draco has come to expect from her.

Draco hates being ignored. Hates it even more when it’s a big fat lie. Downright loathes it in this case because it’s Granger that’s doing the ignoring.

Granger, who for weeks now had been looking over her shoulder for him, searching for him between the other students, unknowingly waiting for his next move with an anticipation which had tasted so sweet.

Granger, who had listened to him like a good little witch, who had read to him and trembled like a leaf when he’d teased her body.

Granger, who had come on his tongue and then kissed him like she could steal her next breath right from his lungs.

Draco keeps his distance. On Wednesday, he keeps out of sight, watching her from afar. He skips his classes, just so he can catch glimpses of her as she walks between hers. He doesn’t look for her in the Library, but he goes to dinner, just to watch her laugh with her friends again.

On Thursday, he does much of the same. Skips his classes again. Watches her from a distance, hating the way she gossips with her friends, the way she doesn’t have a hair out of place, the way her eyes never get that far-away look in them. He has to leave the Great Hall halfway through dinner, his teeth hurting from how hard he’s clenching them, unable to stand the disgust that watching her smile makes him feel.

On the night between Friday and Saturday, he goes to the Library, sits at her table, and waits. She doesn’t come. He stays there all night, each hour spent on his own adding fuel to the flame of anger that grows in him.

On Saturday morning, when most of the students are still asleep in their beds, Draco heads to the Great Hall. If she’s doing what he thinks she’s doing, she’ll be in there, trying to get ahead on whatever stupid assignment the Professors have given her, just as she used to do in their first years at Hogwarts.

He finds Granger sitting on her own at one end of the Gryffindor table, a textbook open in front of her, idly picking at a half-eaten pastry.

Draco spares a second to look around the hall—there’s essentially no one around, except for a couple of Slytherin students at the far end of the hall and a lonely Ravenclaw, sitting on his own at the long table—before he makes his way over to Granger, sitting down in front of her.

It’s the first time he’s ever sat at the Gryffindor table. At any other table, really, other than the Slytherin one.

Granger startles and her eyes snap up to him. He watches as they widen for a second, surprise flashing across her face before her eyes shutter, that empty expression creeping back into them.

She goes back to her book, her movements too controlled for his liking as she tears off another small piece of the pastry, bringing it to her mouth.

Draco stays quiet, taking her in.

Her hair is pulled back in a perfect ponytail, her curls more tamed and softer looking than usual, as if she’d used a spell on them. She’s wearing a Gryffindor sweater, the red and yellow of it offsetting her pale skin.

He’s never liked her in red.

The long column of her neck is exposed, but his mark is nowhere to be seen, likely glamoured or healed. Neither option sits well with him.

Though she acts as if his presence means nothing, Draco catches the way her spine straightens, the way her chin lifts subtly in defiance, even though her eyes never stray from her book.

Her hands don’t shake as she turns a page. No breath catches in her throat, not a single muscle twitches as he keeps staring at her, cataloguing each and every way in which she lies.

He would be impressed, if he wasn’t so angry.

When she goes to flip another page, he decides he’s had enough.

“Granger,” he says, her name scratching at his throat.

Her eyes flick upwards, a disinterested expression in them, before turning back down to her book.

Acknowledging and dismissing him at once.

Fury fills his veins.

In the blink of an eye, his hand reaches out, fingers gripping her jaw tight enough that he knows it must hurt, pulling her forward.

He leans closer so that their faces are mere inches apart. Her eyes flare wide, the pupils devouring the brown of her irises. The hand she has on her book jerks as if wanting to reach and pry his fingers off her face, but it doesn’t, her fingers clenching into a fist instead. Anger flashes in Granger’s eyes for a second before it disappears, that expressionless mask that he loathes so much falling back into place.

“I’m getting really sick of this little act of yours, Granger,” he hisses, baring his teeth at her. “So you’re gonna drop it, because I can’t stand it.”

Granger doesn’t say anything, just keeps on looking at him with that same expression.

Draco hates it.

He pulls her even closer and Granger exhales sharply, the edge of her table digging into her stomach with how far across it he’s forcing her to lean.

Draco squeezes his fingers just a little bit tighter, his eyes dropping to the way her lips are pushed into a pout. Lips that had kissed him with unbridled intensity just a few days ago. Lips he’s dreamt of having wrapped around his cock.

Pink, soft-looking lips that he wants to bruise.

Draco brings his eyes back to hers, and delight rushes through him at the way she’s staring at his lips. He smirks, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek to refrain from grinning at catching her red-handed like this. Her eyes snap back to his at the movement, and Draco can’t fully contain his smile as a blush creeps up her cheeks.

This, she cannot hide. Cannot fake.

Draco leans even closer, their noses almost brushing.

Granger’s hand jerks again as if to push him away but still, she doesn’t. As if she’s trying to maintain some control over her reactions.

He lets his eyes roam over her face again, taking in the way her blush graces her complexion, how her brows twitch into a frown. She swallows, her throat bobbing, and her eyes harden.

“You think no one can tell?” he whispers in the space between their mouths, never taking his eyes off hers. “That it’s all an act? You truly think you’re convincing?”

Her frown tightens, and Draco feels her jaw clench underneath his fingers.

“Maybe blind idiots might fall for it, but anyone who has half a brain can tell that you’re faking it. Can tell that you’re hiding, that you’re acting. But they all pity you too much to tell you that you’re doing a piss poor job. To tell you that you’re nothing but a spineless coward.”

His voice tightens in anger with every word, and he lets his disgust and disapproval shine through.

“That’s what you’ve become, Granger. A coward of the worst kind.” He sneers down at her, “I bet you can’t even look at yourself in the mirror.”

A crack starts to form in Granger’s facade, some deep-seated emotion leaking in her eyes that he can’t well define. Her breath catches in her throat, and Draco knows that what he’s saying is hitting her right where it hurts, in the vulnerable underbelly of her insecurities.

“So weak. You’ve become so weak. Lying all the time, to everyone, to those people you call your friends. All because you can’t accept what’s happened. What you’ve had to do. Pathetic, that’s what you’ve become.”

She recoils from him, trying to pull her face from his grip, but he doesn’t let her get away. The crack widens, that emotion spilling out of it. He stares as her eyes fill with it, the brightness leaking out of them to make space for this deeper, darker thing.

Draco pulls her closer.

“A pathetic liar. That’s what the smartest witch of our generation has turned out to be. It sickens me. You sicken me.”

Something snaps in Granger at that, the tether that had been holding her together giving way as the truth of his words hits her.

Granger flinches, both her hands reaching for his wrist, trying and failing to get him to loosen his grip. Her nails sink into his skin, her movements turning frantic as she tries to get away from him. Her breath stutters, her every glossing over with a silver sheen.

His body feels like it’s burning up, a wild, untamable need to hurt her igniting in his blood. Draco reaches forward, brushing his lips against her cheek as he moves to lay a gentle kiss on her ear, dragging his lips over the delicate skin.

“I will make you drop this act,” Draco promises, the words sending a shiver of anticipation down his back. “I will push you until you break, and then I will sit back and watch you try and piece yourself back together.”

He leans back, bringing his eyes back to hers.

Granger is trembling, from fear or anger he doesn’t know, trying to pry his fingers off her face, but he doesn’t care. All Draco cares about is the way her eyes are filled with silver, the way twin tears escape from the corners as she blinks.

His heart skips a beat when the tears make contact with his fingers, when he feels their coolness sliding over his heated skin.

His breath catches in his lungs at the way her eyes glitter, at how pretty her lashes look this way. It makes her eyes seem even bigger, softens the hardness that had been building in them.

They look so… pretty.

Her fingers weaken where they’re still trying to pull him away, as if her strength is draining away, and another tear escapes from the inner corner of her eye, rolling slowly down the side of her nose until it catches on her trembling upper lip.

He can’t look away from it. Can’t help but wonder what it would taste like, to kiss the salt of her tears on her lips.

He releases her with a shove, pushing her away, and she lets out a pitiful half-broken sob.

Draco waits for her to snap at him, to fight him, to feel her wand underneath his chin once more. His body craves the fight, craves the way fury lights her up, makes him see what lies underneath that nasty mask.

He wants her to fight him, wants to be given an opportunity to discover what her limits are, where that line of her restraint rests, what she’ll do if he pushes her over it.

But Granger turns away from him. Leans back in her chair. Hides her hands underneath the table.

She blinks and another silent tear rolls down her face.

Draco watches it travel down her cheek, her jaw, her throat; until it disappears into the collar of her shirt.

He hates that she doesn’t wipe it away. Hates that she’s not giving him what he wants.

Without another word, he gets up, taking her in one last time before turning and walking out of the hall.

The words echo like a song in his dark, barren soul.

He’s made Granger a promise, and he intends to keep it.

Notes:

thank you to everyone sticking with this mini-fic! (can i even call it mini anymore lol). hope you're enjoying the story! :)
many thanks to Raquel for being an amazing beta and many many thanks to everyone who has left kudos or comments - they always make my day!! so thank you!! xx <3

Chapter 6

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hermione is surprised that word of what happened in the Great Hall doesn’t immediately spread through the school.

Well, she would be surprised, if she could manage to dredge up some semblance of emotion, of reaction, other than the absolute, frozen stillness her mind has descended into.

As it stands, Hermione takes the lack of gossip for what it is—a blessing; and resolutely lets that silence swallow her up whole, so that she doesn’t have to think about Malfoy’s words.

After he’d left her there at that too-big table, Hermione had gathered her stuff up and headed towards the Library, unwilling to let Malfoy have any more power over her.

Tears. She’d shed tears in front of him. Humiliating, disgraceful tears. In front of Malfoy.

She hadn’t been able to keep them in, although she had tried her best. Had begged any and all gods to let his words pass through her, to take away her hearing, to not let those damned tears escape, yet the gods had paid her no mind, once again, and so the tears had fallen.

In the Library, she stares, unseeing, at her textbook, until the sun dips behind the horizon again and the Library is bathed in darkness. Students had come in and out, but Hermione hadn't registered any of them, their presence nothing but irrelevant background noise. Her body hadn’t warned her of the hours as they passed, and neither hunger nor thirst had pierced that quiet that had fallen over her.

Only a remote sense of self, of reality, pushes her to get up from that table when the first lamps start to flicker out, gather all her things, and head back to the Gryffindor Dormitory.

She’s glad not to see any of her friends on the way there. Not Harry, not Ron, and not Ginny. Not anyone who would take one look at her and note the emptiness she feels in her eyes, in her mind, in her soul; emptiness filled with a roaring silence that she does not know how to possibly conceal.

Hermione heads up the stairs towards her shared bedroom, giving all her attention over to the methodical actions of getting ready while trying to be as quiet as possible as to not wake up Ginny, letting the steady feeling of routine fill her thoughts.

When she reaches between her mattress and her bedframe for her new batch of sleeping potion, which she’d brewed the previous night with double the amount of Winnivers Root to make it stronger, Hermione drains the whole vial.

She lets the potion work through her, gives herself over to the way it clouds her vision, how it drags her deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.

Yet the roaring in her mind doesn’t relent even as she falls asleep.


The coldness of the dark marble floor of Malfoy Manor seeps through her wet clothes.

Blood. Vomit. Piss.

The smell is atrocious.

The metallic taste in her mouth, choking her, makes her want to vomit again.

She’s lost count of how many hours she’s been on this floor.

Lost count of the cuts, of the punches, of the slaps.

Lost counts of the number of times Bellatrix has used the Cruciatus Curse on her.

Six? Seven?

Her body feels so far away from her mind, yet she still notices the smallest of things.

Like the way her fingers are lying in a puddle of blood, the liquid seeping under her nails.

The way she still has her shoes on. Her feet are uncomfortably tight in them.

The way Malfoy Manor has decorated ceilings. The details look baroque, with delicate swoops and twirls of gold against the black paint.

It reminds her of when she visited Versailles with her parents the summer before coming to Hogwarts.

Her parents don’t remember her anymore.

Bellatrix’s giggle is the only warning she gets before the curse slams into her again.

Her breath is something she no longer remembers, her whole existence narrowing down to the pain driving through her, the way her muscles tear and break apart, the way her vessels explode, blood filling every crevice of her being.

Again and again and again.

Until she knows nothing but pain.

When she opens her eyes again, a grey sky welcomes her.

The sun is hidden away behind thick clouds, and there’s a cold, cold wind blowing through the dead branches far above her.

She gets up on her feet. The wind is harsh against her face.

She looks around.

She’s in a forest. It’s a war zone.

There are bodies everywhere.

Some wear dark, black robes. Silver masks cover their whole faces.

Some do not.

The wounds are not gruesome. Blood doesn’t mar their clothes, or if it does, she cannot see it. Somehow, that makes it worse.

The smell of magic is thick in the air.

It reaches down her throat, up her nose, stealing all her senses. Even her ears are filled with the heavy, cloying hum of deadly magic.

Only her eyes remain untouched, and she uses them to make her way through the bodies.

She tries to count them.

She reaches thirty-seven before she decides to stop.

Some of the corpses are propped against trees. Some are face down in the mud.

The forest around her is the only thing unharmed.

Other than it being dead as forests tend to be in the winter, no spells have marred the bark of the trees.

It’s between two of these trees that she spots someone.

Someone not dead.

Their back is to her, those heavy dark robes like a cloud of darkness around them.

She walks towards them, not bothering to hide her steps as she reaches their side.

She studies the intricate silver mask that covers their face. There are two slits in the mask where the eyes should be, but she can’t make anything out without getting closer.

Their hood is up, shadows falling and hiding their hair.

She looks down at their hands, but those are covered too, covered by pristine, black leather gloves.

They tilt their head, the hood falling lower over their face, and she realizes they’re looking down at something.

She wonders how she hadn’t noticed the body before.

A scream crawls up her throat as she looks down at herself.

The dead-her is wearing her Yule Ball dress, the light blue bright against the muddy ground. Her hair is curled, in that same, intricate up-do she had spent so much time on.

Her eyes are closed, and there’s a soft expression on her face.

She would’ve looked peaceful, were it not for the slash across her neck.

She can see the bone beneath.

She turns to the person next to her, but before even a breath can leave her lips, a cold, harsh pain pierces her gut.

She looks down.

A knife, silver blade gleaming red.

A black glove wrapped around an intricate hilt.

They push the knife deeper and deeper, and she feels it cut through muscle and sinew and organs, feels it when the tip of the blade makes contact with her vertebrae, the sensation one she has never felt before.

She looks up at the person that has just stabbed her, looks through those slits, tries to make out the colour of their eyes again.

She only sees darkness peering back at her.

They lean in, their other hand reaching up to cradle the back of her head.

The embrace pushes the blade deeper into her, and she feels it when it pierces through her back.

Feels the life dripping out of her.

They lean closer, and through the mask, an undefinable voice whispers tenderly.

“Pathetic.”

She closes her eyes.

A moan escapes her throat, the feeling of a cock driving deep into her making her toes curl.

She fists her hands in the silk sheets beneath her, hides her face in the pillow to keep her groans and whimpers from spilling out as that cock fills her up again and again, reaching so deep that she can’t get air into her lungs.

Pleasure rolls through her as a heavy body covers her back, as a hand spears through her hair and pushes her deeper into the mattress.

“Look at how you take it,” they whisper, and that voice, so deep, so gravelly, makes her want to purr in response. “Look at how you take me.”

She pushes back against their thrusts, the sound of their skin slapping together sending her higher and higher.

In a swift move, they pull her up to her knees, her back flush against a hard chest. Broad hands roam over her skin in worship as that cocks keeps pushing inside her, reaching so deep she fears they’ll tear her apart.

Fingers sneak down to her sex, circling her clit again and again.

She can do nothing but hold onto their strong arms as release rushes through her, sending her soul scattering around the room.

They keep rutting into her, over and over, riding her orgasm until she feels them go still and bury themselves deep inside her, until she feels their seed spilling out of her, sliding down her thighs.

She’s still coming down from her peak when their fingers slide through the mess where their bodies are joined, collecting both of their releases.

Then those fingers are at her mouth, pushing inside, staining her tongue.

She closes her eyes and lets herself taste.


Hermione wakes up in a cold sweat.

It’s sometimes mid-morning, if the quiet of the room and the way the sun beats down on her from one of the windows is anything to go by.

Her pulse hammers in her throat as she sits up slowly, laying a hand on her chest and feeling the steady thumping of her heart beneath it.

Considering the shakiness of her bones, she must’ve had another nightmare, though she can’t remember anything about it other than the sensation of having been cold.

A sense of unsettlement crawls over her, as if she’s forgetting something important. It often feels like this, after such dreams. She’s left feeling like hounds are snapping at her heels, yet whenever she turns around to look, nothing but smoke remains.

She needs a shower.

Her clothes are stuck to her clammy skin, and the way the damp fabric clings to her makes her grimace. She gathers her things slowly, letting her body adjust to being awake and feeling the last of the sleeping potion release its hold on her.

The communal bathroom is empty when she reaches it. The cold water of the shower isn’t enough to erase that slimy layer of unease that her dreams have left on her mind. Instead, as she gradually wakes up more and more, that feeling somehow gets worse, the silence that had fallen over her mind last night joining as well, turning it into a dreadful mixture of uneasy nothingness.

It’s not a feeling she’s new to.

She has flirted with it before. With this emptiness and nothingness that seems to surge in her.

It’s something she’d never experienced before the War, but ever since, when its song reaches her ears, Hermione has danced with it, letting it quiet her emotions, letting it quell that need that has steadily been growing in her to just not feel for a bit.

Before the War, she would not have had this need.

Before the War, she had embraced the way she experienced things, the way feelings and emotions would rise unbidden in her, filling her soul and her heart to the brim until she struggled with containing them. Hermione used to feel every emotion so, so deeply. The satisfaction in learning something new, the pride in being someone her friends could rely on. The love she had for them, the desire to see them happy and content. Even the smallest of things, like the taste of chocolate, or the song of an early rising bird, or the sound of the rain on a cloudy autumn day; she used to experience all those things so intensely, so profoundly at times that she’d become overwhelmed by it, to the point where her breath would catch in her throat and tears would well up in her eyes.

She had never truly mastered how not to feel so intensely, and she had never really wanted to. She had liked how she could experience the world, the fact that each one of those sensations, no matter what they were brought upon by, always left her feeling alive and connected to the world around her.

She had loved it, that part of her who could experience the world so much. Feel so much. It had perhaps been the part of herself she had loved the most, held more dearly than all the others. Cherished, protected.

The War had changed that.

After all that pain, after all the wounds the War had left on her, Hermione had come to despise that part of herself that could feel, because it forced her to feel her emotions in such a way that, bit by bit, they ate away at something fundamental in her.

It had started slowly, year by year. She hadn’t even noticed at the time, hadn’t noticed until sometime during the hunt for the Horcruxes, when she’d walked into the forest and screamed and wailed and begged for that part of her that was scared and hurting to disappear, to leave her alone, because she could no longer bear the weight of her fear.

Or perhaps it had been when she’d seen Fred, bloody and lifeless on the floor. When Ron’s scream had cleaved apart something inside her.

Or perhaps it had been when Bellatrix engraved that word into her arm.

Hermione doesn’t really know how or when it happened, just that it did.

She only knows that now, that part of her has become a twisted, ugly thing, something she no longer recognizes, no longer appreciates.

Something that bites and snarls and howls.

The worst thing about it all is that she remembers it all perfectly. How it all felt. In the before, and in the after.

And Hermione can’t deal with that, can’t deal with what it means now to feel.

Feeling nothing would be so much easier.

No feelings, no emotions.

No pain. No fear. No anger.

Sometimes, when she falls deep enough into that never-ending spiral that is her self-hatred, she hears that song, like sweet, sweet oblivion.

So she dances with it, even if she never really manages to hold onto that, no matter how hard she tries.

Perhaps this time she’ll be lucky.

She can only hope.


When she finally makes her way down to the Common Room after having finished showering, she’s greeted by the sight of her friends sprawled onto the various couches and armchairs around the room, talking softly with each other.

Neville is sitting in one of the armchairs closest to the hearth, Luna sitting on his lap, tiny paper butterflies floating in the air in front of her face.

Hermione watches as she sends one of the butterflies floating towards Ginny’s open hand where she’s sitting with Harry on one of the couches, a soft smile on her face. Her hair is messily thrown up in a bun at the top of her head, and Harry is lazily playing with one of the strands that escaped it, twirling it around his finger.

Ron sits at one of the small table, a chess board in front of him, the pieces scattered across the board as if he’d been studying a game.

They still haven’t noticed her.

She might still have time to turn around and head back upstairs. She doesn’t feel like interacting with people today.

As silently as possible, Hermione walks back up one step, never taking her eyes off her friends. She manages to reach the landing without any of them noticing her, and she turns around to race up the rest of the stairs and into her room when—

“Hermione!”

Luna’s bright voice makes her cringe.

“You’re finally up! But where are you going? We’ve been waiting for you!”

Waiting for her? Why had they been waiting for her?

Shit, has she forgotten something? Were they supposed to all be doing something together?

Hermione’s mind doesn’t supply anything, and belatedly she recognizes that even if she has, in fact, forgotten something, she doesn’t really care.

She doesn’t care for much right now, honestly, other than being left alone.

Why had she even decided to come downstairs in the first place? She can’t recall.

Slowly, Hermione turns around, but doesn’t move from her spot at the top of the stairs.

They’re all looking at her now, Luna’s origami falling to the ground with her lack of attention to them.

“You were waiting for me?” Hermione asks, unable to keep from frowning.

“Yes,” Luna answers, turning in Neville’s lap to better look up at Hermione. Her long white hair is twisted in an elaborate braid, tiny purple flowers entwined in the strands. “We wanted to know what happened with Draco.”

Everything in Hermione freezes at the sound of his name from Luna’s lips.

The sound of it rolls over her in an icy wave, the feeling of phantom fingers around her jaw causing her spine to straighten.

What do they know?

The Great Hall had been nearly empty yesterday morning, the few students present too far away from them to have been able to hear Malfoy’s words. She’s not surprised, though, at the fact that news of Malfoy talking to her so publicly has spread. After all, she’d been expecting it, considering how hungry for gossip the students at Hogwarts have always been.

Hermione’s hand reaches for the railing, her fingers starting to tap a steady rhythm on the smooth stone as she contemplates how to best deal with the curious stares coming from her friends down below.

She can’t deny the whole thing, not when she doesn’t know who has seen what, or what the rumours spreading around are. Do they think he just talked to her, or do they know he’d grabbed her roughly?

Best to play it off as something unimportant, before they start asking uncomfortable questions.

Her fingers still on the handrail as she slowly makes her way down the steps. “Nothing really happened,” she says, making her voice as bored as possible. “He just decided he had nothing better to do than insult me.”

“Absolute fucker,” Neville mumbles as she reaches the last step, twisting to hide his face in Luna’s neck, getting a giggle out of her.

“Are you sure?” Ginny asks, worry pulling her brows together over her pretty eyes. She tucks a leg under her, snuggling closer to Harry in a rare demonstration of affection. Most days, Hermione forgets the two of them are still together with how much time they spend separated. “I heard someone say they saw you crying and running out of the Hall.”

Hermione scoffs, ignoring the fact that she would’ve very well done just that in order to get away from his word if only pride hadn’t rooted her to that chair. “As if I could ever care that much about what he says to me.”

She makes her way towards the other armchair by the hearth, the twin to the Luna and Neville occupy. The old leather is slightly warm from the heat of the fire and she tries to settle into it, even though she feels more on edge than she would like.

Ginny’s still frowning at her, and Hermione wishes she could erase that look from her friend’s face. Hermione gives her a small smile, shaking her head softly. “It’s fine, really,” she tells Ginny, hoping it’s going to be enough to stop her from prying.

They’ve given each other this, at least, in these months. The reciprocal favor to not push one another too much on certain things, to avoid having certain conversations that they probably should not have put off.

Ginny, however, must’ve forgotten the memo.

“It’s not the first time he bothers you like this. Are you sure nothing’s going on?” Ginny says, the worry in her voice grating against Hermione’s senses.

Ginny had been there when Hermione had stumbled into Malfoy in Hogsmeade. She had seen how ready Hermione had been to let her fist meet Malfoy’s face. Had seen how riled up he’d gotten her, how his irritating words had burrowed underneath Hermione’s skin and sparked a flame in her.

“What other time?” Neville asks, settling Luna better in his lap so he can look at Hermione.

“Nothing important,” Hermione says, right at the same time as Ginny says, “She almost punched him in the face a while back.”

“What?” Harry asks, gaze bouncing between her and Ginny.

“Yes,” Ginny says before Hermione can get a word in. “When we went to Hogsmeade. I found Mione talking with him, literally about to punch him in that pretty face of his.”

“Pretty face?” Harry asks her, a bewildered look in his eyes. Ginny rolls her eyes, slapping a hand against his chest, a smile pulling at her lips. Harry chuckles at the move, and Hermione’s heart squeezes at hearing him laugh. She so rarely hears him laugh nowadays, such a contrast to the way he had shared his laughs so freely when they were younger.

“What did he say to make you want to punch him, again?” Luna asks, looking at Hermione with laughter in her eyes.

“He doesn’t have to say anything to make me want to punch him,” Harry mutters, earning a snort from Ron.

It somehow doesn’t feel right to hear others talk about Malfoy like this.

Not when he’s the reason they’re all alive right now.

That uncomfortable thought that she should be grateful to Malfoy makes itself home again in her mind before she can bat it away, and Hermione has to swallow to get the knot out of her throat.

Gratefulness and Malfoy are two things that she can’t reconcile, doesn’t want to reconcile, and from the strain she catches entering Harry’s eyes, that rare laughter fading away, she thinks that maybe the same is true for him, too.

“He was just being an annoying prick, really,” she says, looking away from Harry.

“When isn’t he?” Neville says, and internally she has to agree.

“Draco is not as bad as you make him out to be,” Luna says lightly, as if she hasn’t just defended the person who, for years, had actively been their greatest rival.

“He’s quite smart, you know,” she continues. Neville’s eyebrows rise and he shoots her an incredulous look. “He is, love,” Luna says, waving her wand, the butterflies strewn on the ground rising again at her command. “I wager he’s as smart as Hermione, if not more.”

Luna’s expression becomes thoughtful, “Draco is… peculiar. Sometimes not even I know what to make of him. Sometimes not even Theo knew.”

Right, Theo. Luna had been friends with Theo before the War.

Hermione had always wondered how the two of them had gotten to know each other, to become friends, but Luna had never shared more about her friendship with Theo other than the confession that they knew each other well. Hermione had always wondered just how well they knew each other.

Luna’s gaze shifts to Hermione’s. “I wonder why he’s taken an interest in you now, Hermione,” she hums, one of the origamis moving through the air towards Hermione, the pretty holographic paper reflecting the orange of the fire in the hearth.

Hermione lays her hand out flat, the tiny paper butterfly weightless in her palm. It looks up at her, the folded sections that form the wings flapping once, twice. Its antennae twists, as if studying her, and with a beat of its wings it rises again, hovering over her open hand before turning around and moving away from her.

She watches as it moves towards the fire, as if attracted to it, flying dangerously close to the flames.

Hermione almost reaches out for it, to push it away from the fire, but something stops her, keeps her rooted to her seat even when the heat of the fire starts charring the paper.

She thinks she might want to prevent it from burning, prevent such a pretty, charming thing from burning to ashes, yet she remains still and watches, unable to tear her eyes away, as a snake of flame whips out, wrapping around the enchanted paper.

The origami lights up in a flare of pale light, ashes raining down on the floor.

“Well, no matter,” Luna says, snapping Hermione’s gaze away from the remains of her friend’s charm. “As long as it doesn’t bother you, it shouldn’t bother us, either.”

Hermione thinks that’s not exactly how things should work, but she keeps her thoughts to herself, giving Luna a small smile. “Yes, no matter. Malfoy isn’t worth enough of my attention for him to bother me, in any case.”

Neville and Ginny chuckle lightly. Something releases in Hermione’s chest at the way some of Ginny’s worry seems to fade away. Ginny leans back against Harry and he reaches down to press a kiss to her temple, pulling her closer to his side.

That silence creeps in again, seeping into every splintered crevice it finds.

“So,” Hermione says, trying to force the attention away from her interactions with Malfoy. She gathers her hair from the back of her neck and pulls the thick strands over one of her shoulders, trying and failing to finger-comb them. “That assignment we have for Potio—”

A groan rises in unison from all of her friends, and Hermione can’t help but let a smile pull at her lips at the sound.

“No, Mione, no studying today,” Ron says, and she twists in her armchair to look at him properly. There’s a smile on his face as he sets the chess pieces back into place. When he looks at her, she finds that they aren’t as foggy as they so often are these days, as they had been that day weeks ago when Harry had dragged him in and he hadn’t even noticed she’d been in the room.

Hermione hasn’t forgotten his words, hasn’t forgotten how they’d made her feel, but somehow the pain of it is lessened by the way he’s looking at her now, amusement glittering in his blue eyes.

“We’re going to Hogsmeade for brunch,” he announces, and Ginny lets out a small whoop. “We’ve all been waiting for your lazy arse to get up, so let’s go before I start eating the chess pieces.”

Hermione rolls her eyes at him, but can’t help but agree that it sounds like a nice idea.

The sun is shining brightly outside, and she can imagine the way the crisp air and the warmth of the rays may feel on her face.

Perhaps going out for a bit might be good for her. Hanging out with her friends, laughing, eating something sweet.

It’s what she should want to do, isn’t it?

What she should be looking forward to. What she should be happy for.

Deep inside, she feels like she doesn’t have the energy for it anymore.

She just has this deep, unending silence roaring in her soul.

She shakes her head, trying to clear her mind enough to gather that mask that she’s perfected and force it on, locking it down tight so that the emptiness that she feels doesn’t peek through.

Yes, hanging out with her friends is what she should do, if only to keep them from looking too closely at her. If only to reflect some of their delicate happiness back at them, hoping that they mistake it for her own.

If only to keep her act up.

Ron gets up, heading to one of the tables closest to the corridor that’ll lead them out of the dormitory. It’s stacked with coats and scarves and hats, and she can’t explain how she hadn’t noticed it before.

Ron picks up his coat and what she’s pretty sure is Harry’s, throwing it at him. It smacks Harry right in the face, causing Ginny to cackle loudly at the undignified yelp that Harry lets out.

“C’mon, get up,” Ron says, shrugging on his coat. “Butterbeer awaits.”

Luna jumps off Neville’s lap, skipping to get her coat, and Neville follows suit.

“I’ll go get my things,” Hermione says, rising from her seat to head up her stairs to grab her coat and scarf.

Everyone is bundled up by the time she gets back downstairs, as is she, her favourite Gryffindor scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, covering half her face.

She reaches her friends, hooking her arm through Ginny’s. When had they last gone out all together like this? Simply going out to enjoy each other's company?

She can’t remember.

It seems like a step forward, somehow. She recognizes it as such, even though she doesn’t feel like a participant in it, not really.

Ron and Neville lead the way, talking loudly about what they’ll get for lunch and betting on how many butterbeers they can drink in under one minute, Ginny laughing loudly at their unrealistic forecasts.

A step forward, indeed.

Too bad she doesn’t know how to move forward anymore.


Draco spends the rest of the weekend either in his bed, staring at the ceiling; by the lake, gazing out at its murky waters in the hopes of glimpsing something; or in the forbidden section of the Library.

All the while, he thinks about Granger.

Be it day or night, at any moment of the day, Granger fills his thoughts, heating his blood to the point of boiling.

He can’t stop going over every single one of their interactions. He can’t walk into the Library without recalling how she’d felt, soft and pliant in his arms. He can’t pick up his wand without remembering how hers had felt under his chin, how her eyes had filled with such viciousness the second before she’d hexed him. Can’t turn the pages of his books without remembering her in that bookstore, flames in her eyes and the taste of her skin on his lips for the first time.

The words he spoke in the Great Hall repeat on a loop through his mind, the truth of them echoing again and again.

Such a waste, he thinks, for someone like her to choose to lie, to hide and cower and act like that.

He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t grasp how someone might lower themselves that way.

He’s had to act too, in his life. He knows what it means, to have to force yourself to be someone you are not, to say and do things out of fear, too scared to face the reality of yourself.

But he had to do it out of self-preservation.

He had to do it for his parents.

So much at the time had depended on him, his every action measured against an impossible scale, each wrong move risking him the only two people who, no matter how flawed, how imperfect, had always put him first. Had always loved him.

So he’d laid down and taken it all like a bitch, no matter how much he hadn’t wanted to, no matter how much he could see it hurt his parents, his Mother most of all.

But they’d all been too scared of Voldemort to do anything about it, too scared of the repercussions that may befall them were they to give in to what they truly wanted. What he truly wanted.

So he’d acted, and had been a version of himself he hadn’t liked, if just to have a winning shot at making it through the other side.

Something had rotten in him because of it, though. A part of him had festered and decayed, the cost of his lies being his soul.

It had been that or death, though, so he’d taken the coward’s way out.

Yet Draco had been tempted, at times, to give into the illusion, to burn to ashes the tattered remains of his true self and just become who he had to pretend to be. To just become that soulless, dangerous Death Eater they had all wanted him to become. Voldemort’s most loyal dog. He imagined it might’ve been easier, less dangerous than playing pretend.

But not even Lucius had ever truly given in to such a temptation. And although the repercussions of all his wrong decisions had caught up to his Father in the end, Draco had seen the smile on his Father’s face when Harry had finally killed the Dark Lord.

So even if he’d been tempted to fall into that dark pit and leave who he thought he was behind, Draco hadn’t been able to. Something had always held him back, a tiny scrap of his soul seemingly holding on to the hope that he wouldn’t have to be that way forever.

And although Draco had hated that part of himself, had been disgusted by it, he’s glad for it now. It would’ve made him even more of a coward if he’d given into those thoughts, if he’d let himself be persuaded by the nothingness he would’ve felt if he’d given in.

Which brings him back to Granger. Who clearly finds herself in a similar situation but has chosen to take the wrong way out of it.

He’d seen it, in her eyes. That emptiness.

In the Great Hall, when she’d turned her head away, when that tear had fallen, he’d seen it.

Had watched that emptiness seep into her.

Draco had seen it in her eyes before, on some of her bad days. But it had always been a fleeting thing, and in some way or another, it was always replaced by some other emotion. Anxiety, frustration, anger.

But that day, that emptiness had seemed to gain the upper hand.

It somehow makes Granger even more pathetic. That she’s so far gone that she’d let that emptiness really take root, that she’d give into its temptation.

It would be truly pitiful if she were to give in to it.

Good thing Draco’s not going to let her; because if Granger gives into it, if she falls in the arms of that thing, he’s going to lose his chance at breaking her himself.

She’s going to become a walking void, and from what he knows about her, that will mean that she’ll become impassable, unshakable. She’ll bury feelings so deep within herself that Draco knows no matter what he does, he won’t get a reaction out of her.

Life won’t get a reaction out of her.

There are two reasons why Draco can’t stand for that to happen.

First, if this comes to pass, he won’t be able to expose her to everyone else. Or better, he could, but she wouldn’t care about it. She wouldn’t believe his words, wouldn’t be scared of them, and that would take away the fun of it all.

He wants to have that power over her. Some part of him needs it. Needs her to know that he sees right through her, and that he could be the one to show the rest of the world who Hermione Granger has become.

Second, if she hides herself in that darkness, she’d be hiding her scars, too.

Draco knows the War has left scars on her, just as it has left them on him, and on Theo, and on Potter and Weasley and on all of the others who lived through the War.

Somehow, it would feel like an injustice; feels disrespectful, almost, towards what they’ve lived through, towards him, if Granger were to hide her scars.

He can’t really understand it, this feeling of indignation he gets when he thinks about it. Almost as if by hiding the parts of her that have been changed, she’s discounting the parts of the others that have changed, too.

The parts of Draco that have changed, that have been transformed by all of that he’s gone through.

It doesn’t sit well with him, because Draco is proud of his scars.

They are, perhaps, the only thing about himself that he is proud of.

He might accept others not being proud of their scars, even Granger. What he cannot accept is shying away from them. Hiding them. Acting as if they don’t exist.

His parents had their own wounds, their own scars, but neither of them had ever recoiled from them, or shielded Draco from them. They had accepted them as parts of themselves, and Draco, in turn, had accepted them too. They had never talked about them, of course, but simply by not hiding the difficult parts of themselves born from those scars, his parents had taught Draco something important.

Something he had only truly understood after the War was over, after he had been able to assess his wounds and the scars they would become.

They had taught him that those scars were worth something.

That he would be worth something, if only because of the scars marring his soul.

Granger doesn’t get this. Doesn’t have respect for it.

He can’t stand it.

Which is why he’s made her that promise. To see this through, to tear her open and show her that nothing good ever comes out of being a coward.

He might’ve also made that promise because he wants something more from her.

After all, he should get something out of it other than the satisfaction of breaking her, shouldn’t he?

That isn’t enough for him anymore. Hasn’t been since he’s tasted her wetness in that Library.

She’ll have to make it up to him somehow.

After all, though he’s not doing it for her, he is doing her a favour by showing her the error of her ways. By breaking her, he’ll be giving her the opportunity to stitch herself back together into something better than what she currently is.

He deserves compensation for it.

Her begging on her knees for him should do just fine.


The next time he sees Granger is mid-way through Tuesday morning.

He’s walking back from his Divination class, glad to have gotten that over with. He has other classes to attend, technically, but he doesn’t care enough about them to show up. His plan for the rest of the day is to go back to his dorm and finish reading the book he’d gotten from the forbidden section of the Library last night.

Amidst thinking about how best to shatter Granger’s tenuous hold on herself, he’d also been trying to figure out a way to get his letters to pass through the heavy wards and spells that prevent them from leaving the school without being detected. He’d found a spell which could be used, if the wizard casting it was careful and skilled enough, to pass through the strongest of wards undetected. The book had described the spell as one to be used when finding yourself trapped in such wards, but Draco is sure that with just a bit of tweaking, he might be able to use one of those spells to get his letters to St. Mungo. And perhaps to Blaise, too.

Draco hasn’t been able to crack it yet, but he’s sure he’ll manage soon enough.

He’s thinking about one of the modifications that might work, the substitution of a word in the spell that would hopefully create a small hole in the wards rather than tear them completely apart, when a chiming laugh catches his attention.

He raises his gaze from the ground to see Granger and Luna Lovegood walk towards him.

Granger’s laughing, her face turned towards Lovegood, who is wearing some weird kind of sunglasses on her face, the silver of them bright against the blue of her robes. Her hair, lighter even than Draco’s, is piled high at the top of her head in an incredibly messy thing, and her hands are extended in front of her face, as if reaching for something that only she can see.

Which, he supposes, considering who Lovegood is, might be true enough.

Granger’s hands reach out for one of Lovegood’s arms, pulling it down and wrapping around it as if to keep her friend from wandering away.

Draco’s eyes narrow when Lovegood says something that makes Granger chuckle again, the sound of it grating across his skin almost uncomfortably.

He realizes he’s stopped in the middle of the corridor when someone bumps into him, knocking him forward. He whips his head around, the younger Hufflepuff student who has walked into his back paling at the sight of his glare, immediately stuttering out apologies and scurrying away from him, as if Draco would’ve jinxed him on the spot.

Which, fair enough. He had done it in the past.

When he turns back around, fixing his robe from where it had slipped on his shoulders, big brown eyes catch his.

Granger’s steps falter, as if not wanting to take another step closer to him.

The smile that still rests on her face slips away as Draco rakes his gaze over her, noting the way the bags under her eyes seem a little bit darker, the way her tie is slightly skewed.

He stays perfectly still as Lovegood keeps walking forward, chasing after whatever it is she’s seeing, inevitably dragging Granger along with her.

It feels like time slows down around him the longer Granger looks at him, as if she can’t force herself to lower her eyes from his.

He hasn’t seen her since that morning.

With every reluctant step she takes towards him, her face seems to drain of emotion, the smile dropping, an unnatural stillness falling over her features. Her eyes seem to glaze over as if going out of focus, as if she’s not seeing him anymore.

He bets his words are echoing in her mind right now.

Draco takes a step forward, moving towards her. He lets a smirk form on his lips, the one that he knows always gets under her skin, and pushes his hands in his pockets, straightening his back with every step, making the most of his height to take up as much space as possible.

His first step seems to snap Granger out of her thoughts, and he watches as her eyes fall to his smile, her eyes narrowing.

Draco thinks he sees her grip tighten on Lovegood’s arm, swears he sees a muscle in her jaw flutter.

For a second that emptiness recedes, and that lovely anger of hers takes its place.

It reminds Draco of all the times she’s glowered at him recently, and he decides that he likes her best when she’s angry at him.

Wants her the most when she’s angry at him.

He wants her to let that part of herself out, wants her to release her hold on it so that it can come out and play with that beast he has inside, so that they might discover what they’ll make of each other then.

Draco lets some of that heat rise in his eyes and drags his gaze over her form, lingering just a little bit longer over her breasts, her neck, those places where he’s tasted her skin.

They’re almost in front of each other when he lifts his gaze to her face again. There’s a sneer pulling at her lips, as if she hadn’t appreciated him looking at her like that, and he almost finds it amusing.

As if Granger hadn’t enjoyed riding his face and his fingers.

Draco winks at her, delight rushing through him at the way Granger’s expression becomes even angrier, her cheeks growing a delightful shade of red.

There’s no trace of that coldness in her face anymore, as if the reminder of what they’d done in that room had sparked enough anger in her to push away her other thoughts.

Draco lets his eyes fall to her lips for just a second before he moves his eyes away.

When he steps up next to her he keeps his gaze straight ahead but moves close enough to let his arm brush her shoulder.

Granger flinches away from the contact, stepping closer to Lovegood, and he can’t keep his huff of amusement to himself, knowing perfectly well just how much it’ll bother her.

He walks away from her knowing she’ll be thinking of him for the rest of the day.


That evening, after having spent the majority of his day pouring over that ancient book of spells, Draco goes to take a shower in the Slytherin Prefect’s bathroom.

The room is empty when he gets there, and he locks the door so as to not be disturbed. He strips and heads for the shower, which is elegantly tiled in black, a silver snake engraved on the tiles on the floor.

The water crashes down his back when he turns it on, and he lets it rain down on him, his cold skin heating up.

As he lets the water fall down his body, Draco’s thoughts drift, jumping from the spell he might’ve found a solution for, to Pansy’s cousin and Blaise’s family, to his mother in that hospital room, and to hundreds of other things.

Inevitably, though, his thoughts circle back to Granger.

To the colour of her cheeks when she blushes, so similar to the shade of red her arse had turned when he’d spanked her. To the way she’d tasted when his tongue had been deep inside her, his whole face pressed close to her core. To the way Granger had unconsciously ground her hips down, urging him to taste all of her.

To the way she looks when she glares at him.

It doesn’t take long for his cock to grow hard, for his imagination to let loose. He turns his face up to the spray, closing his eyes and letting the water trail down his face, his lips, his chest. He wraps a hand loosely around his dick, pumping it up and down as he recalls how Granger’s breasts had felt in his hands, how she’d moaned when he’d grazed his teeth over her nipples. He feels himself getting harder as he swipes his thumb over the tip, as he imagines how it must feel to do the dirtiest of things to her.

To push her on her knees and tell her to hold her breasts tight together, to slide his dick between them for a bit. He’d rub the head of his cock against her reddened lips, letting her lick and taste to her heart’s content before forcing himself past her lips. How having her swallow around him must be like, pushing himself down her throat until she’d start gagging and gasping for air, tears falling from her eyes. He’d make her take all of him in her hot mouth, pulling away only to come all over her face and chest, then gathering it up and making her suck his release from his fingers.

His hand moves faster over his cock, squeezing just enough that a shiver of pleasure courses through him. His breath catches when he reaches the tip, and he lets his nails scrape lightly on his way down. He drops his head, leaning against the wall with his other hand as he pictures what she’d look like painted in his seed.

He’d mark her like that over and over again, coming on her breasts, on her stomach, on her back. He imagines what it would be like to take her in his bed, to have her sprawled on his sheets, writhing in pleasure only he could make her feel as he’d thrust in her over and over again. He’d force her thighs apart, digging his fingers into the soft skin of them. He’d fuck her until she’d grow sick of it, until the pleasure would build and build in him and he’d make a mess of her pretty little cunt, and then he’d eat her out until she’d clench so tightly around nothing that his seed would rush out of her, and he’d have to push it back inside.

He’d take her arse, too, fuck her there while his fingers plunged in her cunt, until it would become too much, until she’d be so full of him she’d forget how pleasure before him had felt.

Draco’s fist flies over his cock, that delicious pressure building at the base of his spine. His arm starts shaking from the strain that grows under his skin, from the pleasure rolling through him at his thoughts.

What would Granger look like with bruises in the shapes of his fingertips over her neck, her hips? Would she struggle against him if he were to hold her down by her throat as he drove into her? Would she claw at his hand, leave scratches over his chest and back even as she moaned until her throat was sore? Or would she give in to it, letting him choke her until she’d get lightheaded, until the pleasure would heighten to something she’d never felt before, and she’d come around him, squeezing him hard?

Would Granger look at him as she came? Would she whimper his name with every thrust?

Release barrels through Draco, shaking him deep in his core as he finishes himself off, splattering against the tiles.

It takes him a couple of seconds to catch his breath again, to blink his eyes open and lift his forehead from where he’d dropped it against his arm.

The last of his orgasm tingles through him as he washes himself, hissing at how sensitive he is, his legs feeling weak.

If just thinking of her makes him come this hard, he has to wonder how it’ll be when he’ll actually get to fuck her.

He’s not sure he can wait long to find out.

Notes:

thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story!! I loved writing Draco's pov in this chapter, he's my darling bastard hehe <3 I'm having so much fun with it and falling more and more in love with it each day!

once again thank you to my dear friend Raquel for beta reading this and to every single one of you who has left a kudos or a comment, they always make my day!! <3

Chapter 7

Notes:

a little bit later than usual, but I hope what happens here makes up for it ;)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It’s sometimes close to one in the morning when Hermione decides that a trip to the Library is in order.

All week, she’s been trying to translate a piece of an ancient folklore text for her Runes project, an old recounting of how some of the first wizards in Central America had managed to trap the wild spirit terrorizing their community in a circle of stones which were to never ever be disturbed, using a primitive yet effective bit of warding magic.

The assignment has been driving her mad. Runes has never been her favourite subject, and she’s been stuck on a tricky paragraph close to the end of the text for days, unable to figure out what the combination of old runes truly means. The text describes the way the wizards had spelled the rocks to contain the spirit, yet she still hasn’t managed to translate the whole piece properly, struggling with translating the description of the ritual the wizards had apparently used to turn the stones into spirit-containing objects. Hermione highly doubts those wizards had truly ‘dipped the stones in their lover’s entrails, twice over’, as her latest attempt at translation suggests; therefore she’d decided that another trip to the Library was necessary, if only to see if she could finally manage to complete her translation, finish her assignment, and finally start her Defense against the Dark Arts one.

This week, more than all the other weeks before, Hermione has thrown herself into her work with her utmost dedication. She’d finished her Potions assignment Wednesday, though it isn’t due for another two weeks. She’s made progress with her Runes work and she’s managed to make her outline for her DADA one, though both of them are due in a month’s time. Whenever she hasn’t been working, she’s been doing independent reading, studying the new Magical Creatures Reform Act the Ministry is trying to pass, an awful piece of legislature that limits the rights of Magical Creatures to receive free public healthcare if their injuries are brought upon by ‘means of their natures’. It implies that treatment for injuries that creatures such as Werewolves suffer during the full moon will no longer be subsidized by the government, and that any creature who would like to make use of governmental healing facilities would have to pay for their treatments out-of-pocket.

Hermione finds it absolutely repulsing, a blatant attempt at punishing Magical Creatures, even when they’d helped them win the War.

So, since Hermione finds it absolutely disgusting, and since part of her still remembers how she’d wanted to become a judge when she was a kid, in parallel with all her school assignments she’s been looking for text and historical cases that would prove that the Ministry’s new act is both unconstitutional and morally unacceptable. She plans to put together enough evidence to sustain a case against the passing of the act, which she’s decided she’s going to share with Professor McGonagall as soon as she can to see if she could somehow get it to a Magical Creatures Attorney for review.

All of this, of course, has been very, very, useful in distracting her from Malfoy. It’s been so useful, in fact, that she’s managed to not think about Malfoy for a solid eighty percent of her time.

The remaining twenty percent, unfortunately, has been tainted by thoughts of him.

She’s been good at avoiding him as much as possible throughout the school. She’s taken to going the long way between classes, if only to keep away from those corridors where she might catch sight of him, to avoid a repeat of that staredown they’d had a few days back, which had left her feeling unbalanced and jittery. She’s also been sitting with her back to the Slytherin table every time she sits down to eat in the Great Hall, studiously ignoring the weight of Malfoy’s stare on her back and trying to do her best to participate in conversation with her friends.

However, no matter how much she throws herself into her work, no matter how much she tries to keep a tight leash on her thoughts, he keeps sneaking past her defences.

And with thought of him comes either loud, empty silence; or a roaring flame of anger and frustration.

It is always either one of the two.

When it’s the silence, she feels herself shut down, feels her mind quiet, all her other thoughts escaping until she’s left with his voice, his words ringing in her head and the sour taste of disgust on her tongue. All the memories of the bad things she’s had to do during the War seem to rush in, overwhelming her. Her brain turns into her harshest critic, compiling all the ways in which she’s failed, cataloguing all the things she hates about who she’s become. It all makes her feel stupid and insignificant.

It’s easier when it’s the anger. When the thought of Malfoy’s face, his smirk, the amusement she sometimes catches in his eyes ignites a flame in her, anger runs hot in her veins until all her energy and magic coil tightly in the centre of herself. In those moments she wants to fight him, wants to face off against him, to throw herself at him with all her energy, hex him and curse him and hurt him until she dispels all her frustration.

Although the anger is easier to deal with than the silence, Hermione has understood that it’s much more dangerous. Because she’s realized that it takes nothing, in those cases, for her thoughts to shift, for her mind to conjure not his angry stare, but the way he’d looked in that storage room, on his knees in front of her, a flush on his cheeks and her release on his lips. It takes nothing for her body to remember how his hands had felt on her, how his cock had been hard against her arse in that Library, how he'd made her feel.

It’s very dangerous, indeed, because when Hermione lets those thoughts linger, when she lets her body relieve those sensations, she realizes just how much she wants more of it.

Just how much she wants another taste of him.

She shouldn’t, she really, really shouldn’t. She doesn’t even understand why her body and mind have decided that he is what they want. His hands, his tongue, his teeth on her skin.

It would be so much simpler if it was someone else.

Yet something about their games, something about knowing that whenever it’s just the two of them, Malfoy’s entire attention is on her, sparks a need deep inside of her that she doesn’t know how to quell—isn’t sure she wants to quell.

Which is why Hermione can, under no circumstance, find herself alone with him again. Why she can’t let her mind follow those self-indulgent thoughts. It’s why she’s been keeping her brain busy as much as possible, because if she’s busy with work, then she hopefully won’t think about Malfoy, won’t think about him and all the complex, contrasting things he makes her feel, things she doesn’t know how to deal with.

It’s why she’s decided that going to the Library late at night is a good idea. Otherwise, with the new batch of her sleeping potion still brewing, she’d have been left alone with her thoughts. And that would’ve been too risky.

Hogwarts is, as usual, dark and cold as Hermione makes her way to the Library. Her slippers pad softly against the stairs as she makes her way down from the Gryffindor Dormitory, the occasional portrait cracking open a sleepy eye as she walks past them.

The Library is dark when she gets there, the chair opposite her usual one empty when she reaches her self-assigned table. She releases a breath at that, annoyed at the disappointment that she feels at the view, turning away from the table and heading instead towards the Ancient Runes section, hoping to find something that’ll help her and that’ll keep her mind busy a little bit longer.


The Tower Clock strikes three in the morning when Hermione finally decides to call it quits. She’s found three different tomes that had interesting sections relating to the runes she has to translate, and she’s made good enough progress in the past two hours that she’s sure, come morning and come a slightly more awake brain, she’ll be able to finish the assignment.

Satisfied with what she’s managed to achieve—and satisfied that her thoughts have only strayed once—she puts the books back in their correct places, gathering the few pieces of parchment on which she’d jotted down her notes and stuffing them in the pocket of her cardigan.

The halls are even quieter than they’d been before as Hermione makes her way back towards the Gryffindor Dormitory. Her mind is still stuck on her Ancient Runes project, and she pulls her notes from her pocket as she waits for the moving stairs to stop at the right landing for her to head back to her dorm, re-reading over her writing to see if something new might click. When the stairs stop at the right landing, the sound of stone sliding smoothly over stone interrupting her thoughts, Hermione pushes her notes back in her pocket, grabbing onto the handrail, and starts the trek up the many stairs.

It isn’t until she’s reached the last flight of the stairs, the one which will then lead her down the corridor that’ll bring her to the painting of the Fat Lady, that she realizes there’s someone waiting for her at the top.

And that someone is still wearing his dark slacks and white shirt, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, a dark grey Slytherin vest on top of it.

Malfoy’s robes are nowhere to be seen, his tall form on display as he leans against the wall at the top of the landing, hands in his pockets. His hair is a mess, strands falling around his face. There’s an intensity in his gaze as he stares down at her that makes her stop in her tracks, one foot raised on the first step.

There’s no smirk on Malfoy’s face as he moves away from the wall, as he starts making his way down the stairs, slow step by slow step, never once taking his eyes off her.

Involuntarily, she takes a step back, her heart starting to beat an unsteady rhythm in her chest.

There’s a predatory intent in each one of his movements, she realizes, one she’d glimpsed before but has never seen revealed so brazenly, has never felt so openly trained on her.

Malfoy keeps walking down the stairs, closer and closer to her, and Hermione’s body feels frozen, trapped in his stare. Her breath starts coming faster, her muscles tensing as if getting ready to spring. He’s halfway down the flight of stairs when he takes his hands out of his pockets, his long fingers clenching into fists by his sides, his expression turning from that cold intensity to something darker, something meaner.

He opens his mouth to say something but Hermione doesn’t wait to hear what he has to say before turning around and flying down the stairs. She crosses the landing and grabs onto the closest handrail, using her momentum to swing herself around the corner and down the next staircase.

She doesn’t have to turn around to know that he’s chasing her, the sounds of his shoes against the stone the only thing she hears as she runs down the stairs, urging her body to go faster, to put more distance between them.

Granger!” Malfoy’s voice is an angry hiss behind her but Hermione doesn’t let it affect her, doesn’t let it slow her as she reaches the bottom of the next flight of stairs, crossing the landing and heading downwards.

Her blood is rushing in her ears, fear and something else mixing in her veins as she keeps running away from him. She reaches for her hair, freeing her wand from the bun she’d pushed it into, gripping it tightly and letting her hair fall down her back.

She knows she can’t hex him right now, knows that although the portraits might not report two students running around late at night, they will definitely report her were she to use magic so openly against him; yet the feel of the wood of her wand in her hand is reassuring, even as she keeps running away from him.

She reaches the next landing just when one of the moving staircases gliding in from above stops, and she wastes no time rushing up it. She knows where this one leads. She’ll either have the option to go left and keep going up towards the highest levels of the school, or turn right down the Ravenclaw corridor.

But Malfoy is right behind her, and she knows if she doesn’t do something right now he’ll reach her before she gets to the top of the stairs. Something tells her that she can’t afford for that to happen, that she won’t like what he’ll do once he reaches her, so in a split-second decision, her fingers tightening around her wand, Hermione twists just enough to cast a spell over her shoulder.

It’s a simple wordless spell, one that she’s cast thousands of times before on Harry and Ron. It makes Malfoy stumble behind her, his loud “ Fuck! ” the only indication that she’d aimed correctly.

It buys her enough time to reach the landing, to push herself to run towards the corridor to her right. She’s walked down this corridor enough times with Luna to know that the Ravenclaw Dormitory is mid-way down, but she doesn’t head for it, knowing that she won’t be able to hide in there.

Her lungs burn with every step she takes. She doesn’t dare to look behind her shoulder again to see how close Malfoy is. She can feel him behind her, can feel him getting closer even as she pushes her body to go faster, her heart pumping wildly.

Her slippers slide on the smooth marble floor as she turns the corner at the end of the corridor and she crashes against the opposite wall, her shoulder bearing the brunt of the hit. Bright pain flares from the point of impact, and she loses a few precious seconds in righting herself, her momentum gone.

She’s just managed to push herself away from the wall, to start running again, towards the next corner and the stairs that lie behind it, which will lead her up to the Divination tower, when a hard body slams into hers.

She’s slammed against the wall, a hand in her hair forcing her face against the gritty stone.

Malfoy presses his body against her, his other hand wrapping around the hand in which she’s holding her wand, forcing it against the wall and squeezing her wrist tightly. Her bones grind together, the pain sharp, causing her fingers to splay and making her drop her wand, the wood clattering loudly against the floor.

She’s been in this position before, during the War, a Death Eater at her back, a wand at her temple.

The memory pushes her to struggle against Malfoy’s hold, trying to free her wrist. Her other arm is trapped between her body and the wall, Malfoy’s weight too much against hers for her to manage to slip her arm free.

Malfoy’s breath is hot in her ear as he bends down, his chest heaving from the chase. “Are you quite done, Granger?”

“Fuck off,” she snarls. He presses her face harder against the stone, the rough texture of it scratching her cheek.

“Are you,” Malfoy hisses, his grip tightening in her hair, body pressing closer. “Quite done, Granger?”

She wants to yell at him, wants to hiss and scratch and bite him again. She struggles, pushing back against him, trying to create enough space between her body and the wall to free her other arm.

Malfoy pushes even closer, so close she can feel him everywhere, so close the only thing her body can register is the adrenaline running through her, his breath brushing her cheek, the weight of his hand wrapped around the nape of her neck.

“If you don’t stop fighting me,” he says, voice as low and deep as she’s ever heard it. He leans down closer to her, running the tip of his nose along her temple. “I’ll have to take you right against this wall.”

The words send a bolt through her, her struggles immediately ceasing. Malfoy tilts her head slightly from where it’s pressed against the wall, exposing more of her neck to him. She feels him swipe his tongue over the column of her throat, a single, dirty lick that makes her shudder.

She closes her eyes when he presses his hips into her, when she feels how hard he already is.

“Would you like that, Granger?” he purrs, his fingers squeezing her neck when she tries to move away from his mouth, his words. The adrenaline coursing through her turns into molten heat in the span of a second, her breath catching in her lungs for a reason that has nothing to do with their chase.

“I think you would,” he says, his teeth catching at her earlobe. She has to shut her eyes tighter, has to concentrate on the feel of the stone against her cheek, of the pain in her wrist, on anything but the way his hips press harder against her arse.

“I know I would,” he whispers in her ear, and she wishes she could get the words out of her mouth, wishes she could tell him that she wouldn’t like it, that she wants him to let her go, to back away.

But it would be a lie.

“You can put on quite the little show, can’t you, Granger? Making me chase after you. I should’ve figured you’d be into that.”

She can’t stand it, can’t stand to have his body so close, can’t stand his voice, the way each word out his mouth makes her tremble.

“I’ve caught you, though.” His hand moves from her neck to spear deeper into her hair, his fingers tangling in the long strands. “Should your cunt be my prize?”

Hermione curses him out, then starts struggling again at that, desperately trying to free her wrist from his hold, to push him away from her. She manages to wrench her arm free, to lay her hand against the wall and push with all her might. Hermione braces her feet better against the floor, managing to push herself away from the wall enough to lift her face and free her other arm too, twisting so her shoulder isn’t digging into the stone anymore.

But she can feel her muscles shaking from the strain, can feel the way her feet slip on the polished floor, and before she even realizes that it’s happened, her face and chest are once again pressed against the stone wall, both her wrists trapped in Malfoy’s large hand up and over her head.

She snarls at him, the sound coming from deep in her belly, full of frustration and anger and impotency at the way he’s holding her still, his body so much bigger than hers, so much stronger.

Malfoy laughs at that, a husky laugh that makes her go still again at the wildness that rings through it. His free hand sneaks around her front, his broad hand splaying over her stomach and pulling her back towards him, pushing himself harder against her.

“I really do like it when you fight me, Granger.” His fingers dig into her skin, the strength in the grip taking her breath away. “Makes it all the sweeter when you give up.”

Her lungs scream for oxygen as his hand makes its way down her stomach, over her navel. It sneaks underneath the waistband of her pyjama pants. She can’t do anything as his fingers slide under her panties, as he covers her cunt with his whole hand and cups her possessively, pulling her tighter against him, his cock hard against her arse.

“Almost as sweet as this,” he says, before two of his fingers slide between the slickness at her centre, through the undeniable proof that she’s just as affected by this—by the chase, by his strength—as he is.

She shifts so her cheek isn’t against the stone anymore, resting her forehead against one of her arms stretched high above.

Behind her, Malfoy hums, the hand he has her wrists trapped in squeezing tight. His hips push harder into her, and the next thing she knows is the sweet sensation of being filled as those two fingers enter her in a swift, deep move.

A part of her gives up then, gives into the sensations rolling over her, the need clawing its way through her anger, through her fear.

She moans softly as he starts pumping his fingers in and out, bending them just enough so that they smooth over her front walls with every thrust, grazing over that sensitive spot she can never reach on her own.

The feeling of his hand so tightly pressed to her, the coolness of one of his rings over her bare skin, of the heel of his hand pressing against her clit, is enough to have her unconsciously pushing back against him, her fingers clawing at the stone of the wall, trying, in vain, to grab onto something.

Malfoy chuckles, his fingers sliding in and out of her, a slick, slow movement that drives her wild, that makes her hips push against his hand, trying to get him deeper inside her.

“So greedy,” he murmurs, his voice doing wicked things to her. Her cunt squeezes around his fingers, and she shifts on her feet to give him better access, damning herself through every moment of it. “So fucking greedy, Granger.”

Malfoy pushes closer, his grip on her wrists shifting so that their fingers tangle together, his hand covering both of hers. She sways with each thrust of his fingers, seeking more depth, more friction, more fullness. The heel of his palm presses harshly against her clit, the pressure of it delicious but still not enough.

Her nipples are hard, the fabric of her nightshirt rough against them, and she thinks about how his mouth had felt on her breasts, how he’d suckled and bruised and nipped at them, how she’d wanted to push him even closer, to keep him there, pressed against her chest.

She feels his cock twitch against her arse, even through his pants, and he releases a hiss when she pushes harder against him on the next thrust of his fingers.

“Fuck,” he groans, the sound guttural. His fingers slip out of her, his fingertips rising to circle lightly around her clit, in a slow, steady rhythm opposite to the frenetic feeling that’s growing inside of her. It’s delicious, the way it steadily builds, the way his fingers play her body in the most sensual of symphonies, how he knows exactly what to do to make her body sing.

His fingers slow down right as she reaches that crescendo, slipping from her underwear to slide instead under her shirt, gripping one of her breasts roughly. Hermione moans at the force in his grip, the sheer strength she feels in his hand, in his whole body.

Malfoy leans down, close to the bend of her neck, and she moves her head to give him better access, releasing a shaky breath at the first touch of his lips on her skin.

He kisses her neck once, twice, nipping once more at her earlobe before squeezing her breast again, pinching her nipple harshly between his thumb and forefinger. “I want your mouth,” he says in her ear, and for a second she thinks there’s a tremor in his voice, a need that matches hers. “I want to come down your throat.”

“Yes,” she whispers back, not recognizing her own voice, only knowing that she needs that too, needs him in her mouth, needs to wrap her lips around that hardness she hasn’t had the chance to taste yet and swallow him down.

In a swift move, Malfoy turns her around, her back connecting against the wall. Then his mouth is on hers, his tongue grazing her bottom lip, demanding entrance.

She kisses him back furiously, pouring her need for him in the kiss, their lips crashing together, stealing his oxygen from his lungs. She moans when he bends his head and deepens the kiss, arching against him, against the hand still gripping her breast.

Her eyes snap open when he pulls away, when he releases her wrists and pushes her down to her knees in front of him. She follows his demand willingly, her knees crashing against the marble floor of the dark corridor, her joints crying out at the impact. She’s trapped against him and the wall, his crotch level with her face, the outline of his straining cock perfectly visible beneath his pants.

Without even thinking about it, without hesitating, Hermione leans forward, her hands reaching up to grab his hips as she mouths at the outline of his dick, leaving behind wet stains with every kiss. The fabric of his pants is rough against her lips, against her tongue, but she doesn’t care, not when she hears his hiss when she sucks at his head through his pants, taking one hand off his hips to trail her fingers over the hardness trapped beneath the fabric.

Malfoy pushes against her mouth, using one hand to lean against the wall over her, the other one tangling in her hair. When he pulls hard at the strands she whimpers, her eyes rolling back in her head at the sharp pain, at the feeling of being on her knees for him, hands on his body, mouth on his cock. She leans into the sting, looking up at him through her lashes when he pulls again, shivers of pleasure falling down her back, her clit throbbing and her walls clenching around nothing.

He’s breathing heavily, staring down at her with his pupils blown wide, his mouth still wet from their kiss. Even in the dimly lit corridor, she can make out the redness of a blush high on his cheekbones, across the bridge of his nose.

She’s aching with the desire to learn what he tastes like on her tongue, to discover how it will feel to have him thrust in her mouth over and over.

On her knees in front of him, Hermione can’t hide her need for him from herself any longer.


The sight of Hermione Granger on her knees, mouthing at his cock through his pants, hips shifting as if looking for friction, is a sight that Draco will not easily forget.

When she looks up at him through her lashes, her eyes glazed over, as if drunk on it, on him, he almost loses his control, almost rips his pants off and shoves his cock down her throat like he’d dreamed of doing, hard and rough until she’s crying for him.

Instead, he takes a deep breath in, holding the air in his lungs until it burns, then releasing it slowly.

Granger looks beautiful like this, her face open, her wants and needs perfectly exposed. He can read them clearly, the way she’s craving his cock, the way her fingers tighten over his hip bones, one hand still stroking gentle fingers over his straining dick.

“Go on,” he tells her, voice hoarse.

He’d been aroused ever since the chase, and the feeling of her struggling against him, trapped between his body and the wall had only driven all of his blood further south, his dick hardening with each one of her attempts to free herself.

He’d truly almost fucked her then and there, had been this close to pulling her pants down and taking her like that, her face pressed against the stone wall; but the image of his cock between her lips had been haunting Draco for days, ever since that shower, and he hadn’t been able to resist.

He pushes her closer to where he wants her, her eyes flicking down to his crotch, the brown in them completely devoured by black. Her hair is so soft around his fingers as he guides her closer, hips hitching forward when her mouth closes over the head of his cock again, tongue lapping at him through his slacks.

“Take me out, Granger,” he tells her, shuddering when her hands immediately start fumbling at his belt, undoing it and opening his zipper.

Her hot mouth is immediately there, as if she can’t wait a second longer. She reaches in with one hand, her fingers cool against his cock when she takes him out, pulling his pants and underwear down just enough to free his dick.

She holds him in his hand for a moment, her thumb sweeping over the tip, smearing the moisture that’s accumulated there before sliding her fist down, stroking him from tip to base.

Draco hisses at the feeling, her hand barely big enough to wrap around him properly. She does it again, her other hand slipping under his shirt and up his flank, her nails scratching at his waist. On the next stroke downwards he pushes his hips forward, the tip of his cock bumping against her parted lips before he pulls back, her tongue flicking out as if to chase the taste of him, her eyes darting back to his.

“In your mouth,” he tells her, tightening his hold on her hair. “I want your pretty lips stretched around me, Hermione.”

She trembles at the sound of her name, as she always does when he’s the one saying it. Draco can’t help but smirk down at her as her eyes fall back on dick.

Granger wastes no time then, and as her lips wrap around the head of his cock, sucking gently, a groan rumbles through him. The sensation is intoxicating, her mouth wet and warm as she takes more of him in, her tongue swirling around his head.

He lets her explore for a while, lets her take him deeper inch by inch, her hand wrapped tightly around the base of him where she can’t reach. Her tongue presses against the underside of him, then flicks against his slit, pressing there. He groans and Granger does it again, looking at him from beneath her lashes before easing off with a pop, a thread of spit falling from her lower lip.

Granger licks him from tip to base in one long swipe, suckling and leaving kisses all over his cock, as if wanting to taste all of him. When she reaches the base and the patch of hair there she keeps going, pulling his pants further down and taking his balls out, squeezing gently and trailing kisses there too. As she makes her way back to the tip of his cock, his control starts to fray, every lick and suck coiling that pleasure inside him tighter.

When she sucks him back in her mouth, hollowing her cheeks and taking him deep, he decides he’s had enough of this.

Draco doesn’t warn her before thrusting deep into her throat. Granger startles, gagging around him as he pulls back, both her hands flying to his hips to push him away.

She looks up at him again and he lets her take a deep breath in, resting the tip of his cock against her lower lip, before pushing inside again with a deep, slow thrust. She’s better prepared this time and she takes him well, her throat tightening deliciously around his head as he pushes inside, the pressure and warmth of her making him hum.

He keeps her head still as he fucks her throat, going deeper with each thrust, her fingernails digging into his hipbones. On a particularly hard thrust, she gags again, her throat closing around him, making him shake from the pleasure of it.

Granger pulls away then, tears welling up in her eyes as she looks up at him, but her stare is still full of heat, her mouth a sinful shade of red as she parts her lips again, as he pushes inside her mouth once more. She swallows around him on the next thrust, letting him fuck her throat properly, setting up a steady rhythm of short, hard thrusts that unhinge something in him.

When one of her hands leaves his hips to reach inside her underwear, Draco just about loses it, his hips stuttering.

She’s getting herself off while on her knees for me.

It’s hotter than anything his mind could have conjured.

Her hips grind against her hand, fingers circling her clit avidly. He pulls her closer, thrusting in the heat of her mouth again and again, chasing his own release.

He knows when she comes because her body goes still, her eyes falling closed as her orgasm rolls over her. She moans around his cock, her fingernails digging into his waist, and the sting of it, together with the vibrations of her throat as she moans, sets him off.

His orgasm tears through him, the pleasure it brings blinding him as he comes down her throat. He pulls back just enough to spill in her mouth, too, her hand leaving his hip to stroke him through the last of it.

When his heartbeat recedes from his ears and reality filters back in, Draco opens his eyes to look down at her, only to be met with the sight of Granger with his sensitive cock still in her mouth, one hand stroking him gently, the other one still down her pants. She’d shifted enough that he can see two of her fingers pumping slowly in and out of her, as if refusing to let her orgasm end.

Draco slips his cock from her lips, a thread of spit and come the only thing connecting them. His hand leaves her hair to grip her jaw, and he squeezes his fingers around her face.

“Show me,” he says, his voice gravelly.

Granger’s hand stops its movements, her fingers stilling inside her as she locks eyes with him from beneath her lashes. Slowly, she parts her lips, showing him the mess of his release on her tongue.

Draco hums at the sight of her like this, on her knees, wrecked, mouth red from being wrapped around him, tongue coated in his seed.

He wants to be the only one to ever see her like this.

“Swallow,” he tells her, forcing her mouth shut with his fingers. He watches as she swallows, her throat working. Without him even having to ask she shows him her tongue again, not a trace of him left.

Draco smiles down at her, satisfaction burning in his veins. “Good. Now tuck me back in.” He swipes his thumb over her cheek as she does as he asks, pulling his pants back up and fastening his belt again, the caress made out of possessiveness more than anything else.

“Now get up and show me your hand,” he demands.

Granger slowly takes her fingers out of her knickers, using the hand she still has on his hip to lift herself up. Her legs almost buckle when she rises, and Draco hopes she’ll have bruises on her knees in the morning. He slips his hand from her hair, letting it rest around her waist instead, pulling her closer, wanting to feel her body pressed against his.

Granger looks up at him with glazed eyes as she raises her hand, her fingers shiny with her wetness. Draco looks her in the eyes as he takes his hand off the wall, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and bringing her hand close to his mouth.

“Will you stop ignoring me now, Granger?” he asks, looking deep into her eyes. Something flickers in them at the question, as if his words had cleared some of the desire away from her mind. “Will you stop being a liar and let me do what I have to do? What I promised you I would?”

Draco watches her expression, the two of them so close her breaths play with his hair. Granger searches his face, looking for something he knows she won’t find. Her fingers twitch between them, both their gazes darting to them, to the way they’re still wet with her release.

Draco licks his lips before looking back at her, finding her eyes already trained on him.

Granger’s lips part, her voice husky as she says, “Will you stop looking so closely if I stop it? If I stop lying?”

Draco knows exactly what she means. Knows perfectly well how uncomfortable it makes her feel to know that he sees right through her, past her mask and her lies and into all the damaged pieces of herself; pieces which he doesn’t know the shape of yet but is aware of; perhaps better than anyone else, perhaps better than even her.

Draco can’t read the emotion he finds in Granger’s eyes, can’t understand if it’s defeat or fear or something else that is pushing her to say these things, to admit to him that she’s been lying, to try and compromise. But he doesn’t care to understand.

“Yes,” Draco lies, staring right into those deep brown eyes he can’t always read. “I’ll stop.”

Granger takes him in, and Draco knows she doesn’t believe him. Yet still, she takes him at his word, foolish thing that she is.

Draco wraps his lips around Granger’s finger, swiping his tongue over her skin, tasting the acidic sweetness of her wetness. He watches as her eyes fall to the way her fingers disappear in his mouth, first one, then the other. When Draco slips her fingertip past his lips, nipping gently, her mouth is suddenly there, replacing her hand. Granger kisses him violently, her hands reaching to cup his face, fingers twisting in his hair.

Draco kisses her back, pulling her closer, crushing their bodies together for a heartbeat, tasting himself on her, just as she must be tasting herself on him. An undefinable emotion spears through him when she whimpers against his lips; a soft, needy sound.

He grabs her hands then, drawing his lips away from hers and pulling her fingers away from his hair. He takes a step back, dropping her hands, then another.

Draco looks at her once, eyes snagging on her parted lips, before he turns around and heads towards the corner, heading down the long corridor. He leaves her standing there in the dark, alone, his hands still shaking from pleasure, that single word ringing through him.

Notes:

thank you as always to Raquel for beta reading this for me and to all of you who have left kudos or comments, you really make my day!! <3

Chapter 8

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

She’s in the woods again. But there are no bodies on the ground this time.

Instead, there’s confetti trapped in the mud. Balloons, too, the breeze pushing them along. Some on the ground, some trapped in the branches of the empty trees that surrounded her.

That same taste of magic is in the air, though.

Thick and syrupy, heavy on her tongue. It rings in her ears. It feels like nails scraping on a chalkboard.

She starts walking, directionless, except she knows she’s going in the right direction.

Step after step she walks in the quiet forest. All of it is decorated. Rosettes are nailed to the trunks of the trees. Ribbons lunge from branch to branch.

She swears she sees tables hidden behind some of the trees, heavy with cakes and desserts and food.

It’s as if someone was having a party.

But who would have a party in a forest?

She keeps walking. Step after step after step.

Her feet hurt after a while.

She looks down at her toes. She doesn’t have shoes on. How could she have forgotten her shoes? Her feet are dirty, caked in mud and blood. Is that why they hurt?

The hem of her blue dress is dirty too, and torn.

Her gaze catches on her stomach. There’s a hole in the dress, right at its center. It’s a neat cut, as if it had been done with scissors, or a knife. She stops, reaching a finger in the hole, feeling her cold skin underneath.

She keeps walking. Step after step.

A sound catches her attention and she stops, turning her head towards it.

It’s a laugh. A giggle. High and shrill; crazed, taunting.

She’s heard it once before, though she cannot remember where.

The magic in the forest becomes thicker, pressing in on her, choking her.

She starts running, mud squelching beneath her toes.

She runs past heart-shaped balloons, past colourful ribbons snapping in her face. She runs and runs but cannot run away from that noise, that laugh, the magic that draws closer and closer.

The curse hits her before the next laugh reaches her ears, and with pain searing through her very blood, her very bones, she falls and falls and falls.

She crashes into an ocean, salty water going up her nose, down her throat, stealing her breath away. It feels like salt reaches to her very soul as her dress drags her down, down, but she keeps reaching, reaching up for the surface, for the grey sky she sees beyond.

Her head breaches the waves, oxygen mixing with the water in her lungs.

Strong hands reach for her, grabbing her arms, and she’s pulled, pulled until her toes tangle with sand, pulled until her chest is free of water, her waist, her legs.

She falls onto a shore, but it is not really sand she lands on.

It is bones. Thousands of small, white bones, clacking against one another as she crawls away from the water.

She can’t bring herself to cower from it, not when her whole body is burning, water still sharing space with air within her lungs.

She lets herself lay down, turning so she’s facing the sky. Many tiny somethings poke her back, but she ignores them, focusing instead on calming her heartbeat.

She’s managed to count to thirty-seven when a shadow falls over her, when a hand gathers her hair and starts pulling, dragging her further down the shore, towards something she cannot see.

She struggles, the heartbeat she’d just managed to quell kickstarting again.

Leather meets her fingers when she tries to pry her hair free. Dark robes swirl in the corner of her vision as tears fill her eyes, as the bones tear at her dress and scratch her skin.

She doesn’t know how long they drag her for, just knows that at a certain point it stops.

Just knows that at a certain point they let go of her hair, crouching down next to her.

She sees a dark hood hiding a silver mask.

She sees two slits, a depthless dark within them.

A gloved hand reaches up for her face, fingers trailing down her cheek, and if she had any strength left in her body she would recoil from the gentleness of the touch.

She stares into those slits, tries to make something out, but where the other Death Eaters’ eyes would’ve been, she finds only darkness.

As if only a void exists behind the mask.

Those fingers keep caressing her, brushing a strand of wet hair behind her ear, then doing the same on the other side.

She stills when those fingers move lower, when they wrap at the base of her throat, gently, without applying pressure.

She can feel their stare on her, feels it like an inevitable thing as they slip their other hand within their dark robes, pulling out a gleaming silver knife.

Yes, a voice in her mind whispers.

Yes, it hisses, even as she starts crying, as her tears flow and flow from her eyes.

Yes, it hums, as they lay the blade beneath her jaw, the metal frighteningly cold against her skin.

And as they slide the knife across her throat, she thinks she’s heard that voice before.


The Great Hall is in an uproar when Hermione makes her way towards the Gryffindor table the next morning.

Students are clustering together, owls sweeping in left and right. Copies of the day’s Daily Prophet are flying around, students reaching up to snap them mid-air, gasping at the headlines.

Harry makes space for her on the bench when Hermione reaches her friends. Neville, Ginny and Ron are staring at a copy of the Daily Prophet on the other side of the table, eyes roving over the front page.

Hermione sits down, immediately turning to Harry. “What’s going on?”

Harry, his elbows on the table, plate full of food pushed away from him, turns to face her, his green eyes heavy behind his glasses.

Without waiting for his reply Hermione reaches across the table, snatching the paper from her friends, ignoring their grumbling as she starts reading the short article on the front page, beneath a huge picture of Merissa and Blaise Zabini.

 

British Wizards Attacked in Germany! Merissa and Blaise Zabini are among the dead!

 

In an unprecedented attack, five wizards have been killed in the town of Bevern, Germany. The group of wizards, which includes British citizens Merissa Zabini, Blaise Zabini, Emily Rott, Marcus Rott, and Cecily Rott, were found dead in an abandoned house on the outskirts of the German town.

No news of Merissa Zabini, nor of her son, Blaise, had been heard of before yesterday. Mother and son had disappeared after the War, refusing to appear at the Ministry-ordained Death Eater Trials this past summer.

Husband and Wife Marcus Rott and Cecily Rott, nee Parkinson, together with their seventeen-year-old daughter Emily, prominent members of the High Wizarding Society, had recently undergone an investigation regarding their roles during the War. Although they had been freed from any accusation, the family had been asked not to leave Britain for the foreseeable future.

According to our internal sources, an Auror team had been tipped off on the possibility of the Zabini family hiding in Bevern late Thursday evening. Following such tip, the Aurors apparated to the town, where strong magical signatures typical of violent wizarding duels led them to the abandoned villa.

According to initial reports, evidence indicates a violent struggle, yet no signs of the attackers have as of yet been found. The wands of the five wizards were nowhere to be found, either, suggesting that the attackers might’ve taken the wands with them after the tragedy. British and International Auror teams are now working on the case. Read more on page 6.

 

The paper is ripped from her grip before she can turn to page six, Ginny’s freckled fingers snagging it and pulling it away. Hermione lifts her eyes from her now empty hands, turning to Harry once more, trying to make sense of the news.

“I thought they’d gotten out,” she tells him. “I thought they’d left England.”

“I thought so too,” Harry says, sadness pulling at the corners of his eyes. “Blaise didn’t deserve it.”

Hermione agrees with him.

During the War, unbeknown to anyone, Blaise Zabini had helped them out.

He’d sent her a message one day, had asked her to meet him in a random street in Muggle London, somewhere close to Golders Green. In a desperate move she had gone to the assigned meet-up location, had waited for hours hidden away in an alley, cursing herself for her stupidity, certain it was going to be a trap. But they’d been so desperate by the end of it that she’d gone, she’d risked herself to meet him—the son of one of the most famous Death Eaters—just for some scraps of whatever he could offer.

Blaise hadn’t shown, but after a while a piece of paper had fluttered to the ground at her feet. A date, a time, a set of coordinates. The time and location of one of the Order’s meetings, one where the majority of their resistance group would’ve come together to discuss their next moves.

He’d warned them that the Death Eaters knew their plans; had implied that there was a spy within the Order, though they had never, in the end, found out who it was. His message had allowed them to set a trap, had made sure they’d been ready when the first Death Eater attacked. They’d won the fight, though just barely.

If he hadn’t disappeared at the end of the War, had Blaise shown up for his trials, she would’ve defended him in front of the Wizengamot. As, she knows, Harry would’ve. As they’d both done for Draco Malfoy.

“Merissa Zabini’s body was found utterly charred, ” Ginny says. Hermione turns to look at her, finding her friend frowning down at the newspaper article. “Her whole body was covered with burns. The investigators think she wasn’t killed with an Avada, either. They let her burn to death. And they found bullet cartridges at the scenes, too. They shot Marcus Rott in the head.”

Hermione shudders, imagining the pain Merissa must’ve gone through. The scar on her arm throbs as if in sympathy, and she pulls her Gryffindor sweater over her hands, until only her fingertips show.

“It must’ve been personal,” Neville says, reaching out for his cup of tea and taking a sip. His eyes are far away, as if he’s trying to figure something out in his mind. “The Rott’s had nothing to do with the War, though.”

It’s true. Hermione doesn’t really know much about the Rotts other than the fact that they were a well-known Pureblood family. She’d never heard their names before, hadn’t even known they’d had a daughter a few years younger than her. But apparently they were relatively well recognized within Wizarding society.

“Cecily was a Parkinson before being a Rott.” Ron says. Neville flicks his eyes towards him, chin dipping in a nod.

“True. But even the Parkinsons weren’t really that involved,” Neville’s fingers tighten around his mug. An almost imperceptible move, but Hermione has long since learned what to look for. His stare shifts behind her, to the last table at the far end of the Hall. Anger darkens his green eyes. “The Parkinsons just kept on living their pretty, privileged lives. Didn’t give a fuck about the War.”

Hermione’s lips tighten in a thin line at the bitterness in Neville’s voice. She looks at Harry from the corner of her eye, finding a similar expression on his face.

“I wonder if they’d been hiding in Germany all this time,” Harry says.

“I don’t know about the Zabinis, but definitely not the Rotts,” Ginny counters.

“How’d you know?” Ron asks.

“Emily Rott was in one of the under-eighteen Quidditch teams for the national league,” she says, frowning. “They had a big match a week or so ago. I followed it on the radio. Emily was playing.”

Harry’s brow furrows, but before he can say anything else, a deadly quiet slowly falls across the room.

As if commanded by the same hand, all the heads of the students around her turn to look at the doors. Her friends, too, turn to look at who must’ve just walked in the Hall.

Hermione has a good enough idea of who it is.

Blaise’s closest friends. Blaise’s only friends.

Slowly, Hermione turns as well, shifting in her seat just enough so she can look over her shoulder at the doors.

Pansy is walking down the corridor between the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables, her steps slowing as she takes notice of the eyes trained on her, of the whispers that break out. Even from a distance, Hermione can tell that she’s thrown off from the attention. Yet she doesn’t cower from it, raising her chin, her blood-red lips curling into a sneer as she stares down every student who dares look at her straight in the eyes.

Behind her, Malfoy strolls into the Great Hall; his hands, as always, in his pockets.

It takes nothing for Hermione’s breath to catch in her throat, for her skin to explode in goosebumps, shivers of pleasure echoing down her spine.

For memories of the previous night to sweep through her brain.

The taste of him, the way he’d wanted to see her tongue tainted with his seed. How he’d shoved down her throat mercilessly, how she’d gagged and cried and had needed to make herself come to release that coil of pleasure that had built in her belly.

How she’d gone back to her dorm, had walked into that shower in that old bathroom, and had gotten herself off again to the thought of him fucking her against that wall. And how her mind had then turned on her, that suffocating quiet falling over her thoughts, pushing her to drink the remaining of her sleeping potion—two night’s worth of it—just to drown it out.

Malfoy walks leisurely behind Pansy, looking across the Great Hall, his brow furrowing as he takes in commotion, the copies of the Daily Prophet still flying around between some of the tables.

His eyes find her in a heartbeat, as if pulled by an invisible magnet.

Hermione feels it when his gaze lands on her, blood immediately heating her cheeks. Her fingers twitch, the ones that just a few hours earlier had been in his mouth, his lips wrapped around them, licking her clean. Even if she wanted to, Hermione wouldn’t have been able to tear her eyes away from him.

However, this time, it’s Malfoy who drops her stare first.

She follows his gaze as it shifts towards Pansy, who is walking towards a group of Ravenclaw Second Years. They’re huddled around a copy of the paper, their heads bent over it. They don’t even notice Pansy when she rips the Daily Prophet from their hands, the sound of paper tearing loud in the almost silent room.

Hermione watches, as every other student does, as Pansy brings the paper close, flipping it to the front page and reading the words moving over it in bold, black font.

The room collectively holds its breath as Pansy’s eyes fly over the words, as she reads the names of the dead wizards.

Hermione is too far away to really make out the expression that falls on her face, the way her mouth parts slightly, but she could swear Pansy’s hands start shaking, the tremors making the paper flutter lightly in her hold.

Her gaze lifts and Hermione watches as it bounces between the faces of the students looking at her, something frantic in them. She takes a step back, as if the weight of the stares had been a physical push, stumbling into Malfoy.

The contact makes something snap in Pansy and in a flurry of movement, she’s turned around, pushing the paper against Malfoy's chest and rushing past him, past the tables, the sound of her heels against the stone floor turning into a crescendo as she runs towards the doors and out of the hall.

Hermione brings her gaze back to Malfoy, who is looking at the corner past which Pansy disappeared. Even from afar Hermione can immediately recognize the tension that builds in him, the shift in his body posture that tells her he’s putting himself on the defensive.

One of his hands is still holding the paper that Pansy left him with against his chest. Slowly, he pulls it away from his body, holding it in one hand, his ring-covered fingers crushing the edges of the paper as he bends his head and reads the title.

She can tell the moment he reads Blaise’s name.

Hermione swears she can hear his sharp intake of breath, swears she hears the crinkling of paper as he grips the copy of the Daily Prophet with both hands, opening it and turning to page six.

It must hit him then that the whole Great Hall is staring at him because his head snaps up suddenly, taking in the faces of the many students looking his way. His gaze lands first on the Ravenclaw students Pansy had taken the paper from, sitting next to where he’s standing, and the three young boys cower away from his glare.

His eyes then drift around the room, heads bowing and turning away from him when his gaze falls their way. His eyes land on the Gryffindor table then, sweeping along the length of it until they stop at her group of friends.

Undeniable tension sears the air, but Hermione can’t discern whether Malfoy is looking at her or at Harry before he turns around in a precise move, eating the distance between himself and the doors in long strides.

As Malfoy disappears behind the doors, that copy of the Daily Prophet still gripped in one hand, the Great Hall bursts into motion, chatter and gossip filling the air again.

“That wasn’t weird at all,” Ginny says, teeth nipping at one of her thumbnails.

“At least Pansy didn’t start screaming like last time,” Neville says, before spearing a piece of sausage from his plate and shovelling it down.

She looks at Ron, busy reading the rest of the article on the Daily Prophet. The more he reads, the more his brows furrow, and a knot starts twisting in her stomach.

If Ron’s worried, it can’t be anything good.

“What?” she snaps at him, unable to help herself.

His blue eyes flick up to hers before turning back down to the page. “Did you guys know that Nott Manor burned down last month?”

Silence is the only answer he gets.

“What? How?” Harry asks, leaning across the table to peer at the article.

“Apparently,” Ron says, “Last month there was an—” he makes finger quotes around his next word, “‘accident’ at Nott Manor that resulted in the whole place burning down. It says here they’re saying it’s due to the lack of maintenance, what with the whole Nott family except Theo having died in the War and Theo himself having freed the elves that looked after the house.”

“But it can’t be,” Ginny says, twisting to look at her brother. “Houses like that—Nott Manor, Malfoy Manor—they’re surrounded by centuries-old wards. Wards literally rooted to the earth the house is built on. Accidents like that don’t happen. Especially if no one was in the house to begin with it.”

“Then it doesn’t seem much like an accident to me,” Neville says around a mouthful of food, his eyebrows flying high. He reaches for his glass of water, taking a sip before saying. “But how would someone get in then, if the wards are so strong?”

Ginny shakes her head once, as if clearing a thought away. “They don’t. It’s strange. How come we’re only hearing about this now?”

“Not sure,” Ron says, passing the paper to Harry.

Hermione’s brain is in a frenzy, that knot in her stomach twisting tighter and tighter. The heat that last night’s memories had brought to her blood has dissipated, replaced instead by a slick feeling of dread.

Pansy’s outbreak in the Great Hall a few weeks ago replays in her mind. The way she’d screamed, how she’d pushed Nott away from her. Nott, who for months had been quiet and sullen, had been angry at her that night, had basically dragged her out of the room. What had that been about? The timing doesn’t add up for it to have been about Nott Manor. What, then?

Pansy’s parents are, to Hermione’s knowledge, stuck in a Ministry Reformation Center. Neville had been right, the Parkinson’s hadn’t been overly active during the War, but their actions and their history as supporters of the Dark Lord had still led them to a trial, which hadn’t found them guilty enough to warrant a trip to Azkaban—like it had Lucius Malfoy—but had found them sufficiently guilty to warrant and order to spend two years in a Reformation Center of Ministry choosing. Rehabilitation, the Wizengamot had said, was the road to take. To Hermione, it just seems like a more comfortable prison.

Could it have been about Pansy’s parents, then? Hermione doesn’t know, but the urge to understand starts growing under her skin, tendrils of curiosity sneaking through her veins.

Next to her, Harry closes the Daily Prophet, folding it shut and pushing it into the pocket of his robes. “Whatever’s going on, it isn’t any of our business.”

Hermione’s head snaps towards him. His eyes are hard behind his glasses as he stares ahead, at Ginny. The sadness Hermione had seen in them before is gone, pushed away. “It isn’t our business,” he repeats, a finality, an assertiveness in his voice they rarely hear anymore. Nobody seems inclined to argue.

Hermione turns away, swallowing. She picks at a loose thread in her sweater as Neville starts talking about something Hermione doesn’t care about with Ron, the conversation drifting. Yet a layer of tension lingers, found in the way Hermione hugs herself, in Ginny’s teeth nipping at her nails, in Harry’s too-straight posture.

It will follow Hermione all day long.


Dead! They’re all fucking dead!

Pansy’s shouting echoes in the corridor that connects the door of the Slytherin dorm to the Common Room. Draco tries to slow his steps, but the energy coursing through him doesn’t allow him.

“Dead, Theo, dead! Gone! Emily, Blaise, fucking gone!”

“Pansy—”

Gone!

Draco sets foot inside the Common Room just when Pansy lunges for Theo, her hands rising to push against his chest, over and over again. Theo grabs her arms, trying to stop her.

“Pansy—” Theo tries again but is cut off by Pansy shoving at his shoulders, pushing him backwards.

“I swear to fucking—”

Shut. Up.” Draco hisses. He crunches the newspaper in his hand, stalking towards Pansy. “Shut the fuck up, Pansy.”

Pansy whips around to glare at him, her eyes full of hatred. She starts struggling out of Theo’s hold, as if she’d lunge at Draco next. “You fucking arsehole—”

Draco stalks forward, reaching out with his hand and grabbing Pansy’s face, forcing her mouth shut. He leans down until their faces are almost touching, glaring at her. She glares right back.

“You will shut up, Pansy. You’ll stop freaking out like a fucking child and sit down and let me fucking think.

Draco pushes her away, shoving her against Theo, making them both stumble. Theo helps her remain upright but Pansy flinches out of his hold, glaring at him with a look that makes Theo’s jaw clench.

“What the fuck is going on?” Theo asks, turning towards Draco.

Draco holds the paper out to him as Pansy crosses her arms and goes to sit on one of the black leather armchairs, folding one knee over the other, calmly. As if she hadn’t just been screaming in both their faces.

Theo rips the Daily Prophet out of Draco’s hand, eyes hungrily reading over the front page, widening with every word he reads. Draco heads towards one of the glass cabinets next to the windows, pulling the central panel open and reaching to the back of it, where the Firewhisky is.

He grabs three glasses and puts them down on the table next to the window, that same table where he’d had that conversation with Theo, a chessboard between them. Draco pours three fingers' worth of Firewhiskey into each of the glasses, drowning one of them before refilling it, letting the alcohol burn its way down his throat.

He picks up the three glasses, turning back around. Pansy’s already reaching out for one as he makes his way over and Draco drops the glass in her hand as he passes her.

She drowns the whole thing in one go.

“This is bad,” Theo says. Draco turns to look at him. His face has gone pale, the shadows beneath his eyes almost jarring. Draco steps forward, pulling the paper from Theo’s hands and handing him the glass instead. “This is bad,” Theo repeats before taking a sip of the drink, hissing at the burn.

“I agree,” Draco says, because he does.

It’s worse than he thought.

“She’d seen it,” Pansy says, and they both turn to look at her. “Cecily had known they’d be attacked. She’d seen it in the tea leaves.” Her fingers tighten around the glass, her long nails scratching at it. “And they run right into it.”

“Blaise was alive. All this time, he was alive.”

Draco’s eyes snap to Theo. Theo turns towards him, anger rising in his gaze. “We could’ve tried looking for him more. We could’ve tried reaching out—”

“I did,” Draco interrupts, holding Theo’s stare. “I tried. I couldn’t get past Hogwarts’ wards, couldn’t get anything out.”

He grinds his teeth, jaw clenching. Draco had tried. All week, he’d tried modifying that spell enough to slip a message through. Both to St. Mungo’s and to wherever Blaise was. He knows how to get a message to a person even without knowing their location, yet he hadn’t been able to crack the spell. All the variations he’d come up with had ultimately failed, no matter how long he spent in the Library pouring over books in the Forbidden section, trying to get the damn spell to work. That was where he’d been headed to yesterday night when he found Granger. He’d had another idea and had wanted to check if it could work, but then she’d had to go and run from him and he’d gotten just a bit distracted, and hadn’t ended up trying it out.

“In any case,” Draco says, taking a sip of his drink, pushing thoughts of the previous night out of his mind. “We wouldn’t have been able to stop it. They’re dead now. What we need to understand is why.”

Why?” Theo mutters sarcastically, splaying his arms wide. The gesture makes Draco’s free hand curl into a fist. “Why do you think, Draco?”

“They’re targeting us.” Pansy’s voice is as sharp as a knife. “Whoever is left and not in Azkaban.”

Draco doesn’t say anything.

His mother, Pansy’s cousins, the Zabinis. All people who, in some way or another, were close supporters of the Dark Lord. Part of his Inner Circle, yet not rotting in an ugly cell in Azkaban.

It hadn’t really taken much to figure it out. He’d known as soon as he’d been called at St. Mungo’s, as soon as he’d seen his mother in that bed, as frail as he’d ever seen her.

But who they are is not enough of an answer to the why part of things. Why are they being targeted? The families they come from feels like too simple a reason to Draco, a perhaps correct but somehow insufficient answer.

And that’s not even the most complicated of questions.

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Theo says. “Are we really just going to wait in this fucking school? What if they come for us next?”

“They won’t,” Draco says. Of this, he is sure of. “There are others out there, people who will be less well-protected than us.” The truth of his words makes his stomach twist. “No matter how much you may hate being stuck in this school, it’s one of the safest places out there. No one goes in and out without Minerva McGonagall knowing.” For now, Draco thinks, but doesn’t say the words out loud. “Hogwarts’ wards will keep them out.”

“Nott Manor’s didn’t,” Pansy says.

“Nott Manor wasn’t Hogwarts, Pansy. We’re safer here than we would be outside.” Draco looks at her sideways before saying, “And your parents are at the Ministry Center. Whoever they are, they’re probably not stupid enough to try something right under the Ministry’s nose.”

It’s a lie. Whoever the people behind the attacks are, they were stupid enough to involve the International Auror forces, so they clearly don’t care about keeping things quiet. They must be confident in their abilities to hide their traces. Draco knows that with confidence comes recklessness—people like that would view a Ministry Reformation Center as an easy hit. He counts at least seven people that fit their checkboxes that they could get at in one go, Pansy’s parents included.

If their minds work as Draco thinks they do, that’s what they’ll go for next.

But then why had they gone for the Rotts and the Zabinis first? The Rotts had not been part of the Inner Circle—Draco had never heard talk of them. And Merissa and Blaise had been in hiding ever since the War. Not even the Aurors had been able to find them. It must’ve taken months of tracking and spying to find out where they were, who they were in contact with, where they’d be heading to; and from the incautiousness of this attack, that doesn’t seem like something they’d spend time on.

And yet, Blaise is dead.

It still doesn’t explain what happened to Theo’s ancestral home.

“But we’re blind ,” Theo says, knocking Draco out of his thoughts. “We have no idea of what’s going on outside. That’s one issue fancy Hogwarts can’t fix.”

He opens his mouth to tell him that even if they did know, they’d be fools to try anything, but Pansy cuts him off.

“They’re killing us off, that’s what’s happening, Theodore,” she snaps, rising from her armchair. The sound of her heels against the floor grates along Draco’s nerves as she heads for the Firewhiskey, pouring herself another glass. “What more do you need to know?”

Theo looks between her and Draco, a bewildered expression on his face. “You’re okay with being cut off?”

“That’s not what I said,” she snaps, turning around to glare at him.

“Well, it doesn’t sound like you’re saying something else.”

“I hate being stuck here just as much as you do, Theo, so knock it off.”

“You’re not doing much to change your condition.”

“Are you?”

“I’m saying—”

“But you’re not doing—”

“Shut up, both of you,” Draco hisses, glaring at the both of them. He stands up, setting his glass down on the closest table he can find.

“I’ll find a way to talk to my mother,” he says, looking at the two of them. It’s the only way they’re going to get some answers. If his mother will even be well enough to answer his questions.

“And how do you plan on doing that?” Pansy asks, her tone acidic.

Draco glares at her. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.”


Hermione hasn’t seen Malfoy in three days.

It’s unnerving. More so than the last time he disappeared.

It makes her feel on edge, for more reasons than one.

Hermione’s memories of what happened that night in the Ravenclaw corridor are stark. Her body has memorized every sensation, every shiver, every brush of Malfoy’s skin against hers, his heavy body pressing her against the wall, his lips on her own. She remembers every hum, every groan, every word. Has catalogued them together in that corner of her mind along with the other things she desires but shouldn’t.

She also remembers the words they shared before he left. She doesn’t really understand them, doesn’t really understand him, but somehow she can’t stop playing right in his hand.

She’d been stupid, in telling him that she’d stop lying. But also, he’d been stupid in believing her.

For a moment, after going back to her dorm, after having scrubbed her skin raw in the shower once again, she’d thought of truly giving in to him. High on what he could make her feel, her words had come from a place of honesty when she’d implied that she’d drop her act if he stopped looking at her with that knowing expression, with those eyes that could, for some reason, see deeper through her than others.

Maybe he isn’t the issue, though. Maybe the issue is that others—at least, her close friends—can see through her just as fine, know perfectly well that she isn’t doing okay, but have decided to act like nothing’s wrong. Like she isn’t trying too hard to be someone she no longer is. Maybe the truth is that they’re all aware, but Draco Malfoy is the only one daring to call her out on her bullshit.

The thought doesn’t sit well with her.

He makes her feel raw, vulnerable in a way Hermione is uncomfortable with. And so she’d considered, just for a moment, of doing what he’d asked. Dropping her act, her mask, just to get him to take a few steps away from her.

It might even be a relief in some way, to not have to spend so much energy in appearing alright, in answering questions in classes she doesn’t really care about, in forcing herself to smile and laugh and have idle conversations about things that no longer matter to her. But although the thought of it entices her a bit, she’s in too deep, the act too complex now to drop it, too ingrained in how she’s come to deal with the reality of life after the War to stop it.

Who would she be without her mask? If not Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl, the brightest witch of their age, who is she?

Hermione’s too scared to face it, whatever it is she’s become.

The okay she’d told Malfoy had been born from a moment of weakness. Furthermore, she knows damn well he’d lied straight through his teeth. Or better, she doesn’t trust him nearly enough to believe that he hadn’t been lying. She doesn’t believe that he was truthful when he said he would stop looking.

The thing she doesn’t understand is why he would lie to her. Why would he do any of the things he’s been doing?

But Hermione doesn’t want to think about the why.

She doesn’t want to think about him at all, but just like a broken watch tells the right time twice a day, inevitably her thoughts circle back to him.

It’s like a broken record player. His tongue on her cunt. The silver hoop in the arch of his ear that her fingers had brushed against while pulling at his hair. His hands, gleaming with her release, his rings reflecting the moonlight in the Library.

His voice, calling her a disappointment. Disgusting. Pathetic.

On Saturday morning, she’d had to glamour her bruises. On her knees, on her wrist, on her cheek, where the stone wall had left its mark.

She hadn’t wanted to heal them—had wanted to feel the twinge of pain with every step, with every movement of her hand. But she hadn’t wanted others to see them.

He’d bruised her. He’d been violent, and aggressive, and mean. And still, she had wanted him.

Still, she wants him.

If she thinks too much about it her stomach coils, a knot forming deep in her belly.

She doesn’t want to think about that, either.

She doesn’t want to think about a lot of things.

Obviously, she fails at it. Miserably.

Among the many ways she’s imagined Malfoy in these past few days, an image of him had sneaked into her mind unbidden, for no precise reason. Hermione doesn’t know where it’s come from, but the image is there.

Malfoy, crying over Blaise’s death.

That thought had come at around the same time as when she’d realised that she hadn’t seen him the whole day Saturday, nor Sunday, nor Monday—even though their schedules line up well enough that she knows she should’ve caught sight of him in the corridors while going from Potions to Ancient Runes.

His absence had made her wonder why she wasn’t seeing him around, and the two things had come together, so that she’d started wondering if his absence was because of Blaise’s death.

At the start, the thought had felt incongruent with who she’d known Draco Malfoy to be. Draco Malfoy does not shy away from death. He doesn’t hide away to lick his wounds, doesn’t do anything remotely similar to crying, like her brain had suggested. He whines, and yells, and is just a general arsehole, but he doesn’t cry. At least, she’s never seen him cry. Never heard of him crying, either.

Does he ever cry? The thought had started haunting her.

She knows he’d been dealt some shitty cards in his life, has had to do some proper awful things—and though she might be able to understand, she does not feel sympathy for him. But how might it have been for him? How had he learnt to deal with things? Is he one to swallow down everything, to bolt the door on his emotions and keep them as far away from his heart as possible? Or does he let himself feel, maybe in quiet, lonely moments?

How had he truly reacted to the news of Blaise’s death?

Hermione can make a guess, but she’s never liked guessing—has always preferred the security of cold, hard facts. Of proof.

He’d seemed fine in the Great Hall that day—had definitely reacted better than Pansy had to the news of the murders. But him not making a scene in front of everyone was to be expected, considering who he is and how he was brought up.

Had he been sad about it though? Even days later, Hermione feels a bit sad about Blaise’s death. Not a lot, not when she hadn’t really known him. She feels sad in the way one might feel sad for someone who got the short end of the straw—someone who might’ve done things differently had they been given the opportunity to do so. Maybe she feels bad for Blaise, more than anything else. If he’d shown up at the trial, perhaps she could’ve done something for him. But he never did, and she never got the chance to help him.

But Malfoy had known Blaise better than her. They’d been friends, even. He and Theo and Blaise. How many times during her early years at Hogwarts had she seen them walk down the halls together, had altered her path to avoid going near them, to save herself the sneers and the countless Mudblood they’d thrown at her?

Had Blaise’s death been an unexpected blow for him? From what Hermione knows, in some way, Malfoy had been lucky during the war—he hadn’t lost anyone. Yes, Lucius Malfoy is in Azkaban now, but he’s still alive and Narcissa is, too.

Curiosity had started to eat at her.

Far away from the stares of hundreds of students, does pain seep through hidden cracks in his stony expression?

And if it does, would she be able to tell?

Would the bags underneath his eyes be a darker shade of purple? Would his body betray tiredness, would his hair be duller, his grey eyes a bit more empty?

She doesn’t know why she wants to know these things. But the thought of learning what grief might look like on Draco Malfoy is too tempting a thing for her to ignore.

Which is why, at around six something on Wednesday evening, Hermione doesn’t find herself making her way towards the Great Hall as she should. Rather, she finds herself looking for Malfoy all over Hogwarts.

Hermione swallows as she makes her way along the Covered Bridge. She hadn’t been able to find Malfoy anywhere in the school—not the Library, not the towers, not anywhere. She’d been waiting to catch sight of pale blonde hair from the corner of her eye, had been anticipating his gaze on her back, like spiders crawling up her spine; but there had been nothing. Nothing.

It’s driving her insane. Is he even still at Hogwarts? Hermione needs to know. Needs to see him. Even just a brief glimpse of him would be enough to sate the curiosity running rampant in her, to scratch that itch that’s been growing under her skin.

The rotten boards creak and groan beneath her feet as she steps off the bridge. Instead of heading left towards Hagrid’s Hut, Hermione makes a right, taking one of the old trodden paths. One will take her to the quidditch pitch, one to the owlery.

The sun is setting behind the hills that rise around Hogwarts like sleeping giants, the sky turning a beautiful shade of periwinkle. It’s cold enough that Hermione pulls her robes tighter around herself as she walks, hugging herself to keep any kind of warmth close. Her stomach rumbles, reminding her that she’d barely eaten today, again. But her appetite had seemed to disappear, chased away by dreams she keeps having but can’t remember anything of. They always leave her with a sick feeling of disquiet coating her skin and she can’t bring herself to eat no matter how much she tries, especially not in the morning.

It’s most likely a side-effect of the Winnivers Root she keeps adding to her sleeping potion to make it stronger. She could switch to brewing herself the Dreamless Potion, something which she’d thought of doing a while back already, but she can’t bring herself to do it, the purple potion bringing back too many bad memories of the War for her to feel comfortable with it now.

So she has to tweak her sleeping potion instead, hoping to find an ingredient to help keep the dreams at bay. Maybe some powered Moonstone might do the trick. Used in Amortentia and in potions given to children to help calm them down, it might just do the trick in keeping her subconscious relaxed during the night, which would in turn help bring at least some of her appetite back. She’d have to try and figure out the dosage to add to her brew, though. Potions had never been her strongest class—no, that had always been a fight between Harry and Malfoy. One Malfoy had won more times than not.

The sky is a dark purple by the time Hermione starts walking up the steps to the owlery, the stench of it making her crinkle her nose in disgust.

She’ll check the owlery and then the quidditch pitch, though the chances of finding Malfoy in either one of these places are quite low. Although she hopes to catch sight of him somewhere, Hermione is aware of the fact that Malfoy, if he’s still at Hogwarts, is probably spending his time in the Slytherin Dormitory—and there’s not much she can do about it if he is, other than wait for him to come out.

The door to the owlery is heavy as she pushes it open, the old wood rough against her numb hands. The quiet hooting of the owls and the sound of flapping wings greet her as she steps inside, looking around the darkened room.

The owlery is a huge, tall structure, with holes scattered around the rounded roof for the owls to fly through as they go in and out to deliver letters and parcels. The holes make it so that there are drifts in the large room, cold air blowing in from different directions, making her shiver and blowing her hair this way and that.

Hermione tries to tame the flyaway strands as she looks around, grabbing her hair and pulling it over one of her shoulders, trying to detangle the knots in it with her half-frozen fingers. There are lanterns on the far walls of the owlery, barely strong enough to illuminate the room appropriately, making it feel slightly eerie, what with the sound of the rustling birds and the occasional screech that makes her jump.

She hasn’t been here for years now. The last time was before the War, when she’d send regular updates to her parents and exchanged the occasional letter with Molly. It had been nice to have correspondences like that. Out of all the things that becoming a witch had brought into her life, this—the owls that carried letters all over England—had somehow always amazed her. It reminded her of Snow White, for some reason, and of how it had been her mother’s favourite bedtime story.

Nostalgia washes over her as she makes her way deeper into the room, looking around for Malfoy’s tall form—as if she wouldn’t have immediately noticed him in the room with no shelves or walls to hide behind.

Releasing a sigh she goes to turn around, but a screech makes her stop, a large bird sweeping down inches from her face. She flinches back as soft feathers graze her cheek, twisting to follow the ascent of the huge white owl as it perches on one of the lower beams of the roof.

Hedwig clicks her beak at Hermione as she settles on the beam, her wings spreading out wide, the orange light of the closest lantern reflecting off the snowy feathers.

“You scared me half to death!” Hermione tells the owl, her hands flying to her hips as she stares at the—admittedly huge—owl. “What’d you do that for?”

Hedwig clicks her beat again, her wings tucking in as she hops along the beam, so that she’s now directly above Hermione. She twists her head, the intelligence Hermione had always been fascinated by clear in her beady eyes as the owl stares down at her.

A soft smile forms on her lips, remembering how much Harry loves this animal, the many times he’d talked to them about Hedwig’s personality, as if she was as much a close friend to him as she and Ron were.

“I haven’t seen you in a minute, have I?” Hermione steps closer, reaching out with a hand, hoping Hedwig will drop one of her wings and let her run her fingers through the impossibly soft feathers, as she’d done occasionally in the past.

Hedwig hops even closer, hooting softly as she extends one of her wings downwards. Hermione stretches on her tiptoes, her fingers almost making contact with the tip of the longest feathers, when suddenly Hedwig’s head snaps towards the door, a screech escaping her just as the doors to the owlery bang open, ricocheting off the walls.

Hermione turns around, her hand immediately dropping to her wand, her heart rabbiting in her chest.

Malfoy seems shadowed by a halo of darkness as he rushes through the doors, his wand gripped tightly in one hand, the other clutching what seems to be parchment and some other thing she can’t make out.

He comes to a sudden stop, feet skidding on the floor, when he realizes Hermione is standing in the middle of the room, her wand pointed at him.

Hermione’s breath catches in her throat when he looks up at her, his grey eyes intense, brows pulled tight over them as he looks her over.

Granger,” he hisses, the viciousness in his tone sending alarm bells blaring in Hermione’s mind. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I—”

“Fuck off,” he spits out, and before Hermione can even realise what’s going on she’s ducking low, barely avoiding the pale blue light from Malfoy’s spell, hearing it ricochet off the wall behind her.

What the hell are you doing!” she yells, rising up again just in time to cast a Protego as another spell barrels towards her, the magic of her shield dissipating it in a heartbeat.

Malfoy stalks towards her, anger rolling off him like a tidal wave as he sends one spell after the other towards her.

Hermione doesn’t have time for thoughts as another spell, more powerful than the ones before, hits her shield, sending her sliding backwards along the floor and knocking the breath from her, the magic in her veins rising to the surface in response to Malfoy’s.

She doesn’t know why he’s attacking her—and how fucking dare he, the arrogant bastard—but she immediately falls back on her training, on the experience the War had unwillingly offered her.

Faster than Malfoy can cast his next spell Hermione casts hers, bright orange light exploding from her wand as she casts a wordless spell Arthur Weasley had taught her, the owls around them screeching loudly, feathers falling to the ground around them as the animals leave the owlery in a flurry.

Her aim is infallible and the spell hits Malfoy in the shoulder, sending him crashing back against the doors. He catches himself roughly, cursing loudly as his head snaps towards her again, wand already poised to cast his next spell. They cast at the same time, purple light exploding from his wand as she casts the same spell again, hoping to force him to stay against that wall and not take a step closer to her.

An owl sweeps down in front of her a moment after the spell leaves her wand, flying inches from her face. It distracts her enough that her concentration falters for a second, her Protego weakening enough for Malfoy’s spell to breach it, hitting her square in the chest even as she hears Malfoy crash against the wall again.

Hermione is knocked back from the force of Malfoy’s spell, her body failing her as soon as the magic hits its mark. Her limbs stop functioning and she falls to the floor with a crash, as if a puppeteer had cut off her strings, her wand dropping from her hand and rolling across the floor. Wave after wave of intense dizziness wash over her, extending from the point where the spell hit her, black spots going in and out of her vision.

She tries to get on her knees, but even just willing her body to follow her demands makes the dizziness violently worse, her lungs seizing in an effort to let her breathe through it.

She must’ve blacked out for a moment because when she blinks her eyes open again, trying to focus past the spots still floating in her vision, Hermione can hear Malfoy’s voice as he walks towards her.

“—such a tricky little thing, aren’t you, Granger?”

Hermione tries to get up again, hating the idea of being so defenceless in his presence, especially when he’d been the one to attack her first. She digs her fingers in the floor, slowly pushing herself up and on her knees, her whole body trembling. What the hell kind of disorienting spell had he used on her? Her stomach riots at every movement she makes, acidic bile rising in her throat. She tries to breathe through it, hyper-aware of the importance of every second.

Her wand isn’t too far away, just a couple of steps to her right. Casting another spell might turn out to be a bitch, but she has to do it, has to try, even if Malfoy is up and standing and undeniably in a better condition than hers.

She tries crawling towards her wand, the floor hard against her knees, some of the feathers on the floor sticking to her sweaty palms.

“Look at you Granger, bleeding and crawling on the floor. Just as in my sweetest fantasies.”

If she could manage to utter a single word, she’d tell him right where to shove those fantasies of his. She concentrates instead on reaching her wand, fighting the way the world spins around her, the sensation of being pulled in different directions as she tries to close the space between her hand and her wand.

Malfoy’s steps echo closer and closer with each breath. Before she can close her fingers around her wand his shoes enter her vision, the black tips of his boots scratched and dirty.

She manages to take in a rallying breath before his hand is in her hair, pulling and dragging her upwards. The pain is agonizing, making bile rise further up her throat, her vision spinning out of focus again as she tries to force away the unconsciousness creeping up on her.

Malfoy uses his grip to pull her closer towards him. She can do nothing but follow his pull, stumbling towards him, her hands reaching out and grabbing onto his trousers in an effort to keep herself upright, to lessen the pain exploding from her scalp and searing directly into her brain.

“I’d expected better from you, Granger, honestly, considering all I’ve heard about your duelling skills during the War.”

She blinks once, twice, slowly bringing her gaze up from where her hands are clenching the fabric of his trousers, over his belt and chest, finally rising on his face.

There’s a streak of dark red blood flowing from his eyebrow, trailing down his temple and cheek. His hair is a mess, a small feather stuck in it, others stuck to his robes. She can’t help the satisfaction that runs through her at the sight, can’t help but smirk at the blood trickling down his face, blood that she drew, blood the vicious part of her wants to feel on her fingers, smear all over his face and force it on his lips, his tongue.

Malfoy’s expression turns downright angry as he looks down at her, his eyes darkening in a way that almost makes her scared. He uses his grip on her to shake her violently, causing her dizziness to come back in full force, the whole world spinning around her. She gasps, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Insolence, Granger? Really?” he tuts, pulling at her hair some more so that she has to crane her neck back to release some of the pressure, baring her throat to him. “What were you doing in here?”

Hermione opens her eyes, ignoring the way the blackness at the corner of her vision steadily creeps in. She really looks at him then, taking in the tight set of his lips, the way the bags beneath his eyes are stark against his pale skin. The necklace she’d peeked before beneath his collar is out, hanging in the air between them as he leans over her.

An intricate ring acts as a pendant, engravings running around the gleaming silver circle. Hermione’s head hurts too much for her to make out what the engravings are, so she looks back at Malfoy’s face, finding him staring at her intently.

“Why were you here, Granger?” he asks again, suspicion creeping into his voice. “You never come to the owlery.”

“How would—” Hermione swallows, forcing down the bile. “How would you know?”

“I know everything that you do,” Malfoy replies, such surety in his tone that she fists the fabric of his trousers tighter. “What were you doing here?”

She doesn’t reply, opting instead for staring silently at him, doing her best to fight the vertigo. On her next breath, Malfoy’s wand is at her throat, the point of it digging harshly in her exposed skin.

“Granger,” Malfoy says, his nails scraping against her scalp. “Tell me, or I swear I will hex you until you’re vomiting blood all over yourself.”

She keeps quiet for another second, glaring at him.

Malfoy’s upper lip twitches. “I am going to enjoy—”

“I was looking for you.”

The words make Malfoy swallow whatever he was about to say. His wand digs harder into her skin, grey eyes flicking between hers as the blood keeps dripping from his wound, as if looking for evidence of the lie.

But there’s no lie this time. Just like he had asked.

“Why?” Malfoy asks, his voice dropping low.

“Because—” Hermione fights against a wave of dizziness, steading her breath. “Because I wanted to see you.”

Why?

“My—My reasons are my own.”

“Thought you said you’d stop lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Lying, omitting. Same thing, really.”

“Just take the damn truth,” she says, forcing air down her closing throat. “And let me go, Malfoy.” She moves one of her hands from his thigh to his wrist, fed up with all of it.

Malfoy smiles down at her.

“No can do, Granger,” he says, devious amusement rising in his eyes as he bares all his teeth at her. “I’m gonna need you for a bit. Goodnight.”

Hermione doesn’t even have time to see the colour of his spell before unconsciousness swallows her whole.

Notes:

hi all, thank you so much for the recent love on this wip!! it makes me so incredibly happy to know that other people are enjoying it just as much as I am and chatting with you guys about this always makes my day! so thank you thank you thank you! <333

this chapter took me a while to write cause it's a bit different, I hope the plot has you curious about what's going to happen next, especially considering what D just did to poor H... (hehehe)

as always, much love to raquel for beta-reading this for me! <3

Chapter 9

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Carrying an unconscious Hermione Granger halfway across the school had been a risk, one Draco had taken as soon as it had gotten late enough that he knew all of the students would’ve retired to their dorms.

When he’d knocked her unconscious, his hand still tangled in her hair, he’d picked her up and had set her against one of the walls, her head lolling against the wood of the structure. A tendril of blood had trickled from her nose, undoubtedly a result of the disorientation spell he’d cast on her—the strongest one he knew.

Draco had crouched there in front of her, watching the thin streak of blood trail downwards, over Granger’s plump lips, settling in the space where her upper and bottom lips met. He’d raised his thumb, had smeared the redness over her bottom lip, right where he knew the skin was softest, adrenaline and anger still running rampant in him.

In that moment, he’d wanted to hurt her. For no real reason, other than the fact he could.

He’d just been so mad when he’d walked into the owlrey. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly where such anger was coming from, couldn’t narrow down the precise event or thought that had sparked such fury in him, but Draco had relished in it. Anger is good. Anger fuels him, focuses him. But it always brews a wicked tension in him, his magic flirting with it, pushing him to search for some kind of release, of relief.

Finding Granger in the owlrey had been a blessing. But also a curse.

A blessing, because he could be his worst with Granger—wanted to be his worst with her, just to see how she would react to him. With her mere presence, she’d given him an occasion to release some of the tension coiled tightly under his skin and he’d gladly taken it, throwing his magic at her without a second thought, needing the release that only a duel could give him.

A curse, because Granger makes his blood burn in a different way, too, and anger and lust run the risk of waking the beast in him that he can’t really control. That sometimes he doesn’t want to control.

Staring at her before him, he’d grabbed her face in his hand, had leaned closer, dropping his forehead to hers, closing his eyes and trying to think past the magic still pulsing under his skin, past the roaring of his blood in his ears, past the anger and frustration. He’d pushed it all down until his mind had quieted again, breathing her in, that scent that was Granger, mixed now with the light metallic one of blood.

Draco had stayed like that for longer than he cares to admit.

He’d then waited until it was dark enough outside, had picked up her wand, sliding into his back pocket next to his, and had hoisted her in his arms, pulling her close to him, her head nestling against his shoulder. As he’d walked back towards the school her breaths had been soft against his throat, each one of them sending shivers down his spine, and he’d had to grit his teeth against the feeling.

Drac had gripped her tightly, fingers digging into her thighs and ribs as he’d walked over the Covered Bridge, past the different cloisters and into one of the many side entrances of the school. His steps had echoed in the deserted, darkened halls of Hogwarts as he’d made his way to the Library.

He’d only ever carried one other person this way before—his mother.

One time, Voldemort had been unsatisfied with an attack that hadn’t worked out quite as planned, and had decided to take his frustration out on the Malfoys. Draco and his father had by then gotten used to the burn and pain of the Dark Lord’s curses, but that time, Voldemort had decided to take his wrath out on Narcissa as well. His mother hadn’t screamed, hadn’t even as much as whimpered from the pain Draco knew so intimately by then, but her body had failed her and she’d fainted, falling on the floor with a quiet thud. When the Dark Lord had left and Draco had regained enough control over his body to stand from the kneeling position he’d been in, he’d stumbled to his mother, picking her up and cradling her close to him, running blood-stained fingers over her hair. His father had been too weak to even get up from the floor, so Draco had carried Narcissa upstairs to her room and had stayed with her until she woke.

Carrying Granger in such a similar way had almost made his skin itch, the intimacy of it uncomfortable, yet he hadn’t been able to find it in himself to swing her over his shoulder like he’d done with Pansy so many times in the past. That move was typically followed by throwing Pansy onto the bed and fucking her until she was a trembling mess beneath him, and though he wanted to do the same to Granger—do way worse to her, really—somehow, carrying her like that had felt…right.

When he’d gotten to the Library, he’d slipped in silently, walking towards one of the corners where several armchairs were clustered together. He’d dropped her into one before lighting a few of the lamps lying around, the soft orange light reflecting off Granger’s hair.

Her robes were dirty, as were his. After removing his own Draco had taken Granger’s off her, moving her around like a doll, leaving her in her Gryffindor sweater and skirt, her tie crooked, her knee-length socks half-falling down her calves.

He hadn’t been able to resist kneeling before her again, dragging his hands down the bare skin of her thighs, her knees, relishing in the warmth of her, admiring how his pale fingers contrasted against her tanner, freckled legs.

He’d gripped her knees, had pushed them apart until her skirt lifted, had swallowed harshly at the sight of the black lace covering her cunt.

He’d wanted to taste her. Had wanted to drag the lace to to the side and hide under her skirt, feel her coming on his tongue; but he’d pushed the need down, pushing Granger’s legs closed again before grabbing her socks and pulling them up and over her knees.

Now, Draco stares at her from the opposite armchair, twirling her wand in his fingers, trying to figure out how best to play his next move.

It had been an impulsive decision, the one to knock her out. He can admit that, but he doesn’t regret it. He’d glimpsed an opportunity and he’d taken it, even if he doesn’t yet know how he’s going to seize the most out of it.

The situation with the spell is turning out to be more complicated than expected. He’d rapidly found a way to alter it so that Zotoi’s spell, rather than working on the caster itself, could be applied to objects the caster wanted to pass through the wards.

He also hadn’t managed to figure out how, exactly, the spell worked. Did it create a temporary rip through the wards? Would the rip leave a trace, a scar, through the wards themselves? The book he’d found said the passage of the individual through the wards would be undetectable, but it didn’t say anything about the state the wards would be left in after the passage—there was a difference between an undetectable passage through the wards with no trace left behind, and a temporarily undetectable passage that would leave enough of a trace for someone inspecting the wards to later understand that they’d been tampered with.

Draco can take no risks on this, doesn’t want to risk bringing undesired attention to himself or to his friends, not when eyes would inevitably fall on them first if anything were to go wrong.

He needs to deconstruct the spell, to understand it properly, before attempting it. He also needs to learn more about Hogwarts’ wards and the protective spells twined within them. Not for the letters per se—Draco’s pretty sure they’ll be essentially invisible, even if they do leave a trace on the wards—but for the moment when it won’t simply be letters passing through, but people. Him. Theo. Pansy.

They need an exit plan, a way to get away from Hogwarts if the situation calls for it. Draco wants to set it in place as soon as possible.

Which is where Granger comes in.

Granger is smart. Everybody knows it. Draco knows it very well. Has hated that about her for most of his life. He’d loathed it during their early years at Hogwarts—how intelligent she was, how she always knew the answers even to the hardest questions, how she always managed to get better grades than him. It had been a childish sort of loathing that tied to the fact that she was a Mudblood, back when he still cared about those things. Now, he loathes it for a different reason, because how could someone so smart, someone as passionately and deeply intelligent as Granger, do what she’s been doing for months now? Draco finds it pitiful, finds it a waste of potential, to have someone with a brain like hers act like such a blind coward, because he can understand cowardice from stupid people, but not from someone like Granger.

However, regardless of what she’s doing with it, the fact is that Granger’s intelligence remains, and Draco could make use of it. He could get her to help him figure out this spell.

It would be tricky—providing just enough information to pique Granger’s interest without letting her know the whole truth behind it. And she might find it strange for Draco to ask her for help, when he’d always taken such pride in his magical skills and his own brain.

However, it would be the perfect excuse to spend more time with her. To make her believe that he wants her help, needs her help, needs her. To edge closer, start wrapping his ropes around her until she’s tangled in him so intricately that the moment he pulls away—something which he will, inevitably, do—she won’t be able to go back to who she was before him. It’s a chance to become her safe space, to become someone who sees the mess she is and doesn’t cower from it, doesn’t judge her for it. He’ll get her close, make her trust him, make her want him to such a soul-deep level that there’ll be no getting over him once he leaves. He’ll give her what she doesn’t know she needs and then he’ll take it all away and watch as she breaks under the emptiness he will leave behind.

She won’t be able to keep up her act, then. Won’t have the strength to act, to lie, to be a coward. No, Draco will drain her dry, will destroy the walls she’s built around herself and leave her ruined for all to see.

She already wants him, already can’t stay away from him. The way she’d looked at him before while on her knees, that fucking smirk on her lips that had made his vision go red, had almost pushed him past his limits. But then she’d said she’d been looking for him and that fury had gained a lazy, satisfied edge. He’d felt like a cat who got the cream, even though she hadn’t told him why she was looking for him. She hadn’t needed to. Those words had been enough for him to understand that sweet little Granger couldn’t get him out of her head.

Because why else would she be looking for him, if not for another taste?

He can use her desire for him to his advantage, fuck her and use her until she’s drunk off his cock to the point where she won’t be able to remember her name, let alone the fact that she’s not supposed to let him get close to her.

It would be perfect. He just needs to convince Granger that helping him out with the spell is something she wants to do, something she needs to do. He has to appeal to her morals, somehow, to get her to do that.

Draco sets Granger’s wand on his lap, reaching for his own instead and casting a quick healing spell on her.

He stays silent as she wakes with a gasp, her eyes flying open and taking in the change of scenery before settling on him. Her fingers reach for the arms of the velvet armchair, clenching around the fabric as she glares at him viciously.

Malfoy,” she hisses, looking at him with a blend of fury and disgust that makes him want to smile. “Did you seriously knock me unconscious?”

Draco gives her an impressed look. “Keen observational skills, Granger,” he drawls.

“And how fucking dare you hex me like that!”

“I healed you, didn’t I?”

Granger wipes her hand under her nose, trying to clean away the dried blood she must feel there. Her eyes flick down at the flakes of red on the back of her hand before raising again to him, meaner than before.

“I don’t care if you healed me,” she says, still seething. “Who do you think you are to just—just, do that!”

“I don’t need a precise reason to want to hex you, Granger.”

Granger rolls her eyes, clearly unamused with him. One of her hands flies to her waist, tapping as if searching for a pocket, a wand. Her eyes snap downwards when she realizes she doesn’t have her robes on anymore.

She gifts Draco with her meanest glare. “Where are my robes?”

“Over there,” Draco says, pointing towards the table where he dropped her robes and his. “And your wand is over here.”

He picks it up, twirling it idly in his fingers, smirking at her.

Somehow, Granger’s glare turns even more furious. “Give it back, you absolute bastard.”

“So rude, Granger. Don’t think that’s gonna help you out, really.”

Granger gets up, stalking towards him. Draco is sure she’s gonna try and get her wand back, knows she will likely claw at him with her nails just to reach her goal.

For a second he debates letting her get to him, letting her get close enough for him to grab her and pull her in his lap, just to feel the weight of her body on his again.

Instead, Draco picks up his wand and flicks it in a smooth move, sending her flying back into the armchair. Granger lands with a huff against the cushions and before she can curse him again Draco casts a full-body bind charm, tying her down to the chair.

Granger freezes. Smart of her, Draco thinks, as the charm will only bind her more tightly if she moves. She narrows her eyes at him hatefully, and Draco smirks.

“I’ll give you your wand back, Granger, if you stay quiet for a moment and hear me out.”

Granger bares her teeth at him. “Why should I even entertain anything you say when you pull this sort of shit?”

“Because,” Draco drawls, dropping his gaze to the light brown wand once again resting in his lap, so different from his own, “I’m asking nicely.”

As the silence stretches, the fury in Granger’s expression turns into a cool assessment. A delicate muscle flexes in her jaw.

“There’s something I need your help with, Granger,” he says. Granger’s brows furrow in confusion as her fingers twitch on the arms of the chair.

Draco knows he’s got her when she says, “Whatever it is, I’m not going to help you.”

He, of course, ignores her words. “It’s about a spell I found in a book from the Forbidden Section. About wards, and about getting through them.”

The calculation in Granger’s gaze sharpens, that brash curiosity so typical of Gryffindors making itself known in her eyes. “Why do you care about getting through wards?” she spits out.

“My reasons are my own,” he mocks, levelling her with an unimpressed look.

Granger shakes her head. “I am not going to help you find a way to get through wards.”

“That’s not what I need to learn.”

“Sure, it isn’t,” she scoffs.

“It isn’t, Granger.”

“Still,” she squirms in her seat, testing the bounds of the charm. “The words getting through and wards coming from your mouth can’t be anything good. I won’t help.”

“I don’t need to find a way to get through the wards, Granger.” He already has it. “I need to find a way to learn if someone has managed to get through them.”

Granger tilts her head, keeping silent for a moment before the question bursts out of her gritted teeth. “Why?”

Draco sighs, laying his trap. “Because of my mother.”

Granger stills at his words, her gaze roving over his face. Draco keeps his expression steady, letting her see that what he said is the truth, even if twisted.

“What about your mother?” Granger asks, the anger gone from her voice, replaced by something cold.

Draco has to hide his smile. He’d had a feeling that using his mother as bait would work.

During the Death Eater trials, Granger hadn’t only testified for him, she’d also done so for his mother too, surprisingly enough. For some reason or the other, her too-soft heart had pushed her to defend Narcissa. He hadn’t been present for his mother’s trial—he’d been rotting in a prison cell at the time—and he hadn’t dared ask his mother what Granger had said to convince the Wizengamot not to send her to Azkaban, but whatever it had been must’ve meant something to both women, must’ve been convincing enough that the Wizengamot had simply decided to put Narcissa under house arrest.

Draco had bet that what had pushed Granger to defend his mother once might rear its head again if he implied that by helping him, she’d be helping Narcissa.

He’d bet right.

“The spell I found can theoretically allow a person to break through wards undetected. I believe it works, but I don’t believe it’s as undetectable as it states.” Draco shifts his gaze from Granger’s to the wand in his grip. “I think it may actually leave a trace, may alter the wards in a subtle enough manner to be overlooked.”

Granger swallows. “What does this have to do with your mother?”

Draco adds another thread to the tapestry of his trap. “Nott Manor burned down a few weeks ago.” If she’s read the Daily Prophet, this won’t be news to her. “Whoever did it must’ve found a way to get past the wards. Must’ve used a spell similar to the one I found. Yet the Aurors told Theo they hadn’t found any evidence of the wards being tampered with.”

Draco shifts his gaze to hers again, taking stock of her expression, of the calculating look behind her brown eyes as she stares back at him.

“I think the Aurors didn’t look closely enough,” Draco says.

He sees it the moment it clicks for her. “You think they might do the same to Malfoy Manor.”

“I do.”

Granger straightens her spine as much as she can. “Narcissa is under house arrest. You’re worried something’s going to happen to her.”

Something already had, but Granger doesn’t need to know that.

“Yes,” Draco says instead of the truth. Granger’s sharp inhale of breath is loud between the two of them. “You’re going to help me figure out what sort of trace a spell like that could leave on the wards, Granger. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to my sweet mother, now, would we?”

Granger’s jaw clenches as she stares at him, weighing her options. Draco holds her gaze unflinchingly. Draco is sure she’s considering every word he said, everything she knows about the situation going on outside and how his request fits into it. He knows she’s not aware that his mother is in St. Mungo’s—no one is, except him, Minerva McGonagall, Pansy and Theo. And the three of them wouldn’t have told Granger.

She won’t be stupid enough to believe that he only wants to learn more about the spell because of the reasons he exposed. However, he’d bet anything that her soft Gryffindor heart won’t let her walk away from it, not if she thinks his mother’s life may be at risk.

Draco keeps quiet, keeps his expression relaxed as she studies him. Her gaze drops to her wand, lying in his lap.

“Fine,” she says at last. He can’t tell if there’s a layer of reluctance in her voice or not, or if it’s trepidation.

“Good girl.”

She scoffs. “I’m not doing it for free, though.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “Oh?”

Oh,” she mocks, testing the bind’s limits again. “Can you let me go?”

“No,” Draco deadpans. “What do you want?”

She glares at him for a second, thinking, before answering him. “I want you to owe me a favour.”

“A favour? You want me to owe you a favour?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Could turn out to be useful one day.”

“So the War has taught you something, Granger.”

“More than you seem to believe, Malfoy.”

Draco stays silent. She raises an eyebrow.

“A favour. Of my choosing,” Granger challenges. “To call in when I best see fit.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “You really think you have a choice in the matter of helping me, Granger?”

She glowers at him, the magic between them tensing. “You’re desperate enough to need my help, Malfoy,” Granger smirks, and the sight of it makes his blood boil. “One favour, and I’ll help you out.”

Draco looks at her hard, trying not to grit his teeth. “Fine, you’ll get one favour,” he says, flicking his wand and ending the binding charm.

Granger’s quiet for a second before speaking again. “Swear it on your blood.”

Draco stills at her words. “On my blood?”

“Yes, Malfoy, on your blood. Like the good little Pureblood you are,” she spits. Granger gets up from the armchair, closing the distance between them. Draco lets her snatch her wand back from his lap, her fingertips grazing his thighs. Lets her point her wand at his chest.

He appraises her. There’s a thin streak of blood in the valley above her upper lip. “I’m surprised you know about Blood Vows, Granger.”

“It isn’t a national secret.”

“It isn’t something much talked about either,” Draco counters. “They’re outdated. And generally frowned upon.”

“Not by Purebloods. Aren’t they one of your most sacred tricks?”

Draco concedes with a dip of his chin. “They are.”

Blood Vows are strong, tying two people together until both sides of the deal are satisfied, or until the deal is broken. It’s said that the pain of breaking a Blood Vow is worse than any Cruciatus, that it leaves the person breaking it with an indelible sense of shame forever branded on them, designed to haunt them until their last breath.

Draco’s not truly surprised that Granger knows about Blood Vows. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, staring at Granger and letting her believe that he’s taking his time to consider her request. As if she hasn’t asked him exactly what he’d been hoping she would.

“Fine, I’ll take the Vow,” he tells her at last, rolling his left sleeve up to his elbow, exposing his Dark Mark and the scars that run through it. Granger’s eyes flick down to it, snagging on the dark ink and the raised skin that interrupts it. She stares blatantly for a second before dragging her eyes away and pushing the left sleeve of her sweater up, exposing her own forearm.

Draco can’t help but trail his eyes along her own, scarred skin. The letters Bellatrix carved into her forearm are red at the edges, as if inflamed. It’s the first time Draco has seen the scar up close. That day, he’d been too far away to really see what his aunt was writing; only close enough to watch as Granger trashed against the floor, as her screams filled the room until his eardrums had been close to bursting. Afterwards, the Manor had echoed those screams back at him for weeks.

Mudblood.

Such an insignificant thing to him, now, when before it had been one of the pillars upon which his whole life was built. Something to despise, to disregard. Something lesser than him, undeserving of magic. A stain upon the wizarding world.

He’d been so convinced of it. So blind in his beliefs.

He’d fought for it, had killed for it. Had been convinced, in his weakest moments, that he was doing society a service in ostracizing Mudbloods, in spitting at Granger’s and all the other Mudblood’s feet for something they could never change about themselves, something they had no power over.

He’d had such a mediocre, small-minded view of the world. But then again, he’d been surrounded by mediocre, small-minded people.

Draco lays his free hand flat between them, his palm exposed. He runs the tip of his wand along his palm, the intention in his spell enough for a cut to rise across his pale skin. Granger does the same, running her own wand over her skin, crimson blood pooling in her palm.

Draco grips her forearm, his blood smearing over her scar, and Granger does the same, her fingers wrapping over his Mark.

“Over my name, over my blood, I vow to owe you, Hermione Granger, one favour, to call in when you wish, in return for your help in protecting my mother.” Draco hesitates for a breath before saying, “Sanguen promissum.” He doesn’t let go of Granger as he says the incantation, feeling the magic grow and come alive between them.

Granger doesn’t question his wording as she repeats it. “Over my name, over my blood, I vow to help you, Draco Malfoy, in protecting your mother, in return for a favour from you, to call in when I wish.” Granger’s fingers squeeze him tighter. “Sanguen promissum.

The magic of the Vow grows hotter and hotter, the places where their skin touches burning up. Draco feels the heat of the magic sear through him, enter his veins and claw up his arm, his shoulder, until it reaches his chest, settling there like a burning ember, the heat of it scalding. Then, as if nothing had been, the magic dissipates, burning out and leaving his skin cold.

Granger looks down to where they’re still holding each other’s arms, a frown on her face, before her fingers release him, leaving smears of her blood on his skin.

He shouldn’t like the way it looks quite so much.

“Should we seal it with a kiss, too? Would that satisfy you?” he taunts, flicking his wand as he stands up from the armchair, the blood covering them disappearing, their cuts healing.

There’s barely a couple of inches of space between them like this, and Draco towers over her. He pockets his wand before raising a hand to her face, running the back of his fingers over her cheekbone.

Granger flinches at the touch, taking a step back and away from him, brown eyes filling with an emotion that settles almost uncomfortably in Draco’s chest.

“Just show me the spell, Malfoy,” she tells him, her index finger tapping along her wand, her eyes sliding away from him, looking around the room.

Draco bites at the inside of his cheek, taking in the tension rising in her body.

It’s a subtle thing, one he wouldn’t have noticed had he not had to become quite so adept at reading her.

To Draco, the Vow he just made is meaningless. He already knows he’s going to break it. He isn’t worried about the consequences, because what is but more pain and shame to him, when he already carries so much? It would simply add to that already lingering on his shoulders. It would simply become another scar for him to carry.

To Granger, however, the vow must mean something. She’ll abide by it, what with all that honour Draco is sure still means something to her. Especially with the way he worded it—protecting Narcissa.

Such a broad meaning to it. Protecting. So many things Draco can tie to it, twist so his reasoning ties to his mother. So many opportunities to keep her close.

Bad move, Granger.

He’s pretty sure she would’ve helped him even without the Vow, but she’d asked for it, had clearly wanted some leverage on him, and Draco has given her that, just to make her believe that he really is desperate for her help—desperate enough to swear on his blood, something so important to Purebloods like him, something, he thinks, she still believes he cares about.

Stupid of her to assume he still cared about the thing that had taken so much away from him.

He sighs, dropping his hand and turning around, heading towards the Forbidden Section of the Library.

“Coming, Granger?”


Hermione watches Malfoy’s back as he walks away from her, disappearing behind one of the many bookshelves spread around the room.

Her heart is thumping steadily against her ribcage, a rhythm that hasn’t slowed down since she woke and found him staring at her. Exhilaration and dread flow freely through her, making goosebumps rise on her skin.

How complex could the spell be, for Malfoy to lower himself to asking her for help? She knows that he’s aware she’s smart—smarter than him, if she has anything to say about it—but still, she’s never heard of Malfoy asking for help with anything, prideful bastard that he is, and for him to now do so and ask her, of all people, to help him, is offputting. And most definitely part of whatever game he’s still playing with her. But also tempting.

As soon as he brought his mother into the equation Hermione had known it would be difficult for her to refuse. Narcissa’s situation pulled at her heartstrings more than she liked to admit, so she felt compelled to help her, but she wasn’t the naive girl she’d been before the War, helping others simply out of the goodness of her heart. Which was why she’d asked Malfoy for something in return. She’d dealt in favours in the past, during the War, and had rapidly learnt how powerful they could be. But she didn’t trust him to stay true to his word, so she’d impulsively asked him to swear a Blood Vow, even though she’s never sworn a magical vow before and had told herself she never would.

She hadn’t thought he’d say yes at first. Blood Vows aren’t like Unbreakable Vows, they can be broken, but from what she knows the process is anything but simple. She also hadn’t thought he’d agree to be bound to her. She’d hoped that his refusal would release her from having to choose whether to help him—and by extension Narcissa—or not.

But Malfoy had agreed, and her hopes of not having to help him without ripping through the last shreds of her conscience had vanished.

She’d had to go through with it. Even if she dreads what that might entail.

Hermione pushes away all the thoughts, all the doubts already trying to swallow her whole. She’s not going to think about the vow. She’ll have time, later, when she’ll be alone, to really consider just what she’s gotten herself into. All she needs to remember now is that Blood Vows can be broken, and that Malfoy needs her help.

Needs her.

The thought sends shivers running down her back as she follows Malfoy deeper into the Library, their footsteps echoing softly.

At least by having to work with him, she’ll get her opportunity to study him, to satisfy some of her vicious, damning curiosity.

Ahead of her Malfoy unlocks the gate keeping the Forbidden Section separate from the rest of the Library with a quick flick of his wand and a rapid, muttered spell. She isn’t surprised that he executes it perfectly. The iron gate swings open silently and they pass through it, Hermione turning around to softly shut it again.

“I found the spell in an old book written by a paranoiac Slavic wizard who spent most of his life trying to design unbreakable wards,” Malfoy says. He casts a Lumos, bright light shining from the tip of his wand as he makes his way deeper between the shelves, turning down one of the many side corridors.

“He was obsessed with making the strongest, most inescapable wards. He had a brother who would help him out, and they would apparently lock each other in the wards to try and see if they could manage to get past them. He recorded all the spells they tested against the wards; recorded those that worked, those that failed. The spell I found is one that worked consistently, no matter what they did to make the wards stronger.”

Hermione casts a Lumos herself, the light illuminating Malfoy as he reaches for one of the higher shelves, pulling down a thick, leather-bound book. He turns to look at her, extending the book towards her, the light of their combined wands sending shadows over his features.

She takes the book from him, looking down at the creased cover, the foiling of the title now almost completely gone. Zotoi’s Journal—1927.

“How did you even find this?” she asks him, turning the book over in her hand.

“Luck,” he whispers, glancing at the book before nodding his head towards another section of the bookshelf. “A couple of his other journals are there, too. But some of them are missing. The spell is in this one, though. Page 271.”

Hermione flips to page 271, skimming over the words, which seem to describe the spell in detail.

“Start looking at that. I’ll go get some other books.” His arm brushes against her as he walks away, and Hermione turns to look over her shoulder as he disappears behind another shelf, the light coming from his wand vanishing the further away he gets.

With a sigh, Hermione looks down at the book in her hand and gets to work.


In the three hours she’s spent reading, her wand the only source of light, Hermione has come to the conclusion that there are far, far too many ways to create wards.

Malfoy had dropped book after book down onto one of the few tables within the Forbidden Section, a table on which Hermione had also dropped a stupid amount of books, the tomes now taking up the majority of the small desk’s surface.

She understands Malfoy’s problem better now—Zotoi, although very detailed in his descriptions of the wards and the way he built them, had been unspecific in describing the finer details of the spell Malfoy is interested in. To Zotoi, the spell working had clearly been reason enough to scrap the wards and start over again, so he hadn’t spent a lot of time studying the way the spell affected the wards once his brother got through them. And, according to what Hermione has managed to read so far, the spell had allowed Zotoi’s brother to get through all the wards Zotoi created.

She’s tried to fact-check every single thing written in Zotoi’s journals, going through other books on wards and ward-cleaving spells, trying to look for other accounts of what she’s taken to calling Zotoi’s spell in her mind, but unfortunately, she hasn’t found any, yet.

Neither has Malfoy.

Where is he, by the way?

Hermione looks up from the page she’s reading, blinking, her eyes dry from having spent so long reading in the dark.

Malfoy had spent the last three hours apparently scouring every hidden corner of the Forbidden Section for new books since, as he’d gladly reminded her earlier, he’d already read all of the ones she’d picked up herself.

Occasionally, he’d walk by her table, dropping a book down without a word. Sometimes he’d peer at what she was reading, his eyes bouncing between the page and her face before he’d leave her alone again.

Hermione doesn’t know exactly what she was expecting, but it isn’t this. This being left alone and to her own devices. But then again, was she really expecting him to sit her down and tell her everything he knew?

Hermione closes her eyes for a second and rolls her neck, trying to release the usual knot of tension she gets between her neck and shoulder when she spends too much time hunched over books. There’s one last book she wants to go through before heading to bed—since she’s quite done with all of it tonight, whether Malfoy is or not. She’d seen it on a shelf near where Malfoy had taken Zoltoi’s 1927 journal, the bright red letters of the title having caught her eye. History of Magical Prisons.

Surely if someone needed to be able to tell whether wards were tampered with, it would be the wizards building the prisons.

Hermione gets up, grabbing her wand to light the way back to the bookshelf she’d seen the book on. She finds it easily enough, the bold letters of the title hard to miss. She pulls the book out, careful not to disturb the dust on the shelf too much. The book is heavy in her hand, the leather of the cover still smooth at the hinges, as if the book had rarely been opened.

She heads back to the table, ignoring the uncomfortable wooden chair and heading instead for the opposite end of the desk. She pushes several stacks of books to the side, clearing the area enough for her to lay the book flat. She leans her hip against the edge of the table and drops her wand on top of one of the bookstacks, the light illuminating the pages as she flips the book open, beginning to read.

Two chapters later, Hermione thinks she might be getting somewhere. The book has detailed descriptions of the protective measures the different wizarding prisons around the world make use of, including, most interestingly, complex spells to assess if wards have been tampered with.

She’s so focused on the paragraph she’s reading that she doesn’t even notice Malfoy walking up behind her until his hands land on either side of her open book. She jumps, her back colliding with his chest, a breath escaping her in a gasp.

“What are you reading that’s got you so focused, Granger?” he drawls, peering over her shoulder.

His proximity makes her head spin, the unexpected closeness of his body derailing all her thoughts.

His left hand leaves the table to reach for the cover, flipping the book shut to read the title before opening it again and skimming through the first few pages.

“I haven’t read this yet,” he murmurs, long fingers turning the pages over softly, with more gentleness than Hermione would’ve ever expected from him. She can’t look away. “Have you found anything interesting?”

Hermione has to swallow before answering. “Maybe.”

Malfoy hums, the sound rolling over her. He inches closer, removing his hand from the book and laying it back flat on the table, his many silver rings catching the light coming from her wand. “Show me.”

Hermione nods, swallowing again. Her hands almost shake as she flips through the pages, showing him the passages she found interesting and those that could be worth a deeper look. She can feel Malfoy’s attention wholly on her as she speaks and the sensation is heady, intoxicating, utterly decadent.

As she continues speaking, one of his hands moves from the table to her hip, deft fingers sneaking under the hem of her sweater where it’s untucked from her skirt. His fingers are cold as they caress her skin, brushing softly over her waist before splaying wide over her stomach and settling there.

The feeling of his hand on her skin immediately sparks a wild need in her, heat coiling in her belly, blood flowing faster. She tries to ignore it, tries to concentrate on her words, on the things she wants to say, pushing the desire away. She doesn’t want to feel it, doesn’t want to want him this much. She really, really shouldn’t. He doesn’t treat her well. Yet somehow she likes that he doesn’t, even if it makes her so mad sometimes. But she doesn’t want to, her mind doesn’t want her to, whispers to her that it’s wrong, that it’s bad, that he is bad. That no matter how good he can make her feel, nothing good will come out of this.

Hermione tries to move away from him as she keeps showing him what she found, tries to create more space between their bodies, inching closer to the table. She shifts her body slightly, trying to escape his grip and get his hand to drop from her stomach, but it doesn’t work. Malfoy pulls her back to him, his grip turning more possessive, more demanding as he aligns their bodies again. Hermione exhales sharply, stumbling over her words as she feels Malfoy press against her, his bulge hard against her arse.

“Are you trying to get away from me?” he purrs, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. He chuckles before biting softly at the skin right over the collar of her sweater. “Going to run away from me again, Granger?”

She can’t do this again. Shouldn’t do it again. Even if part of her aches for it.

Hermione twists her face away, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and removing his hand from her under her shirt. But before she can step out of his hold the room spins around her, Malfoy twisting her around harshly so her arse hits the edge of the table, both his hands pushing her against it by the hips.

Her hands fly to his chest, trying to stop his advance as his body pushes her harder against the table, one of his legs slotting between hers, his thigh pressing against her centre.

“Don’t ever,” Malfoy hisses, glaring at her, his hands tightening around her waist. “Remove my hands from your body again.”

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut against his words, trying to push him away, her fingers grasping at his shirt.

“Let me—”

“No.”

“I don’t want—”

Malfoy’s hand flies to her neck, his fingers squeezing painfully over her already sore skin as he brings her closer to him, forcing Hermione on her tiptoes, his thigh pressing harder between her legs. Her eyes snap back open, locking on his, the grey in them eaten up by black.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he hisses, the pale light of her wand casting shadows on his face that darken his glare. Her fingers dig harder in his chest, her nails scraping at the muscle beneath.

Malfoy shifts, his leg rubbing against her with friction that makes her burn, the heat that has been steadily growing in her climbing to the surface, blood rising in her cheeks. His thumb leaves the side of her throat to reach her bottom lip, pulling it down roughly, his nail scraping against the sensitive inner skin. “Your lips are better suited for things other than lying, Granger.”

Hermione won’t ever know if it was him who reached down to kiss her or if she pulled him closer, but a moment later their lips are crashing together, melding into a searing, dirty kiss that unleashes the wildness he sparks in her.

She pulls him closer by his shirt, her fingers grappling for his tie, forcing their bodies close together. Malfoy kisses her savagely, his teeth nipping at her lips, his tongue demanding entrance. She grants it, deepening the kiss, whimpering at the taste of him. She pours all her need and frustration into the kiss, wishing, desperately, to be free of it. Be free of him. But the feeling of his hand around her throat, of his lips on hers, their tongues tangling, is one that takes over her, every thought ebbing from her brain until all she can feel is him, her existence narrowing down to the points where their bodies touch.

She moves one of her hands from his chest to his neck, sneaking her fingers underneath his collar, feeling the heat of his skin before tangling her fingers in his hair, looking for purchase. Hermione uses the hold to balance as she shifts her hips, chasing that perfect friction of his thigh against her cunt. Her skirt bunches around her waist with every move of her hips and she knows her underwear is already completely soaked, knows he can likely feel the dampness through his own clothes. It makes her shiver.

Malfoy breaks away from her mouth, his lips trailing to her jaw, leaving kisses all over her skin. Hermione lets her head fall back, granting him better access as his teeth find that spot right below her ear, biting and sucking at it. A soft moan escapes her at the sting of pain his teeth cause and she grinds harder against his thigh, her walls clenching around nothing, pleasure boiling her blood.

More. She needs more. More pressure, more friction. More of him.

The fingers she has wrapped around his tie inch upwards, finding the knot and pulling it loose. She removes her hand from his hair, frantically trying to get the buttons of his shirt undone, needing to reach the skin beneath.

Malfoy chuckles, the sound rumbling through her as the hand he still has over her hip starts guiding her movements, making her grind harder against him, the other one falling from her throat to squeeze her breast. Hermione rips away his tie, the fabric falling to the floor before ripping his shirt open and laying her fingers on his chest, savouring every inch of warm skin exposed, running her hands all over his chest, his stomach, his shoulders.

She pushes the shirt off his shoulders and arms, Malfoy’s hands leaving her body to pull it completely off, letting it fall to the floor, discarded. Hermione can’t help but stare at the sight before her, at the strong, lean lines of his body, interrupted only by his necklace and by long, silvery scars she can barely make out in the darkness.

Her fingers shake as reaches for them, feeling the raised skin that crisscrosses all over his chest, his arms, disappearing down the waistline of his trousers. How many does he have?

The urge to trace them all with her tongue raises in her unbidden, so strong and urgent it sends her reeling, has her shifting to do just that. But she’s halted by Malfoy’s hands reaching for the hem of her sweater, pulling it up and over her head. She follows his lead, helping him get her out of it before reaching for her own tie, hastily removing it and dropping it to the steadily growing pile of clothes on the floor.

Malfoy’s lips are back on hers in an instant, hungrier than before. Hermione counters his pace kiss by kiss. His hands wrap around her ribcage, the metal of his rings cool against her heated skin as he brings her flush to him, their hips pressing together.

She wraps her arms around his neck again, sucking on his tongue in a way that makes him groan and makes her walls clench in response, her eyes fluttering shut. She can feel the mess she’s making of her panties and his trousers as she keeps getting wetter, his every move worsening the situation as he cups her breasts with both hands. Hermione moans into his mouth as he pulls the cups of her bra low, her breasts spilling out of them, one of her straps falling down her shoulder.

His thumbs find her sensitive nipples, pressing over them and causing her to arch into him, seeking more of his touch.

Malfoy breaks their kiss again, breathing heavily against her lips as Hermione forces her eyes open.

He looks down at her, thumbs still playing with her nipples, a kiss-red smirk on his lips. “Do you want to ride my thigh, Granger? Or do you want to ride my cock?”

The words, the rasp in his voice, cause shivers to break out all over her skin, her body reacting to him viscerally, arching once more into him. He pushes his hips against her own, letting her feel how hard he is against her hipbone.

Hermione can’t find her voice, can only look at him and dig her nails into his shoulders.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Hermione? Want me to stretch that tight little cunt of yours and fuck you until you can’t breathe? Until you can’t walk?”

Hermione’s heart skips a beat at his words, at the way he’s looking at her, his eyes telling her that he’ll do that and so, so much worse.

Gods, she wants it. Wants so badly to feel him thrust in her, aches for that first slide of a cock deep inside her, for the burn and the stretch and the feeling of being filled. Hermione hasn’t had many partners, but she’s had enough sex to have learned by now that that, the first thrust, always makes her crazy, makes her wild.

Malfoy’s cock in her could very well make her feral.

“Your eyes are telling me yes, but I want to hear you say it.” He nips at her bottom lip, his eyes falling half-shut. “Beg me for it, Hermione.” He kisses her then, slow and deep, his lips pulling hers into a dance she cannot resist, a dance she chases as he separates them again. “Before I change my mind.”

Hermione wishes she could get angry, wishes she had a snarky reply ready, wishes she could tell him to fuck off, to leave her alone, that she doesn’t need him to get off. Hermione wishes for all of this, but she also wishes to have his hands in her hair, to ride him until her knees give out, to learn the tells of his body and watch him as he comes.

“Use your words. Say it.”

She tries to think past her heart beating furiously against her ribcage, fighting against the divide opening up inside her, against the regret she can already taste in the back of her throat, swallowing it down. Hermione knows she should say no, knows it with a clarity that burns in her, but perhaps she can have him this once. In the dark, with books the only witness of her weakness, and then never again.

“Yes,” she whispers, staring right at him. Let her at least retain the dignity of saying this without cowering. “Yes, I want you to fuck me.”

Malfoy smirks. “Good.”

In a heartbeat he’s got her twisted around again, has her bending over the table, his hand pushing against her shoulder blades. Her hands fly to the desk, sending book piles tumbling, knocking her wand off the book it had been resting on and sending it clattering to the floor. Malfoy reaches around her and swipes more books out of the way, pushing the book Hermione had been showing him away from beneath her stomach, shoving her flat against the surface and forcing her to lay on her elbows.

Hermione’s breaths turn frantic as Malfoy pushes her skirt up her hips, exposing her arse. His hands grab at her, squeezing her cheeks roughly before his fingers move to her hips, grabbing her panties and tearing them off her, letting them fall down her legs.

She moans when Malfoy swipes two of his fingers from her entrance to her clit, playing with the wetness he finds there. “Always so fucking wet for me, Granger. Have you been like this all night?”

She has. But God, he doesn’t need to know that.

Her breath catches when his fingers disappear, when she hears the sound of his belt unbuckling, his zipper following suit. She whimpers when she hears Malfoy hiss, knowing that he must be getting his cock out, wrapping his fist around it. She can’t resist turning to look over her shoulder at him, taking in the sight of him bare-chested, trousers low on his hips, his hand wrapped around his dick, slowly pumping up and down. He hisses again as his thumb swipes over his crown, smearing the pre-come Hermione wishes she could taste down his length.

She squeezes her thighs as she drags her eyes up his chest and to his face. Even in the dim light, she swears she can make out a blush along the bridge of his nose, his hungry eyes staring at her from behind. Then his hand is on her arse again, his thumb edging closer to her centre, smearing her wetness around.

Hermione turns back around as he whispers the contraceptive spell they all learned years ago, his hold on her turning harsher. She feels him edge closer and anticipation makes her tremble; desire and pure, unfiltered lust overcoming her.

She whimpers as he brushes the head of his cock against her entrance, rubbing against her from her centre to her clit. She arches her back, bearing herself to him as he slides his dick along her folds, teasing her. Even just the pressure of it is enough to make her throb, pleasure coiling so tightly in her belly it makes it hard to breathe.

Then he inches back, his hardness dragging against her again, getting himself slick with her.

It makes her mouth water, makes her drop her head as one of his hands wraps around her hip, the other splaying wide over her shoulder blades once more. Malfoy shifts her so they’re perfectly lined up, his breathing ragged, and in a hard, punishing move he pushes inside her, stealing all the oxygen from her lungs.

The burn is instant, the stretch of her body as it welcomes him making her eyes roll back in her skull.

Malfoy pulls out before thrusting back in again, his cock too big, too much for her to take all at once. He thrusts again and again, each snap of his hips pushing him deeper inside her, making her burn and tremble with each move, whimpers and moans falling from her lips.

He feels so good inside her, the weight of his hand on her back forcing her harder against the table, the wood rough against her breasts. She gasps as he thrusts again while pulling her closer to him by the hips, bottoming out, his balls slapping against her thighs.

The fullness makes her head spin, so erotic that she doesn’t know how she’ll manage to go without it after this. Malfoy groans above her, stilling for a second to grind his hips into her, making her feel all of him inside her.

She gasps when Malfoy slaps her arse, the hit so strong and unexpected that it sends a rush of fire down her legs and up her back. He does it again, his rings hard against the tender skin of her arse. She tries to hold in the whimpers this time, clenching hard around him, relishing in the groan that escapes him.

Malfoy lets out a strangled fuck as he pulls almost the whole way out of her, slamming back into her with such strength that it pushes her on her tiptoes.

He sets an unforgiving, angry pace that doesn’t let her catch her breath, each thrust reaching deep, his cock sliding in and out of her with dirty, wet sounds. Each slap of his hips echoes in the room, adding to her moans and to his groans.

Her legs shake every time he drives into her, each drag of his cock against her slick walls adding fuel to the flame burning bright in her.

Malfoy’s hand moves from her hip to wrap around her stomach, lifting her closer to him, changing the angle of his thrusts so that he somehow drives even deeper. It makes Hermione feel like she’s being torn apart, his thrusts painful when he reaches too deep, but she doesn’t care about the pain, not when it melds so perfectly with her pleasure that a wave of wetness rushes out of her, turning everything slicker, more slippery, dripping down her thighs.

Malfoy groans loudly, bending over her back, his pace never faltering. The hand on her back disappears as he leans over her, his arm wrapping around her ribs, forearm pressing between her breasts and pulling her up.

Hermione braces herself better against the table as his fingers reach her lips, brushing over them. She immediately opens her mouth, letting him push his fingers inside, twirling her tongue around them and sucking avidly.

Malfoy grunts, his hips stuttering once as the pads of his fingers press against her tongue and teeth, trying to force her jaw open. She sucks them further down, chasing the taste of his skin, the metal of his rings, with every swipe and twirl of her tongue. A particularly hard thrust jolts her forward and she almost chokes, whimpering when Malfoy squeezes her tongue between his fingers before slipping them out her mouth.

He disentangles from her, slipping out of her cunt with a wet sound. Hermione almost wants to cry out at the emptiness, at the loss of him, when just a moment earlier she’d felt so deliciously full. She whimpers, arching her back, pushing her arse against him.

“Always so greedy,” he murmurs, rubbing his cock against her folds again. “Such a little slut for it, aren’t you, sweetheart?” He pushes inside her slowly, slipping the tip of his dick past her entrance before pulling out again. She keens, and he chuckles.

Bastard.

Hermione struggles to hold herself on her hands, her arms shaking from the pleasure he so easily wrecks her body with. She lifts herself slowly, turning to glare at him over her shoulder.

Malfoy reaches for her, turning her around again and lifting her off the ground, settling her on the table. His hands bracket her thighs, pulling them apart as he drags her towards the edge of the table. Hermione wraps her legs around his waist, locking her ankles behind her back, holding herself up with one hand on the desk as the other tangles in his hair.

She brings him to her, melding their lips together as his hands run up and down her thighs, pushing her knee-high socks lower, exposing more of her legs. The kiss is needy and messy, teeth and tongues everywhere, and she moans into his mouth as she kisses Malfoy with all the anger and hunger she feels.

She tightens her legs around his waist, pulling at his hair as she pushes forward, trusting him to hold her as her other hand reaches for his cock, fingers wrapping around his thickness.

Malfoy hums into their kiss as she swipes her thumb over the tip, squeezing beneath his crown before guiding him to her cunt, positioning him right where she wants him.

He drives into her in one smooth, strong thrust. Hermione closes her eyes as he fills her once again, as he stretches her deliciously, thrust after thrust hitting that spot that makes her tremble uncontrollably.

She breaks the kiss, leaning back on her hand and dropping her head back, her every breath coming out in a gasp, echoing the rhythm of his thrusts. His lips drop to her throat, licking and biting before rising back to her jaw and finding her lips again, pulling her into a searing kiss.

She pulls at his hair again when one of his hands leaves her thigh to reach where they’re joined. His pace slows and her breath catches when one of his fingertips brushes right where she’s stretched around him, on the underside of his dick, sneaking in along it on his next thrust, stretching her impossibly wider. Hermione gasps against his lips, her eyes flying wide open at the burn the addition causes. He smiles wickedly against her mouth before removing his finger and sliding it to her clit, drawing slow, teasing circles around it.

Her hand slips from his hair to his chest as he brings her closer and closer to release. She kisses him again, raking her nails across his chest and down his stomach as the pleasure grows; the slow, languid circles of his fingers and his hard, deep thrusts sending her spiralling towards release.

She can feel herself falling over the edge, her orgasm overcoming her, pleasure like she hasn’t felt in a long time—maybe ever—pulling her under, sparks lighting up along her every nerve. Her hand finds its way back to his hair as her orgasm reaches its peak, pulling him closer.

She kisses him as she comes around his cock, her walls squeezing him tightly, her legs trembling from the force of the pleasure rolling over her, causing stars to blink in her vision.

Malfoy keeps fucking her, his thrusts turning sloppy as he rides her through her orgasm, his fingers digging painfully into her thigh. He groans into her mouth before pulling out of her a second later, his whole body going tight as his own orgasm washes over him, his release getting on her stomach, on her skirt, dripping down her navel.

He groans, his hips twitching as he drops his head to her shoulder, breathing heavily. Hermione clutches him to her, trying to catch her breath, to stop her legs from shaking.

They spend a moment like that, letting their bodies readjust, allowing their heartbeats to slow, their breaths to return to normal. Hermione feels the sweat dry on her feverish skin, cooling her down as her legs gradually stop shaking, echoes of pleasure making her oversensitive clit throb.

Malfoy is the first to move, his head lifting from her shoulder as he shifts back, not quite separating himself from her yet. He looks down at the mess he made, and Hermione follows his gaze. It’s too dark to really see but she can feel his release on her skin, drying slowly, and a part of her purrs in satisfaction. Part of her skirt has fallen down, covering her hips, and he pushes it back up, both hands grabbing her thighs and spreading her wide open.

“Next time, I’m fucking you where I can see how pretty your cunt gets after I’m done with it.” His fingers dig into her hips as he crouches in front of her, her legs slipping from his waist to bracket his shoulders instead.

He swipes his tongue from her entrance to her clit in slow, lazy strokes, licking away all evidence of her release. Her fingers tangle in his hair as he sucks lightly on her sensitive clit, humming deep in his throat. Even though the sensation is almost too much, she pushes him closer, grinding her hips against his mouth, moaning when he scrapes his teeth over her clit. He moves to her entrance, pushing his tongue deep inside her, fucking her slowly and taking his time until her legs are trembling all over again. Her breaths come out in pants when he moves back to her clit, flicking his tongue over it until she comes for him again, her eyes fluttering shut at the sweetness of her orgasm. She pulls him away when she can’t stand his mouth on her anymore, her cunt too sensitive, too ruined by him for her to stand more of his touch.

Malfoy rises again, licking his lips, hands falling on either side of her on the table. He leans down to kiss her once, twice. The taste of her is sharp on his tongue.

“You have no idea what you’ve just started, do you?” he whispers, giving her one final kiss before pulling away.

Hermione watches as her hands fall away from his body, as Mafoy tucks himself back into his pants, his movements slow, the shadows and scars on his body more daunting than they had been before.

She swallows, turning away from him, the bliss of her orgasms slowly vanishing like mist. Malfoy’s words leave her feeling cold, make her want to cover her breasts, pull down her skirt and hide from him, when only moments before he’d been tongue deep in her cunt.

Malfoy tsks, hooking his fingers beneath her chin and forcing her to face him again. “None of that, Granger. This is all on you.”

His words are like poison, seeping under her skin, stinging her as if she’d reached into a rose bush with her bare hands. The weight of what she’s just done settles uncomfortably on her heart.

“This is all on you,” he repeats, his hand dropping away.

Hermione swallows again, but this time, she can’t stop the taste of regret from filling her mouth.

Notes:

hi all!! thank you as always for taking a chance on this fic!! <3 every kudos and comment mean the world to me!

can I just say that I'm obsessed with D? because I wholeheartedly am!! I'm so excited to write the next few chapters, I have so many things in mind....

anyhow, if you ever want to chat about this story with me please feel free to do so on my tumblr!! it's aurorasleeps-27 :) I post snippets of the chapters I'm writing and would just love to chat about D&H and how toxic their relationship is going to be on a scale of 1-10 with you guys!! <3

as always thanks to Raquel for beta-reading this for me!! <3

Chapter 10

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco watches as Granger hops off the table, her hands slowly reaching up to fix her bra, covering her breasts.

Her taste is strong on his lips, on his tongue, the bittersweet flavour of her impressing, forever, in his mind. His cock stirs and he loosely wraps his fist around it, giving it a slow pump as he watches Granger find her panties, pulling them up her lean legs before fixing her skirt.

He’d fuck her again, right here, right now. Maybe sit down in one of those armchairs and have her ride him until she’s trembling again, his seed spilling out of her.

But Draco had recognized the expression in her eyes. Even in the dark, he’d seen her get that far-away look, as if disappearing into a dark place within herself.

He’d let her go there, had even pushed her towards it himself with his words.

In the end, it really is all on her. All her fault.

For faking it and pissing him off. For being a coward and sparking such anger in him. For having such pretty lips and soft skin and a warm, tight cunt his cock had fit perfectly in.

Granger’s bringing it all onto herself. Draco is simply the consequences of her actions.

He lets go of his dick, tucking himself back in his underwear and trousers, the sound of his zipper closing breaking the strained silence. Granger flinches when he re-does the buckle of his belt, the metal pieces clanging together. His gaze flicks to her where she’s standing a good distance away from him, her sweater back on, her hands pulling the hem of it over her fingers.

Such a sign of weakness, of her emotions. He wants to sneer at it.

She’d never done it before the War. Had always been so sure of herself, so feisty and annoying and brash—at least with him.

He’d hated it, but in hindsight he could appreciate it—that she hadn’t cowered away from him, that she’d had the galls to talk back to him, to punch him, him, and had gotten away with it.

Draco wonders if somewhere deep inside that version of her still exists, or if the War has ripped all previous versions of Hermione Granger to shreds, just like it has done for him. Yet sometimes he catches glimpses of it—of that golden righteous fury—in her brown eyes. But it has a sharper edge now; there’s a wilder, more uncontrolled energy to it, one that Granger, he thinks, might not even know how to truly appreciate.

Draco would.

He bends to pick up the rest of his clothes, putting his shirt back on without bothering with the buttons, wrapping his tie around one of his hands. He turns to Granger, who already has her wand back in hand, her tie once again around her neck.

They stare at each other before Granger breaks the silence. “I’ll write down the things I think are worth a second look in The History of Magical Prisons,” she says clinically, turning towards the table. Books are strewn atop it and on the floor, the only free space that where she’d been bent over. Draco watches her swallow heavily. “I’ll put some books away and then I’m leaving.”

Draco stays silent as she stacks several books on top of the other, shifting them to her arms and turning away, disappearing between the dark shelves.

His eyes fall to the book Granger had been reading, the sensation of being behind her, his body swallowing her whole as her soft voice recounted what she’d found falling over him again. He reaches for the book, grabbing it before walking to the opposite side of the desk, pulling out the chair and settling in.

He’s not going to go to bed. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to.

Granger comes back, grabbing more books and re-shelving those, too. Draco wonders why she doesn’t use her magic to do it but doesn’t comment on it as she walks back to the table, doesn’t even lift his eyes from the still-closed book as he hears her stop by his side, not saying anything.

He plays with his tie, wrapping and unwrapping it around his palm. Granger stays quiet, the silence between them heady and tense.

Draco clicks his tongue, lifting his head to look at her only to catch her turning away from him, shadows of her hair falling down her back in waves, disappearing from view as she walks away.

Draco smiles to himself.

“Sweet dreams, Hermione,” he calls out, her name so light across his tongue.

The sound of the metal gate of the Forbidden Section closing is the only response he gets.


Hermione is pretty sure she shouldn’t be reacting like this.

That her hands shouldn’t shake so much, that her legs shouldn’t feel so weak, that her heart shouldn’t be echoing quite so emptily in her chest.

Yet with every step she takes along the silent, sleeping halls of Hogwarts, with every step she takes away from Malfoy; the monstrous, soul-deep wave of panic she can feel surging for her inches closer.

The itch to scratch her skin grows nearly unbearable as she walks up the moving stairs. She tries to keep a steady pace, each step measured, controlled. Tries to breathe through the rioting emotions overcoming her, forces her fingers to still, to unclench them from the hem of her sweater.

It’s just sex.

It’s the mantra she repeats as she turns the final corner, a sleeping Fat Lady grumbling at her as she pushes inside the dormitory.

Just sex.

Fuck, it doesn’t feel like just sex.

He doesn’t feel like just sex, even though that is what all of this ultimately is to him.

The panic threatens to overcome her as she crosses the Common Room. Hermione forces herself not to take the steps two at a time, pushes the tension surging in her down into that black pit in the centre of herself, refuses to lend it even a modicum more of power over her.

It’s just. Sex.

Why is she reacting like this? Hermione can’t stand it, can’t wrap her mind around it.

Sex.

She’s had sex before. She’s had good sex before. She’s even had good sex with a damn near stranger before—Victor Krum, a few weeks before the start of Eight Year. He’d been in Wizarding London for a quidditch match, had sent her a message through his beautiful, white-tailed eagle, and she’d met him after the game, eager for a distraction from the Death Eater trials still going on.

His team had won the game, and all his winner’s energy had gone into fucking her in his hotel room, his pierced cock—Hermione hadn’t even realized cocks could be pierced before him—making her see stars, and she’d loved every second of it. She hadn’t really planned to sleep with him, had even been doubtful at the start—worried about it being awkward at all; but he’d been nice, had even tried asking her how she was feeling now that the War he’d heard so much about was over. Hermione hadn’t answered, but she’d thanked him for the night and for having treated her well, and she hadn’t cared that she’d slept with someone she wasn’t dating.

So why does she feel so empty now?

Hermione bypasses the landing with the door to her bedroom, continuing up the stairs until she reaches that lonely, forgotten room.

Methodically, she locks the door behind her, dropping her wand in the sink and removing each piece of clothing. First her shoes, then her socks.Then her tie, her sweater. Her skirt, she lets fall on the floor in a heap followed by her drenched underwear, the scent of her release stinging her nose. She kicks those in that same corner.

Then she reaches behind herself, for the clasp of her bra, releasing it. Her nipples ache as they brush against the lace, overly sensitive from the way Malfoy had scraped his nails over them. The sensation fills her with boiling anger and she rips the piece of clothing off her, throwing it with all the violence she can muster towards the pile of damning fabric.

She grabs her wand, the Incendio falling off her lips in a growl. She watches, burning as bright as the flames that engulf her clothes, until they’re nothing but ashes.

She can feel Malfoy’s seed on the skin of her stomach, dry, pulling at the fine hairs around her belly button, so she shuts her eyes tightly, pushing her fists into them until bright spots twinkle in her vision. She takes a deep breath in, clawing at all her emotions, tightening them into a ball and shoving them down and down and down.

She doesn’t want to feel them. Doesn’t want to feel anything at all.

She drops her hands, letting her wand fall back into the sink. Hermione steps into the tub, not waiting for the water to warm before turning the shower head on, letting the cold, harsh water sting her burning skin.

The cold makes her breath catch and Hermione relishes in it, in the way her skin stings, every drop like an iced blade against her. Goosebumps rise along her arms, and she lets the coldness of the water steal the sensation in her toes before she twists the dial, turning the heat all the way up.

It takes but a second for the hot water to pour down over her. For a moment the shock of the heat doesn’t even register. Then it hits her all at once, the pain of it, and she almost flinches back, almost removes herself from the spray of water.

Instead, she stays there, head bent, eyes locked on the water falling down her legs, swirling towards the drain. It pours over her hair, over her eyes, and Hermione welcomes the shock it brings.

For a moment, her mind is quiet.

It feels like an undeserved reprieve.

Hermione lifts her head, fingers reaching for the soap.

As her body gets used to the burning water, that wave of tension, of fear, of too many things to count rears its head again, surging behind her, as if it were a monster about to grab her in its hand.

She tries to ignore it as she begins scrubbing at her skin.

She keeps it slow, systematic. First her hair. Then her arms, her chest. Then all the way down to her stomach, her legs. She leaves her intimate parts for last, clenching her jaw when she passes her hand between her legs, fingers brushing against her core.

She’s so sensitive that the move causes her hips to twitch, pushing that monster a step closer, her breaths coming faster than before. Still, she cleans herself, squeezing her eyes shut at the memory of Malfoy moving in and out of her, of the way he’d stretched her open, first with his cock and then with his tongue.

Hermione grits her teeth against the way her body betrays her, against the flashes that go through her mind, the way he’d made her feel.

stupid stupid stupid

She’d been so fucking stupid.

With the sex. With the vow.

It’s all on you.

The monster grabs her in its hold and that wave of feeling crashes over her, bringing her under.

Her legs fail her and she falls to her knees, hands slamming against the wall in front of her. Her lungs burn with the breath trapped in them but she can’t get it out, can’t force her muscles to obey her. Her nails claw at the wall as she feels tears sting her eyes and she loathes it, despises it with all she has.

How fucking weak, how fucking pathetic.

And over what? Over some sex? Over a stupid fucking breakable vow?

If she could get her lungs to work Hermione would laugh at the sorry, useless thing she is.

Bitterness and anger surge through her as the water pounds her back, unable to wash away the stain she feels on herself, on her soul. Salty, frustrated tears trail down her cheeks and Hermione wants to rub them away, just as she wants to let them trail down her jaw, her throat, over that bruise in the shape of his fingers that burns with every droplet of water that caresses it.

She wants to scream, just as much as she wants to never make a sound again.

She wants to hurt Malfoy, to rage at him; just as much as she wants to hurt herself for the stupid, stupid choices she can’t seem to stop making when it comes to him.

Stupid. Weak-willed. Governed by emotions she wishes she could tear out of herself.

This is who she has become.

The minutes pass, slow and heavy, as Hermione’s mind plays on loop every bad decision she’s made in the past, every choice that cost someone else their life, every impulsive decision that tore at her again and again.

Hermione lets hatred wash over her just as the water does, lets it fill every crevice of herself, lets it caress the softest parts of her.

She knows this won’t break her. Knows this will simply add another crack to the collection of them she already has, will simply become another thing to hate about herself.

How easily she gave in to him. How easily she swallowed her regret, knowing it would lead to this. How easily she spread her legs, let his lips tempt her once more. Reached for them. Craved them.

No more.

Enough. She has to say enough.

Her lungs scream as the first sob breaks through; warm, humid oxygen sneaking between her ribs.

She’s had him. On her tongue, in her hand. Legs wrapped around his waist, fingers trailing down his scarred chest.

Hermione falls back on her heels, her hands trailing down the wall before her fingertips dance with the water swirling on the floor.

Neither her mind nor her body will let her forget, not for a long time, what it can feel like to have Draco Malfoy in her. To come on his cock, to have his release on her skin, to have him lick her clean. They won’t let her forget for different reasons.

But at least she’s had him. Has had him pressed to her, his moans on her skin.

It needs to be enough.

She wants to make herself the promise that she won’t reach for him again; that even if she’s vowed to help him with that damned spell—a vow which she will not, cannot, break—she won’t try to get close to him, will resist the temptation of his body and his mind. Screw her curiosity, screw her desire to learn who he is. Screw every single instinct that brought her to this point.

She wants to promise herself that, but she can’t, she can’t, and the realization cracks something in her, a hole opening up in the middle of her chest.

She can’t choose, can’t do anything, her mind and body locking up, trapped under the weight of her unrestrained emotions.

Spineless coward. That’s what Malfoy had called her. That’s what she is.

Sobs rack through her, each one making her angrier, more resentful. How utterly pathetic, to feel like this, to cry like this.

Why can’t it just stop? She just wants it to stop.

Hermione claws her fingers against the cold ceramic of the tub, shifting her numb feet, forcing herself up on weak legs.

She fights against the sobs, pushing them back down, straining to hold her muscles as still as possible. Demands her hands to stop their shaking, her stomach to stop its churning. Her mind to still.

She reaches for that quiet darkness, lets herself fall into its embrace. Aches for it in a way that she will never be able to explain to someone else. In a way she can’t even explain to herself.

With slow movements, Hermione pours some more soap into her hands, washes herself again, each swipe of her hands, each scratch of her nails allowing that darkness, that blessed nothingness to blanket her, to take care of her.

By the time Hermione shuts the water off and steps out of the tub, her feet leaving wet prints on the dark floor, her tears have dried, her breaths coming in a measured, controlled rhythm once more. Her hands don’t shake anymore.

She dries herself with magic, fashioning herself a too-large t-shirt that reaches just above her knees. She doesn’t turn towards the mirror. Doesn’t look back at the shower as she opens the door of the bathroom, steam following her as she silently makes her way downstairs.

Ginny is asleep in her bed when Hermione steps in the bedroom, her long legs twisted in the bedsheets, as if she’d kicked them away. The pale moonlight coming in from the only window in the room shines upon her sleeping face, darkening the furrow of her brow, her lips moving along unsaid words.

Hermione sits down on the edge of her own bed, watching her friend. At a certain point Ginny’s hand twitches, her fingers closing as if trying to grasp something. She twists her head to the side in a sharp move, a soft gasp escaping her before she shifts, curling on her side, the moonlight now falling on her back, reflecting off the wild strands of red hair that escaped the braid she always sleeps in.

Ginny has bad dreams, sometimes.

Hermione has been woken by some, those few times she tried, uselessly, to sleep without taking her potion.

Sometimes Ginny talks in her sleep. Sometimes she calls out for Fred. Sometimes she calls out for Harry. Sometimes she cries.

Hermione looks at her friend one last time before laying back on her bed, not even bothering to get underneath the covers. She stares up at her ceiling, at the velvet fabric hanging over her, draping to the floor.

She searches for that pang of pity in her chest, for that pull at her heartstrings at knowing her friend isn’t doing well. She’s felt it, sometimes.

She doesn’t feel it, now. Doesn’t feel much at all. Only that sweet, sweet nothingness, its song echoing in that hollowness behind her ribs.

Hermione looks for that pang all night.

She doesn’t find it.


Hermione decides, once again, to ignore Malfoy.

She goes to every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Goes to every class, answers every question. Resolutely keeps her eyes from wandering.

Doesn’t look for a flash of blonde. Doesn’t wait for the creeping, familiar sensation of being watched.

She ignores Malfoy. Even if part of her still finds it completely, utterly embarrassing and shameful that she has to do so. That she can’t seemingly deal with the fact that they had sex like any other twenty-year-old and just go about her day as normal.

But then again, when has anything really been normal when it comes to her and Malfoy?

Although Hermione manages to… manage herself by ignoring Malfoy’s whole existence—that emptiness that still, luckily, hasn’t really left her making it easier for her to do so—she doesn’t completely ignore her part of the Vow, unable to stomach the guilt that doing so would ultimately make her feel.

On Thursday evening she sends Malfoy a detailed collection of all that she’d been able to gather that night in the Library. It takes her a while to recollect everything, unwanted memories of being bent over the books she’d gathered the information from making it harder to remember the precise details of all she’d read. She writes down her thoughts and hypotheses—which books held more promise, which passages were worth going over again—onto several pieces of enchanted parchment, then folds them into simple paper aeroplanes and spells them to reach Malfoy, wherever he might be in Hogwarts.

As soon as the paper aeroplanes leave her room she goes to find Ginny and asks her about the latest book she’s reading—another mystery book she’d gotten at Hogsmeade. Ginny’s eyes light up and they sit together in front of the hearth in the Common Room, hot mugs of tea in their hands, until late into the night. Hermione diligently listens to each word coming out of Ginny’s mouth; follows the path of her hands as she tells her how she thinks the story will go, studies the way her eyes shine as she raves about the author’s prose, how I literally feel like I’m inside the book, Hermione, inside that forest, that house, inside the character’s head.

Hermione only catches herself thinking about Malfoy once, of all things wondering what he would think of her notes and hypotheses. Would he have reached the same conclusions? Would she have pointed out something that perhaps he had overlooked, even if he’d been looking into it for longer than her?

She hates that she wants to know.

So she pushes the thought away; shifts closer to Ginny, resting her elbow on the back of the couch, admiring the passion Ginny shines with, twin to that shining from her when she plays Quidditch.

On Friday morning, Hermione goes to breakfast with Harry and sits with her back to the Slytherin table. Her fingers tap a discordant rhythm over the wood as she has a quiet breakfast with Harry, side by side, before they head to Potions. Harry is quieter, more sullen than usual; the bags under his eyes a bit darker. He has bad days, too. She thinks this must be one of them. Hermione doesn’t ask him what’s wrong.

Halfway through class, as she reaches in her bag for a new vial of ink, having almost run out, her fingers scrape against a loose piece of velvety parchment. It’s softer than the one she uses, the fibres smoother than the rough-grained paper she favours and immediately, instinctively, her whole body goes tight with tension.

She freezes, half bent in her chair, one arm shoved in the bag and her fingers flirting with that piece of parchment. A shiver goes through her, so strong it makes the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise and she loathes it. Fury washes over her in a heartbeat and Hermione snatches her hand back with such violence that she almost goes stumbling off her stool, Harry’s arm reaching out to steady her.

“You okay?” he asks, his brow furrowing, eyes flicking to the other side of her, where her bag lays on the ground.

“Fine,” she whispers, conscious of the way the Professor’s eyes flick towards them as he keeps explaining the potion they’re supposed to make. “Just hurt myself with an extra quill.”

Harry nods, letting go of her and turning back to the Professor, eyes growing distracted again.

Hermione slowly lets out a breath through her nose, a muscle in her jaw fluttering with how hard she grits her teeth. She takes a second to let her anger fill that hollow place in her, lets it char away the quiver that runs through her, the intense, overwhelming curiosity to discover what the message says. Then she reaches back down in her bag, fingers wrapping around the extra vial of ink. She grabs it, setting it on the desk and slowly uncapping it, dipping her quill in it once, twice. Then she turns back to her notes, making sure her hand is loose around the quill, her handwriting smooth and steady as she tunes away from her anger and back into reality, to the droning voice of the Professor.

And though during the day her eyes stray to her bag more times than she’d like, Hermione’s fingers don’t reach for the paper.

Malfoy can wait.


Early on Saturday morning, Hermione finds herself back on one of the couches in the Common Room, silence surrounding her as she stares at her bag in her lap, the heat of the hearth in front of her warming her skin.

She’s still in her new pyjama—that large, oversized t-shirt she’d fashioned herself the other night. Has been in it since she woke up from yet another haunting dream, whatever her brain had conjured leaving a sour and metallic taste in her mouth. She’d grabbed her bag while her brain had still been a bit foggy, the motion of grabbing her things in order to work a bit on her various study projects so engrained in her by now that she’d done it automatically. Only when she’d reached the couch and had rifled through her bag, her fingers brushing against that piece of parchment, had her brain decided to remind her of the message’s existence.

That had been more than one hour ago.

Hermione has spent the past hour just staring at her bag; debating, stupidly, whether or not to read the damn message. She wants to. She also doesn’t want to. But she really, really does. Even though she doesn’t think she has to. What could Malfoy have written, in any case, that she has to respond to it?

Most likely, it won’t be thanks for her help. It could be a critique of her work, a I already knew all of that, Granger, so thanks for nothing sort of note, which would just make her angry and so why should she even bother with it. It would be interesting if it were an actual, critical consideration of the things she’d written—however, that would be a double-edged sword. She’d like the challenge of it, the opportunity to get into a debate with him—the thought of it makes her heart beat faster—but the idea of being found lacking by him, of not meeting whatever kind of expectations he might have of her intellect curdles something in her stomach.

The first, low strike of the grandfather clock ringing in the new hour knocks Hermione out of her musings, pushing her into action. She just needs to fucking read the message, doesn’t she?

Her hand reaches into her bag, fingers tightening around the soft paper, wrinkling it. She doesn’t stop to take a breath, forgoes all theatrics in favour of looking down at her hand, unfurling the piece of parchment in quick moves.

She has to flip it around to see the two words written in black ink.

Library. Tonight.

Her breath catches as her eyes read over the two words over and over again.

He’d asked her to meet him. Last night. Last night.

Malfoy’s handwriting is less elegant than she’d expected, the strokes of ink thick, as if he’d pressed the tip of his quill too hard against the parchment in certain spots. She can hear his voice in her mind, the sharp, tight way he’d say those words to her.

She hadn’t shown.

He’d have waited for her, and she hadn’t shown.

A tremor starts deep in her belly. She swallows, her throat suddenly dry, eyes fixed on those two words. Her body goes cold, her fingers beginning to tingle as her head spins, her pulse hammering in her ears.

She unlocks her lungs, sweet oxygen rushing in as she takes a deep breath. Fear, nerves, excitement crash over her as she swallows again, tearing her eyes away from the message and crumpling the paper in her fist.

He’d asked for her. And she’d ignored him.

Vicious, savage satisfaction roils through her veins as she tosses the message into the flames, followed immediately by an intense sort of trepidation; a brutal, feral desire to know how he had reacted to her not showing up, how crazy her absence must’ve driven him.

Hermione watches the parchment burn as that tremor in her belly deepens, turning into something wilder, something more ravenous.

Footsteps coming down the stairs snap her attention away from the flames, from her thoughts, and Hermione turns to look over her shoulder at the young student stumbling downstairs, still half-asleep, heading directly for the table where warm tea and coffee always await.

The room is brighter than it had been before, and she wonders how much time she’s spent staring into the flames, lost in her thoughts, Malfoy’s angry eyes a fixed image in her mind.

At a certain point, someone sits down on the couch next to her, yawning loudly. Hermione turns her head towards Ginny, giving her a small smile. “Morning.”

“Morning, Mione. Always up so early.” Ginny’s gaze falls to Hermione’s bag on the couch between them before rising back to her face. “You’ve always studied way too much,” she sighs, running her fingers through her red braid, undoing it. “Fancy a walk around Hogsmeade?”

A distraction. A welcome one at that.

“Sure,” Hermione replies, folding her legs beneath her. “We should ask the others, too.”


One hour later she, Ginny, Harry and Neville are making their way out of the Gryffindor Dorm.

“Ron?” Hermione asks, when it’s clear that he won’t be joining them.

“I couldn’t find him,” Ginny says, tucking her hands in the pockets of her coat.

“He didn’t come back to the dorm last night,” Neville adds, shrugging. “Doesn’t come back most nights.”

Harry turns to look over his shoulder. “You reckon he’s fucking someone?”

Ginny groans loudly, rolling her eyes up to the sky. “Let’s not talk about my brother fucking, please.” Her voice lowers, eyes dropping back down to her feet. “Though I can only hope that’s what he’s doing.”

Hermione bumps her shoulder with Ginny’s, smirking softly. “That’s surely what you’re doing, isn’t it, Ginny?”

Ginny’s cheeks turn as red as her hair, her gaze flicking to Harry just as he looks away, the shadow of a smirk pulling at his mouth.

While they’d been getting ready, Neville had complained to her about how yesterday, he’d walked in on Harry and Ginny fucking in the boy’s shared bedroom. At least Luna and I don’t get caught, he’d told her, to which Hermione had pointed out that with the way they always have their hands all over each other, he and Luna were probably worse.

“Shut up,” Ginny hisses, reaching for the end of Hermione’s scarf and flicking it in her face, causing her to laugh. “At least I’m getting laid, Hermione. The same can’t be said for you now, can it?”

Hermione sputters, her heart skipping a beat.

Under no circumstance can they know that she’s had sex just two days prior. Under no circumstance can they discover who she’s had it with.

She turns away from Ginny’s teasing eyes, steadfastly keeping her gaze fixed on Hogsmeade appearing up ahead, batting away the memory of Malfoy’s tongue on her. “I do not need to get laid.”

Neville chortles so loudly that a young group of students up ahead turn their heads to look at them. Hermione turns to glare at Neville.

“You really fucking do, Hermione,” he manages to say between laughs. “You gotta loosen up. With how tense you’ve been lately—”

What?

“—you definitely need a good shag.” Neville turns to wink at her, “You know, I can talk to Luna to see if—”

“No, thank you.” She reaches past Ginny, patting Neville on the shoulder, making him laugh even louder. “I’m completely fine as is. But thank you for the consideration.”

“I could help you find someone, Mione,” Ginny says, a wide smile on her lips as she reaches for Hermione and loops their arms together. “There’s this Seventh Year on the Ravenclaw Quidditch te—”

Harry and Neville groan in unison, exchanging glances.

“He’s hot!” Ginny argues, turning to look at Hermione. “He’s tall. Big guy. Dark hair, beautiful blue eyes. You’d like him, he basically looks like Krum. He’s just, ah, a bit—”

“Of an arsehole,” Harry concludes, shaking his head. “How did you even think she’d like him?”

“Well, she slept with Krum.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. “Ginny!”

“You what?!” Harry turns around, eyes equally as wide behind his glasses. “You slept with Krum?”

“He has a pierced cock, apparently.” Ginny offers.

“He what?!

Hermione groans, covering her burning cheeks with her hands. “I told you that in confidence, Ginny!”

“Oh,” she says. “I thought they knew! Didn’t you boast about it? I would’ve boasted about it. Didn’t he do that thing with his—”

“Ginny!” Hermione shrieks, trying to cover Ginny’s mouth with her hand, the redhead bursting out in giggles. “No more talking about my sex life!”

“Okay, okay,” Ginny relents, batting Hermione’s hands away. “A good fuck could do you well, though. I can still introduce you to—”

“No!”

They all laugh at Hermione as she covers her burning cheeks. She wants to feel happy at the laughter surrounding her, yet she can’t help the coil of tension that slithers below her skin, the conversation bringing back memories of Wednesday night.

But…they aren’t wrong. A good fuck. Someone else. Maybe that’s what she needs.

Hermione tucks away the thought as they make their way towards Hogsmeade’s High Street, the conversation drifting to other topics.

They spend the whole morning going around the different shops, spending a stupid amount of time in Honeydukes, testing out all the different kinds of sweets, as if they haven’t tried almost all of them before. It’s almost enough to make her forget about those two words, inked in black.

For lunch, they head to The Three Broomsticks, the boys ordering so much food that Hermione’s stomach twists at the sight of it. She feels sugar-drunk, the sweetness of all the sweets she ate in the store making her teeth ache.

The pain makes her think of her parents, of all the times her mother sneaked her cherry-shaped sweets, how they’d eat them together in secret, laughing loudly when her father would inevitably catch them. The memory rings like a bell in the hollowness in her chest, rotting the sweetness on her tongue. Hermione tries not to think about it, to focus on Ginny’s retelling of a quidditch training exercise gone wrong, but she can feel herself slipping, the conversation drifting away from her.

The memories morph into one another, pulling her further away from the table she’s sitting at. She jumps from one to the next, memories of summer days spent in the Highlands with her parents, of the day she’d gotten her letter, of how their relationship had grown strained year by year as the War began.

The day she’d made the choice to erase herself from their memories slams through her, and her breathing shortens and no, no, she can’t do this, not now, not ever.

She’d come here to distract herself, not to—

“Anything else I can bring you lot?”

Rough hands reaching for the plates spread around the table force her back to the present, and Hermione raises her gaze to the waitress’ plump face.

Madam Donna raises her eyebrows, eyes glancing between the four of them as she holds the tray packed full of plates at her hip. Ginny and Neville glance at each other before Neville says, “Two shots of Firewhiskey, please.”

“Make that three,” Harry adds, laying his elbows on the table, green eyes turning to Ginny.

Alcohol. Right. When was the last time she’d had a drink? She can’t remember.

“Four, actually,” Hermione says impulsively, straightening her back.

“I’ll just bring the damn bottle, then,” Madam Donna says, turning around with an unimpressed look.

Ginny twists in the seat next to hers, raising her eyebrows at Hermione.

Hermione shrugs, forcing the corner of her mouth to turn up slightly, pushing away the ache in her chest. “What? Neville said I needed to loosen up.”

Neville laughs loudly again, and this time the sound scratches against Hermione’s skin. “Damn right you do, Mione. We can drink to that.”

And they do. Way too much.

For the following hour, the boys refill Hermione’s and Ginny’s shot glasses time and time again, and by the time they get up to leave the pub Hermione’s head is spinning avidly, her body feeling light years away, the tips of her fingers tingling.

Her chest feels lighter, the panic that had been edging so close to the surface having retreated somewhere where Hermione can’t feel it, where she can’t be scared of it.

Merlin, why hadn’t she had a drink before? She feels good. Her mind feels quiet, but not the heavy kind of quiet Hermione has started to know so well. A lighter type of quiet. A better type of quiet.

When they leave the pub the cold midafternoon air stings her lungs. The sun is already low behind the castle but Hermione feels warm to her core in a way she hasn’t felt in a while, the alcohol burning in her veins, blurring the edges of the world around her, of her thoughts.

Neville slings an arm over her shoulders as they walk back towards Hogwarts, somehow drunker than her, even though he’s twice her size. Hermione leans into him, the two of them bumping into each other every other step. Harry and Ginny walk a couple of paces in front of them, talking animatedly about something. Neville also starts going off about some herbology book Luna had given him but Hermione isn’t really listening to him either, her sole focus on the way her heart beats steadily in her chest, the way she almost feels a small smile pulling at her lips.

The way she almost wants to laugh.

The two of them keep walking, and as they get further away from Hogsmeade Hermione tucks her cold hands inside the pockets of her coat. The movement requires more coordination than expected, but when she finally manages to shove her hands in her pockets, the motion causing her to stumble into Neville once again, her fingers brush against something rough.

Hermione halts, Neville’s arm slipping off her shoulders as he continues forward, ignorant to the fact that Hermione has stopped in the middle of the cobbled path, nails scratching against that piece of parchment in her pocket, her head spinning faster than before.

Parchment. Message. Malfoy.

For Merlin’s sake. What the fuck does he want from her now? Damn him. Does he have to intrude on every fucking moment of her life now?

She growls under her breath as she rips her hand out of her pocket, her feet slipping on the cold stones as she glowers down at the piece of paper in her fingers, forcing her eyes to focus on the dark ink.

You’re testing my patience, Granger. Library. Tonight.

You’re testing my patience,” she mocks under her breath, the alcohol in her bloodstream softening the tremble that goes through her, fuelling her annoyance instead. “Library, tonight. Fuck off, you stupid twat.”

She huffs, crumpling the message into a ball and throwing it far away from her, off to the side of the path. She stumbles as she does so, her body moving forward with the inertia of the throw. Her lack of coordination makes her laugh, giggles escaping from her lips.

She hums to herself, satisfied, as the ball of paper disappears from view, the excitement of doing something bad bubbling inside her.

“Hermione, are you coming?”

Hermione turns her head back to the path, to where Neville is waiting for her, swaying on his feet. Hermione catches up to him, his arm falling once more around her shoulder. She wraps her own around his waist and together they join the rest of their group, the buzz Hermione feels making everything feel brighter.

A smirk pulls at her lips and Hermione lets it grow.

Fuck you, Malfoy.


They spend the rest of the afternoon in the Common Room, playing chess and checkers and Dovreks, a strategy board game which Hermione had never heard about before. She loses to Harry, but the slowly dissipating alcohol in her veins lessens the sting of the loss, so Hermione lets him boast a bit.

As the afternoon slips into evening, the high from the Firewhiskey slips away, and Hermione finds herself mourning it. The boys head to dinner at a certain point—how they can find it in them to eat more food, Hermione doesn’t know. She and Ginny forego it instead, Ginny claiming a sick stomach from the sweets and the whiskey, Hermione stating the same, although her reasons for not wanting to go to the Great Hall are quite different.

At a certain point they head to their bedroom, both of them crashing onto Ginny’s bed. Ginny tells her, giggling, about Lorens, about how Hermione should give him a ride, enjoy herself a bit. Hermione plays along, listening to her friend list of all the guys that would fight to spend a night with her until the conversation shifts to other topics, growing quieter and quieter.

They must’ve fallen asleep because when Hermione’s eyes flutter open again, the room is dark, stars glittering in the night sky when she turns to look outside the window. Ginny is half-sprawled on top of her, her head on Hermione’s shoulder, one leg slung over Hermione’s thigh. She tries to extract herself as slowly as possible, doing her best not to wake Ginny, who simply mumbles in her sleep as Hermione leaves the bed before falling still once more.

Hermione stands in the darkened room, her head pounding. The buzz from the drinks is definitely gone now, leaving behind a sour taste in her mouth, her body feeling sluggish when just a few hours before she had felt so light.

She turns to look at her bed, her sheets taunting her with the promise of yet another unrestful night. She reaches for the gap between her bed and the wooden bedframe, pulling out her sleeping potion. Hermione swishes the pale blue liquid around the half-full vial, more viscous now with the changes she’s made to the potion, though she hasn’t managed to find the perfect balance of ingredients yet. She goes to open it, gripping the cork, but… fuck it. She doesn’t want to sleep, doesn’t want to drink this.

She wants that high back, that lightness in her body and in her mind.

Hermione puts the vial away before quietly slipping outside the room, heading downstairs. The dorm is completely silent around her, the stairs barely illuminated by a few flickering lamps as she makes her way down them.

Surely, somewhere around the Common Room, someone would’ve hidden a couple of bottles of wine or of something stronger. She remembers seeing them appear at random after their team would win at Quidditch, so they must be somewhere. Hermione just needs to find them.

She steps off the stairs, socked feet padding lightly over the carpet-covered floor of the Common Room. She looks towards the blazing fire—the only source of light in the room—halting suddenly when she notices the figure on the couch in front of the hearth, feet kicked up lazily on one of the sofa arms.

Ron turns around, a bottle half-raised to his lips, looking at her over the back of the couch. The light of the fire casts his face in shadows as he takes her in, taking a swing from his bottle.

Ron’s voice is uninterested as he turns back around to the hearth, looking away from her. “Can’t sleep?”

Hermione stays silent, considering. She doesn’t really want to talk to him—has had enough human interaction for the day, really—but when the glass bottle in his hand catches the flickering light, Hermione takes a step forward.

“Not really.” She walks closer to him, sitting down in her favourite armchair next to the couch. She tucks her legs beneath her butt, angling herself so she’s facing him.

Ron is too tall for the couch, his feet hanging over the arm, head resting on the opposite one, one arm tucked behind it. His sweatpants hang low on his hips and his bottle rests on his bare chest, fingers playing with the scraped-off label.

Silence hangs heavily between them and Hermione looks for something to fill it with. “We went to Hogsmeade today. Couldn’t find you, though.”

Ron hums, not turning to look at her. “Had fun?”

“Yeah, it was nice.” For once, it isn’t a lie. “Where were you?”

Ron’s eyes flick to hers for a moment before turning away again. “Nowhere special.”

Silence falls between them again, interrupted only by the crackling of the flames and the sound of Ron’s fingers tapping against his bottle.

Hermione studies him. He doesn’t seem drunk yet, his bottle still more than half-full. The orange of the light plays with his hair, catching the copper in it. It’s so long now—almost as long as Charlie’s had been when Hermione had seen him last. Half of it is tied back in a messy bun, a few strands just on this side of too short falling over his forehead. He seems lost in thought. The shadows under his blue eyes, bright even in the darkness, are a deep shade of purple, worse than the last time she saw him—days ago now.

He must be having problems sleeping, too. All of them do, it seems.

Hermione trails her eyes down his body. His shoulders are so wide he barely fits on the couch, tapering off into a slim waist. There’s no softness in him anymore. There used to be, back when they were together. But all his edges are sharper now, his tongue most of all, and Hermione thinks that this isn’t the Ron she knew, not anymore. Hasn’t been for a while.

Her eyes turn back to his face to find him staring at her, nothing she can really recognize in his gaze. They look at each other for silent moments, Ron’s words that day when Harry had dragged him into the Dorm echoing in her head, stinging her. She wants to look away.

Ron takes another sip from his bottle before extending it to her. He doesn’t ask her if she wants some. As if he already knows.

Hermione doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t say anything either before reaching out to grab the bottle, her fingers wrapping around the cold neck of it. She takes a long sip, the liquid burning down her throat, setting her on fire. It’s sharper than the Firewhiskey, the taste so strong it makes her flinch when she separates her lips from the glass, running the back of her hand over her lips. She takes a deep breath, eyes turning towards Ron, who’s staring at her impassively—so different from how expressive he used to be, every emotion clear as day on his face. She takes another drink, even longer than the first.

Light. She wants to feel light again.

She swallows, then sighs, passing the bottle back to Ron, who reaches for it slowly.

They pass it back and forth for a while, making their way past the halfway mark, not saying anything.

Hermione cringes every time she swallows, the taste of the drink so bitter; but with each sip she feels her head start to spin more and more, feels her fingers begin to tingle, the lack of food and rest making it easier for the alcohol to work its magic.

At a certain point, Ron stands and walks to a corner of the Common Room filled with cabinets and drawers. He returns with another bottle, stopping in front of Hermione and holding it out for her with one hand, the other bringing his own to his lips. Hermione looks from his face to the bottle, the dark blue label telling her it’s elderflower gin.

Ron pushes it forward, urging her to take it, long fingers curled around the neck. Hermione can’t help but compare his fingers—all chipped nails and rough callouses—to another person’s fingers; belonging to hands that had pushed her against a table, a wall; that had wrapped around her throat, her thighs, her hair.

Hermione snatches the bottle from Ron’s grip, twisting the cap and letting the sweet liquid flow along her tongue.

She can’t stop thinking about him, can she?

Ron sits back down, knees splayed wide as he takes another swing, his head falling on the back of the couch.

Hermione drinks again, letting the fresh alcohol mix with the one already coursing through her. She drags her eyes over Ron again, over the freckles that cover his shoulders, the thin trail of hair that disappears into his waistband. He’s still fit, somehow, and Hermione is ashamed by the realization that she doesn’t know how he can still be fit—doesn’t know if he’s still playing quidditch or not.

Doesn’t know much about him anymore, at all.

Her eyes continue their path along his body and she can’t help but note the lack of scars, the way his skin isn’t the right shade of fair, the way no silver glistens off him.

It makes her mad that she looks for Malfoy in him, pisses her off that the liquor in her veins isn’t enough to push away the ghosts of his lips on her. It’s like she can still feel him behind her, over her, teeth nipping at her throat, ringed fingers gripping her hips.

She wants to forget every single touch, erase them from her skin, from her memories. Scrub at the spots he touched until she’s brand new again.

Merlin, if only she could—

Ginny’s words twinkle in the back of her consciousness, Neville's laughter following suit.

She looks at Ron again.

A good fuck. Someone else.

Hermione takes another sip of the gin, holding it in her mouth before swallowing.

What’s another bad decision, anyway?

She pushes up from her chair, everything spinning wildly as she stands on unsteady legs, holding tightly to her bottle of gin as she takes the two steps that separate her from Ron. Hermione almost loses her balance as her knee hits the soft cushion of the couch next to Ron’s hip, swinging her other leg over him, settling in his lap.

Ron’s head lifts, his body tensing under hers as he slowly opens his eyes, taking her in as she takes another swing of gin, then settles her bottle down on the floor next to his feet.

She’s never been this upfront with him before, not even when they were dating. But then again, neither one of them is who they used to be.

Ron’s lips part, as if wanting to say something, but then they shut again. He takes one final, long pull from his bottle, emptying it, before leaning forward and setting it down on the ground next to hers.

Hermione can feel her heart beating in her chest, a solid, determined rhythm that drives her to lay her hands over Ron’s chest, trailing her fingers over his shoulders, then up the sides of his neck. She can see the calculation behind his glazed eyes, wants to release a sigh of relief when he comes to a decision, his hands rising to her hips, bringing her closer to him.

She drops her eyes to his lips and they choose the same moment to lean towards each other, their mouths meeting in a slow, languid kiss that rapidly turns heated, his hands pushing under her sweater.

There’s nothing familiar about it, about the way Ron runs his hand all over her stomach, her back; lips trailing down her neck as his fingers smoothly unclasp her bra before he pulls her clothes over her head, leaving her bare in front of him.

There’s nothing familiar in the way Hermione grinds down against him, pushing her chest towards him as she feels him growing hard beneath her arse.

Her body heats, desperately wanting more of his hands on her, of his mouth, of his body. Needing him to help her erase another person’s touch.

She runs her hands through his hair, pulling his face away from her neck to kiss him again, shutting her mind off, letting the heat of the alcohol and of his hands guide her motions.

They fuck right there, on the couch.

Hermione pushes him to lay down on the couch, rides him until he comes all over her back, his hands squeezing tightly, nails leaving scratches over her hips. Then Ron pulls her forward until she’s straddling his face and eats her out until she comes, one hand pulling at his hair, the other clenching in the fabric of the sofa as her orgasm rolls over her.

They don’t talk as they lay naked on the couch together. They don’t talk as Ron stands up, picking up his sweatpants from the floor and reaching for the bottle of gin, taking a long pull from it. They don’t talk as he stares into the flames, as Hermione reaches for her clothes, slowly covering herself again.

They don’t talk until Ron turns away from the fire, looking down at her with eyes less glazed than before. “I hope that helped, Hermione.” He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth, looking away from her. “But never do it again.”

The roughness in his voice splinters something in her, makes her flinch as if he’d slapped her. Hermione doesn’t say anything, only drops her eyes away from his, curling against the corner of the couch, staring at the orange flames in the hearth.

She hears him walk away, hears him drop the bottle of gin on one of the tables before making his way up the stairs, each one of his steps heavy as he leaves her behind, completely alone.

Hermione doesn’t wait long before getting up, begging her feet to not let her stumble as she walks up the stairs, everything around her spinning, her stomach twisting. She doesn’t even change before reaching for her sleeping potion, urging her shaking hands to uncork it and drowning its contents in one breath. She slides underneath her covers, pulling them over her head, squeezing her eyes tightly as her legs keep trembling—from the sex or from the alcohol, she doesn’t want to know.

Just another bad decision.

It’s all she seems capable of, lately.

Hermione begs for a dreamless sleep.

Notes:

pls everyone look at the beautiful artwok sybillgray on insta did for this fic i am literally so obsessed you have no idea!!!!

anyway, thank you for your patience with the updates, these last few chapters have taken me a bit longer to write but I hope you still enjoy them!! can't wait for you guys to read the next one hehehe

as always thank you!! for every single kudos and comment. they literally make me the happiest person ever. also couldn't help making a little part two divider with one of my favorite phrases from the Divine Comedy. gotta thank the italian education system for making me read it when i was sixteen and permanently altering my brain chemistry lmao.

anyway hope you enjoyed!! <3

Chapter 11

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco watches as Granger scrambles into the Great Hall on Monday morning.

Her hair is a bird’s nest at the top of her head, her wand jammed in the middle of it. Black robes hang awkwardly off her frame, her red hood inside out.

Granger pushes against the flow of students leaving the Hall, heading to their classes. From his seat at the Slytherin table, Draco watches as she stumbles into several of them with an embarrassing lack of coordination that somehow demands all of his attention, shoulders knocking into arms and chests.

Granger finally makes her way out of the horde, rushing towards the Gryffindor table, eggs and fruit and pastries still spread out on the dark wooden surface like a feast. She doesn’t bother with reaching her usual seat—gravitates instead to where a mountain of croissants awaits. She hitches her bag higher on her shoulder, the movement jerky as she reaches with one hand for the closest pastry, picking it up.

Draco’s fingers tap slowly against his mug of coffee—black and strong and bitter—as he watches Granger debate with herself. She brings the pastry towards her mouth, body half twisting around, as if turning to leave; then she stops, turns back around, sets the croissant back on an empty plate. Takes a step backwards, then forwards again. She picks the pastry back up, attempts again to lift it to her mouth before she stills, dropping it back onto the plate.

Granger turns on her heel, hands gripping the strap of her bag where it slips from her shoulder, pushing it back in place. Even from so far away, Draco notes the fidgety tension in her body.

It makes him smile in his mug as he takes a sip of his coffee, the scorching liquid stinging his tongue.

Granger heads towards the open doors, her steps quick. Draco catalogues every movement she makes, all his attention on her. If he hadn’t been paying such close attention, if he had taken his eyes off her for even just one single moment, he wouldn’t have noticed the twitch in her hands, the way her chin dips before she subtly, almost imperceptibly, looks over her shoulder. Right at the Slytherin table.

It takes a heartbeat for her eyes to fall on him and when they do, Draco feels the anger that had been growing in him since Thursday run hot in his veins, burning him up from the inside.

He drops his mug on the table with a thud, back straightening.

Granger stumbles over her feet, whipping her head around, her steps quickening. Draco is tempted to take out his wand, to hex her and watch her fall on the ground; to get up from his seat and stalk towards her, watch her try to crawl away from him to no avail. His fingers twitch with the urge to tangle in her curls—to pull until it hurts, until pretty tears drop from her eyes and pleas for forgiveness fall from her lips—so strong it makes his heart skip a beat.

But he doesn’t do that.

It isn’t how he wants to play this. At least, not yet.

He twists his mug in a circle, watching as Granger disappears past the doors without a second glance in his direction.

The corner of his lips pulls into a smirk, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest, thoughts running rampant in his mind, each one meaner than the next.

Granger’s having a bad day.

And Draco is going to make it even worse.


Draco forgoes all his classes in favour of stalking Granger all over Hogwarts.

It’s the sweetest of games.

To watch how after days of leniency, of keeping his distance, of not bothering her if not for his messages, Granger jumps every time she catches sight of him, every time Draco waits for her outside of one of her classes, leaning against a wall, blending in the shadows.

He tries to be discreet, to watch her from afar—from the other side of courtyards, from the bottom of stairs—yet Granger always spots him, her eyes gravitating towards him as if they can’t stay away.

I know you look for me, too.

He’d told her that in the Library, weeks ago now. He hadn’t been lying.

The more he makes his presence known; the more distraught Granger becomes. Draco watches her stumble into Professors and students alike, hears her snap at Lovegood, gloats each time she takes a wrong turn, going in the opposite direction to her classes.

It makes that beast in him purr.

It wants to come out and play, wants to sink its teeth and claws in her and never let her go.

His, it calls out as it watches Granger’s distress grow and grow; his game, his prey. His.

Surprisingly, Granger goes to lunch, even though she doesn’t really eat anything. Draco is there, on the other side of the Hall, watching her.

Theo is sitting next to him, Pansy on his other side. Nobody is sitting in front of them, or close to them. Nobody ever does.

“If you stare at her any harder, she’s gonna catch fire.”

Draco doesn’t take his eyes off Granger. “If only.”

Pansy scoffs under her breath, the sound almost a laugh. “Is she your new golden snitch?”

The corner of Draco’s mouth pulls upwards. “You could say so.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d almost say you have a crush.”

Theo sighs. “Draco would never debase himself with feelings such as those, Pansy.”

Pansy scoffs humorously. “Right. Is she a good fuck at least?”

Draco smirks. “Jealous?”

“Curious. Will she give me a ride, too, if I ask?”

“You’re not Granger’s type, Pansy,” Theo interrupts, voice flat.

Pansy raises a sharp eyebrow. “And you are?”

“I have no interest in Granger. Draco can keep her.”

Draco hums. “I will.”

“Gross.” Pansy reaches for her wine, burgundy like her signature lipstick. “Anyhow, Potter’s staring.”

Draco moves his gaze from the back of Granger’s head where it’s tilted towards Longbottom—who is likely telling her something infinitely boring—to the person sitting in front of her, whose hair is nearly as much of a mess as Granger’s.

Draco leans back in his chair, reaching for his own glass of wine, lifting it in a mock cheer towards Potter before drowning the contents in one go.

Yet Potter doesn’t look away.

Pansy gives a thoughtful hum. “Maybe I could fuck Potter.”

Theo groans. “Maybe you could keep some of your thoughts to yourself, Pansy.”

“Reckon he’d be a good shag?”

“I’ve never asked myself that, Pansy.” Draco flicks his gaze between the two of them, amused, before continuing. “You’re welcome to find out, though.”

Theo reaches for his cup, tapping it on the table. Pansy refills it with magic. “Ginny Weasley would come for your throat,” Theo says, leaning past Draco to look at Pansy.

“I’d like to see her try.” Pansy tucks her short hair behind an ear, exposing the various piercings she has. One has a little snake pendant, dangling from her lobe. “I could take her in a heartbeat.”

“Of course you could,” Theo mutters, lifting his glass to his lips.

“I could, you—”

“Theodore,” Draco interrupts them, knowing they could go on forever otherwise. He used to have someone to talk to when the two of them bickered, but—Draco doesn’t like to think about Blaise.

Theo side-eyes him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Do you have a piece of parchment?”

“No.”

“Find me some.”

Theo rolls his eyes so hard Draco worries they’re going to get stuck that way before he pulls out his wand, transforming his napkin into a piece of blank parchment, holding it out between two fingers.

A quill dripping black ink is thrust in his face, courtesy of Pansy, ink drops splattering against his empty plate.

He snatches quill and paper, pushing his plate away and clearing enough space on the table in front of him to write down a single sentence.

My patience is running thin, Granger.

He folds the paper in two, reaching for his wand and tapping the message with the tip of it. The paper disappears, and Draco releases a slow breath as it reappears in Granger’s lap. His gaze returns to her, not wanting to miss a single reaction. He wishes he could see her face, make note of her expression as she flinches in her seat, one hand immediately snapping to her lap.

Draco leans forward in his seat, resting his forearms on the table. His fingers itch to wrap around her slender throat.

He’s just so angry.

He has to wait for Longbottom to stop talking and turn towards the redhead sitting on the other side of him for Granger to push her chair back, head bending towards her lap.

Reading his message.

His whole focus is on her.

A chair screeches as it’s pushed back, glasses clatter as Granger rushes to pack her things, the only person standing up in the whole of the Hall. Her movements are jerky, frantic as she stumbles into her chair, her friend’s heads all snapping towards her.

She doesn’t give them any notice.

Granger is a flurry of robes and curls as she rushes out of the Great Hall again, students turning to look at her as the rhythm of her steps increases to a near run.

Draco chuckles, reaching for his glass, and mutters a simple charm to refill it with wine.

He wants to get up—wants to stalk after her, wants to be that presence at her back that makes her scared, that makes her want to run away from him. The instinct flares up in him violently, yet Draco shoves it down as she disappears beyond the doors for the second time that day, vanishing from sight.

He takes another sip of his wine, leaning back in his chair, compelling the tension in his body to loosen.

“I almost feel bad for her,” Pansy says, reaching for a breadstick and snapping it in half. “Do your worst, Draco.”

He doesn’t bother telling her that he already plans to.


When the sun dips behind the towers of Hogwarts and the school turns quiet, students rushing to reach their dorms before curfew strikes, Draco flirts with the shadows of an alcove near the Library.

Granger had been even more of a mess in the afternoon.

After he’d left the Great Hall to head to Granger’s next class, he’d found his message balled up tightly and thrown on the ground near one of the armour statues that lined the main corridor.

He’d picked it up and had smoothed it out, putting it in his pocket.

A couple of hours later he’d pulled it out again, had scribbled two words on the back of it, and had made it disappear once more.

When he’d caught sight of Granger after that, making her way down the stairs towards the Library, a pretty flush had stained her cheeks and her eyes had lost some of that nervousness he’d seen in them, anger bright her gaze in its place.

He’d almost snatched her then and there. But there had been too many people around, and he hadn’t really been ready for this game of theirs to be over.

And clearly, Granger didn’t want it to end, either.

She could’ve hidden herself away in her dorm at any time. Could’ve made up some excuse to cover her absences, could’ve found any number of ways to stay away from him if she’d really wanted to—yet she hadn’t.

Rather, she’d chosen to stay. Had chosen to play with him.

Every time their gazes would catch, Draco could’ve sworn he’d see her shiver—her throat working around a swallow, her movements faltering. Yet she’d always turn to look over her shoulder, gaze searching for him, brows furrowing when she couldn’t find him right away.

As if wanting to make sure that he was right there, watching her, following her.

It pleased him infinitely.

The temperature around him drops and Draco pulls his hood up, leaning back against the cold stone wall.

Granger had disappeared into the Library hours ago now. When the clock had struck nine times and Granger still hadn’t come out, he’d known she’d been locked inside.

How many times must it have happened before?

He’d almost gone in, but he’d been curious to see how long she would stay in there. Was she lost in her work? Was she waiting for him to arrive? He had, after all, asked her twice to meet him in the Library at night—not that she’d bothered to show.

How long would she wait for him? Nearly as long as he had waited for her, his anger steadily growing with each turn of the clock?

Sometimes after eleven—Draco’s fingers have gone cold by now—the sound of the Library door unlocking makes the hair at the back of his neck rise.

Granger’s voice is quiet as she charms the doors shut again, her steps interrupting the silence that has fallen around him.

Draco melds himself to the stone wall as her steps near, his hood dropping low on his face, obscuring his view.

He counts Granger’s steps, listening to her walk past him. Her steps are quick, but not rushed. Steady. Measured. On alert.

He smiles.

Draco waits for Granger to reach the bend in the corridor, waits for her steps to become faint before pulling that restless magic in his veins forward, his voice a low taunt as it spears through Granger’s mind, invisible claws scratching at the edges of her thoughts.

Granger.

At the end of the corridor Granger halts, head snapping to the side, her whole body pulling tight as a bowstring.

Draco closes his eyes, breathing in slowly.

No Occlumency walls prevent him access; the chaotic, twisted, mess that is Granger’s mind laid bare to him. He brushes against her thoughts, the touch less gentle than it ought to be.

He hears her gasp.

Granger…Such a mess in here.

Granger’s mind is a cacophony of feelings, of thoughts, merging into one another to the point where Draco struggles with discerning them. He almost wants to lean away from them, the intensity of them unfamiliar to him, incomprehensible. It’s confusional; too much all at once.

He can recognize some of the emotions coursing through her—anxiety, anger, exhilaration. So many contrasting emotions. Such darkness tainting them.

He smiles, pushing deeper into her mind, wrapping around it until it’s completely in his hold.

Granger’s mind is exquisite. Yet so frail, so unsteady. It would take so little for Draco to shatter it. But doing it with magic would be…unsatisfactory.

He can feel her get more and more agitated; watches from the shadows as Granger twists around, her bag falling down her shoulder, wand already raised and pointing at nothing. It’s shaking.

Draco pushes away from the wall, robes swirling around him. His fingers tighten around his wand as he takes his first step towards her. Draco sees himself in her mind—sees the way his hood hides his face, how his robes deepen the darkness around him. He can feel Granger’s mind stilling, can feel the panic that creeps in from the darkest corners of her thoughts, the need to take a step back, away from him, he looks too much—a mask, he’s missing a mask, I need to get away, run away—but chase, he’s gonna chase and—

Occlumency walls finally snap up, locking him out of most of her thoughts. But the walls are shaky, weaker than he’d expected from her, filled with gaps. Draco pushes his claws into those cracks, widening them with ease until he’s once again inside her mind.

It reeks of fear now.

He tightens his grip on his wand.

Run, Granger.

He doesn’t have to tell her twice.

Granger twists around, her bag falling discarded on the floor as she breaks into a sprint, disappearing behind the corner.

Draco runs after her, boots skidding on the stone floor as he turns the corner, eyes locking on Granger running ahead of him, a single thought urging him forward, like lightning in his blood.

Catch her.

He sends that thought into her mind, one last brush of his claws against her thoughts before he pulls away.

His legs propel him forward, rapidly eating up the distance between them. At the end of the corridor Granger takes a right, disappearing again out of sight. Draco follows her a second later but has to throw his body against the wall, crashing heavily into it to avoid a beam of bright purple light.

The spell crashes against the opposite wall, sizzling against the stone. He glares at Granger, who has already turned around, rushing further away from him.

Draco casts a spell himself as he pushes against the wall and begins running again, faster than before. The spell ricochets against a shield, disappearing into nothing. He would be impressed by Granger’s ability to shield while running—not an easy task—if only it didn’t annoy him quite so much.

Magic sparking beneath his skin, Draco casts a shield-neutralizing spell, the strongest one he knows, throwing it towards her as he makes his legs go faster, the distance between the two of them rapidly decreasing.

He can almost feel his hands in her hair.

The orange spell crashes against Granger’s shield, dissipating it with a bright flare of light.

It’s risky—so risky to engage in a duel here, in the corridors, where at any time a portrait or a ghost could sound an alarm.

Granger must think the same thing because when she reaches the end of the corridor, one of the many staircases that connect the different parts of Hogwarts in front of her, she rushes downstairs, flying down the steps with impressive ease.

Draco is there a second later, following her.

Granger reaches the landing just when Draco takes the first step downwards. She turns, looking up at him, firing spell after spell at him. Draco manages to avoid the first few ones, but after Granger neutralizes his shield he’s a second too late in creating a new one and one of her spells hits him in the shoulder, causing him to stumble backwards, his grip on his wand faltering. Granger takes the moment to flee, throwing herself down the stairs faster than he can follow.

Draco straightens up, hearing her run away as he rolls his shoulder back, the muscle twinging in pain.

Pretty little witch with a good fucking aim. He grins.

Draco takes the steps two at a time, barreling down them. Instinct takes over him, the need to catch her and have her under him so strong he’d be worried about it if only it didn’t feel so right, so necessary.

Granger doesn’t stop at the first underground floor, running down two more flights of stairs before leaving them behind, running down one of the underground corridors. The moment Draco’s feet hit the landing he casts a powerful spell her way, the bright blue light of it illuminating the dark corridor as it rushes towards Granger, tangling between her legs.

Granger falls to the ground with a shout, her wand flying from her hand, clattering loudly on the floor. Draco’s steps are quick as he stalks toward her, his whole focus on the witch trying to get up from the floor.

Granger is slow in lifting herself to her knees, her movements twitchy. Draco knows it's due to the electricity seizing her muscles, courtesy of his spell. He gets to her on his next breath, towering over her, holding still. He grants her the opportunity to crawl half a step away from him before he steps closer, one leg on either side of her, reaching down to grab her curls and use them to pull her upwards. Granger shrieks, hands immediately reaching for his arm, trying to pull his hand away from her hair. Draco tightens his hold, leaning towards her as he lifts Granger to her knees.

The tip of his wand finds the soft spot beneath her chin. He relishes the way she’s panting, chest rising and falling rapidly.

He crouches behind her, pulling her head to the side, nuzzling against her temple. His breaths are fast, too, burning in his lungs. Draco breathes her in.

Granger freezes, her whole body stilling as he trails the tip of his wand along her throat.

“Caught you, sweetheart.”

Granger flinches away from him, even as her breathing turns into a messy staccato.

He pulls her closer to him again, pulling her head back, exposing her pale throat. He brushes his lips against the soft skin, right over her erratic pulse. Smiles against it as it speeds up even more. “Now I’m going to have my fun.”

Draco gets up in a swift move, Granger struggling harder against his hold, her nails scratching at his hand, pulling at his robes. He doesn’t bother with keeping his wand pointed at her as he drags her up by her hair, urging her to her feet.

Granger stumbles, cursing him seven ways to Hell as he uses his hold in her curls to push her forward, steering her down the corridor. Draco points his wand against her side, shoving it into her flank as she refuses to walk.

“Walk,” he growls as she keeps struggling, tightening his hold on her.

Fuck you,” she hisses at him, hands still trying to pull her hair out of his grip. He’s pretty sure he’s bleeding from the scratches her nails have left on him. “You’re fucking deranged. They should’ve locked you up.”

Draco laughs, halting only to bring her flush against him. “Yet you’re the one who testified for me, Granger. Regretting that now?”

She moves away from him, distance settling between their bodies. Draco pulls cruelly at her hair, closing that distance once again.

“I’m going to gouge your eyes out with my bare fucking hands,” she hisses.

Draco hums. “You’re welcome to try.”

“Let me fucking—”

“No.”

Granger begins fighting against his hold again, more viciously than before. It makes Draco’s blood heat.

He pushes forward, walking them along the corridor until they reach the first door in a set of three. Draco pushes Granger against the door, keeping her still with the weight of his body as he fumbles with the handle, finding it locked.

Granger moves against him distractingly, trying to push herself away from the door. Each one of her stuttered movements causes her to brush against him, her lithe body twisting as she tries to get away. When her arse brushes against his thighs Draco can’t help but push his hips against hers in response, his hand leaving the door’s handle to grip her hip.

His cock is already hard, the adrenaline pumping through his veins having forced most of his blood south. Granger gasps, attempting to move away, but Draco pushes harder against her, letting her feel just how much this little chase has affected him.

Granger makes a strangled noise, one of her hands letting go of his wrist to reach for his waist, trying to push him away from her.

Not a chance.

“I don’t plan on taking you against this door, Granger, but if you keep struggling like this I won’t be held accountable for my actions.”

“You’re an animal, you vile piece of shit.”

“Such vitriol coming from your pretty lips tonight,” Draco whispers, gripping her hip tighter. “Better than lies, I guess.”

“I hate you.”

“Of course.”

Draco unlocks the door with a flick of his wand, throwing the door open and shoving Granger into the room, pushing her away from him.

Granger stumbles from the force of his shove, crashing loudly against one of the many tables that litter the abandoned classroom.

Draco flicks his wand, the few burned-out candles lining the walls of the class springing to life. The flickering lights illuminate the dirty, disused room, a few tables and chairs filling the small space. There are no windows, no cupboards; just the tables, a chalkboard, and a large desk in front of it.

His eyes snap back to the witch as she lifts herself from the table she stumbled into, the screech of the table’s legs against the stone floor annoyingly loud. Granger turns around, pure hatred and fury in her eyes as she stares him down. Her clothes are in disarray, her robes slipping down her arm, knee-high socks scrunched around her ankles.

Draco reaches behind him for the door, shutting it slowly and charming it locked before sliding his wand into the pocket of his robes and pulling them off. Granger doesn’t move as he locks her in the room with him, hands fisted by her sides.

He drops his robes carelessly on the floor as he advances towards her, never taking his eyes off her. He pushes his sleeves to his elbows, then pulls his tie loose, his body overheated from the run and the way Granger’s looking at him.

Draco closes the distance between them in a few long strides. She doesn’t make a move to get away. He stares down at her, assessing the flush on her cheeks, the sweat at her hairline, the way her lips are pulled in a flat line.

Draco leans his hands on the desk behind her, caging her in, putting them face to face. He opens his mouth to taunt her, a smirk already pulling at his—

A sharp pain explodes in his nose, blinding him. His hand flies to his face, blood pooling in his fingers as he gets shoved away, stumbling backwards.

Draco tries to breathe through the pain, regaining his balance and blinking his eyes open. It takes him a second to realise Granger isn’t in front of him anymore and he turns around, eyes falling on where she’s crouched next to his robes, hands rifling through them, searching for his wand.

Draco curses, forgetting all about the blood pouring from his nose as he rushes towards her. He grabs handfuls of her robes, pulling her away. Granger yelps, falling to the ground, her grip on his robes faltering. Draco snatches them from her hold, balling them up and throwing them to the other side of the room before turning to glare down at her.

Granger looks up at him wide-eyed, probably shocked at the amount of blood Draco can feel flowing down his face, his neck, staining his white shirt red.

He leans down, wrapping his hand around her throat and squeezing, using his grip to pull her up and slam her against the nearest wall, crowding her. He lifts her until she’s on her tiptoes, her fingers trying to squeeze in between her throat and his hand. Draco tightens his grip, delighting in the way Granger’s lips part, uselessly trying to get a breath down.

Only when Granger’s eyelids start to flutter, her struggles turning weaker, does Draco loosen his grip on her throat.

Granger takes in gasping breath after breath, and Draco closes his eyes, dropping his forehead against hers, waiting for the thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears to go back down to a manageable thing.

His fingers twitch against Granger’s throat, the pulse beneath them unnaturally fast. He takes a deep inhale, holding it in his lungs. His muscles are tense with the need to hurt her, to make her pay for having fucking headbutted him.

Merlin, that she’d even do that. It thrills him.

Draco slowly releases his breath, Granger taking it in as she tries to get her breathing back to normal. He lifts his forehead from hers, opening his eyes.

She’s looking at him with an expression he can’t decipher, twin tears falling from the corner of her eyes when she blinks.

Draco follows the tear’s paths before letting go of her throat to cradle her face. He swipes his thumbs beneath her eyes, drying her tears.

Granger’s breath hitches, and his eyes fall to her parted lips.

So soft. So close.

He could just take what he wants from her. He could kiss her and turn her around and fuck her like this, her head still spinning from the lack of oxygen, blood still falling from his nose. He could give in to that need he can still feel deep in him, lose control for real, for more than just a chase around dark corridors.

She would cry, and he would take, and he doesn’t think she would mind that much at all.

But, no. Not today.

Draco leans forward, kissing her softly with just a brush of his lips against hers. It’s chaste, and light, and everything he doesn’t want it to be, but maybe it’ll hurt her more, so he does it again.

When he leans away, there’s a red stain on her lips, his blood on her mouth. Draco’s brain quiets at the sight of it, something short-circuiting, and he can’t look away from it.

Granger whimpers, the sound pained, and then there are hands grasping at his shirt and Granger’s lips are against his again, frantic.

Draco groans, pulling her closer, his hands tangling in her hair. Granger kisses him like she has never kissed him before, violence and anger and desperation stark in the way her lips move against his, the way her teeth nip at his bottom lip before her tongue flicks against it, demanding entrance.

The taste of blood and the taste of her mix on his tongue as Draco tilts her head, kissing her deeper. Granger’s hands flex against his chest, dragging him even closer. Draco pulls away, murmuring a simple healing charm against her lips, the pain in his nose subsiding.

“Malfoy,” Granger whimpers, and then Draco is kissing her again, pushing her harder against the wall, not an inch of space between their bodies.

He groans when she pulls roughly at his hair, his hips twitching forward. Draco drops his hands from her face, reaching down to cup her arse and lift her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as if that’s where they’re always supposed to be.

He grinds against her, his cock straining in his pants, so hard it almost hurts. Granger moans against his lips, pushing her body closer, arching into him. Then her lips leave his, trailing down his jaw, careless of the blood still drying on his skin. Draco grants her space, turning his head so she can lick across his jaw, his throat, leaving burning kisses that make him moan and grind against her again.

Fuck, he needs to be inside her, needs to stretch her and fill her and taste her. Needs his seed to spill out of her and then needs to run his fingers through it and push it back inside.

Draco wraps his arms around her, holding her close as he steps away from the wall. Granger clings to him, her lips still exploring his throat, quick fingers unbuttoning the top of his shirt. He walks towards the desk at the front of the classroom, setting her down on top of it, pushing his hands underneath her sweater.

Granger separates herself from him just long enough to push her robes off and grab the hem of her sweater, removing that and her shirt in one swift move. It leaves her in only her bra and tie, her breasts soft-looking behind the lace bralette Granger seems to favour, rising and falling with each one of her breaths.

Draco doesn’t get to enjoy the view for long before Granger surges forward, kissing him again and bringing him down on top of her. They make quick work of his own clothes, then her tie and bra are gone and Draco leaves her mouth to trail his lips down her chest, to her breast, sucking one pink, hard nipple in his mouth.

Granger moans, head falling back as she pushes her chest against Draco’s mouth. One of his hands is splayed across her back, holding her close to him as he swirls his tongue around her nipple, sucking and teasing before he clamps his teeth down on it, biting. She twitches, the legs she has still wrapped around his waist tightening around him, squeezing and bringing him closer.

“Fuck,” she whispers, voice breathless. “Fuck.”

Draco releases her nipple, twirling his tongue around it one last time before lifting off her breast. Granger’s fingers in his hair tighten, pushing his head towards her other breast, lifting it to him in offer, begging for his mouth. He smirks before conceding, sucking her neglected nipple between his lips, every single moan and whimper Granger makes shooting straight to his cock. He bites and sucks and licks for minutes, leaving bruises around the soft skin of her breast, until Granger pulls him away, her whimpers desperate.

He kisses her mouth until there’s no more oxygen in his lungs before breaking away, whispering against her lips, “Ask me.”

“Malfoy—”

“Ask me, Hermione.”

“Fuck you,” she hisses, nails scraping against his scalp with how hard she grips his hair. He shivers.

“Ask me, or I’m not going to. Not after how you’ve been treating me.”

She breaks away from his lips and Draco looks down at her, the flush on her cheeks bright as she glares at him, chest heaving. “How I’ve been treating you?”

Draco’s hand on her hips slides along her stomach, cupping one breast roughly. She stifles a moan behind closed lips. “You’ve been avoiding me. You know how much I hate it.”

“Malfoy—”

Draco pulls her closer, grinding roughly between her legs, against her cunt. “I don’t even think you deserve to be fucked, Granger. You’ve been such a bad girl.”

He drops his hand from her breast, dragging it back down to her navel, his fingertips dancing across her skin. He reaches for the hem of her skirt, lifting it and pooling it around her hips. He never takes his eyes off her face, transfixed by how red her lips are, how the flush on her cheeks extends to her throat, her chest. How her eyes are narrowed at him even if her pupils are blown wide, the black devouring the brown.

Granger drops one hand from his hair, settling it behind her on the desk as she leans backwards, creating more space between them. Granting his hand better access.

Draco can’t help but drop his gaze to her breasts, bruised and swollen from his mouth, nipples still glistening with his saliva. Then he looks down at her hips, at what was hiding beneath her skirt; the simple light pink knickers that cover her sex.

There’s a darker spot right over her cunt. He licks his lips, remembering the taste of her before running two fingers right over the darker patch, feeling how damp the material is, how wet she always is for him.

It drives him insane.

“However,” he says, voice hoarser than before. He can’t stop running his fingers over her, feeling how fucking drenched she is through the fabric. “If you tell me what you want, I might consider giving it to you.”

Granger’s stomach flexes when Draco grips the edge of her panties, pulling and ripping them from her hips, exposing her to him. She gasps when Draco bundles the torn piece of fabric in his fist, lifting his gaze from her wet, swollen cunt to her eyes before bringing her panties to his face, inhaling deeply, the scent of her heavy on the cotton.

Draco watches as she swallows, lips parting and closing, eyes fixed on his hand. They follow it as he puts her panties in the pocket of his trousers before reaching for her jaw and forcing her gaze back to his.

His fingers squeeze her jaw lightly when their eyes meet. Her blush is fiercer than before, but her eyes are still narrowed, still glaring at him.

“Ask me,” he says, waiting.

He wants to fuck her, wants to be wrapped up in her heat again, right now, but if she doesn’t ask, he’ll back away and leave her there, regardless of how crazy that might drive him.

She has to ask. Has to admit, out loud, to both him and herself, just how badly she needs him to fuck her. Has to hear herself say the words. She has to say them, so that Draco can use them against her when the time comes.

When Granger stays quiet, unmoving, eyes flicking between his, Draco lets go of her jaw.

He keeps his face impassive as he removes his hand from her back, as he leans away from her body; her warm, willing body, knowing it’s her mind that’s keeping her words locked in her throat. He’s almost tempted to reach inside her thoughts, to see what her mind is screaming at her, but instead, he steps away, reaching for the hand she still has in his hair and pulling it away.

It seems to snap Granger into motion, because a moment later her fingers are gripping his necklace, pulling him towards her.

Draco’s hand wraps around her wrist, squeezing so hard that Granger immediately lets go with a hiss.

“Don’t fucking—”

Fuck me.

Draco’s mouth snaps shut. He stares down at her. Her legs lock around his waist.

“Fuck me,” she swallows, the desperation in her tone reigniting the fire in his blood. “Please. Fuck me. Don’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t leave me like this.”

He can’t look away from her. “Like what?”

Granger swallows. Her brow furrows, a pained expression crossing her face before she blinks once, twice. “Aching for you.”

Draco exhales harshly, the words pushing all the air out of his lungs, all the thoughts out of his mind.

He slowly sets her hand down by her side, his fingers covering hers. He reaches for her cunt with his other hand, fingers stroking between her folds until he reaches her entrance. His hands are shaking with need. He dips the tips of his fingers inside. “Is that what you are? Aching for me?”

Please.”

Granger’s body tenses as he slowly pushes two fingers inside her, watching as they disappear before he pulls them out again, her arousal shining on his skin.

He looks up at her, but she seems just as transfixed by the sight of him lazily fucking her with his finger as he is. Draco pumps his fingers in her thrice more, his cock straining to replace his digits, before he slips out of her and brings his fingers to his mouth.

She always tastes so fucking good.

Draco licks any trace of her clear from his skin before pulling his fingers out of his mouth and pressing them against her lips. Granger whimpers before her lips part, sucking his fingers inside, tongue exploring every inch of his skin.

“Aching for me,” he whispers as her lids lower, as she sucks more of his fingers inside her mouth, as if she can’t get enough. “Do you want me to fuck you, Granger?”

She nods, lust clouding her eyes. Draco hums thoughtfully, “I can do that. You’ve asked me so politely.” He pulls his hand away from her and she keens, the sound making him throb even harder. “But here’s what’s gonna happen. Look at me.”

Granger brings her eyes up from where they’d dropped to his lips, her chest heaving, muscles almost shaking.

Draco keeps his eyes locked on hers. “I’m gonna fuck you, but you’re not going to come, because you’ve made me mad. I wrote you messages. I waited for you. And you didn’t even bother showing up. So disrespectful of you, really.”

A whimper escapes her. Draco grabs her jaw again, his wet fingers leaving smears over her face. “So, I’m going to fuck you, I’m going to spill so deep inside you you’ll have me dripping down your thighs, but you’re not going to come. Is that clear?”

Granger is looking at him from beneath lowered lashes, mouth parted. Draco squeezes her jaw, fingers digging into her cheeks. “Is that clear?”

Granger nods, and as soon as she does Draco is dragging her off her table and tearing her skirt off her hips. She gasps when he turns her around, bending her and pushing her flat against the desk, her naked body a beautiful contrast against the dark wood.

He keeps one hand on her back as he unbuckles his pants, his cock screaming at him to sheathe himself inside her. He pulls his straining dick out, inching closer so his thighs line up with hers. He spits in his hand before stroking his cock, his knuckles brushing against the soft skin of Granger’s arse. She whimpers again.

Draco lets go of his dick to grab Granger’s hips with both hands, squeezing lightly before running his hands down her thighs and up her sides again.

Her skin is so delicate. So pure.

He stares as goosebumps break out all over her, the arch in the small of her back deepening as she pushes back against him, squirming. He lightens his touch, grazing his thumbs along the length of her spine before reaching outwards, wrapping his hands around her ribs and squeezing once before dragging his nails against her skin on the way downwards.

He doesn’t want to stop touching her.

“You should see yourself,” he tells her, grabbing her arse and spreading her open. “You look so pretty bent over for me.”

She releases a half-gasp, half-sob when Draco spanks her, then a full-out cry when his hand lands on the same spot again. She flinches against the table, hips digging into the edge of the desk. He puts all his strength into the next spank and Granger cries out again, rising on her tiptoes, trying to get away from him.

Draco shushes her, laying his hand on the reddened, heated skin, caressing it gently. “That’s for ignoring my messages.”

Then he spanks her three more times, always in the same spot, until Granger sobs, her whole body shaking. “That’s for making me bleed.”

Draco lines himself up with her as she keeps gasping, legs twitching. He slides inside her in one hard thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt.

The heat of her threatens to send him to his knees, so tight and wet and perfectly gripping his cock. He sets a fast, restless pace that has him groaning deeply in his throat, each slide of his cock inside her so delicious and intoxicating he could get drunk on it. Drunk on her. On her cunt and her moans and her shivers.

Each one of Granger’s whines and cries makes her tighten around him, pushing him to go deeper, drive harder into her until she takes all of him. Draco stares down at the way his cock disappears inside her again and again, strings of her arousal and his pre-come connecting and disconnecting with every snap of his hips.

“You take me so well, Hermione.”

She moans, fingers clawing at the desk. Inchorent. Sex-drunk. Perfect.

“Such a good little slut for me.”

Draco keeps fucking her, her walls stretching around him each time he slams into her, taking him deep. The sound of his hips slapping against her arse is indecent, joined by that of her own snapping against the edge of the desk, the old wood creaking beneath them with each thrust.

She pushes back against him over and over, moans increasing in pitch even when she tries to stifle them. He reaches for her hips, distancing them from the edge of the desk and sneaking one hand downwards.

She tenses, trying to raise herself up on her hands. Draco pushes her back down.

“Malfoy, don’t—”

His fingers find her clit, and he starts pressing circles against her in time with his thrusts. Her moans hitch, her walls squeezing him tighter as he keeps driving her closer to an orgasm.

“Don’t come, Granger.”

She sobs, trying and failing to get up again, to get away from him even when her hips push back against his. “I—I can’t—”

Don’t. Come.

He can feel his orgasm edging closer, his cock becoming even more sensitive. He pulls almost all the way out before slamming back inside her, his pace slowing but his thrust turning deeper, harder.

Draco groans when he feels her tightening around him, knowing she would’ve been coming around him at that moment if he hadn’t told her not to. She’s sobbing.

He stills his fingers, pressing down on her clit as his balls tighten, the rhythm of his thrusts breaking.

“Fuck,” he groans, feeling his orgasm coming over him, the heat and pressure and wetness of her making him shut his eyes tight.

He moves his hand to the small of her back, reaching with his other for her hair, plunging his fingers through it and wrapping them around the back of her neck.

Granger gasps as he thrusts one last time, burying himself in her as pleasure overcomes him, whitening his vision. He comes deep in her cunt, cock twitching, hips pressing hard against her arse, no space between them. Draco groans at the white-hot pleasure of it, his release filling her up, marking her deep.

When he blinks his eyes open, the pleasure relenting and leaving him breathing heavily, Granger is panting under him, breaths broken by hiccups, arms and legs shaking.

He takes a deep breath in, looking down at where they’re joined. His cock is still half hard, and he pulls out halfway before sliding slowly back inside her, watching how some of his release spills out of her, dripping down her inner thigh.

Granger gives a soft moan when he finally slides out of her, more of his seed spilling out. He cups her with his hand, pushing his release back where he wants it to be, keeping two fingers inside her to stop more from dripping out.

She trembles when he pulls her up from the desk, wrapping his arm around her waist, arms shaking as she leans on it, unable to keep her weight up. Draco runs his hand over her side, her stomach. “So good, sweetheart. You were so good.”

Granger takes a quivering breath, holding it before letting it out slowly. Her walls flutter around his fingers.

Draco slides his hand to her naked back, covered by her long hair.

He wants to kiss her, wants to taste her skin, the salt on it, wants to feel her shaking beneath his lips.

He gathers her hair, pushing it to the side and over her shoulders. So soft and thick.

It exposes her whole back. The perfect curve of her waist, the shadows of her shoulder blades, the top notches of her spine, her head bent downwards.

That’s when he notices it.

A soft bruise, already fading, just to the left of her spine, at the bend of her neck.

He lets go of hair, lightly pressing his thumb into the darker patch of skin.

He doesn’t recognize the bruise.

His would’ve already faded. He remembers all the marks he's ever left on her.

It isn’t his.

But he recognizes what type of bruise it is. He’s left them on countless people before. He’d left them on her less than a week ago.

Granger has someone else’s bruise on her. Someone else has touched her like this. Had his mouth on her. Someone that wasn’t him.

Draco clenches his jaw, pushing his thumb harder against the purplish skin until Granger flinches. Then he slips his fingers out of her, the coldness of the air replacing the warmth of her cunt.

Another person left that mark on her. Not him. Someone else.

He grabs her shoulders, pushing her forward enough for him to rove his eyes all over her back. Granger’s elbows slam on the table.

Delicate freckles around her shoulders and down her arms. That fucking bruise. Long scratches from his nails down her spine. Broken capillaries on her arse cheek, the skin already a darker red. He hadn’t grabbed her by the hips but—there.

Draco smoothens his fingers over her left hip, over the yellowish, almost gone marks, just a light hint of purple in the centre of them. There’s three. Right over the swell of her arse.

He lets go of her, stepping backwards.

He wants to hurt her. Her and whoever fucking dared to lay a hand on her. To touch what’s his. His.

He pulls his pants up, covering himself before taking another step back. Granger looks at him over her shoulder, a question in her gaze, but Draco can’t look away from the purple marring her skin.

His release is spilling out of her. His.

It should be his bruises on her skin. Only his. Always his.

“What?” Granger asks, voice husky, bringing his focus back to her face.

His hands curl into fists. A roaring starts in the back of his head.

“Who fucking left those on you?”

Notes:

welp I love a good old Draco POV!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! (and sorry for the cliffy!)

As always many thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments and to lovely Raquel for beta-reading this!

<333

Chapter 12

Notes:

I wanted to add a content warning that is a spoiler for this chapter but may be triggering to some people (click on the toggle to view)

mentions of past addiction and relapse

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco stares at Granger as her brow furrows, tendrils of hair sticking to the sweat around her forehead.

“Who fucking touched you?”

She flinches at the coldness of his voice, the discordant hoarseness of it.

“What—”

“Who.” He grits every individual letter out, the roaring in his head growing louder. “Touched.” Every thought in his brain vanishes, replaced by blurry images of rougher hands running over her back, of ringless fingers gripping her hair. Of her skin beneath someone else’s lips. “You.”

His heart begs for release from his ribcage as Granger turns around, naked body fully on display. The light of the flickering candles paints her curves and Draco wants to plunge the room into darkness, because not even the light deserves to see her like this, flushed and sweaty and smelling like sex.

Only he does.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t act stupid,” he spits out. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Granger blinks at him, confused. There’s a bright flush on her cheeks, and her breasts rise with every breath she takes, still unsteady.

How many people have seen her like this? How many people have felt the heat of her skin, have heard the little whimpers that come out of her mouth before she comes? How many?

He’d guessed she’d had lovers, knows she’d been with Weasley, but—but the idea of somebody else touching her after he has, after he’s tasted her, it—it makes him feel crazy. Granger is his now. No one else’s. But someone else had touched her. Fucked her.

She’s his. His to hurt, his to taste, his to fuck. Has been since that night in the Library, since he learnt how sweet she really is. But someone else had touched her.

Draco feels sick with rage.

“What are you—”

The words slip out of gritted teeth. “Who was it?”

Granger blinks at him again before tension slowly creeps into her body. He sees it in the way her back straightens, in the way she angles herself better towards him. Her fingers twitch by her side.

“I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Don’t lie to me right now.” His voice comes out louder than expected. He swallows. His throat feels too tight. “You promised you wouldn’t lie to me again, Hermione. So don’t fucking lie to me right now.”

He can’t take his eyes off her, off the way her mouth parts before her lips pull into a tight line. Her chin lifts, just enough to spark a violent fury in him.

He knows that stance. Knows what it means to roll your shoulders back, to stand tall, to not back down. He learnt early on how to recognize when someone is getting ready for a fight.

It makes him clench his teeth harder. “So? Who was it?”

Her face is stoic. She’s quiet for long enough that the tension in him coils tighter and tighter, warping into something ugly. It feels like minutes pass. Draco thinks she must be testing the limits of his self-control; because the more she stands there, silent, looking at him with an indifferent, calculating expression; the more that tension, that anger, that undeniable sense of possession pushes against his skin, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Why do you care?” Her voice is flat, unimpressed.

She doesn’t even try to deny it.

It sours the emotion that has been building in his chest, turning into something acidic, unpleasant.

“Care? Care ?” He scoffs; a short, derisive sound. “You think I care?”

only I can get to see you like this, only I get to taste you, to mark you, to fuck you, only I, mine, you’re mine now

“I don’t care, Granger,” he inches closer, tries to think past the anger rushing through him. “But did you at least change knickers before fucking someone else? Or were you still wet from coming all over my cock?” Draco laughs under his breath; bitter, empty. “I guess that’s why you didn’t show up.”

Draco thinks that something like shame flashes in her eyes at the words, but then her expression shifts, becoming a thing of cutting hatred. Granger clenches her teeth, a delicate muscle twitching in her jaw.

He can’t read the look in her eyes. He can’t read it, and it drives him closer to the edge.

Granger takes a step towards him, spine straight. She doesn’t cover herself.

Draco’s eyes betray him and drop between her thighs, to where she’s still bared to him. As she takes another step forward the light catches his release, still glistening on her inner thighs, not yet dry, and that rage mounts, surging in him violently.

“You don’t get to know these things, Malfoy.” Her voice is harsh. His eyes snap back to hers. There’s nothing kind in them. “You don’t get to know shit about me, you don’t get to know what I do or who I fuck.”

Each word is slow, cutting, perfectly aimed to slice into something vulnerable in him. It only makes him angrier. His nails bite into his palms, but the pain isn’t sharp enough to keep out her words.

“Did you think you were special? Did you think I wouldn’t fuck someone else?” She laughs; a sharp, hollow sound that he hasn’t heard from her before. “Why are you so angry? Is your ego that fragile? You can’t stand to know that someone else’s cock—”

Before he can control himself his hand reaches for her throat—her throat, always her throat, how can it fit so well in his hand—fingers wrapping around the slender muscle and dragging her close.

“Don’t test me, Granger,” he hisses down at her, bringing their faces close together. “Don’t do it.”

“Why? What are you going to do about it, Malfoy?” She’s shaking—or is it him?—and her eyes are hard and angry, but they aren’t pretty. “Are you going to hurt me? Just because I slept with someone else?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

She laughs again, harsher than before. There’s an unhinged note to it that freezes his blood; that has his every muscle tensing.

“Are you going to beat me, Malfoy?” A manic smile pulls at her lips, and he realises he’s never seen that look on her before. “Are you that kind of man? Did dear Daddy teach you—”

He cuts her words off with a squeeze of his fingers, his anger spilling over into his grip. He can feel the bones beneath his hand, feels how he’s crushing them, how erratic her pulse is.

She laughs again, strangled, and the bitterness in it; the way it feels as if he’s proving her right, the way the rage in her eyes turns cold—makes him hate her a little bit more.

Draco knows how anger looks on Hermione Granger. Knows how it can furrow her brows, how it can make her lips twitch, her eyes narrow. For months now he’s been cataloguing it, has been learning all the different ways anger can make her eyes brighten and spark and glow—has spied it and dreamt it and coaxed it to the surface time and time again. Because when Hermione Granger is angry, she burns with it, brighter than anything Draco has ever seen before—and it feels like a siren’s call.

But what he sees in her eyes now—it isn’t flames, it isn’t bright, it isn’t loud.

It’s quiet. Still. Cruel. Smug.

It snaps something in him.

Her lips part, on a word or a whimper, Draco will never know, because before she can give the sound air it turns into a scream that tears itself from her red-stained mouth.

Draco shreds through the frail walls of Granger’s mind with ease, even if the attack is rough, unsophisticated, barbarous. His magic is harder to control without his wand, straining underneath his skin, retreating and then surging with violence. It must hurt, he thinks, but his anger doesn’t let him care.

It’s chaotic; messy emotions coming at him from all directions. He doesn’t linger on them, doesn’t want to understand that coldness he still sees in her eyes. Doesn’t care about what he’s making her feel. He only wants to know one thing.

Draco reaches deeper, to that place where memories are stored. He feels Granger’s magic surging, feels invisible hands trying to keep him back, to push him away; but he disregards them as if they were nothing. He’s stronger than she is. Memories pass before him in quick succession, images of crossed legs on a worn-out couch; of pale blue liquid in a small glass bottle; of glass shots filled with amber. The feeling of cold air over heated cheeks; of parchment wrinkling in fingers. He skims through her recent memories, looking for his answers, stealing them from her.

A thirst dangerous to quench. The ghosts of hands over skin. The offering of a bottle.

Two bodies on a couch; hands over hips; freckles over shoulders. Lips, familiar yet new. Red hair, fingers tight in the strands. And after—words that make her flinch, that fracture something already broken in her. I hope that helped.

He retreats from Granger’s mind, sounds once more reaching him. Her face comes back into focus, and where her eyes had been cold and cruel before, now they are dull and empty, tears streaming down her face.

Draco lets go of her throat, taking several steps back. Blinks his eyes against the dizziness that wandless magic always leads to.

Granger falls to the ground, as if he’d been the only thing holding her up. The sound of her knees hitting the ground reverberates in Draco’s bones. She gasps, quiet sobs breaking through her hiccuping breaths, even though she tries to stifle them.

Draco looks down at her. He doesn’t understand the emotion that hits him at the sight of her naked, curled over herself, staring sightlessly at the ground, but it feels familiar.

“Did it feel good, Granger? Did you get what you wanted out of it?”

She looks up at him, but he doesn’t think she’s really seeing him.

A tremor begins in his hands.

Draco chooses his words carefully, picking ones that will hurt her. “Did it feel good to use him like that?”

His fingers curl into fists. “You could’ve come to me. I would’ve given you what you needed, Hermione. But you keep being scared of it, you keep acting like a coward.”

Why can’t she just stop acting like this? Why does she keep fighting him, fighting her desire for him, fighting against all he knows he makes her feel? Why doesn’t she just give in? What’s so wrong about it that she fights herself so arduously?

Draco can’t understand her.

“Don’t you see how pathetic it is, how pitiful you are? The hiding, the acting as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed. Is it change that you are scared of? Is it not recognizing yourself in the mirror? Is that why you fucked him? Because he’s someone everyone expects pretty little Hermione Granger to fuck? Did you think it would cancel out fucking me?” The venom rolls off his tongue with ease. It feels comforting, in the face of her tears. “You make me sick.

She looks so small on the ground at his feet. So fragile.

He wants to hurt her. Cruelly. So that maybe this version of her will disappear, crushed beneath the weight of his words. Draco wants that, wants to push her past her breaking point and see who comes out on the other side. Craves it in a way he cannot comprehend.

His nails dig into the palm of his hands, his blood pumps faster in his veins. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but on the next breath her lips part, and his words die in his mouth.

“You’re no better than her.” Her voice is scratchy, exhausted. Draco’s breath catches in his lungs. Granger’s eyes focus on him, and what he sees in them makes him realise what was so familiar about that emotion.

Once—once before she had looked at him like that. Once, and Draco still remembers it perfectly. It had carved itself a place inside him; a trophy of his shame, a keepsake of the day the last, untouched part of his soul had blacked.

That look is back, now. Because of him.

He should be glad for it. But he can only stare at her.

She settles back on her heels; each movement slow, heavy. She lifts her right arm out to him. It doesn’t shake as she twists it, as she shows him the pale, delicate, unmarred skin of her forearm. Her voice is tired; no trace of anger, of challenge, of cruelty. Empty. “What will it be?”

His mind goes quiet.

His eyes drop to her arm, still extended towards him. Her words wrap around him like a noose, swallowing him whole.

Granger blinks, and more silent tears fall from her eyes. “Do it,” she says, and her voice is tighter than before. Draco stares at her.

Do it!” she screams.

The way Granger’s voice breaks makes him take a step back, his heart thumping furiously in his chest—and then Draco turns away.

His eyes fall on his robes and he stalks towards them, snatching them from the floor. He wraps his fingers around his wand, and his magic is alive beneath his skin, in his veins, wild and uncontrollable and angry.

He storms towards the door, throwing it open. He doesn’t turn to look back at Granger, even as her sobs start again. He shuts out the sound of her voice, of her cries.

A part of him feels like he could lose himself in them; in the sickening, poisonous images they conjure, in the guilt and regret and shame they could make him feel. He could get down on his knees and beg; could tell her that watching her shake and scream and cry that day in Malfoy Manor had changed everything for him. He could beg her to scream at him, to get angry and hurtful and remind him how he’d just stood there watching, doing nothing, while the last untouched part of his soul blackened, while the axis of his world realigned.

Maybe he could tell her, and beg her, and maybe he should; but he doesn’t want to. Because those things are not for her to know. They are his weight to bear, and his alone. Guilt. Regret. Shame. For too long they had lived under his skin, had turned his soul rotten. Draco—Draco doesn’t let himself feel them anymore. He doesn’t want to feel them anymore. He can’t let himself feel them anymore.

So how dare she bring them to the surface again. How dare she make a coward out of him once more, when she’s the biggest one of them all. How dare she, when he bears his scar with pride, when he’s already paid penance for his wrongs. When he’s already had to swallow the bitter pill of not having done enough.

How dare she look at him like that when this is all her fault? Doesn’t she understand that all of what he’s doing is for her own good? That breaking her is a game to him, but it’s an opportunity for her? A favour, he’s doing her a favour, as this is how she repays him? Comparing him to her?

He leans into his anger, lets it cauterize whatever wound Granger’s words have reopened. He allows it to sear through him until it’s the only thing he knows, the only thing he feels.

Draco leaves her behind; alone, naked, crying.


Hermione feels everything; and then, nothing.

She feels the weight of Malfoy’s hand around her throat. Feels the heat of his body beneath her fingers, even when her nails gouge deep lines over his chest. Feels cold, hard anger burning her from the inside; sharp and cruel in a way she’s barely familiar with.

Then she feels him tearing through her mind as if it was a child’s game, feels him going through her memories as if they were his to take.

She relieves them with him, and she feels her heart souring.

Then she feels the roughness of the floor beneath her knees. Feels salt in her mouth, feels sobs racking her chest.

Then she doesn’t feel much of anything.

Everything feels far away. He’s talking to her. She sees his mouth move, her brain registers the questions somewhere in the back of her mind; but everything—everything is out of reach.

There are tears still streaming down her face. The taste of salt is infernal.

She doesn’t like it. It reminds her—

It reminds her—

But the pain is missing. Her muscles aren’t tearing themselves apart; her bones aren’t breaking and mending and breaking again.

Yet her mind. Bellatrix—Bellatrix had gone into her mind, too. Bellatrix had taken, had torn, had ripped memories from her, twisted them into nightmares, had—had violated her in the worst of ways and he—he—

He has done it too.

He has done it too.

Desperation grows in her.

It starts in her fingers. It crawls and grows through her with every beat of her heart. Her stomach drops from the weight of it, and then—then her body is far away, weightless.

He went into her mind. He stole from her. He took what wasn’t his to take, and she—she couldn’t stop him, she couldn’t stop him, and—weak, so weak, always so weak. She should’ve learnt, she should’ve—but it wasn’t only his voice this time, and he took, and he hurt, and he’s—

“—no better than her.”

Her voice feels far away. Everything is so far away, and—her mind hurts. She is tired.

She focuses her gaze on him, so tall in front of her. But quiet—why is he quiet? She doesn’t like quiet, she doesn’t like him, and he hurt her, he was in her head, and she didn’t stop him—again, it has happened again, and she didn’t stop him, just like she didn’t stop—

weak so weak always so weak and you let them in you let them take you let them hurt

His fingers are curled into fists, and he’s going to hurt her again—and she can’t, she can’t survive another Cruciatus, she can’t, she can’t, but—her arm, maybe if she—

She sits back on her heels, and it takes everything from her, yet she doesn’t think her body is shaking—she, she feels like she’s floating.

She offers him her arm, the skin unblemished, unscarred.

Maybe if she offers, maybe then he’ll be happy and he’ll stop and he won’t go into her mind anymore and—

“What will it be?”

Cold. She thinks her body is cold, and her mind, it hurts.

Her arm is so heavy. Malfoy stares at her. He doesn’t say anything.

His eyes drop to her arm, and her scar burns, and she wants to lift her other arm, too, wants to show him the never-healing wound; the red, twisted skin that she can’t bear to think about.

Coward? Pathetic? What word would he pick?

She already—she knows what she would pick. Weak. Or maybe, useless.

useless so useless always always so useless

Malfoy watches her, and with every second they pass in silence, salt and blood between them, her desperation grows and grows, swallowing her whole, until it’s all she is.

“Do it.”

Malfoykeeps looking at her. She wishes he would just look away. She doesn’t want him to see her like this, doesn’t want to be like this.

Do it!

The words tear out of her, and then he’s turning around, and she’s sobbing; but no air is reaching her lungs, the words stuck in her throat.

Again. He’s leaving her alone, hurt and sobbing, on a cold stone floor; again.

She doesn’t know why that hurts most of all.


Her legs have gone completely numb by the time Hermione picks herself up from the floor.

The pain in her mind has lessened.

It’s no longer pain as much as a permeating, unsettling soreness; accompanied by a deep sense of violation.

Her legs fail her twice as she tries to stand, needles pricking her every nerve. She manages on her third try, yet the move makes her head spin. She falls backwards, the edge of the table behind her catching her fall.

Four seconds in, four seconds out.

She tries to regulate her breathing, pushing past the ache in her throat.

She had screamed, when he’d left.

Screamed again and again. Screamed for herself, for all she’d gone through already. She’d screamed after him, had cursed him with all of her soul. But then she’d screamed for him, too, without understanding why.

It was a miracle no one had come to check on her, and she had to wonder if he’d put a silencing charm on the room.

The edge of the desk bites into her back as Hermione shifts, blood slowly flowing through her legs again, the pain of it stark. The movement causes a twinge between her legs, her inner thighs sticky with his come. More slips out of her as her belly tightens.

All the various aches in her body choose that moment to make themselves known.

The ache across her navel, where the table had dug into her on each one of his thrusts. The tenderness of her breasts, purplish marks already darkening the pale skin. Her arse hurts, and when Hermione brushes her hand against the still-warm skin, it makes her shiver.

Vomit threatens to rise. Her breathing stutters again.

How could she have given in again, how could she have kissed him, let him kiss her, then undress her, then bend her over and do those things to her? And she’d liked it. Had asked for it. Had wanted more.

She—she doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t know how to control it, the wild, raw want that overcomes her when he’s near. She hates it—loathes it. She should be more than her urges, more than her desires; and yet every wall she puts up crumbles with a brush of his lips on hers, every other feeling disappears when he’s near, and she forgets that she should hate him, that he isn’t nice to her, that she can’t trust him.

She hadn’t been able to promise herself that she would stay away.

And this—the empty room, the sore mind; the sticky, miserable feeling of violation—is the result of it.

Stupid. So stupid, every word, every choice, every breath she’s taken since the War ended. One bad decision after the next.

And she’d trusted him. Implicitly. Stupidly. She’d trusted him not to truly hurt her.

Yet he’d told her. He’d warned her.

I will push you until you break, and then I will sit back and watch you try and piece yourself back together.

He was right.

This is all on you.

Panic replaces the bile, clawing its way up her throat, infiltrating her lungs.

All of a sudden her nakedness is abhorrent, the cold air of the room too much against her skin. Her eyes drop to the floor, scraps of clothing strewn all around her. Her skirt is in tatters, her sweater turned inside out. Hermione picks it up, pulling her shirt out of the sweater and throwing it to the side. Then she shoves her arm through the grey wool—still inside out; and reaches for her robes, pulling them on. She pulls her socks higher up her legs, then wraps the robes tighter around herself. The satin on the inside brushes against the exposed skin of her thighs, her arse. It makes her want to rip free of her skin.

Hermione leaves the damned room without looking back, hoping to never set foot in it again. Another part of Hogwarts lost to bad memories. The corridor outside is dark, the shadows swallowing the pale light that spills out of the room with ease. She strains her eyes, looking for her wand. She finds it halfway down the corridor, yet the comfort of the wood in her hand isn’t enough as she points the tip of it against her abdomen, stumbling over the words of the contraceptive charm.

The fact that her thighs are still sticky with him makes her want to hurl her wand at the wall, makes her want to hunt him down and yell at him and hurt him and never see him again. But it also makes her swallow, and she hates herself for knowing what it feels like to have him come deep inside her.

As she makes her way back to the Library to find her bag, Hermione tries to keep the growing panic at bay. She can feel it at the edges of her thoughts, like an unwanted lover, threatening to decimate the poor semblance of calm she’d gathered. She forces her breathing to remain steady enough for her to make it up the stairs and back to where she dropped her bag without breaking down again.

Her throat and mind are sore, and all the crying had left a heavy pressure behind her eyes; but she manages to keep the panic down, at least enough to get her to the Gryffindor Dorm in one piece. When she sets foot inside the Common Room, Hermione is so concentrated on not thinking about what transpired, lest she really trigger the monster crawling up her throat, that she doesn’t even notice Harry sitting at the bottom of the stairs until he speaks.

“Hermione?”

Hermione jumps, gaze snapping up from the floor to land on Harry as he rises to stand, hands sliding into his pockets. “You okay?”

She pulls her robes tighter around herself, the strap of her bag digging into her shoulder. “Yes.” Her voice is scratchy, rough. She clears her throat. “Fell asleep in the Library.”

Harry is quiet, looking at her. Then he gives her a small smile. “Typical.”

Hermione smiles back, but it feels fake, frail. It slips off her lips on her next heartbeat. She’s silent for a second, then, “Well, I should go to bed.”

Harry twists to the side, leaning against the wall and clearing enough space on the step for her to pass. Hermione looks at Harry, then the stairs. Tries to give him another smile. Then she fists her hands in her robes and heads towards him.

She makes it one step up and past him before his hand is at her elbow, twisting her around. They’re the same height like this, and she doesn’t like what she sees in his eyes, the tightness in them.

“Hermione, are you sure everything is—”

The words get lost to air as Harry’s eyes fall to her throat.

To her bruised, sore throat. Her heart stops.

She tries to pull her arm away, the panic inside her soaring, but his fingers tighten around her elbow, strong enough to hurt. Harry’s eyes flash as they rise back to hers before he carefully wipes every emotion from his face. His voice is low, the words barely above a whisper. “What happened?”

Her breathing turns erratic. Hermione tries to free herself from his grip but Harry doesn’t let her go, pulling her closer to him.

“Hermione, what the hell happened?”

She swallows, dropping her gaze to where he’s holding her and raising her hand to try and pry his fingers off. She hates that he’s touching her, hates that he’s asking her this. “Nothing. Please let me go.”

“Nothing?” Harry hisses, and she can’t look at him, not when he sounds angry and worried. Not when she can taste the panic. “Then why is your throat fucking purple? And is—” His fingers brush against her jaw. She flinches away but he grips her chin roughly. “Is that blood ?”

Hermione pulls at Harry’s wrist, trying to get him to let her go. “Harry, please. Let go.”

“Can you tell me what—”

She wrenches her arm back, stumbling down a step and catching herself on the handrail. Her heart is going a mile a minute, so loud in her head that she doesn’t hear what Harry is saying. Her hands want to reach up and cover her throat, hide it from sight, from eyes that shouldn’t know about it. She still can’t look at Harry.

Hermione twists around just as her breathing starts to become uncontrollable, rushing up the stairs and leaving Harry to call after her.

She’s glad that he doesn’t follow.

When she reaches her room, trying hard to make as little noise as possible, Hermione heads for the chest at the end of her bed. She tries to be quiet as she rifles through clothes and notebooks, so as not to wake Ginny. When her fingers make contact with velvet, she closes her fist around the small pouch. The shaking in her hands worsens as she draws the pouch open, the glass vials inside tinkling.

Hermione ignores the light blue of her sleeping draught, skips the greens and greys of the healing potions, her fingers searching for violet. She finds the two small vials nearly at the bottom of the pouch; one a lighter lilac, one a darker purple.

Dreamless Sleep Potion. One more concentrated, one less.

She stares down at them in the pale moonlight that filters through the window. Her breath catches in her throat, making her lungs seize.

The last time she drank this potion had been the night before the Final Battle. The night before the day she thought was going to be her last.

She pulls the vials out of the bag, holding one in each hand. They shake.

How many times had she fallen asleep with the taste of strawberries on her lips, how many days had she woken with it heavy on her tongue?

She hadn’t wanted to take it, that first time. Had been reluctant, doubtful. But she had been losing too much sleep, and Remus had suggested it, telling her he used it, too; so she’d given it a try. She had used it sparingly, at the start. Only when she knew the night wouldn’t be an easy one. She had grown to be glad for it, for the way it could keep her mind at bay on the worst of nights, how it allowed her a few hours of reprieve. But then the nightmares on the nights she didn’t drink it had started to become worse, so from taking it sparingly, she’d started taking it every night, always carrying extra doses in her beaded bag. Then she’d started having nightmares even when she drank it, and so she’d increased her dosage, again and again, making the potion stronger, more concentrated; until the sweet taste of it had turned sour.

She hadn’t minded the side effects. Hadn’t minded that she’d been slowly losing her already non-existent appetite, that her hands would shake so much that she couldn’t hold a quill properly anymore. That her temper was thin, fraying; that it took her hours in the morning to wash away the fog of sleep. She could sleep. She didn’t have nightmares. That had been all she’d cared about. The anxiety had been bad—had been an extra burden added to all she was already dealing with, but she’d chase that away with the potion, too. A vicious cycle she hadn’t known how to stop.

Addiction. It was the word used by the Healers at St. Mungo’s when they’d visited her after the War. Addiction. She hadn’t even realised that’s what it was. It had shocked her. She’s dissociated while the Healers had told her that she couldn’t keep drinking it, that she’d have to re-learn how to sleep without it. She remembers drifting far away, looking down at her hands, not recognizing them. Addiction. It had rung hollow inside of her. Who was she? Hermione Granger wasn’t an addict. Hermione Granger knew about addiction, but only from a technical standpoint. She didn’t know it. And yet she did.

The withdrawal had been bad. The cramps, the headaches, the nausea. She hadn’t slept for a week before her body had given in. It had taken months for her to stop having nightmares every night. She’d had to charm her room in the Burrow to keep the others from hearing her screams. Had done so too in the apartment she’d stayed in for a couple of weeks in London before the start of the school year; unable to keep living so close to everyone else.

It was the week before her return to Hogwarts that she’d started brewing her own potion. It wasn’t a relapse, she’d told herself, if it was a different potion. It was only for emergencies. For when the days would be too bad, too heavy with memories, with panic, and she’d know the night would be worse.

Hermione looks at the vials in her hands, studying them. Her heart is still beating too fast in her chest. Her throat hurts. Her mind hurts. Everything just hurts, and the pressure in her head is too much, and she just wants one night of rest.

She drowns the darker liquid in one gulp, shivering when the taste of it explodes in her mouth; closing her eyes, willing it not to fade. She drops her head on the edge of her bed, the chest digging into her ribs, trying desperately to quiet her breathing. The glass vial slips from her fingers, falling onto the piles of clothes, getting lost in them.

She stays there until she doesn’t hear her heartbeat in her ears anymore, until her thoughts turn stagnant. In a daze. she strips off her clothes, dropping them in the chest. She walks to her bed slowly, sluggishly. Hermione reaches under her pillow, fingers gripping soft cotton as she pulls a t-shirt over her head. It flutters above her knees. The sheets are cold as she slides into them, as she pulls the duvet over her head and burrows in her pillow.

The panic is a forgotten thing as Hermione falls asleep with the taste of strawberry on her tongue once more.


It takes Draco hours to fall asleep, and when he does it is not of his own volition.

But when sleep takes him, he dreams.

Dreams of wearing armour, its silver plates heavy, dragging him down. Dreams of kneeling at someone’s feet, his head bent low, the sharp point of a blade cold against the back of his neck.

He dreams of promises he doesn’t keep, of blood staining his fingers, warm and thick and sweet. He dreams of being crowned King, the crown heavy on his head, dripping honey onto his face, his mouth.

He dreams of a girl, on her knees in front of him. Dreams of her screaming, begging for mercy. Dreams of soft curls, of forgiveness, of repentance.

He dreams of a Queen, sitting next to him; her armour golden, her crown black. Blood mats her hair, but she is proud, and strong, and his. He dreams of rage, of fights, of possession. He dreams of tears, of soft words, of absolution. Dreams of naked skin and heated lips and a belly swollen with life.

He dreams of leaving. Dreams of holding a heart in his hand; of a heartless Queen on a rotten throne.

He dreams of vindication; and of retribution.

When Draco falls asleep, he dreams. And when he wakes up, he doesn’t forget.


 

Notes:

hope you enjoyed!! thank you to everyone to left kudos and comments, the mean the world to me and keep giving me energy to continue this little story!!
also many thanks to raquel (as always) and to my new lovely betas - jennie, mads and fae!! <3

ps kinda tempted to write a oneshot based on D's dream not gonna lie hehehe

also: updates may start being every 10 days rather than every 7 because I'm in a stressful period with work and don't want to risk burning myself out. I love writing this fic and I don't want it to become a chore, so I'm giving myself a bit of leniency. hope you guys can understand <333

art by the amazing @/swotty_doodler on insta!! <333

Chapter 13

Notes:

Thank you for your patience on this next chapter! I hope you enjoy it! <3
Also if you notice a change in the chapter number don't worry I just got rid of the 'intermissions' because they didn't feel right, all the actual chapters are still up! :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

There is an annoying brightness pressing against the back of Hermione’s eyelids when sleeps lets her go, reality trickling back in. She turns away from it, pressing her face back into her pillows. Her whole body is warm, sweaty; so she tries to kick off the duvet that is stifling her, succeeding only in tangling herself further in it.

She hitches one of her knees up, freeing it from the sheets and trying to get comfortable again, when all of a sudden her stomach churns violently, her throat closing up. Hermione barely manages to scramble off her bed and throw her arms around the bin next to her nightstand before bile is searing her throat, spasm after spasm pushing back up the little food she’d managed to eat the day prior.

Acidic saliva drips from her open mouth, the smell of it making her nose wrinkle as she lays her forehead against the rim of the bin, trying to regain her breathing. Her oesophagus is on fire, each breath feeling like a knife searing through her, and she wraps a hand around her middle as her stomach clenches again, more bile coming up.

When she feels like she can hold a breath down Hermione moves away from the bin, sitting back against the side of her bed, closing her eyes. Cold sweat beads at the back of her neck and at her brow and she wants to clean it away, but even just the thought of lifting her arm to do so is too exhausting, her body still wracked by trembles.

Hermione squeezes her eyes tightly, trying to clear the heavy fog from her mind. Slowly, the events of the previous night break through the daze, spilling over one by one. Each memory that trickles through makes her throat constrict, stomach spasming, and she isn’t surprised when she finds herself bent over the bin again, pitiful dry heaves making her shoulders shake.

Merlin, why the fuck had she done that?

Hermione blinks down at the vomit-filled bin, tears heavy in the corners of her eyes. Fuck. She swallows, the stench and the taste in her mouth making her want to vomit some more. fuckfuckfuck. Why had she done that?

She stumbles to her feet, her legs weighing a ton, each movement sluggish. She crashes into her bed, catching herself on the mattress, mind spinning violently. Everything feels like it’s too fast and too slow all at once, her thoughts outrunning her body. She blinks and tears fall from her eyes; fat, hateful droplets turning the light blue of her sheets darker.

Hermione curls her fingers into fists, nails biting into the soft cotton. Her knees shake with the need to bend, to fall and curl her body into a tight ball where nothing and no one and no thought can reach her. She feels like she is trembling deep in her bones, her very veins overwhelmed with her emotions, hatred-rich blood flowing thick and sticky. Her mind pounds in time with the soft aches scattered across her body, purple and red and cold, angry grey blotting out her vision.

Hermione feels like she’s going to faint, like finally everything is catching up to her, too fast and too much and she can’t do it, she can’t she can’t she can’t she’s not built for this she’s not built for who she has become and why did she let him do it and why did she drink that and no, no she cannot deal with this, this will tear her down and rip her open and her wounds are not yet healed and she will bleed bleed bleed and all these things will eat at her until she is nothing she is nothing she is nothing she is everything and too much and why can’t she be nothing—

Hermione blinks again and more tears fall onto the cotton sheets, constellations of them, a map of her humiliation framed by the ray of light that had woken her up, shining bright on her bed.

The first sob is loud in the empty room, fragmenting whatever last thing was holding her together. Hermione falls to her knees, burying her face in her sun-warmed sheets, and weeps.


By the time the last tear falls, silent and still and swallowed up by fabric, Hermione is numb.

Her mind is quiet, though the beginning of an awful headache stirs behind her eyes. She straightens from where she’s bent over her bed, her back protesting the movement. When she lifts herself up her legs have gone numb, too, and the blood, as it flows back into them, sends thousands of sharp points of pain through her limbs.

Hermione stands still, waiting for sensation to crawl its way back through her. The one in her legs does, and she shifts her weight tentatively, from one foot to the other, her muscles feeling sore and heavy but otherwise alright.

All sensation that isn’t physical, though, doesn’t come back. Hermione waits for it, hands still by her sides, gaze locked on the smears of snot and tears on the sheets. She waits for the shame to trickle back in first, hot and pungent as it always tends to be, yet the burn of it doesn’t arrive. Then she waits for the anger, for the fear, for the regret and the mortification, but none come. Hermione doesn’t know how long she stands there, fingertips grazing the wet sheets, eyes unseeing. The strike of the clock snaps her out of her search, the startling ding of it knocking her out of herself and back into reality. Her gaze instinctively trails to the small clock mounted on the wall on the other side of the room. Eleven in the morning. Tuesday, her brain supplies. You should be in Potions class.

The realisation doesn’t stir anything in her.

She takes in a slow, shaky breath; expanding her lungs until they hurt, until she can’t take in any more oxygen. She holds it in until she can’t anymore, then lets it out in another shaky exhale.

She doesn’t feel anything.

She doesn’t feel anything.


Hermione waits for it all to come back.

Waits for it in the shower, as she washes her hair and scrubs at her skin. Yet her skin doesn’t itch, and there’s no pressing urge to be clean and wash away fueling her quick motions. All the scrubbing ends up doing is turn her skin tender, and for the first time in months Hermione’s hands become kinder as she cleans herself.

She waits for it all to come back all day, as she lays in her bed. She waits for it as she traces the threads in her pillows, as she memorises the shapes of her drapes. Waits for it as the sun passes over her bed, warming it and then leaving it cold. She waits for it as she pokes and prods at her bruises—on her knees, on her hips, on her throat. The soft pain she feels whenever she does so is almost sweet, and Hermione keeps touching them over and over again, the stings and hurts keeping her grounded.

Hermione knows it will come back, anyway. The emptiness never lasts long enough. So her mind shows her snippets of the previous night, plays them like a movie behind her eyes, everything in slow motion; as she waits for it all to come back.

The way her heart had sped up viciously when she’d seen him step away from that wall, shadows falling off him as if he was made of them. How he had pressed her against that door, how warm and hot and hard he had been behind her, and how it had sent a different, hotter kind of adrenaline running through her veins.

Then the fuck, the words, the violation.

She waits, and remembers, yet it doesn’t make her feel anything, although she finds herself running her fingertips over her unscarred arm without even realising it, wondering how she would look with two scars instead of one.

Not even remembering the taste of strawberries makes her feel anything, and Hermione stares at the wall in front of her, counting cracks, waiting.

The only thing that makes something stir in her, that makes her belly clench and her fingers flinch, is the memory of his hands cupping her face, of his lips on hers, gentle and soft; once, and then twice.

Hermione plays that memory back over and over again as the morning gives space to afternoon, as the sun disappears from view, the room turning cold and empty without the sun keeping her company. She recalls the way he had looked at her, eyes bouncing over her face, as if he was searching for something. How his thumbs had wiped her tears away, tears that were there because of him, tears that were his. She remembers how his lashes had fluttered, long and pale, before his lips had kissed hers, blood the only thing between them.

A thread inside her shakes.

Hermione wonders, at a certain point, why she keeps going back to that moment; why, when she does, her fingers trail gently over the marks he’s left behind. She wonders why it’s this she thinks about, and not the awful things he’d done to her, said to her.

She wonders, but the thought is hazy, distant; and it flutters out of reach in the blink of an eye, lost.


Ginny walks into the room a little after the seventh ding of the clock, all worried eyes and tight mouth.

Hermione hears her coming up the stairs, recognises the sure steps she always has, and manages to reach for her wand and glamour her bruises just a second before Ginny opens the door. She breathes a quiet sigh of relief, hiding herself deeper within her sheets. She doesn’t want Ginny to see her bruises. The thought makes her feel tight and uncomfortable and jealous, even though she doesn’t really understand why.

“Hermione,” Ginny’s tone is sharp, worried. She closes the door behind her and walks up next to Hermione’s bed, looking down at her. “Are you feeling alright?”

Hermione blinks. The answer to that question seems too complicated, so she doesn’t say anything, wrapping her arms around her pillow. Another thought flutters by, that she shouldn’t be reacting like this, that she shouldn’t have missed her classes, that her bed and the silence in her mind shouldn’t be such comforts, but it’s there a moment and gone the next. She doesn’t think she cares about that anymore.

“Hermione, you’re worrying me.” Ginny leans over her, a hand settling over Hermione’s forehead. “Are you sick?”

Hermione nods, because that sounds like a good excuse. “Yes,” she tells Ginny. Her voice cracks, disused. Had she even drank any water today? She clears her throat, sitting up a bit. She doesn’t want Ginny to be too worried, because if she is, she will stay with her, and Hermione wants to be alone. “Yes, I think I got a stomach bug or something. I keep vomiting and just don’t really feel well.”

Ginny’s frown deepens. She pushes some hair out of Hermione’s face, putting it behind her ear. The touch is too kind, too concerned; uncomfortable. Hermione wants to flinch away from it, but she keeps still and lets Ginny fuss over her.

“Have you been to the infirmary? Have they given you something? I was worried when I didn’t see you around today. Then Harry told me you weren’t in class and that really worried me.”

Harry’s name makes her blink.

She’d forgotten about him.

A muted fury overwhelms her at the reminder that he saw—saw her bruises, saw things that weren’t his to see; burning through her in a flash. He saw. It makes her stomach twist, because the bruises are hers, hers and only hers, hers and his, and Harry didn’t deserve to see them, no one does, no one but her and the man who put them there.

Hermione blinks again and the fury dissipates, replaced by shock, because after hours of not feeling anything, that is what comes back?

Then she blinks again, and that thought is gone, too.

“Hermione?”

Her gaze focuses back on Ginny, who is staring at her with an even more worried expression than before. Hermione internally sighs. She lets go of her pillow, twisting and sitting up against the headboard, keeping her movements purposefully slow. Her blankets pool around her waist. “Yes,” the lie is smooth over her tongue. “Madam Pomfrey told me to rest and gave me a potion, but it’s making me very sleepy.”

“Oh,” Ginny breathes, relief clear in her tone. “Good. That’s good.” Ginny’s hand retreats, and she taps it against her leg. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Hermione looks at the clock. It’s nearly half past six. Dinner time. She looks back at Ginny and gives her a smile that feels entirely too strange on her face. “Could you bring me back something to eat from dinner? Some bread, maybe? Or some fruit?”

Ginny nods. “Of course. Can I do anything else? Do you need me to go to Madam Pomfrey and ask—”

“No,” Hermione interrupts, too fast; then clears her throat, making sure her next words are slow. “No need. I’ll go to her if I keep being sick. Just some food is fine.”

“Alright.” Ginny looks as if she wants to say something else, as if words are resting on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows them down, instead giving Hermione a small smile. “Alright. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Hermione smiles again, reaching out and squeezing Ginny’s hand, then settles back into her little nest.

When Ginny leaves, the thought of eating something makes her stomach clench, but Hermione feels as if some of the daze she’s been trapped in all day has receded, at least a little bit. She reaches for her bedside drawer, pulling out a notepad and scribbling down several copies of the same excuse, using her wand to send short, sealed messages to her Professors. She writes that she’s sorry she missed her classes (she isn’t), that she’ll try to get better as soon as possible (she won’t), and that they don’t have to worry about her assignments (since she’s already done all of them). She thinks it should make her feel guilty, lying so openly to her Professors, skipping classes in favour of being still and quiet in her bed, yet it doesn’t. She finds that she doesn’t care; that even though she knows she should, even though it’s what she’s been doing for months—caring about things she should care about—she finds that she doesn’t. That it doesn’t really bother her, that it doesn’t make her feel ashamed or weak or not in control.

It simply makes her feel a little bit empty and disconnected and, strangely enough, relieved.


Hermione spends the night between Tuesday and Wednesday awake, blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, huddled on the ground next to the window, staring at the moonlit sky.

She still doesn’t feel like she’s used to.

It’s weird, she thinks, as she tries to count the stars in the sky. It isn’t the usual emptiness she’s danced with before. It doesn’t sing, it doesn’t tempt her, it doesn’t wrap its arms around her and pull her close and hold her quietly until Hermione doesn’t know where she ends and where the emptiness begins.

It’s still. There in a way the other kind of emptiness rarely is. She’s used to this lack of feelings being a temporary, all-encompassing thing. But this, this is different.

In the past, when the emptiness overcame her, it felt like a momentary black-out in her soul, one that always left her reeling and with no memory of the way the furniture had been arranged. But this—this is as if all the lights have been purposefully turned off, and rather than finding herself reeling in a dark that is too deep and unknown, Hermione finds herself in a darkness she knows, one she recognizes, one that doesn’t make her stumble into walls and couches. Her eyes have adjusted, and though it’s dark, Hermione can recognize the shape of familiar things. The shape of dread, the shape of shame, the shape of violation. That of anger, and of pain, and of disgust. She doesn’t see them, doesn’t feel them; but she knows with perfect clarity that they are there, that if she really wanted to, she could reach out a hand and run her fingers over them.

But this darkness offers her a choice—the choice not to, the choice to remain in this limbo, to keep herself at a distance; while knowing that everything is there, but that she can rest her eyes and live in the dark for a bit.

As the night goes on, Hermione imagines constellations, looks for them in the sky outside her window.

She smiles, and doesn’t really feel the tears as they slip down her cheeks.


Wednesday is much of the same. Her bed, then the window. Convincing Ginny she’s fine, nibbling at the food she brings her.

Memories that play on a loop. Sometimes of Malfoy, sometimes not. Sometimes it’s rubble and bright spells and blood. Feelings and thoughts pass her by, some more sticky than others. She pokes at her vanishing bruises, remembers the way his hands had been harsh in her hair and his lips hot on her breasts. Remembers how wrong he had felt in her mind and how right he had felt in her cunt, and finds that she doesn’t care to fight herself on it, on remembering him.

Amongst all the thoughts that drift by, one comes unbidden. It’s a realisation, more than a thought, and though it feels a bit strange as it rolls around her mind, it isn’t unnatural.

Among the glass castle built of lies she’s been living in for months, Draco Malfoy is a stain—because he is truth.

All of his words—truth. His truth. She could see it in his eyes, the way he believed everything he told her. Her truth, too; because he’s always been right when it comes to her. All his actions—truth. He doesn’t hold back with her, she thinks. He is, in a way not everyone can be, truthful and real in his actions no matter if they are good or bad. He didn’t use to be. But something has changed in him, the War has remade him, just like it has remade all of them, and this is who he is now.

All those moments between them—they had been true, had been real, in a way that shocks Hermione when she understands it. Because she has lied to him, yes; and she’s sure he has lied to her, too—but somewhere between the hate and the sex and the hurts, something had started to spill over from her, something that wasn’t planned, that wasn’t her act. Malfoy just turned her blood so hot that she forgot to abide by the strict rules of her mask. He pushed her to her limit and she let him do it, because in those moments it had felt real, the slipping of her mask, the exposure of what was underneath, messy and confused and hurting; and though she had hated it in the after, in the moment giving in had felt good. A release; a reprieve. A moment to feel real, to feel as if she wasn’t stuck being someone else.

In some form or another, all their interactions have been truthful. True in their desires, true in their hatred, true in their anger. They hadn’t been good, but they had been true, and it all leaves Hermione reeling, the start of a laugh in her throat, because for months Hermione has been hiding from the truth—yet she doesn’t feel like she wants to hide from this one.

It leaves a peculiar taste in her mouth, this thought. Bitter and sweet at the same time. It makes her heartbeat speed up and her fingers clench in her sheets, but then the thought is dragged away again, and for a while Hermione forgets it, at least until it comes back again, fleeting yet strong, instinctual.

When it does, Hermione draws his features in the threads of her sheets—his lips, his hair, his eyes. The slope of his cheekbones, the hollow of his throat. She imagines the scars over his body, imagines tasting them; and for once the thoughts are not accompanied by disgust or weakness. They just are, and so Hermione loses herself in them; in every bruise, in every kiss. Over and over again.

It’s easier, in the end, than thinking of anything else.


Sometime past midnight, when Ginny is already asleep, a message flutters down on her bedside table.

Hermione hasn’t slept since she woke up on Tuesday morning, and though her body feels drained, she doesn’t dare flirt with the possibility of falling asleep. So she’s awake, leaning against her headboard with her chin propped over her knees, when she hears the tell-tale rustling of paper, a quiet flutter that fills the silent room—and her—with a tremor of anticipation.

She keeps perfectly still for three, four, five heartbeats before straightening up and crawling towards her nightstand. Hermione picks up her wand, casting a soft lumos that gives her enough light to see by without disturbing Ginny. She traces her eyes over the simple piece of parchment, folded in two. No seal, no name. There’s no need for either of them in any case, because Hermione knows exactly who that message is from.

Her fingertips tingle as she picks up the piece of parchment. Hermione leans back against the headboard, laying the message on top of her knees, not yet opening it up.

In the back of her mind, a voice is listing all the awful things Malfoy has said and done to her; of how he’d clawed through her mind, of how he’d choked her until her vision had gone black at the edges, of how he’d left her there and hadn’t turned back around.

She stares down at the message. She shouldn’t read it. She shouldn’t engage with him, not really, not outside the comfort of her hazy thoughts and daydreams. She shouldn’t. But at this point she doesn’t feel like she has anything else to lose, not anything important, anyway; so why shouldn’t she?

It’s not even curiosity that makes her unfold the small piece of parchment. There’s no aching, burning need to know what he’s written down. It’s something softer around the edges, a simmer more than a burn, and it settles somewhere between her sternum and her belly; bubbling, almost.

Her eyes fall on sentences scribbled neatly in black, flowing ink.

I need to send a letter. Come to the Black Lake, past the Hut. Theo will be there, too.

Then below, a single word that robs a beat from her heart.

Please.


“Are you sure this is going to work?”

Draco’s jaw flexes, the muscles aching from how tightly he’s been gritting his teeth for the past two days. “Yes, Theo. I’m positive it’ll work.”

Theo turns to look at him, the collar of his coat pulled up to protect him from the cold breeze that sweeps the grounds as they walk towards the Black Lake. “And what if it doesn’t?”

“Then it doesn’t, and we’re fucked,” Draco snaps, then bites his tongue. “But it will. The text Granger found had a handy spell in it. I’m going to send the letter through and she’s going to monitor the wards. It will be fine.”

Theo sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets. Draco clenches and unclenches his jaw, the tension that has been wrecking his body since he left Granger in that room unwilling to leave him.

The memory of her, naked and crying on the floor, flashes through his mind, and he swallows. He’s thought of nothing else for two days. He’s memorised every detail of it, could paint it with his eyes closed, the image of Granger crying on her knees in front of him.

She’s constantly there, at the forefront of his mind. It’s not even a drifting of thoughts—she doesn’t sneak up on him when his mind gets distracted. No. It’s compulsive. He can’t not think about her. It eats at his brain. The sound of her cries, the cutting tone in her voice when she’s mad at him. The shape of her, the taste of her, the smell of her. Her. Constantly, unendingly, sickeningly.

To a certain extent, he doesn’t understand it, this fascination his mind has with her. He doesn’t like her. She annoys him, enrages him, disgusts him. Yet she’s buried herself beneath his skin and he can’t stop thinking about her.

She’d made him so angry, comparing him to Bellatrix. And yet she hadn’t really been wrong, had she? Draco himself has been intimately acquainted with the brand of torture Bellatrix favoured. He’d lost count of how many times she’d torn through his mind. She’d been a better Legilimens than him, even. Had more experience in it, certainly. But Bellatrix used to twist and wrench and disform. He’d just… looked. It wasn’t the same.

Not to him, at least.

Not that he truly cared for Granger’s thoughts.

Snippets of the memories he’d seen echo through his brain, and the reminder of what he’d found tempts to send him in a rage again.

He’d seen the Weasel around. Each time, he’d been overcome by the urge to go to him, his fist begging to become acquainted with Weasley's face.

It makes him sick with rage to know that Weasley has touched her. That his hands had touched Granger’s skin, that he’d seen her naked and sweating and panting. But the rules of his probation had held him back. He wouldn’t have been able to keep it neat and pretty; he’d wanted to hurt Weasley too much for it, but he wasn’t yet willing to risk the little freedom he had because of a fuckup like him.

Draco takes a deep breath in, releasing it slowly. He and Theo make their way to where weeks ago they’d shared a bottle of Firewhiskey, the lights from their wands and the slither of moon in the sky guiding their steps. When they reach the cluster of trees, Draco sits down, leaning against the trunk of the tree he picked as his long ago.

Theo looks out toward the Lake, brows furrowed. Draco recognizes the tension in him, the worry in the corners of his eyes, and internally sighs.

Theo is scared that this isn’t going to work. Draco had seen the hope sparking in his eyes when he’d told him about the spell and about Granger helping them. He hadn’t gone into the details of the whys Granger was helping them, and Theo hadn’t asked, but Draco had wondered if telling him at all had been the right choice. But Theo knows now, there’s no coming back from having told him, and an extra brain won’t hurt. Theo is smart and Draco trusts him. The only issue is that Theo has always had the bad habit of clinging to hope, and Draco would hate to be the one to offer him some only to then watch it crumble.

Theo kicks a pebble into the water, ripples exploding and then disappearing into the darkness of the Lake. “So, do we just wait for her?”

Draco leans his head against the hard bark, closing his eyes. “Yes.”

“She’ll come?” He hears the unasked question in Theo’s words, the why should she come hidden in them. He hates that he’s asked himself the same thing.

Draco is keenly aware that there’s a solid chance that she won’t show up. The knowledge twists his stomach and makes him dig his nails into the palms of his hands. He hates it. Hates that it’s a possibility. He needs her to come—needs to see her. He hasn’t seen her in two days and it already feels like too long.

But it would be understandable, for her not to come, after how he’d left her. A normal person would do that. A normal person would stay very far away from someone who has left them sobbing and reliving one of their worst traumas alone on a cold stone floor. But there’s nothing normal when it comes down to him and Granger, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she will come. That she’ll think Theo a buffer, and that will be enough to make her feel a bit more in control.

Plus, he’d asked her kindly.

It had felt foreign, almost, writing that word down. Please. He’d added it as an afterthought, just because he could, just because maybe it would fuck with her head enough to push her to come.

Draco sighs, pulling one knee up and resting his arm on it.

He doesn’t answer Theo, and Theo doesn’t ask again.


Hermione forgoes a coat, even if the late November air is biting, a cold wind pulling at the curls that have escaped her bun.

She huddles deeper into her sweater, thick red scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. It’s the darkest moment of the night, the moment when everything feels still and time doesn’t really exist anymore. Hermione is the only thing disturbing the quiet, with soft breaths and shuffling steps.

The Black Lake, when she reaches it, is one large shadow. The moonlight tries to shine upon it but it feels to her like the water refuses to be illuminated, the surface one dark, lightless hole, not even a flicker of stars reflecting off it. An owl hoots somewhere far away and Hermione shivers. She never liked the Black Lake, its dark waters. It makes a cold settle between her veins that has nothing to do with the biting air.

A ripple on the surface catches her eye and Hermione locks her gaze on it. A sound like skipping stones reaches her ears a moment later, the ripples coming again. Hermione strains her eyes, inching closer to the shore, trying to understand where the ripples are coming from.

A flash of white on the water, then one, two skips, the rock disappearing beneath the surface. Hermione heads towards where she thinks the rocks are being thrown from, following the shore until she gets to a cluster of trees, the start of the woods just behind. Soft murmurs reach her, then the sound of another rock being thrown.

A figure comes into view the closer she gets, standing tall in front of the Lake, pebbles within his long fingers, hair dark.

Nott turns towards her, and Hermione is surprised by how pale the moonlight makes him look. “Granger,” he says, throwing a stone in the air and catching it again. “Made us wait long enough.”

His voice is rougher than she expected. She tries to think of the last time he spoke to her, looking him up and down, all dark clothes and curls. Hermione wraps her arms around herself and lifts her chin. “Nott.”

Then she turns towards the trees, looking for the man that asked her there.

Malfoy lounges against one tree, head back, eyes closed. His hair is bright even in the darkness, brushing his shoulders, the pale expanse of his throat fully on display.

Her treacherous heart skips a beat at the sight of him, starting again when his eyes open and his gaze falls on her. He looks her up and down, slow, as if he had all the time in the world. His gaze feels like it’s caressing her, lingering at her knees, her hips, her throat; before rising to her face. She swallows but doesn’t look away. His face is stoic, his thoughts unknown to her. She hates that she wants to know what he thinks, wants to know what he feels when his eyes fall on her.

His eyes drop from hers as he lifts himself up from the ground. His sigh reaches her before he runs one heavily ringed hand through his hair. As he steps closer her pulse spikes, chest going too tight with tension, and when he steps close enough that the three of them make a circle Hermione involuntarily retreats, taking a small step backwards before she can control her body.

Malfoy stills for a heartbeat, silver eyes snapping to her, before he looks away again, face impassive. She bites her tongue, waiting for him to say something, but Malfoy only steps forward, hand reaching into his pocket.

He pulls out his wand and a letter, a dark green seal on it. “I’m going to try a variation of Zotoi’s spell. It should let me pass things through the wards.” He rubs his thumb over the seal of the letter, then looks at her. “You’re going to monitor the wards while I do that.”

Hermione furrows her brows, her gaze snapping back up from the letter to his eyes. Is this why he asked her to come? How is she even supposed to do that? They aren’t even close to the edges of the wards. She would at least need to be in close proximity to them to be able to cast a monitoring spell. And what the hell does he need to send? Her eyes fall back to the letter clutched in his hand, and her curiosity grows.

Malfoy reaches again for his pocket, pulling out another piece of parchment. He unfolds it, then holds it out to her. “That book you found. On the prisons. This spell was in there. I think it might work.”

Hermione looks at the piece of paper then at him, then Nott. She snatches it out of his hold and flicks her wand, soft light illuminating his neat script. Her eyes run through the spell written on the page, eyebrows rising with every sentence she reads.

“I’ve never cast a similar spell,” she says, looking back at Malfoy, who’s staring at her with that same cold expression that she can’t read. She wonders if it was the War that taught him to keep his thoughts so hidden, or if it was something else.

“I know,” he agrees, and she bristles at his words, back straightening. A thread seems to pull the corner of his mouth upwards before it snaps, his lips flattening again. “Which is why Theo is here.”

“Me?” Nott looks at Hermione before his gaze turns to Malfoy. “You think I can do it instead of her?”

Malfoy gives him a flat look. “No. But you can make wards for her to test the spell on. And then she’ll try it on Hogwarts’ wards.”

“Can’t you do it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to try to get through your wards while she monitors them.”

“Fucking hell, Draco.” Theo grits his teeth, eyes rolling skywards as if asking for someone to give him patience. Then he looks back at Hermione. “Give me that.” Nott snatches the piece of paper from her fingers, turning around and pacing away, muttering to himself.

Hermione looks between him and Malfoy, her brain trying to catch up with everything.

“Who are you sending that letter to?”

He doesn’t turn around to look at her, eyes fixed on Nott as he slides said letter back into his pocket. “Take a wild guess, Granger,” he drawls, and the sound of her name in his low tone makes shivers dance along her spine.

She narrows her eyes at him. Thinks for a second. Then, of course, “Your mother.”

He looks at her from the corner of his eye before looking back to Nott, who’s now standing still in the middle of the shore, head bowed over the paper. Smart, she thinks, to study the spell she’s supposed to cast before building wards to test it against.

“Correct, Granger. You truly are the smartest witch of our age.”

She huffs a breath from her nose, squeezing her arms tighter against herself to combat the cold and the frustration at having to drag answers out of him. “Why are you sending her a letter?”

“It’s my mother. Can’t I be a good son and send her updates?” Malfoy turns to look at her. The whole weight of his stare hits her at once, and she forces herself to keep her own eyes trained on Nott. She sees him smirk from the corner of her eye, and this time it doesn’t fall off his face. “Maybe I want to tell her about the girl I dream about.”

Hermione’s heart stills at his words, heartbeats lost to the way they drip over her, thick and sweet and slow. Her mind conjures possibility after possibility, flashes of dreams he might have about her mixing with those she has about him. Her head spins and her fingertips tingle and she hates that he can make her feel like this with just words.

She tries to unlock her throat, to say something; but then his fingers are brushing a stray curl behind her ear and she wants to lean into the touch and flinch away from it, the gentleness of it unbearable, reminding her of all the times he isn’t.

She snatches his wrist, pushing it away from her. She stares him down, something festering inside her, then hisses, “I hope you dream of me hurting you.”

Malfoy’s smirk turns into a wolfish grin, and she hateshateshates that she finds it beautiful. “Who said I dream of you?”

Hermione’s mouth snaps shut. She loathes that she fell for it, detests the fact that it’s all still a game to him, even when her blood turns sour at the idea that he might dream of someone else.

She lets go of the wrist she’s still, for some reason, holding; not even bothering with a reply before stalking towards Nott.

Nott’s head snaps up when she approaches and he lets her snatch the piece of parchment from his hands.

“Raise your wards, Nott.”


They spend close to one hour practising with Nott’s wards.

He builds beautiful, artfully complex wards around himself that leave Hermione impressed with his skills. When he notices her look he tells her that after his father had died, he’d had to look after the wards at Nott Manor, and he’d picked up a thing or two. His voice is quiet and sad when he says that, and her heart twists a bit for him, because she knows what it means to lose what you called home.

It takes Malfoy only a couple of tries to get past Nott’s ward. His first attempt breaks the wards down completely, and his second doesn’t let the letter through. When she suggests he use a different declination of one of the words—she’s reluctantly impressed that he translated the Polish spell into Latin rather than English, making it stronger—the spell works perfectly, and he manages to get the letter through Nott’s wards without any visible alteration to them.

The spell she’s supposed to use is a tricky bit of magic, requiring concentration she struggles to hold, with the cold and the hunger that starts making her stomach cramp and the way Malfoy and Nott stare incessantly at her. After the fifth time she tries to tune into Nott’s wards only to lose her connection with them she turns around on a huff, stalking away from them and muttering about a break.

When she reaches the trees she crouches at their roots, fingers dragging in the dirt until they brush against a small mushroom, tall and thin and white. Hermione plucks it and transfigures it into a small apple, even though she isn’t hungry. She cleans it with the hem of her sweater before biting into it, the taste of it not quite as sweet as the real thing.

She hears Nott and Malfoy talking quietly behind her and pulls her scarf tighter around herself. The coldness of the air has by now seeped into her bones, so much so that she doesn’t even notice her body is trembling and her teeth are chattering until, suddenly, it stops. Warmth spreads over her, starting behind her belly and extending outwards, down her arms and legs. She shivers, and the warmth grows hot as it reaches her cheeks. Her eyes flutter closed at the sensation, her body relaxing, some of the tension easing.

Then her eyes snap open when it hits her that she isn’t casting a warming charm on herself. She stands up, twisting around; apple core dripping juice down her fingers. Malfoy and Nott are deep in conversation by the Lake, backs turned to her, neither one of them paying her any attention. Yet she knows, knows it’s Malfoy that cast the charm, knows it’s his magic warming her.

A lump rises in her throat.

She doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand why she can’t take her eyes off his figure and why the heat in her cheeks feels distinctly like a blush.

Because she should hate him, hate him like she’s never hated anyone before; because she should be yelling at him, threatening him, hurting him for what he has done to her, what he’s taken from her—she should should should. Always should, yet—she doesn’t, because he’s made her warm when she was cold and he touches her with gentleness sometimes and the way her first name rolls off his lips makes her heart jump between her ribs and makes her ache for more.

Hermione closes her eyes. Lets the apple core fall from her fingers.

The things he makes her feel—she wants to feel them.

She wants more of them; when for months she simply hasn’t wanted to feel anything at all.

She wants to feel.

She forces the lump in her throat down. Wipes her shaking hands on her thighs. Hides the realisation in a dark corner of her brain. She can’t think about it now. She can’t.

“Granger.” Nott’s voice snaps her out of her thoughts. “Let’s try again.”

She nods, and they try again, the blush never leaving her cheeks.


“Alright, are you set, Granger?”

Malfoy turns to look at her, a determined glint in his eyes, one hand wrapped around his wand, the other gripping the letter tightly.

She nods, her own grip on her wand tightening. She’s trying really hard not to think about what she’s about to do, but the words still slip out of her mouth. “You do know what happens if this doesn’t work, right? If they know what you’re trying to do?” Your probation will cease and you’ll be thrown into Azkaban. “Do you really want to risk it for a letter to your mother?”

Malfoy and Nott look at each other, unsaid words passing between them. Then Malfoy turns to her. “My mother is in St. Mungo’s and I don’t know how she got there or why she got there.”

The words slam the breath out of her. She blinks, then blinks again. Then her eyes snap wide open. “What you were worried about. People getting through the Malfoy Manor wards. To Narcissa.” She swallows. “It happened.”

Malfoy’s jaw ticks and he looks away from her. “It did.”

Hermione looks at Nott, takes in his furrowed brows, the bags beneath his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders. Then breathes out, “You think they’re connected.”

The two men look at her, their gazes burning. She continues, her mind starting to piece everything together. “This, and Nott’s house burning down. You think they’re connected.” She wonders how she hadn’t seen it earlier.

“That time, when you had to drag Pansy out of the Great Hall.” Theo doesn’t take his eyes off her. She swallows. “And then the Zabinis were found dead. Together with the Rotts.” Both men freeze at the mention of Blaise’s name, but she ignores that, trying instead to recall the Parkinson family tree, reaching for the knowledge she had stowed in the back of her brain during the war. “Pansy’s cousin. She was Pansy’s cousin.”

She sucks in a sharp breath. “You knew something was going to happen. That’s connected, too.” She turns to face Malfoy, running her eyes over the tight expression on his face. “What the fuck is going on?”

He glares down at her, jaw tight. “I don’t fucking know, Granger.”

“You—if you think something is happening, you have to tell—”

“Tell who, Granger?” he seethes, taking a step towards her. “Who do you think will listen to us? We’re all on fucking probation. We’re stuck in this fucking school, without any contact to the outside world. We can’t even send fucking letters, Granger, that’s how much they trust us. Do you think anyone will listen to a word we say?”

She opens her mouth, then shuts it again, because he’s right, because she remembers the way people had looked at him during his trial, how people had looked at her for just being there, defending him. She doesn’t even ask him if he’s tried to get someone else to send his letter. He’d need to Imperio someone to do it.

“I can ask to visit her,” the words are out of her mouth before she realises. Hermione immediately wants to take them back, because she might not want Narcissa dead, but the thought of seeing her again makes her stomach clench in fear.

“No,” Malfoy’s voice is hard, cutting. “I don’t want you anywhere near my mother.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Why not? I spoke at her trial. If I ask they’ll—”

“No. No one knows she’s in St. Mungo’s. They’re keeping it a secret. And I don’t want you near her.”

“Why?” He doesn’t answer, so she asks a different question. “Why keep it a secret?”

Malfoy shrugs, but it’s stiff and tense. “Fuck if I know, Granger. They told me when I saw her last.”

“You saw her?”

“They had the decency to at least let me know she was attacked. It happened several weeks ago. I haven’t heard anything since.”

Hermione runs through the past weeks, stopping when she remembers how he’d been missing for days, and how she’d found him in the Library that night, messy looking. She’d asked him if it had been something at the Ministry. Turns out it had been something worse. And it had been before they made the Vow—Narcissa had already been in St. Mungo’s, and he hadn’t told her. She doesn’t know how that makes her feel.

“Can’t you ask to visit her? Surely they’ll let you see your mother.”

Malfoy sighs, as if he’s exasperated with her. “You think I haven’t tried? I asked McGonagall.” His tone turns bitter. “She refuses to ask. Says it’s a breach of probation.”

Hermione sighs, closing her eyes and rubbing her fingers over her brows.

So much could go wrong. So much.

Yet wouldn’t she try something similar if one of her parents were attacked? Wouldn’t she hate being trapped in a school when weird things were going on outside, things that affected her friends terribly? If one of her friends died, wouldn’t she want to understand why?

She would. And she can’t really fault Malfoy for trying to do what he can to understand, too.

So she drops her hand from her brow, looking between the two Slytherins. She idly wonders how she ended up here, but in the end this isn’t even one of the stranger and riskier situations she’s found herself in.

“Granger,” Malfoy says, his voice breaking the silence that has fallen over the three of them. She doesn’t know if her name is a warning or a plea, but the please he’d written in the message he’d sent her flashes through her mind, and she believes it’s less a threat and more a request from someone who doesn’t know what else to do.

The Blood Vow had brought her here, her conscience souring with guilt at the idea of not showing up when he’d so explicitly asked for her help; but it’s something else that makes her finger tighten around her wand and makes a soft okay pass through her lips.


It all seems to work perfectly.

Hogwarts’ wards are heavy and ancient when Hermione casts her spell and taps into them. It’s a strange and unnatural sensation, as if she’s being sucked into them, or as if they’re becoming an extension of her. She can pinpoint the places where the owls come in and out of the wards, can identify the spots where they are thinner, places which Hermione guesses are used to let people through when necessary. Still, the wards are strong and reliable, and they make her feel safe, protected.

When it’s Malfoy’s turn to cast his spell she doesn’t look at him, too busy concentrating on any tremble or shift in the wards. Nott is next to her, a presence that steadies her as she loses herself in the magic.

She doesn’t even realise Malfoy has cast the spell and the letter has disappeared until Nott shakes her shoulder. She falls away from the wards—she hadn’t even felt a shiver of change in them—and blinks her eyes open, letting the magic fall away from her.

“You alright?” Nott asks her, hand drifting off her shoulder. Hermione shakes herself then nods, looking at Malfoy. “I didn’t feel anything. Nothing changed.”

There are beads of sweat collecting at the nape of her neck from the strain of the spell and all of a sudden a wave of exhaustion comes over her. She wobbles on her feet before Nott’s hands are there, foreign, but holding her up.

“Whoa, Granger. You sure you’re alright?” She leans into him long enough for the spots in her vision to fade before slipping out of his hold, his hands dropping from where he’d been touching her. “I’m fine,” she says, standing taller and wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s the magic.”

It is, in fact, the magic. They’ve been at it for hours, and the spell was new, and she hadn’t practised this much in a while. She feels weak and a bit dizzy now that it’s all done, the adrenaline of it all having left her. Plus, she hasn’t slept in two days, and it feels like it’s finally catching up to her.

She pulls her eyes up from the ground to Malfoy to find him already staring at her, a small furrow between his brows.

“Are we done here?” she asks, the urge to get back to her bed and sneak beneath her covers suddenly overwhelming. The coldness is back, Malfoy’s charm having faded long ago.

She moves her eyes towards Theo, who’s looking at her with a concerned expression she can’t for the life of her understand. She watches as his lips part, but before he can say anything a sharp yes cleaves the air. She looks back at Malfoy. His eyes are bright in the moonlight, the silver in them cold.

“You can go, Granger. You’ve done your part.”

Then, as if an afterthought, “You can go back to your little hiding hole now.”

Hermione stares at him.

Then she rolls her lips in her mouth, nods, and turns around without saying anything else.


She’s halfway down the Covered Bridge when steps sound behind her.

She picks up her pace, body too tired to run. She hates that he’s followed her, yet she’s sickly satisfied by it, too.

Granger,” the steps are closer, loud against the quiet of the night. She counts them and on the seventh there’s a hand wrapping around her upper arm, turning her around.

The spell flows off her lips with nearly too much ease. By the time her eyes land on him, Malfoy is bent over, one knee on the ground, body seizing in pain and the hand on her arm clenched in the fabric of her sweater.

Hermione points her wand at him, tip digging against his throat. She uses it to lift his chin from where his head is bent over in pain, pale strands obscuring him from view. She forces him to tilt his face towards her until she can see the anger in his eyes, the way his lips are pressed tightly in a thin line. He’s trembling all over, and she rejoices in it.

“Did you think you could just get away with it, Malfoy?” she whispers, staring down at him. The grip on her sweater increases as he tries to pull her towards her, but she resists. Her voice shakes with her anger, “Did you think I would just let it go ?”

Hermione pushes her wand harder against his skin, willing more magic into the spell, making the pain worse. Malfoy groans, nostrils flaring on an inhale, and if looks could kill she thinks she would be dead now.

She leans closer to him. All the things she’s been trying really hard not to think about these past few days crash over her, anger bringing her down. She’s drowned under the memories of him clawing into her mind, of when Bellatrix had done it, and she channels more magic through her wand. She wants to hurt him.

“I will never forget, Malfoy.” She spits his name at him, a reminder of all he represents. “You went into my mind. You took my memories.” Her voice shakes with her anger, and she thinks her body will explode from everything that’s burning up inside of her. “You had no right. No right!” She lowers her voice again, hissing. “And for what, to find out who I fucked?”

She laughs, hollow and vicious. “Were you so jealous, is your ego so fucking fragile that you had to do that? I would’ve told you. Told you how it was Ron that left those marks you lost your fucking mind over.” She smirks then, letting her anger turn into something spiteful. “How does it feel now that you know, huh? That I went to him? Was it worth it ?”

She twists her wand into his skin on the last words, making the pain just that much sharper. Malfoy groans again, clutching at his sternum, body falling forward so his head leans against her stomach.

She spears her fingers through his hair, pulling him away from her harshly, bending his neck to an uncomfortable angle. He glares at her even as his breaths come in a staccato, even if his face is pale and his hands are now clawing at her thighs.

She looks him straight in those silver eyes of his, letting him see that there are no lies in her words, not this time. “If you ever use Legilimency on me again, Malfoy, I will kill you.”

She pulls at his hair, giving him a taste of his own medicine. Malfoy groans again, the sound deep and painful, making her stomach clench. “Do you understand, Malfoy?” She thinks of Dolohov, of watching him kill Remus, of finding him during the last of the battle and of killing him with no regrets. “ I will kill you. And I won’t care what happens to me afterwards, Malfoy, because no one will ever do that to me again. Not you, not anyone else.”

She’s breathing heavily, the hand holding her wand shaking. She hears Bellatrix giggle in her mind and wants to scream. Hermione pulls at his hair again. “You have nothing to say? Nothing?”

The hands he has fisted in her clothes tighten, and Hermione swears a fundamental thread holding her together snaps when Malfoy swallows and a corner of his mouth twitches.

Hermione sees red coming over her vision and before she registers what she’s doing she’s spitting in Malfoy’s smirking face, spitting, something she has never done towards someone else before, not even the Death Eaters, not even Voldemort.

It lands square on his left cheek, right underneath his eye. Hermione watches as his pained expression clears with shock, grey eyes going wide, jaw slackening. She watches as her saliva drips down his cheek, trails it with her eyes until she can’t stand to look at him anymore, her heart a wild thing in her chest.

“I hate you. I hate you and your stupid fucking games. I hate you.”

Hermione doesn’t wait for his reply before sending another wave of magic through him. She steps backwards as Malfoy bends over in pain, disentangling herself from him, turning around and walking away as he falls to his knees, nails scraping against the wood of the bridge, pained whimpers falling from his lips.


Hermione is almost at the Gryffindor’s Dormitory, only a corner away from the Fat Lady, completely lost to her anger, when she’s pushed against a wall, the impact of the stone against her back painful.

She gasps, hands immediately raising to push against Malfoy’s chest but he presses closer, flattening her to that wall. She fights him, fists pounding against his chest, a shout about to escape her lips, but then Malfoy is kissing her, hot and hard, pushing his body against hers.

She rips her mouth away, trying desperately to get him off her, pushing with all her might, but then his hand is gripping her jaw and he’s turning her face and his mouth is on hers again, furious. He bites her lip and she yelps, his tongue sneaking past her teeth and into her mouth. He twists her head to his liking, pulling her closer as he brings her hips off the wall and flush against his, and then—then her hands are in his hair and she’s kissing him back, frantic.

He groans into her mouth and she pulls him closer, pouring all of her emotions into the kiss. She threads her fingers through his hair and tangles her tongue with his before kissing him, again and again, her eyes falling closed at the taste of him, the high of him already threatening to send her to her knees. His hand drops from her face to her hips and he squeezes her waist roughly, dragging her closer, making her shudder and her belly clench tightly.

She whimpers when his mouth leaves her to trail down her neck. She lets her head fall back against the wall, pulls her scarf away to make space for him and arches into him, their lower bodies pressing together, heat spreading down her chest and a throbbing starting between her legs. Malfoy licks and bites along her neck, tasting her, teeth sharp, before he takes her ear lobe between his teeth and pulls slightly. His arms wrap around her as he leaves a kiss just below her ear, holding her close to him. “Did you really spit in my face, Hermione?”

She moans as his voice rumbles into her from where their chests are pressed together, and she turns her head to catch his lips again, choosing that over answering his question. She trails her tongue over his bottom lip, savouring the little hitch in his breath when she does so. Hermione grazes her teeth over his lip before losing herself in the next kiss, in the feel of him against her, in the way her body responds to him, tiny shivers wrecking her.

There’s nothing but him, nothing but the way his lips feel against hers, how he kisses her as if he must, as if he wants to steal the air right out of her lungs. Hermione lets him do it, lets him kiss her until her lungs burn, kisses him until her head spins, until she has to break the kiss to take in air.

Malfoy’s hand slips underneath her sweater, passing over the wand she shoved in the waistband of her leggings and up her stomach. He groans when his hand brushes her bare breast and he squeezes her roughly, thumb swiping over her nipple. She whimpers and he swallows the sound, his lips back on hers for another violent kiss that leaves her reeling.

When they separate her eyes flutter open, falling on his glistening lips, slightly red and swollen.

Hermione can’t help herself from wanting to steal another taste of him. She inches closer, tongue sneaking out to lick the centre of his mouth, over the soft centre of his lower lip up to the top one. Then she retreats, revelling in the way her lips are warm and wet from his, eyes bouncing over every feature of his face; over his dark, hungry eyes and the flush high on his cheekbones.

Malfoy is breathing heavily, each breath ghosting across her mouth. Hermione doesn’t know how much of it is the kissing and how much is the pain she inflicted on him less than ten minutes ago, but she doesn’t care, because his arms are wrapped around her and his fingertips are running up and down her spine and she can taste him on her tongue and she doesn’t care about anything else, not right now.

“Fuck,” Malfoy whispers, eyes locked on her mouth. “You make me fucking crazy, you know that, don’t you?”

Hermione pulls slightly on his hair, a weak mimic of what she’d done before, and reaches up to kiss him again. “Do I?” she murmurs across his lips.

“You do. I hate it.” Malfoy kisses her, slow and deep, making her melt against him. Hermione wonders if she ever even really knew what it meant to be kissed before him.

He speaks in the space between their lips, “I hate you,” then kisses her again, ravenous, aggressive, possessive.

When Malfoy pulls away, lips lingering over hers, she looks at him from below her lashes, words on the tip of her tongue, but a sudden noise to her left followed by an oh, sorry, makes her heart stop and her head snap to the side.

Luna stands in front of them, just by the corner behind which lies her dorm. She’s in her pyjamas, her blond hair—almost as pale as the one of the man Hermione is currently wrapped around—wild around her shoulders, a blanket and what seems like clothes bundled up in her arms.

“Sorry,” she says again, gaze moving slowly between her and Malfoy. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Then she leans towards them, as if telling them a secret. “This isn’t the best place for that, though. Very easy to get caught. It happened to me a couple of times.”

Hermione stares at Luna, the heat from Malfoy’s kisses fading rapidly, dread replacing it. She swallows, pulling her hands out of Malfoy’s hair.

Malfoy looks at her and then sighs, hands slipping out from beneath her shirt before he cups her cheek and gives her a quick, hard kiss.

Hermione is too stunned to yell at him, and she stands there like a complete and utter fool as he disentangles himself from her, straightening his clothes and turning towards Luna.

“Lovegood,” he says, dropping his chin into a nod.

Luna gives him a small smile. “Draco.”

Malfoy turns to her, heat still simmering in his gaze. “Granger.”

Then he turns around and leaves, leaving her to lean against the wall for support as the world around her re-aligns.

“So,” Luna says, coming to stand next to her. “I guess that answers my question.”

Hermione swallows, struggling to move her eyes from the spot Malfoy had just been standing in to Luna. “What question?”

“Why he’d taken an interest in you.” Luna shifts the bundle of clothes in her arm, patting Hermione on one shoulder. “He’s a good choice.”

Hermione covers her face with her hands and curses everything and everyone to hell.

Notes:

This chapter is a little bit late because a veela!Draco idea was eating at my brain and I had to get it out, so I wrote a little one-shot! It's called instinct, and if you guys like primal play (if it wasn't clear yet I am a sucker for a good chasing scene hehe) and forced bonding you could check it out!! but check the tags xx

As always thank you thank you thank you to everyone who has left kudos or comments!! They make my day every time and I will forever be grateful for them!
Also, as always, thanks to my lovely betas, Raquel, Mads, and Jenny!! you guys rock and ily xx <3

PS if anyone was interested in the songs that I listen to while writing or daydreaming about this fic let it be known that Valentine by Maneskin, Bad Decision by Bad Omens and High Enough by K.Flay are the ones that play the most on loop ahah I thought I'd share!!

Chapter 14

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Draco’s cock is hard all the way back to his dorm.

Granger’s taste is still sweet on his lips, and when he’s halfway to the Slytherin Dormitory he debates turning around and going back to her, grabbing her by her slender throat and fucking her hard and dirty against the wall right next to her dorm, where anyone could see them.

She’s his. Her body, her mind, her tight little cunt and all of her anger. His. Draco will do it. Will fuck her in front of anyone who’ll look at her, letting them in on their little game, letting them know whose cock she comes around.

Fuck. She drives him crazy. He hadn’t lied to her.

When she’d shown up at the Lake, barely dressed and trembling, those awful bags under her eyes, delight had run through his veins. She’d looked like she hadn’t slept in days, worse than when she had her bad days. She’d looked empty, and Draco had secretly revelled in it. He’d wanted to pull her closer, to tell her that he was going to do way, way worse things to her than that, that she had no idea how ravenous he was to see her shatter and fall apart in his arms; but Theo had been there, and he had a letter to send, so he’d pushed his desires to the back of his mind and had tried to concentrate on what they needed to do.

But when she’d walked away, frustrated by the spell and shaking from the cold, he hadn’t been able to resist teasing her. He hadn’t looked back to her after casting the charm, but when she’d walked back up to him and Theo and he’d seen the blush on her cheeks, it had taken all of his control not to push her on her knees and shove his cock down her throat and warm her up in a different way.

He’d resisted five minutes before he’d chased after her, after the spell was done as she’d disappeared in the darkness of the night. Theo had rolled his eyes and had muttered something about Pansy having been right, but Draco hadn’t cared a single bit. He needed to have her alone, to see the pain shine in her eyes when she looked at him and get his hands on her again, but the sweet Golden Girl had pulled out her claws, and Draco had been a breath away from losing his fucking mind.

God, when she’d had him on his knees, the pain had been an awful thing, burning his blood from the inside; but the way she’d looked at him, the undiluted fury in her eyes when she’d told him she’d kill him if he tried going in her mind again. Fuck. Fuck if he hadn’t wanted to do just that if only to see her try, to be on the receiving end of all that bright fury again.

Draco rubs his cheek with the back of his hand as he stalks down the stairs to the dungeons, right over where she had spat on him.

He’d thought that his favourite Granger was an angry one, but all of that had just pushed murderous Granger right to the top.

The gall of her, to spit in his face. Him. And she’d looked so vicious when she’d done it—but fuck if hadn’t made his cock twitch, even with her magic tearing through him. And then she’d left him there, groaning in pain, trying to get air back in his lungs, and he’d never wanted anyone more.

As Draco enters the Slytherin Dorm, the way she’d kissed him afterwards plays on a loop in his mind. She’d just been so perfect, so angry yet willing, and Draco had truly been about to fuck her right there, if only Lovegood hadn’t interrupted them.

He’s replaying the little noises she’d made when he kissed her neck when he walks into the Common Room, stopping short when he sees Theo’s tall figure standing in front of the hearth, hands stretched out towards the flames, coat carelessly thrown on the back of the chaise on which Pansy is nursing another bottle of wine, wearing nothing but her silky white sleeping gown.

Theo turns towards him when he hears him walk in, eyebrows disappearing beneath his curls. “That was embarrassingly fast, Draco.”

“Fuck off,” Draco snaps back, one hand dropping to cover his crotch, his cock still annoyingly hard in his pants.

“I hope she wasn’t too disappointed.”

“Fuck off, Theo. Lovegood interrupted us. I didn’t think you’d want me to fuck Granger right in front of her, now would you?”

Theo’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. “Fuck you,” he hisses, turning back around towards the flames.

Pansy rolls her eyes at Theo’s back before extending her arm and offering him the bottle, knocking the butt of it against Theo’s arm. Theo looks down at her before snatching the bottle from her hand and taking a hearty gulp.

“Theo said the thing went well?” Pansy asks him, taking the bottle back from Theo and extending it to him next.

Draco steps forward, wrapping his fingers around the neck before answering. “Yes.”

“And now?”

“And now we wait,” Draco takes a deep gulp of wine, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth as he passes the bottle back to Pansy. “Hopefully it won’t take too long.”

“Let’s hope,” she says, laying back down on the chaise. “I’m sick of this situation.”

“You aren’t the only one,” Theo mutters, and Draco steps up next to him in front of the hearth, staring into the flames.

Theo looks at him from the corner of his eye before looking down at his feet, and Draco almost feels bad for him.

“She looked like she’s doing well,” Draco tells him, and Theo’s shoulders go tight with tension. “She didn’t seem the least bit surprised at catching me with Granger.”

“Of course, she wouldn’t be surprised,” Theo mutters, looking back at Draco. “You haven’t exactly been subtle, mate.”

Draco shrugs, because he’s way past caring what people think of him. “I don’t care.”

“I know,” Theo says with a sigh, his shoulders slumping. Then his voice softens, “She looked alright?”

Draco recalls how Lovegood had looked; hair wild, clothes in hands, looking for all purposes as if she was going back to her dorm after having spent the night with Longbottom. “She did,” he tells Theo, even if it makes bitterness swell in him. “She looked fine.”

“That’s good,” Theo whispers, shoulders slumping even more and the corners of his eyes going tight. “That’s good.”

Draco is quiet, and after several heartbeats of silence he hears the distinct sound of a glass bottle being set down on the floor. “Well,” Pansy says, getting up from the chaise. “That was quite pathetic. I’m going to bed.”

Draco listens to the sound of Pansy’s slippers slapping up the stairs as she heads to her bedroom, and when the sound disappears, swallowed up by the crackling of the flames in the hearth he sighs, turning around and heading for his own room. “Night, Theodore.”

Theo doesn’t reply.


Luna promises her that she’ll keep what she saw to herself, although she gives her a weird look when Hermione tells her, for the fourth time, that no one can know about what she saw.

“I really don’t have an issue with it,” she tells Hermione, to which Hermione’s only response is a strangled sound and rapid blinking of her eyes. “I mean,” she corrects, “I see why you would see the issue with it. And I see why others might not be… ecstatic about you and Draco being lovers—” The use of the word lover makes Hermione break out in a hot and cold sweat, because Malfoy is absolutely not her lover, or whatever Luna thinks he is, even if the word sends little shivers up and down Hermione’s spine. “— but I see no issue with it, Hermione,” Luna smiles at her. “It’s rather expected, really.”

She says that with the calmest voice ever, as if she hadn’t just caught Hermione Granger shoving her tongue down Draco Malfoy’s throat in the middle of the night. Hermione stares at her wordlessly for a solid thirty seconds, trying to wrap her mind around Luna’s words and her seemingly unbothered acceptance of what she stumbled upon, before deciding that she does not, in fact, have the energy to deal with Luna’s obvious lack of logic at the moment. Hermione is cold, hungry, aroused and tired; which does not make for a good combination even on the best of days, of which Hermione has had more or less zero, lately.

She’s also feeling disoriented, because when Malfoy had kissed her before walking away, a part of her had purred at the fact that he’d done that. She had wanted to keep him there and kiss him some more, right in front of Luna, as if part of Hermione had wanted Malfoy to stake his claim on her. The realisation makes a blush crawl up her cheeks, and Hermione gets so lost in her thoughts that when Luna pats her arm again, bidding her goodnight, she jumps. Luna turns around and walks away from her, her twinkling voice telling Hermione that if she needs suggestions for good places to hide away with her lover—Hermione refuses, in her mind, to associate Malfoy with that word—she knows a couple, and just to ask her.

When Luna disappears out of sight, Hermione closes her eyes, releasing a heavy breath and trying to slow her mind before heading for her dorm.

When she reaches her bedroom the room is dark, the moonlight barely enough to illuminate her steps. Ginny is still sleeping in her bed and Hermione makes sure her movements are quiet as she changes back into her pyjamas and slides underneath her blankets.

Sometime later, after failing once more at finding a comfortable position, Hermione gives up on trying to go to sleep on her own, even if her body is physically exhausted and her head hurts. Her mind is running rampant, flashing from the spell she’d used, to Malfoy’s groans of pain, to Luna’s words and then back around to their kiss, to Malfoy’s you make me crazy and to the warmth it had sparked in her chest; around and around again, each thought turning into feelings that get jumbled up and confused, until Hermione can’t make sense of them anymore.

When the sky outside starts turning lighter, the sun slowly rising, Hermione’s fingers sneak underneath her cushion and towards the thin space between her mattress and the headboard, wrapping around the little glass vial she had tried hard not to think about. But she needs at least some sleep, and she’d like to not think for an hour or two, so even if her heart beats a furious rhythm in her chest, Hermione takes a deep breath and rises on her elbow, uncorking the vial and letting the smooth liquid trickle down her throat.

The fact that it doesn’t taste like strawberries is only a small comfort, and Hermione tries her best not to think about it as sleep mercifully drags her away.


On Thursday morning, when Ginny shuts the door to their room just a bit too hard and knocks Hermione out of her too light sleep, she decides that she might as well go to classes today.

She gets ready with less attention to detail than she usually does. She throws on a shirt that is too wrinkled and her comfiest Gryffindor sweater, loosely slipping her tie over her neck. The skirt she pulls up her legs is too big on her, slipping down her waist, and when she rifles through her chest of clothes for another, Hermione only finds one that is from years ago, but that somehow fits her better with all the weight she’s lost since the War. She throws her hair into a bun, sticking her wand through it to keep the mess in place, then slides on her robes, which feel like they swallow her whole.

Before leaving, Hermione reaches into her chest again, looking for the small bag in which she keeps her stock of potions. She takes out a small vial and swallows the light pink liquid quickly, the citrusy taste of it pleasant enough; before grabbing her bag and leaving her room.

As she makes her way out of the dorm and towards her Runes class, the thought of seeing Malfoy again makes her slow her steps, turning her quick pace into more of a stroll as her eyes roam over the many students in the corridors.

Hermione feels… excited at the idea of seeing him again. She wants to see him again, for reasons that are still unclear to her. It’s strange, to want him so openly in her mind; but she refuses to look deeper into herself, to try and understand where this want is coming from, choosing instead to just let herself feel the excitement and desire and anticipation, because these feelings are almost new, and soft, and bright; and even though she hates him, hates how much of a bastard he is, how he’s been mean and ugly towards her, she wants his lips on her skin again, wants to hear the way his breath hitches when he slides into her, wants to lose herself in his body; until he is all she knows, all she sees, and the things that have been haunting her fade away.

It’s not healthy.

She knows this, somewhere in the back of her brain. Hermione is, in the end, nothing but self-aware. It’s likely the thing she hates the most about herself, among the many she could pick. No one in the world knows her better than she does, and she could never keep her thoughts hidden from herself.

Even if she doesn’t recognise herself anymore at times, she always knows why that is. She knows why she struggles to look at herself in the mirror, she knows why she gets the urge to scrub her skin raw at times. She knows why she craves the emptiness and knows why she shouldn’t, and why she does it anyway. Hermione knows why she is the way she is, and why she has turned out this way. She knows, and she knows that she can’t do anything about it, and she hates that she knows, because she believes, down to the core of her, that not knowing would’ve somehow been easier, that it would’ve made feeling as she does a little better, a little lighter.

So she knows, or is at least beginning to understand, why she really wants Malfoy. And she knows it’s wrong, that she shouldn’t, that it’s bound to leave her worse off than before. Hermione knows that he does not care for her, that he wants to hurt her. Yet she also knows that’s why she wants him; and it makes her feel small and pitiful, to know that she wants him because of the pain that he’s promised her, to know that she is convinced that she deserves it.

She knows wanting him is foolish. It taints the bubbly feelings that sometimes rise in her chest when she thinks of him, and of his bruises on her body, and of his kisses; but the way he makes her feel in those moments—the warmth and the passion and the feeling of being real—she doesn’t want to let go of them. Even though he violated her. Even though he left her alone with a half-broken mind twice, now.

So she pushes every logical reason why she shouldn’t be looking for him down in a far-away corner of herself, and looks for Malfoy all around Hogwarts, chest tight and fluttery.


Hermione doesn’t see him all morning.

Runes is fairly boring, and by the end of it, she’s itching to get out of her seat and leave. Arithmancy is much of the same, and although Hermione takes the long way around to get to the class, she doesn’t feel his eyes on her, and is annoyed at the disappointed feeling it leaves her with.

She does catch Luna’s eye, though, as they take the stairs in opposite directions sometime in the late morning, and Luna raises one pale eyebrow at her, making Hermione blush and wonder if others can tell that she’s looking for someone amongst the sea of students.

When lunchtime rolls around and Hermione steps into the Great Hall, her stare immediately gravitates towards the Slytherin table. Her steps slow as she tries to find Malfoy amongst the many students in green, and when her eyes finally fall on him a shiver takes over her, cold and hot all at once, and she stills, unwillingly, barely past the doors.

Malfoy is sitting next to Pansy, elbows on the table, shirt sleeves rolled up, and a green apple in his hand. He’s turned towards Pansy, telling her something, and Hermione swallows at the way his hair is wild around his shoulders, so pale and stark against the black of his robes. Her fingers twitch in memory of how those strands had felt when she’d held his head back and hurt him, and when he’d kissed her last night, and she wants to go to him and feel his lips on hers again.

As Hermione watches, standing still in the middle of the entry, Malfoy brings the apple to his mouth and takes a bite, jaw working as he turns away from Pansy, staring down at his empty plate.

A student bumps into her and Hermione’s gaze is snapped away from Malfoy, a muttered sorry dragging her away from her thoughts. Heat crawls up at her cheeks as she realises she has just been staring at him like a fool, and Hermione hurries to the Gryffindor table, eyes trained on the floor in front of her.

It ends up being a mistake, keeping her eyes downwards, because when Hermione raises her eyes again to look for a familiar face along the table she finds one well enough, but dread and anger immediately drain the blush from her cheeks as she takes in just who is sitting a few paces away. Harry’s gaze is narrowed on her, Ginny and Neville oblivious to how he’s glaring at her and to the fact that she is, once again, standing like a fool in the middle of the Hall.

Hermione curses herself to hell and back for having been so caught up in Malfoy to have forgotten that she was supposed to be avoiding Harry, and is debating turning around to leave when Neville takes note of her, a smile breaking out on his face as he waves for her to join them.

Hermione swallows, trying to relax her jaw as she makes her way towards them, although not a single inch of her wants to do so. Ginny, who is sitting with her back to her, turns around and smiles at Hermione when she sees her walk their way, moving her bag from the bench next to hers to make space for Hermione to sit.

Hermione does so, resolutely ignoring Harry’s eyes as she drops her bag between her feet and settles in.

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better, Hermione,” Ginny tells her, squeezing the top of her arm before reaching with her fork for another bit of roast and pulling it onto her plate.

Neville, who is sitting in front of Hermione with Harry at his side, smiles at her. “Ginny told us you had a stomach bug?”

“Yes,” Hermione says, concentrating on pouring some pumpkin soup from the bowl in the middle of the table into her plate. “I’m feeling better now.”

“That’s good,” Neville says, giving her another smile. Harry doesn’t say anything, and Hermione stares down at her plate as Neville and Ginny go back to talking about Quidditch, Ginny trying to explain to Neville why the new proposed changes to the game rules are complete and utter bullshit. But Hermione can feel Harry staring at her, and as the lunch hour goes on, his silence makes her feel more and more jittery, while also fuelling the flames of her annoyance.

Ginny drags Hermione into small talk and she tries to go along with it, forcing herself to answer with more than monosyllables, although her attention is nowhere near what Ginny is saying. Harry is quiet all the while, which isn’t strange per se—he has become much less talkative than he used to be, after the War—but she can feel the accusatory tone of his silence, and it scratches at her nerves in the wrong way.

Hermione washes the last spoonful of soup down with a glass of water and then stands, even if barely twenty minutes have passed. “I’ll see you guys later,” she says, picking up her bag. “I have to catch up on some work.” She gives them a tight-lipped smile and slings her bag on her shoulder, but she freezes when Harry stands and picks his own bag up too, her chest tightening.

“I’ll come with you,” Harry says, looking at her.

“But you haven’t eaten,” Ginny tells him, voice confused. Hermione looks down at his plate, which is, in fact, clean and empty.

“I’m not hungry, I’ll eat later. Library, Hermione?”

Hermione’s eyes snap back to his face, and she has to keep herself from narrowing them at him when she takes in the determination locked in every line of his face. She must be quiet for too long, staring at him, because Ginny twists in her seat to look at her, face tilted up in question. Hermione drags her eyes away from Harry to smile down at Ginny, before turning a smile that feels too saccharine towards her best friend. “Library, yes. Of course.”

“Perfect then,” Harry says, with an enthusiasm that rings fake from a mile off. “Lead the way.”

Hermione slips away from the table with a last goodbye to Ginny and Neville before turning around on her heel, doing her best not to storm away from them. She sees Harry mirroring her steps on the other side of the Gryffindor table and clenches her jaw, frustration and the first hints of worry making themselves known in her.

She doesn’t want to explain herself to Harry. Doesn’t want to listen to his questions, doesn’t want to have to lie to him, doesn’t want to face the concern she’ll inevitably see in his eyes and the jealousy that will course through her at the reminder that he has seen her bruises—even though she knows it’s foolish to be so vexed about it, to be so possessive over Malfoy’s marks.

As she makes her way towards the doors, each step filling her with tension, her eyes stray towards the other side of the Hall, if only to get another glimpse of Malfoy. But there’s no sign of him, and when her eyes fall on the spot where she’d seen him before, they lock on instead Pansy, who is staring at her with a Chesire Cat grin on her red-painted lips. Pansy leans back in her chair, waving her fingers at her, and Hermione snaps her head back around so fast she stumbles over her feet, almost crashing into a group of Second Years.

Hermione catches herself just in time, straightening and clutching onto her bag where it slips down her shoulder. She swears she hears a cutting laugh coming from the other side of the room, and when she slips out of the Hall, Harry hot on her heels, her cheeks are flaming and her annoyance is stronger than it had been minutes ago.

“Hermione,” Harry says as he jogs to catch up to her, bag swinging wildly at his side. “Why are you running away from me.”

“I am not running away from you, Harry,” she says, as she runs away from him. “I just really want to get started on that project. You didn’t have to accompany me.”

“Yes, well, you’ve been avoiding me, so this felt like the only way to talk to you.”

“I have not been avoiding you.” Hermione turns the corner, rapidly making her way down the halls that will lead her to the Library. Maybe she can use the fact that they’re not supposed to talk in there to discourage Harry from asking her too many questions. Or maybe she can lose him between the bookshelves, if she tries hard enough. “I’ve been sick.”

“You haven’t been sick, Hermione, don’t lie.”

Hermione glares at him from the corner of her eye and ignores him, walking so fast her breath starts becoming laboured. The doors to the Library are just at the end of the corridor, a modicum of safety behind them, and Hermione refuses to slow down, deciding that ignoring him may be the best way forward.

“Damn it, Mione,” Harry grumbles, reaching out and grabbing her arm, forcing her to stop just a few feet away from the Library doors. “Just stop, I just want to talk.”

Hermione snatches her arm away, glaring at him. “Don’t grab me like that,” she hisses.

“Don’t run away.”

“I am not running away!

“You are! Which is just making me more worried!”

Harry glares at her and Hermione glares right back. “You have nothing to be worried about.”

“Nothing?” Harry stares at her incredulously. “You call coming back to the dorm covered in bruises and then hiding in your room for two days being sick, nothing?!”

“I am fine, Harry. Look!” Hermione gestures at herself, at the clear lack of bruises on her neck. She barely had to glamour them, the purples having already faded to a yellowish tone. “I’m fine! No need to worry.”

“Hermione,” Harry hisses, taking a step closer to her. “You haven’t been fine since before the Trials. Of course I worry. Why the fuck did you have those bruises?”

Harry’s words crash through Hermione and she stands, frozen, as they echo over and over in her brain. She blinks, trying to dislodge them, but they stick to her and she can’t shake them off.

You haven’t been fine since the Trials.

You haven’t been fine

you haven’t been fine haven’t been fine haven’t been fine

Her heartbeat turns unsteady, stomach dropping somewhere between her feet and the dungeons, and she blinks, sightlessly, as Harry keeps talking. But his words don’t register, don’t reach Hermione past the pulse that’s roaring in her ears.

He—he isn’t supposed to say things like that. They—they don’t talk about it. They don’t. They don’t acknowledge what the War has done to them. They don’t. And Harry doing so now is—is wrong, and is exactly what Hermione was worried about, and she cannot deal with his questions and his worried eyes and the anger she can see growing in him.

“—want to understand, Hermione. Did someone hurt you? Has this happened before? Mione, I swear whoever it is—”

Harry’s voice goes in and out as the room spins around her, panic rising in her with such rapid viciousness that it leaves her reeling, because he knows, he knows she hasn’t been doing well, and no one has said those words to her; and it’s one thing worrying that they must be thinking them, that her act hasn’t been the best, that her pain has seeped through some of the cracks, but to hear it, to hear it is too much for her, and Hermione cannot—cannot deal with it, with the way it makes her heart crack open, because it’s her pain, hers, and Harry shouldn’t know about it, shouldn’t have to feel bad for her, because she doesn’t deserve his worry and concern and she doesn’t want it, can’t stand it, can’t stand the way it makes her immediately feel raw and exposed and laid bare in front of—

Hermione takes a step back and away from Harry, body feeling light and far away. Her voice is strained when she finds it, and she doesn’t recognize it. “I’m fine, Harry, no one—”

“You’re not!” Harry is shouting now, and he looks angry, and Hermione feels tears well up in her eyes and she hates it, hates herself for being so weak, hates Harry for his worry.

He takes a step closer to her and Hermione steps backwards, towards the doors of the Library, and she’s glad that there’s no one around because tears start streaming down her face and her chest is too tight and she just wants to run away.

“Hermione. Hermione? Why are you crying?” Harry’s voice turns frantic as he tries to inch closer, but Hermione steps away from him, her back hitting the Library door, and she turns around, giving him her back, shaking hands fumbling for the doorknob.

“Hermione. What the fuck happened that night? Is this because of that? Hermione, just—just tell me who hurt you—I swear I’ll—”

Harry’s words are cut off by the Library door opening with a swish. Hermione stumbles forward, crashing into the person leaving the Library.

Her hand grasp at black robes, the person she crashed into holding her up as her breaths seize her lungs. When Hermione looks up through her blurry eyes, she finds Malfoy looking down at her with furrowed brows. She thinks he looks worried, but she’s never seen that expression on him before, and her chest is hurting too much and the tears keep coming and the panic is going to swallow her whole and she can’t even care that it’s him and he’s seeing her like this and she—

“Hermione,” Harry’s voice is tight and then hands are on her robes, pulling her backwards, away from Malfoy, but she doesn’t want to be left alone with Harry right now, so she tightens her grip on Malfoy’s robes and looks at him pleadingly, wishing he would just take her away from here.

Malfoy takes her in—the tears wetting her cheeks, the fingers clenched tightly in his robes— and his eyes turn cold and angry. He looks past her, over her head, to the person Hermione went to hell and back for, time and time again.

Malfoy pulls her closer by the waist, his free hand reaching behind her, to where Harry’s fingers are tugging at her robes.

“Let her fucking go, Potter,” Malfoy hisses. Harry groans behind her, the tug on her robes weakening until it disappears.

Harry curses. “What the fuck do you—”

“Don’t ever put your hands on her again,” Malfoy interrupts. He pushes Harry away and steps backwards, dragging Hermione along, and she crashes into him. “If you ever do whatever it is you did to make her cry like this again, Potter,” Malfoy threatens furiously, “I’ll fucking bury you.”

The door to the Library is slammed shut, the sound making Hermione jump. Malfoy holds it closed with one hand as Harry bangs against it, trying to force the handle open, and Hermione can feel Malfoy’s heart beating steadily beneath her hands. She presses her forehead to the middle of his chest as she tries and fails to pull air into her lungs.

Malfoy charms the doors locked before dragging Hermione between the shelves. Hermione lets him drag her away, the lump in her throat hindering her breathing, until Malfoy pushes her against the shelves in a quiet, isolated nook. The shelves dig into her back as he pushes his body against her, her bag slipping from her shoulder, his hands reaching up to cup the sides of her face and tilt it upwards. Hermione’s hands reach up on their own accord, holding onto Malfoy’s wrists as more tears stream down her eyes, as her chest burns with the need for air.

“Granger.” Malfoy presses harder against her, eyes full of anger and distress. “Granger, breathe.”

But she can’t—can’t make her throat unlock, can’t stop the way her stomach clenches as she trembles.

“Granger, fucking breathe.

She shakes her head because she can’t, she can’t, and on the next heartbeat Malfoy’s hand is at her throat, squeezing tightly as he leans his whole weight against her. Hermione’s eyes go wide and she makes a choked noise as he tightens his grip on her throat, no air passing through. She scrambles, scratching at his fingers, but the little air she has in her lungs isn’t enough. Blackness slithers in the corners of her vision, the room around her spinning even more wildly than before.

Then his hand is gone and Hermione takes in a gasping breath, oxygen a soothing balm over her burning lungs. She takes in breath after breath, as Malfoy’s thumb brushes against her cheekbone and he whispers in the space between them. “Breathe, Granger. No more tears. Be good and breathe for me.”

Hermione punches weakly at his chest as the spinning Library settles into stillness, the tears slowing their descent. She leans her head against the books behind her and closes her eyes, trying to get her breathing back to normal. In the darkness behind her lids, she notices that Malfoy’s thumb is brushing the side of her throat, the touch light and soothing over the pain he just wrought, and it makes her hurting heart clench tightly.

“Look at me,” Malfoy whispers. His voice is softer than she’s ever heard it, and Hermione keeps her eyes closed, because with every painful slow breath everything starts to trickle through, and she doesn’t want to face it.

“Look at me,” he says again, and this time she does. She blinks her eyes open, lashes heavy with her tears, and they immediately lock on Malfoy’s grey ones, full of worry. “Are you okay?”

Hermione nods, because she doesn’t think she can talk yet; then she shakes her head no, because she isn’t alright, and he’s already seen her break down, so what’s another time, anyway?

A muscle ticks in Malfoy’s jaw as he looks down at her, and his expression is hard and angry, body tight with tension.

“What did he do to you?” He asks. The low, angry tone of his voice should scare her, but it doesn’t, and she can do nothing but stare at him, letting him hold her up.

“No one gets to make you cry, Granger,” he says, pulling her closer. His eyes flit over her features with searing intensity before he kisses her, hard and fast. The kiss steals what little air she’d managed to push back in her lungs, yet Hermione drags him closer because yes, yes, this is what she needs—to not think about Harry and her pain and the mess she’s going to have to deal with later, to feel Malfoy unmovable against her, to have his lips ground her to this moment.

But Malfoy pulls away from her, even when she chases after him, and looks down at her with eyes that are full of an emotion she can’t discern.

“No one but me, Granger. Only I get to make you cry. So what the fuck did Potter do?” Malfoy’s voice is hard, rumbling through Hermione where their chests are pressed together. “What did he do, Granger?” His hand clenches in her hair, and she feels the tension that pulls his body taut in his grip, that makes his eyes darken and his features to turn colder than she’s ever seen them. “How badly do I have to hurt him?”

Hermione sucks in a sharp breath. Malfoy’s words—they shouldn’t make her heart speed up and her stomach clench, and yet they do. The room around them spins again. Her fingers twitch where she’s still holding Malfoy’s wrists, tightening.

“Should I break a bone or two? Maybe his wrist, for daring to try and pull you away from me? Or perhaps I could hex him.” Malfoy drags his thumb from the side of her throat to her chin, tilting her face closer to his, so that his lips brush against hers with every word. “But I think hurting him with my bare hands would be more satisfying, wouldn’t it? Get his blood on me. Maybe leave a scar, to go along with his other one, no?”

Hermione can’t look away from Malfoy, can’t help her ragged breathing, the warmth that coils in her belly.

Malfoy’s threat is whispered in her ear like a prayer, “So he can always remember that you’re mine now, Granger, and that if he makes you cry again, I’ll make him regret it.”

Hermione crashes her lips against his on a desperate whimper, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling him closer. She doesn’t listen to the rational voice that screams at her that it’s psychotic for Malfoy to say something like that, that tells her that she isn’t thinking straight. Hermione blames it on the lack of oxygen and her dizziness, but she can’t neglect the needy urgency in that buzzes beneath her skin, because Malfoy is here, he’s here and close and kissing her, and that’s all she cares about now.

Malfoy presses his hips against her and Hermione whimpers again. She needs him, feverishly almost, needs his lips and his hands to push away the panic that lingers at the corners of her mind, needs to get lost in him until she doesn’t know where she ends and he begins.

Hermione pushes her tongue past his lips, searching for his, and Malfoy groans, deepening the kiss. She arches into him and his hands fall to her hips, greedy and demanding, finding their way underneath her clothes and squeezing her waist. Hermione breaks the kiss, bringing him towards her and trailing her mouth down his jaw, his throat, nipping and licking and chasing after the taste of him. Malfoy lets her bite at the bend of his neck before pulling her back and crashing his lips back to hers, hot and furious, and Hermione whimpers loudly.

Quiet, Granger,” Malfoy’s fingers replace his mouth as he pushes two past her lips, pressing on her tongue. “You need to be quiet.”

Hermione nods, tongue lapping at his fingers, sucking them until he pushes them further in her mouth, his rings leaving the taste of metal on her lips. The way Malfoy’s eyes are fixed on her mouth makes her shiver, the utter want in them and the flush that begins to creep over his cheekbones driving her wild and replacing all other thoughts in her brain. He can make her forget her panic, even if just for a moment, she knows, and that is somehow all that matters. She nips at his fingers with her teeth and Malfoy’s eyes snap to hers. She doesn’t want to look away from the grey, steadily eaten away by black.

Malfoy hooks his fingers over her bottom teeth and pulls her mouth slightly open. “You know,” he tells her, as he slides over her navel beneath her shirt. “You get this pretty little flush on your cheeks when you cry. It drives me insane.”

His fingers trail from her lip to her chin, leaving cold smears of her saliva behind. Then his touch disappears as he reaches for the hem of her skirt, pushing it up her thigh.

Malfoy cages her in, nosing at the bend of her neck. Hermione tries to pull him closer, to get his lips on hers again as his wet fingers trace the seam of her underwear over her thigh. Malfoy chuckles, keeping his mouth away from her throat and Hermione keens in frustration, because the need that is rising in her is hot and volatile and Malfoy’s touches are too teasing for her to stand.

She wants him to make her forget. She wants him to push air back in her lungs, to make her shake for something that tastes sweeter than panic.

“But the thing I like the most about you, Granger?” Malfoy whispers, before before dragging just the tip of his tongue over her pulse. “Is how desperate you can be. My desperate, needy girl. Pathetic, really, but it’s sweet.”

Malfoy bites at her neck, making her cry out, and his hand covers her mouth, pressing hard against her lips. “Quiet, Granger.”

The fingers he has under her skirt pinch her thigh in reprimand, the pain making her flinch. Then they finally, finally brush over her centre, to where she’s wet through her panties, barely pressing against her. Her hips twitch, her thigh still pulsing in pain, but when she tries to press against Malfoy’s touch it vanishes, leaving her with clenched teeth.

“Look at you, Granger, so greedy for me.” Malfoy pulls away from her neck and Hermione takes in the way his blush is deeper now, the way his pupils eat up the grey of his irises. He’s just as affected as her and it makes her even more desperate, because she wants to hear those sounds he makes when he fucks her, wants to see him lose his composure just like she’s losing hers, wants to lose herself in this thing she shouldn’t want, shouldn’t need.

Malfoy stares down at her, a cutting glint in his eyes. Amusement, understanding; Hermione doesn’t care as he slides his fingers beneath her underwear. “It’s why I was so mad, the other night,” he tells her.

Malfoy’s words make her throat tighten, but the way he slides his fingertips through her wetness, the way he moves her knickers to the side to dip the tips of them in her centre, distracts her from his words. Hermione slips her hands from his hair to his waist, pushing them under his robes to grab onto his belt and pull him closer.

“Because only I get to see you like this from now on, Granger.” He pushes his fingers into her, achingly slow, until some of the need in her abides, until she stretches around him, his fingers filling her up. “Only I get to hear the sounds you make. Only I get to make you cry.”

Malfoy slides his fingers out of her only to push back in harshly, making her whimper behind his hand as his fingers curl inside her. His eyes never move from her and Hermione is trapped in them, in him. “Only I get to hurt you and only I get to fuck you, Granger. Is that clear?”

Malfoy pumps his fingers into her again, pressing the heel of his hand against her clit, the fabric that still covers her brushing against her skin and turning his touch even more damning.

He looks at her, raising an eyebrow, fucking her leisurely as Hermione’s head spins with dizzying want. “You’re mine now, Hermione. Do you understand that?”

Malfoy’s hand slides away from her mouth, resting on the books next to her shelf as he leans closer and brushes his nose against her neck. Hermione closes her eyes, begging the voice inside of her to disappear, her breath hitching when Malfoy slowly slides another finger into her cunt, stretching her.

“Say it, Granger,” he taunts. “Say it and I’ll make you forget all about Potter. Say it and I’ll fuck you. You know I like to hear you beg.”

Hermione opens her eyes when Malfoy leans away from her. A corner of his mouth is pulled up in a smirk, his eyes hungry and demanding. It makes her heart shake, how beautiful he is, with his hair framing his face and that flush now reaching the bridge of his nose, and so Hermione pulls him closer by his hips, looking him in the eyes as she shows him that now, in this moment, she is his; because no matter how real they might feel in a corner of her soul, she can’t get the words to slip past her mouth.

Hermione kisses him frantically, pouring everything she can’t say into the kiss. Malfoy cups her cheek, still wet from her tears, and when she whispers a broken please into his mouth he kisses her harder, as if his restraint has broken.

When he slips his fingers from her Hermione fumbles at his belt, frantic, undoing it and popping the buttons of his pants open, pushing her hands inside and wrapping her fingers around his cock, already hard and slick with precome.

Malfoy hisses, tearing his mouth from hers to lift her by the waist, urging her to wrap her legs around him. Hermione does, hand slipping from his cock to once again tangle in his hair, tilting his face up to kiss him as he pushes her against the shelf, books digging into her back.

“Fuck, Granger,” he mutters against her lips, pushing her panties to the side as he slots his hips between hers, the head of his cock bumping against her slick cunt.

Hermione whimpers when he notches himself at her entrance, then groans against his mouth as he slides inside her on a hard thrust, squeezing her eyes tightly against the stretch of him, the way he fills her up.

Malfoy leans one hand against the shelf, muscles straining, the other holding her up as he fucks her hard and fast. It’s dirty and needy, cutting on desperate, and the feeling of him sliding in and out of her is utter bliss.

Hermione locks her feet at the small of his back and drags him closer. She drags herself away from his lips to hide her face against his neck, her muscles tensing as he fucks her without niceties, taking what he wants from her. Malfoy’s breathing is ragged against her ear, and she relishes every little groan and whimper that slips past his lips.

She bites down on Malfoy’s shoulder when he hitches her up and presses even closer to her, each thrust reaching so deep they almost hurt, the pain adding to the pleasure to the point where her thoughts, finally, quiet.

Fucking hell,” Malfoy groans, his thrusts turning jerky until he stills deep inside her. She feels him twitch, and then spill with a stuttered groan. He hides his face in her neck as he does and Hermione holds him tight to her, breathing with him. She drops her forehead against his shoulder as she crest of her pleasure fizzles out, leaving behind a tension that, somehow, feels comforting.

“Fucking hell, Granger, you’ve got the tightest little cunt, don’t you?” Malfoy groans as Hermione clenches tentatively around him, thrusting in her once more. “Fucking perfection.”

They stay like that for a minute, Malfoy keeping his hips pressed to her arse, as if reluctant to pull away, even as he softens between her legs. When he finally does, Hermione mourns the feeling of him, and lifts her head from his shoulder to lean it against the books, chest still heaving.

Malfoy kisses her, hard and languid, before pulling away and sliding her panties back over cunt.

“Did that make you feel better, Granger?” he asks, smirking at her as he sets her back down on the floor, her legs shaky and weak.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy,” she mutters, looking down at herself and fixing her clothes. She feels his seed trickle out of her as she straightens up, further dampening the already wet fabric of her knickers. Her mind is blissfully quiet, though a tremble lingers in her fingertips

Malfoy laughs. The sound startles Hermione, making her head snap up to him, lips parting at the way his eyes crinkle and the way the deep tone of his laugh makes something flutter between her ribs.

Malfoy’s eyes are bright as he smiles at her, the tilt of his lips not quite a smirk anymore. “Of course I’m going to flatter myself, Granger.”

Hermione is too stunned to roll her eyes at him, drinking in the way his face looks softer like this, the way his laugh still shines in the corners of his eyes.

Malfoy steps away from her, slipping himself back in his pants before looking her up and down. He reaches for the pocket of his robes and pulls out his wand, pointing it at her navel, but before he can cast the contraceptive charm Hermione wraps her fingers around his wand, stopping him.

“No need,” she says, dropping her eyes to her bag when he raises both his brows at her.

“I like filling you up, Granger, but isn’t it a bit early for—”

“Shut up, idiot,” she hisses, glaring at him before bending to pick up her bag. “I took a contraceptive potion.”

The smirk Malfoy gives her then is so smug she’s tempted to slap it off him. “Did you, now?”

“Shut up.”

“And why did you do that, Granger?”

Hermione can hear the smugness in his voice. She feels the tip of her ears burn with embarrassment, even though she’d willingly drank the potion that morning. “Shut up.”

Malfoy laughs again, and when she goes to leave, her face burning, he grabs her by the waist, turning her around and kissing her until her head spins.

“I like that you did that, Granger. I’m not complaining. It just means you want me to fuck you a lot.”

He kisses her again as she sputters for a response, before letting her go and stepping back. Malfoy takes her in, that smirk still on his lips; then he tilts his head to the side, his expression hardening. “I’m still going to hunt Potter down, though.”

Hermione shakes her head and glares at him. “No. You won’t do anything of the kind.”

“Yes, I will,” he states, matter-of-fact.

“No, you won’t,” she seethes.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, turning away from her. “Sure thing, Granger. I’ll not do something just because you told me.”

“Malfoy,” she hisses as he walks away, swinging her bag up her shoulder and going after him. “Malfoy!”

But his legs are longer than hers, and when he disappears behind the corner and Hermione follows him a second later, he’s nowhere to be seen; so Hermione settles down at a lonely table in a quiet corner of the Library; worried and frustrated, deliciously sore between her legs and with her tear-stained cheeks dry.

Notes:

you guys don't understand how weak i am for the 'who did this to you' trope, expect more of it ahahaha I hoped you enjoyed this chapter and our special possessive delulu boy lolololll

as always thank you sososo much for reading and showing this little story love!! i appreciate every single kudos and comment! <3 <3 <3 and as always many thanks to my lovely betas, Raquel, Jenny, and Mads!! xx

Chapter 15

Notes:

this chapter is hella long and sucked the soul out of me but I hope you love it as much as I do!! <3
thank you so much for taking a chance on this story and for all of the lovely comments and kudos! <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

That afternoon, Hermione spends several hours hiding away in the Library, waiting for time to pass; then slips out during dinner time, hoping to make her way to her dorm undisturbed, certain that by now Harry, if he’d been waiting for her outside, would’ve been gone.

The corridors are nearly empty as she trudges to her dorm heavy-hearted. The Common Room is empty when she reaches it, but when she drags herself up to the top of the stairs and turns the corner to head to her bedroom, she finds Harry, sitting with his back against her door, knees pulled up to his chest and his head in his hands.

Hermione’s heart leaps in her throat at the sight of him, and the squeak of her shoes, as she comes to a sudden stop, makes him whip his head up, red-rimmed eyes staring up at her.

“Hermione,” Harry scrambles to his feet, taking a step towards her before stilling and pushing his hands into his pockets. Perhaps he has understood that Hermione doesn’t want him touching her, or anywhere near her, really, at this moment. “Hermione, can we please talk? I’m—” he swallows, pushing one hand into his hair. “I’m sorry, about earlier. I shouldn’t have pushed like that. I just—” he swallows again, twisting his head to the side and staring at the wall for a few long seconds before sighing, his shoulders dropping. “I don’t even know. I don’t know. I just—I don’t know. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Hermione clutches her bag closer to herself, using it as a shield between her and Harry. She doesn’t—she doesn’t want to have this conversation, and her heartbeat is speeding up dangerously again; but there is no Malfoy to drag her away this time. She feels trapped. Harry is still looking at the wall and she can see his jaw work, tense.

She wants to tell him that he’s lying—that he had meant it, when he’d said she hadn’t been fine since the trials. She hasn’t forgotten how he’d said those words, as if they’d slipped out of his heart, as if he’d been holding them in for a long time and couldn’t do it anymore. But her voice is locked in her throat, and she can’t find a way to bring it out.

“Why did Malfoy say that?” Harry turns to look at her again then, and the questions in his eyes, the dangerous emotion she can see in them, make her want to hide away in a corner and turn into something very, very small. “Why did he threaten me? Why did you go with him?”

Hermione wants to turn away from him, to not have to look into his eyes as he asks her this, but she knows he won’t stop asking, and—and maybe talking about Malfoy is easier than talking about herself, than answering his other questions. But the idea of telling Harry about Malfoy feels wrong—feels like an unwilling sharing of a secret, of something Hermione wants to clutch close to her and keep as her own. Malfoy—this thing between them, it’s hers, and she feels unreasonably jealous and possessive of it.

It’s one thing for Luna to know—Luna, who had always been different from them, who had always seen the world with her own perspective, unburdened by the opinions and thoughts of others. But Harry…Harry wouldn’t understand. Hell, not even Hermione understands what the thing between them is, and she knows Harry won’t; that he won’t be kind to her, not with how obsessed he was with Malfoy during the war.

“He was just there,” she tells him, hating how the lie tastes in her mouth. She doesn’t want to lie to him, but what else can she do? The truth feels too much like a betrayal to share. “I don’t know why he said that.”

“Hermione,” the way Harry sighs her name makes her stomach twist. He sounds tired and sad and defeated, and Hermione thinks she should be feeling that way, not him.“Why do you keep lying? Don’t you get tired of it?”

Hermione stares at Harry, at a loss for words, willing something to come out of her mouth—an excuse, anything—but it isn’t words that she finds. Rather what rises up her throat is a flaming, burning anger, that sparks from nothing and engulfs her, hot and painful; because Harry—Harry has known. For months. He has known that she wasn’t doing well, that she has been living lie after lie; and—and he did nothing. And now he asks her to stop, asks her if she gets tired of it.

How dare he, when he did nothing?

He let her hurt and hurt and hurt, let her turn herself into a faulty replica of who she used to be, and—and she knows he isn’t stupid, she knows he knows perfectly well why she has been doing this, and—and he hasn’t said anything.

It stings Hermione in a way she’s not ready for. Because—because yes, Hermione hasn’t asked for help, hasn’t wanted it, has downright feared it—but Harry had known. And he hadn’t tried helping her.

And Hermione knows that it isn’t his job to look after her; that he has his own trauma to face, but—still. Bitterness crawls up her throat, furious and unwarranted, because Hermione has given up her childhood for him, has ruined herself for him, has done awful, awful things that still haunt her and he—he hasn’t tried to help her.

And yes, Hermione loves him, and had chosen to stand by him during the War, and every awful choice she’s made has been born out of her own decisions; and yes, Harry is likely as traumatized by it all as she is; and yes, Hermione wouldn’t have known how to accept his help, if he’d offered her it—yet knowing all of this doesn’t stop the resentment, doesn’t stop the nasty, mean feelings that rise in her as she stares at him, because he has known, and has left her to deal with it all on her own.

This isn’t the first time Hermione has felt resentment. It isn’t the first time she has flirted with it—it has come to her in the past, ugly and starving, but each time she had refused to let it dig a hole in her, had pushed it far away, too scared of who it could turn her into. But now she lets it wash over her, turning her into a hateful, spiteful thing; because Hermione is tired and scared and hurting, and this feels like it will protect her.

“You want me to stop lying, Harry? And what do you want me to say?” she hisses viciously, not recognizing the voice she has finally found. “Do you want me to tell you the truth? Do you want to hear about how I’m fucking Malfoy? Do you want to know the things he does to me? Or do you want to know how I’ve been?” She spits out the last word, furious. The anger that courses through her is so tainted with hurt that, she thinks, it could swallow her whole.

“But you already know how I’ve been, don’t you?” she takes a step towards him, glaring at him with hatred she’s never felt before, not towards him.

A chasm cracks open in her then, so wide and painful that Hermione fears she’ll lose the last good scraps of herself to it. “You know I haven’t been well. So what do you want me to tell you, Harry?” Her chest is on fire, and that chasm widens and widens. “Should I tell you about how the War fucking ruined me? About how I can’t stand myself anymore? Or do you want to know about how weak and disgusting and pathetic I am now? How I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror? Do you want to know that yes, yes I’m tired, tired of it all, so much so that some days I just want to go to sleep and never wake up?”

The words tear out of her chest with such violence that Hermione can’t stop them from filling the space between them and leaving her empty. “Did you know I was addicted to Dreamless Sleep? Did you know that when I went to London before the trials it was because my withdrawal was so bad I could barely stand?” She laughs; so, so bitterly. “I bet you did, didn’t you? You just never had the balls to bring it up. Just like you haven’t had the balls to ask me how I’ve been until you were worried it was someone else hurting me.”

There are tears streaming down Harry’s face now; ugly, stupid tears that make the pain in her chest even stronger. How dare he cry.

“You don’t get to cry!” she screams at him, and her voice breaks, because she loves him but she also hates him, hates him so much she can’t think about it. “You don’t get to ask me how I’ve been, you don’t get to know these things and ask me to stop lying and demand to know why other people care about me! You don’t! Because you haven’t cared,” her voice turns weak on the last word, the loneliness she’s felt the past six months settling heavily on her heart. “You haven’t cared.”

Harry’s breathing is uneven, tears still rolling down his cheeks. He’s looking at her with a heartbroken expression, one she has never before been on the receiving end of, and Hermione is torn between guilt and satisfaction; between self-pity and relief. She just wants to close her eyes and forget ever having seen him like this, but she can’t, locked as she is in his grieving expression.

The silence between them is loud, swollen; and all of a sudden Hermione is exhausted. She closes her eyes, feeling her own lashes heavy with tears, and it makes her even more angry.

“I—” his voice cracks and Hermione opens her eyes again, watching as he brings his wrist to his mouth, as if it can somehow keep him together. His fingers are shaking. Hermione hates it. “I have cared. I care, Hermione.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, drained by the pain that keeps spilling out of her.

“I—I thought you needed space.”

Hermione feels hollow. “Space?”

Harry’s hand drops to his side. His fingers are shaking violently now.

“Yes,” he says, voice strained. “I—I thought you needed some time. That being back at Hogwarts would help.” His eyes are so very green with the tears shining in them, and Hermione feels so very tired. “Some days I—I look at you and it feels like nothing has happened. I—I don’t know. Not always. But—” he swallows, dropping his eyes to the floor. “— but sometimes you look sad.” The silence that follows hurts more than all the words he just said. “I just thought you needed time.”

Hermione stares at him. She doesn’t know who is the biggest coward of the two of them. She thinks it must be her, because she hadn’t asked for help, and even if he’d offered, she thinks she would’ve refused. But Harry never offered, and she thinks somehow, that is worse.

Harry takes another step towards her and she flinches backwards. Hermione feels too raw, too exposed, and she is tired and weary down to her very bones. She doesn’t want to do this anymore. “Can you please just go, Harry?”

“Why didn’t you talk to me about this? About how hard it’s been? You know I would’ve understood.”

“Why didn’t you ask?” she snaps, and knows, deep inside her, that this will hurt Harry the most. Because he had told her, once, that his biggest fear was of never doing enough—never being enough—and she feels dirty for using it against him, but she doesn’t know how else to act.

Harry’s shoulders drop, even as his eyes rise back to hers. The pain in them echoes in Hermione. They stay like that for a minute, everything settling heavy between them, fracturing the glass house they had been living in.

Harry breaks the silence with a question Hermione wishes he wouldn’t have asked. “Why Malfoy?”

She laughs. Empty. Sour. “Why not?”

Harry’s shaking fingers clench into fists. “He hurt you.”

Hermione doesn’t know what to say to that. Because Malfoy had hurt her, but so had she. She wouldn’t know where to begin unravelling the complexity of whatever exists between her and Malfoy. Doesn’t even want to, honestly. Doesn’t want to justify herself to Harry.

So rather than answering him Hermione steps to the side, leaving enough space for Harry to pass, and stares at the floor in front of her. “Just go, Harry. Please.”


On Saturday afternoon, Hermione finds herself sitting at what is probably the dustiest, most uncomfortable spot in the Library.

It’s one of those desks attached to the bookshelves, with a tiny, hard and creaky wooden chair and barely enough space for her to fit her notebooks. She’d picked it, when she’d walked into the Library hours ago, because she didn’t want anything distracting her. No window to gaze out of, no other desks near to tempt her with lending an ear to other’s whispered conversations. Just dusty books on all sides of her, a flickering lantern to give her enough light to be able to read, and pages and pages of parchment filled with her notes on the new Magical Creatures Reform Act the Ministry wants to pass.

She hasn’t been working on it much, lately, with everything going on; but she’d finished all her assignments—those for the near-approaching Christmas holidays, too—and so she’d taken her notes out again, hoping to lose herself a bit in her work.

It’s been a couple of hours, and all Hermione has managed to do is re-read the same bit of text over and over again, retaining none of the words she’s read. Her mind is—unfortunately, but not unsurprisingly—refusing to cooperate, buzzing loudly with the events of the past few days, not allowing her to think of anything else.

The fight with Harry has stuck to Hermione like glue, sticky and thick and irremovable. Every time she believes she’ll manage not to think about it, it sneaks up on her again, wrapping its tacky fingers around Hermione’s heart and squeezing.

Hermione throws her quill on the desk, blots of dark blue ink staining her notes.

She hadn’t turned around to watch Harry make his way down the stairs. After he’d gone, she’d just walked into her room, slid under her covers, and stared at nothing until exhaustion had overcome her and she’d fallen into a fitful sleep.

She hadn’t seen Harry on Friday, nor had she seen him this morning.

She hadn’t seen Ginny, either.

Hermione plays with a stray curl that has escaped her bun, pulling it until it hurts.

Whenever she thinks about that conversation, she alternates between bouts of guilt and anger. Sometimes she feels so incredibly guilty it makes her sick. Sometimes anger makes her fingers clench and her nails dig into the palm of her hands.

She loathes the way hurt had turned her so bitter and mean; wishes she could take back every single word she said and shove them back down into the darkness where they had been rotting. She doesn’t understand how she has turned into this—into someone who bites when confronted, who hurts people who try to understand. It makes her feel small and brittle; a wounded hound with a festering infection that refuses to heal. She barely feels like she can control it, this part of her, and it makes her feel ashamed, embarrassed, weak.

Hermione never would’ve reacted the way she had, before the War. The old her would’ve sat down with Harry and would’ve tried to talk to him in slow, steady tones; carefully picking her words to explain to him why she had started crying, why she didn’t want him to pry, why his words had hurt her so much.

She can see it perfectly in her mind, how the old her would’ve approached such a confrontation; and she hates that she thinks she’ll never be able to have a conversation like that again, hates that she feels so disconnected from that version of herself—because it’s another sign of just how fucked up she is now.

Yet sometimes, when her mind turns to that memory, she feels…proud, almost. Vindicated. Satisfied. It makes her feel even worse, really; but it also feels like a weight has been lifted off her chest, just enough to grant her more room to breathe, and remorse bites at her whenever she thinks this.

The worst thing of all of it, though; is that before, she would’ve gone to Ron. She would’ve told him all about the fight, and he would’ve listened and would’ve tried to comfort her, even if he would’ve stumbled over his words and would’ve simply hugged her and let her cry into his chest.

Now—now she doesn’t have that anymore.

She had managed not to think too much about it—about having slept with him, and the way it felt like that one single act had fucked everything up even more.

She scarcely believes it’s only been a week since she took his offered bottle, since he said those words that had cut her deep and made her feel dirty and disgusting; but Hermione is grateful that she has only caught glimpses of him in the past seven days.

She had used him. Plain and simple. The boy that had first made her heart flutter and jump behind her ribs. The first boy she’d kissed, nervous and fumbling; the first boy she’d had sex with, embarrassing and exciting. The first boy she’d dreamt of a life with—the first boy she had thought she loved.

She had used him to try and forget Malfoy, and it hadn’t worked.

A part of her still mourns what they could’ve been. The kind of life they could’ve given each other if Hermione hadn’t been ruined by the War and Ron hadn’t lost a brother and taken to drinking. She thinks they would’ve been good for each other, had they still been the same people they were when they first kissed. They would’ve been soft, and they would’ve supported each other, and he would’ve made her laugh and given her flowers and would’ve been a good father to their children.

But they had both changed, and now they no longer fit together; and neither one of them cared for the other like they once used to.

It all makes her feel vacant and lacking; and she wonders how many more of her friends she’ll inevitably push away.


At a certain point, when the sun is already slipping behind the hills, Hermione gathers her things and goes to her usual table, luckily finding it empty. It’s something that she always used to do, in her early years at Hogwarts—swapping tables after several hours of work. It helped keep her concentration steady, the slight changes in location enough to keep her from growing distracted, and she thinks that perhaps it will help today, too; although she has made embarrassingly little progress in her work so far. The seat is cold when she settles into it, and as the afternoon goes on, Hermione manages to work at least a little bit, reordering her notes into a somewhat coherent essay.

Yet the concentration comes and goes, and gradually, as the hours pass, other thoughts and memories replace the guilt, offering a fleeting reprieve.

Slowly, as he always somehow seems to do, Malfoy starts filling her thoughts.

She thinks of the way he’d looked down at her, worried and angry, before dragging her away. She thinks of how he’d brushed his lips against her throat as he came inside her. She thinks of his laugh, time and time again, replaying it until she has memorised every detail of it. The way the corners of his eyes had crinkled and how a hint of a dimple had graced his cheek and how she’d wanted to plunge her fingers in his hair and taste the smile on his lips.

As dinner time rolls around, and Hermione stays sitting where she is, slowly picking at some biscuits she had packed away at breakfast, she stares at the edge of the Black Lake she can see from the window and thinks of the risk Malfoy is taking, just to have news of his mother; thinks of how he’d clung to her thighs when she’d hurt him with that spell; thinks of how he’d chased after her and how she’d been secretly happy that he had.

Hermione thinks of the last time she had sat at this table with him. It had been less than a month ago. She thinks of her curiosity back then, of how he’d said I don’t want you to go, Granger; of how something had sparked in her that night, when he’d touched her for the first time, and of how that flame has only grown with every hateful touch, with every violent, biting kiss.

As she picks her quill back up after the sun has set and tries, once more, to get some work done, she thinks of how she’d looked for him around Hogwarts in the morning; of how she’s hoping that he would come looking for her, that he’ll drag her away from the Library and leave fresh bruises on her skin.

It feels like an indulgence—to think about him so much; but it also feels like a need, like a must, like Hermione can’t possibly not think about him, not when she feels shaky and tight with want, with desire, with things that don’t taste nearly as bitter as guilt.

She wonders if she’s doing it out of a twisted need to hurt herself. Wonders if Malfoy is her reckoning—if he’s what she deserves for all the bad things she’s done. Wonders if that’s what draws her to him, or if it’s the fact that maybe—maybe she can just be with him. Be as ugly and as mean and as vile as she needs to be sometimes. She wonders if she’s drawn to him because if there’s one person that deserves all her ugliness, it’s Malfoy, and she knows that he won’t shy away from it, that he’ll give back just as much, just as bad.

Hermione doesn’t know why that feels like a good thing, but it does.


“You have half an hour, Malfoy.”

The Auror pushes Draco towards one of the many, identical doors lining one of the many, identical corridors of St. Mungo’s.

Draco turns around to glare at the Auror—the same one that had collected him when his mother had been attacked. He doesn’t even know his name—doesn’t care for it. The Auror sneers at Draco and Draco sneers right back, brushing his coat over his shoulder where the Auror had touched him before turning around and stalking towards what must be his mother’s room—if the other Auror standing guard next to the door, lounging on an uncomfortable-looking metal chair, is anything to go by.

The Auror stands when Draco reaches the white door, a simple black 9 at its centre. Draco can’t even raise his hand to push open the door before the Auror glares at him, knocking his hand out of the way to open the door himself.

Draco has to stifle the snarl that wants to crawl up his throat, swallowing it down and rolling his shoulders back as the door opens, the room his mother has been secluded in for the past month coming, slowly, into view.

The door closes silently behind Draco as he steps into the room.

His first thought is that he hates it.

It isn’t the same room he’d last seen his mother in, pale and thin and lifeless. He’s glad it isn’t—Draco has already had too many nightmares featuring that sterile, white-washed room.

This room is better, if only just. The bed is still a hospital bed. The walls are still white. But there are drapes—rather than blinds—dancing at the corners of the singular window in the room, the pale winter sun shining through. In front of the window there’s a small round table, barely large enough to hold the vase of chrysanthemums perched upon it, the flowers big and drooping, yet managing to make the room feel a little bit more alive.

His mother sits at the table, leaning on her elbows, one hand underneath her chin, the other caressing the petals of the flower closest to her; a slow, methodical movement of her fingers that Draco feels on his cheek—the same caress she always used to give him.

The dark dressing gown she’s wearing seems to swallow her thin frame entirely, the contrast of it against her pale—paler than it should be—skin diminishing that stoic beauty that had always defined her. She looks tired, her shoulders curved and heavy, her gaze lost between the flowers, and Draco’s throat grows tight as he takes her in, his breath disappearing between his ribs. Her hair falls down her shoulder in a braid, brushing her waist, the white strands tangling with the black in a way Draco has never seen before. He blinks, frozen in place.

His mother caresses another petal, lost in thought. The sleeve of her robe slips down her wrist, exposing the thick white bandages that wrap along her arm, a red stain at the centre of it.

Draco sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, the red so stark against the white. In a flash, he’s transported back to when he’d seen her last, unconscious and unresponsive, red-stained bandages thick around her wrists, seeped through with blood—blood that wouldn’t stop flowing no matter what.

His choked sob seems to knock his mother out of her thoughts, because her head snaps to the side, eyes going wide when they focus on him.

Draco,” her voice is a strangled whisper as she rises from her chair. The sound of his name pushes Draco into motion and in two steps he’s reached her, his arms wrapping around her frail form, his face burying in her neck, the scent of her, the scent of home, enveloping him.

“Draco, Draco,” his name is a litany, over and over again, falling from his mother’s lips as her arms squeeze around him.

Something cracks in him then, something that Draco had been quietly, secretly, desperately trying to hold together.

All the fear that he’d been burying deep inside for weeks spills over, and it overcomes him, furious and violent, leaving him shaking and breathing raggedly against his mother’s shoulder. For the first time in a long while Draco cries; silent tears streaming down his cheeks and staining his mother’s robe, his breaths shaking in his lungs as relief cracks him open; just like when they’d walked out of that battlefield alive, just like when they hadn’t sentenced him to Azkaban.

Narcissa pulls him closer, one hand brushing gently through his hair, and she lets him cry as she holds him together, as the fear and the stress and the worry crash through him.

He had been so worried. So worried. So worried that they wouldn’t tell him how she was doing; if she was recovering or not. So worried that something else would happen to her and he wouldn’t be able to stop it; that the only tether he still had to this world would disappear without him even knowing.

He’d been so scared to lose her.

He’d done everything for her. Every terrible choice, every action that had ripped his soul apart—they had been for her, to spare her any pain he could. When he’d seen her in that bed, those two words—barely alive—still ringing in his mind, he’d thought he’d been about to watch her die. And when they’d dragged him away, no matter how much he’d tried to fight to stay by her side, the only good piece of his rotten heart had stayed behind with her.

Draco had wanted to crack, at times. When the night was deepest and he couldn’t sleep, he’d think of her; of all the things he’d never told her, and he would shake with terror. He’d never told her that he was proud to be her son, that even through everything, even if she’d made mistakes, he loved her, and she had always been a good mother to him—better, even, than what he deserved. That when he’d made that choice, when he’d stood there, useless, praying with all his soul that his wand wouldn’t fail in Potter’s hand—he’d seen, he’d seen that she had turned her back on her husband, on her family, on everything she knew, for him, and had fought against the Death Eaters.

He’d wanted to tell her all of that, and he’d been drowning under the fear that he’d never get a chance to. And he had pushed it down, down underneath his anger, focusing on that instead; but now it was all rising to the surface, the pain of the relief white-hot.

“I’m okay,” she whispers as his tears don’t relent, as his breaths rattle through him. “We’re okay.”

“You’re okay,” he whispers, fractured; then repeats in his mind, over and over, until it feels like the truth. Only then does he force himself to take a deep breath, to loosen his hands, the black fabric he’d been fisting slipping through his fingers. Narcissa pulls away from him, just enough for her eyes to roam across his face as he stares down at her, tears drying on his cheeks.

She tuts, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “No need to cry, my dear boy.” Her hands cup his face and her thumbs swipe beneath his eyes, collecting the last of his tears. “I’m okay, Draco. We’re okay.”

“You’re okay,” he repeats, as his hands slide away from her back to hang uselessly by his sides. He wants to hang onto her, to never let go again, but he’s scared that it’s a wistful dream; that if he reaches out for her she’ll inevitably be separated from him again, so instead he curls his hands into fists and straightens his back, bundling all those shaky emotions still ringing through him into something tight and small and shoving them down into a locked corner of himself, where he doesn’t have to think about them.

“How did you convince them to come get me?” he asks, taking a step back and away from her, severing their connection, breathing a sigh of relief when the emotions within him start fading away.

His mother does the same—they share blood, after all—and she sits back down at the small table, gesturing for Draco to sit on the bed. He remains standing instead, leaning his hip against the edge of the table, tucking his shaking hands into the pockets of his coat.

“I tried being reasonable, but they wouldn’t listen, of course.” She looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “So I became unreasonable. It took a couple of days, but here you are.”

“How unreasonable did you have to be?”

“Quite a bit. It would’ve been rather embarrassing, if I hadn’t been doing it for you. Your letter rather worried me.”

Draco tenses at the mention of the letter. His eyes flick towards the door, and he casts a wandless silencing charm he learnt long ago, the air around the two of them turning thicker with the magic.

Then he sighs, looking down at his mother, at the too-thin lines of her face. “I know. I’m sorry. I had to be careful, I wasn’t sure if the letter would reach you or not. I hope it didn’t upset you too much.”

“Worry not. You’re here now.” His mother narrows her eyes at him. “But how did you manage to send that letter? Your probation forbids contact from Hogwarts.”

“I’m keenly aware,” Draco mutters, eyes dropping from his mother’s face to the flowers at the centre of the table. Some of them are rotting, and the scent that floats from them is almost sickeningly sweet. “I found a way around it.”

Narcissa huffs, leaning back into her chair. “Of course you did. I didn’t give you my brain for you to waste it.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but can’t help the smile that cuts through his tear-tight cheeks.

Before he can rebuke her, his mother cuts him off. “Draco,” the tone of her voice immediately sends him on alert, his spine stiffening. “I know you said you needed to talk, but first I have to tell you something.”

Draco looks at his mother, takes in the furrow between her brows and the way her throat bobs as she swallows, and feels dread creeping over him.

“What is it?”

Narcissa doesn’t look away from him. “They obliviated me.”

Draco stares at her. “What?”

His mother’s delicate jaw flexes, and the dread isn’t creeping anymore, it’s downright hurtling towards him. “They obliviated me. I don’t—I don’t know why I’m here. One moment I’m tending to the garden, the next I’m waking up in this room.”

What?” Draco hisses. His mother stares at him, eyes hard and unblinking, but Draco can recognize the worry in them.

“Do you know how I got these?” His mother pulls the sleeve on her right arm back, exposing the bandages that cover her whole forearm. “Because I have no idea, and the useless Aurors out there won’t tell me, no matter how much I ask.”

Draco drags his eyes away from the bandages, blinking, then closes his eyes tightly. He takes a deep breath in, then lets it out just as slowly. When he opens his eyes again, anger has sharpened his focus, its shape yet unclear but its heat strong, burning.

He says it all in one breath. “The version I was given was that you attempted suicide, and that somehow, someone got alerted and brought you here. Apparently, you cursed your own wounds so they wouldn’t heal. They told me they’d keep you here until you either passed away or woke up again.” He turns to look at his mother, who is staring at him with both eyebrows high on her forehead.

“Exactly,” he says, nodding. He’d immediately known the Aurors had been lying. His mother would never attempt suicide. There was nothing she feared and abhorred more.

“But why call you, then, if they’re hiding something?”

“St. Mungo’s ethical laws require family members to be alerted if someone is about to die once in the hospital.”

“Do they?”

Draco shrugs. “Apparently. Stroke of luck for us, I’d say. St. David’s Hospital has no rules of this kind. I bet the Aurors that brought you here didn’t know, or they would’ve brought you somewhere else.”

His mother hums, pulling the sleeve of her robe back down. “So, what do you think actually happened, then? Why were you so worried in that letter?”

Draco sighs, trying to fight the tension that’s seizing his shoulders. He has to tell her everything. “You remember about Nott Manor, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he swallows, then forces the words out. “The Zabinis were found dead—murdered, together with the Rotts. Somewhere in Germany. Pansy received a letter, warning her and telling her to leave England if she could, and then a couple of days later their bodies were found. Merissa Zabini was burned to death.”

His mother sucks a breath through her teeth. Draco’s chin drops to his chest. He doesn’t think about Blaise. He doesn’t think about Blaise. “Your ‘suicide attempt’ happened between Nott Manor burning down and that.” A thought flits through his brain, and he turns to look at her. “When did you wake up?”

“Nine days ago.”

It’s Draco’s turn to tut, and his eyes fall back to her wrists. “Do they hurt?”

“Yes, but at least they’ve started bleeding less. It was beginning to be quite annoying.”

“Annoying.”

“Yes, annoying. My wrists aren’t what bother me, Draco. Why am I here?”

“I don’t know,” he tells her, the truth sour on his tongue. He pulls his hands out of his pockets to grip the edges of the table instead, squeezing tightly. “I think whoever burned down Nott Manor, whoever killed Merissa and Blaise, they’re the ones who did this to you. Who almost killed you.” Then Draco adds, scathingly, worried about what he’s about to say might imply. “But the obliviation—it could’ve also been the Aurors.”

Narcissa shakes her head. “How would these people have gotten to me? The wards would’ve alerted me. I would’ve fought.”

“Just how they alerted Theo when Nott Manor was breached?”

Narcissa scoffs. “I was in the house at the time. And our wards are better, more complex.”

“Not really, Mother. Theo had remade them, remember?”

She waves his words away. “He might’ve made a mistake.”

Draco shakes his head. “He made no mistake, and you know it. You know how meticulous Theo is when it comes to magic.” Then he adds, quietly. “And you know his home was the only thing he cared about. He would’ve protected it in any way possible. The wards might as well have been impenetrable.”

His mother falls quiet, and Draco is sure she’s thinking of Theo. She’d always had a soft spot for him. Everyone had always had a soft spot for Theo. Draco, too—no matter how much he fought it.

“So,” his mother’s voice is tired when it comes again, after minutes. “You think someone is behind all of these… attacks. I’m guessing you believe they somehow know how to get past centuries-old Blood Wards.”

I know how to get past centuries-old Blood Wards.”

Her head snaps to him. Draco raises his eyebrows. “The letter?” he reminds her.

“You got past Hogwarts' wards?” His mother’s voice is shocked, and Draco would be offended by the incredulity of her tone if he also hadn’t been surprised when Zotoi’s spell had actually worked. “I thought you’d found someone to send the letter for you, to help you.”

“I did find someone to help me,” he smirks at her, relishing in the knowledge of just who is helping him. “The sweet Golden Girl is helping me out.”

Draco doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more shocked expression on her face. “Hermione Granger? Why in Salazar’s name would she be helping you?”

Draco bristles at the way his mother says ‘you’, but hasn’t he asked himself the same thing countless times? He sighs. “You needn’t worry about why. In any case, if I found a way to get past those wards, who’s to say they also haven’t found one?”

“Right,” she says, her shocked expression giving way back to the thoughtful one. She turns her head to the side, staring out of the window. “Nott, Zabini, Rott—therefore Parkinson, me. All Death Eater families, or connected to us, in any way.”

Draco hates that she refers to their family as such, but he can’t deny the truth of it. He’d been a Death Eater himself, no matter how shitty of one. He tries not to think too much about that, either. Instead, he hums. “Yes. And there’s another thing.”

Narcissa’s ice-blue eyes turn to his, and Draco tells her the thing that has been eating at his brain the most. “When Nott Manor burnt down, Theo went to see what remained of the house. The Aurors had told him it had likely been a magical accident, something from within, that caused an explosion of some kind, because to their knowledge, the wards hadn’t been tampered with. And though neither Theo nor I believe the Aurors, Theo did say that nothing was left standing. And the other attack—Marcus Rott was shot in the head. With a Muggle gun. And their wands were stolen. Magic has been involved, yes, but—” Draco steps away from the desk, twisting to look at his mother head on, folding his arms over his chest. “You know wizards don’t use guns.”

Narcissa follows his thoughts seamlessly. “You think they aren’t wizards. Not all of them, at least.”

“Not all of them,” Draco echoes, and he knows he’s right on this. The evidence is there, obvious for all to see. It had been eating him up from the inside. He was sure the Aurors on the Zabini’s case must’ve realized by now, but he hadn’t read anything about it in the Daily Prophet since the announcement of their deaths. But why keep it hidden? Why state that bullet cartridges had been found, but not say anything about the guns and who they must’ve come from?

“They might be Muggleborn. More likely Half-bloods. I don’t know,” he says. “But after the War, after how Voldemort had tried to get rid of them, wouldn’t it make sense for them to be angry? For them to feel like the trials weren’t justice enough? For them to come after us?”

Narcissa’s hands drop to the end of her braid, fingers brushing through the strands. “It would,” she says slowly, the line between her brows deepening. “But why leave me alive?”

Draco says quietly, “Maybe that hadn’t been the plan.”

“Why obliviate me, then? If they were the ones to do it.”

“Maybe something went wrong and they had to improvise,” he offers.

“Perhaps they hadn’t thought about the failsafe in the wards.”

Draco shakes his head. “Unlikely.”

His mother clicks her tongue in disagreement. “No one knows about the failsafe.”

“But they might’ve guessed there would be one. Maybe they did it on purpose, maybe they have a reason for doing it this way.”

Draco, deep inside, is terrified that this is the truth.

He wants to hope that they—whoever they are—hadn’t recognized the failsafe in the wards. That keeping his mother alive had been the plan—not a last minute change of events. But if that had been their plan, if they’d simply wanted to remove her from Malfoy Manor, Draco is worried that they’ve succeeded. Because it would make sense, to the public, for Narcissa Malfoy—wife and mother to Death Eaters, one rotting in Azkaban and one a simple misstep away from it—now secluded in the dreadful, grim mansion that had hosted the Dark Lord for years; to fall to depression, to try and take her own life. No one would bat an eyelash at a prolonged stay in St. Mungo’s, under the steady eyes of the best Healers in England. No one would worry about the empty Malfoy Manor. No one would think twice about it.

Draco hisses, running a hand through his hair. “Mother, they—”

The door to the room opens softly, but Draco hears it, and in less than a heartbeat he’s twisted around, putting himself between his mother and whoever is entering. Draco’s fingers twitch with the urge to point his wand towards the intruder, but his wand lies in the pocket of the Auror that had brought him here, and he feels vulnerable and naked without it, even if his wandless magic is strong—stronger than most.

The spell that had been about to fall from his lips curbed when he realises the intruder is a Healer, the Auror that has been standing guard outside just behind her, glaring at him as he keeps the door open.

“Time’s up, Malfoy,” he tells Draco, nodding for him to get out of the room. “You have to go.”

Draco clenches his teeth, because he knows half an hour hasn’t passed yet, but he also knows they’ve given him more time than he could’ve hoped for.

He turns his back to the Auror and to the silent Healer, who is looking at them with an impassable expression. He pulls his mother into a hard hug, whispering quickly in her ear, before stepping away.

Draco takes a moment to run his eyes over her face, to memorise her like this—alive and worried and yes, tired; but alive, before giving her a kiss on the cheek and turning around, slipping out of the room without another word.


As soon as the Auror Apparates the two of them outside of Hogwarts’ gates, Draco snatches his wand out of the Auror’s grip and stalks past the invisible Anti-Apparition wards, his quick steps echoing lowly against the stone floors.

He should be grateful—grateful that Zotoi’s spell worked, grateful that his mother is still alive, grateful that they had given him a bit of time to talk to her; but all Draco is, is angry. Furious. Downright raging.

He can’t find a specific reason for it. He almost never does. His anger is incomprehensible, sometimes. It’s worse when it’s like this, because Draco struggles to channel it into something useful, and so it burns him up, searing away all other thoughts until he becomes a vessel of rage, his fingers hurting from how hard he clenches his fists and the itch under his skin growing, demanding he hurt something to release some of the violence coursing through him.

It’s pure luck that it’s Potter he stumbles into as he turns the corner of a dark hall on his way to the Covered Bridge.

It takes him a second to realise who it is, Potter’s huffed watch out swallowed immediately by a groan as Draco slams him against the wall, hard, Potter’s head ricocheting against the stone.

“What the—”

“Shut up, Potter,” he spits out, and before he can truly think his actions through, Draco pulls his fist back and punches Potter straight in the face, his glasses skittering on the floor and his head cracking against the wall.

It’s immensely satisfying, even if Draco’s fist hurts, his knuckles bright red but unbroken. He sneers down at Potter as he takes a gasping breath, Draco’s lips parting to insult him, but Potter reacts faster than Draco expects, punching him in the stomach. Draco’s breath is knocked out of him.

Anger blurs his vision then, and Draco presses his forearm into Potter’s throat, retaliating and punching him in the ribs once, twice; his rings catching in Potter’s flannel as he presses him further against the wall.

Potter groans, trying to pull Draco’s arm away, but Draco pushes harder against Potter’s throat, until Potter’s face starts going splotchy and red.

It feels satisfying, to let some of his anger out like this. He would feel bad for Potter’s bad luck, if he could feel pity at all.

“Get the fuck off, Malfoy,” Potter groans, uselessly pushing at Draco’s shoulder with a hand, trying to get him off.

Draco smirks. “No.”

Draco dodges the fist Potter aims at his face, and reciprocates by punching him in the ribs again, something cracking from the force of it. Potter’s breath grows pained as he covers his ribs with his hand, still trying valiantly to pull Draco’s arm away.

Draco cuts off Potter’s air supply a little more, just because he can, luxuriating for a stolen moment in the satisfaction of scratching the violent itch that lives inside of him.

“Potter, let me make one thing very clear,” Draco drags Potter away from the wall just to push him against it again, slamming his head once more against the stone. Potter glares at him with a hatred Draco hasn’t seen since Sixth Year and he smirks down at him, knowing just how much Potter loathes it.

“If you ever—” Draco punctuates the word with another fist in Potter’s stomach, forcing him to try and curl in on himself “—make her cry again, I will make you wish you hadn’t survived the War. Do you understand?”

Potter is gasping for breath now, though his teeth are bared at Draco like he wants to bite him.

“I don’t care who the fuck you are to her, Potter,” Draco seethes. “I don’t care what you went through together. Granger isn’t your sweet little Golden Girl anymore. She’s mine.”

It feels exhilarating to say it; to say it out loud, to Potter, to Saint Potter, that Granger is his, so he says it again.

“She is mine, I’ve got her all wrapped around my finger, Potter; and if you fucking hurt her again—” Draco slams Potter against the wall for a third time, relishing Potter’s pained groan “—I will be very… displeased.

“Don’t—” Potter’s voice is strained from the lack of oxygen. Draco shifts his arm just enough for Potter to get some air, curious about what he wants to say. “Don’t go near her.”

Draco laughs in Potter’s face, twisting his neck to release some of the tension in it, looking down at the empty corridor around them before turning back to Potter. He’s risking a lot with this little stunt. It would take little for Potter to go to McGonnagal and report Draco, set aflame the little freedom he has and get him on a one-way trip to Azkaban. Yet Draco can’t control himself, not when it comes to his anger—and Granger.

He doesn’t know why the idea of someone else hurting Granger is so fucking abhorrent to him, he just knows that it is; and that when he’d seen her crying, trying to get away from Potter, clutching at his robes as if they were her lifeline, his whole existence had narrowed down to that—to dragging her away and wrapping his arms around her and calming her down until the tears stopped streaming down her face. He’d felt worried and jealous and angry; all because he wasn’t the cause of her tears, not that time, and it had all felt out of his control. He had loathed that.

Granger could only cry for him, her tears were his—his redemption, his vindication; and Draco cannot possibly stand the idea that someone else could hurt Granger so much that she’d cry, could push her closer to breaking. That is his job, his plan. No one will steal it away from him. Only Draco can hurt Granger, only Draco can be the one to break her.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he sneers down at Potter. “I’ll go near her as much as I want. I don’t give a shit about what you have to say, Potter. But if you hurt her—if you hurt her again, they’ll have to put me in Azkaban to stop me from hurting you, is that clear?”

Potter is staring at him as if he’s crazy—as if he’s officially lost it. Draco feels like he has, because he understands with utter clarity that he would do anything to get rid of whatever—or whoever—tries to get between him and Granger; tries to stop him from shattering her little heart until she breaks.

“And tell your little Weasel friend,” Draco hisses, “that if he touches one hair on Granger’s head again, I’ll turn his face so bloody that his mother won’t recognize him when I leave his body at her doorstep.”

Fuck—Draco wants to do it. He wants to hurt Weasley so bad, wants to break his face and every finger of his hands in revenge for having touched her. Maybe it’s truly a blessing that it’s Potter he walked into, and not Weasley, because Draco doesn’t think he’d have been able to hold himself back today, not with how the visit has left him. Not even the threat of losing his freedom would’ve held him back from hurting Weasley. He’d have made a mess. They truly would’ve shipped him straight to Azkaban.

It’s that thought that sends a tendril of reason through his rage, and Draco lets go of Potter with a disgusted twist of his lips. If they drag him away from Hogwarts, he won’t be able to be with Granger, and he can’t have that. This has to be enough, for now.

Draco glares at Potter one last time before stalking away from him, leaving him wheezing and sliding to the floor, weak curses and pathetic promises of reprisal following Draco until he disappears from view.


Draco spends several hours with his back against the bark of a tree, the ground cold beneath him, the surface of the Black Lake immovable as he stares at it. His stomach is tender where Potter had punched him, but the pain isn’t enough to distract him from his thoughts.

As the rage cools, Draco’s mind clears.

He would do it again, for Granger. No matter the modicum of respect he’s grown to have for Potter—Granger comes above all now, and Potter had made her cry, and Draco doesn’t regret hurting him one bit.

The only reason why guilt nags at him is because of the slight chance that Potter might rat him out, that Draco won’t be given a second chance before they send him off to Azkaban and lock him in a cell next to his father. He’d regret his actions, then; but not for himself, nor for his future—rather he’d regret them for his mother. He doesn’t wish to leave her alone. Who will be there for her if Draco is in Azkaban? No one, and Draco can’t stand the thought of that.

He’d risked that; all because of Granger. Stupid of him, really; yet he can’t bring himself to truly regret his actions.

He wonders if Granger will be angry when she finds out about Potter. Will she threaten Draco again, with that fearless glint in her eyes? He hopes she will. He’d seen her turn berserk to defend her friends, had heard all about how vicious she could be in a duel, and he masochistically wants to be on the receiving end of it, just to fight her.

He wonders how she would’ve reacted, if it had been Weasley that he’d hurt instead, rather than Potter. How would she react if instead of bringing him to Molly Weasley’s doorstep, Draco brought an unrecognizable mess of blood and bones back to her?

She wouldn’t be happy, he thinks. Wouldn’t appreciate his actions. No, she would cry and scream and then try to kill Draco and mourn the fucking arsehole.

The thought makes him spit on the ground next to him, the anger returning.

Draco doesn’t like the thought of Granger caring so much about someone who isn’t him.

The Weasel doesn’t deserve such attention from her. Potter doesn’t either. Not when they’ve all let her turn into the pathetic thing she now is.

Draco should be the only one she thinks about, the only one she cares about. Not anyone else. Granger should be apathetic to all things other than him.

The thought rolls in his mind, over and over. She needs to stop caring so much about others. Doesn’t she see that it’s not doing her any good?

She should only care about him. Draco needs to become the centre of her darkened, off-kilter world. The thing she gravitates around, the only thing she thinks of, dreams of, wants. Him. No one else.

Can’t she see what Draco has to offer her?

Draco will be there for her, broken and splintered as she is. He’ll teach her everything that the idiots she’s surrounded by refuse to even accept. He’ll show her that she doesn’t have to shy away from herself; that there’s something to be proud of in all she went through, in the scars she now bears. He’ll guide her through it all, support her, hold her fragile little heart in his hands and handle it with care.

And when she’ll cry, he’ll comfort her. He’ll tell her that it’s alright to be who she now is; that she isn’t intrinsically bad—she’s just had to do bad things; that there is something to love between the cracks, even if she’s sad and lonely and riddled with guilt and regrets.

He’ll be good for her. He will show her the affection and appreciation she can’t even show herself; and then she’ll love him—love him until she’s sick with it, until he’s flowing in her blood, until every thud of her heart spells out his name.

And then Draco will crush her glass heart in his fist, and he’ll leave her behind as the nothing she is.

It’s how it should be. It’s what Granger owes him, what she deserves.

Can’t she see it?

Draco throws stones into the Lake as he thinks about Granger until he can’t stand his thoughts anymore. Then he thinks about his anger, and his mother, and the people that tried killing her—that likely will try to kill him, too; until the sun sets and the sky turns dark and stars twinkle far above him, weak and pale.

It’s only after it gets so cold that his anger freezes over; only after the tightness in his chest loosens just a bit and the bottle of Firewhiskey he’s conjured stops warming him, that Draco gets up and goes to find Granger.


The Library is the first, and the last, place he checks.

Granger is asleep at her usual table, face smushed against her arm, parchment and books all around her. There’s a burned-out lantern in the corner of the table and Draco flicks his wand, lighting it back up, before stepping closer to her.

He’s never seen Granger asleep before.

The knot she must’ve had her curls in is loose now, drooping dangerously, and Draco reaches out with his fingers, pulling her wand out of her hair and watching as her curls spill around her. He sets her wand down before hovering the back of his fingers over her face, almost scared to touch her, his pulse roaring in his ears.

He’s never been this close to her while she’s completely unguarded.

She looks soft like this, swallowed between curls and books. Delicate. Peaceful.

A tenderness he’s unfamiliar with lines her features. Draco can’t wrap his mind around it, around how Granger looks like this. He doesn’t recognize her.

Draco knows her in anger, in hatred. He knows her in concentration, eyes squinted and pink tongue peeking out from her teeth; and he knows her in pleasure, throat flushed and pupils blown. He knows her in war—bleeding and ruthless even with tears streaming down her face; and he knows her in the aftermath of it—eyes hard and a wooden chair underneath her as she saves him from Azkaban.

But sleep—he doesn’t know Granger in sleep. In dreams; yes. But this? He’s never known it before, and it pulls at a thread inside him.

He wonders if her sleep is always like this, silent and still; or if it’s like his, haunted by memories she’d rather forget. He thinks it must be the latter. He thinks maybe she hasn’t stepped into her nightmares yet, and he thinks he’d like to know her in those, too.

Draco drags his swollen knuckles over her delicate skin, entranced. The soft curve of her nose, the way her lips part with each breath; hell, even the way her curls fall along her shoulders and onto the desk bewitches him.

He feels overwhelmed with the need to catalogue this moment in its every detail, sear it into his memory until he knows it by heart. That anger that’s entwined with his heartstrings pulls taut, his heart clenching between his ribs as he stares down at Granger.

He doesn’t want to look away from her. He can’t look away from her.

How could he have not realized before, how beautiful Granger is?

She had been nothing to him in the past—nothing other than an annoyance, an insignificant girl who got in his way and had better grades than him. A nuisance, a headache, an irritating presence that personified everything Draco couldn’t stand.

For most of his life, Granger had been but a convenient thing to take his anger out on, to taunt and ridicule and snarl at. Nothing more, nothing less. She just occupied the same space as him, happened to be best friends with the person he’d hated most in the world; and that was it. Coincidence. A disappointing synchronism of their lives. Granger hadn’t been worth more than a passing thought.

Draco can count on one hand the moments when Granger had caught and kept his attention for longer than a conversation. He’d never even really noticed her—at least, not until her hand had connected with his face in Third Year, and he’d run away from her, fingers pressed against his cheek and a blush raising underneath his collar.

Then, the night of the Yule Ball, when she’d waltzed with Viktor Krum and her blue dress had fluttered as he’d spun her around and Draco had sneered at the thought of someone like Krum dancing with someone like her. And that spring day in Fifth Year, when she’d been sitting in the grass of the quad with some other swotty Gryffindor girls, hair loose about her shoulders, pulling at the blades of grass with her fingers. She had laughed, the grating sound catching his attention as he’d walked to class, and when he’d turned to yell at her to shut up, the sun had gilded her and for a second, Draco had understood why people called her golden. But then she’d caught him staring, and had sneered at him, and Draco had rolled his eyes and had forgotten all about her again.

Draco had found it profoundly ironic, then, on that day at Malfoy Manor, that it had been Granger’s screams that had pushed him to say enough. Or to think it, at least. This person that hadn’t meant anything to him. She—insignificant, unimportant, replaceable—she had been the gust of wind that had blown through his house of cards. It had been her tortured wails that had set things into motion, that had pushed Draco over the line he’d been walking for too long, too scared to cross it; to give up everything he had ever known, had ever been.

Her. Insignificant, little Hermione Granger.

Draco wonders, sometimes, what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been forced to watch his Aunt torture Granger. If he’d have found the strength to stop being a coward in some other way. Or if he would’ve died in the War—either by someone else’s hand or his own, when the shame would’ve become too much to bear. Draco is too cynical to believe in fate, but sometimes he wishes he could, because then he wouldn’t have to live knowing that it had been Hermione Granger who had, unknowingly, saved him; and likely saved everyone else.

He thinks that’s when he’d started hating her.

And Draco will never, for a second, stop hating her. It’s a chant in his blood, in his heart.

Because now Draco can be who he wants to be, yet Granger—Granger, who had been everything but a coward during the War—she’s the biggest one of them all.

A disappointing, pathetic, beautiful coward who doesn’t deserve anything good.

And yet, he can’t look away from her.

Draco drags his knuckles down her cheek and to her lips, parting them softly with the tips of his fingers. He hates her so much.

He grazes her teeth, pushing her jaw slightly open until his fingers slip inside, the wetness of her breath warm against his freezing skin.

Merlin, he wants to fuck her like this; when she’s warm and soft and sleepy; delicate and pliant. He wants to drag his hands all over her skin, wants to part her legs with slow movements and push inside her without her knowing. He’d fuck her as slow as possible, dragging every moment out, trailing his lips over hers in phantom kisses until she wakes—until she screams and claws and bites and he gets to fuck her hard and fast and painful.

Draco takes in a shaky breath, his cock already stiffening in his pants, and pushes his fingers against her tongue, thinking of all he wants to do to her. Of all he will do to her, of the many different ways he could hurt her.

But then Granger wakes with a flinch, straightening on a hitched breath, and his fingers slip out of her mouth, wet, the loss of her warmth leaving him cold again.

Granger brings her wrist to her lips, staring between his face and his hand before swallowing and looking away.

“What were you doing?” she says, voice hoarse; then she clears her throat, standing and beginning to gather her things—her wand first of all, and Draco is disappointed when she gathers her hair and wraps it up and around her wand again, twisting it into a new knot.

Draco sighs, dragging Granger’s chair away from her and sitting down in it instead, watching her push pieces of parchment messily into her bag. He doesn’t answer her. They both know what he was doing. So he fills the silence with something else. “I went to see my mother today.”

At that Granger stills, just like he knew she would, and turns to look at him over her shoulder.

Draco thinks she looks worried and distressed, her teeth pulling at her lower lip, but he can still see traces of sleep in her expression and it softens her somewhat.

“So it worked, then,” she says quietly, more to herself than him.

Draco lets the weight of that settle on her like it had settled on him hours ago.

They’ve found a way to get things past Hogwarts’ wards, undetected.

No Vanishing Cabinet required. Draco wonders how the War would’ve gone if he’d found Zotoi’s journal in Sixth Year. Wonders if he would be here at all. He pushes the thought away.

“It worked.” Draco settles better in the chair, shifting so that Granger stands between his legs now, caged in. “All thanks to you, Granger.”

Granger sighs, and Draco wonders if she feels guilty about it all—about the spell, about helping an Ex-Death Eater, about the Blood Vow that lies, half-forgotten, between them.

He doesn’t think she does.

She turns around, giving him her back, and Draco notes that she’s wearing her uniform skirt, even if it’s a Saturday, the fabric falling to her mid-thigh and covered almost entirely by a knit sweater that looks about three sizes too big. Granger starts piling the several books on the desk into a neat stack, then selects some and pushes those into her bag. Silence swells between them, until she speaks again. “How is Narcissa?”

The question takes Draco by surprise, and he drags his eyes away from her legs to stare at the back of her head. “Why do you care?”

“It’s my end of the Vow, isn’t it?” Granger shrugs. “Is she okay?”

Draco leans forward, just enough to drag his fingers over the side of her right knee. “Why do you really care, Granger?”

Granger is quiet for a moment, letting him caress her skin. “Is she okay?”

Draco pulls his hand back. “No.”

There is no sleep in her expression anymore, and her voice is quick and hard. “What happened?”

“She was obliviated. And she has wounds,” Draco’s mind flashes white and red. “Wounds that won’t heal properly.”

“Cursed?” Granger asks.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Her wrists.”

Granger clucks her tongue. “They haven’t tried restoring her memory?”

“I don’t know if the Healers know.”

“What?” she hisses, standing straighter. “She has to tell them.”

“She doesn’t trust them.”

“Why not?”

Draco looks at her as if she’s daft. “Because who knows who obliviated her, Granger?” he says, lifting his hand and cracking his knuckles one by one as Granger stares at him. “It could have easily been the Aurors.”

She crosses her arms. “They wouldn’t do that.”

“To you, perhaps,” he snaps. “You don’t know half the shit they’ve done to us.” Draco doesn’t like thinking about how the Aurors had treated him before his trial, how they’d snickered as they'd hurt him. 

Granger is quiet after that, head twisted so she’s staring outside of the window, teeth pulling at her lip again. Draco stares at her profile, at the way the pale light from the lantern flickers over her features. She uncrosses her arms and leans against the desk, lost in thought, and Draco reaches his hand out again, playing with the hem of her skirt.

It almost doesn’t feel real, that she lets him touch her like this.

“How bad is it?” she asks after what feels like minutes, turning to look down at him.

“I told you, they obliviated her; but other than that—”

“No,” Granger interrupts, and Draco’s fingers pull at the thin fabric of her skirt. “Not Narcissa. The situation. All of it. How bad is it?”

Draco drops his eyes from hers to his hand, unwilling to meet the worry swirling in them. “Bad,” he says. Then, more quietly, “Worse than I thought.”

Granger sighs, and it’s shakier than Draco expects. He looks up at her then, and she drops a hand to his hair, her fingers tangling in the strands. A shiver races down his spine when she drags her nails against his scalp, pushing some hair behind his ear. Her fingers still at the arch, playing with the little silver hoop he never takes off anymore, pulling at it slightly. The silence between them surges and her eyes roam over his face, as if looking for something, and suddenly the moment feels too heavy, too pressing, and he feels trapped in it, in the questions in her brown eyes; his hand on her thigh and her hand in his hair.

He doesn’t want to think about the threat hovering over his head. Not when Granger is still warm from sleep in front of him.

He swallows. “I don’t want to talk about it, Granger. I don’t want to talk about all these ugly things.”

Draco slides his hand away from the hem of her skirt, grasping her hips with both hands, and lifting her onto the desk. Granger’s hand falls away from his hair when Draco pulls her to the edge of it. He grabs the back of her thighs, slowly lifting them and spreading them apart so that Granger is forced to lean back on her hands to keep her balance, her breathing turning shallow. Draco stares right at her face as he trails his fingers behind her knees, as he moves closer and settles her feet on the arms of the chair, so that he sits right between her legs.

He would give anything to be able to read Granger’s mind right now, to know what she must be thinking as her breaths become uneven, her chest rising and falling beneath her sweater. There’s a flush creeping up her cheeks, her lips parted, and Draco curls his hands around her ankles at the memory of her deft tongue licking between his fingers.

“Why don’t you show me something pretty, Granger?” he says, his voice the only thing disturbing the quiet of the Library, along with Granger’s breaths.

Draco looks at her legs, so pretty and spread open for him. He watches his ring-heavy fingers as they trail softly away from her ankles, up her bare shins and her knees, the tendons there strained. He drags the pads of his finger along the back of her thighs, relishing in the warmth of her skin, so soft and still unbruised. When he grips her thighs tightly, metal digging into flesh, Granger makes a choked noise and he looks up at her then, at the flush that’s higher on her cheeks now, at the way she’s looking at him with unbridled desire in her eyes.

She’s so beautiful like this. Panting and beginning to tremble in anticipation.

He’d already guessed that she liked it when he touched her like this—her reaction in the Library that first night still clear as day in his memory; so as he lets go of her thighs he slows his movements down even more, turns his touch lighter, more teasing. Draco caresses the top of her thighs, bunching her skirt up when he reaches the hem, slowly exposing more and more velvety skin, the flame of the lantern bathing her in pale yellow and oranges.

When his hands reach her hips and her knickers come into view—simple black cotton this time, or maybe a dark blue; Draco stills, staring. He feels his cock stiffening back up in his pants.

He still has those pink panties he had ripped off of her in the dungeons. He keeps them under his pillow, just because he can.

Maybe he’ll add these to the collection.

Granger’s thighs flex, as if wanting to close, and Draco grips her hips, dragging her just an inch closer to him. He looks at her from beneath his lashes, though he doesn’t want to stop staring between her legs, and reaches for one of her hands. He grabs her fingers—so much smaller than his—and she shifts her weight to her other hand as he guides her hand to her cunt, as he presses her fingers to her sex, making her cup herself. Granger’s fingers flex underneath his and he smirks when he presses harder against her hand, pushing the heel of her palm against her clit.

Draco lets go of her then and leans back in his chair, idly settling one hand over her right ankle and resting his other elbow on the arm of the chair. He brings his fingers to his lips. They smell of her.

Granger swallows, and he raises an expecting eyebrow. “Show me something pretty, Granger. Go on.”

Achingly slow, Granger’s hand moves, her fingers sliding up and slipping beneath the hem of her knickers, disappearing from view. Her breath hitches as those fingers dip, only to rise back again and press slow circles over her clit.

Draco tuts and Granger stills, her entire body tight with tension. “I said show me, Granger,” his voice is hoarser than before, and his pants tighter. “Take those off. I want to see you.”

That flush is brighter now, yet Granger doesn’t shy away from his gaze as she bites her lip, straightening. Her hands go to her hips, grabbing her knickers and shifting to slip them off. They strain across her thighs, and she moves one foot off the chair to slide her leg out, but Draco is too busy staring at her glistening cunt to pay attention to what she’s doing.

Even with the low light, Draco can see perfectly well how wet and red her cunt is, perfectly on display for him.

Granger’s foot settles back on the chair and her panties hang from one knee, discarded. Draco’s grip on her ankle tightens when she leans back, teeth still maddeningly chewing at her lip. He holds his breath when her hand falls to her sex again, and this time Draco has a front-row seat to the way she dips her middle and ring fingers into her centre, just barely, gathering up moisture. Then she slides them upwards until she reaches her clit, going back to those slow circles, squeezing the bundles of nerves with the sides of her fingers as she goes around and around.

“So pretty, Granger,” Draco squeezes her ankle and drags his fingers up to her knee and down again. He doesn’t take his eyes off her cunt; he can see how aroused she is, and he wants to eat her whole. He wets his lips. “So good for me.”

She shivers at that and he sees her clench, thighs straining; so he spreads her legs further apart, hands curling around her thighs.

He can see strings of wetness at her entrance and his cocks twitches in his pants. Draco can’t resist leaning forward and swiping his tongue over her—just over her entrance, just over those strings, causing them to snap, the tip of his tongue just barely breaching her.

The taste of her explodes over his tongue, tangy yet sweet, so fucking good it takes all his restraint not to shove his tongue as deep as he can inside her. Granger whimpers, her fingers stilling, hips pressing towards his mouth, but Draco holds her still and leans away, sitting back.

He looks up at her, running his tongue over his lower lip, chasing any and all tastes of her. Granger is breathing raggedly, curls slipping out of her knot and framing her face, all open-mouthed and flushed. Draco lets go of her leg to press his hand over his crotch, trying to find some relief. He drops his eyes back to her cunt, to her still unmoving fingers.

He tuts again. “Go on, Granger. I want to watch you fuck yourself for me.”

Draco watches as her walls clench again, as she sways towards him; and he smirks at her from beneath lowered lashes, challenging her.

Granger’s eyes flash with heat and then her hand is sliding away from her clit. Draco follows the path of her hand as she pushes her middle finger inside herself, breath hitching when she does so; then adds another, pumping them slowly inside her cunt until she reaches her last knuckle.

Draco can imagine it—the way she must be so slippery inside, so tight and warm; soft walls bearing down on and clenching.

Granger pulls her fingers out until only the tip remains inside, and Draco presses his hand harder against his straining dick, pushing against the head of his cock, already leaking through his underwear. Then Granger snaps her wrist and plunges her fingers back into her cunt, hard, all the way in; and Draco’s nails dig into the skin of her thigh where he’s still holding her.

She moans, a hitched little gasp of air that goes straight to his cock, fucking with his head. Granger sets a steady pace, slowly pulling her fingers out and then fucking herself with hard, pushy presses that get progressively sloppier and louder, the sounds of her pleasuring herself for him echoing around them.

When she slides her digits out and goes to move towards her neglected clit Draco’s hand leaves his crotch to wrap around her wrist, pulling her hand away from her cunt and towards his face.

He twists her hand, eyes locked on the wetness coating her fingers, sliding down towards her palm, sticky and sweet. He reaches out, licking from her palm to the tip of her middle finger, eliciting a shaky whimper from her, a groan of his own rising in his throat.

He sucks her two fingers in his mouth, wrapping his lips around them and sucking, and only then does he lift his eyes to look at her face, tongue sliding over her skin.

Granger stares at him with unrestrained desire in her eyes, lips parted, every ounce of her attention now on his mouth, on the way her fingers disappear between his lips.

He releases her fingers with a pop, her eyes snapping up to his. He licks the corner of his lip and doesn’t look away from her as he guides her hand back to her cunt, pushing two fingers back inside her—along with two of his, making her moan and feeling her stretch around the double intrusion.

“Always so tight, Granger. You’re so fucking soft.”

He mimics the pace she had set before, out slow and in fast, pumping their entwined fingers into her cunt twice, thrice, before pulling his hand away and letting her continue on her own. Granger adds her ring finger, pushing it in on the next stroke of her hand, and he murmurs a good girl before twisting his head and setting his teeth on her right inner thigh, biting down.

Granger gasps loudly, flinching away from him, but Draco uses his grip on her leg to pull her closer again, swiping his tongue over the hurt and pressing kisses to it.

Granger pants as Draco makes his way along the expanse of pale skin. He nips and licks and sucks, sometimes lightly, sometimes harshly, leaving red mark after red mark all over her. Every once in a while he lifts to look at her hand, fingers still sliding in and out of her, and when she tries again to move to her clit Draco stops her, tutting, and pushes her fingers back into her cunt.

When he reaches where she’s most sensitive, in the valley right between her hips, she pants and writhes on the table, trying to get his mouth on her core, but Draco simply skips over her sex and begins the same journey on her other thigh, leaving marks in the shape of his teeth and pulling at her delicate skin until it turns red and inflamed.

Draco doesn’t stop until Granger’s legs start shaking, until she’s muttering disconnected please and stop and i can’t interrupted by heaving breaths; until her fingers slide out of her cunt and she looks down at him with tears in her eyes.

Draco takes mercy on her then—and on himself, too; because the taste of her skin is sweet but it doesn’t compare to her cunt, and he’s starving for it.

He grabs her hips and slides her forward until he can slip her thighs over his shoulder. Draco looks at her as he settles so his face is an inch from her cunt, then he closes his eyes and lets himself taste as he makes a broad, slow lick across her, from her entrance to her clit, flattening his tongue against her.

Granger whimpers, cunt-wet hand pulling his hair and pushing him closer to her as her thighs squeeze around his head, so that nothing but Granger reaches his senses.

Draco laps at her, avoiding her clit, kissing her cunt and leaving biting kisses that make Granger whimper and try to drag his mouth where she wants it. He ignores her, ignores the need for air as he reaches her entrance and plunges inside, tongue-fucking her until she’s dripping down his chin and grinding her cunt all over his face.

She pulls roughly at his hair then, trying to pull him out of her cunt. “Draco, please.”

The way she says his name, all needy and breathless, paired with the taste and smell of her, so overwhelming, makes him shiver in pleasure. His cock is hard as stone in his pants, almost painful, and he wants to rip open his trousers and take himself in hand, but Granger’s cunt is too delightful, and he doesn’t want to move.

He pulls his tongue out of her quivering warmth when she pulls his hair hard enough to hurt, a hiss escaping him. He turns and bites at Granger’s thigh in retaliation, the move earning him a hiss of her own and a rush of wetness out of her entrance.

Draco laps it up, then he slides one hand away from her thigh to shove two fingers in her cunt right as his lips curl around her clit.

Granger gasps loudly, holding his head pressed to her as her back arches. Draco twists his fingers so that he strokes roughly against her front walls with each hard pump, reaching so deep that his rings slip inside her each time. He swirls his tongue around her clit, alternating between sucking and flicking his tongue over her; and it's not long before Granger’s legs tremble violently, before she curls over him and comes on a dragged-out moan, clamping down on his fingers. But Draco doesn’t stop his assault, doesn’t rein in his harsh pumps, and a second later Granger’s moan hitches into a keen and a rush of sticky wetness floods his fingers, dripping down his hand and underneath his cuff.

He gives her clit one last hard suck before moving to her entrance and extracting his fingers, more wetness dripping into his open mouth as he drinks from her and licks her through the end of her orgasm.

When her fingers go slack in his hair, Draco presses one last open-mouthed kiss to her cunt before dragging himself away from her, Granger’s legs sliding off his shoulders as he leans back in his chair, tasting her all over his face.

When he looks at Granger, she’s flushed, her chest rising and falling in irregular breaths, legs shaking where they’re still spread open. Draco smirks at her before cleaning his wet fingers over her thigh, smearing her skin. He rubs the back of his hand underneath his chin, drying himself, and opens his mouth to speak—but then Granger’s legs are sliding off the chair and onto the ground, and in the next breath, she’s kneeling in front of him, shaky hands fumbling at his belt, a needy but determined expression in her eyes as she stares up at him.

“Fuck,” Draco groans as her hand finds him through his pants and squeezes, right over his head, right over the wet spot he’s left there. Granger makes a strangled noise, hands frantic as they unbutton him and drag his pants and underwear down until his cock springs free, hard and leaking, the crown an angry red colour.

Granger stares at it, eyes wide, licking her lips, before she wraps her fist around him and pumps, hard and tight, making Draco hiss and push up in her hand.

Granger reaches forward, one hand clenched on his thigh, and doesn’t hesitate to swallow him down, her warm mouth wrapping around half of him in one smooth move, tongue pressed to his underside.

“Fucking hell, Granger.”

Draco grits his teeth as both his hands rise into her hair, dislodging her wand, curls falling everywhere.

Granger moans as he wraps her curls around his fingers, the vibrations of her throat making him groan. He shifts his hips, feeding her more of his cock until he hits the back of her throat and she gags, sputtering, saliva dripping down onto his balls. Her throat spasms around him and he keeps her there, choking on his cock, the fit of her delicious, before pulling her away by her hair and letting her gulp down air.

“You’re such a fucking slut, Granger.” Draco pushes the tip of his cock against her lips and she opens her mouth, sucking his head and pressing her tongue against his slit. “Rushing to suck my cock. Pretty fucking whore.”

He pushes her down on him again, his dick fitting snugly in her mouth, which feels perfect wrapped around him. Her grip tightens around his base as she sucks him down until her lips touch her fingers.

Draco can’t look away from the way his cock disappears into her mouth, how her lips are stretched around him, how she’s all flushed and rosy as her eyes flutter closed. He sets a sloppy rhythm, alternating between letting her suck him how she wants to and pressing her face closer his crotch until she swallows around him and gags. It’s wet and messy and filthy, and it’s not long before Draco wraps his hand around hers and pulls her off his cock, keeping her still by her hair as his balls draw up and his orgasm tears through him. He comes all over her face on a long groan, guiding her hand to fist him through it, painting her cheeks and her hair and her neck as white-hot pleasure floods him.

When he blinks his eyes open, the sight of Granger with his come all over her face threatens to get him hard again, and he bites his lip when she licks some of his seed off her lip, whining and reaching forwards to suckle at his softening cock, licking him clean.

Draco hisses when she sucks at his tip, too sensitive now, and he drags her away from him, pulling her hand off his dick and tucking himself back in his pants.

He runs one hand through his hair, shaking it to clear the pleasure fog that has scrambled his brains—Granger’s mouth the sole cause of it—then he drops his hand to Granger’s hair, sliding it through her curls and cupping her cheek, trying to settle his breathing. Draco runs his thumb over her cheek, smearing his come into her skin, then he smirks down at her, her lips an obscene shade of red and her eyes glassy.

“You do look very pretty with my come all over your face, Granger.”


Hermione can still feel the blush on her face minutes later, while trying once again to pack her bag and leave.

After she’d stood up on shaky legs, slipping her knickers back on, Malfoy still staring at her with heat simmering in his eyes, she’d picked up her wand from the floor and had scourgified Malfoy’s seed from her face and hair, though the heady taste of him remained heavy on her tongue.

He’d just—the way he’d looked at her, as she’d pleasured herself in front of him, the utter want she’d seen in his face and the way he’d fucking made out with her cunt, it had all driven her wild, and she’d been desperate to have his cock in her—mouth, cunt; anything would’ve worked, but mouth seemed the most feasible.

She’d loved choking on his cock, but even more, she’d loved it when he’d come all over her, lewd as it was. It had quelled a needy part of her, satisfying a hazy craving she didn’t know she had.

It had been intense. The way he had looked at her, spoke to her. Too much.

Her heart hasn’t slowed down yet.

“Don’t go back to the Gryffindor dorm, Granger.”

Hermione stills her packing, her attention drifting from her books to Malfoy, standing next to her now, leaning against the table, arms crossed. She furrows her brows. “Why not?”

His fingers reach for the collar of her sweater, toying with it, the back of his hand brushing against her throat. His hair is a mess, lips still slightly red, and Hermione’s gaze fixes on them as he speaks.

Malfoy hasn’t kissed her properly yet. Hermione wants him to.

“Sleep in my dorm tonight.”

Malfoy’s words snap her attention back to his eyes and she raises her eyebrows, scoffing under her breath as she turns back to her bag, even as his request makes her whole body flush.

What would it be like, sleeping in his bed? Falling asleep next to him, his arms around her waist, pulling her back to him—would he let her press her ear against his chest and listen to his heartbeat? Would he be that vulnerable with her? But—no. She can’t be that vulnerable with him. She can’t risk sleeping next to him, her nightmares too close for comfort. But maybe she could stay awake through the night, watch him—no. No.

“No.”

“Granger—”

“No,” she pushes the last book in her bag and pulls the front flap shut. “I’m not sleeping in your dorm.”

Malfoy sighs. “Always so contrary, Granger.” The next thing she knows is that his arms are around her waist and he’s swinging her over a shoulder, arm wrapping around the back of her thighs.

Hermione makes a very undignified sound, blood rushing to her head as her hands grapple at his coat. Her hair ends up in her mouth, curls everywhere as she tries to keep her balance.

“Malfoy,” she hisses, glaring at his shoes as she tries to twist out of his grip. “Put. Me. Down,” every word is accentuated by a punch to his back. “I don’t want to go to your dorm.”

“I wasn’t giving you a choice, sweetheart,” he says, the smug tone in his voice making her vision go red. She kicks her legs and pounds at his back as he shoves her wand in her bag and picks it up, leaving her table and walking towards the exit. Malfoy chuckles, hoisting her better on his shoulder and making her fist her hands in his clothes as the world spins around her.

“Put me down,” she hisses, putting all her—frankly, miserable—strength in her next hit, punching him in the ribs. Malfoy huffs another laugh. She screeches in frustration. “Malfoy!”

“Quit struggling,” Malfoy holds her legs down with an arm wrapped behind her knees, then she feels him lift her skirt up, and a moment later he slaps her ass, right where she’s bent over, his hand falling perfectly against her skin with a loud smack, fingers brushing against her cunt and making her jolt. “Malfoy!”

“You’re sleeping with me tonight, Granger.” Hermione recognizes the Library entrance when he gets to it from the way the floor looks. A second later Malfoy whispers the chant to open the doors and then they’re outside, his steps echoing in the dark corridors.

“I want you warm and naked next to me, so that I can roll you over and fuck you first thing in the morning.”

Hermione makes another undignified sound, hands clawing at his back even as a heat that has little to do with the blood pooling in her head rises in her cheeks. “No,” she manages to say, weakly kicking her legs again as the arm he has wrapped around them tightens.

“Yes,” he says, the word rumbling through her chest where it’s pressed against his back. She sees the stone pattern through her curls change as he slips into another corridor, one she doesn’t recognise. “You don’t have a say in this, Granger.”

Malfoy’s hand slides from the back of her knees to the top of her thighs, and his fingers brush against her still exposed ass, right over her wet knickers, right before they slide underneath, fingers dancing over her cunt.

Hermione tries hard to stifle her gasp, punching his back again in an effort to hide how sensitive she still is, the barest brush of his fingers making her walls clench around nothing. Malfoy hums, fingers sliding against her before retreating to rest over her arse as he starts walking down a set of stairs.

It takes a couple of minutes—during which she keeps demanding he put her down only to be met with silence or hard nos—to reach the Slytherin Dormitory, and when they do he whispers the password, walking inside. Hermione tries to straighten up as he walks, crossing what must be the Slytherin Common Room, striding down another corridor, his steps the only sound in the utterly silent dorm. Then he opens a door—one she can only assume must lead to his room, and her heart begins pushing a frantic beat against her ribcage.

“No. Let me down,” she seethes. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy steps into the room—only to halt suddenly, his grip on her knees tightening. She hangs onto his coat.

“Is that Granger?” Nott’s voice is low when it crosses the curtain of her hair and reaches her ears and Hermione gasps, immediately trying to cover her very exposed ass, all the while cursing Malfoy in all the ways she knows how.

“Of course it is,” Malfoy replies. “Who else would it be?” Then his fingers spread wide over her cheeks and he says, lower and threatening, “Stop staring at her arse.”

Hermione chokes on her breath, failing to pull her skirt down.

“It’s quite distracting,” Nott says.

Malfoy snaps her skirt down and over her ass, keeping one hand there possessively. Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever been this mortified in her life. She struggles against Malfoy’s hold, then hisses at him to let her down, only to be ignored, again.

“Don’t fucking look at her, Nott.”

Nott scoffs. “You brought her to our room. It’s going to be hard not to look at her.”

“I don’t care. Find a way, or leave.” Malfoy closes the door behind him, then takes a couple of steps and suddenly Hermione’s centre of gravity is changing again and she’s being thrown onto a soft mattress, bouncing against the silken sheets.

Her hair is everywhere and she pushes it away from her face, immediately glaring at Malfoy, who’s standing at the foot of the bed—his bed—with a disgustingly smug expression.

Fuck you,” she hisses, grabbing the first pillow she finds and throwing it at his smug face just for him to twist to the side and avoid it, his smirk turning downright aggravating. “I didn’t want to come here.”

“You still think I care about what you want?”

Hermione screams in frustration and scrambles to her knees, reaching for him, grabbing a fistful of his coat and fuck it—she’s going to slap the shit out of him and it’s going to be so satisfying and she won’t regret it one bit.

She pulls him roughly towards her, hand unwillingly turning into a fist—fuck slapping him—but then she’s suddenly flat on the bed again, Malfoy’s hands pushing her wrists against the mattress, his hips straddling hers, his whole weight holding her down. Hermione yells a closed-mouth scream of frustration, trying to free her wrists. Malfoy raises a mocking eyebrow. “Are you quite done?”

Hermione glares at him, narrowing her eyes into slits. “Get. Off. Me.”

Malfoy clucks his tongue. His grey eyes are dark and equally as narrowed. “No,” he leans his face closer to her. “I so enjoy making you angry, Granger. You get all pretty and flushed.” He smirks down at her. “Then again, you also get like that when you come on my cock.”

“Do you want me to spit in your face again, Malfoy?”

Malfoy chuckles, then leans down to lick a strip along the side of her throat. Hermione hates that it makes her throb. “You can try. Then you can lick it back up and use it to suck my cock again.”

“Okay, I think I’ve seen enough,” Nott’s voice breaks through and Hermione jerks away from Malfoy’s mouth—which is now leaving kisses all along her throat, twisting her head to the opposite side, her eyes finally falling on Nott.

He’s standing in what Hermione now understands is the middle of their shared room, sweatpants hung low on his hips and a t-shirt in his hand. Hermione immediately blushes at the sight, at the smooth planes of lean muscles on display, at the dark trail of hair that reaches for his belly button and disappears below the waistband of his joggers. When she realizes she’s staring, Malfoy’s tongue still trailing down her throat, she snaps her eyes up to Nott’s face, only to find him already staring at her, eyes wide, the uncertain expression on his face betrayed by his flush as he stays frozen in place, eyes locked on hers.

For a moment, Hermione wonders what it must be like, to be with two people at once, to have one at her front and one at her back, their whole attention on her, their hands, their mouths—but then Malfoy bites at the bend of her shoulder, hard, and Hermione gasps, trying to flinch away from the pain.

“Don’t even think about it, Granger,” Malfoy murmurs in her neck and her breath catches in her throat, her whole face turning hot. Malfoy moves so that he holds both her wrists in one grip, his free hand sliding down and cupping her sex, the tips of his fingers pressing the fabric of her panties into her entrance. “This is all mine. I’m not sharing.”

Hermione makes a choked sound, still staring at Nott—who has a perfect view of where Malfoy’s hand is, half-hidden beneath her skirt. Hermione doesn’t know why she doesn’t look away from him, why she doesn’t close her eyes when Malfoy pushes the fabric to the side and slides his fingers deep inside her, making her arch into him and stifle a whimper in her throat as he stretches her open—even just his fingers so much more than just her own. With the way he’s sitting on the top of her thighs the fit is tight, barely enough space for him to push inside her, and she’s still sensitive and wet from earlier, yet it makes her blood run hot, with how filthy and wrong it is to do this with Nott still staring at them.

Nott’s lips are parted, stare fixed on the space between her body and Malfoy’s as Malfoy drags his fingers out and pushes them back inside her leisurely, fingertips pressing against her front walls.

Malfoy chooses that moment to lift his face from her neck, staring down at her with dark eyes before he twists to look over his shoulder at Nott.

“Nott,” he growls, and the way Nott’s name rolls off his tongue surely shouldn’t make her clench around his fingers, yet it does. Hermione doesn’t know if it's because Nott is still staring at them or if it's because of the possessive, lethal edge in Malfoy’s voice.

“Right,” Nott’s voice is tighter than it was before as he turns around, giving them his back, and stalks to his bedside table, snatching up his wand. He casts a spell Hermione doesn’t recognise and a moment later wards shimmer into existence, cutting the room in half, separating him from them. They turn cloudy as Nott finishes chanting and on the next breath they turn a deep charcoal colour, cracks and bricks appearing in them—a new wall in the middle of the room, identical to the ones separating the three of them from the rest of the dorm.

“He’s not completely stupid, then,” Malfoy mutters, before popping his fingers out of her cunt and sliding them in his mouth.

Hermione wants to moan at the sight of it, but—“Did he just build a wall in the middle of your room?”

Malfoy pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a soft pop, then lifts smoothly off her and off the bed, standing at the foot of it once more. He cocks an eyebrow at her as he takes off his coat and throws it carelessly on the floor. “Would you rather he hadn’t?”

Hermione stutters, pushing herself up on her elbows, all her annoyance momentarily forgotten. “I, no—”

“No?”

“Yes, I mean—I mean, yes. The wall is good.”

“The wall is very good Granger, because I plan to do truly awful things to you tonight and having to hurt Theo for watching would be quite the inconvenience.”

She’s still blushing furiously, staring at him as he takes off his black sweater, miles of pale skin and scars extending in front of her eyes. Hermione’s pulse starts racing, her irritation pushed to the side by the heat that starts growing again in her belly. Malfoy removes his shoes and unbuckles his belt, yet he doesn’t remove his pants before he crawls over her.

He gives her that infuriating smirk. “Unless, of course, you want to ask me something,” Malfoy grabs her jaw with one hand and pulls her head upwards, so that his lips brush against her with each word, touching; but not quite a kiss. Her hands rise to his flanks, nails digging into his skin as he settles over her. She can feel the ridges of a scar beneath her hand, and suddenly all she cares about is tasting it.

“If you ask me very, very nicely, I might consider letting him watch as I fuck you, so that he knows who your cunt belongs to, now. I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Fucking dirty slut that you are.”

Hermione doesn’t hear anything else after he crashes his lips to hers, Malfoy’s words replaced by his groans and her whimpers as he fucks her, and fucks her, and fucks her until she collapses from sheer exhaustion, naked and bruised, with her face in his pillows and his arm wrapped around her waist.


 

Notes:

ahhh my dear little delulu boy... what are you getting yourself into?
and theo. my love. my little baby. you're too adorable <3
as always, mega thanks go out to my amazing betas, Raquel Mads and Jenny, who had to deal with me complaining about this freaking chapter way too much!! i'd be half-lost without you guys!
and as always, thank you for all the love on this fic. I started writing this as a way to deal with some personal issues, and it warms my heart to know that this story is resonating with other people, too. you're not alone. I hope this story can offer you even just a little bit of comfort, somehow; as it does for me. thank you for reading <333

amazing amazing fanart made by @/kelserly on insta!! <3333

Chapter 16

Summary:

please check the A/N at the beginning of this chapter for content warning!

Notes:

hi! please click below for a content warning. the scene that may be triggering is the third one in this chapter. you can totally skip it if you want!

Content Warning:

Somnophilia, Non-Con Elements

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

There is snow on the ground. It glints, gilded by the sun.

Hermione covers her eyes. They hurt. She can’t stand to watch.

A cloak is draped over her shoulders. Dark. It weighs too much.

She’s naked underneath.

“What have you done?”

Hermione cries.

Someone stands in front of her. All she sees is a silver mask. A hood. A nameless being.

Yet she knows them.

They hold out their hand. Black gloves. There’s periwinkle between their fingers, stained red.

They hold the dress out to her.

“Who are you?”

The sky is grey. Cold. Ugly. Hermione looks up. No sun anymore.

It’s raining. It gets into her eyes.

The rainwater is heavy. It tugs at her dress, dragging her down.

The earth swallows her whole.

It tastes like salt.

She pushes a door open.

She knows where she is—but she doesn’t, either.

The sensation of having been here before crawls through her, like spiders up her veins.

Deja-vu. Or maybe not.

There’s a thread pulling her somewhere.

She’s in a house.

The sky is golden now. Brocade swirls, grim-faced paintings.

She walks down stairs. Drags her bloodied fingers over the metal railing. It’s slippery.

Her dress is still wet. But heavier. Stickier. She wants to take it off.

The marble is cold against her feet. There are puddles across the chequered floor.

She jumps from square to square. Only on the blacks.

A laugh echoes through the bones of the house.

A giggle.

Hermione’s feet splash into a puddle.

She looks down at her toes. Wiggles them. The blood feels strange over her skin. Slick.

Hermione giggles again.

Lays belly down on the floor. Staining her whole dress.

She sets the point of her knife against the line where black and white meet. Spins it around.

Then carves a word into the marble. It scratches at her every nerve.

Then there are steps—coming down the stairs. Quick. Light. Mad.

Hermione whips her head around. Catches a flurry of black. The hem is torn.

She gets up and runs, the knife tight in her hand.

The kitchen is a mess. Everything destroyed.

She remembers doing that. Or maybe not.

She jumps over a corpse. Two. Three.

Glass shards pierce her heels. They don’t stop her.

Nothing stops her.

She sees the black again, disappearing behind a corner.

Follows it up other stairs, these ones go around and around.

They never seem to end.

She’s at the top of a tower, but it’s also a bedroom.

The bed sheets are pink.

Bellatrix smiles at her from between the satin.

“I could’ve made a monster out of you.”

Her voice is soft, light.

“You could’ve been my perfect girl.”

A knife clatters onto the floor.

Hermione walks towards the bed. Crawls over her. Bellatrix’s skin is soft. Warm.

Hermione tastes it.

Hands rip at her dress. Her back meets pink.

Bellatrix leaves a kiss on her lips. On her solar plexus. On her navel.

Then she caresses her forearm. There is longing in the touch.

She leaves a kiss there, too.

“You already had it all in you, my darling mudblood.”

Hands are in her hair. Between her thighs. In her mouth.

“Useless, wicked thing. You could’ve loved me.”

Sweetness fills the room. Her legs start shaking. She hides her face in the pillows.

Bellatrix’s body is hot against hers. There are teeth at her throat. They bite their way down her skin.

“How many did you kill?”

Hermione remembers. Or maybe not.

Bellatrix whispers it against her cunt.

“Thirty-seven.”


The sword is heavy in his hand. Aching, damning.

He looks down at the girl at his feet. Her armour shines.

He can still taste the gold on her—the blessing that hides between her legs, the sins as soft as her hair.

He raises his sword, presses the point of it underneath her chin.

She looks up at him, defiant and broken.

She used to be so much more.

He used to be so much more.

But his crown is heavy on his head. He could never share the weight.

“You ask too much of me,” he says. His voice is strong. He knows what he must do. “You ask too much.”

She smiles. Her crown is crooked. Her eyes tell him everything he does not want to hear.

“I ask what you cannot bring yourself to, my King.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I will not give it to you.”

“You cannot give it to yourself.”

“I do not need it.”

“You do.”

He plunges the sword into her neck.


Draco wakes on a rushed exhale.

He keeps his eyes closed. Lets the dream fade away, lets his heartbeat settle. The phantom weight of a sword in his hand disappears.

He curls himself tighter around Granger.

Her back fits against his chest as if made exactly for this—for him. He pulls her closer, presses against her so that their bodies are two long lines, legs tangled together, one arm around her waist and the other beneath her head. He doesn’t open his eyes even when he feels her heart beating over his.

She feels perfect against him—close and warm and naked.

Draco caresses the skin of her belly, his fingertips drawing circles up her navel, dipping into her belly button, between the valleys of her ribs.

Slowly, wakefulness knocks at his door.

He inches closer to her. Noise trickles past his senses, and he starts to make out the sounds of the dorm waking up around him—someone dropping something upstairs; a loud laugh somewhere else; the sound of a door slamming shut.

Then a whimper, soft; echoing underneath his hand.

Draco opens his eyes then, dark sheets and curls greeting him. The whimper comes again, more of a gasp than anything else, and he shifts, extracting his arm from beneath Granger’s head just enough to raise up on his elbow and stare down at her.

Her hair hides her profile from him, her face half-hidden in his pillow. Draco’s hand drifts from the warm skin of her waist to rise towards her face, and he runs his fingers over her curls, pushing them behind her ear and exposing her face.

She’s crying, tear tracks wetting her cheeks, her brows pulled into a frown.

As he watches her, Granger sobs—a strangled, repressed thing that makes her curl tighter into herself, her leg twitching where they’re tangled with his, her hands curling into fists and pressing underneath her chin.

Fresh tears roll down her face and Draco follows the path they take, the way one slips over the bridge of her nose, another settles over her top lip.

The urge rises in him, to push inside her mind unaware, to reach inside her nightmare and see for himself what is making her cry. Curiosity pushes the last vestiges of sleep far away from him, and Draco stares as Granger cries. He wants to do it, wants to dip inside her mind again—has thought about it more than once since that night; but the need to get Granger to trust him holds him back.

He needs her to trust him. And if this is the one thing he cannot do, then tough luck. He’s going to have to get his answers in a different way.

But at least; he thinks he knows her better now—in sleep. He has an answer to one of his questions. When Granger sleeps, sometimes she cries.

Last night, when she had fallen asleep, she had been soft; like in the Library.

He’d watched her for long minutes. Sheets thrown at her feet, face down in his bed, one knee hitched high at her side. She’d fallen asleep immediately, soft breaths filling the quiet room, and Darco had stayed on his knees between her legs, eyes learning every soft curve and sharp angle of her body. Her legs had been trembling still, sweat dotting a line down her spine. His seed had been dripping out of her. Draco had stared at it—at her swollen cunt, at his release trickling down her thigh and onto the silk, until he’d pushed it back inside her.

She’d been drenched and soft. Her breath hadn’t even hitched when he’d slipped his fingers inside, and if he hadn’t been tired himself, he’d have fucked her again just to keep her filled up.

But Draco isn’t tired now.

Granger whimpers again, hiding her face into the pillow, and Draco wishes she would open her eyes, just to see how pretty the brown in them looks when wet with tears. Slowly, he inches away from her, removing his arm from beneath her head; and shifts her, pulling gently at her shoulder and settling her with her back against the mattress.

His eyes immediately drop to her chest. Her nipples are hard, breasts heavy and marked with the bruises he left on them some hours ago, already a dark purple. His cock gives a twitch and he bends, sucking one pert bud into his mouth, tasting her again, gently—more gentle than he ever is with her.

Draco lavishes her skin, swirling his tongue around her nipple, sucking it lightly before releasing it with one last lick, leaving it wet and gleaming. He does the same with the other, licking at the soft skin of her breast, setting his teeth down where she’s palest and biting gently, restraining himself as his cock grows harder and the urge to have her cunt wrapped around him grows. But the idea of taking her like this sends heat through his veins, so Draco explores her with slow licks, taking it slow, exploring every inch of her chest with his mouth and tongue as Granger keeps dreaming.

When she flinches in her sleep, another sob escaping her, Draco lifts from the path his tongue had taken down her stomach, rising to look at her face. Her eyes move beneath her lids and her lips twitch, as if words want to spill out of them. Fresh tears are heavy on her lashes, and as he stares they roll down her cheek and onto his pillowcase.

Suddenly a wave of pure jealousy overcomes him.

Draco doesn’t want her to cry for anyone else, anything else. He hates the tears that streak her face, hates whoever is causing them to spill from her pretty eyes, hates whatever nightmare she’s trapped in. Loathes it. Granger’s tears should be his.

Draco wants her to cry only for him.

He settles between her thighs again, parting them to fit between them and sitting back on his heels, his cock bumping against his stomach. Draco fists it and pumps himself with unhurried glides as he lifts one of Granger’s knees, propping it up and against his flank.

His eyes fall on the bruises that pepper her inner thighs, and a wicked satisfaction pushes some of the jealousy away. This is how Granger should look, always.

Black and blue, covered in his marks. His.

A bead of pre-come rolls down his slit and he squeezes the tip of his cock, shivering, before pumping himself one last time as he stares down at her sleeping form.

How gorgeous—to have her quiet and crying in his bed like this, her body one sweet, bruised feast for him to devour.

Draco grabs her hips and delicately lifts her onto his spread thighs, her arse firm under his hands as he pulls her closer.

He looks at her face as he grabs his cock and drags the tip over her cunt, smearing her with his arousal. He finds that she’s already a bit wet—not much; but enough for him to drag in a shaky breath, for his stomach to clench in pleasure when he notches the tip against her entrance and breaches her with just the head of his cock.

Draco stills, barely inside her, eyes fixed on her face. Her brows are still pulled into a frown, her expression unsettled. There’s no softness in her sleep now. But she’s tight and warm, squeezing him already, and he pushes his hips forward just a bit more, before inching backwards, watching as the nightmare Granger is trapped in causes her to twist her head to the side, fingers clawing at the sheets.

He slides into her again, reaching a bit deeper, half his cock disappearing inside her. His eyes lock downwards, to where she’s stretched around him, and the visual sends him in overdrive. Draco’s cock drags against her walls as he slowly inches back again, one hand wrapped around her thigh and one over her hip, keeping her still. The tip of him slips out, red and leaking, veins bulging with how fucking hard he is, so much it’s almost painful. He gathers saliva on his tongue and spits it onto her cunt, wetting her; before pushing inside her again, her warmth and the decadent, dirty feeling of sheathing himself inside her without her knowing making goosebumps explode over his skin.

He fucks her with slow, shallow thrusts that eat at his self-control, chipping it away inch by inch as he makes her take more of him. When she sobs or flinches or gasps; her cunt tightens around him and it causes Draco to groan each time—the unexpectedness of her movements keeping him on the edge until he has to let go of her thigh with how much he’s squeezing her, grasping at the sheets instead.

When he bottoms out, his hips pressing snugly against her, Draco releases a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes tightly. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest, blood pumping fast and hot in his veins, pleasure bright in him as his senses narrow down to the way Granger’s cunt feels around his cock.

He grinds his hips against hers, relishing in just how perfectly he fits inside her—how he stretches her, to the point where he thinks it must hurt. Draco moves, leaning over her, sliding one hand beneath her waist and pulling her up, pressing her chest against his as he keeps still, as he lets her warm his cock, trembling with the effort but savouring every second of it.

He could get used to this.

Draco slides out, slowly, feeling everything, then pushes back inside her just as Granger cries out on a sob stronger than the others; her cunt squeezing him tightly.

He drops down onto his elbow, feeling her nipples press against his chest as his lips find the bend of her throat. His fingers trail upwards to grasp her breast as he slides out of her, hips snapping forward hard on his next thrust as his control snaps with the taste of her pulse over his tongue.

Draco pulls out and slams into her wet warmth, nails digging into her soft flesh. Granger cries out again—a gasp, followed by a choked scream, and Draco smiles against her throat as he ruts her. Finally.

Granger’s hands are on him in a flash, nails scratching and drawing blood as she tries to get away from him, useless cries falling from her lips, feet scrambling on the mattress. She twists her head away from him, fingers clawing at his hair and dragging him away, and a hiss escapes him.

He thrusts harder into her as her tear-filled eyes meet his, wide and scared.

Stop—

Draco kisses her, hand leaving her breast to wrap around her throat, pressing her into the bed.

She doesn’t kiss him back, twisting her head away again, and Draco grabs her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

“Look at me when I fuck you, Granger. I told you last night.”

He punctuates the last word with a deep thrust and Granger cries out, tears spilling anew down her cheeks, and Draco pushes two of his fingers in her mouth, shutting her up.

He leans forward, licking her tears as they fall from her eyes, before burying his face in her neck again as she tries to force him away, pulling at his hair, pushing at his stomach. Trying to fight him off. As if she ever could.

“This is just making me harder, you know?” He groans with a sharp drive of his hips, the friction perfect, her fight making her clench him even more tightly.

“You’re vile,” she spits, pulling his hair again with such strength that he curses from the pain, then laughs.

“You knew that already.”

Draco slips out of her, cock slapping against his abs and leaving wet smears of their mixed arousal over his skin. He smirks down at her, at how flushed from the tears and the fight she is—because she’s a liar. Trying to get him to stop when she likes this. He knows she does. Has felt it in the way her pulse had sped up beneath his mouth.

Before she can curse him again he manhandles her, flipping her onto her belly. Granger scrambles, trying to crawl away from him, but Draco simply laughs again, low and dangerous, gripping her hips and dragging her back.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Draco feels unhinged, driven crazy by her closeness and her warmth and her sweet, tight cunt.. He wraps his hand around the nape of her neck, curls slipping through his fingers, and presses her face against the mattress, keeping her pinned down.

Then he pulls her hips back, arching her back just enough for him to notch himself back at her entrance and push inside her, breath hitching when he finds her more relaxed than before, so wet his cock slips inside with ease.

“Look at that, Hermione,” he whispers in her ear, leaning over her, his chest against her back. “You like this just as much as me.”

“Fuck of— ” her words are broken up by a gasp when Draco draws back and thrusts inside her again, setting a pace that has him groaning and panting in her ear, clutching the sheets and her curls, drowning in the pleasure her cunt gives him.

He will never get enough of it.

On a particularly vicious thrust Granger moans, hips arching into him, and Draco grins. Her hands look for purchase, finding it in the sheets as little whimpers start to escape her, one more breathless than the next. Draco’s hips snap against her arse relentlessly and his fingers find hers, tangling with her smaller ones.

He tightens his grip around her neck, feeling his orgasm building under his skin. “Can you come just like this? Just from my cock and your face pressed in my sheets?”

He grinds his hips against her, the head of his cock bumping against her cervix and making her groan, her walls fluttering around him. “I think you can, Hermione. Be a good girl and do that for me, yes?”

He doesn’t hear her reply, lost as he is in the way she squeezes around him, in the way his cock slides in and out of her, slippery and wet, in the way she moans and whimpers as he drives deeper into her.

Fuck, she wants him—even like this, even when she shouldn’t, even when he fucks her without asking; she wants him, arches into him, pants his name into his sheets—

Pleasure snaps up his spine like lightning, muscles seizing as his vision whites out at the thought. Draco slams inside her and stills, grinding his hips against her arse as he comes, spilling deep into her cunt. He’s breathless for a second and then Granger’s coming, squeezing tight around him, sobbing his name.

Draco had forced her to only call him by name last night, obsessed with how those five letters rolled so sweetly off her tongue, and hearing it now, even without a request, has him pressing harder inside her, spilling his seed until he feels drained dry. He groans as her orgasm tears through her, reaching down and biting her shoulder as her cunt fills with his release.

It takes Granger a moment to find her breathing, and Draco lays a kiss over the teeth marks he’s left on her skin, another bruise to add to the collection, waiting for her to relax; trying to catch his own breath.

Granger’s body goes soft under his after a minute, and when his cock begins to soften he slips out with a pleased sigh. Draco moves off of her, laying down on his side, then manhandles her again, twisting her, so her chest is pressed to his and he can wrap his arms around her, one hand finding its way between her curls.

Draco looks down at her, eyes searching her face— her red-rimmed eyes and the flush on the bridge of her nose and the creases the sheets have left on one of her cheeks.

Granger glares at him.

Draco smirks. “Morning, sweetheart.”


Her body feels too tired to move out of Malfoy’s arms.

Hermione tries to steady her breathing, glaring up at him as the hand he has in her hair massages her scalp.

She should be yelling at him. Hexing him. Hurting him.

He—she doesn’t have proper words for what he did, for the way her heart had jumped in her throat when she’d woken to feel him hard and thick inside of her, his body pressing hers into the sheets, his grunts in her ear.

Pure, undiluted fear had scorched her for a moment, the nightmare she had been ripped away from still so raw and real—but it hadn’t been real, Bellatrix wasn’t the one in bed with her, body and hands and lips hot against hers. No—it had been Malfoy, and somehow the sound of his voice and the feel of his body on hers had pushed the echo of Bellatrix away.

It was Malfoy—not anyone else. His tongue, his cock, his hands flipping her, moving her, using her however he wanted, not a single care spared for whether she wanted it or not.

He’d been all she could feel, hear, smell for those long minutes—only him and his words and the fear and disgust and excitement that had flowed through her, his cock filling her up and the way the sheets rubbed against her with every one of his thrusts and the fact that it does something to her, to know that he doesn’t care for niceties when it comes to her.

Hermione glares at him, though she doesn’t move away, locked as she is in his embrace.

She should, but as her body cools, as the heat that had engulfed her like a flame dwindles with every passing second, the nightmare tiptoes back into her mind, filling her with a jittery nervousness that Malfoy’s hand running up and down her spine doesn’t push far away enough.

She drops her eyes from his, staring at his throat, as the high from her orgasm fades, leaving her cold and shaky.

Air gets stuck in her throat as the way Bellatrix had smiled flashes through her mind, the way she had touched her, kissed her; the way Hermione had crawled to her, the way she’d hung onto her every word.

Nausea churns her stomach as she recalls the chequered pattern of the floor at the Manor, the puddles of blood she’d splashed through. Hermione feels phantom blood seeping through her toes, and a strangled sound escapes her as she curls herself against Malfoy’s chest, trying to escape her mind, to chase the fleeting pleasure that had filled her body, squeezing her eyes shut as her hands start to shake and she—she doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want to feel it, not now, not in front of him, not ever because she hates how her dreams make her feel and she—she can’t, she—

Malfoy tugs at her curls, sharp pain searing her scalp, and her head is wrenched back, away from where she was hiding against him. She looks up at him, panicked, because she can hear Bellatrix’s laugh in her mind and she doesn’t want to and what had she done and the kitchen had been destroyed and Bellatrix had told her—

“Stop, Granger.” Malfoy’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, sharp and cold, but it doesn’t stop her from taking one panicked breath after another, her head beginning to spin, her fingers shaking wildly. “Granger. Hermione. Stop.”

“I—” She looks at him, but all she can see is Bellatrix, all she can hear is her maniacal laugh as she had tortured her ringing over and over and—

Malfoy kisses her, mouth harsh against hers, and she gasps against his lips, tears spilling down her cheeks, and—and why is she crying again why is the panic eating her up and why can’t her mind let her rest and why—

Malfoy rips himself away from her, and she thinks she sees a flash of something akin to worry in his eyes, but her tears blur her vision and she can’t be sure—

His mouth is on hers again the next instant, his hand cupping her face, and he’s moving over her, tongue pushing out and flicking against her lips.

“Hermione, enough,” he whispers over her mouth, letting her bear his weight, his body heavy, warm, real against hers and maybe—yes, yes, this is what she needs, something real to push away the images that haunt her, something she can touch, taste, something that can drag her away from herself and away from—

Hermione raises her shaking hands, cups his jaw as she squeezes her eyes tightly shut, moving her mouth against his even as her lungs scream for oxygen and her chest feels like it’s about to explode.

Malfoy kisses her frantically and she tries to keep up with his urgency, chasing his lips, his tongue. He groans into her mouth and Hermione eats the sound, swallows it down and takes it as the proof it is—that she is here, in Malfoy’s bed, in his arms, his lips on hers; and not in that blasted bedroom, not with her.

She sucks his bottom lip in her mouth, hands tangling in his hair and bringing him closer, urging him to do it again—to make her forget, to push away the nightmare, to make her scared and mad so that she doesn’t have to think about anything else but him him him.

“Hermione—” Malfoy separates their lips and Hermione keens, desperate. “Hermione, stop.” He kisses her again, but when she tries to deepen the kiss he pulls away, his forehead dropping against hers. “Stop. Look at me.”

Hermione doesn’t want to, because—because if she keeps her eyes closed she can continue existing in this bubble made up by him and her and his hands on her skin and his voice in her ear and nothing else.

His hand slides down to cup her jaw, fingers digging into her cheek so much it hurts, her teeth catching the inside of her cheek and drawing blood. “Look at me.”

Hermione opens her eyes, gaze immediately locking on Malfoy's silver eyes, bright and endless. There’s a tightness in his expression now, not a trace left of the satisfied smirk he’d given her before. Her eyes bounce between his as he stares down at her, falling to his parted lips for just a moment, watching them as they move.

“It was just a dream, Granger.” She looks back at him then, her ribs feeling uncomfortably tight, because she knows it was a dream, but it’s never just a dream, never just—“A dream. It was a dream. Breathe.”

Hermione looks at him; feels his hair beneath her fingers, his chest rising and falling against hers, his breath brushing over her lips.

He kisses her again, and her eyes flutter shut at the unbearable gentleness of the touch, at the softness of it, of his mouth pressing against hers as if she were a fragile thing he didn’t want to break. “Breathe.”

Hermione breathes, taking in a rattling inhale that hurts her chest. She opens her eyes, finding Malfoy once again staring down at her. “Good girl.” His thumb swipes over her cheekbone. He looks beautiful. “Another.”

Hermione takes another trembling breath, incapable of looking away from him. Unwilling to look away from him.

“Good.” Malfoy’s mouth curls at a corner, a thread pulling his lips into a small smile and hooking into Hermione’s heart, making it skip a beat. “Good,” he says again, before leaning down to give her a chaste kiss and moving off her body, the absence of his weight on hers sending a jolt through her bones.

Malfoy lays down on his side again and pulls her close. Hermione follows, tucking herself back against his chest, her legs tangling with his, hands settling over his steady heartbeat.

Malfoy’s hand rises to the back of her head, fingers twisting in her hair. He pushes her face against the bend of his neck, one hand splaying wide over the small of her back. Hermione presses closer, her nose tracing a line over his throat, lips pressing against his collarbone.

The panic releases its grip on her then, something fluttering between her ribs in its place.

“It was just a dream, Granger. Just a dream.”

Just a dream. She whispers it against his skin.


She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, exactly; but it’s long enough for her panic to disappear, for Bellatrix’s laughter to fade into the dark recess of her mind where she stores all her nightmares.

Malfoy stays quiet, his unwavering breaths playing with her curls, his fingers counting the knobs of her spine, up and down and down and up, until she thinks he’s learnt them all.

At a certain point she closes her eyes and loses herself in the smell of his skin, in the salty taste of it beneath her lips. Her fingers play with one of his scars. It bisects his pectoral, starting from his shoulder and thinning out when it reaches his solar plexus. Hermione’s fingers trace it slowly, feeling the scarred tissue, the unevenness of it, the parts where it’s tougher and the parts where it’s softer, committing it to memory.

She knows what this is.

It’s different from anything that has existed between them before. Strange. Impossible. It has nothing to do with them, with who they are, with what is growing, twisted, between them—yet Hermione recognizes it, though she hasn’t felt it in months.

Comfort.

Malfoy is comforting her.

She swallows when she realises, when she understands why she doesn’t want to push him away, why feeling him wrapped around her makes her mind settle for the first time in…too long.

Comfort.

When had she felt it last? When Molly had hugged her that time she visited her in her Ministry-assigned London flat after the trial? When she and Ginny had spent an afternoon reading in bed at the Burrow, Hermione’s head in Ginny’s lap and her friend’s fingers playing with her hair? When Ron had found her after the last battle and they had stayed there, in between the ruins, clinging to each other until the fact that they had made it out alive had started to feel real?

It hadn’t felt like this, then.

Nothing had felt like this.

There shouldn’t be space for comfort between them. It’s too soft a thing. It doesn’t fit the sharpness of their interactions, or the pain they’ve wrought on each other. The stinging way he pulls her hair. The violence with which she claws at him.

There is nothing soft between them. They are all jagged, sharp pieces of glass stuck into wounds that keep on bleeding.

They hurt each other. They don’t comfort each other.

But what is Malfoy doing, if not that? Why would he calm her down, kiss her gently, tell her to breathe and hug her to him if not to give her comfort?

Could it be? Could there be space for something like this between them?

He is already—different, in her mind.

Still mean and vile and odious, still too proud and egocentric and self-serving. But perhaps—perhaps he is also something more.

He is real. Present. She gets the sense that he doesn’t hide from life the way she does.

Malfoy is angry—always, constantly. A beast with raised hackles lives under his skin and she catches glimpses of it at times, in the way his eyes flash with rage and his fists clench by his sides. It scares her, on occasion. Because she’s scared he might take it out on her, yes—but mostly because she feels the same way, sometimes; feels a similar monster prowl inside herself and it scares her, because she’s never let herself be truly angry before, and she’s worried what damage the beast will do to her when it decides to break free of its cage.

He is also scared—for his mother, for his friends. She had seen it in his eyes, that day at the lake, and again last night in the Library, and it makes him even more real, this fear of his.

The lines begin to blur, as Hermione presses her palm over his heart and her lips over his pulse.

Does she even know who Draco Malfoy is? Is he what he does to her? What he’s done to her? Is he a mosaic of every good and bad choice he’s ever made or is he something else entirely, carved from something Hermione is yet to understand?

Who is he?

Why does she want to know?

“What are you thinking about?” His voice is hoarse, dry from disuse. Hermione feels the vibrations of his words underneath her palms. His fingers brush through her hair. “Your thoughts are always so very loud, Granger.”

Why does she want him to call her Hermione again?

“Nothing,” she says, burrowing her face deeper in his chest, fingers trailing down to brush over his waist.

Malfoy hums but stays quiet after that, and Hermione thinks of how she’d liked it last night when he’d asked her to call him Draco, how his name had rolled off her tongue, unfamiliar yet not, all hard consonants that turned soft as they left her lips.

Draco.

Draco isn’t Malfoy. They are similar, but not superimposable.

Malfoy, she thinks she knows.

Draco, she knows she doesn’t.

Who is he?

“What are you thinking about?” she asks against his scars when the quiet and her thoughts become too heavy.

Malfoy brushes his fingers through her hair again. “What were you dreaming about?”

Hermione opens her eyes. She stares at the hollow of his throat, at the necklace clasped around his neck, the ring that hangs from it. She studies it, studies the engravings around the simple silver band. They look like ivy, or something similar. She traces the contours of the ring with a finger.

“Bellatrix,” she says slowly, struggling to get the name out, each syllable getting stuck in her throat. She doesn’t know why she tells him this, why she doesn’t lie. Still, the words fill the space between them. “It’s almost always her.”

Malfoy’s fingers slip out of her hair, then she feels them again at her temple. They trace a path down the side of her face, tucking some stray hair behind her ear.

Malfoy sighs. “Sometimes I dream of her, too.” His thumb sweeps over her cheek. “Bellatrix…there was nothing good in her. She was as much of a monster as he was.”

Hermione doesn’t have to ask who he is. She knows who Malfoy is referring to.

“I—” the words rise in her, powerful, damning, begging to be released. She stares at that silver ring, at his scars. She thinks maybe he might understand. “I wish I had killed her. I wish it hadn’t been Molly.” Hermione says it in a rush, an exhaled truth, ripped out of her. Shame reaches out from that well of darkness that lives inside her, sharp claws sinking into her flesh. Tears burn in her eyes. “I wish her death had been at my hand.”

It shouldn’t feel so good to say this. How many times had she wished it?

Bellatrix’s words from her dream echo in her mind.

I could’ve made a monster out of you.

Hermione is already a monster. Blood has seeped under her fingernails. But she would’ve torn her soul to pieces just to have been the one to drain the light from Bellatrix’s crazed eyes.

Malfoy’s fingers still on her cheek, and she listens to his heartbeat in the silence that follows. Then he traces her jaw and tilts her face up, and though Hermione doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see the disgust and pity in his eyes, she does so anyway, because she deserves to be looked at like that, after what she just said.

But what she sees in Malfoy’s silver eyes as they catch hers doesn’t make her feel small and wrong. No—what she finds is something else entirely. Understanding, perhaps. Comprehension. Hermione runs her eyes over his face, over his light brows, his straight nose, his cheekbones. He doesn’t have a single freckle, a single mole. Pure porcelain, broken only by the redness of his lips.

She looks for condemnation in the lines of his face, but doesn’t find it.

“I wish it had been you, Granger. For what it’s worth.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, and she can’t look away from him, from his eyes, from the fact that Malfoy—who had judged her and insulted her and called her a pathetic coward—he isn’t judging her for this. He isn’t judging her for his. “I wanted her dead, too. Bellatrix…hurt me. Hurt my mother.”

Hermione swallows. Unconsciously, her fingers trail down to the ring, and she plays with it, zipping it up and down the chain. Malfoy’s fingers on her back still.

“It’s not the same,” she says at last, dropping her eyes from his, her chest once again tight and fluttery. “Wanting to kill her. Wanting her dead. It’s not the same.”

“I think it is, Granger.” Malfoy cups her jaw, leaning forward, and then his lips are on hers; hard, pressing.

Hermione makes a desperate sound when he pulls away. She lifts her eyes back to his and, for a heartbeat, gets lost in the silver of them.

Who is he?

Something crashes somewhere in the dorm, the sound muffled but still loud enough to break the moment they’d been trapped in, and Hermione blinks, her fingers curling over his necklace. She doesn’t want to let this moment go.

Malfoy looks at her as if he knows, and presses another kiss to her lips before his hand leaves her face to wrap around her wrist, pulling her hand away. The ring slips from her grasp.

“C’mon,” he says, disentangling himself from her and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, broad shoulders that taper into a thin waist blocking her view. “This is not the kind of pillow talk I like to have.”

Malfoy turns to look at her over a shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Fancy a shower instead? We likely stink of sex.”

A laugh escapes her then, unbidden, bright; and it seems to snap the tension that had been growing between them.

Perhaps Malfoy understands. Perhaps he doesn’t care enough about her to mind how rotten she is. Whichever it is, the thought makes her feel better than it should.

Hermione sits up on the bed, stretches out the kinks in her neck. She’s salty with tears and sweat, his release still wet between her legs, and she’s sure her hair must be a mess. Malfoy isn’t any better off—his hair is as tangled as she’s ever seen it, and she’s sure he’s as sweaty as her.

Perhaps a shower is just what they need. She smiles at him.

“Yeah, a shower sounds good.”


Hermione picks up her clothes from where they’re scattered onto the floor, sliding her sweater on and then pulling her skirt up, wrinkling her nose when it hits her just how much like sex she smells.

Malfoy simply reaches into one of the black leather chests strewn around the room and takes out a pair of black joggers—so Muggle-like in fashion that Hermione blinks—pulling them up his naked body and then grabbing his wand, not bothering with any more clothing.

He walks towards where, last night, the door had been before Nott had built the wall. Malfoy taps his wand against the ward, muttering a spell, and Hermione watches as the wall clears enough for her to see the door on the other side.

Malfoy holds his hand out to her, urging her closer, and Hermione sets her hand in his, allowing him to drag her through the ward and out of the room.

Her breath hitches as he pulls her past the door, eyes locking on her hand in his, his fingers engulfing hers. She knows by now how his hands feel—around her throat, her waist, her thighs—but still it shocks her to feel it around her hand like this, all soft and warm, her fingertips dancing over the metal of the rings he’s yet to take off.

As they step foot outside Hermione slips her hand out of his, swallowing, for some reason feeling vulnerable and exposed; but Malfoy only spares her a passing glance before reaching for her hand again, entwining their fingers together before starting down the hallway, careless of his nakedness and his dishevelled appearance.

The corridor is empty as they turn a corner and head down a set of stairs. The Slytherin Dormitory is alive around her, noises and voices reaching her from behind closed doors as they pass in front of them. Hermione stays close to Malfoy, bare feet padding softly against the pristine marble floor as they make their way to a lower level.

She should be worried about someone seeing her, seeing them, seeing her hand in his—but she finds that she isn’t, that she doesn’t care, because Malfoy’s thumb is caressing the back of her hand, and their fingers fit together all too well, and he’s standing tall, shoulders back and head held high, all that Malfoy arrogance pouring off him even when dragging the girl he’s just fucked seven ways to Sunday towards the bathroom to clean up.

He looks proud. He looks like he wants people to see them.

A tendril of heat courses through her, and Hermione rolls her lips into her mouth to keep from smiling. She doesn’t try to pull her hand away again.


When they reach the bottom of the stairs they turn down another hallway, portraits of stone-faced witches and wizards immovable on the dark walls, torchlights flickering every other one.

Malfoy stops in front of a door with the Slytherin Prefect’s crest engraved at its centre, pushing inside and pulling Hermione with him and only then letting go of her hand.

Hermione looks around the room as Malfoy charms the door locked. It’s a large bathroom, built for more than one person. On the right, she sees twin sinks, carved from grey marble, snake heads acting as pillars. A large mirror rises above them, framed in black brocade and immaculately clean. She catches her reflection in the glass and quickly looks away, half-embarrassed by how wholly well fucked she looks, though the darkness under her eyes is yet to lighten.

The left side of the room is occupied by an enormous shower, tiled in black; a large, curving snake engraved onto the floor. The shower is large enough to fit three, a glass divider separating it from the rest of the room, and Hermione realises that her Dorm doesn’t have anything nearly as nice as this. She thinks of the forgotten bathroom she’s come to think of as hers, at the top of those stairs; dusty and disused and witness to more than one of her breakdowns. She thinks of the other bathrooms in her dorm, but not even the Gryffindor Prefect’s bathroom is as nice as this one—only the Prefect’s bathroom on the fifth floor, the one that no house claims, is fancier than this one. Hermione had only used it once, and she’d found it excessive, but this one—this one is elegant, classy, luxurious. Everything something Slytherin should be, she thinks.

And at the far end of the room, she spots a bath, carved into the floor. Hermione stares at it—at the large window the bath sits in front of, the dark waters of the Black Lake seemingly endless behind the glass. She hadn’t realised just how far beneath the ground they were. The dark waters mock her, calling forth memories of Fourth Year, and Hermione turns away from the window, crossing her arms over her chest.

Malfoy stands by the sinks, taking off his rings one by one and setting them on the flat surface that separates the two basins. Hermione counts the rings as he removes them—seven—then watches as he unclasps his necklace, dropping it gently down with the rest of his jewellery, before hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband of his joggers and stepping out of them, leaving them carelessly on the floor.

Hermione stares unabashedly as he walks, completely naked, towards the shower. She takes in the lean lines of his stomach and back, the muscles that ripple beneath the scars, defined but not excessive, just enough to keep her eyes locked on the expanse of his skin as he pulls the door open, the muscles in his arm flexing.

Her eyes drop to his waist, where his cock is now soft, nestled between darker hair, hanging heavily between his legs. When he steps into the shower, giving her his back, Hermione stares at his arse, at the dimples at the base of his spine, at the way his thighs still look so strong, though she knows he doesn’t play Quidditch anymore. She wonders how they would’ve looked if he’d still been playing, if they would’ve been thick and massive and perfect for her to grind—

“You can ogle from the shower, Granger, rather than standing there like an idiot.”

Hermione feels her cheeks heat at having been caught—well, ogling him. She glares at his back as he turns the shower on and steps under the spray, not even waiting for the water to heat. She narrows her eyes at the unfair way the water trails down his skin. “I wasn’t ogling.”

Malfoy chuckles and turns to look at her, his whole front on display as he runs both hands in his hair, wetting it. “Sure you weren’t.”

Hermione remains quiet, forcing her eyes to stay locked on his face and not stray downwards as her cheeks heat. Malfoy drags his fingers through his hair, then runs his hands over his face before leaning away from the spray and looking at her with a flat expression. “Are you just going to stand there?”

“I’ll shower after you.”

“No.”

Hermione blinks. “No?”

“No,” Malfoy flicks his hand at the still-open shower door. “Shower with me.”

Hermione’s lips part, heat flaring through her at his words, at the way he says them—not a question but a statement of fact, as if it’s obvious that Hermione will shower with him.

But it feels too vulnerable, too intimate, showering with him, even if he’s already seen all of her—done more to her than any man ever has before. So Hermione takes a small step back, scoffing and shaking her head. “No.”

Malfoy’s expression darkens in a flash, jaw hardening, and then he’s stalking out of the shower, water dripping everywhere. Hermione feels the change in him, in the intensity of his gaze, dark now when it had been playful mere seconds ago, and she backs away from his advance.

He reaches her in two strides, hand wrapping around her neck and pulling her flush to him, his wet body pressed against her clothes. Her hands rise to his waist, fingers sliding over his wet skin as he brings his face down towards her and gives her throat a squeeze that makes her breath hitch.

“You don’t say no to me Granger.” Malfoy’s thumb presses against her pulse and she digs her nails into his flanks. “If I want you to shower with me, you will. If I want you to drop to your knees, you will. If I want you, you will give yourself to me.”

Hermione is locked in his eyes, breath trapped in her lungs as his words send heat and ice through her. When he smirks and cocks his head, and a droplet of water walls from the tip of his nose onto her mouth, every thought eddies out of her brain.

“Or I will take it from you, Hermione.” Malfoy pulls her closer by her throat. “And I don’t think you want me to do that, do you?”

His words register, but Hermione doesn’t really hear them. She only hears one thing.

I want you.

“Now take off your clothes, and shower with me.”

Hermione takes off her clothes.

Notes:

ahhh this may be one of my fav chapters. i just....love them. i have been waiting to write this (and more scenes to come) for months now! i can't wait to share them all with you <3

thank you as always to my lovely betas, but most of all thank you to all of you guys. this story wouldn't be here without your support!! <3

Chapter 17

Notes:

thank you for your patience on this chapter!! life got a bit in the way, but I hope you enjoy it! <3

content warning:

mention of self-harm wounds

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

She learns that Malfoy showers with scorching hot water.

The steam rises as Hermione steps under the spray, the heat pouring over her and taking her breath away. She tilts her face upwards, letting the water cascade down her body in hundreds of little trails of fire.

Hermione brings her hands to her face, scrubbing herself clean before pushing her hands up and into her curls, bending her neck forward just enough for the water to drench her hair, the messy locks turning heavy with its weight.

Her eyes are closed, her breathing strained, though she forces it steady. She’s trying really hard not to think about Malfoy, standing at her back less than a step away, his lean body strong and warm behind her. She squeezes her eyes shut tight against the downpour as she lets her curls turn soaking wet. It’s too intimate. Too vulnerable. She—she doesn’t want to shower with him. She feels like she shouldn’t, like it’s too much to share with him. With Malfoy.

Malfoy, whom she hates and loathes, who had scared her and chased her and had dragged her into that room, tearing through her mind and leaving her crying and naked and alone.

Malfoy, whom Hermione sickens. She hasn’t forgotten what he told her that day in the Great Hall. Hasn’t forgotten the viciousness in his eyes, the disgust she’d seen in the curl of his lip as he sneered at her.

And yet—yet it’s Malfoy.

Malfoy, who had dragged her away from Harry—no questions asked.

Malfoy, who told her how beautiful you are when you take me like this, Hermione, you should see yourself.

Malfoy, who had kissed her nightmare away and had comforted her, had listened to her without judgement, without pity.

Hermione cannot reconcile the two—cannot reconcile the mess of emotions in her chest, the lines that blur every second, the way she can’t tell why she’s doing this, why she thinks about him so much, why she doesn’t squash the fluttering sensation in her chest when he looks at her with those silver eyes of his.

She doesn’t know. And sharing this with him—it makes her feel naked in a way she doesn’t think she’s comfortable with.

Showers aren’t good for her. They’re tainted now by all the times she cried in them, by all the times she screamed and let the pain flow out of her and gave in to that itch to rub her skin raw, to try and scrape away all of her mistakes and reach the person she used to be beneath the utterly useless fuck up she has become.

The sound of the water hitting the floor, the heat of it on her skin—it all brings her back to those moments; and Hermione doesn’t want to share those with Malfoy.

She squeezes her eyes tighter still, swallowing against the tightness in her throat, fingers curling in her hair until she can feel her nails bite against her scalp.

Then Malfoy’s fingers are in her hair, picking up the tangled strands halfway down her back, working the water out of them.

Hermione’s eyes fly open and she turns around to face him, heart pounding in her chest, hands flying down to her hair and pulling it out of Malfoy’s hold, fingers tangling within her own strands.

“What are you doing?” she asks, taking a step back and staring at him through the stream of water separating them.

Malfoy raises his eyebrows at her, a slightly amused expression on his face. A strand of wet hair falls from where he’d tucked it behind his ear, droplets of water trailing their way down his chest as he raises his hands, showing her the suds of soap between his fingers.

Hermione feels it then, the shampoo he must’ve been working into her hair, and she flicks her eyes down to her own hands, the streaks of soap stark against her dark hair.

“Turn back around, Granger.” Hermione looks back at him, at his soapy hands, his expectant face. “Let me wash your hair.”

Hermione stares at him, chest growing tight as his voice rings in her ears. She can’t look away from him, can’t move, can’t do anything but—

Malfoy chuckles, shaking his head, then his hands are on Hermione’s arms, pulling her back into the spray and turning her around.

He tilts her head back so the water warms her front but doesn’t get into her hair, long fingers tangling into her curls and soaping them up gently, careful not to pull or tangle them further.

Hermione closes her eyes again and doesn’t breathe for the next ten seconds. The feeling of Malfoy’s hands in her hair like this is so different from all that she’s used to that it doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real.

Only her mother had washed her hair before. Hermione had never let anyone other than her touch it like this—it was too intimate a thing, too delicate. Her scalp is sensitive, and the water always tangles her curls to hell, and she’s never trusted someone else to do it for her—yet here she is, Malfoy’s hands massaging her scalp, lathering her hair, soap suds falling down her shoulders and back and getting washed away by the water.

But at a certain point, she breathes, air leaving her lungs in a whoosh, and it’s like something changes, like something snaps into place—a decision being made.

Hermione tilts her head further back, relaxes her shoulder. She concentrates on the gentle way in which Malfoy pulls the tangles apart; on the way the water warms her body.

Malfoy makes a small sound and presses closer, tilting her head up with one hand and pushing her under the spray, coaxing the water through the strands, soap sliding down her back and leaving her clean.

Hermione lets him run his fingers through the curls until he’s satisfied, until he shifts her again so she isn’t under the water any longer. His warmth leaves her back for a moment and then he’s there again, fingers once more in her strands.

They quietly repeat the process, neither one of them talking, her heart a trembling thing in her chest. When he pushes her gently under the spray again, strong hands rubbing at her scalp to wash out the shampoo, a little relaxed sound escapes her, and for a fleeting second Malfoy’s lips are at the bend of her neck, pressing softly before the water washes his kiss away.

When he drags her out of the spray again, disappearing from her back once more and coming back with conditioner, grabbing all her hair in one hand at the base of her neck and smoothing it downwards to coat the strands, something pushes Hermione to break the silence.

“You should scrunch it.”

Malfoy’s hands still down the middle of her back. He’s quiet for a beat, and then, “I should what?”

Hermione bites her lips against the smile that wants to curve them. “You should scrunch it. When you put in the conditioner. It helps with the curls.”

Malfoy’s hands let go of the strands. “Scrunch it?”

“Yes,” Hermione doesn’t know if he can hear the smile in her voice now. “From the bottom. Scrunch it upwards and put the conditioner in that way.”

Malfoy hums, and then his hands are at the ends of the long strands, gathering them up. Hermione feels him scrunch, feels the conditioner seeping into her hair, and she lets out a small sigh.

“I like your hair,” Malfoy says, setting her hair down her back again and brushing his fingers at the nape of her neck. “It’s so long like this.”

The smile slips off her lips at that, his words searing through her, leeching the warmth of the shower and leaving her cold faster than she can comprehend.

Hermione steps into the spray, bringing her hair over one shoulder and letting the water drench the slick strands, careless that he’d just put the conditioner in. “You used to hate it,” she says, staring down at her fingers, tangled in her curls.

All the mean things he’d said about her hair when they were younger are suddenly bright in her memory—all the insults and the laughs and the looks that told her that there was nothing Malfoy liked about her, nothing that was worthy of his attention.

Hermione turns around to look at him—because she needs to see his face, needs to look him in the eyes for this. “You used to hate me.”

Malfoy’s face is impassable—and strangely enough his beauty hits her then; how truly gorgeous he is, with his high cheekbones and his jaw and those lips that Hermione has memorized the taste of. It’s unfair, she thinks, for him to be this beautiful.

“I didn’t hate you, Granger,” Malfoy says, and the words burn through her now, because—because of course he did, of course he hated her, hated that she was a Mudblood, hated that she was smart, hated her hair, hated—

“I didn’t spend one second of my time hating you.” Malfoy’s hand reaches out and she’s proud that she doesn’t flinch away from his touch when his knuckles graze her cheek, proud that her breath doesn’t leave her. “You weren’t worth it.”

Hermione blinks, and then she feels something shrivel inside her, something that she had forgotten about, something that belonged to her when she was a little kid, when she would hide the way his comments would sting as they crept under her skin and burrowed between her insecurities.

Malfoys fingers slide into her hair, his hand cupping the side of her face as he steps closer, pushing the two of them under the spray. “You were worthless to me, Granger. Nothing more than an annoying girl who didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut. Always in the way, always thinking you were better than everyone else.” His thumb sweeps over her cheek and this time she flinches, her chest hollowing out. “I cared about you as much as I cared about the next swotty girl in line. You weren’t important enough to me, no matter how everyone else seemed to fall at your feet.” Malfoy releases a sharp scoff. “The brightest witch of her age. As if there weren’t so many other girls like you; smart and boring and nothing special. That pissed me off sometimes, the way they put you on a pedestal. But you were nothing more than a fleeting annoyance in my life, Granger. Definitely not something worth hating.”

Hermione feels the tears well in her eyes, feels the pressure growing in her, the urge to cry and scream and get away. It’s like she’s thirteen again, convinced she knows what she’s doing, disregarding the pain of being made fun of, fooling herself into believing that the bullying didn’t touch her, didn’t leave a mark.

Malfoy’s face is indifferent, his eyes cold; as if what he’s saying doesn’t touch him, as if telling her this doesn’t mean anything to him. And why would it?

“But then you were tortured in my home, and I had to stand there and watch as Bellatrix crucio’d you; as you wailed and cried out and pissed all over yourself.”

Hermione closes her eyes against the memories, against Bellatrix’s laugh, against the way he’d just stood there, watching, as his aunt broke her body and her mind over and over—

“And then you came back here, so brittle and pathetic, trying so hard to act like nothing happened, like nothing has changed, like you’re still that same girl you used to be.”

Malfoy steps closer, their bodies pressing together. Hermione’s eyes open again and her hands land on his chest and she wants to hurt him, wants to tear him open with her own hands and sneak between his ribs and see with her own eyes if he has a heart or not, if there is anything at all that is good in him, or if he’s just—

“You came back here a coward. And then you became something worth hating.” Hermione feels the words echo beneath her hands even as they sink like hooks in her heart.

Malfoy’s hand wraps around her waist, pulling her against him. Hermione looks up at his face and his eyes steal her away, trap her, because the way he’s looking at her now—he’s not looking at her as if she’s something worthless, not as if she’s something he’s indifferent to; and she doesn’t look away from his eyes as the water drenches them, as he leans down and kisses her, lips wet and searching. Hermione gasps against his mouth and she doesn’t know if it's a sob or something else, doesn’t know and doesn’t care, because Malfoy is kissing her, his tongue flicking against her lip, and maybe she deserves this—deserves him and all his mean words and the pain that he can make her feel.

Malfoy pulls away then, leaving her breathless and blinking, droplets heavy on her lashes. “But maybe you could become something more, Granger.”

Hermione swallows. She looks at him, at his beautiful face, at the way his eyes are full of something she doesn’t want to name. The word is a whisper in her mind when it comes. Maybe.

Malfoy kisses her again, and then he lifts her up, her back pressing against the wall, her legs around his waist.

He takes her there, sliding inside her with a groan. Hermione whimpers, because she’s sensitive now; and because there’s something new in the way Malfoy holds her up, in the way his hands grip her skin and Hermione’s tangle in his hair.

When he comes inside her, murmuring praise against her neck, Hermione follows suit.

And when he sets her down and asks her to wash his hair, Hermione does, even if her heart is unsteady inside her chest.


Malfoy transfigures a set of towels into a pair of leggings, a Slytherin sweater, and black fluffy socks for her, and putting them on makes Hermione feel like she’s letting him stake some sort of claim. She thinks about transfiguring the sweater into a Gryffindor one, but she left her wand in Malfoy’s room and she finds, as she often seems to when she’s with him, that she doesn’t much care about the house embroidered on her clothes. No matter either that she doesn’t have any underwear on underneath, and that the sweater is decidedly softer against her breasts than her Gryffindor ones are.

They make their way back to Malfoy’s room in silence, his hand reaching for hers again, the move almost subconscious, the rings he’d donned again cold against the warmth of Hermione’s shower-warm skin. Her hair drips down her back, still wet, turning her sweater damp and leaving droplets of water on the floor as they pad along the silent corridor.

When they reach Malfoy’s room, she heads to her bag and drops down on her knees. Her dirty clothes fall from where she’d been holding them against her chest and she reaches with her freed hand into her bag, rummaging for her wand. Once she finds it, she shrinks her clothes and stuffs them into her bag, before rising and hoisting it on her shoulder, turning to leave—only to bump into Malfoy, a black sweater now covering his chest, the dark, soft-looking fabric hiding the pale expanse of scarred skin.

He looks between her face and the bag on her shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Hermione looks up at him, pushing away the feelings that still haven’t quite vanished, that the water of the shower hadn’t managed to clean away. She feels heartsore in a way she doesn’t understand, a mix of vulnerable and tired and angry that leaves her confused and drained. She pulls the strap of her bag higher up her shoulder before saying, “Back to my dorm.”

A line appears between Malfoy’s eyebrows. “We haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“I don’t much care for—”

He interrupts her. “Well, I do.” His hand reaches for her bag, dragging it down her shoulder and setting it back on the floor. “And I need to tell the others about my mother. You might as well be there for it.”

The words are enough to catch Hermione’s attention, her curiosity rearing its head in a heartbeat. She could stay here a little longer—if only to hear what Malfoy hadn’t told her last night. She’d wanted to push, when he said he didn’t want to talk about it then, but the way he’d seemed tired and worried had made her bite her tongue, had made her play along when he asked for a distraction. But he doesn’t seem tired now, and if he’s told her this much already—about his mother, about how the situation is worse than he thought—then maybe she might be able to squeeze something more out of him and get a better sense of what, exactly, is going on outside of Hogwarts, and why he’s so worried about it.

The thought is enough to make teeth release her lip where she was biting it raw. “Fine,” she says, trying to keep her voice disinterested. She uses a charm to quickly dry her hair and when he turns back towards the space in Nott’s ward that will let them through, she follows him, out of the room and down the corridor again, this time turning right instead of left, back towards the Slytherin Common Room—which she’d only seen upside down flashes of the night before. The room is brightly lit now; or as bright as she thinks the Slytherin Dorm can ever get, charmed lights and a blazing fire hissing in the hearth. There’s a couple of students loitering around on the settees and couches, some still in their pyjamas, some having breakfast at elegant marble tables scattered around the room.

It reminds her an awful lot of Sunday mornings in her own dorm, and though the similarity shouldn’t shock her—Slytherins are, after all, students just like her—it does, the domestic picture that she’s presented with at odds with what she’d vaguely imagined the snake’s nest to be like. It’s all altogether too normal, too soft around the edges, the scent of comfort and habit too strong for her not to reel from it; and immediately Hermione’s prejudices flare brightly in front of her, the sight of two older students squabbling over one last muffin calling her out, mocking her.

They make their way around the edge of the room, Hermione’s socked feet silent as she follows Malfoy towards a new set of stairs. No one turns to look their way, no one registers her, dressed as she is in black and green, blending with the dark stone walls and the other students—that is, until two young Slytherin girls appear, walking down the stairs Malfoy is leading her towards, their paths now two parallel lines.

Malfoy is already ascending the first step when Hermione sees the girls’ stares shift from each other to Malfoy, stalking towards them, and then to Hermione, walking quietly behind him. She sees the exact moment where it registers just who she is, just who is in their dorm, Slytherin embroidered over her breast. Hermione stares as they do a double take, eyes widening and flicking rapidly between her and Malfoy, confusion and surprise clear in their expressions, in the way their synchronised steps slow as they descend. One of the girls, her long blonde hair falling in a braid down her shoulder, clutches at the other’s wrist, mouth parting—but it’s at that moment that Malfoy turns to look over his shoulder, just for a second, a half-annoyed look flashing in his eyes as he takes her in, frozen at the foot of the stairs. He sighs, an almost imperceptible release of air, and then he’s reaching for her, hand wrapping around hers again and squeezing just enough for her breath to catch as he turns around and continues up the stairs, guiding her up.

Hermione follows, unable to do anything else as he pulls her up; and when they pass next to the two girls, who are now standing still on one of the steps, shifting to make way for them, they’re nothing but a blur in the corner of her vision. All her senses are once again narrowed down to his palm against hers, to his fingers tight over her own, to the way her thumb grazes against one of his rings.

It’s only when they reach the top of the stairs and turn down a quiet corridor that Hermione realises that—that there’s no panic. It takes her a second to notice, but her heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of her chest, her stomach isn’t clenching, there’s no hollowness rising up with grabby hands to pull her downwards. There’s no panic. There’s no panic. There’s no shame rushing through her, no guilt, no anxiety born from the fact that Hermione Granger would never be seen in the Slytherin Dormitory, would never wear House colours that weren’t red and gold, would never hold hands with an Ex-Death Eater, least of all Malfoy, her best friend’s nemesis, her long time bully.

Yet here she is—doing just that and more, with no panic threatening to rip her apart at the seams.

And maybe it’s the fact that those girls were younger than her; or the fact that she can still feel Malfoy’s fingers washing her hair; or maybe it’s—she doesn’t know what it may be—yet she’s not panicking. She’s not panicking, even when she knows the girls have seen her, have seen Malfoy reaching for her hand and her not pulling away.

The dichotomy between what she thought her reaction would be to being seen with him, and what it actually is, is enough to make her stumble, to actually edge her towards panic because she should be worried and anxious, should feel the shame and the guilt coil in her belly; and the fact that she doesn’t is strange and unexpected—yet it isn’t, because hadn’t she known this was going to happen? Hadn’t she understood it during those days spent in bed, when the disconnection between her and all the things she should do, should care about, had felt infinite? When nothing seemed to matter except him—except the way he made her feel, the way he looked at her, the way it felt, with him, like she didn’t have to hide all the ugly parts of her?

Hadn’t she understood it then?

“Pansy got the nice room.”

Malfoy’s voice makes her thoughts collapse, and the sight of a door pushing open and of a new room coming into view is enough to force her away from her spiralling thoughts and back into the present.

The room Malfoy pulls her into is large and messy. There’s a big window on the left, the water of the Lake dancing against the plane of glass. A four-poster bed sits right beneath the window, bedsheets and pillows all on the floor. The rest of the room isn’t better—an elegant wardrobe open and in disarray, a vanity with lotions and perfume cluttering the surface, a robe left on the chair in front of it. Then she notices the other half of the room—the hearth that’s roaring with orange flames, the two velvet armchairs, a chaise lounge, and a small coffee table between them.

And then she takes in Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson, heads turned towards the door Malfoy and her have just walked through.

Nott is sitting on one of the armchairs, a cup of tea in his hand; while Pansy is standing next to the hearth, still in what must be her pyjamas, an elegant, knee-length black robe cinched tight around her waist, one corner of it slipping down her shoulder, the strap of her lace camisole on display.

Pansy turns around as Malfoy shuts the door, eyes narrowed and settling on Hermione first.

“Well, look who it is,” she says, one hand flicking out lazily to gesture towards Hermione. “A little lion in the snake’s den. How fun.” There’s an edge to her voice that Hermione doesn’t quite recognise—something between derision and amusement, not quite acidic enough to be a jab, but not anything else, either.

Hermione’s eyes narrow, too, mimicking the other girl, walls coming up in a flash as Pansy’s expression turns sharper, meaner.

It’s the closest she’s ever been to Pansy Parkison. Her features are sharp and pretty, big dark eyes framed by perfectly arched eyebrows. Sharp cheekbones, sharp jawline, sharp bob of dark hair that falls perfectly right at her chin. She has some hair tucked behind one of her ears and Hermione’s eyes are drawn to the heavy jewellery there, her whole ear pierced from lobe to arch, golden hoops and chains and pendants decorating her.

The thought clangs through her that maybe—maybe she’s given Malfoy his piercing; the metal of which Hermione has tasted now, tongue licking up the arch of Malfoy’s ear as he shivered and worked his fingers in her just a couple of hours ago. Her hackles rise at the sight of this girl—dark and sharp and proud, standing tall as she stares Hermione down, expression almost disinterested but eyes glinting with assessment, as if she’s gauging her, weighing her, and finding her lacking. Hermione feels her back straightening, her jaw flexing as Pansy keeps staring at her, a pungent and acidic emotion rearing its head the longer they stay in this stalemate.

Hermione doesn’t know what to say—how to approach. She’s never talked to Pansy before, has never really given her much more than a passing thought, if she’s being honest. But she hasn’t forgotten the way Pansy stormed out of the Great Hall that day, how Theo had stalked after her. Hasn’t forgotten the panicked undertone to Pansy’s steps, their angry cadence as she slipped past the doors. There’s something of it now, too, in the way she stands, in the way her arms cross over her chest; but it vanishes behind her smirk as she raises a mocking eyebrow at Hermione.

“Are you just going to stand there, or will you sit?” Pansy gestures at one of the armchairs, and it’s only then that the coldness in her hand registers, the absence of Malfoy’s fingers making her feel steady and unbalanced at once, the familiar comfort of being untouched and the nervous loss of his skin against hers striking her at once.

Her eyes snap to Malfoy’s back as he crosses the small distance between the door and the free armchair, settling in it with precise movements that speak of habit. She bounces her gaze between the three Slytherins now, between Pansy, who is still staring at her, and between Nott and Malfoy, staring at one another across the small marble table between their armchairs. Malfoy leans back into his chair and Nott props one ankle over his knee, amusement clear in his face as he raises his eyebrows at Malfoy, lips rolling into his mouth to keep what Hermione suspiciously thinks is a smile at bay. Malfoy smirks at him, a corner of his mouth lifting upwards before his tongue pushes against his cheek, and then Pansy’s laugh breaks the silence that had descended, and again it’s that mix of derision and amusement that makes Hermione’s cheeks heat, that makes her feel left out, the butt of the joke, small and foolish and out of place.

Pansy moves from where she’s standing next to the hearth to the chaise, giving Hermione her back as she sprawls elegantly over it, picking up the simple light wood wand that rests on the coffee table and flicking it, a spread of fruits and pastries and tea appearing, all laid out on fancy black plates. Hermione blinks at the sight. Her Dorm doesn’t give her food like this. She wonders if there’s house elves serving them. She wouldn’t put it past the families of all the Purebloods crawling through this dorm to demand such a thing from the school.

“Granger,” It’s Nott’s voice that breaks her out of her staring contest with a bowl of berries. “You don’t have to look so distressed. We promise we won’t bite.”

“Speak for yourself,” Malfoy’s voice is laced with dark humour.

“Stop being disgusting, Draco.” Malfoy’s first name said in Pansy’s low voice makes Hermione’s fingers twitch. “Tell her to sit down, she’s truly starting to look dumb now.”

“Be nice, Pansy,” Malfoy drawls.

“I’m not sure I know how to do that, darling.”

“Don’t I know that well.”

Hermione’s eyes ping between the back of Pansy’s head and Malfoy’s profile, her fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. The ease of their banter settles uncomfortably in Hermione’s chest, that acidic thing in her twisting when Malfoy’s eyes flick to Pansy.

“Granger,” Nott’s voice again, and she looks at him only to find him already looking at her, leaning forward in his seat, one arm stretched towards the table. “Tea?”

Hermione blinks, the surreality of the situation finally hitting her. She stands there, at the edge of the room, a stranger to the place and to the people in it.

“What, not going to offer me some, too?” Malfoy says, staring at Nott now.

“No.” Nott is still staring expectantly at her, not even bothering to glance at Malfoy.

“Why, don’t like me enough?”

“I was just trying to be pleasant to our guest.” Nott reaches for the teapot, pouring some tea into one of the mugs. “Manners, Draco. Ever heard of them?”

“Granger likes me well enough without them.”

“I do not like you, Malfoy,” she snaps, just to bite her tongue a moment later, annoyed that that’s the first thing that comes out of her mouth.

Malfoy chuckles, silver eyes landing on her, and through the tendril of amusement she finds in them she sees it almost immediately—the strain that tugs at the corner of his eyes, at his shoulders, at his fingers as they keep drumming over the velvet fabric of the chair. It’s hidden behind the facade of boredom he’s settled into, and it catches her off guard that she notices it—that she knows that he’s not quite at ease as he wants to seem.

She wonders if Pansy and Nott see it too, then mentally scoffs. Of course they would. They’re his friends. They would know him better than her—if she even really knows him at all.

Hermione wonders if it’s that—the slight unease she sees in Malfoy—that makes her take a step forward towards Nott, towards the mug of tea he’s extending towards her, tendrils of steam dancing in the coldness of the room. Hermione steps up next to Nott’s chair, fingers wrapping around the mug of tea, before she walks behind it and to the hearth, standing in front of it and staring at the flames for just a second before turning around.

“So,” she says, taking a sip of tea, vanilla bursting on her tongue, before turning to look at Malfoy. She might as well cut the small talk. “About the visit?”

Malfoy goes rigid at the same time as Nott and Pansy snap out, “Visit?”

He glares at her, and Hermione gloats internally, taking another sip of tea to hide her smirk.

Malfoy sighs, and then reaches forward, grabbing a small plate and piling pastries and fruits into it as he speaks. “I visited my mother yesterday. An Auror came to collect me in the morning. ”

It’s quiet for a beat, before Nott speaks again. “And?”

And,” Malfoy says, leaning back in his chair and resting the plate of food on his thigh. “It’s bad.”

Worse than I thought, he’d told her last night. Hermione wonders if he’s going to tell them that, too, or if that was something that only slipped out due to the Library’s quiet darkness.

“How is Narcissa?” Pansy’s voice is serious now, as she shifts on her chaise to sit up straight, the black of her robe stark against the paleness of her skin.

“She is as best as she can be, I think,” Malfoy says, eyes glued to his plate before he lifts them to stare right at Nott. “She says she was in the garden when they attacked her. Says that’s the last thing she can remember, in any case, before waking up in the hospital. She was obliviated—by who, I don’t know. Either the Aurors or whoever got to her.”

Nott’s sharp intake of breath doesn’t deter Malfoy. “The Aurors told me it was an attempted suicide—that they somehow got alerted and went to the Manor only to find her unconscious and bleeding in the kitchen, wrists slit.” It’s Hermione’s breath that stutters now. “The wounds are cursed, apparently. They won’t heal properly. But it isn’t an attempted suicide,” Malfoy shakes his head with a jerk. “My mother would never do something like that, not with me here and my father in Azkaban. But not in any other circumstance, either.”

Malfoy cracks his knuckles, one by one, as they wait for him to continue. “Someone got past the wards, managing to not only get past the wards”—Hermione’s eyes flick to Nott, taking in the tightness of his jaw and the rising worry in his eyes as he stares at Malfoy—“but to do so without alerting my mother. She didn’t remember what happened after that—after they got to her, but fact is that the Aurors managed to find her in time to bring her to St. Mungo’s.”

Hermione shifts her eyes back to Malfoy, but his are still fixed on Nott, and his voice is low as he speaks. “I don’t know what their plan was. Whoever the fuck they are. Most likely they didn’t want to kill her. She would’ve been dead already if that were the case. The only thing I can think of is that they wanted to remove her, wanted her to leave the Manor, but realised too late that they couldn’t.”

Nott makes a sound like a hum, and her stare swivels to him again, just in time to see understanding cross his features before worry pushes it away again.

Malfoy’s voice grows quiet. “Now, whether they wanted to take her somewhere for a specific reason, or if they wanted the Manor empty, I don’t know.”

An empty Manor.

Another empty Manor.

Nott had been in Hogwarts when his family home burned down, Hermione knows this. Is that what they wanted to achieve? Remove Narcissa from her home to burn it down just like they did Nott’s?—because Hermione has no doubt that whoever they are, they’re the same people. It’s a gut feeling, a hunch, an answer to a question she hasn’t even asked herself—but which she just knows the answer to in that inexplicable way she sometimes has.

She’d heeded this feeling, during the War, and it had saved her more times than she cares to admit. The fact that the feeling is back unsettles her. She’d hoped she’d left it behind—that she would never have to rely on it again. Yet here it is, crawling from her belly up her throat and making it hard for her to swallow her tea.

“Fact is,” Malfoy continues, “that my mother doesn’t remember anything, so either the people that attacked her obliviated her—which is the most likely—or whoever found her—” his lips curl into a sneer at the ‘found’ “— did, which is the most worrying.”

Hermione’s brows pull into a frown. Why would it—ah. Obviously.

“Do you think whoever attacked your mother alerted the Aurors?” Pansy says. She looks as serious as Hermione has ever seen her.

“Maybe,” Malfoy says, but then Nott interrupts.

“But—the wards. The attackers would have still been there when the Aurors arrived.”

“Yes,” Malfoy says, the plate of food he’d made himself now forgotten and discarded on the little table again as he leans his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. “Which is why I’m worried about the—”

“Wait—” It’s Hermione who interrupts him this time. His gaze snaps to her, bright and calculating. But there’s something bothering her. “Why would the attackers still be in the Manor? They would’ve had time to leave—the Auror responses aren’t that quick.”

It’s Nott that speaks next. “They wouldn’t have been able to get out.”

The furrow in her brows deepens. “But why? They managed to get in, so why not out? What if they used a spell like—”

She breaks off, biting her tongue, eyes darting to Pansy on the chaise, who’s staring at her with narrowed eyes. “Something like the spell Draco found?” Pansy sneers, arms crossed over her chest.

Right. Of course. Why wouldn’t Malfoy have told her about Zotoi’s spell? Why would Hermione think even for a second that she might know something that one of Malfoy’s closest friends doesn’t?

“Yes. That,” Hermione says, biting down the remark she feels on the tip of her tongue. “Assuming they used something similar, or found a different way past the wards.” Malfoy’s fingers clench into a fist in the corner of her vision, but she ignores that, keeping her eyes on Pansy. “If they managed to get in, why wouldn’t they have been able to get out, too? Spells that cleave wards tend to be bidirectional.” At least, all of the ones she knows about are.

“Wards like the ones at the Manor,” Malfoy starts, and Hermione looks at him then, hands curled around her mug for warmth even as the conversation leaves her feeling cold. “They often have protective spells entwined in them, some defensive mechanisms that protect both the house and the people that live in it, especially if they’re Blood Wards like the ones at Malfoy Manor. Some sort of failsafe.”

“Nott Manor had them too,” Nott supplies.

“There tend to be several of them,” Malfoy continues, “and they tend to be linked to the wizards and witches whose blood feeds the Wards. They almost—” he hesitates, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he searches for the right word. “They almost turn the wards sentient, in a way. There’s one in the Manor’s wards that’s triggered when someone in my family is hurt while on the estate grounds.”

Hermione takes a sip of tea, swallowing before saying, “That’s why Nott says they wouldn’t have been able to leave before the Aurors arrived.” If the attackers had hurt Narcissa, which she’s guessing is what Malfoy believes has happened, the failsafe would’ve been triggered, and she’s assuming the wards would have somehow prevented them from leaving. “What happens to the wards if the failsafe is triggered?”

“Anyone that tries to pass through ends up dead. Well, anyone who isn’t a Malfoy, at least. But from what I know, that failsafe hasn’t been triggered in decades.”

It makes sense—the triggering of the failsafe would keep the threat contained, keep it locked inside the Malfoy grounds; but the mechanism isn’t perfect, because why would the wards keep a Malfoy locked inside together with someone who wants to hurt them? Unless, of course, the wards would let a Malfoy through even with the failsafe triggered.

Hermione steps forward, reaching out to set her mug of tea on the table. Her stomach refuses to accept even that in the face of this conversation, in the face of the images of a bleeding, unconscious Narcissa Malfoy playing in her mind. But still—there’s something that doesn’t quite fit. “If they triggered the failsafe, how did the Aurors get to your mother?” The ceramic of her mug rattles against the marble of the table when she sets it down. “And also, if they’d wanted to simply remove her from the Manor, why hurt her? Why not simply Imperio her to go with them? Would the wards have been triggered by that in the same way as if they’d physically hurt her?”

Malfoy leans back into his chair, sighing. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots in what Hermione reads as frustration, but might just as equally be worry. “I don’t know. I don’t know enough about the Wards to say for certain.” There’s a moment of stilted silence where they look at each other before he closes his eyes, dropping his chin to his chest. “I don’t know why they were there, I don’t know why they hurt her, I don’t know how or who got her out of the house, and I don’t know why they obliviated her. I don’t know what this has to do with Theo’s house or with”—his breath hitches for a moment before he continues—“or with what happened in Germany. Everything is too disconnected for me to understand, there’s too many blank spaces and I can’t see the bigger picture and it’s really fucking worrying.”

There’s silence in the room when Malfoy finishes, and Hermione drags her eyes away from Malfoy to take in Nott’s wide eyes and Pansy’s worried expression, swallowing when she realises that she isn’t the only one surprised by his open show of worry, of vulnerability almost, if the way his voice had grown tight at the end was anything to go by.

Hermione shifts on her feet, suddenly feeling awkward and almost as if she’s intruding, though she feels like she has the right to be here, what with the Vow that ties her and Malfoy together and that tugs at her now, a quiet reminder that she promised to do what she could to help Narcissa Malfoy. She would regret it, if not for the fact that she still knows herself enough to know that she would’ve wanted to help him even without the Vow stretching between them. She owed Narcissa that much, for what she’d done for Hermione that past summer.

She sighs, gaze falling onto the spread of food that none of them have even really touched yet. The silence stretches, and her gaze goes out of focus, the colours of the bowl of berries blurring together—which is why when a hand wraps around her wrist and pulls her roughly to the side, Hermione startles.

She falls in Malfoy’s lap with a huff, her entire body going rigid as Malfoy settles her sideways on his thighs, arms banding across her waist as he drags her close to his front. Her back snaps up straight when she feels his forehead drop against her left shoulder, his arms squeezing for a second as he releases a slow, controlled breath.

What is—what—is he looking for…No. It can’t be.

There’s no way Malfoy is seeking comfort. No way he pulled her—No.

Hermione’s lungs stutter, demanding air, but she can’t breathe, not when Malfoy’s hand curls over the place where her waist dips before her hip flares, the soft fabric of her sweater bunching in his grip as he—

“Don’t look so scared, Granger,” Nott says, and her wide eyes fly to his amused ones, catching the smile he tries to stifle but can’t quite hide. “No need to be embarrassed. It’s not like I haven’t seen you in more compromising positions already.”

Pansy scoffs a laugh, and Hermione snaps her head towards her. Pansy isn’t even trying to hide her smile as she exchanges a stinging, amused look with Nott. Hermione’s cheeks heat up again when the other witch says, “Yes, Granger. No need to be embarrassed.” Another snicker. “It’s not like we weren’t expecting this to happen.”

Malfoy makes a noise that sounds too much like a stifled chuckle behind her, and Hermione tries to wriggle away, desperate, almost, to get away from the three of them; but she can’t hide to herself that it’s a half-hearted effort, stunted at it’s root by Malfoy pulling her further against him, until there’s little to no space between his chest and her back.

Hermione uses words to cut through the amusement drifting through the room that she feels is, distinctively, at her expanse. She looks at Nott—because damn her if she’s going to cower from their stares — but her question is for Malfoy. “Have you tried restoring her memories?”

Immediately the laughter dissipates, her words blowing it away, the conversation plummeting back into seriousness. Good. She can deal with that better. She doesn’t even want to begin unpacking what Pansy had meant with that last jab.

Malfoy’s fingers twitch by her sides. “No. I didn’t have my wand. And it would’ve been risky.”

The words balance on her next breath, words she doesn’t want to say—but that she does, too. They jump from nerve ending to nerve ending, racing through her, adrenaline and fear spiking her heartbeat, and still her cheeks are hot, but for another reason now.

“I could help with that. I—” she swallows, licking her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. Nott stares at her, and his eyes feel more appraising than they’ve ever felt before. “I have quite the experience in memory charms.”

She flicks her eyes to Pansy, who’s looking at her with an unreadable expression, but Hermione’s whole attention is on the man whose lap she’s sitting on, on the way his hands still on her waist, on the heavy silence that grows in the wake of what she’s said, until—

“How come?”

“What?”

“How come you have such experience”—the way Malfoy says the word feels derisive—“in memory charms?”

She clears her throat. “During the—War,” the word comes out half-strangled. Hermione hasn’t talked about it in months. “Sometimes, some of us would come back obliviated.” Flashes of a disoriented Neville coming back, alone, from one mission blast through her mind. “I was the one that more often than not did the memory restoration.”

Malfoy glosses over the mention of their shared past as if it’s nothing. “And were you successful?”

Always, except when it mattered most. She pushes down the wave of sadness that threatens to rise, gritting her teeth against it. “Yes.”

Malfoy is quiet again for several long seconds. Hermione almost turns to look over her shoulder at him, that fluttering thing in her chest demanding she turn and learn what his expression must be, but she doesn’t, resisting the temptation.

It’s only after she straightens that Malfoys says, “Okay.”

Just a simple word, yet it clangs through Hermione. All she can do is clear her throat again, and repeat it. “Okay.”


Draco can’t get enough of her.

Can’t get enough of her soft skin, can’t get enough of the way her curls feel like silk as he tangles his fingers through them, can’t get enough of her sweet, tight cunt as it flutters around his cock.

He can’t get enough.

It’s as if she’s a drug, and he’s high on her.

Had it only been last night that they’d been in the Library? Time feels like a stranger when he’s between her legs. How many times have they fucked already; three, four? And still, the weight of her on his lap, her waist under his hands, the fresh scent of her skin that smells distinctively like his soap—all of it is enough to have his blood pumping faster in his veins, the urge to squeeze and bruise and pull her tight to him until there is no fucking space between them surging through him with such a vicious intensity that Draco has to take slow, measured breaths to regain control of himself.

Fucking hell, what is she doing to him?

And no matter the conversation they’ve been having—no matter that Draco feels sick to his stomach if he thinks too much about what might’ve happened to his mother, what still might happen to her, to them, to the few fucking people Draco still gives a shit about. Everything seems to pale in comparison to the feeling of Granger’s body against his, the sure weight of it, the way having her in his lap like this makes that possessive, damning creature inside him purr.

But something is even more satisfying than that, more satisfying than holding her, than feeling her body pliant under his, feeling her reach out to touch him even if she doesn’t seem aware of it—and it’s the fact that she lets him do all of this. Lets him kiss her, lets him fuck her, lets him hold her as she cries; lets him wash her hair and tell her she’s nothing and then lets him fuck her as the words still echo around them.

She lets him do it. She lets him do it. And fuck if it doesn’t do something to him. Fuck if it doesn’t drive him wild, if it doesn’t make him feel unhinged, the fact that that he can do all these things, can touch and take and comfort and hurt and she lets. him. fucking. do. it.

He doesn’t really know why. Doesn’t know why she’s still here, why she hasn’t run back to her dorm yet; but he’s not going to complain. Oh no.

Draco is going to get her to stay here, to stay with him; because he wants her close, wants her eyes glazed with lust and tears and wants to be the one to guide her through both her desires and her fears.

He wants to be the one for her. He wants her to become his.

But he can make a guess as to why she hasn’t left yet—why she let him hold her, why she told him she dreams of Bellatrix, why she showered with him even when he could see the hesitation in every curve of her body. He guesses that perhaps all sweet, broken, Hermione Granger wants is someone to see her, to crave her, to accept her in all her shattered pieces and not care that she has nightmares and panic attacks and that sometimes her anger gets the best of her. Someone who maybe, just maybe, can understand why she’s like this—someone who understands the trauma perhaps even better than she does. He doesn’t think she even realises that’s what she needs.

But Draco knows. And he can give her that. Can want her just in the way she needs.

Because he does want her. So fucking much, he wants her all to himself.

Granger shifts in his lap, an almost imperceptible movement of her hips that makes his breath catch, nerve endings firing. The image flashes in his mind instinctively—of Granger with her leggings pulled down just enough for him to push inside her; sitting pretty and still on his cock, cunt tight around him and making a mess of his thighs as he feeds her berries, little pink tongue lapping the juices from his fingers.

Draco exhales another heavy breath. Merlin, the things he wants to do to her. He presses his forehead harder against Granger’s shoulder blade. That she’s offered to help him with his mother somehow makes it all worse—makes that urge all the brighter, stronger. Makes him want to keep her close to him.

“Do you think they’ll keep your mother in the hospital for much longer?”

Theo’s words cut through the haze that Granger’s closeness, that her willingness to help him out—her offer—has put him in.

“Not sure,” he replies, talking against Granger’s shoulder blade. “Might move her to one of the Reformation Centres.”

“That wouldn’t be good,” Pansy says, and Draco can’t help but scoff out a laugh.

“No, Pansy, it really fucking wouldn’t.”

“The Reformation Centres aren’t that bad,” Granger offers, though it lacks emotion.

Draco lifts his head now, hooking his chin over Granger’s shoulder and delighting in the way he feels a shiver go through her. “They’re glorified asylums, Granger.”

“They aren’t.”

“They are,” Pansy snaps, tugging her robe tight across herself and giving Granger a mildly disgusted look. “And if you don’t see that, you’re more clueless than I thought.”

“Reformations Centres are meant to be prisons, not asylums,” Granger snaps back.

Draco's eyebrows shoot upwards at her words, at the plain, matter-of-fact way in which she says what everyone must’ve surely been thinking ever since the Ministry announced this stupid Reformation Act of theirs, but that no one has had the galls to say out loud.

“Reformation Centres were Kingsley’s idea.” Granger begins. “A way to keep those whose loyalties and beliefs are untrustworthy under watch, yes; but also a way to offer them the possibility to learn and change their ways of thinking—help them re-enter society with a little ‘Minsitry-approved’ badge, rather than leaving them fending for themselves with the risk of being isolated and spat upon by a Wizarding society that’s currently re-shaping itself into something that wouldn’t at all be welcoming to purist and extremist ideals.” She huffs. “So a prison, yes; but a more comfortable and useful one at that.”

Pansy’s look of mild disgust morphs into one of reluctant, surprised approval by the time Granger finishes speaking, and Draco can’t help the way he’s also surprised by Granger’s words. He’d thought she’d defend them, for some reason. Not call them for what they are. But it’s good that she does—at least she won’t bother them with trying to justify or defend the Ministry’s actions.

“In any case,” Granger continues, “If they move Narcissa to a Reformation Centre, reaching her might become more complicated.”

“The wards there can’t be more complex than the one here at Hogwarts,” Theo says. “If Draco’s message got through these wards, it’ll get through whatever wards they have around the facilities, too.”

Granger shifts in his lap, tucking her ankles in between Draco’s. “Yes, but allowing Malfoy to visit his mother while at the hospital is very different from allowing him to visit her if she’s in one of the Centers.”

“They won’t,” Pansy interjects, turning to Draco. “There’s a no-visitor policy now.”

“So you need to find a way to visit her again before they move her, Malfoy,” Granger reaches forward, her weight shifting on his legs as she picks her mug back up and takes a sip of tea. “Sneaking into a hospital is easier than sneaking into a Reformation Centre.”

Draco splays his hand on her belly, pulling her back so that she’s once again flush to his chest. “And you know a lot about sneaking into places, don’t you?”

“I do,” she says simply.

“And what places might a goody-two-shoes like you have ever sneaked into? The Library?” Pansy snarks.

Granger is quiet for a beat, lifting her mug to her lips once more before setting it down next to his discarded plate of food. “I broke into the Lestrange Vault at Gringotts.”

Her words hang in the air, and Draco’s fingers dig into her soft belly as a flash of heat burns through him. He shifts her so her hips line up with his, hand raising to move some of her hair to her side so that his lips can find that spot beneath her ear that he likes so much. He nips at it gently, conscious that Theo and Pansy can see exactly what he’s doing. But he thinks Granger likes that—likes that he doesn’t hide away from wanting her.

“Why do I find that so hot?” he whispers.

Granger swallows, and he feels her pulse pick up beneath his lips. Yet she doesn’t move away. “Because you have more problems than I can count, Malfoy.”

Draco hides his smile in her hair. He presses his lips over her pulse again. “You like them.”

She scoffs, moving away, pushing his head away from her skin. “I don’t.” But Draco swears he hears a hitch in her voice.

“Stop being disgusting,” Pansy says, voice cutting through the haze of desire Granger always seems to leave him in. “How does this all tie to Germany?”

Draco sighs in Granger’s hair. He doesn’t want to talk about Germany. The three of them haven’t discussed it at all—haven’t talked about the deaths, haven’t talked about who they lost. It isn’t unusual, though. They were never any good at being vulnerable with one another. Draco doubts they ever will.

Still, Theo answers her, and Draco shifts his eyes to him.

“They must be connected. In some way.” Theo runs a hand through his hair. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

“It most likely isn’t,” Draco says, resigning to the conversation. They do need to talk about it—at least understand how all these things slot together. “All the families involved so far have been Death Eater families, or had strong ties to them, in any case.”

“My cousins weren’t involved in the War,” Pansy interjects.

“They were still close enough to your parents to merit interest, if these people are going after Death Eater families,” Theo says, eyes flicking between Pansy and Draco.

“Or,” Draco drags the word out, “they found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

It’s Granger who speaks next. “Are you implying that whoever killed them was only after the Zabinis?”

Tension and silence swell in the room as Zabini’s name slips from Granger’s mouth. Draco's eyes lock with Theo’s for several long beats before Theo says, “You think that’s what happened?”

“I think whoever is behind it all is out for anyone who has a Dark Mark that isn’t already rotting in Azkaban.”

Granger’s sharp intake of breath makes Theo’s eyes flick to her before she says, “You think this is all revenge? Against the Death Eaters and those who followed Voldemort?”

Draco shrugs, though a part of him is impressed by the way Granger’s voice doesn’t shake. But the desire that had been swirling in his veins dwindles, souring with the conversation.

“What else would it be?” he says, looking at Granger’s profile. “What else do you think it could be?”

“Blaise,” she says instead. “He took the Mark?”

The question throws Draco off guard, unexpected as it is. He blinks.

“Why do you care?” Pansy snaps, guard rising as it always does when Blaise is involved.

“I just—” Granger shifts again in his lap, and Draco tightens his arms around her. “Was he a Death Eater? Did he take the Mark?”

“What do you—”

“Yes,” Theo replies, interrupting Pansy, who turns to him with a glare Draco has been on the receiving end of many times. “He was. Why does it matter?”

Draco notices Granger’s fingers flexing on her thighs, fist curling and uncurling before her fingers begin tapping an erratic beat against her leggings. “Blaise—” she starts, then stops, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. Unease grows in Draco the longer she remains silent, something about her posture, about the way her eyes dart between Pansy and Theo sending alarm bells ringing in his mind.

“Blaise, he—” she stops again, taking a deep breath, eyes flicking to Draco’s for a brief moment before darting away again. “Blaise helped us during the War. The Order, I mean. He—he was a spy.”

The silence that follows her confession is heavy. It echoes in Draco’s ears, followed suit by the roaring of his pulse as his heart trips and falls over its beats.

What?” Pansy’s voice is a vicious hiss when it comes, cutting through quiet like the sharpest of blades. “What do you mean he was a spy?”

Granger turns towards Pansy, and Draco has a perfect view of the tightness at the corners of her mouth and eyes, her expression one that twists something in his chest. “I mean, that he was a spy. He reached out, somehow, some months before the Battle here at Hogwarts. I never really saw him, but he warned us that the Death Eaters knew of one of our safe houses, knew when we were meant to have a meeting to regroup. It allowed us to go in prepared.”

Draco swallows. He knows what she’s talking about. “It was in Cornwall, wasn’t it?”

She nods. “We killed nine of the twelve snatchers that showed up,” Granger says, and Draco doesn’t miss the we in the sentence, that way Granger shivers when she says it. “But without Blaise’s warning, we would’ve lost. He helped us twice more before vanishing.”

“What?” Pansy’s voice is a strangled whisper now and Draco’s eyes fly to her, taking in the disbelief and fear and anger that clash in her expression. “What?”

“We would’ve vouched for him, had he shown up at his trials. Kingsley knew of his role, too—Blaise likely saved his life that first time. But we were never able to find him.”

“You—” Theo’s voice cracks and Draco feels his throat grow tight. “You looked for him?”

Granger nods. “As I said, Kinglesy knew. We were indebted to him.”

Draco’s arm goes slack around her waist, and he leans back against the armchair, away from her, away from her words, from the way they make bile rise in his throat. “Why are you telling us this?”

“Because—well,” she turns to look at him, twisting in his lap, and whatever soft-hearted emotion he sees in her eyes amidst the others flashing over her face sets him on edge, hands falling from her hips and curling into fists by his sides. “We were talking about him. I didn’t know he’d taken the Mark. What he did—it makes it even more important, now.”

Pansy’s frantic, strangled voice breaks, again, the silence that follows. “Draco, did you know—

Draco cuts her off, eyes locked with Granger’s as he glares at her, something hateful and cruel twisting in his chest. “Of course I didn’t fucking know about this, if what she’s even saying is true.”

Granger scoffs. “It is true, Malfoy. Blaise was—”

“Don’t fucking talk about him as if you knew him!” Pansy shouts, rising from the chaise and looming over Granger, one finger pointed in her face. “Don’t even fucking say his name.”

Granger glares at Pansy, jaw tight, and Draco would be impressed by her restraint and composure if only he wasn’t starting to feel quite so fucking angry.

Don’t scream in my face, Parkinson. I’m just saying that—”

Shut up! Shut. Up.” Pansy crowds her, anger and hurt stark in her face. “You don’t know shit.

Granger talks through gritted teeth. “I just meant that he—”

Don’t fucking talk like you knew him!”

“I clearly knew him better than you!” Granger snaps, teeth bared. “Were you two even friends if you didn’t know he was a bloody spy!”

Draco catches Pansy's wrist before her palm can make contact with Granger’s cheek, shoving Granger off him as he puts himself between the two. He hears Granger stumble, half-crashing into the marble table as he steps forward, Pansy’s wrist still in his grip, forcing her backwards.

Pansy’s chest heaves, silver-lined eyes glaring at Draco, her other hand coming up to try and pry his fingers off her. “Get the fuck off me, Draco.”

He steps forward again, forcing Pansy back another step, the back of her knees bumping against the chaise as she stares daggers at him. Draco glares right back, every muscle in his body strained with the effort of keeping himself still, of not snapping, of not giving in to the anger that Granger’s words and Pansy’s action have sparked in him, violent and rioting and painful.

Draco doesn’t want to hurt Pansy. He knows why she’s reacting like this. So he keeps silent, letting Pansy see for herself just how close he is to the edge he treads too often. She’s seen his anger before—recognises it in him now, if the way her expression hardens is anything to go by.

Pansy was never scared of him, though.

“Defending your little plaything, now, are you, Draco?” she hisses. “How sweet.”

Draco sneers at her before pushing her away, and Pansy falls onto the chaise with a sardonic, cutting laugh.

Draco keeps his back to Granger, trying to breathe past his anger—because he knows it isn’t her nor Pansy he’s angry at, it isn’t her he wishes he could take his anger out on, but she is here—and Blaise isn’t, Blaise isn’t because he’s fucking dead and a fucking traitor and if he’d just fucking spoken to Draco they—they wouldn’t have had to—

“Get out,” he spits, eyes fixed on Pansy’s. “Granger, get the fuck out.”

A second passes, and he doesn’t hear her leave, doesn’t hear the door shut behind her. Draco doesn’t want her near. Doesn’t want to fucking see her, doesn’t want to hear what else she fucking knows about Blaise. His nails dig into his palms, the pain not enough to distract him from the emotions bleeding through him, a wound he can’t seem to staunch.

When another second passes, Draco turns to look at Granger, at the angry, shocked expression on her face. His voice is vile when he hisses in her face, “Leave. I don’t want to hear another fucking thing you have to say. Get the fuck out.”

A delicate muscle in her jaw flexes, hurt flashing in her eyes before she leaves without a word, the door shutting softly behind her.


Leaving the Slytherin Dorm is a blur—Hermione rushes down the stairs, back to Malfoy’s room to pick up her bag. Then out again—across the Common Room and past the students who stare at her, past the door and the dark dungeon corridors and up the stairs.

It's only when she’s reached the portrait of the Fat Lady that Hermione stops, allowing herself to breathe as she squeezes her eyes tightly.

She’s angry. Of course she is. She was only trying to—she doesn’t really know. It was clear that Blaise's death meant something to all three of them—Pansy, clearly, most of all. She hadn’t meant to provide closure—what she shared wasn’t that. But it had felt important, in the moment, to tell them what Blaise had done for them. How he’d helped them, how he’d saved lives. Had likely saved her life, too.

The urge had risen in her and Hermione had listened to the voice telling her to share that crucial bit of the past with them, but she hadn’t thought of how they might react to it. She’d felt Malfoy grow unnaturally still beneath her; had seen the way blood drained from Nott’s face, leaving him looking like a ghost. But Pansy’s anger—she hadn’t expected it. Had expected shock and hurt and betrayal, yes, which Pansy had clearly felt; but the anger, the way she crowded Hermione—she hadn’t liked that. It had made her feel cornered, had put her on the defensive.

Her words had been a low blow. Hermione deserved the slap Pansy was willing to give her. She isn’t proud of what she’s said.

But it had felt good, even just for a second, to see anguish bloom in Pansy’s eyes.

Then Malfoy’s get out had been like a bucket of cold water being thrown in her face.

Stupid for her, really, to think for even a second that he was defending her—was telling Pansy to get out for having tried to slap her.

What a silly, stupid thought. Why would Malfoy ever do that? He and Pansy have been friends for years—have clearly gone through more together than Hermione knows.

Stupid for her heart to twist the way it had when he’d looked at her with such acrimony.

Hermione opens her eyes, pushing inside her dorm. The Common Room is empty when she crosses it, and she doesn’t understand why until her eyes drift to the window—to the large snowflakes drifting downwards from the sky, painting the scenery white. She thanks the skies for this small blessing, for this absence of witnesses to her slow trudge up the stairs, bag slipping from her shoulder, the embroidered Slytherin House crest on her chest burning a hole through her.

Still, Hermione doesn’t take the sweater off when she slips into her bed; angry, frustrated tears collecting in the corners of her eyes.

 


 

Notes:

this chapter fought me so bad, i was tempted to punch my laptop several times. but alas, here it is!!
most likely this chapter has been an such a little bitch because mentally, it's the bridging chapter between part one and part two of this story. well, the next chapter will be the actual bridging chapter, but still, I'm excited to write that one (more so than I was writing this one). anyway, I hope you enjoyed the plot side of things! I'm still learning to write plot-related story elements, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. part two of this little story will be more plot-focused, and I am as excited about it as I am dreading it. might have to send a prayer to the fanfic gods that I can somehow manage to girlboss my way through not messing it up, lol. please keep me in ur thoughts

as always, lots of virtual hugs and kisses to my betas <3 mads and jenny I'm looking at u, thank u for reassuring me and not allowing me to overthink everything!! ily guys

and virtual forehead kisses to all u guys reading this stupid brain rot fic of mine. your support means the world to me!! <3

chibi art drawn by the amazing lunappl96 on insta! the lovely dramione art instead is a wonderfully thoughtful gift by kelserly, also on insta! <333

Chapter 18

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Her door creaking as it’s pushed open is what forces Hermione to open her eyes, pulling her away from her non-sleep and her too-loud thoughts. She lifts her head from her pillow, looking over her shoulder to find Luna poking her head inside her room. She smiles at Hermione when she sees she’s awake, slipping inside the room and shutting the door softly.

Luna walks around Hermione’s bed to stand next to her, wearing a heavy coat and a thick scarf around her neck. Her cheeks and nose are red, three bright spots of colour on her pale face, and as she sits down next to her, the cold that drifts off her makes Hermione huddle deeper beneath her covers.

“Ginny was looking for you last night,” Luna says, folding her hands in her lap and tilting her head. “We couldn’t find you, though. Were you with Draco?”

Hermione stares at Luna’s bright blue eyes, breath caught in her throat, before she releases it with a heavy sigh. Luna already knows—what use would be lying to her?

And, Hermione reluctantly admits to herself, she doesn’t truly mind that Luna knows. It’s…relieving, somehow.

“Yes,” she mumbles, dropping her eyes and pulling at a thread in her bedsheets. “I—” she stumbles a bit over her words, “I slept in his dorm.”

Luna hums. “The Slytherin Dorm is quite nice, isn’t it? I like how you can see the waters of the Black Lake from the windows. Makes it all quite eerie.”

Hermione looks at Luna again, taking in the small smile that plays on her lips. The lack of judgement in her expression, even when faced once again with the truth of what she’s been doing with Malfoy, makes Hermione’s chest grow tight; a pathetic, needy sadness flaring inside her. She tries to swallow the feeling down, tries to ignore how badly she wishes she could cling to the gentle softness at the corners of Luna’s eyes, how much she wishes she could feel something like that towards herself, rather than this constant, miserable disappointment that has made its home beneath her skin.

Hermione swallows, looking away again. “I guess,” she says. Then, just because it’s Luna, “I feel like they could do with a little less marble, though. And snakes.”

Luna laughs, a bright airless sound that twinkles around the room and makes Hermione smile against her pillow. “I guess so,” she says, toeing off her shoes before crawling over Hermione and into her bed, slipping underneath the covers with her coat and scarf still on. Hermione turns so that she’s lying on her other side, facing Luna, who’s already looking at her.

Luna’s eyes drop then to her neck, and she hums as her cold fingers graze the collar of the green sweater Hermione is still wearing. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable with him.” She pulls her hand away, pushing it under her cheek, blue eyes glittering with amusement. “Draco isn’t that bad, don’t you think?”

Hermione purses her lips. “He isn’t really nice to me.”

Luna frowns. “Is he not?”

Hermione shakes her head.

“Well, then, why are you with him?”

“I’m not with him.”

“Oh,” Luna says. “Would you like to be?”

“No. He’s Malfoy. He—he hurt me. Hurt a lot of people. He did awful things during the—”

“So did I,” Luna interrupts, her voice light. “So did you. So did Ron and Harry and everyone else.”

Hermione falters. She stares at Luna, at the seemingly effortless way in which she can speak about this. She knows Luna is right, knows that everyone has done things they aren’t proud of. She knows it too well—wants to not know it, if she’s being honest; but, still. Malfoy can’t be grouped with them—he can’t.

“Malfoy was on the wrong side. He was on the bad side, Luna. He did things because—”

“Because they made him do it, I think. Not because he wanted to.”

Hermione’s breath stumbles in her throat, catching at the confidence in Luna’s words.

She doesn’t like thinking about the past, doesn’t like thinking about what they’d all been forced to do, one way or the other; but most of all she doesn’t want to think about Malfoy’s past, about that dark stain of ink on his arm, doesn’t want to deal with the swell of emotions that arise in her when her eyes fall to it when they’re together, when she asks herself if he’d chosen it or not.

“He still did it,” Hermione says slowly, heart stuttering in her chest.

One of Luna’s hands leaves its place beneath her cheek to pull at one of Hermione’s curls. Her gaze is thoughtful. “Wouldn’t you have done the same, had you found yourself in his shoes?”

Hermione looks between Luna’s eyes, searches her open, tranquil expression for a response—because the truth is, she doesn’t know. Would she? Would she have done all the things he’d done to ensure his survival? Or had he been doing it for someone else? For his parents?

She hasn’t forgotten the battle—hasn’t forgotten how Malfoy had betrayed his side; how that single desperate, traitorous action had tipped the scales of fate in their favour. Would he have done that if he truly believed in Voldemort’s cause? He’d also refused to identify Harry, that day at Malfoy Manor.

But then, he’d left her there, hadn’t he? He’d been there, in that room, when Bellatrix had carved that ugly thing in her arm, when she’d sunk her claws into Hermione’s memories and had twisted them into painful, grotesque nightmares that still made her sick to her stomach. Malfoy had been there, had looked at her, and it had been his choice to just watch, to let Bellatrix torture her, his choice to do nothing when those curses were burning her body from the inside out, breaking and ripping and tearing her apart until she thought she was finally, finally going to die.

Hermione wouldn’t have done that, had the roles been reversed. She wouldn’t have left him there, bleeding and hurting and wondering if this was going to be it—if that was how he was bound to die. She wouldn’t have. But he had. He had done that, and he had done worse. Yet he also had done better. But still, did those few good things he’d done outweigh all the bad?

She’d said so, at his trial. Had convinced the Wizengamot that Draco Malfoy had been just a child, like her, dragged into something that was bigger than him, but that still, in the end, he’d done the right thing, had been crucial in their winning the War.

But had she truly believed it?

She isn’t sure if she does, now. Even if he’d been forced to do them, could she ever excuse, or forgive, all his actions?

Would him having had a reason for doing them justify that he had done them at all? What if he’d truly done them to protect his parents? Hermione doesn’t know if Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had been good parents to Draco—can’t even begin to unravel the dynamics of their relationships, but they had still been his parents. And wasn’t Hermione intimately familiar with the willingness to do anything to protect your family? Even if the cost was ripping your souls to tiny, little shreds?

She thinks maybe she can understand that, can understand him, but the bitterness in her doesn’t allow her to forget that still, before the War, before everything, Draco Malfoy had never been nice to her. Try as she might to not let his cutting comments get to her, try as she might to fool herself into believing that she didn’t care, that she was above his petty insults; still his words had changed something in her, had made her grow with a dented self-esteem, with bruises in the soft underbelly of her vulnerabilities that sometimes still ached, still made her feel a little bit empty if she thought too much about them. And to learn that she had been such a nothing to him to not even be worth his hate; to learn that every stinging word had been said in annoyance rather than hatred—somehow it hurt her more.

It’s easier, somehow, to excuse Harry, to excuse Ron, to excuse every single one of her friends who had lived through the War with her. What they’d done had been about survival, about necessity, had been the cost they’d had to pay—had been willing to pay—for the hope of defeating the Dark Lord.

But Malfoy—Hermione only understands him in bits and pieces, if she even understands him at all; and confusion and bitterness stunt the roots of her compassion.

Nonetheless, a desire blooms in her, delicate and thorned. She wants to understand why he'd done all the things he did, why he'd fought for their side at the end, why he has those scars over his Mark. She wants to understand him.

“I don’t know,” Hermione says, swallowing the painful lump in her throat—that desire prickling her painfully. “I don’t know,” she repeats, dropping her gaze from Luna’s eyes to the mattress between them. “But it doesn’t change the fact that he isn’t nice, that he isn’t a good person.”

Luna pulls at the curl again before letting it go. “I don’t know, either. But I think he’s a good person, Hermione. At least, I think he wants to be a good person. I don’t know if he knows how to do that, though. Draco always seemed so… lost to me.”

Hermione tries to breathe past the awful, squeezing hollowness she feels, past the ruinous desire to believe in what Luna is saying, to trust that Malfoy isn’t what she thinks he is—that if she did peer beneath his ribs she wouldn’t find emptiness but rather a bruised, darkened heart; just like hers, twisted and aching but still beating with the desire to be good, to be more than what their actions have made them.

“Draco,” she says, his name rolling off her tongue like a heavy weight, yet weightless, too; as if it takes no effort for the syllables to form. “How do you know him so well?”

Luna hums. “Theo,” she says, as if Nott’s name should be all the explanation Hermione needs.

“Theo?”

“Yes.” A small smile curls her mouth. “Theo would talk about Draco all the time. They’re really close. At least, they used to be.” Her smile dims. “I don’t know if it’s different now.”

“How come you and Nott know each other?” Hermione asks, aching to move the conversation to something that doesn’t make that hollowness quite so prominent in her chest. She has always wondered, in any case, how the two knew each other, ever since Luna had first made that off-hand comment about the Slytherin boy years ago, as if she knew him with a deep familiarity.

“He could see the Thestrals, too. Like Harry. I saw him with one, one day in Third Year, and we started spending some time together. He was scared of them at first. I showed him he had nothing to fear.” Luna burrows deeper in Hermione’s pillows, her scarf covering her face, though Hermione doesn’t miss the smile that graces her face again. “Theo is a lovely person. He’s very curious, and very intelligent. But he was quite sad, too; when I first met him. But I think he’s better now, though I don’t know if a sadness like his ever really goes away.”

Hermione doesn’t know Nott enough to comment, but she thinks it says something about him, that he befriended Luna. “Are you still friends?”

Luna is quiet for some time before she sighs. “I don’t know. I like to think that we are, but ever since the War, everything has been different. There’s a distance now. He doesn’t come to see the Thestrals anymore.”

Hermione removes her hand from beneath her pillow, fingers reaching for Luna’s. She gives her hand a quick squeeze, just enough for her to hopefully understand that Hermione knows how it feels, when friendships change and the ground you once thought was solid turns into something that makes you stumble, that you don’t know how to navigate anymore.

But Luna keeps her hold on Hermione’s hand, her cold fingers making goosebumps rise on her skin. “Are you friends? With Draco?”

Hermione stares down at their hands, Luna’s skin so much paler than her own, the tips of her fingers red from the cold. “No, I don’t think we are.”

“Do you have feelings for him?”

“Do you have feelings for Neville?”

“I do,” Luna says, not skipping a beat. “Neville makes me want to smile. He makes me happy. He…I think I might grow to love him, one day.”

Hermione feels that hollowness squeeze again, a claw with a vice-like grip on her heart, wringing envy and despair out of her.

She thinks of Malfoy calling her pathetic, of her knees pressed against the cold stone of that room after he’d left her crying and alone again, of being sent away when all she’d wanted to do was help. She thinks of being nothing, worthless; of the potential of being something more.

“Malfoy makes me want to scream,” Hermione tells Luna, the truth filling the scant space between them, slithering up her throat and out before she can stop it. “He doesn’t make me happy. He makes me angry. Furious. So much at times I don’t recognise myself. And he makes me sad, and confused, and bitter and mean and vile.” She lifts her eyes from their hands to Luna’s eyes, wondering if she can tell her this, if she should give life to it; and then doing it anyway.

“But he feels real, Luna. He—” Hermione hesitates, her heart clenching again. “He makes me feel real,” she whispers, and hates the desperation she hears in her own voice. “Like I don’t have to pretend.”

Luna squeezes her hand this time. “Maybe that’s what you need.”

It’s quiet for a while after that, the only sound in the room that of the ticking clock on the wall. Then Luna squeezes her hand again, her brows furrowing. “Draco doesn’t hurt you, though, does he?”

Hermione looks at Luna, really looks at her, at the easy way in which she gives her vulnerability to others, at the strength she seems to take from it. Luna waits for her reply, without asking again, without demanding an answer. Hermione doesn’t even truly know the answer to that question. Does Malfoy hurt her? She wants to say yes, he does; but he doesn’t hurt her in the way Luna is asking.

Malfoy has hurt her, tearing through her mind and leaving her alone, but she had hurt him back for that, and she trusts, for some strange reason, that he won’t try something like that again. And in the same way she knows that, she also knows, deep in her belly, that he won’t ever really hurt her—not, at least, more than she will let him hurt her.

“He doesn’t,” she tells Luna, giving her hand one last squeeze before letting go.

“That’s good,” Luna smiles, then moves, slipping from beneath the covers, socked feet padding softly to where her shoes are discarded on the ground. Hermione lifts herself up until she’s sitting, her blankets pooling at her waist, as Luna turns to her. “By the way, do you have any pain relief potions?”

Hermione’s brows furrow. “Pain relief?”

Luna hums. “Yes, Ginny told me that Harry isn’t feeling the best. Said he had an awful headache, but he didn’t want to go to the Infirmary for that. Ginny said you might have some healing potions at hand, but we couldn’t find you last night and she didn’t want to go through your things.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, stretching as she gets out of the bed and walks to the chest at the foot of it. She opens it, rifling for the small velvet pouch where she keeps several vials of potions for emergencies. She tries not to think about the last time she opened the tiny burgundy bag, of what she’d done that night. She also tries not to think about Harry, and about how he would’ve come directly to her for help, once.

“Here,” she says, pulling out a simple glass vial no larger than her thumb, a dark grey liquid swirling inside. “This should help.”

Luna reaches out for the vial, tucking it into the pocket of her coat. “Perfect. I’ll give it to him now then, I’m going to see Neville anyway.”

Hermione stands, and then Luna’s arms are wrapped around her, Hermione’s face pressed against Luna’s cold, silky hair, the smell of snow and something fresh filling her nose.

It’s disorienting, for a moment; then Hermione raises her arms, wrapping them around Luna’s waist and closing her eyes, letting Luna’s embrace ease some of the tightness in her chest. She tries to breathe past it, and finds that it’s easier, at least for a few seconds, her lungs expanding with less strain than she’s, by now, used to.

Then Hermione pulls away, drawing her hands back and fiddling with the cuff of Malfoy’s sweater. Luna’s arms fall from around Hermione’s neck, and when she steps back, Hermione gives her a small smile. Luna smiles back, the curve of her lips lighter than Hermione’s, brighter and more knowing, and then she’s skipping out of Hermione’s shared room, leaving it warmer than it had been before.


“Are you avoiding me again?”

The whisper sends a shiver through her; and then broad, strong hands she’s come to know too well land on either side of her open book, caging her in.

Malfoy leans closer, so that his next words brush against her ear. “You know I don’t like that.”

Hermione keeps her gaze trained on her book, focusing hard on the Arithmancy text she’s reading.

She ignores him, the anger that had reared its head that morning when she’d seen him in the Great Hall flaring back with vengeance. Just the sight of him had been enough for the burn of his get out to sear through her again, mixing with embarrassment and anger and confusion and leaving her with little to no desire to interact with him.

When he’d walked into the Hall, eyes searching for her in the crowd and finding her with ease, having been dragged to breakfast by Ginny, Hermione had glared at him and had then promptly kept her eyes far away from him and his table, concentrating on her breakfast and her tea as if they were the most interesting things in the world. Harry and Ron had sat side by side, Ron shoving eggs in his mouth, his hair pulled back in a bun that reminded her too much of Charlie; Harry staring glumly down at his cup of coffee.

Hermione had tried to make small talk, asking Harry if the potion she’d given Luna had helped ease his headache, but Harry had only murmured a flat yes, thank you, without even meeting her eyes. Ron’s gaze had lifted to her just for a second before drifting away again, bored and disinterested, and Hermione had quickly withdrawn, the distance between her and the two people sitting on the other side of the table feeling, all of a sudden, abysmal and strained. So she’d kept her mouth occupied with porridge and tea, forcing herself to chat with Ginny until the time had come to go to class, trying not to think too much about the silence coming from the two people she’d once thought knew her better than anyone on this earth, and ignoring the way her eyes wanted to dart to the other side of the Hall.

As the day had progressed, her mood had only worsened, becoming a jumble of things she didn’t want to feel. Between classes, she’d seen Malfoy lingering in the halls from the corner of her eyes, could feel him watching her, like he’d been doing for months now, the weight of his attention on her leaving her warm and upset. So she avoided her usual routes, stayed close to Ginny or Luna or even Parvati while walking from one class to the next in a weak attempt to feel like she could keep Malfoy far enough away to breathe past her emotions.

But she should’ve known, when Ginny got up from the chair opposite Hermione’s at her usual desk in the Library, that her hopes would’ve been in vain.

Malfoy’s fingers reach for her book, leafing through the pages with disinterest until Hermione smacks her palm flat to the paper, halting his actions. Malfoy’s hand falls from the book, the metal of his rings thudding against the wooden desk.

“Stop avoiding me.”

“No,” she snaps, then lowers her voice when a shh! comes from somewhere behind the shelves that surround them. “Leave,” she says, the word final, turning back to the page she was reading—or trying to.

Malfoy scoffs, not deigning to reply before his hand is on her book again, flipping it shut and then picking it up, throwing it carelessly to the side, the thump of it earning them another shush! from the bookshelves.

Hermione glares at said bookshelves as Malfoy’s fingers reach for hers. “Granger, I don’t like you avoiding me, and you’ve been doing that all day, so tell me why—”

Hermione jerks to standing when his fingers brush against hers, sending her chair back against him and relishing in the grunt he makes when the back of it makes contact with what she hopes is his groin. He straightens up, and Hermione wastes no time in slinging her bag over her shoulder and picking up her discarded book.

“I don’t have to tell you anything, Malfoy; and I’m free to ignore you all I want.” She glares at him, snatching her robes away when his hand reaches out to grasp them. His eyes narrow, and Hermione gives him a tight-lipped, saccharine smile that scratches at the petty itch that had been bothering her all day. “Now kindly fuck off.”

Hermione delights in the way his jaw ticks, then turns around and disappears down the hall before he, or Madam Pince, can say anything else; and proceeds with ignoring him for the rest of the day, and the one after that, too.


It’s sometime deep in the night when Hermione wakes, sweaty and panicked, from another nightmare.

Her eyes open, hand flying to her chest, searching for the blood she knows should be pooling there, but finding only warm, soft fabric. She sits up, back against the headboard, trying to catch her breath. Her mouth feels dry and her face tight with salty tear tracks, and she scrubs at it, trying to rid herself of the lingering scraps of her nightmare, the taste of her sleeping potion acidic and rotten on her tongue.

She takes a couple of slow inhales, eyes darting to Ginny’s bed, which tonight is empty. When her heart doesn’t feel like it wants to jump up her throat and escape her, she reaches for her bedside table and the glass of water she keeps on it for moments like this.

Her hand moves carefully but blindly over the little wooden desk, fumbling for the glass until her fingers make contact with parchment, the unexpected contact making her flinch.

Hermione stills, brows furrowing in confusion, before she reaches for her wand, finding it with ease in the corner where she always keeps it. She casts a lumos, blinking against the soft light that stings her eyes until she can make out her nightstand. Amidst the books and muggle pens and random, unused, jewellery she keeps on her nightstand, a tiny pile of parchment stares back at her. She stares at the neatly folded pieces of paper, counting three, and as she debates whether to open them or not, knowing full well who they’re from, another one appears, floating into existence and fluttering atop the rest, the soft brush of parchment against parchment loud in the quiet of her room.

The little pieces of paper taunt her, waiting, and her resolve cracks in an embarrassing amount of time. She reaches for the messages, grasping them all and bringing them in her lap, letting them fall over her blanket. She picks one up.

The stupid portrait won’t let me through, but I’ll find a way to get to you if you make me wait much longer.

Her heart stutters, tripping over its beat. She opens another one.

I’m outside. Come out?

Then the next.

I just want to talk, promise.

And finally, the last one, though she doesn’t know the order they came through.

Patience was never my strong suit, sweetheart. Don’t make me stand here in the cold.

She stares at the words, Malfoy’s handwriting neat and precise in black ink over the yellow of the parchment, as the lub-dub of her heart echoes in her ears.

She’s been ignoring him for two days now, and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t surprised by his…restraint, by the fact that after that exchange in the Library, he hadn’t tried bothering her again. Her anger over the way he kicked her out has faded a bit, but the sting of it hasn’t lessened, no matter that he’s treated her worse in the past. But something about the fact that he’d reacted so badly when she’d just been trying to help bothers her too much for her to let it go, even if her brain has tried to rationalise his—and Pansy’s—behaviours as instinctive reactions to learning that Blaise had helped the Order, rather than true anger against herself. Still, knowing this doesn’t lessen the hurt, nor does it dampen her desire to give Malfoy what is essentially the silent treatment, no matter how childish it may be.

But something about these messages, about the fact that he’s asking her to talk, rather than grabbing her and forcing the conversation upon her, subdues her annoyance just enough for her curiosity to gain the upper hand. Hermione flips the I just want to talk message, grabbing one of her pens from the nightstand and laying the parchment flat on her thigh over the blanket.

She scribbles What do you want? in blue ink, pressing too much into the parchment, frustration and nerves causing her pen to almost pierce the paper.

She thinks of how to get the message to him. She doesn’t know how he manages to send her these messages, doesn’t know the exact charm he uses to get them to appear right where she is. So instead she folds the message again and casts a charm that she learnt at the Ministry during the long afternoons she spent there that past summer, watching as the message lifts into the air and folds into a little aeroplane before it flies off, disappearing beneath the sliver of space between her door and the floor.

Hermione waits, wide awake now, fingers toying with one of the messages, tearing the corners of it to shreds, until another message flutters onto her lap.

A paper aeroplane? Really? Just come outside.

She scowls down at the message, scribbling just beneath it.

No. What do you want?

She sends it off again, and waits. Another message comes.

Stop sending me aeroplanes. Just come outside. I want to talk to you.

Hermione huffs, rolling her eyes at the arrogant tone in his words, and writes again.

What. Do. You. Want?

The paper folds into another aeroplane and disappears. The next message is quick to arrive.

Do you want me to apologise to you or not?

Hermione sucks in a sharp breath, her eyebrows flying to her hairline as she reads the sentence over and over; staring at that seven-letter word, making sure that it’s actually there, and not a figment of her imagination.

Damn him. She crinkles the paper in her fist, curling her fingers around her wand in the other, and before she can really tell herself not to, she’s throwing her covers away from herself and pulling her door open, slipping down the stairs and past the darkened Common Room. She hesitates for a moment once she reaches the back of the portrait that separates him from her, hand pressed to the door, but then she pushes it open, cold air rushing her.

Malfoy stands on the other side of the landing, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, still wearing his uniform but without his robes. He straightens when she steps out, the door closing with a snick behind her, the Fat Lady grumbling about students disturbing her sleep. Hermione takes a step towards him then halts, crossing her arms over her chest and raising an eyebrow.

Malfoy walks towards her, and she takes in the way his tie is loose around his neck where it disappears beneath his vest, the bottom of his shirt untucked from his pants. His eyes drop from her face to her chest, and a crooked smirk pulls at his mouth before he brings his eyes back to hers.

“Comfy, isn’t it?”

She frowns, before glancing down to her chest, to the green sweater she’s still wearing. Bollocks.

She glares at him with all the annoyance she feels. “Talk, Malfoy. Or I’m going back inside.”

They stare at each other for long enough that Hermione grows conscious of the fact that he most likely dangled an apology in her face as bait, and as the seconds tick by and he keeps quiet, doing nothing more than staring at her with appraising eyes, her annoyance mixes with disappointment.

Had she really thought he would apologise? Dumb of her, really.

She tsks when the silence between them turns awkward, Malfoy standing still with his hands in his pockets, his expression stoic. She turns around, cursing herself for having actually believed he wanted to talk, reaching for the door, when he finally breaks the silence.

“I shouldn’t have told you to leave. That was…rude of me.”

Hermione stills. His voice is smooth, but she feels the undercurrent of strain in it, eerily similar to discomfort.

“What you said about Blaise threw me off. I was angry.”

His voice is hard when he says this, flat—too flat—and Hermione turns around then, slowly, taking him in.

Malfoy's posture is relaxed, as arrogant and bored as it always is, but his jaw is clenched, a muscle twitching as he lets his words hang in the air. Hermione keeps silent, waiting for him to go on, trying to decipher the expression on his face.

“It surprised me. Blaise was a close friend. And his death—” he stops, eyes darting away before returning to hers, silver swirling with an emotion she hasn’t seen on him before. “His death hurt,” he says, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes, daring her to comment on the open show of vulnerability he’s giving her. “Finding out that he helped you was a shock. I—” he clenches his teeth, then grits out, as if forcing himself to say the words. “I don’t react well to that.”

Hermione’s fingers clench in her sweater where her arms are still crossed, trying her hardest to keep her shock out of her expression as she stares at him. She had thought as much, but the fact that he’s telling her this is so unexpected and startling that she doesn’t know what to say to him. But Malfoy takes her silence for something else, so he huffs, then continues.

“I took it out on you because you were the bearer of the news. But I shouldn’t have. I apologise.”

Hermione ignores the smug satisfaction that explodes in her chest, pursing her lips instead and swallowing the retorts that want to call him immature and childish, knowing full well just how grief can make someone react.

Because that’s what it is, that emotion in his eyes, the same one she’d seen flashing across his face as he’d told her to get out, hidden beneath his anger. It’s there, in the tightness at the corners of his eyes, in the muscle that twitches in his jaw, in his posture that is just too relaxed to be natural.

She’d wondered, hadn’t she, what grief looked like on Draco Malfoy? She thinks it looks a lot like anger. Hermione wonders if all his emotions do.

“What?” Malfoy snaps when the silence stretches again. “Is that not good enough for you?”

Hermione understands then that this must not be something Malfoy often does, and it makes that thing behind her ribs flutter ferociously, banging against her ribcage and filling her with warmth.

But she doesn’t miss the opportunity that Malfoy is giving her, and the malicious, spiteful part of her screams at her to seize it, to not let him off so easily.

“No,” Hermione says, and Malfoy’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what,” he grits out, and Hermione’s own eyes narrow at the annoyed, cutting tone of his voice. Then she smirks when the realisation hits her—that Malfoy is being snappish because he’s uncomfortable.

Good, she thinks, and raises both her eyebrows at him in her own challenge. “You have a brain, Malfoy. Use it.”

Malfoy’s nostrils flare, and she swears she sees his hands ball up into fists in his pockets.

He spits it out through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry.”

Her smirk widens. “That’s not enough. Try again.”

He glares at her. “I’m sorry I told you to get out.”

“And?”

“And what.

And?” she stresses, rejoicing in the fun she’s having at watching his annoyance grow.

“And what, Granger,” Malfoy grits out.

She gives him a flat look. “If you think that’s the only thing you need to apologise for, you’re dafter than I thought.”

He bristles. “What, do you want me to apologise for everything, now? Want me to write you a little essay? Grovel for your oh so magnanimous forgiveness?”

“Yes.”

He lets out a sardonic laugh. “No.”

“You owe me as much, you absolute bastard,” she snaps, the words falling from her lips before she can stop them.

They glare at each other, Hermione’s chest rising and falling with the sudden need to see him like that, to see him on his knees and asking for her forgiveness for everything he’s done to her these months, for every rude comment or mean look—but most of all for the one thing he’s done that, she feels, she hasn’t let him do; for the memories he stole and the entitlement he felt in using Legilimency on her when she was naked and vulnerable.

Malfoy glowers at her, until suddenly his demeanour shifts. An understanding that makes Hermione’s breath hitch flashes in his eyes.

He takes a step closer, pulling his hands out of his pockets, until he stands right in front of her, staring down at her with a seriousness she’s unfamiliar with. “I’m sorry. For that night. I shouldn’t have gone through your mind. You were right in trying to melt my insides on that bridge.” A pause, and another tick of his jaw. “I promise not to use Legilimency on you again.”

Direct, curt sentences; said with a voice that doesn’t shake, that doesn’t sound strained. They reach through her, grasping her heart, squeezing it. His eyes flick between hers, his voice low and steady. Her throat tightens. “And I’m sorry I left you alone.”

The words leave her mouth before she can even try to hold them back, cutting and bitter. “A habit of yours, watching me cry on a floor and doing nothing about it.”

Malfoy’s entire body goes still, tension seizing him at her words, at the mention of the past that lives between them that they’ve never, ever mentioned.

He looks at her, eyes hardening, before he takes a slow breath and moves even closer, mere inches between them now. She doesn’t take her eyes away from his, desperate to understand what she sees in them, victim to the hollow tightness that is back, that tries to steal her heartbeat away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is slow, deeper, and heavy. “I’m sorry for that, too.”

His hand reaches for her face, then drops when she flinches away from it, fingers slipping into his pocket again.

It takes a while for him to speak again, and he swallows before he does. “I doubt I will ever say this again, but I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Again, his words are curt, direct; nothing more than the most simple, basic of apologies, yet Hermione feels them as if they’re a sentence and a saving all at once; as if they drown her and breathe air into her lungs at the same time.

She feels that thing flutter behind her ribs again, wildly beating against her ribcage, searching for a way up her throat. She doesn’t want to name it, doesn’t want to feel its syllables roll over her tongue, doesn’t even want to hear its echo in her mind, but it’s there, demanding and uncontrollable and trembling in her chest, keeping her rooted to her spot, incapable of looking away from him.

And next to it is pain, raw awful pain at the memories of what it had felt like, laying on that floor, her mind going far away from her body and her eyes catching his, the understanding that he wasn’t going to help her, that he was just going to watch as Bellatrix tortured her, shattering her in an unexpected way.

“Don’t expect me to be nice to you, Granger, because I don’t think I ever will, but I won’t lie to you. I promise that I’m truthful when I tell you I won’t ever hurt you like that again.” His eyes search her face, and she wonders if this is all a dream, because the regret she sees in his eyes must be a figment of her imagination. And then he says, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear him, “I’m not that kind of monster.”

Hermione tries to get her lungs to expand, but that rioting thing won’t let her. It abates the urge to scream and claw at him for having done nothing that day, for having stood silent as Bellatrix turned her soul to tatters, clamouring instead that she give in to the need to touch him, to bring him close, to tell him that she just wants to understand him, to understand who he is and why he is the way he is and if maybe, maybe, he wants to understand her just as she does him.

Malfoy raises his hand again and this time, she doesn’t flinch away when he cups her jaw. “Was that good enough?”

Hermione wants to say no, that he has years of damage to account for, that one apology will never be enough for her. That what he’s said now doesn’t cancel out his actions, won’t be enough to make her forget that he bullied her for years, that he didn’t try to stop Bellatrix, that he has never really been nice to her, not then and not now—but it feels like it’s something, and the way it makes her heart skip a beat makes her feel pathetic.

Her hands slowly rise to his waist, and she grasps at the wool of his vest, pulling him close. “No,” she says, and doesn’t miss the way he swallows, the way his eyes shutter for a second. She wonders how much it really cost him to say those words. “It wasn’t good enough. But it’s a start.”

Malfoy’s hand slides from her jaw to her hair, tangling in the curls at her nape, and he tilts her face towards his. He tsks under his breath, shaking his head as if trying to clear his thoughts, and she wonders what he must be thinking, what pushed him to come here tonight and say these words to her; what her half-acceptance of them makes him feel.

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek, lost in thought and in his eyes, but when he leans down to kiss her, his lips mere centimetres from her, she leans away, slipping out of his arms before he has time to hold her back.

She steps backwards as Malfoy stands there, staring at her with eyes so dark and wanting that breathing past the thumping of her heart becomes a struggle. “You should go back,” she says, ignoring the way her hands want to reach for him again. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

Malfoy takes a slow inhale, then he slides his hands into his pockets again and takes a step back of his own.

“Goodnight, Granger.” He gives her that crooked smirk again, and Hermione knows he must be able to hear the pounding of her heart, loud as it is in her ears. “See you in the morning.”

Then he turns around, and Hermione watches him go, disappearing behind a corner without a backwards glance, her chest alight with something she has never felt before.


They aren’t subtle.

Hermione is aware of this, in the days that follow Malfoy’s apology, but it’s a distant, hazy thought.

After she’d gone back to her room that night, his words replaying in her mind, it had taken her a long while to fall back asleep, wondering why his apology had made her feel the way it had, wondering if he'd been truthful, or if it was still part of his games. Yet despite her doubts, her need for him had grown and she'd asked herself if somehow, she had the same effect on him as he seemed to have on her.

When she’d woken up, she’d found that her need hadn’t abated, and a single look from him across the Great Hall had been enough to have her clenching with want, the feeling that something had shifted between them searing through her, alighting every one of her nerve endings.

It’s different between them now. Hermione feels it low in her belly, and she is victim to the tide of emotions that rise in her whenever Malfoy sets his silver eyes on her, regardless of the nature of those feelings—want, confusion, anger. He makes her feel alive, and just like that night at the Lake, Hermione realises that she wants to feel all these things, that she wants them burning through her, no matter how dizzy they make her, no matter how scary they sometimes feel.

She should care more about how differently he makes her act.

She should care when she gets up from her table at breakfast and Malfoy follows a second later, gaze locked on her as she leaves, as if he’s physically incapable of looking away, and she looks back over her shoulder to make sure he’s following.

She should care when she doesn’t answer questions in class, lost in her memories, in his words, in the soft bruises that mark her body; and the Professors have to call on her twice to get her to pay attention, only for it to last a couple of minutes before it drifts away, back to him.

She should care when Malfoy sits by her in the Library, the attention of the other students sitting at the desks close to hers shifting on them as he pulls out his books and starts reading, murmurs and curious gazes interrupting her afternoons.

She should definitely care when he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her to him, his back against the wall next to the Charms classroom during their lunch break. Should care when he kisses her and they make out, lazy and unbothered, right there, in the middle of the empty corridor—at least until the door to the class opens and three young Ravenclaw students trudge out, Professor Flitwick’s voice reaching her ears, chastising them on turning his spells into silly, stupid pranks.

Hermione’s head whips towards the students, all of them boys, and theirs turn to them; and she watches shock paint their features as they take her and Malfoy in, pressed against each other, Hermione’s arms around his neck and his hands on her waist beneath her robes, their hips aligned and both with flushes on their cheeks.

Hermione pulls her fingers out of Malfoy’s hair, hands falling to his arms to try to pry his hands off her—but there’s really no hiding their compromising position, their dishevelled clothes; and when the seconds tick by and the boys still just stare, Malfoy clicks his tongue.

“Don’t you know it’s bad manners to stare?”

Hermione watches as the boys look between her and Malfoy, one’s face turning as red as Hermione’s must be. Malfoy glares at them, pulling her closer, before he snaps out a stop looking at her that has the boys scrambling, muttering sorry as they leave. She should care about the repercussions of having been caught so blatantly, but then Malfoy kisses her again, and the fact that people have seen her pressed against him, lips bruised red, suddenly doesn’t seem all that important.

Yet the fact remains—that she should care about all of this, but the truth is that she doesn’t, and it’s as relieving as it is scary.

One part of her demands that she cares, that she doesn’t forget about that mask that she’d spent so many days building and reinforcing, the scraps of her old self that she’d managed to sew together into a semblance of functionality, that she’d spent so much of her energy into bringing back to life. This part whispers to her that Malfoy is no good, that she’s making mistake after mistake, that Malfoy will hurt her again and that she’s a fool for chasing after these sensations.

But another part of her is just so sick and tired of caring, of all these shoulds, of the strain it puts on her soul to slip that mask back on, to raise her hand in class, to take notes, to act as if she doesn’t want Malfoy to touch her and kiss her and have his lips somewhere on her body at any given moment, to have her lips on him and lose herself in his skin, in the way she feels drunk and high on him, in the way she sleeps a little better after he brushes her tears away at night.

Hermione feels the cracks in her widen, feels like every time she gives herself to him that rip within her worsens, more threads pulling taut and snapping. Her mask, which she’d held on to so tightly before, which she’d relied on for sustenance, hanging onto it as if, without it, she’d lose herself; it starts slipping away, a useless weight in her fingers, dangerously close to falling to the ground and cracking, leaving shattered pieces on the floor.

She catches herself wondering, time and time again, if there’s any use for it when she’s with him. Hasn’t Malfoy already seen through it, anyway? Hasn’t she already shown him, willingly or unwillingly, the mess that lies beneath? The tears and the nightmares and the anger? The sadness and the fury?

And hasn’t he stayed, hasn’t he held her close when the pain seeped through the cracks?

She gets the sense that he knows, somehow, that he sees through her in a way no one else does; and so in those quiet moments when it’s just the two of them, she lets the mask fall away, bit by bit.

But clarity hits her sometimes, reminds her of his words in the Great Hall that day, of how he’d told her she wasn’t anything more than a pathetic liar, of what he’d promised her.

I will push you until you break, and then I will sit back and watch you try and piece yourself back together

So she tries to fit her mask back on, to keep some semblance of distance between them. She doesn’t ask him the things she wants to—if those scars on his forearm hurt, if he ever dreams of her on his Drawing Room floor, if he’d been scared at the trials—and she doesn’t give up more pieces of herself—doesn’t tell him that her scar burns sometimes, that she dreams of Dolohov and Greyback and his father sometimes too, that the nights she spends in her room instead of his taste like her sleeping draught, rather than him, and she’s starting to hate it.

But the mask becomes ill-fitting, becomes harder to put back on every time she slips. Hermione tries, desperately, to keep that trembling thing in her chest at bay, but it sneaks up on her every time he murmurs her name, every time his fingers trail over her spine or her belly or the inside of her wrist, every time he looks at her and the silver of his eyes tells her of things she thinks he, too, seems to be failing at holding at bay.

And so her walls turn thin, and though she doesn’t voice her thoughts, she inches closer to him at night, tangles her legs with his, pressing her cold feet against his calves. She washes his hair in the shower they now share more often than not and doesn’t shy away from his gaze when she catches him looking from across the halls. Her shoulds start becoming silly little words, and so they start being less subtle, and she loses herself in chasing the high of how real he makes her feel, how little her soul demands she pretends when his arms are around her and his kisses turn gentle and tender late at night and his eyes make her wonder, maybe, if he understands her better than she does.


Sometimes they fight.

On the days that are particularly bad, when her nightmares leave her feeling sick and the lack of sleep hollows her out and the bruises Malfoy leaves on her hurt too much, she becomes irritable, sensitive. Words turn acidic and cutting on her tongue, and she doesn’t want him close. On those days, she forces her mask back on, seeking refuge in it, yet it offers her little comfort, only mantras of self-hatred and disappointment that she repeats to herself, over and over, a masochistic penitence that she can’t stop inflicting on herself.

It makes him angry, makes a manic glint surge in his eyes, and she sees the way he looks at her, how the corner of his mouth twitches in disgust.

It cuts her like a blade straight through the chest each time, and it turns her nasty. She scratches at him when he tries to touch her, tells him she doesn’t want something as dirty as him staining her. She spits his words back in his face, hisses that he’s a monster, asks him if his parents are proud, tells him that he’ll never be better than the Mark on his arm, and that he’s the coward, for having done nothing until the very end.

Malfoy laughs, as if everything she says doesn’t touch him. He never raises his voice, never yells at her; but she learns that his anger comes in this form too—quiet and almost bored, so painful in its indifference. His voice is a drawl when he asks her to stop being so pathetic, stop being such a waste. Doesn’t she see that it’s all for nothing? That she’s only embarrassing herself, that it’s laughable how she tries to run away from what she is, as if she ever could.

Hermione storms away from him, forgoes her classes in favour of her small, dusty bathroom, back to that shower that she hates, scratching at her skin until she falls to her knees, gasping.

Her breakdowns, when they come, are worse. She turns into a being of guilt and regret, a pitiful, hollow vessel of disdain and disappointment. She doesn’t truly think those things—at least she thinks she doesn’t; but she says them anyway, and she hates it, hates that she turns into this. So she scratches and cries and screams until her voice is raw, nails trying to gouge through the wet ceramic of the tub. Then she gets out of the shower, dries her hair, and waits for that nothingness to embrace her. When it comes, Hermione finds that she can’t help but compare it to the way she feels when she’s in Malfoy’s arms, her head against his chest, the beat of her heart syncing with his. The thought arises—that she prefers that feeling, to this; prefers to be in his arms, than alone; so Hermione reaches for her sleeping draught instead, drowning her thoughts in pale blue.

Sometimes, it’s the simplest of things that make panic and vomit rise in her throat.

One time it’s her tie, on the floor next to his, the red and green clashing, ugly in their muted shades when seen side by side. Her hands begin to shake, anxiety crashing through her, because what are people saying, what do they think of her, what do they know—do her friends know? Luna knows—but Luna is Luna and Ginny wouldn’t understand, neither would Ron, or Neville, and she knows that Harry doesn’t understand, had seen it in his eyes that day amidst his tears and god, Harry hasn’t spoken to her in days, refuses even to meet her eyes and fuck, she hasn’t talked to him either—and the fractures spiderweb, until all she sees through the blurring in her eyes are distorted reflections of all of her mistakes; the cracks widening, the dark space between them calling out to her.

When this fear takes her—when she doesn’t have the anger for scathing remarks, when she turns into a bundle of raw, exposed nerves and terror, tears welling in her eyes and slipping, uncontrollably, down her cheeks; Malfoy does something that utterly, fundamentally unbalances her.

He takes her shaking hands in his, then lifts them to his mouth, and presses two, lingering kisses on her palms. There is no anger, no judgement, no disdain in his eyes when she lifts her gaze from her trembling fingers to his face, her heart unsteady, skipping beats and pumping blood to every corner of her so quickly Hermione feels alive in a way she cannot even begin to comprehend, alive and hurting, but alive and not alone.

Hermione thinks there’s sadness, dancing between the silver of his irises; together with something she confuses for longing. So she closes her eyes against it, drops her forehead against his solar plexus as the tears fall, silent; and he keeps her hands in his until they don’t shake anymore, until the weight of what he could become to her settles behind her ribs, too much for her to contain in her chest cavity, spilling over into her soul.


Her head is on his chest again, right over his heart.

Their legs are tangled beneath the sheets, her cold toes pressing against his ankles.

She always does that, whenever they end up like this. He doesn’t know if she’s aware of the way his stomach clenches when she does, the cold often taking him by surprise, even though he finds that he waits for it—waits for the press of her body against his, for her fingers to start tracing over his scars, for the tension she always seems to carry to melt away, her breath brushing over his skin, her hair soft as he runs his hand through her curls.

Draco doesn’t know what time it is—but it feels like it’s sometimes between late at night and early in the morning, when the world is so still he can hear all his thoughts, even those he wants to deafen.

He’d been the one to have a nightmare, this time. He doesn’t remember much, only has shreds of sensations to go off on—the metal of the handle of the Vanishing Cabinet, the heat of Fiendfyre—but he knows he’d woken with a start, sweaty and with a scream stuck in his throat.

He’d woken her when he’d sat up, letting his head drop against the wall as he tried to get his breathing back under control. So Granger had sat up, too, still warm from sleep, and he’d almost, almost felt bad for it; knowing now how little of it she actually manages to get. But then she’d let the sheets drop from her body, had crawled into his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, had run a hand through his hair before kissing him—and every thought had ebbed away, fading with a brush of her lips over his.

Draco had let the nightmare become a memory, losing himself in the softness of her lips, wrapping his arms around her waist and bringing her close, their chests pressed together. It had been almost chaste, at the start. Almost tender—the way her lips had pressed against his; unhurried, unwilling to part. He’d lost track of time. Nothing else existed in those seconds but her—the scent of his soap on her skin, the little hum she always makes when he kisses her like this, her hand resting on his chest, thumb pressed into the hollow of his throat.

The kisses had slowly turned deeper, the push of her lips searching; and she’d inched closer to him, her breasts pressing against him, his hand on her shoulder blades demanding that no space exist between them. When his cock had been so hard he’d ached, he’d trailed his fingers down her spine and over the curve of her ass, and when she’d gasped softly as he pressed the pads of his fingers against her hole, he’d felt a searing heat burn through him at the possibility of taking her there; of making that part of her body his, too.

And then she’d pressed back against his hand and had whispered be gentle against his lips, and his chest had exploded in a cacophony of feelings when he’d understood the words for what they were—permission to take her like that, admission that no one had done it before.

Draco had groaned against her mouth, something in him going wild at the thought of taking this first from her. He’d pulled his hand back, had spat in it as he looked her in the eyes, as he murmured the lubrication charm he’d learnt years ago.

The first brush of his finger had owned him a hum; the first breach of his fingertip a breathy gasp. When he’d pushed further inside she’d hissed, and he’d stolen the sound from her mouth. He’d done as she’d asked, had slowly got her used to the feeling, and when he’d pushed a second finger inside she’d looked at him, eyes locked on his as she hesitantly ground back against his hand.

It had been his turn to hiss then, and he’d guided her, one hand on her hip, in setting a decadent pace, a push back every time he pushed forward; until her breaths had turned heavier and her eyes heavy-lidded.

He could feel how wet she was, pressing against his navel, and so Draco had lifted her up, had distracted her with his mouth against her throat as he pushed inside of her cunt; the sensation of filling her so completely overwhelming him, stealing the oxygen right out of his lungs and turning him into a being of heat and desire and want.

Granger had moaned a broken sound, had trembled in his arms as she rode his fingers and his cock. It had taken all of him not to come when her hand had slipped between their bodies upon his request and she’d touched herself, a light brush of her fingers enough to send her over, clenching down on him as she moaned into his kiss.

Draco hadn’t been able to resist then—had lifted her off him, slipping his fingers out of her and fisting himself, slick with her release. He’d pressed the head of his cock against her hole, the need to mark her there, too, devouring him; and just breaching her like that, feeling how tight she was, without even pushing all the way in had been enough for his orgasm to blind him.

Draco had made a mess of her, some of his come slipping out and down his fingers, turning everything filthy and sticky. He’d caught his breath against her skin, letting the last of the pleasure trickle through him as he brushed his come-covered fingers over her skin, pushing any trace of him left back inside her body.

Now her fingertips trace lazy circles over his stomach, down his hips and up his flanks, and he thinks it must be the witching hour, or the silence that surrounds them, because he feels sick, debilitated by the way she fills his thoughts, crippled by the tightness in his throat, by the unsteady beating of his heart beneath her cheek.


When Draco isn’t with her, he’s with Pansy and Theo, but the conversations are stilted, the truth Granger had revealed still raw and pulsing painfully between them.

Pansy glares at him for days; angry, vicious accusations falling from her lips until Draco can’t take it anymore and he snaps, crowding her against a wall and spitting that he didn’t know anything about Blaise’s betrayal, has no idea how he did it, why he never told them anything. The question of why did he do it never arises, because they all know why he did it, but the sting of it doesn’t leave, doesn’t lessen. When he sneers and tells her that out of everyone, she should’ve known about it this, Pansy slaps him, angry, grieving tears finally spilling out of her eyes; and it takes Theo’s intervention to pry her off Draco once she starts hitting his chest, sobbing incoherent words and looking at him with such misery that Draco’s own eyes blur, his sorrow breaching through the haze of anger.

That night, it takes longer for him to fall asleep, alone in his bed that feels too big now, too much empty space pressing against him.

One evening, when he and Theo get up from the Slytherin table after dinner, Theo bumps his shoulder against his, eyes heavy; and Draco follows him as he guides them to the Black Lake, to that cluster of trees now blanketed by snow where so many weeks ago they’d shared that bottle of Firewhiskey.

Theo sits beside him and conjures some liquor Draco doesn’t know, the Russian label faded, the bottle already almost halfway empty. They pass it back and forth, silent; the cold seeping into their marrow as the night descends, time freezing still, muttered warming charms the only thing keeping their fingers from turning blue.

Draco doesn’t know how much time has passed when he hears Theo’s breath hitch, when he turns to look at him and sees the tears streaming down his face, an empty look in his eyes as he stares at the Lake in front of them.

Draco thinks it must be the alcohol, or maybe the fact that it’s Theo, but when Theo tries and fails to stifle another sob Draco moves, settling the bottle of liquor down, now almost empty. Draco grabs the lapel of Theo’s jacket and brings him towards him, pushes Theo’s forehead against his shoulder and wraps his arms around him and holds him tightly as Theo falls apart; ugly wretched sobs against Draco’s shoulder, Theo’s fingers bunching up the back of his coat.

Theo cries, so hard and for so long Draco realises this isn’t just about Blaise, isn’t just about the loss of his home, of his parents that never cared enough about him. Draco wonders if Theo has ever cried like this before, feels his own eyes well up with tears as he thinks about how his mother had done that for him, had been there to hold him through it after Draco had taken the Mark, cradling his head in her lap as Draco cried against her skirt, his forearm burning from the pain.

The realisation that Theo might never have had someone stay with him through such pain turns Draco hollow, sorrow weighing him down again.

They don’t talk about it afterwards, as they make their way back to their dorm; but the next night, when Granger wakes up crying from another nightmare, Draco holds her a little bit closer, greedy for her pain, longing for her to trust him with it just like Theo had done, craving it so much he feels ill with it.


The days that lead up to the end of term pass in a blur of white.

The white of the snow as it falls incessantly, blanketing Hogwarts until the world is nothing but snowflakes and cold stone walls and silent, suspended nights.

The white of her shirt as it flutters onto the floor of Malfoy’s room, a piece in the puzzle that their clothes turn into when he brings her to bed.

The white of chalk on boards as Hermione stares at it, unseeing, recalling instead the way Malfoy’s skin had turned salty when she woke, panicked, from another nightmare, and he cradled her to his chest and let her cry against his heartbeat.

The white of his hair, when it’s he who wakes up trembling and shaking, deep in the middle of the night. Hermione only realises because sleep still eludes her some nights, and she doesn’t say anything as she cradles him to her chest, as his arms wrap around her waist and his legs tangle with hers and her fingers run through his hair until he falls asleep again.

It’s the white of his scars, now, as Hermione runs her finger along one that goes from his right hip all the way across his torso, curling around his ribs and then disappearing, trailing off in a thin line that fades against the rest of his pale skin.

Hermione leans down, settling her cheek against his chest, hearing his heart beating beneath. She traces the scar again, slowly, except this time when she reaches his flank she lets her fingers jump to his forearm, brushing against the delicate skin of his elbow, following a vein downwards, until she meets another scar and the dark ink of his Mark.

The rhythm of Malfoy’s breathing doesn’t change, nor does his heartbeat, so she follows that scar, and it’s a darker pink, thicker and rougher, all jagged borders and tough skin, a complete contrast to the ones on his chest. She trails it, stares at her finger as it moves over it, over the Mark, the scar bisecting the skull, then the snake.

Then another scar intersects its, longer but thinner, and she follows that one too, down towards his wrist until another scar slashes through, perpendicular.

The scars make the Mark disconnected, imprecise, and, for the first time, she looks at it, truly looks at it.

She doesn’t think it’s beautiful. Doesn’t think it represents anything beautiful, either. She wonders if he hates it, wonders if those scars are evidence of his hatred for it, for all it had once stood for, or only for what he’d done in its name.

Her fingers reach his palm, and it’s only when she’s trailed them over his rings, over the length of his digits, that she twists her forearm, letting the back of her hand rest in his as she looks at her own scar, at the ugly word written there.

She hates it. Hates that she has to live with a constant reminder of Bellatrix, of what she did to her, of the fact that to them, she had been nothing more than that—a Mudblood. Not a person, not a young girl, not a child—but just that. Just two words joined together in a synonym of a hateful, worthless thing.

Malfoy’s fingers, where they’d been brushing up and down her spine, still, and his arm wraps around her, broad hand cupping her forearm until his thumb brushes over the words, letter by letter; gentle, soft, so slow it widens one of the cracks inside her soul.

When he reaches the last letter, caressing it softly, he continues down along her wrist, until his fingers entwine with hers. It's quiet for a while longer, the tiredness in her bones telling her it must be early in the morning now, then Malfoy takes a slow, deep inhale, his chest expanding beneath her.

“That offer you made, about helping restore my mother’s memory. I think you should do it during the holidays.”

Hermione blinks, then lifts her head, turning around to look at him. “I should do what?”

Malfoy sighs, his fingers still playing with hers as he stares at the ceiling. “Restoring her memories. You should be the one to do it.”

Every muscle in Hermione’s body tenses at his words. “No,” she says, voice hard as she looks away from him. She swallows, then pulls her hand away from his, pushing it under her cheek as she settles back against Malfoy’s chest. “I can teach you the spells, they’re not overly complicated.”

Malfoy speaks as if she hadn’t said a word. “I think you should go to St. Mungo’s the day after—”

“I’m not doing that,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the air. Hermione tries to swallow again, past her suddenly dry throat, trying to get her vocal cords not to shake. “I will help you, but not like that.”

Malfoy grows silent, the kind of silent that she’s learnt precedes his anger, and she tries to brace herself for it but can’t, not when the idea of doing what he’s asked makes panic rise in her, a flash flood of it that she tries to keep contained, starting in her belly and crowding every crevice of her body.

“You have to,” he says at once, and the words make her physically flinch, and she covers it up by moving off him, pulling the sheets over herself as she sits up against the headboard, not looking at him. Malfoy rises too, holding himself up on one arm as he twists sideways. “I would do it, Granger, if I could, trust me. But I can’t, which is why you have to be the one to do it.”

Hermione pulls her knees to her chest, her gaze flicking to him before she pulls it away again when she sees how intensely he’s staring at her.

“They won’t let me see her,” she says, dismissing him. “If she’s still at St. Mungo’s. I’d have no reason to visit her. You could ask for permission to—”

“No,” he cuts her off. “They won’t let me see her a second time. Even if it’s the holidays. And I have to stay here during Christmas,” the way he spits the last sentence out betrays his disdain for his situation. “I can’t risk doing something like that right now. And we don’t even know if I can get past Hogwarts’ wards, we haven’t tried Zotoi’s spell enough. Meanwhile, you can leave and go wherever the fuck you want, including St. Mungo’s.”

Hermione clenches her teeth against the logic of his reasoning, knowing full well that if he were to do it—to leave Hogwarts to visit Narcissa—and if he were caught, that would put him in enough trouble to grant him a trip to Azkaban. But—Hermione cannot perform another memory restoration charm, cannot force herself to say those words again, to point her wand and wait and pray and hope that the magic works, that the—

“Since you’re so adept at breaking into places,” Malfoy continues as Hermione’s throat starts closing up. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to sneak into St. Mungo’s, too. Then you’ll restore her memories, and hopefully, we’ll be able to understand who attacked her.”

The finality with which he says you’ll restore her memories makes her shiver, and Hermione throws the covers off, setting her feet on the ground and searching the floor for her clothes. She finds her Gryffindor sweater discarded next to a corner of his bed and picks it up, throwing it on and pulling the hem down to cover herself, searching for her underwear.

“You don’t even know if she’s still in St. Mungo’s or not,” she says, clenching her hands into fists as the low light of the sconces on his side of the room—a room still divided by Nott’s ward—makes it hard to find her underwear. “We can send her a message and then I can show you—”

“Even if we do send her a message she won’t be able to respond, Granger. They wouldn’t have given her her wand back.” Hermione hears his feet thud on the floor behind her, then hears the shuffle of fabric on skin. She spots her knickers hidden underneath the blanket that had fallen to the floor hours earlier and snatches them up, pulling them up her legs.

“Then you need to think about—”

Hermione hears him walk towards her and twists around, out of his grip before he can reach for her elbow, taking a step back and away from him as he stares, jaw hard, down at her.

“I have thought about it,” he grinds out, brushing one hand through his hair. “This is the best option. You can go, restore her memories, and then come back to tell me everything. I can’t do it, and neither can Theo or Pansy, as they’ll be stuck here with me.”

Hermione’s hands start shaking violently, and she turns around and away from him again, looking for her skirt, needing to get out of there. She finds it and pulls it on, then she feels Malfoy’s hand on her elbow and jerks away from it with too much strength.

“What the fuck is your problem now, Granger?” he hisses, anger lacing his tone as Hermione moves out of his grasp again. “You offered to help, and now you’re backtracking?”

Hermione, when she finds them, bundles her socks into her hands and heads for her bag, stuffing them between the books before slinging it on her shoulder and looking for her shoes. She keeps herself distracted with the quest to pick up all her stray pieces from his floor, but her body feels hyper-aware of his proximity as he follows her with his gaze, joggers slung low on his hips and his hands slowly curling into fists.

She wracks her brain for any excuse, for any reason why Malfoy should not let her do this. “I offered to help , not to do it for you.” Her words are snappish, almost shrill, and she knows time is running out, that the weight of the memories she has refused, for months, to acknowledge will crush her if she lets herself linger on them. “And why would you even trust me with that,” she says, finding one of her loafers and picking it up, resolutely not looking at him. “If I were you I would never let—”

She interrupted again by his hand wrapping around her upper arm, turning her around.

“Good thing you aren’t me, Granger. You said you had experience, that you know what you have to do and that you’ve done it before. I’ve never had to restore someone’s memory.” His brows are furrowed as he stares down at her, his hand not letting go of her arm even when she tries to wriggle away. “And you have to do it.”

The way he stresses the have makes her stomach twist ferociously and she drops her shoe, reaching up to pry his fingers off her, but all he does is pull her closer to him. “Or have you forgotten about the little Vow you asked me to take?”

Hermione shakes her head, cursing herself for having asked that of him, for the stupid utter idiocy of her request, of the fucking Vow that she knows will fill her with shame if she doesn’t uphold it, if she doesn’t help Narcissa. But the shame is already there, rioting in her, banging against her chest, because Hermione knows that she could help her, that the magic they’ve used to obliviate her is likely nothing in comparison to what she had used on her parents. She knows that she would be able to restore Narcissa’s memories, knows that she should do it, should jump at the opportunity to repay Narcissa for what she’d done for her, for those few, whispered words that had altered the course of Hermione’s life that afternoon. She knows she owes it to Narcissa—knows it’s the reason why she said yes to his terms that night in the Library, understands it’s a twisted way to ease her guilt; but she can’t—because the idea of trying to restore someone’s memories again and of possibly failing makes debilitating, irrational fear surge through her—and she can’t live through it again she can’t can’t can’t—

Her chest constricts until it’s painful and she scratches at Malfoy’s finger on her arm, trying to get him to release her, trying to rip herself from his grip as stuttered i can’t and don’t make me do this and please let me go fall from her lips, interspersed with gasping breaths as air refuses to rush through her lungs.

She doesn’t know when her knees give out but at a certain point they do, and then she’s on the ground, hyperventilating against Malfoy’s bare chest, trying to hold onto air and failing, her hands shaking so wildly she cradles them to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut, mentally screaming at all these feeling to go away, to let her be, because she is so, so tired of them.

Her head starts spinning, breaths coming shorter still as her emotions overwhelm her and spots start dancing in her vision. Malfoy’s hand tangles in the curls at the back of her neck and she follows his pull when he urges her away from his chest, when he forces her to look into his eyes, hands cupping her face as he starts counting, as he asks her to breath with him, puts one of her hands in the middle of his chest so that she can feel his lungs as they contract and expands, as she tries to force her own to mimic his.

Hermione doesn’t know how long it takes, simply knows that at a certain point the rope around her chest loosens, the shaking in her hands turning into a more subtle trembling. Malfoy shifts then, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, and he pulls her onto his lap, cradling her into his arms, her face against his shoulder, his arms around her waist.

It’s only when her mind has quieted enough and her fingers find his necklace, curling around it’s familiar shape, that she speaks. “I obliviated my parents during the War.”

Malfoy remains quiet, his breathing steady, and Hermione doesn’t ask herself why she’s telling him this, why it feels so right to do so.

“After it, I couldn’t…” Her voice trails off, turning into a weak whisper, and she clears her throat before trying again. “I couldn’t restore their memories. Kingsley tried to help me, called the best Mind Healers he knows, but…nothing worked. I had to—”

Her voice cracks, and it takes a while for her to find it again. “I had to Imperio them to come to the hospital, to try and undo the spell I’d cast. But then nothing seemed to work, and the curse started taking its toll on them. It was either let them go or risk damaging their minds even more. So I let them go.” Hermione swallows down the pain and the guilt. This is the thing that weighs most on her soul, the fracture that splintered her right down the middle, the one that she will never be able to mend. “Kingsley obliviated them again. They’re in Australia now.”

They’re silent again for long minutes, until Hermione finds the strength to move, to raise her eyes from his necklace to his face. The metal of the chain bites into her palm when she tightens her hold over it as his eyes meet hers, so lovely even with the sadness weighing them down.

“You see?” she whispers, searching his face for comprehension, heart skipping a beat when she finds it. “That’s why I can’t do it. What if I fail again?”

Malfoy doesn’t look away from her eyes as he lifts one hand to cup her cheek, his thumb grazing her cheekbones. She lets herself lean into it, let her eyes flutter shut as she feels his lips press against her forehead, before she burrows in the crook of his neck and feels his chin settle on her hair.

His voice breaks the silence after long minutes, and she feels his words rumble through his chest. “You did everything you could, Granger. No one could’ve asked more than that from you.”

Hermione whispers it against his skin. “But it wasn’t enough.”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything to that, and Hermione is glad for it, because what she’d said was the truth, and anything he could’ve offered would’ve been a lie, wouldn’t have meant anything, fixed anything, and she doesn’t want his pity.

They stay like that, sitting on the floor, until Malfoy breaks the silence again. “I trust you,” he says, the words slow but sure. “I trust that you’ll be able to restore my mother’s memories, or that at least you will try your best. But I understand if you don’t want to do it.”

Hermione doesn’t say anything to that—doesn’t acknowledge his admission nor the understanding he’s offering her, the choice he’s giving her, even if they burrow within her heart, crawling their way through her until she feels full of them.

They don’t speak as Malfoy pushes them up to standing, as he pushes her skirt off her before dragging her back to bed, his hands chaste as he curls around her, arms tight around her waist, lips pressed to the nape of her neck.

Hermione wishes she could find the right words, wishes she could lend breath to the questions that swirl through her, wishes she had the courage to ask him why he trusts her, why he comforts her, what this thing between them is; but sleep takes her before she can even decide if she wants to know the answers to those questions, and when morning comes around, she slips out of his bed silently, leaving him sleeping, feeling as if she doesn’t know what she’s doing anymore, but knowing that her centre of balance has shifted, irremediably, towards him.


 

Notes:

wowza this chapter was a bit heavy for me to write, but I gotta say I really like how it came out! i hope you liked it too - and that you enjoyed the D/H moments. I can't believe I've been writing this fic for almost five months now....can't believe what started out as a little mini-fic idea spiralled into this 160k word thing....with most likely many more words to come too (which is very scary bc I am just a girl). but anyway, it's crazy how much I feel like I've come to know these characters, and I hope their story lives a little bit in you, readers, as much as it does me. anyways, enough rambling. hope u enjoyed this 'romantic' (???) chapter because ya girl is ready!! to get into the plot because I swear there is one!!
as always, thank u sososo much for reading and for being on this journey with me. and as always, thanks to mads and jenny for their constant support <3
also - fair warning that the next couple of chapters might be a little slower to come. i am writing a little something for the sub!draco fest in june, so that's going to be taking up some of my time! I am having lots of fun writing something very different from OSD and hope some of you will give that a go once it's done <3

wonderful art by jitterywisp!

Chapter 19

Notes:

thank you for your patience with this chapter! I hope you enjoy it, it's a bit heavy though <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It snows as Hermione walks towards Hogsmeade.

She’s alone, and the cobbled street is quiet. The snowflakes fall slowly, misshapen fluffs descending gently from the sky and landing in Hermione’s hair, on her scarf, on her coat.

The whole scenery is white, the air crisp. Hermione’s breath clouds in front of her face as she huffs, pulling the leather duffle bag she’s bringing with her higher up her shoulder. She’s only bringing the essentials—just a nice change of clothes for Christmas, a couple of her books, and enough pairs of jeans and sweaters to last her until she comes back.

It feels strange to leave Hogwarts again. Hermione hasn’t been outside the school grounds for months now, and the approaching Christmas holiday hangs like a dark cloud over her. She can barely bear the thought of it—of all the people that will fill Molly’s living room, of the sound of dishes clanking together and of overlapping conversations.

She feels…reluctant, if she’s being honest. She doesn’t want to celebrate. Doesn’t want to see others celebrating, and the thought is as bitter as coffee brewed with too hot water.

What does it say about her, that she would rather spend her Christmas alone than with the people who had welcomed her into their home time and time again, no questions asked?

Perhaps it’s because she’s scared of it. Scared of a house full of life and laughter.

Or maybe she’s scared of seeing that same house quiet and still, too many table settings missing; the ghosts of those that hadn’t made it out of the War lingering in the corners of every room.

Or maybe it’s because she had always spent Christmas with her parents.

God, she thinks. How pathetic. It’s not even your first Christmas without them.

It isn’t. But somehow, the Christmas spent in Godric’s Hollow with Harry hadn’t felt as real as this one. Her parent’s absence had felt like a blessing, then. Hermione had been living off fear and anxiety and adrenaline, and Christmas had come and gone, amidst the stink of despair and fear and the rotting, twisted magic of the Locket; and Hermione had told herself that it was good, that at least they were safe, that missing one Christmas with them was going to be worth it, in the end.

Now, Hermione is no longer living in a constant state of fight or flight, but Christmas threatens to bring the jittery pressure of it back, straining her nervous system to its limits. And her parents’ absence is no longer a blessing, but a hole, a rip in the fabric of her reality, two burned spots over a photograph of her life.

Snow crunches under her boots, the sun slow to rise, pale light illuminating her way.

Hermione walks the deserted street alone, and as the silhouette of the Three Broomsticks comes into view, she manages to push the dread away enough for weak, shy tendrils of excitement to curl around her.

She’ll get to see her tiny, dusty apartment again.

Surely, the thought shouldn’t make the corners of her mouth turn upwards, but it does.

The sparse, badly decorated flat had been where she’d been the loneliest, struggling with the withdrawal and with the still bleeding scars from the War. The crack-riddled walls had seen her touch rock bottom; had stared, silently, as Hermione tried and failed to replace one addiction for the other, as she tried to staunch her potion withdrawal symptoms with alcohol, with cigarettes—with drugs, even; until she couldn’t do it to herself anymore, until she was so utterly disgusted with herself that she stopped, that she let the pain root her to reality. Those same walls had watched over her as she forced herself to live, as she took the first, shaky steps forward, because she didn’t deserve to kill herself, not when she had so much to atone for.

That same sparse, badly decorated flat had been where she’d started stitching herself back together, where she’d danced around in her underwear to music coming from a radio she had bought at a charity shop. Her fingers had tenderly traced the cracks on the wall as she fixed the place back up, as she bought a bookshelf for herself and filled it with silly books that she would read belly down on her bed, her window open to let the breeze in as August rolled into September.

She’d thought it would’ve been a temporary place—a refuge, offered to her by the Ministry out of pity. An old safe house no one needed anymore, given to a girl who also didn’t feel needed anymore. Both riddled with scars from the War, both left empty for too long.

During those long, lonely months, Hermione had formed a bond with the wallpaper-covered walls, had felt like they had made each other a promise. The small apartment didn’t judge her when she broke down at the end of a particularly bad day at the hospital with her parents, curling on the floor with tears on her face, staring sightlessly at nothing until the sun peeked through the curtains again. In turn, Hermione didn’t judge the apartment when the shower wouldn’t work properly, or when the tiny fridge would start rattling late at night, or when the lumpy mattress in her queen-sized bed did nothing to ease the tension in her muscles that never seemed to go away.

She didn’t judge the flat, and the flat didn’t judge her.

When Kingsley’s owl had swooped into her living room two days before the start of term, dropping a letter that told her she could keep the keys to the flat if she wanted; Hermione finally managed to swallow past the lump that had been steadily growing in her throat.

She hadn’t wanted to leave the place, and now, it was hers, as much as a place could ever belong to one person.

It’s with the picture of the ugly mauve wallpaper in her mind that Hermione pushes the door to the pub open, and it’s with the silence that fills her cramped bedroom in the early hours of the morning ringing in her ears that Hermione takes off her glove and grabs a handful of Floo powder. She’ll Floo to the Leaky, and from there get the tube up to Kentish Town, to that door, to the thirty square meters of old furniture and too-small rooms that have become her home.

She wonders, with anticipation, if the flat will recognise her, when Hermione feels so very different from who she was when she closed the door behind her in September.

A bittersweet taste fills her mouth. It should feel wrong, wanting to spend Christmas there, alone; rather than at the Burrow, surrounded by her friends. And it should feel lonely, yearning for a set of walls to recognise her, but Hermione doesn’t feel that way.

Maybe it’s because she thinks 7 Islip Street knows her better than Harry, or Ginny, or Ron do. Or maybe it’s because, in the end, Hermione doesn’t really feel lonely anymore, and so going back to that apartment doesn’t scare her, not nearly as much as a room full of people she’d gone to War for does.

She wonders if it’s because of the person whose bed she slipped out of an hour ago, running cold fingers through his hair, that Hermione doesn’t feel quite as lonely as she once did.

She wonders if the warmth that fills her comes from the hearth, as it lights up in green; or from having a place to call her own; or, maybe, from the silver necklace resting around her neck, the weight of a ring heavy over her rapidly beating heart.


Hermione spends the day before Christmas Eve in Diagon Alley with Ginny and Molly, trying to find last-minute gifts.

The streets are packed with witches and wizards, Christmas decorations flashing green and red in every window, along every door; some even flying around above their heads, charmed instruments filling the streets with music.

Amongst all the cheer, amongst Molly’s and Ginny’s cheerful moods, Hermione feels a bit lost.

It’s strange—she feels happy, grateful even that she’s made it to Christmas; that she’s here, alive, when at a certain point she thought she wouldn’t be. The colourful decorations unexpectedly make her feel giddy, and the pure excitement on some people’s faces—children and adults alike—makes her own lips curl into a smile. Whispers of the same child-like excitement she always used to feel around Christmas time flicker through her, clattering around her ribcage and warming her up. She feels… light. It sort of all feels like a dream. The air has that quality where it feels like time has been suspended—or better yet, reality has been suspended, like nothing exists outside of this: laughter, your breath fogging in front of your face as snowflakes flirt with your hair, bells ringing as shop doors open and close.

It’s surreal, and it hurts because Hermione is so present in the moment that, paradoxically, she feels disconnected to it. She had dreaded feeling like this. It’s what she’d been so worried about.

Memories of the destruction the War had wrought upon the same street she’s walking on superimpose the present, and though she sees the pretty, colourful shop fronts; she also sees how they had crumbled as spells ricocheted off them, as windowpanes were shattered and it was glass, and not snow, that covered the ground. She sees children running through the crowd, giggling as their scarves flap behind them; and she sees herself running down the cobbled streets, remembers becoming a being of blood and sweat and fear as she did her best to survive, as she threw spell after spell behind her, careless of who they landed upon.

If she looks carefully enough, Hermione notices the scars left on the buildings around her. Notices how in some spots, cobblestones are mismatched, disconnected; or how some shops have different kinds of glass in their windows. She notices how one shop sign is just a little tilted; how in some alleys, the walls shimmer with magic and when Hermione brushes her gloved fingers against the stone, it ripples, air greeting her where stone should be.

Yet it’s all pretty and decorated and it’s clear, it’s so clear, how hard they’ve tried to hide these scars. Fairy lights along the cracks; ribbons and wreaths over paint that is a different colour from the rest. Moving objects to distract from the brand new windows, decorated Christmas trees to hide side doors that haven’t yet been fixed.

It makes her smile fall. Makes her hands shake so much she puts them in her pockets, curling them into fists.

She tries to ignore it. Tries not to focus on it, concentrating instead on what she’d come here to do, even though doing that is so much harder than she had thought it would be. But she must, lest the panic that peers at her from every darkened corner choose to attack, to swallow her up in one bite.

A person bumps into her, shoulder knocking against shoulder, and Hermione shakes her head, dragging her eyes away from another scarred storefront.

She follows after Ginny, her red hair bright against her white coat, forcing her brain to focus. She needs to find gifts. She must find them; she doesn’t want to go empty-handed. But buying a gift for someone you no longer feel like you know is somehow so much harder than buying a gift for a stranger. What should she get them? Would they even want a gift from her? Would Ron? Would Harry?

Does she even want to be on the receiving end of a gift? It feels so… exposing. Gifts imply knowing the person you’re giving the gift to, and as much as Hermione feels like she doesn’t know her friends anymore; she also feels like they don’t know her, not anymore, and Hermione is no longer sure if she even wants them to.

It all feels so strained, so forced, that it makes her stomach twist, a sticky despair coating her throat.

But she buys them gifts anyway, because doing it feels better than not doing it.

She starts with Luna, and gets her a pair of pretty, charmed hair clips. They’re shaped like butterflies, purple and blue and light pink jewels glittering along the wings, which flutter every once in a while. They aren’t the most special or thoughtful gift, but it’s all Hermione can manage, the only thing she finds that doesn’t feel utterly useless and that Luna might appreciate.

She sneaks away from the two Weasley women to get Ginny a gift—not that it’s hard, as she and Ginny have barely exchanged words since arriving at Diagon Alley. Foolishly, Hermione had hoped that the outing would help reconcile some of the distance that the last few weeks have put between them, what with Hermione spending so many nights in Malfoy’s bed and forgoing so many of her dinners and breakfasts for some more time with him. She had stupidly been hoping that Ginny would greet her with a smile, with that usual playful glint in her eyes, one that would help make walking down Diagon Alley easier. She had flirted, for a moment, with the idea of dragging Ginny to a cafè, of sitting down with her and telling her about Malfoy. The thought had made her head spin, the desire to see acceptance and understanding in Ginny’s brown eyes so strong. Ginny would laugh, and make a joke, and ask her something inappropriate about Malfoy’s skills in bed; and Hermione would feel the grip around her heart release a fraction, just as it had when Luna had said, he’s a good choice.

But it had taken one look at Ginny’s stony face, at the hard line of her lips, at the way she didn’t quite meet Hermione’s eyes, for her hopes to crumple, crushed in the unforgiving fist of disappointment.

So Hermione slips away unnoticed, into Flourish and Botts. She gets Ginny a special edition of a new mystery novel; the cover glittering gold and the inside full of moving drawings depicting scenes from the story. She watches as the seller wraps it up with a pretty gold ribbon, wondering if Ginny would even like it—if she would tell Hermione if she did.

Finding Harry and Ron a gift is much more difficult.

Everything feels inadequate, so Hermione keeps them for last, and only when her charmed beaded bag is full of small, simple, but hopefully still appreciated gifts for Neville, Fleur, and the rest of the Weasleys; only then does she try to find something for Harry and Ron.

She bundles her courage and ask Ginny for help with finding something for Harry. The conversation is a bit awkward, a bit strained, and it makes her heart constrict; but she tries to lighten it, tries to play it off as if she doesn’t know what to get Harry just because she’s already got him so many things during the years, and not because she’s scared that Harry won’t accept anything Hermione gifts him. Hermione isn’t sure if Ginny buys it, isn’t sure what, exactly, Harry has told her about their fight—if he has told her at all; but Ginny still helps her out, and in the end Hermione adds a small box from Quality Quidditch Supplies in her bag.

Buying Ron a gift is perhaps even harder than finding one for Harry. Ginny struggles, too, to Hermione’s surprise; and it’s as they stare down at a collection of nearly identical jumpers that Ginny says, “Ron doesn’t really talk to me anymore.”

Hermione’s eyes snap towards Ginny’s face, but she’s staring intently down at a blue jumper, pulling off her glove to feel its texture. Hermione swallows, looking down at a different, dark brown one.

Ginny clears her throat. “He talks to Harry, though. Harry said he’s been… drinking less.”

Hermione inhales sharply, looking up at Ginny again. “He has?”

Ginny gives a jerky nod. “Apparently,” she says. Then she looks at Hermione from the corner of her eye, and her next words are hesitant. “Harry also said…said that he thinks Ron is seeing someone.”

Hermione’s hand freezes on its way to the brown jumper. “Ah,” she says.

Ginny shrugs, though the movement is awkward. Hermione swallows. “Do you…do you know who it might be?”

Ginny goes to pick up the blue sweater, then retreats, her hand hovering in mid-air. She turns her head towards Hermione.

Hermione doesn’t look at her.

Ginny lets out a dull laugh. “I had thought it might’ve been you.”

Hermione rolls her lips into her mouth, forcing her hand to brush over the brown jumper, studying the knit pattern intently.

“I had hoped it might’ve been you. But he isn’t the one you’ve been seeing, is he?”

Hermione thumbs the soft fabric to hide the way her hands begin to shake. Her stomach drops precariously low.

She wants to look at Ginny; wants to see the expression on her face—but she’s too scared to raise her eyes, coward as she is.

Hermione tries to say something—anything; but her throat is dry, guilt and anguish sticking like honey on her vocal cords, thick and syrupy.

“So, it’s really Malfoy, then, is it?”

Malfoy’s name makes Hermione physically recoil and she flinches, Ginny’s words like nails against a chalkboard. Hermione retracts her hand as if the cashmere has burned her, pushing her hands into the pocket of her coat to hide them from sight—hands that remember how soft Malfoy’s hair is, hands that have traced the contours of his face as he slept.

Hermione turns around, giving Ginny her back, running away; because she is a coward, after all; and it’s so much easier not to care when Malfoy is next to her, when his lips brush over that spot on her neck and he holds her as she cries. But he isn’t here—Ginny is; and Hermione could crumple into thousands of pieces were she to see the disgust in her brown eyes, the disappointment that she knows she’ll have to watch Ginny try to hide.

This is just one of the many other things Hermione cannot deal with, cannot bear to think about. Had resolutely not thought about in the last few weeks, chasing after the taste of Malfoy or of her sleeping draught as ways to distract herself—because what might Ginny think of her now? How pathetic must Hermione be in her eyes, ripping at the seams, unable to speak to her friends, falling in the arms of a boy who had never had a nice thing to say to her?

Hermione takes a step forward, and then another; because she can’t—can’t possibly face Ginny’s disappointment, not when she still feels sore from having hoped, foolishly, so fucking foolishly even for a moment that Ginny wouldn’t look at her like that. She steps towards the doors and the fresh air and away—away from the choking weight of Ginny’s words, away from the disgust as she had said Malfoy, away away awa—

Away.

She is so tired of having to go away.

So tired of running.

Hermione stops, holding her breath, her muscles still poised for flight. Her pulse throbs at her throat.

Why should she run away?

Why should she be ashamed of it?

Why should she be ashamed of being with Malfoy, when he has held her as she told him about her parents, when he has offered her not fake comprehension but silence—blissful, blissful silence. Why should she be ashamed of being with Malfoy, when he kisses her shaking hands? When he looks at her with silver eyes bright with this emotion she doesn’t think he understands, an emotion she doesn’t understand but that makes her breath catch; ensnares her very soul.

Why should she be ashamed of Malfoy? Because he’s cruel and mean? Because he has hurt her in her past, both before and after the War? Because he was witness to the creation of that scar on her arm? Because he’s Malfoy?

Yes, she thinks. She should be ashamed of being with him. But she isn’t.

Because Malfoy is a vicious, callous bastard, but he doesn’t hide it, doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is; and Hermione is nothing but a useless, broken girl trying to be anything but what she is.

And she is so tired of it.

So, so tired.

And so even if it’s hard, even if it makes her pulse roar in her ears, her heart hammering behind her chest, Hermione stills. Releases a breath that is almost a laugh.

She turns around.

Meets Ginny’s gaze; unrepentant.

She thinks, let her see. Let her see that Hermione is messed up, let her see that she’s isn’t okay, hasn’t been okay one single moment of the past fucking year. Let her see that Hermione is holding on by a thin fucking thread and that each day, that thread stretches and pulls and grows taut, and sooner rather than later it’s going to snap; and Hermione is goddamn fucking scared that the only person who will be there to catch her will be the one whose name Ginny had sneered.

And Merlin fucking damn her if Hermione lets anyone talk about Malfoy like that. Lets anyone say the name of the only person who is holding her together with such disgust, with such revulsion.

Hermione doesn’t feel the need to raise her chin, to defend herself and her choices as a politician in front of a public. Her choices are hers, not the public’s; not Ginny’s or Harry’s or Ron’s or of any other person but her.

They are hers. Malfoy is hers.

Ginny doesn’t need to understand this. No one needs to understand this. It’s not something Hermione owes them. It’s not something Hermione owes them.

An unrestrained calm washes over her. “Yes,” she says, amidst the chaos of the overcrowded shop. Her voice doesn’t waver. “It’s Malfoy.”

Ginny swallows, her throat bobbing beneath her scarf. She looks away from Hermione, then back, then away again. Hermione doesn’t look away from Ginny’s face—so she sees how her jaw clenches, how her eyebrows twitch as if wanting to pull together into a frown.

Ginny looks back towards her, and her eyes are shuttered. The look wraps around Hermione’s rapidly beating heart and squeezes.

“I had hoped the rumours were wrong,” Ginny says, and Hermione can’t understand the inflexion of her tone, but it bothers her.

Hermione pushes her shoulders back. Curls her hands into fists inside her pockets, then she slips them out, letting them rest by her sides. They still shake, but it isn’t due to fear.

“They aren’t wrong.” Hermione doesn’t want to elaborate, doesn’t want to justify herself; and from the way Ginny’s expression steadily grows more closed off, Hermione thinks Ginny doesn’t want to hear them, either; so she simply repeats, “It’s Malfoy.”

The silence between them grows, and Hermione waits for it, prepares for it—for the inevitable fracture between them that will surely come. She feels her anger rushing through her, heady and sickeningly sweet. She almost hopes for Ginny’s mouth to curl in distaste, for pity to swirl in her brown irises; just so Hermione can bare her teeth at her, can let her tongue grow sharp and words fall vicious and scornful off it. The same bitterness that had crawled through her when she’d seen Harry cry skitters through her now.

Ginny’s eyes flit over her face, restless, searching for something. “Are you dating him?” she asks, voice tight.

Well, then, why are you with him? I’m not with him. Oh. Would you like to be?

Luna’s voice echoes in Hermione’s head. She’d said no, said she didn’t want to be with Malfoy, because he had hurt her, and he has—but Hermione wants to be with him now.

Wants to be his; just as she feels, deep in her belly, that he is hers, consciously or not. Wants him to let her cry on his chest and trace the scars on his arm. Wants him to hold her.

Wants him.

“Yes,” Hermione says, swallowing to clear her throat of the lump in it; a wave of utter, stupid giddiness overcoming her. “Yes,” she repeats, and this time she does lift her chin. “I’m dating Draco.” Draco. Not Malfoy. Draco. Draco. The silver around her neck burns. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Ginny’s mouth opens, closes. Her lips part; and finally, finally, her confusion turns into disappointment, edging on anger. Hermione lets it wash over her, lets it trickle through the cracks, lets it fill her to the brim until Hermione is drunk on it—numb to it; because she has Draco. She has Draco.

“Why?” Ginny asks. The question is short, brutal; her tone at odds with the worried narrowing of her eyes. “Why would you date Malfoy?” Ginny spits out his name, and Hermione grits her teeth.

“Why not?” she says.

Why not?” Ginny gives a hollow, incredulous laugh, and Hermione wonders if the other people in the store can tell that this isn’t joyous laughter. “Why not? He—he bullied you. For years! He’s a Death Eater. A pureblood elitist. He—his family almost killed you, almost killed Harry—and his father, his father is a fucking psychopath for what he did to me—”

“Lucius is in Azkaban.”

“And Malfoy should be there with him!” Ginny says, louder, her chest heaving.

Hermione’s nails dig into the palm of her hands. “Draco did not deserve Azkaban.”

“He did,” Ginny hisses, drawing closer. “He did, and you know it, and I will never fucking understand why you and Harry vouched for him at his trials.”

“Because he didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh, is that what it is? Do you pity him, Hermione? Is that why you’re shagging him? Or have you just deluded yourself into thinking that he could ever be more than what he’s been? Not for a moment has he been worth yours, or Harry’s, or anyone else’s forgiveness, no matter what he did at the end, yet still you give it to him, still you act as if he isn’t just a self-serving, spineless bastard.”

“Who are you,” Hermione hisses, and Ginny’s eyes flare at the viciousness in her whisper. “To think you know anything about him? Who are you to tell me who or what I should and shouldn’t forgive?”

“Merlin, Hermione, are you serious right now?”

The distaste Hermione was preparing for arrives, and Hermione doesn’t think, doesn’t weigh her words.

“Aren’t you happy?” she asks Ginny. “Weren’t you the one telling me to find someone to fuck? Telling me that it would do me well? I’ve found it, so why are you complaining?”

“Complaining? Complaining?” Ginny sounds appalled.

“Yes, complaining, Ginny. As if you know anything about this. As if it’s something that even remotely involves you.”

“I don’t need to know anything to know that only a delusional person who hates themselves would ever willingly fuck, least of all date someone who has spent years hating them and has a Dark fucking Mark !”

The store is eerily quiet as Ginny stares down at Hermione, or perhaps it’s just that Hermione doesn’t hear anything over the echo of Ginny’s words in her ears.

Hermione purses her lips, memorising Ginny’s face, taking in the angry flush on her cheeks, the ugly curl of her lips.

Then she scoffs. A cruel, demeaning sound. One Draco would be proud of.

Ginny blinks, but Hermione doesn’t stay to see how her expression changes.

She turns around and leaves her there, ignoring Molly’s confused eyes when she catches them, striding into the crowd and then Disapparating with a loud crack.


Hermione Apparates in the alley next to Kentish Town station.

Then she walks, silently, up the hill that leads to Hampstead Heath. She watches her shoes as she walks, as she enters the park, ignoring the few other people around. She walks up another hill, and then walks until she finds an empty bench.

Hermione sits, and stares at London’s cloudy skyline until the sun sets, until the buildings begin to glitter and her nose and ears and fingers are so cold Hermione doesn’t feel them anymore.

Then she gets up and walks out of the park. Down and down until she passes the tube station again, until she reaches Islip Street. Then she walks, until the red-brick building is in front of her. Hermione pulls out the two single keys on a ring; opens the door and steps inside, then up and up and up until the last floor, until the dirty white door that hides her apartment stares back at her.

Hermione pushes inside. Takes her boots off, leaving them scattered by the door. In order, she lets her hat, her scarf, then her coat fall to the floor. She walks to the corner of the living room that hosts her tiny kitchen; opens the central cupboard and then reaches, balancing on her tiptoes, for one of the many bottles of alcohol she left there.

Her fingers brush against smooth, rounded glass, bottle after bottle; but it’s only when she feels the sharp corners of a vodka bottle that she curls her fingers around the glass and pulls it down.

And then Hermione drinks.

Drinks until the world turns bright and hazy at its edges. She turns her radio on, and dances to music she doesn’t know until her body is sore, until she is just in her shirt and knickers, until both are sticky with spilt vodka, until she drowns Ginny’s words under the sound of a raspy voice and a guitar.

Hermione drinks.

Drinks until the music starts to hurt, until her breaths turn into sobs and she vomits in the kitchen sink, bile burning its way up her throat.

Hermione drinks until she doesn’t feel the pain anymore.

Hermione drinks until she can’t stand up, until she is sure her blood runs clear, liquor searing through her, burning up her secret hopes and most vulnerable, stupid wishes.

Hermione drinks, passing out on the floor, and she dreams. Dreams of being a princess, alone in an empty castle, a silver-scarred beast flying high over her tower.

She dreams of scales under her fingers, of a snout pressing against her belly.

Dreams of running away, branches tearing at her dress. Dreams of claws pressing her to the forest floor; of the sound of ripping seams.

Dreams of fangs, sharp against every inch of her bare skin. Of blood turning her body slick. Of a beast, feasting on her.

Hermione dreams of dying, lips curled in a smile, her fingers tracing scars.

Then the alcohol burns away her dreams, and her memories of them, and Hermione is nothing but a dreadful mess, vomit on her shirt, tear-tracks on her face.


Hermione wakes up on Christmas Eve when the sun reaching through her window and pressing against her eyelids becomes too hard to ignore.

She twists her head away with a groan, trying to blink, though her eyelashes feel clumped together and sharp bolts of pain go through her brain with every tiny move she makes. Her mouth feels at the same time exceedingly dry and like something has gone and died in it, and when she manages to crawl onto her knees, the world spins dangerously. Hermione holds onto the sides of the couch for balance, forcing herself up, one foot on the ground as she rises—and then she’s sprinting, back to the kitchen as nausea overcomes her, vomiting again into the sink, until her oesophagus is on fire and her whole body shakes.

After, when the spasms have abated, Hermione turns around, slides her back against the kitchen counter and sits on the ground, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at the empty bottle of vodka lying on the floor in front of the couch.

She stays sitting like that for long hours, numb.

She thinks about all the friendships she feels she has lost.

She thinks about how unfair it all is, how unjust it is that she is here, alone, hungover; and not with her family.

She thinks of all the potential she had, all the things she had once wanted to do; all her dreams now reduced to mere, wishful memories; suffocated beneath years of traumas and irreparable loss.

It isn’t fair.

Hermione doesn’t deserve it. The child Hermione was meant to be doesn’t deserve it. The one she never fucking got to be because of all of this.

It isn’t fair.

Suddenly, viscerally, Hermione wishes Draco was here with her.

She wishes he would stride through the door, wishes she could raise her eyes and meet his haughty expression, caress with her gaze that sneer that so often curls his lips as he takes in the place where Hermione has been the most naked, the most vulnerable she ever has. She wishes she could feel his eyes settle on her, wishes she could watch them harden and then soften as he takes in the mess that she is, the tears that stain her face.

Hermione wishes he was here—just so she could crawl to him, on her hands and knees, desperate fingers bunching in his finely made clothes as she drags him down with her, down on the cold hard floor, his hands tangling in her hair, pulling her close.

Hermione would let him hold her—wishes so desperately that he was here to take away the pain, to hold her tight and let her cry in the crook of his neck and then kiss away the salt on her skin, his lips against hers like a blessing and a condemnation, the only response to all of her most silent, secret prayers.

Hermione’s eyes blur as she stares down at her thighs—at the fading bruises on the inside of them, light purple and pale green; at the ones on her hips in the shape of his fingers. She can still feel his touch on her, can still feel how tightly he had gripped her, how thoroughly they had lost themselves in each other’s bodies—fucking like they did everything else: too intensely, vehemently, angrily.

She doesn’t understand how it has happened, but Hermione knows, knows down to her very core, that somehow Draco has become essential—has become more than a need, more than a high that she chases. Hermione understands it by the way his absence weighs on her soul so much, by the realisation that Draco is what she wants amidst the pain, what she craves, what she needs more than anything. She needs his quiet, painful comfort to quench her pain and is willing to drown in his cruelty if it means being able to sleep in his arms, if it means having even just a single scrap of him, a tether to hold onto as all the cracks in her splinter, empty gaping holes left behind where her sense of self once used to live.

It is twisted, and wrong, and stupid. Hermione wants to hate him, wants to loathe him, and still in certain moments she does, she does because he is cruel and vicious and breathtaking —but she hates him so much that she is full to the brim of him, sick by the way she craves him, scarred and fucked up as he is, beautiful even when he isn’t nice to her. It is wrong, so wrong, but Hermione feels it like an ailment, growing like a cancer, the fluttering behind her ribs metastasising to every corner of her body, heavy in her veins, tainting her.

Hermione cries when she realises.

She cries, and screams, and snatches the bottle of vodka off the floor just to throw it against the wall, watching it shatter into hundreds of pieces, an embarrassing, pitiful mirror of how she feels. Then she walks to her bedroom, rifles through her bag, and drowns a vial of her sleeping draught as if it’s water. She slips under her covers and pulls her blanket over her head, wishing desperately she could hide from herself, from her desires, from her pain; pathetic, wretched tears heavy in her lashes as her fingers curl around the ring hanging from her neck.

But she can’t—she can’t—because Hermione is falling for Draco Malfoy, and she knows it is damnation.


Christmas is an awkward, scattered affair.

They have lunch at the Burrow. The table setting feels off; too spacious, too sparse.

Hermione sits next to Fleur. Spends long hours making idle, stupid conversation; asking Fleur about the new house she’s renovating, about the nursery she and Bill are building in it, about life in Provence.

She doesn’t speak with Ginny. Doesn’t really speak with Harry, either; nor Ron. But she isn’t the only one.

George's empty stare fixates on his glass of wine, untouched.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t joke, doesn’t laugh. Simply gives Hermione a tired smile when she greets him, then retreats into his mind.

Percy doesn’t come.

Charlie, unexpectedly, does.

He sits in front of Hermione, and every time their eyes catch, Hermione looks away, awkward and embarrassed by the way he looks at her, and then at Ron, and then at Harry.

Molly and Arthur do their best.

Hermione catches Arthur crying in the kitchen, drying a plate that is already dry.

Molly doesn’t sit still for one second, buzzing from the living room to the kitchen too many times to count. She doesn’t touch her wand, doesn’t use magic to help her with cooking or cleaning. A smile is plastered on her face the whole time, but it becomes more and more strained, more and more lost as the hours tick by.

Neville and Luna come by for tea. They bring with them the refreshing coldness of snow.

Luna’s arms wrap around Hermione, and it makes the cord around her ribs loosen just a bit. The serious, knowing look she catches in Neville’s eyes as she hugs Luna, and the subtle smile that follows, loosen the cord a bit more.

If lunch had felt like missing a step in a dance without music, stumbling and awkward and with a silence that is too, too loud; the gift exchange feels like bringing wilted flowers to a graveyard: an inadequate courtesy.

They bring out the champagne, and there’s soft laughter and music and Molly and Neville telling old jokes; but it all feels strange to Hermione, as if she’s watching a movie in a language she no longer knows, no subtitles to help her comprehend how she must feel.

Luna gifts her a journal, bound in soft, dark blue leather. On the first page, a single line of glittering ink reads: I’ve written the first sentence, so that you may never feel the dread of beginning. Write, Hermione. Paper keeps thoughts with less strain than a heart.

Hermione smoothes her hand over the leather, pushing down the lump in her throat. She gives Luna her gift, which feels so small and insignificant in comparison, but Luna thanks her with a kiss on the cheek and Hermione stares as Luna asks Neville to put the clips in her hair, kneeling in front of the armchair he’s sitting in. Neville’s hands are careful as he clips butterfly after butterfly through her pale strands, and Luna smiles brightly when he finishes, when he cups her face and gently bends her head back to lay a kiss upon her smile, adoration so stark in his eyes that it forces Hermione to look away.

Neville gifts her a new scarf, a pretty purple colour; and in turn, Hermione hands him a new pair of enchanted garden gloves, spelled to never rip, never tear, never let anything hurt his hands.

An hour later, when all the Weasleys have exchanged gifts, Ron gets up from his chair across the room and stands in front of Hermione, handing her a rectangular, hastily wrapped box. In exchange, Hermione hands him the box of sweets she’d gotten him only that same morning—the ones that cost a stupid amount and that he’d told her, once, were something he liked to splurge on when he could. Ron gives her a small smile and thank you, and only once he’s turned around, headed back to his chair, does Hermione open his gift, brushing her fingers over the soft multi-coloured feather quill that lies inside, hovering over the name of her favourite stationery brand, the one she thought he had all but forgotten.

It’s Hermione’s turn then to stand, and she walks up to Ginny, handing her the gift she had got her two days prior, and she does so only because bitter love claws its way through her pettiness, through the stinging echo of Ginny’s words. Hermione sees reluctance, in Ginny’s eyes, as she reaches out for the gift; but also shimmers of guilt and shame, and Hermione doesn’t look away from them, unsure whether it’s satisfaction or remorse that keeps her eyes firmly on Ginny’s face. When Ginny gifts her a book in return with a stunted thanks, Hermione doesn’t know what to do with it. Ginny doesn’t open her gift, and neither does Hermione, sitting back on the worn leather couch; both of them stubborn, both of them silent.

When Fleur gets up, dragged away by Bill, it’s Harry's turn to stand; his variation in the grim dance they are all caught up in.

Harry sits down next to her, and they are shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, squeezed on the two-seater and the closest they have been in months. When the radio flickers and the first notes of O Children fill the air, Hermione has to wonder if it is fate, playing a trick on them, or if it’s Harry.

Harry bumps his shoulder into hers, looking at her, and from the corner of her eye Hermione can see that broad, careless grin that is so rare nowadays. She looks away, but Harry bumps their shoulders together again and Hermione can’t help but turn her head towards him, can’t help the smile that grows on her face when Harry begins mouthing the lyrics, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes making the shadows beneath them disappear.

Hermione can’t help the tightness that grows in her chest when he stands, when he offers her his hand again, just like he had done in that blasted tent; that same sad but hopeful expression clear as day on his face.

His hand hovers in the air for seconds that feel like hours, and Hermione knows she is at a crossroads, knows that Harry has made the first move and that it’s now up to her to choose whether to take his hand or make this all the more hard for them. She swallows, unsure, pushing down the memory of his tearful face; but in the end, Hermione puts her hand in his nonetheless, because maybe if she pretends that doing so will fix something between them, it will; even if she doesn’t really know what she’s doing.

Harry smiles at her, and she lets him help her to her feet, lets him drag her to the middle of the living room; and they dance, just like they had done that night.

Hermione’s heart is a mess of emotions, sadness and anger and fear and guilt and regret pulling her in separate directions. By the way he is looking at her, she thinks Harry feels the same way, thinks that he, too, is a mess of confusion and curiosity and despair and the same guilt and regret that live within her. Hermione watches the emotions flicker across his face as the music fills the silence between them, and when the song trails to an end and they are yet to say a word to each other, she lets go of his hands, because she was never good at apologies, never good at mending things, and she remains quiet as she watches him struggle with something to say, failing to find the right words.

So instead of words, Harry reaches for something else. His hand sneaks into the pocket of his flannel, and he takes a polaroid picture out, holding it gently; with the care that only someone whose past only exists in pictures ever does. He looks down at it, then to Hermione, and his mouth curls at the corners. “I found this at Grimmauld Place,” he says, handing the square picture to her. “I thought you might like it back.”

Hermione takes the picture, still unsure, so unsure it hurts, and she flips it around, only for a strangled noise to escape her when she sees the moving figure—when she sees herself, laughing, head thrown back, Crookshanks held tightly in her arms. Picture-Hermione says something, hand rising to scratch under Crookshanks’ chin, and he bumps his head against her chin. Her eyebrows rise, a smug expression on her face.

Memory overwhelms her, so searing and strong it makes her heart stop for a beat. Hermione remembers that day—remembers the softness of Crookshanks’ fur beneath her fingers, the rumble of his purr against her chest. Remembers arching her eyebrow at Harry, as if to demonstrate that Crookshanks wasn’t as cold-hearted as they always made him out to be, remembers hearing Ron mutter still a demon to me. She remembers laughing, and swatting the two of them, and whispering in Crookshanks’ ear to chase them, to annoy them; conspiring with him and being filled with such affection that Hermione could never properly describe it to anyone else.

Hermione blinks, and a tear falls on the moving picture, laden with the grief that Hermione has carried with her since she had left Crookshanks right here, at the Burrow, all those months ago.

She blinks again, and a second tear falls, and everything Hermione hasn’t let herself feel comes barrelling back, scratching, abrasive, tearing viciously through her.

Crookshanks hadn’t been her familiar, but Hermione had so wished it so that losing him had felt like losing a bit of her magic.

When the third tear falls Harry’s arms wrap around her. Hermione leans into the embrace and out of all the sounds she might’ve made, it’s a laugh that escapes her, wet and pained, tear and snot smearing Harry’s flannel as Hermione cries, clutching the photograph to her chest.

She doesn’t know how long the tears fall, or who is staring, or what they might be thinking, because all she knows is that photograph, and the memory of that day, and the fact that Harry is holding her as she grieves.


It’s sometime past nine at night when Hermione hears someone coming down the stairs of the Burrow.

She’s sitting on the last step, her bag and coat beside her, ready to leave. Everyone else has already left, and those that haven’t will soon. Hermione doesn’t want to be the last one to say goodbye, but she can’t stop staring at the photograph Harry has given her, can’t stop brushing her thumb over Crookshanks’ orange fur, losing herself to memories.

When freckled hands reach for her coat and pick it up from the ground, Hermione doesn’t look away from the photograph. And when Ron sits down next to her, folding his tall body to fit onto the narrow step, she doesn’t know if it’s relief or dread that fills her.

“I remember that day,” Ron says after a while. His voice is scratchy, and it has that same, low tone it always gets when he’s tired. Hermione remembers daydreaming about it, once. Now, it only reminds her of her own bone-deep tiredness. “He knocked my glass off the table at dinner.”

Hermione’s lips curl into a fleeting smile at the memory of Ron’s dismayed face when Crookshanks had jumped onto the table with the sole purpose of, apparently, annoying him. Hermione turns to look at Ron. “He did, didn’t he?”

Ron scoffs, but his blue eyes are soft, and his voice is affectionate when he says, “He was a little demon.”

“He was.”

“And we loved him for it.”

Hermione’s breath hitches. “We did.”

It’s quiet for a while after that, and Hermione is surprised to find that the silence between them is familiar, warm. She takes another peek at Ron, and finds his eyes locked on the photograph, on her smiling face. Hermione’s head tilts, trying to understand the expression on his face, but the move causes his eyes to rise to hers, and this time when their eyes meet Hermione notices the lack of glaze over them, the fact that his pupil isn’t blown out wide. The fact that Ron isn’t drunk.

Ron clears his throat and looks away from her, back down to that picture she’s still holding in her hands. “Are you doing okay?”

The question is slow, but it isn’t hesitant, and it doesn’t feel forced. There’s no trace of awkwardness in his voice and it surprises Hermione into silence again. She looks at him, trying to understand why he is here, why he’s talking to her, asking her questions she knows neither of them want to tackle. Ron should be ignoring her, avoiding her after what had happened that night, after how she had used him, careless of his feelings. He shouldn’t be asking her how she’s doing.

“Why aren’t you drunk?” she asks, in lieu of an answer to his question.

Ron twists his body, letting his shoulders rest against the wall next to him. “I made a promise to someone.”

“A promise?”

“Yes.”

“To someone.”

“To someone.”

“Who?”

It takes a heartbeat for him to respond. “Padma.”

Hermione looks at him again, and he is already staring at her. “Padma?” she says, brows furrowing. Then anger burns away her confusion. “You can stay sober for Padma but not for me, or Ginny, or your mother?”

Ron’s jaw flexes, and where she once thought he would’ve looked away, would’ve shut down the conversation, he surprises her again, and doesn’t. He looks at her for long seconds. “It’s easier.”

“It’s easier?” Hermione can hear her voice gaining that cutting, hissing edge that she is becoming so accustomed to. “It’s easier doing it for a stranger than—”

“Don’t,” Ron snaps. His eyes flash. “Padma is not a stranger.” The way his accent curls over Padma’s name makes Hermione pause, teeth biting onto her tongue to keep her words still. “But it’s easier because she doesn’t know me like you or Ginny or my mother do.” Ron takes a breath, shoulders rising and falling, throat bobbing before he speaks again. “Padma doesn’t really know me, so it’s easier when I inevitably drink again. But it makes trying easier, too, for some reason.”

Hermione looks at him, trying to understand. His blue eyes are clear, hard; and the lines of his face are determined. She blinks, and the expression doesn’t morph. She blinks again, and nothing changes.

“I’m trying,” he says, and the word clatters through her. She repeats it in her mind until it doesn’t make sense anymore. “Padma doesn’t take any of my shit. So I’m trying.”

“You’re trying.”

“Yes.”

“For her?”

“For her.”

All of a sudden, the fight that had been unknowingly coiling in her seeps away, draining into the floor beneath her. She is too tired to fight, too shaky still from the tears she has shed. She just wants to go home, but she feels stuck on that step, unable to move.

“Are you doing okay?” Ron asks again, and Hermione is so tired that she laughs. She laughs, and doesn’t stop, not until her stomach hurts and she turns to face Ron with disbelieving eyes.

“Am I doing okay?” she asks him, looking in his guarded eyes. “Am I doing okay? What kind of question is that, Ron? No, I’m not doing okay. Are you?”

“I—” Ron’s lips press into a thin line, and he releases a slow breath through his nose. Hermione sees it when his shoulder straightens, when he comes to a decision. She doesn’t have the strength to brace herself for it. “Not really. At least, not most of the time.”

“Great,” Hermione says, sardonic. Suddenly the whole conversation feels surreal, a dream that her tiredness must be bringing to life. “You’re not doing okay, I’m not doing okay, no one is doing okay, clearly, given that your mother didn’t touch her wand once and George was more catatonic than anything. So why are you asking me, Ron? Have you forgotten that we don’t talk about it?”

“Maybe we should.”

“No.”

“Maybe we should talk about it. Maybe we should be asking each other if we’re doing okay or not.”

Hermione laughs, turning away, covering her face with her hands, pressing her palms into her eyes until stars dance into her vision. She’s too tired, and there are dangerous emotions twisting in her that are too much for her to handle, too difficult to understand, to make sense of. She thinks there’s regret, and irritation, and envy, even—because Ron is trying and sober and Hermione is still bitter and hurting.

Ron is quiet, but the silence is no longer warm. Hermione wants to leave, but she doesn’t trust her legs. She pushes her hands into her hair, pulling at the strands. Laughs again. “Of course we shouldn’t, Ron. We haven’t for months, why should we start now?”

Ron releases another strained breath, and she lets her hands drop, turning towards him. His eyes are unfamiliar in their seriousness, in the distinct lack of that drunk, faraway look she had so gotten used to.

A muscle in Ron’s jaw flexes. “You’ve been seeing Malfoy.”

Hermione’s heart stutters in her chest, her stomach dropping to her feet. Ginny’s words are suddenly back in her mind, banging against her skull. “Is that why you’re here?”

“I—” It’s Ron’s turn to scrub his face, to run his hands through his hair. Those emotions twist again, coil. A snake getting ready to strike. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I just don’t understand—”

“Don’t understand what?” she hisses.

“Why have you been seeing him?”

“Why have you been drinking?”

Ron makes a strangled sound deep in his throat. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it? Why not? Can’t I fuck who I want?”

“I don’t care who you fuck, Hermione, but—”

“But what?”

“But it’s Malfoy!” Ron snaps. “And it’s one thing to act like nothing has happened, like everything is the same; but it’s another to sleep with Malfoy and—”

“And what!”

“And I’m worried!”

Hermione laughs again, and this time the sound is almost hysterical. “Worried? Worried? Now you’re worried, Ron? I start sleeping with Malfoy and suddenly everyone is worried?” Bitterness takes over her laugh “And what about before? Weren’t you worried before?”

“Of course I was—”

“No,” Hermione cuts him off, vicious. “No, you weren’t worried, Ron. You didn’t give one single fuck. You were too busy being drunk to worry and now that suddenly you’re trying you’ve decided to worry again? Decided to care again?”

“That isn’t what this is and you know it,” Ron seethes.

The bitterness spreads; turns into rot. The coil in her chest tightens, painful. “Do I? Do I know it? Because when I tried to help you, you just laughed in my face and then promptly decided to act as if I didn’t exist anymore, as if I wasn’t even worth a hello!”

“You pushed everyone away!” Ron’s voice is too loud. Her chest rises and falls too rapidly. “You disappeared over the summer and then came back to Hogwarts acting as if nothing had happened, as if everything was how it was before, only thinking about your stupid homework and your stupid classes!”

“You never once tried to reach out!”

“You didn’t either!”

Hermione smiles viciously, her teeth bared. “You would’ve been too busy puking your guts up in a toilet even if I did.”

“You wouldn’t know because you’ve never tried asking for help, Hermione, and that has always been your biggest fucking flaw!”

Ron’s words tear through every tender, hidden spot. “I’m not supposed to ask for help,” she grits out, finally allowing the words she’s so often thought to exist outside the confines of her mind. “I’m not supposed to ask it ! You were my closest friend, you should’ve wanted to fucking check in on me—”

Ron’s eyes turn icy with his glare. “And did you? Did you check in on me? Or Harry? Or anyone else? Because I don’t remember it, Hermione, so you can’t blame me for not helping you when you never asked, never did anything to show that you even wanted help, never tried helping us in return. You’ve been the one pretending that everything is fine, that you aren’t just as fucked up as the rest of us, so now that you’ve clearly fucking lost it you can’t get mad at me for being fucking worried!”

Ron’s words cut, and cut, and cut; drowning her in the truth they carry, in the truth Hermione doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want to acknowledge. Hate simmers in her, vicious, poisonous. She doesn’t know who she feels it for. “Is all this worry because of Draco, Ron? Is the idea of me choosing him so preposterous that surely, it must mean I’ve fucking lost it? Are you jealous of him?”

Ron laughs, and Hermione has never, ever heard such a hateful sound from him. “Jealous? Of Malfoy? Why would I be jealous of a criminal, of a Death Eater? Of someone who bullied my friends for years, who was brought up by sociopaths and mustn’t have one kind bone in his body? Why the hell would I be jealous of that?”

“Because you have always been jealous of him,” she hisses. “You have always hated him for his better clothes, better grades, better everything. And guess what, he’s even a better fuck than you ever were.”

Ron’s lips tighten into a flat line as the last word leaves her mouth, but Hermione doesn’t hear them echo, the roar of her shameful blood too loud in her ears.

Ron looks at her, his expression harsh, his blue eyes unrecognisable. Then he stands, sighs, and pushes his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. He looks down at her, then gives her a tight-lipped smile. The corners of his eyes don’t crinkle. “Merry fucking Christmas, Hermione.”

Ron leaves her there, shaking on the stairs, the sour taste of regret coating her tongue, her stomach hollowed by hate, her spine curved by misery.


Hermione spends the day after Christmas alone, in her bed.

She manages to sleep, at first, but then sometime past four in the morning her eyes open, sleep unwilling to hold her again, and so she swings, like a pendulum, between mind-numbing anxiety and gut-wrenching sorrow.

In the dark, her fingers reach for the ring that rests on her chest without her noticing, and it becomes a thing that centres her—playing with it, feeling the coldness of the silver in her hand, the smooth leaves engraved over its surface.

It makes her feel better, but only marginally.

When the sun is high enough in the sky that Hermione can no longer ignore it, she opens her curtain, summons the books on memory restoration spells she has brought with her from her bag, and from eight in the morning to ten at night, Hermione studies, and practices, and etches as many spells as she can to memory.

She settles on one, to try first; and several others to try in case that one doesn’t work, each spell more complex, more dangerous, more damning.

After ten thirty, when her body finally demands she eat something, Hermione forces herself to eat a quick dinner of cereal while standing in front of her kitchen sink, though her stomach threatens mutiny. Then she heads to her bathroom, staring at her reflection, her wand gripped tightly in her hand.

She casts charm after charm, sweat rolling down her neck, and four hours later, at two o’clock at night, Hermione slips out of her bathroom satisfied with the spells she has managed to create, with the way she no longer looks like herself.

Twenty-two minutes later, at 2:22 on December 27th, Hermione dresses in stolen clothes and Apparates to St. Mungo’s.

All the while, she obstinately ignores the rotting fear that purrs, insatiable, at the pit of her stomach; a beast ready to swallow her whole.

Notes:

*insert emoji of the red heart with the bandaid*

this chapter was a bit tough to write, but here we are. thank you so much for the patience, I know it's been a minute since the last chap but I've been caught up in other projects! Hopefully, chapter 20 will be up soon and we'll be going back to a more regular posting schedule if I can manage it! I've already got a bit of the next chapter down and let me tell you, I'm excited!!

As always, thank you so so much for reading, and thank you to my lovely betas <3

Chapter 20

Summary:

Hi! important news in the A/N at the end, please check it out! <3

Notes:

CW for this chapter: mention of suicidal thoughts

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The school is silent, on the days before Christmas, but Draco’s mind is loud, roaring with thoughts he no longer has control over.

An energy lives beneath his skin; an urge, a need. It leaves him tormented and discomposed, leaves his body wrecked with tension, his nerves unravelling at the edges.

His fingers tap tap tap along his wand, restlessly, silver against hawthorn, nails scratching varnish. Then they run through his hair. Loosen the collar of his shirt, then they rip it off his body.

His feet force him to pace. They bring him up and down the stairs, late at night and early in the mornings. Shoes or no shoes, socks or barefoot, Draco doesn’t even notice. Over stone and hardwood floors and icy grass. Gate to gate. Tower to tower. Draco walks all of Hogwarts, but his surroundings are but an ephemeral blur. He looks for something; around every corner, behind every door. Not finding it leaves him angry, furious. His teeth bite into his tongue, copper floods his mouth, and still it is not enough, still it is not the taste he craves.

Inevitably, stillness always follows movement.

He sits at the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his knees, or pulling at his hair. Eyes either fixed on a point in the middle distance, everything out of focus; or shut tightly, spots dancing within the darkness behind his lids. Muscles coil with tension, then relax. Blood flows fast, then slow, then faster still, drowning the world in an erratic thu-thump that repeats without rhyme.

In stillness, his thoughts sharpen. His mind turns mercurial; a fluid form of Granger.

She is everywhere and everything, slipping through every crevice, impossible to grasp. She stains every intention, coating them in oil, distorting his concentration by becoming the sole purpose of it, the sole thing he can focus on, but never master.

Reality changes. The permanence of objects becomes tied to her: objects exist, but it is because they remind him of her that they do, and because of that, they shift, mutate.

His bed is not a bed—but the taste of dimples at the bottom of a spine, the brush of fingers over a clavicle, the dampness of a pillow after a nightmare.

His tie is not a tie—but the redness of silk against pale wrists, the quieting of breathless sounds, the tug of insistent hands dragging him down.

His book is not a book—but the scent of old parchment, the flash of heat in deep brown eyes, the slide of clothed bodies against shelves.

Existence is not what it was before.

A curse, he thinks at once. A gossamer thread, wrapping around his very bones, weaving a name into him; replacing sinew and making him anew.

Perhaps it is dark, ancient magic. Something inherited from his family; the infamous Black insanity finally sinking its claws into him.

Or perhaps it is just him. No magic, no curse, no invisible culprit. Just him, and a devouring, consuming obsession; and the eagerness to give into it, coalescing into burning hatred, fixating on her.


The absence of the necklace around his neck leaves him uneasy. It feels unnatural; strange —but good, too; right in a way that deeply unsettles Draco, sinking behind his solar plexus, leaving a hollow, Granger-shaped void.

Draco’s hand can’t help but drift upwards, seeking the phantom weight of his ring on its chain. His brain is unrelenting, showing him flashes of Granger’s long, delicate fingers playing with the chain, pressing the ring into his skin, caressing it as if it’s something precious to her; and Draco chases after those fleeting images, as if by finding the necklace he will find her, too.

Draco had hated how she played with it, at the start. Had had to grit his teeth against the impulse to snatch her hand away, to tell her not to touch what wasn’t hers. It had felt too jarring, too intimate a thing for her to do, but something inside him had whispered to let her have this, to let her find comfort in the act, no matter how it made him feel.

Night after night, the tension that would seize his muscles when her fingers curled around his chain, so severe at the beginning, had started to ease, to lighten, and he’d gotten used to the feeling of her fingers brushing over his skin, to the soft sound of the ring zipping up and down the chain, the slight tug at the nape of his neck. Without him noticing it, just like for her cold feet against his calves, Draco had learnt to anticipate the weight of her hand at his throat; his stomach clenching each time, waiting, hoping. His breath would still inside his chest, lungs burning for a reprieve, everything becoming irrelevant but for the contrast between soft, golden skin and bright, gleaming silver. Each time his eyes fell on her taunting fingers, the riotous clamour in him would swell, tightening into a bundle of undefined emotion and then exploding outwards, uncontrollable, pushing against his skin and begging to be let out. The greedy animal in him would wake, roaring at him to sink his teeth in her and never let her go. Draco would swallow, throat parched, dazed by the intensity of his want, holding desperately onto the fraying threads of his sanity.

But then he’d watched, one night, as Granger caressed the edge of the ring with one fingertip, only for her finger to then fall, to slip through the ring’s centre, the silver band sliding down her skin until it rested, quietly, just above her knuckle.

The threads had snapped, the sight of his ring around her finger leaving him dizzy, head spinning.

Draco had tried, for a moment, to act like nothing had happened, like the sight hadn’t immediately switched off any logical, rational part of his brain, leaving him with only the fucked up parts functioning, telling him something he couldn’t understand, whispering as he gave into temptation.

His mind had blanked, more beast than man. He’d grabbed Granger, had pushed her face down against his mattress and pulled her hips high in the air, feasting on her until she was dripping down his chin, gasps muffled by his pillow. Then he’d straightened up—had grabbed her wrists in one hand, holding them over the small of her back, tangling his other hand in her curls with a punishing grip. He’d fucked his fury into her, so hard and deep and mean Granger had been sobbing at the end of it, desperately trying to get away from him, squirming as if he would ever let her go. Draco had pulled at her hair, had forced her back into an arch that was so vulgar, so disgusting, that he’d conjured a mirror just to make her watch—just to make her see how his cock fit inside her cunt with such obscene perfection. Then he’d used her as she deserved to be used for tempting him like that, for putting the image of his ring on her finger in his head, not withholding any of his fury and leaving fresh purple bruises on her wrists.

He’d come deep inside her, so angry he was shaking, cock pressed snugly against her cervix, Granger crying and begging him to let her go. Draco had laughed, feeling delirious, and he’d pulled out of her only to push the come that dripped out of her cunt back inside with his tongue, livid at the thought that he couldn’t stay inside her forever; consumed by the need to always keep her filled up.

After, he’d let her muffle her dwindling cries against his chest, and again those shaking fingers had reached for his necklace, stealing his breath away.

Giving her the necklace had been an unplanned thing. A burst of urgent emotion, born from the cold realisation that his bruises would fade. He’d bared his teeth at the thought, tightening his arms around her, threatened by Granger’s upcoming departure. She was leaving him for Christmas; the bag in the corner of his room leering at him, telling him of days spent without her, without her warmth, her scent, her taste.

Granger had tried to slip out of his arms unnoticed, as she always did, clueless to the fact that Draco was awake. Fury had overcome him, bright and blinding. As the warmth of her body left his, Draco had pulled her back to him, keeping her firmly against his chest, curling over her as if that could prevent her from leaving, wondering if she could feel the erratic beat of his heart, the tension in his forearms.

Granger had to leave, he knew it. He needed her to help his mother, just as she had promised; but Draco hadn’t wanted her to leave, not with only bruises, bound to fade, the only sign of him. Draco had known the impulse was superfluous—knew then and knows now, fingers tracing along his clavicle, that he’s ingrained in Granger far more than she even realises; but still, knowing that hadn’t felt sufficient, hadn’t felt like enough.

Draco had kept very still for a second, trying to figure out what would quell the uprising in him, and then his hands had moved without his command, as if imperio’d by stray magic. He’d watched himself tuck her curls to the side, had pressed his lips against the pale skin of her nape, trailing kisses down to the first knob of her spine, not really understanding his own motions. Draco’s hands had left her body just long enough to unclasp his necklace, to lift her head from her pillow and settle the silver chain around her neck, the roaring in his ears not loud enough to hide Granger’s sharp intake of breath. He’d whispered an excuse in her ear—a way for my mother to trust you—and then, just like that, his necklace had become hers and some of his tension had loosened, leaving a precarious, jittering silence behind.

Draco had settled his hand loosely over her neck, over the hummingbird pulse of her heart, feeling the coolness of the silver against her warm skin, and it had felt so right that he’d closed his eyes again, breathing her in.

Granger hadn’t said anything. For long, quiet minutes they had laid there together, Draco’s hand over her fleeting pulse and her fingers rising tentatively to play with the ring that now rested between her breasts. After a while, Granger’s finger had let go long enough to wrap around his wrist, pulling his hand away from her throat. Draco had let her do that—had sluggishly blinked his eyes open, drunk on her, watching from behind lowered lids as she caressed his palm with her thumb, as she brushed her lips against the inside of his wrist, lingering for a second over the red, puckered skin of one of his scars. A sharp pain had hollowed his ribs, then Granger had slipped out of bed without saying anything. Draco had let her do that, too, staring as she gathered her clothes and left his room without a single word; trying and failing to think past the irregular beating of his heart.

Now, Draco feels bereft, lying alone in a bed that has grown in size. He’d found it comfortable at the start of the year, the double mattress so different from the tight, cramped cot he had slept in while in his holding cell at the Ministry; but now Granger’s absence suffocates him. It presses against him on all sides, leaving him shivering and angry, fingers clenching into sheets that no longer smell like her.

Draco thinks of her. It’s Christmas Day tomorrow, and he knows she won’t be happy. He longs to turn his head and find her sad, brown eyes looking back at him; wishes he could push past her walls, brush his magic against her mind again, just to learn her thoughts so intimately that they tangle with his. Draco feels lost, adrift in a sea of possibilities, of thoughts and feelings that Granger might be experiencing, choking on the visceral need to know. Jealousy shoves down his throat, suffocating—jealousy of her, of the fact that she gets to experience her own mind while Draco is locked out of it.

The promise he’d made not to use Legilimency on her again fills him with angry regret, rage coiling inside him and pulling each one of his muscles taut. The insult of her physical absence worsens, because how dare she leave him, how dare she look away from him, refusing him her pretty, expressive eyes? Will she not even give him that, when he deserves so much more? When he has held her, and been gentle with her, and whispered in her ear all those comforting words she so secretly craves, all those lies and promises and apologies that taste so bad on his tongue? Draco deserves more, wants more, wants to be inside her body and her mind, wants to peel back each and every layer of her until he knows her better than she knows herself, until there is not one single thing about Hermione Granger that Draco doesn’t know—that isn’t his. Draco is greedy for it like he has never been greedy for something before, furious that she isn’t already his in the way he wants: utterly, fundamentally codependent, reliant on him in a way that scares her, that pushes the limits of the rationality she so prides herself over. Draco wants her sick with him, wants her trembling and confused and yielding, wants her to give herself to him without him asking, doing it because she needs to, because the thought of not being his hurts her too much.

It burns inside him, this yearning.

He is too spoilt, he thinks. Too avid, too hungry.

But Draco can only be what he is, and so he closes his eyes, falling asleep with his fingers stretched towards the other side of his bed.


Draco’s dreams are over-saturated in her, too rich for him to properly comprehend. Too strong, like his father’s Firewhiskey. Burning the back of his throat, settling unbearably hot in his stomach.

In his dreams, Hermione is never real—she is never her, but always something more.

She is Draco’s reaper, when he dreams of a field of daffodils. He stands, a stain of black in a rotting field of white. She comes, dressed in purple, golden wings at her back. A kiss on his lips, his life for the field’s. He gives it willingly.

She is Draco’s consort, when he dreams of that familiar throne. But instead of a crown over his head there are shackles over his wrists, and he follows her to the gallows, awaits her kiss on his cheek as they hang him.

She is Draco’s most damning sin, when he dreams of pews and stained-glass windows. She is the prayer that falls from his lips, the transgression he repents for, the altar at which he begs forgiveness, whip cracking over his scarred back.

In his dreams, his addiction worsens. When he wakes he is parched, jittery, desperate for his next hit.

Still half-asleep, he chases the memories of his dreams—catalogues every detail, tries to commit to memory every expression on her face, every whispered word, every accepted plea.

But in wakefulness, the dreams are never the same, and his memory distorts them.

What he remembers is not his blood, staining white flowers; but hers, smeared over his hands, over his face, over his mouth; dirty, golden feathers drifting on a snapping wind.

What he remembers is not the tightness of a noose around his neck; but his lips, brushing over a cold cheek as bells keep count of a body’s decay.

What he remembers is not atonement; but the sweet taste of utter faith, the corruption of a devotion, the pink of a tongue awaiting communion.


Hermione is going to vomit.

She can feel it, in the way fear squeezes her stomach, in the cold sweat that trickles down her spine.

She pushes the cart forward, the metal slippery beneath her damp hands. The blood roaring in her ears almost covers up the sound of the wheels sliding over the linoleum floor, but one of them is faulty. It screeches as if in disapproval, and the high-pitched noise makes Hermione jump, adrenaline rushing through her and then leaving her shaking and sweaty.

Hermione hears the person coming before she sees them, shoes squeaking against the floor, softly at first, then rapid and jarring like a metronome, her heartbeat synchronising with the beat. Hermione plasters a bored, tired expression on her face, keeping her steps slow even as tension seizes her muscles, fixing her stare on the linens piled onto her cart.

The Healer turns the corner in a flash of lime-green robes. From the corner of her eye, Hermione catches the worried expression on the Healer’s face, the way his eyes are fixed on the patient file in his hand. Bile rises up her throat, her stomach constricting, but Hermione forces her steps not to falter, to remain steady and slow, disinterested. A Healer doing her rounds, she repeats in her mind—screams, really, convincing herself of it. It’s as simple as that.

The Healer strides down the corridor, his pace quick, the distance between him and Hermione diminishing rapidly. It takes all of Hermione’s frazzled self-control to keep her eyes trained on the soft white linens on the cart, to keep her breathing normal and not locked up in between her ribs but she manages, if just barely. The Healer doesn’t even spare her a glance as he passes her, the crinkling of paper loud in Hermione’s ear as he flips carelessly through the file. Hermione’s pulse almost covers the sound of it, loud as it is, but she just keeps walking, raising her stare from the cart to the end of the corridor, where she knows she’ll have to take a right.

Only when the Healer’s footsteps fade again into the silence of the ward does Hermione swallow, trying to rid herself of the knot in her throat. Her whole body feels pulled taut with tension, and she represses the urge to reach for her itching scalp. Her hair is charmed and tucked neatly into the low bun all the St. Mungo’s Healers wear, pulled so tightly that the first shadows of a pounding headache push against the back of her eyes, vicious. At the nape of her neck, her magic tingles, the notice me not she had cast on herself minutes before stepping foot in the hospital the last of the many spells glamouring her, but at least her magic is warm and familiar, a reassuring shiver of sensation that trails down her spine. Hermione tries to focus on that as she reaches the end of the corridor, turning the corner, rather than the anxiety that spikes when the pale, sage-green walls of the ward come into view.

The Janus Thickey Ward is bright, as if unaware that it’s nearly three in the morning. The lights are charmed, Hermione knows, to provide a light that is more comforting than daunting, welcoming rather than artificial, though Hermione had grown to mistrust their yellow-white glow in the weeks she had spent here with her parents. The ward is silent as she makes her way across it, taking a turn down a side corridor she had hoped never to see again. The late hour and her lack of sleep make it all feel surreal, like Hermione is sleep-walking, trapped inside a too-bright nightmare in a place that doesn’t really exist, that only stinks of fear and dread and uncertainty—but the screech of her cart as the wheel gets stuck again sucks her back through space and time, spitting her out and leaving her sticky with the awareness that it is all very real and that she shouldn’t be here, not again, not so soon, not ever.

The panic creeps closer, crawling up her arms and around her throat, choking her, but Hermione keeps walking down the corridor and around one last corner, finally stepping into that damned, cursed hallway.

Her eyes immediately fall to the dark shape midway down, to the figure slumped onto a wooden chair. His head is leaned back against the wall, a heavy coat thrown over his chest in a makeshift blanket. Hermione’s breath stutters when she sees the glint of an Auror badge. She freezes, hands clenching around the cart’s handle, eyes locked on the sleeping Auror.

Draco had warned her that his mother might be guarded, yet a part of her had still been hoping for it not to be true. Hermione curses under her breath, slipping her wand out of the pocket of her Healer's robes. She leaves the cart next to one of the doors that line the corridor, keeping her steps silent as she walks up to the Auror. Before she can think too much about it, she casts a stasis charm on him, waiting for his soft snores to dissipate and for deep unconsciousness to take him before lowering her wand, her heart beating furiously hard in her chest.

She remains still, eyes locked on the Auror’s face for countless seconds, fighting the panic, then she turns her head, staring at the black 9 on the white door in front of her. It stares back at her, still, unrelenting; and Hermione wants to scream at it, wants to turn around and run away and never set foot in this God-awful place again.

Four doors down, the room where her parents had stayed as they tried to undo Hermione’s obliviation mocks her. The number 13 beckons her, a living, breathing monster in the corner of her vision that demands her attention. But Hermione keeps her eyes fixed on the 9—ignores the way her head spins, the way her body suddenly feels distant yet too close all at once, overwhelming her with an onslaught of sensations that she doesn’t know how to handle. Fear creeps through her, stronger than before, scratching at her every nerve. Her hand shakes when she sets it on the metal handle, her throat locks up when she pushes the door open wide enough for her to slip inside the room.

For a moment the fear wins, and Hermione keeps her eyes on the floor as she turns around, gently shutting the door so that the click of the lock snatching in place is barely a whisper of a sound. Hermione settles her hand against the smooth wood of the door, the other curled tightly around her wand. She presses her forehead against the door just for a second—combating the fear as it rallies, as it tells her that when she turns around she’ll see her mother in that bed, catatonic, staring at nothing with clouded eyes as the prolonged imperio takes its toll on her, and not Narcissa. The fear tells her she’ll hear her father’s voice, mumbling incoherent things as the Mind Healers try to stitch his memories of her back together, trying to undo the damage of her spell. It whispers to her that she’ll fail again, that she isn’t good enough, has never been good enough, that she’ll never be—

“Who are you?”

The voice makes her jump. Hermione chokes on a swallowed gasp, turning around and staring at Narcissa Malfoy, standing on the other side of the room. Hermione’s eyes snatch on the lamp in the corner of the room, illuminating one side of Narcissa’s face and leaving the rest of her in shadows. Hermione blinks, then swallows, trying to find her voice, but it fails her at the sight of the other woman, her hair loose and dishevelled, flowing down to her waist.

“What are you doing here?” Narcissa asks again, her voice sharp like a blade. “You aren’t one of my Healers.”

Hermione takes a trembling breath. “No,” she says, and her voice, at least, is her own, unlike the rest of her appearance. “No, I’m not. I’m Hermione. Granger. Hermione Granger.” She stumbles over her words, then flicks her wrist, terminating the notice me not. Hermione sees it when Narcissa’s eyes focus on her, her gaze roaming over Hermione’s glamoured features, over her black hair and onyx eyes and freckles, scattered all over her face.

She sees the suspicion on Narcissa’s face before she even voices it. Hermione is suddenly acutely conscious that she’s on borrowed time, the pressing limit of it tightening like a noose around her throat. Narcissa’s expression darkens, suspicion turning to blatant mistrust when Hermione takes a step forward. Narcissa’s eyes narrow, a mere tightening of muscles, but that is enough to morph her features, to turn her cunning and vicious, and Hermione’s mind superimposes the picture of Narcissa now—hair loose, thinner than she used to be—with the memory of Narcissa in Malfoy Manor, eyes narrowed and one hand on Draco’s shoulder as they watched Bellatrix drag her to the floor.

Hermione blinks furiously, dispelling the image, knowing she cannot afford to get lost in her memories—cannot let the panic win. She swallows again, her throat as dry as parchment, then straightens.

Gripping her wand, Hermione reaches for her left sleeve, fingers curling around the soft cotton. She hesitates for a second, Draco’s necklace a cool weight around her neck, prickling her skin beneath her clothes; but then she bites her tongue and drags her sleeve upwards, exposing her forearm. She doesn’t look down at it, instead keeping her gaze fixed on Narcissa’s face.

This, she feels, will mean more to her than Draco’s necklace. This, she feels, is the only way Narcissa will trust her.

The last time Narcissa had seen her scar, it had been an ugly, terrible red, pulsing pain through every corner of Hermione’s being. Now, the scar is mostly a pale white, only the edges of some letters still a tender red. The scarred word always looks too small for the space it occupies in Hermione’s soul, and the pain is but a reminder that flares sometimes, sharp and acidic, hiccuping her heartbeat.

Hermione unglues her tongue from the roof of her mouth, positioning the tip of her wand against her scar. She keeps her eyes on Narcissa and whispers Sanguinem Sanen, a shiver crawling up her shoulder as the veins in her arms flare with magic, illuminated from within and glowing with a pulsing white. Hermione tries to take in oxygen as the magic burns through her, waiting for it to fade. Panic flares in Narcissa’s eyes, her sharp intake of breath loud between them. She takes a stunted step towards Hermione, fingers clenching by her sides, only for the panic in her expression to be replaced with undiluted shock as the spell fizzles out into nothing, the glow in her veins dimming until it extinguishes.

Narcissa gasps, striding forward, cold hand grasping Hermione’s forearm. She runs trembling fingers over her scar. “It worked,” Narcissa says, voice unbearably soft with a relief Hermione has never heard before.

“It worked,” Hermione echoes, her chest squeezing and releasing. “No more curse.”

No more curse. Such stupid, simple words, hearing them now. No more curse.

She hadn’t told anyone—had kept the weight of the truth for herself, held it close to her on those sleepless nights when the pain in her forearm would burn through her, leaving her choking on her tears.

Narcissa’s words, whispered in those scant moments they’d had after her trial, had echoed through her unrelentlessly. An old family curse, Narcissa had said. One my family used to cast on those they wanted to be rid of. Those like you. One my sister…favoured.

Hermione had stared at her, wide-eyed, not comprehending even though Narcissa wasn’t speaking in riddles.

It taints the blood, she had said, and Hermione had thought—of course. It turns it rotten. It will kill you. Narcissa’s face had been stoic, impossibly beautiful as it always was, but her eyes had been bright. Hermione had had the dizzying thought that this was Narcissa’s apology. Look for it in Walburga’s Library.

Then the Aurors had whisked her away, leaving a confused Hermione behind.

She hadn’t truly understood at first—had only felt the terror descend upon her when she’d Apparated back to her apartment, when she’d realised just what Bellatrix had truly done to her. Her mind had become a monster of fear and useless, vicious anger. For two days, Hermione had raged, falling back into all the bad habits she knew she should quit, and then she’d gone numb, emptied of all her anger, becoming a hollow vessel of pain.

Hermione had ignored the curse at first, unable to deal with it when her parents were still at St. Mungo’s, when they still didn’t remember her. But then her hopes of having her family back had died with a final Imperius and a one-way ticket to Australia, and Hermione had felt so utterly lost that death had seemed like a reprieve. Thinking about her curse then had come with relief—relief that had scared her to her very core because she knew, knew that she wasn’t supposed to feel it, wasn’t supposed to be glad to have an excuse to die, to have a convenient way out.

It had been guilt, in the end, that had pushed her to seek answers in the Black’s ancestral home. Not a desire to live, but simple guilt, because Hermione Granger shouldn’t want to die, and she had thought, one night, that maybe if she believed in it hard enough, Hermione could go back to who she used to be, who she should’ve been.

She had been foolish, hands trembling as they half-heartedly turned page after page of old books stolen from the Library at Grimmauld Place.

The curse, in the end, had been cruel in its simplicity. Walburga’s mother’s handwriting had been neat, precise. Her description of the curse hadn’t been longer than half a page, as if it wasn’t worth more space than that, and Hermione had stared at it for hours, her mind silent.

Her attempt had been an act, a play, the first time she had worn her mask. Sweat had turned her grip on her wand slippery, her tongue thick in her mouth as she whispered the spell that would either kill her, or save her, the one she had found in one of Sirius’ old notebooks. When her magic had risen in her, weak and flickering, Hermione hadn’t been able to understand her feelings. But when searing pain brought her down to her knees, only to then leave her breathing raggedly on her bedroom floor, Hermione had understood.

It had taken her long, sleepless nights to get over her disappointment. Longer, still, for it to turn into relief.

“Thank you,” Hermione says, voice strangled, and she’s horrified to find that her eyes are heavy with tears, clinging to her lashes. For a moment, Hermione wonders if she believes her words, but then her fingers twitch, itching for silver, searching for the weight of Draco’s ring, and her answer reaches her in the memory of Draco’s teeth against her neck.

Narcissa’s lips part, but before she can say anything Hermione steps back, pulling her arm from Narcissa’s grip and hastily blinking her tears away. Hopefully, she will have time to thank Narcissa better one day, to ask her why she had told Hermione the truth in that Ministry atrium, to ask her why she had helped her, but she can’t do it now.

Narcissa’s hands drop to her sides as she, too, takes a step back, as if understanding that Hermione can’t bear the weight of the conversation they need to have. So she redirects, asking again “Why are you here, Miss Granger?”

Hermione shakes her left hand out, trying to dispel the tingles that linger from the magic, and the move somehow grounds her, taking some of her fear away. Narcissa is in front of her—not her mother, but another mother, Draco’s mother; a mother she promised to help, wants to help. Needs to help, if only to settle a debt.

Hermione squares her shoulders, attempting to stand tall even though Narcissa towers over her. She clears her throat, and this time her voice comes out stronger, steadier. “Draco sent me here. I’ve been…helping him.”

Narcissa lifts her chin, beautiful even in the dim light, even with the dark purple Hermione sees in the corner of her eyes. “So I’ve been told,” she says, appraising Hermione with a look she can’t decipher.

Hermione simply nods, tightening her fingers over her wand. “Draco,” she hesitates, Malfoy’s name once again zapping through her, so easy to say now. “He told me about when he came to visit you. About the fact that you’ve been obliviated.”

“Did he?” Narcissa says, gaze turning calculating and guarded in a way, Hermione thinks, has more to do with Draco than anything else.

“Yes. He’s shared his thoughts on what he thinks might be happening. On why you’ve been attacked.”

“And what does he think?”

“I believe he thinks the attacks are targeting Death Eater families, what with what happened to Nott Manor and..and the Zabinis.”

A muscle twitches in Narcissa’s jaw. She remains silent for a beat, fingers curling around the edges of her sleeves. Hermione sees a flash of white at her wrists and rapidly looks away from the bandages. When she brings her eyes back to Narcissa, they stare at each other for a second that feels too long, before Narcissa speaks again. “And what do you believe?”

“I believe it’s not as simple as that.” Hermione’s belief in her words feels like a thread pulling at her gut. There’s a theory that’s gaining form in her mind, but it’s still too hazy around the edges for her to put it into words. By the expression on Narcissa’s face as Hermione tells her this, she knows she isn’t the only one who feels like there is something else going on—but now is not the time to discuss what that might be, not when Hermione is on stolen time, not when Narcissa still doesn’t remember.

“I came here to try and restore your memories,” Hermione says, taking a step towards Narcissa. Then the words pour out of her mouth, rushed. “Draco wouldn’t have been able to do it himself, but we need your memories if we’re to understand what’s going on, how to…be prepared when something else happens.” When, not if, because Hermione is certain that Narcissa’s attack won’t be the end of it. “And we want to understand what happened to you, as I’m sure you do, too. But I have to try this now, as the glamour I have on will wear off soon enough. Are you okay with that?”

Narcissa blinks, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Can I do the spell myself? With your wand, if you’ll let me borrow it?”

Hermione shakes her head, fingers curling over her wand. “No. Casting memory restoration spells on oneself is incredibly complex, and although I don’t doubt your skills as a witch, it would be close to impossible for you to attempt it if you’ve never cast the spell before, especially with a wand that’s not your own.”

“And you’ve done this before?”

“Yes,” Hermione swallows. “Many times.”

Narcissa is quiet, but the absence of words is as loud as her unspoken question, as the doubt that swirls in her eyes—doubt in Hermione’s skills. It sends a pang through her, stinging and bitter. Rationally, Hermione knows that the obliviation cast on Narcissa won’t be as profound as the one Hermione had cast on her parents. She knows that she will be able to undo it, yet her knowing this doesn’t prevent her from feeling like a cheat, doesn’t stop the ghost of the panic that had overcome her when Draco had first asked her to do this from rising through her again. It stifles the confidence Hermione had always had in her skills, choking it beneath layers of insecurities, beneath the oppressing fear of failure, and Hermione hates it. Narcissa frowns, a thin line appearing between her eyebrows, and suddenly Hermione can’t stand it, can’t stand the way her insecurities and fear make her feel small and stupid. Can’t stand letting them win, not in front of Narcissa Malfoy. She clenches her teeth. “I doubt your obliviation will be severe. If only some memories have been tampered with, I’ll be able to restore them. I know the spells well.”

Narcissa’s lips twitch, the shadow of an uplift darkening the corner of her mouth. “I am not doubting your skills, Miss Granger, but why should I trust you with my mind? I am sure you know just how delicate memory magic is.”

Hermione catches Narcissa’s eyes.“I owe you my life, Mrs. Malfoy. I have no desire to harm you.”

“You kept my son and I out of Azkaban, Miss Granger. What I shared with you that day was repayment for that.”

Hermione shakes her head. “They are not equatable,” They will never be equatable, she thinks. “Now, please. We don’t have much time.”

Narcissa remains still for several long seconds, and time warps around Hermione, pressing heavily against her skin. Then Narcissa nods—a single, decisive movement, and a breath whooshes out of Hermione’s lungs in a relieved exhalation.

Hermione directs Narcissa to the bed and warns her with sharp, curt words of the spell she will cast, of the way it might make her feel disoriented, of how Hermione’s magic in her mind might feel uncomfortable. Narcissa simply nods, staring intently at Hermione, with no hint of apprehension on her face.

Hermione raises her wand, pressing the tip of it against Narcissa’s temple.

The motion’s forgotten familiarity hits her like a punch in the gut, heart skipping a beat. Panic and unease flare again, stronger than before. Hermione clears her dry throat, shifting on her feet, concentrating on halting the tremor in her wand as the tip caresses Narcissa’s pale skin. She avoids Narcissa’s eyes; but she can’t press down the panic, no matter how much she dislikes it, and it reaches for her throat, choking her. Hermione leans back, dropping her hand, reaching for the collar of her shirt. She undoes the first few buttons, but not enough air reaches her lungs and they begin to burn. She chances a look at Narcissa’s face, finding her eyes locked on her neck, where Hermione’s fingers are rubbing against her clavicles, trying to dissipate the anxiety and failing. Narcissa lifts her eyes to Hermione’s, one thin eyebrow cocking in a way that is so Draco that Hermione has to look away—but the sight of the bed Narcissa sits upon is too much, too identical to the one her mother had laid in, conscious but unaware, and no—no, Hermione can’t, not again, not again, not when she hadn’t—

“Miss Granger?”

Hermione looks at Narcissa. She stares, dazed, at her composed expression, feeling embarrassment pour like liquid heat through her. Narcissa’s eyes flicker to her neck, then rise again to hers. “Surely, my son wouldn’t have let you come here if he didn’t trust that you could do this.”

The words tumble through her, clunky at first, unexpected; but then they wrap around with tenderness, smothering some of her panic.

I trust you, Draco had said. I trust that you’ll be able to restore my mother’s memories, or that at least you will try your best.

Her best, she thinks. Her best used to make her feel so proud, once. Now, her best feels tainted, uncertain. It makes her feel pathetic, and Hermione hates it.

Hermione looks into Narcissa’s blue eyes, so different in colour from Draco’s but alike in their shape, in the lashes that frame them. Draco’s eyes, filled with disgust, flash in her mind. Then they soften, and she hears again, I trust you. Hermione’s fingers brush lightly over the chain around her neck. I trust you. Her hand drops from her throat. She hates that she wants to make him proud—hates that this is what she thinks about as she gives Narcissa a jerky nod, hovering the tip of her wand over her temple.

Before doubt can reach her again Hermione casts the spell, the words falling smoothly from her lips as magic surges through her, bright in her chest, tickling down her arm and fingers and into her wand. Narcissa’s eyes flutter shut as Hermione keeps chanting, concentrating on the words, on the connection that forms between her magic and Narcissa’s mind. She gives into it, closing her eyes and allowing her magic to pull her forward.

Narcissa’s mind is a fortress, solid as stone. The spell isn’t Legilimency per se, but it’s close enough that it allows Hermione to catch the undercurrents of Narcissa’s consciousness, the soft pulses of it as it brushes against Hermione’s magic. Hermione pushes back against it, lightly at first, searching for that place where memories are stored. She searches for traces of residual magic, for a blockage or an unnatural disconnection in the fabric of Narcissa’s mind that hints at where the obliviated memories lie.

She doesn’t find them at first. The spell cast on Narcissa is stronger than she thought it might’ve been, more complex than the ones Death Eaters had used on members of the Order, but not as convoluted as the one Hermione had cast on her parents. This still feels gentler than that, less intertwined with the rest of Narcissa’s mind and memories. Hermione focuses, sweat accumulating at her hairline and armpits as she keeps pushing her magic deeper.

When she finds them, the obliviated memories feel like a frozen, rotten spot in Narcissa’s mind. Hermione keeps chanting softly under her breath, her words but a hiss of sound as she coaxes the memories back to the surface, warming them with her magic, undoing the obliviation. Narcissa makes a distressed noise, her eyes squeezing in discomfort as she tries not to flinch from Hermione’s probing magic.

It takes longer than Hermione had expected for the spell to give. Her muscles are strained to the limit with tension when the last memory gets free, the shadows of the blockage dissipating with a soft whisper of strange magic against Hermione’s.

Hermione’s breath leaves her in a heavy sigh as she retreats from Narcissa’s mind. When she finally lowers her wand, Narcissa chokes on a gasp, her eyes snapping open.

The look in them makes Hermione’s voice shrivel up in her throat.

Narcissa surges to her feet, inches away from Hermione’s face. She grips Hermione’s arms, her grip so tight it hurts. Her eyes bounce between Hermione’s rapidly, sweeping over her face before she twists around, staring at the door, a preoccupied look on her face.

“Narcissa—”

Narcissa turns around, staring at Hermione with an unreadable expression in her eyes before her stare drops down to her own wrists. Narcissa lets her go, another distressed noise escaping her as she pulls up the sleeves of her robes, exposing her bandages. She curses under her breath, in a way unbefitting the version of her Hermione knows, her mouth twisting in disgust.

Hermione tries to catch her eyes, her worry deepening with every passing second. Narcissa turns to look at the door again. Hermione finds her voice. “What is it that you—”

Narcissa bends over, one hand against her temple, clawing at her hair. Hermione hisses, pushing Narcissa back on the bed. “The memories might come back in jerks. You need to stay calm and let them come or it will—”

Narcissa gasps again, the sound making goosebumps explode on Hermione’s sweat-cold skin. Her head snaps up towards Hermione but her eyes are unfocused now, distant. “No,” she says as she starts shaking her head. “They can’t have—” she curses again, looking back down at her wrists.

“Narcissa,” Hermione says, her worry creeping into panic. She searches the room, then curses when her eyes land on the clock and she sees just how little time she has left before her glamorous start unravelling. Hermione looks back down at Narcissa, reaching gently for her bandaged forearms, forcing Narcissa’s gaze back to her. “You have to tell me what you remember, as best as you can. I don’t have a lot of time left before my glamours fade. Or do you have another way of contacting Draco? I don’t—” she huffs a breath from her nose. “I don’t think they’ll let him visit you again.”

Narcissa blinks up at her. “Right,” she says, shaking her head. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply, and some of the tension in her shoulders eases. Hermione presses her lips together in relief. “Of course, you’re right. I just—the memories overwhelmed me.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you that might happen.”

“I should’ve expected it,” Narcissa says. She pulls her arms away from Hermione’s hand, rubbing the bandages on her left wrist. “They took my wand. That’s why I don’t have it.”

“The Aurors?”

Narcissa shakes her head. “No. The people that attacked me.” She purses her lips. “There were three of them. I don’t know how they got past the wards without me noticing. It shouldn’t be possible.” Narcissa’s eyebrows furrow, that line appearing again. “They imperio’d me. They—” Hermione waits as Narcissa collects her thoughts, her eyes going distant again. “They were asking me things about the Manor, about the grounds. About the magic of the house and of the wards. They made me show them all the books in the Library, and how to—” Narcissa’s jaw clenches, the hand on her bandages tightening.

“How to what?” Hermione pushes. Time presses against her again.

“How to make the wards. How we control them, how they’re connected to the house and the grounds, how we—how we alter them.”

Hermione’s eyes drop down to Narcissa’s bandaged wrists. “The Manor’s wards are Blood Wards.”

“They are.” Narcissa drops her hands into her lap. “I—the Imperius was strong. I can’t recall what they made me do exactly but they tried to make me change them. I think they made me give one of the men some measure of…access to them. Or control, most likely.”

“That’s how they must’ve got out,” Hermione whispers. Narcissa’s frown deepens. “Draco said something about failsafes, in the wards. That they are triggered if one of you gets hurt.”

“Yes, there are several. They’re all meant to protect the family and the house, but—” Narcissa shakes her head. “It wouldn’t have been triggered. The failsafes are for much more dreadful situations. They made me slice my own wrists. The wards, sentient as they might be, wouldn’t have recognised the Imperius.”

Hermione bites her tongue. It feels like something is missing. “But why not make you tear the wards down, at that point?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to,” Narcissa says clinically. “The wards are in part still tied to Lucius. Not even Draco would’ve been able to, even if the tie he has to the wards is stronger than mine.”

“Stronger?”

“I am a Malfoy only through the marital bond, and though the Malfoy marital bonds are strong, Draco is a Malfoy by blood. He will always have more control over the wards. There are centuries of Malfoy blood behind them.”

“Right,” Hermione says, her thoughts moving faster than she can grasp them. “But how did the Aurors get there, then? How would they have known you were—”

“They called them.”

Hermione’s heart skips a beat. “What?”

“They called them. The people that—they called an Auror. They made me let him past the wards, made me give him access to them, too. He worked with them—knew what they were trying to do. He’s the one who”—she gestures down at her wrists, at the bandages—“came up with this idea. He made sure the wounds wouldn’t heal properly, not for a long time.”

“But the others weren’t Aurors.”

Narcissa gives a bitter laugh. “No, they weren’t, Miss Granger.” She turns to look over her shoulder again, at the door, at the Auror on the other side of it. “We cannot trust any Auror now. I haven’t seen him again yet, but if one of them is working with these people, then surely someone else is, too. It must be why they’ve been keeping me here. To keep an eye on me.”

“Or to keep you away from the Manor,” Hermione says. “But why? Why alter the wards, why leave you alive? If they’re the same people that burnt down Nott Manor, that killed the Zabinis and the Rotts, why not kill you, too, if they’re going after Death Eater families? Why bring you here at all, why run that risk?”

“I don’t know, Miss Granger, but if they’ve done so, they must have a reason for it. As you said, it might not be as simple as revenge against Death Eater families. Their… interest in the wards was too specific. The questions they asked about them and the magic and how it’s entwined with the grounds beneath the Manor—no one had ever asked me that before. They made me explain everything, almost as if…” Narcissa trails off, her frown deepening. She looks up at Hermione. “As if they didn’t know how these things work.”

The Daily’s Prophet article of all those weeks ago flashes in Hermione’s mind and with it, an image of a faceless man with a bullet through his head.

“It would make sense, for Muggleborns to be the ones…” she hesitates, then forces the words out. “For them to be behind the attacks.”

“Yes, Draco said something similar,” Narcissa mutters, closing her eyes and pressing the palms of her hands over them. “But…One of the men was young. He—he asked so many questions. Stupid questions, too. Questions a wizard wouldn’t ask. I—” Narcissa’s throat bobs. “I can’t remember if he had a wand or not.”

Hermione swallows. “You think he wasn’t a wizard?”

“Maybe. I—” Narcissa drops her hands, opening her eyes. “I’m not sure. My memories are still…blurry around the edges.”

“It’s normal.” Hermione’s grip is sweaty around her wand, Narcissa’s words sending her thoughts spinning faster and faster. She looks at the clock again. 3:13. Her glamours will disappear at any moment now. “The memories will all come back in the next few hours. I—I will let Draco know what you’ve told me. I’ll help him reach you again. We’ll find a way to get in contact, maybe I can come back—”

“No,” Narcissa rises to her feet, following Hermione’s gaze when it darts to the clock again. “Tell my son what I have told you, but don’t let him risk himself again by trying to get in contact a second time. I will be able to handle myself, now that I know what happened. I have lived through worse situations than this, Miss Granger. You should go.”

Hermione stares at the woman in front of her, taking in the determined set of her features. “Okay,” She gives Narcissa a single, uncertain nod, her jaw clenched tightly. There’s more she wants to say, words and questions accumulating on the tip of her tongue. Her thoughts are tangling into a confused mess and the need to unravel them itches in her throat, but the clock taunts her as the minute hand chips away at her time. Hermione takes a step back. “Okay.”

Narcissa hums, eyes falling back to Hermione’s neck, to the necklace Hermione knows she can see. Magic begins to tingle at the back of her neck again. Her every nerve feels frayed, exposed, and Hermione knows she must leave.

She turns away from Narcissa, heading for the door. The handle is cool beneath her hand when Narcissa says, “Thank you, Miss Granger. Give my love to Draco when you see him, will you?”

Draco’s ring burns a hole through Hermione’s chest. Hermione doesn’t turn around. “I will.”

The door opens with a gentle click, and Hermione steps out.


Her apartment is cold when Hermione Apparates back in her living room.

Her hands tremble violently, and her wand clatters to the floor as Hermione begins stripping off her clothes. She stumbles into her shower half-dazed, her body sticky with sweat. Her glamours had vanished too soon, leaving her scrambling to find a way out of the hospital without being noticed. It had been by pure chance that she hadn’t encountered anyone on her way out one of the side entrances, and Hermione had thanked her lucky stars as she Apparated away in a hurry.

The adrenaline drains from her slowly, leaving her floating, with only the coldness of the water to ground her. Sensation trickles back into her body bit by bit. Her fingers stop shaking, her heartbeat returning to a normal pace as she forces her breathing into a controlled rhythm of inhale-exhale. Hermione stays under the shower until her legs feel solid enough to carry her weight, turning the water off only when her thoughts finally slow their racing.

Her hair drips down her back as she pads to her bedroom, leaving damp footsteps on the floor. She dries herself, then slips Draco’s Slytherin sweater over her head. The sleeves are too long, and Hermione curls her fingers over the hem as she crawls into her bed, replaying Narcissa’s words over and over in her head, trying to unravel her thoughts, to fit all the pieces together and turn the blurry picture in her mind into something more cohesive, something that makes more sense.

Hermione doesn’t know when her eyes flutter closed, but she blinks them open when a warm thread of magic pulses inside her, humming gently. Hermione reaches for it as unconsciousness tries stealing her away again. The magic thrums behind her ribs, satisfied, and a thought whispers to her that it must be the Blood Vow, that the magic that connects her to Draco must be content that she hasn’t forgotten her end of the deal.

Hermione’s fingers reach across her bed, searching, as the pulse of magic vanishes. Sleep takes her again, and Hermione dreams of a dark forest, and of a silver thread guiding her way.


 

Notes:

update 03 October 2024:
Hi! Chapters will begin posting again in early December! Thank you for your patience!

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hi all!! so, big (kinda sad) news. this will be the last chapter for a while. I'm putting OSD on hiatus until I have the whole story written down.

this wasn't an easy decision for me to make and I have to thank my betas for helping me feel comfortable with it. I truly thought I could keep posting chapters as I write them, but the pressure of doing so has been getting to me, and it has left me creatively unsatisfied and a bit stressed. I was struggling with writing and wasn't feeling proud of what I was creating. I want to honour the vision I have for this story, so I'll be writing it, but I'll only start posting again when I've got it all written down, mainly because I feel it will allow me to write a better story (both for myself and for you). I promise that I am not abandoning this sweet child of mine <3 and hey, at least once it's done, you'll basically be able to binge it all as I'll most likely post the chapters back to back, rather than have you guys wait a week or more for them! anyways, I already feel a lot better just by having accepted that this is the way it's going to go, and I hope that will reflect in my future writing.

i do, though, want to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart. i feel that if I hadn't started posting this story the way I have, it would've remained a draft on my laptop for a long while. knowing that there are people out there who like this story and resonate with the characters means more to me than I will ever be able to explain, and it has been a major driver for me to keep this story going. I hope you will like the rest when it comes <3 thank you sososo much <3 <3

until next time!! (which will hopefully be sooner than you think) <3

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[wonderful art by the lovely jitterywisp, who i also get to call a friend!!! you can find them on tumblr!]

Chapter 21

Summary:

hi! this chapter is just a treat! i'm alive and writing but i've been missing posting and sharing this story and although I'll begin regularly posting again in a couple of months, tonight I just felt like sharing this, because why not. i hope you enjoy it, and see you soon!! xx

Notes:

please excuse any mistakes, it's late and i have reread this, lol. <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

On January 2nd, 1999, Hermione stumbles out of the Floo in The Three Broomsticks feeling restless and hungover.

The trek from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts is a silent one, her boots crunching softly over the thin layer of snow that blankets the cobbled street. Her fingers are frozen by the time she walks up the main entrance steps, reddened and burning from the cold where they rest, curled around the straps of her bag. Hogwarts is emptied of its usual life, the Great Hall deserted as Hermione passes by it, peeking inside only to be met by empty tables and heavy, white clouds high up on the ceiling.

It’s sometime early in the morning, when the world still tends to be asleep. She hears the Clock Tower strike the half-hour as she crosses the deserted halls, her steps loud as they echo against the walls. Some of the portraits mumble as she passes them, cracking an eye open before ignoring her again, and Hermione is overcome for a second by the same burning excitement that had taken over her the first time she walked these halls, the one that had made her heart beat furiously in her chest as she took it all in, this world that promised to offer her more than she could’ve ever imagined.

The Grand Staircase is still when she reaches it, quiet and immobile as it so rarely is. Just like when she was eleven, her pulse thrums faster, but the excitement is bittersweet now, and it isn’t innocent enthusiasm that makes her swallow as she gazes up at the stairs.

The day after her visit to St. Mungo’s, Hermione woke up with a pressing restlessness roiling under her skin like a snake, coiling around her heart and urging her to move. She had lacked the energy to follow its urging, the first few days, too drained by her mourning and the guilty anger that pulsed avidly inside her, whispering that though she had succeeded in recovering Narcissa’s memories, she had failed when it had been most important. But as the memory of Narcissa’s blue eyes faded, the restlessness increased, turning wicked and demanding, pressing her to go, to come back here, to this place, to him. The fluttering between her ribs had felt more like a storm than anything else, stealing all her oxygen. It’s painful, now, as Hermione stares at the steps that loom in front of her, because she knows what it is, what it means, and she is as scared and angry at it as she is lost to it, to the way she craves his arms wrapped around her, his heartbeat loud underneath her cheek.

Hermione swallows, tightening her fingers around the strap of her bag as her eyes are drawn downwards, to where the stairs disappear into the inviting darkness of the dungeons. Her breath hitches, muscles straining to follow the pull of that restlessness.

“Well,” a voice says, breaking Hermione out of her thoughts. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Hermione turns around as Pansy saunters up to her, lips pulled up into a smirk as she brings a cigarette to her mouth, inhaling. A long black satin skirt flutters around her ankles as she walks slowly towards Hermione, her sharp eyes roaming Hermione’s body with disgusted curiosity. Pansy exhales, the scent of tobacco and something pungent rising up Hermione’s nose. Pansy crosses her arms over her grey sweater before taking another puff from the cigarette.

“What are you doing here, Granger? The holidays aren’t over yet. Shouldn’t you be with your family?”

Hermione stays quiet, feeling a muscle twitch in her jaw. Pansy stares back, unbothered, before cocking a dark eyebrow at her. She flicks out her hand, the trail of smoke from her cigarette curling in the air between them. “Surely, you have better ways to spend your time than here. Don’t you and Potter and the Weasel spend all your time together?”

The way she says Potter and Weasel makes Hermione bristle, a scowl pulling at her features.

“We don’t,” Hermione says, and Pansy hums, cocking her head to the side.

“Right,” she takes another drag from her cigarette, exhaling through her nostrils. “You’ve been too busy with Draco to care much about them, haven’t you?”

Hermione straightens, clenching her teeth, Pansy’s words shooting like an arrow straight to where Hermione is soft and tender.

“What do you care?” she snaps, then bites her tongue, cursing herself.

Pansy raises her eyebrows, blinking her eyes in mock confusion. “Oh, darling, I don’t.” Another puff, and her lips curl into a smirk around her cigarette. “It’s just amusing to see how much Draco has you wrapped around his finger.” Another smoky exhale. Pansy’s eyes glint. “Pathetic, really.”

Hermione narrows her eyes. Pansy’s expression remains a blend of mocking disinterest, but she notices the dark circles beneath her dark eyes, the tightness at the corner of her mouth as she takes one last puff of her cigarette before letting it drop from her fingers, crushing the bum beneath the tip of her shoe.

They stare at each other for a long moment, at a stalemate, until Pansy asks, “Did you go to St. Mungo’s?”

Hermione’s fingers tighten over the rough fabric of her bag’s straps. She nods, and a flash of surprise crosses Pansy’s face before she narrows her eyes into slits.

“When?” Pansy snaps, and Hermione bristles again, annoyed at her sharp tone.

“A couple of days ago,” she says drily.

“And you waited so long to come tell us?” Pansy hisses.

Hermione glares at her. “I did Draco a favour,” she snaps. “I don’t owe you anything. I could’ve waited until term to come back.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Pansy takes a step closer to her, glaring right back. Hermione would be impressed by the viciousness of her stare, if only she didn’t dislike Pansy quite so much. “You should’ve come back right away, instead of making us wait in the dark and wonder if you’d even gone through with it at all.”

Hermione feels her lips curl into an ugly twist. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“How did it go?” Pansy demands. “What did Narcissa tell you?”

“You can find out when I tell Draco.”

Pansy takes another step closer, her eyes darkening. “What did Narcissa—”

“I am not, ” Hermione hisses, stressing the word, “telling you what Draco’s mother told me without having told him, first.”

Oh, you and your stupid sense of propriety,” Pansy rolls her eyes. “As if he gives a shit about that.”

“Well, I give a shit about it,” Hermione says, and Pansy scoffs. “Narcissa is doing well, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

Pansy ignores her words, looking down her nose at Hermione as if she’s incredibly stupid, then clicks her tongue.

Hermione turns around, following Pansy with her gaze as she makes her way down the stairs, looking over her shoulder with an annoyed glare when she reaches the first landing.

“Move, Granger. Draco should already be awake.”

Hermione curses her under her breath, and follows her down.


The Slytherin Dorm is quiet when Hermione and Pansy get there. Their unsynchronised steps fill the quiet as they make their way down the corridor that leads to the Common Room. The hearths are blazing, the flames the only source of light in the still-darkened room. The sun had only begun rising when Hermione arrived, and as far below as they are, its weak rays don’t breach through the waters of the Black Lake, leaving the dorm feeling as cold as the marble it’s made of.

“Granger,” someone says, and Hermione’s eyes are pulled towards Nott. A table has been dragged in front of the largest hearth, a chess board with scattered pieces resting upon it. Nott sits on one side, hands curled around a black mug of tea, his hair a mess to rival Harry’s. His Slytherin sweater looks too big on him, identical to the one Hermione has stashed at the bottom of her bag.

Nott takes a sip of his tea, looking between her and Pansy as the other girl flops down on a chaise, sighing loudly.

“You still haven’t gotten used to our dorm, have you?” Nott says, running a hand through his hair. He takes an overly loud sip of his tea. “If it makes you feel better, you really don’t fit in here.”

Hermione walks towards the couch closest to the Slytherins, letting her bag drop to the floor by her feet as she sits. “It doesn’t.”

“Oh, well,” Nott says, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. “Too bad.”

Hermione looks around the dorm, taking in the absence of Christmas decorations. The only thing that speaks of the recently passed Holiday is a vase of blood-red poinsettias on one of the glass tables.

“You went all out for the Christmas decorations, I see,” she says, raising an eyebrow at Nott as she takes off the scarf Neville gifted her, the purple pooling on the black couch next to her.

“Christmas is overrated,” Nott says, setting down his mug. He fiddles with a white pawn. “I’m sure you don’t agree.”

Hermione hums noncommitally, because she doesn’t want to think of Christmas, but Nott turns towards her again.

“Did you not have a nice Christmas, Granger?” he asks, eyes piercing through her. Hermione looks at Pansy, lying on the chaise with her eyes closed, her fingers twirling a strand of black hair.

“I’ve had better,” she says, taking off her coat and leaning back, trying to ease some of the tension in her body. Her eyes want to dart over her shoulder, to the hallway that she knows leads to Draco’s room, but she returns her eyes to Nott. “I’ve also had worse.”

“Haven’t we all,” a voice drawls, and Hermione’s heart skips when she hears it. Her eyes flit away from Nott instinctually, rushing to settle on Draco. When he enters her frame of vision her pulse is so loud in her ears that it deafens all other sounds for a second.

Draco’s gaze is searing when it meets hers, his eyes sharp and dark. Part of his hair is tied back, loose strands framing his face, his high cheekbones; and a lump forms in Hermione’s throat. His expression is stoic as he takes her in, his porcelain features impassive but for his eyes.

“Granger,” he says, and the way her name rolls off his tongue makes Hermione shiver, her pulse retreating from her ears to leave space for his voice.

Draco walks next to her, black joggers and black sweater making him look even paler in the soft light of the flames. He pulls his eyes away from hers in a disinterested motion, as if her presence is of no consequence, and it makes her heart beat quicker. He walks towards Nott and her eyes fall to a book in Draco’s hands, a small, black and battered paperback.

“Draco,” she says, watching as the hand he lifts to pass Nott the book stills for a second, hovering in mid-air, before he sets the book into Nott’s awaiting hand.

Draco doesn’t say anything as he sits down on the chair opposite Nott’s. His eyes linger on Nott for a moment, an unspoken conversation passing between the two, before they return to her. The heat in his gaze burns through her, causing that thing behind her ribs to tremble violently, the restlessness that had brought her here lamenting the distance that still exists between them.

A muscle flexes in the side of Draco’s jaw, and Hermione swallows, her throat dry. Draco’s eyes follow the motion as he leans back in his chair, fingers reaching out to play with a black piece on the chessboard.

“So,” Pansy’s voice drags Hermione’s eyes away from Draco. Pansy raises a mocking eyebrow at her. “You can start talking, now.”


“The memory restoration worked. The obliviation went quite deep, but she seemed alright. Only some of the memories came back right away, but that was to be expected.” The mug Nott conjured for her is warm between her hands, minty steam rising up to greet her. Hermione’s teeth sink into her bottom lip, before she lets it go with an exhale. She keeps her eyes on Draco. “It was an Auror that obliviated her.”

Draco’s jaw clenches tightly, his grip on the chess piece turning his knuckles white.

Hermione sighs, curling one leg beneath herself.

She tells them everything Narcissa had told her – about the attackers, about the Imperius, about what they had made Narcissa do to the wards. She tells them that Narcissa doesn’t know how they got past the wards; tells them of the Auror the attackers had called, how he’s the one behind the scars on her wrists, the memory charm, and the one who most likely spun the tale of her attempted suicide. Hermione also tells them of the questions Narcissa had been asked, and of Narcissa’s suspicion that one of the attackers might have not even been a wizard.

As she speaks, her eyes bounce between the three Slytherins, and she catches the emotions as they flit over their faces. Nott stands at a certain point, pacing in front of the hearth as he rubs his fingers over his mouth. Pansy’s expression darkens, hands fisting in her skirt until she takes out a sleek metal case, lighting another cigarette with a flick of her wand and filling the room with the soft scent of smoke.

Draco, through it all, remains impassable. There’s nothing left in him of the sixteen-year-old boy that had given away so much with his fidgeting, with the distasteful curl of his mouth. But Hermione now knows him well enough to see the anger as it grows behind his silver eyes; feels it in the way his stare never strays from her. It leaves her reeling, the knowledge that she has learnt his tells, that she can peer below his stony facade. It feels exhilarating, giddy excitement swirling beneath the worry that the conversation brings. It’s wrong, she knows, but she can’t help the feeling.

“The spell, to modify the wards,” Nott scrubs a hand over his brow, looking at Draco. “It must’ve taken hours. They kept her under the Imperius for hours, maybe even a day.”

“She didn’t—it didn’t seem like it might’ve taken that long,” Hermione says, teeth having forgone her lip to nibble at the side of her thumb. Her stomach feels tight as her nails scratch lightly against the ceramic mug. “But memory charms can alter the concept of time passed. Her memories were still coming back when I had to leave, so we don’t know how long it all took.” She hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking towards Draco. “It could’ve been days.”

“Can they control the Manor wards, now? Come and go as they please?” Pansy says, before taking a pull of her cigarette, the end turning a bright orange.

“Most likely,” Draco says, a tight edge to his voice, not taking his eyes off her. “There are ways to grant people outside of the family independent access to the Manor. Snape could come and go as he pleased, for example. So did Bellatrix. But they can’t control the wards per se. They can’t modify them or tear them down.”

“Only your father can do that,” Hermione says, remembering Narcissa’s words.

Draco’s throat bobs. “Yes. But would they even want to do that?”

“What do you mean?” Nott asks, and Draco raises his eyes to him, leaving Hermione bereft.

“Why make my Mother alter the wards if they wanted to tear them down?”

Pansy clicks her tongue. “Why do even that if they already had a way to cross the wards in the first place? They managed to get in.”

“Maybe they needed it to get out?” Hermione says, then furrows her brows, looking at Draco. “But Narcissa said the failsafe wasn’t triggered. So they might’ve been able to get out the same way they got in.”

“They might have assumed the failsafe had been triggered,” Nott says, pacing again.

Draco brings his eyes back to Hermione, and they stay quiet for a while, thinking. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “My Mother thinks they’re Muggleborn?”

Hermione blinks.

She thinks it might be the first time she’s heard him say the word.

She clears her throat, setting the mug down by her feet. There’s a tremor in her hands. “That’s what I gathered. It seemed to me like she felt that the things they made her explain would’ve been obvious, at least to someone brought up in Wizarding society.” She sighs, “Though I would argue that even some Purebloods might not know how the magic that goes into the wards can affect the object they’re warding, or the earth around it.”

“Of course you would,” Pansy mutters.

Hermione ignores her, continuing, “But still, Narcissa did say that she couldn’t remember if they all had wands.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “She thinks they might have been Muggles?”

“There are many reasons why a wizard might not have a wand,” Nott dismisses the thought, waving a hand. “If they’re criminals, for starters. Would the Manor Wards have let a Muggle through in any case?”

Draco looks at Nott, his gaze flicking towards Hermione for a second before he says, “Theoretically, if someone were to bring them in. Voldemort made my Father remove the anti-Muggle charms, but the Wards were all fucked up when he was there. The Ministry allowed my Mother to restore them when they moved her back to the Manor, but,” Draco exhales, letting go of the chess piece, which clatters loudly against the marble board, knocking down a pawn. “I am not sure whether she replaced them or not. They didn’t let me help her.”

Hermione doesn’t have to ask why Voldemort removed the anti-Muggle spells. Her stomach clenches uncomfortably, anxiety nesting there.

“I don’t think Muggles are the issue here,” Pansy says, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I think the issue is whether your Mother will be going back to Manor or not.”

“She can’t go back,” Draco says, voice hard. “It would be too dangerous for her. She can’t.”

“She doesn’t have a wand, either,” Hermione interjects. “But if there are Aurors working with these people…They can’t keep her at St. Mungo’s indefinitely. Her wounds aren’t life-threatening enough.”

“A Reformation Centre, then.” Pansy’s cigarette lights up in orange again on her next inhale. “It would makes sense, too. Now that they’ve classed her as a nutjob because of her suicide.”

Hermione looks at Draco, finding him staring intently at her. She looks away.

“If they put her in a Centre they can keep an eye on her,” Hermione says, following Pansy’s train of thought.

“The Reformation—” Draco starts, but Nott whirls around, turning towards Hermione, interrupting Draco.

“Who took Narcissa’s wand?”

Hermione takes in Nott’s furrowed brows, the tightness of his jaw. “The people who attacked her,” she replies, and Nott bites the inside of his cheek.

“Why are they taking their wands?” he asks, more to himself than anything else.

“What?” Draco asks, and Hermione feels her brows knit in confusion.

“The wands,” Nott says, looking between the three of them. “In Germany. After they…after the murders. The Prophet said they didn’t find wands at the scene.”

Hermione thinks back, recalling that day in the Great Hall, the black and white picture of Merissa and Blaise. “You’re right,” she says, remembering the article. “The wands were gone.”

“The wands were gone,” Nott repeats. “If some of the – the attackers don’t have wands, they might be taking the wands for them.”

“That is assuming they’re the same people,” Hermione says. “And there are easier ways to find wands.”

“Are they not?” Draco retorts, raising his eyebrows. “Of course they’re the same people, Granger.”

“But what does having murdered—” Pansy huffs, taking one last drag of her cigarette before vanishing it. “What does what happened in Germany have to do with what they’re doing to the Manors? The only common denominator is that our families were all in some way tied to the Dark Lord. But if they want revenge, why not go straight for the kill when they could? Why not attack a Reformation Centre?” Pansy laughs humourlessly. “All the people that were loyal to Him are being kept together in those facilities.”

“It would be an easy target,” Hermione murmurs, looking back towards Draco. “Which is why you don’t want Narcissa to be sent there.”

Draco stares at her for a moment before giving her a nod.

“It’s Nott Manor that doesn’t fit,” Pansy continues, jerking her chin towards Nott. “Why do that? Why burn it down?”

“There’s the gun thing, too,” Hermione supplies. “If some of the attackers are Muggles, that would explain it.”

“It could be Muggleborns, too,” Nott interjects. “And wizards, in all honesty. It is only…” he waves a dismissive hand towards her. “Tradition that keeps wizards sticking with their wands. And efficiency.”

Hermione swallows, the anxiety in her stomach coiling tighter. She had wondered, late in the night of some of the worst days, why guns had never been used in the War. She had been glad for it – had trembled at the thought of what it all might’ve been like had either side used Muggle weapons, too; how much more blood might’ve been spilt. But still, she had wondered – had imagined holding her wand in one hand and cold metal in the other, had imagined the sound a gun might make, had wondered if pulling a trigger might be easier, quieter, than speaking the Avada; or just as loud.

Hermione raises her eyes from where she had dropped them to her hands, finding Nott’s, then Draco’s.

Her breath hitches.

He knows, she thinks, feeling her pulse hammer in the hollow of her throat. He knows, he can see, he can tell I’ve wondered if a gun might’ve made it easier.

“Voldemort found guns barbaric,” Draco says, looking at her. “That’s why he didn’t want us to use them.”

Us.

Us.

Hermione can’t look away from him.

“He said magic tasted sweeter on your tongue than gunpowder.” Draco’s voice curls around her, even though it shouldn’t, even when what they’re talking about should make her feel sick; but it wraps around her anyway. Hermione’s eyes fall to Draco’s mouth, and she thinks it’s wrong, thinks about his Mark, thinks about all the reasons why her heart shouldn’t stutter but it does – and she knows now what it is, what that restlessness is, that fluttering, that urge to close the space between them – and still Draco is looking at her, and his eyes are dark and his lips part slightly and it is wrong, to think about it now, but Hermione can still hear how the word sweeter sounds in his accent, and she thinks of sweetheart, and wonders if he will ever call her that again.

“I’ve had enough,” Pansy says, and it’s like something snaps, like the thread that was pulling Hermione towards Draco is cut in two, leaving her recoiling. “I don’t want to think about this anymore. I’m going to bed.”

Pansy stands, walking to the hearth and throwing her cigarette in the flames. Then she turns, not bothering with more words, before she disappears up the stairs and to her room.

Hermione is left staring after Pansy, her heart beating too fast, anxiety and something hotter swirling in her stomach, too many questions pounding against her skull. She drags her eyes away only when she hears the screech of a chair being pushed back.

Draco stands, pushing away from the table, silvers eyes locked on her. Hermione takes him in, a strand of pale hair falling from where he’d tucked it behind his ear. The soft cut of his clothes makes him look gentler, somehow, but the blackness of them steals that away, the black so stark against his alabaster skin, making her head spin.

Black suits him, she thinks, and then she recalls the black of his Mark, and the chain around her neck burns over the quick beating of her heart.

Draco stops when he reaches her, and Hermione wants to reach out and touch, and grasp, and claw and caress and maim for all the unwanted things he makes her feel, but she remains still, curled on the couch, her boots dirtying the leather.

Draco leans down, grabbing her bag. He doesn’t say anything, and Hermione doesn’t either when his fingers slide through hers and he pulls her up from the couch. She follows willingly, her eyes on their interlocked hands. She shivers when his thumb brushes over her knuckles, and heat coils in her belly now, displacing the anxiety, burning when he doesn’t turn around to look at her, guiding her as if he knows she is his to drag along.

When they reach his room, still divided by that wall, he pulls her inside, dropping her bag at the corner of his bed. Then he sits on the edge of the mattress, his fingers slipping from hers, and Hermione’s breaths are shallow, silently frantic. Draco looks up at her, and his eyes are so bright, so intense that her head spins again, fingers twitching to trace the cut of his cheekbone and the curve of his mouth. Hermione stands in front of him, trying to hold the frightening tension in her body at bay, the silence between them swelling until Draco’s hands rise to her hips and he pulls her down, her knees hitting the mattress on either side of his thighs.

Hermione settles on his lap and Draco pulls her closer, his eyes sweeping over her face, her hair, her throat; as if he is cataloguing her anew. Hermione wonders what he sees when he looks at her, wonders if she is still pathetic, still a coward, still a useless thing; or if she’s more, now, as he said she could be. Draco’s arms wrap around her waist, pulling her close, slotting their bodies together until there is no space, no distance. One hand slides higher and into her hair, curling around the nape of her neck, beneath her curls.

His fingers are cold, but the heat in his eyes warms her when his thumb strokes the side of her throat, stilling when it meets the metal of her necklace. His necklace. Theirs.

Hermione loses the fight with her body and her hands rise, cupping the sides of his face, fingers plunging in his soft hair, the silky strands sliding over her skin like water. She gives in to the urge to touch, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones, his porcelain skin unmarred, and Draco pulls her forward, their foreheads pressing together.

She shivers.

Draco does, too.

Hermione is sure Draco must hear the furious beating of her heart, must feel it thrum beneath his fingers. She wants to drag him closer, wants to merge their bodies together and kiss him until she cannot stand it anymore; but there is a tension in Draco’s body that halts her, that makes her keep her eyes open when his flutter shut, when he takes a deep inhale and his arms tighten around her, almost to the point of pain.

Draco exhales, his breath brushing against her lips, and it is shaky, rough. He inhales again, breathing her in, his nails leaving crescent-shaped marks on her skin, but she doesn’t move away. His eyes flutter open, so dark and bright at the same time that Hermione could never be able to describe them, words insufficient to portray the way they make her feel, the way she feels seen when he looks at her like this. It is uncomfortable, and scary, and addicting, and Hermione doesn’t want to crave it, but fuck, she does. She does.

She brushes her thumb beneath his eyes, over the thin skin there, feeling his lashes flutter against the pad of her finger.

Draco’s shoulders hunch, bending towards her, but he flinches, just enough for Hermione to notice. He makes a low sound in his throat, and Hermione has the passing thought that maybe gentle touches are unknown to him, that maybe they’re unknown to her, too; that they constitute unfamiliar territory that the thing in her chest wants to chart, wants to learn — but then Draco surges forward, kissing her, and there is nothing gentle about it, nothing tender, and she thinks this is what they know, these are the waters that they can safely tread.

He groans when their lips touch, a desperate sort of sound that jolts through Hermione in a harsh dissonance, making her tremble. Draco’s lips are cold, demanding as they press against hers. The hand around her nape slides to her curls, fisting, pulling, urging her closer and Hermione goes, kissing him, gasping when his teeth sink into her lower lip.

She knows they need to talk, knows there are still things she needs to tell him, but everything in her brain quiets as he kisses her urgently, her need for him pushing everything else away.

Hermione’s hands are angry when they pull at his hair, when Draco’s tongue slips into her mouth and they both groan, tasting each other. Hermione’s heart pounds, and there’s a knot of emotion unravelling behind her belly button, spooling through her, threading through every point where their bodies touch.

“Draco,” she says, syllables whispered across his lips, her hands sliding through the collar of his sweater, nails leaving red lines over the scars on his back.

Draco exhales, and then the world tilts, leaving her breathless. Her back hits the mattress as Draco settles his weight over her, pressing into her, their hips slotted together. He grinds down and Hermione gasps, her eyes flying open at the feel of him between her thighs, where she wants him, needs him. Draco looks down at her, his eyes narrowed, incensed, and Hermione doesn’t understand his anger but she kisses him again anyway, dragging him down, his lips against hers a relief from the restlessness.

Draco rolls his hips and Hermione arches into him, searching for pressure, for friction. His hand is still in her hair as he pulls their lips apart, bending her neck until he can press a kiss to her jaw, beneath her ear, then down, a swipe of his tongue over her pulse leaving her reeling, blinking at the ceiling, clutching him closer to her.

Draco nips at the bend of her shoulder, then pulls down her sweater, stretching the fabric until she feels his tongue along her collarbone, trailing to the hollow of her throat.

“How can you taste better than how I remembered?” he whispers against her skin, his hips pressing her into the mattress, his cock hard as it slides against her centre over the fabrics separating them.

“How?” His teeth scrape over her skin. “I hate you.”

Hermione gasps when his lips brush over the silver chain, when he turns it wet with a kiss before his teeth sink into her skin. She groans, pulling sharply at his hair. Draco hisses, lifting from her neck, and Hermione kisses him again, tongues fighting, teeth biting.

Draco’s hand slides under her clothes then, over her stomach, finding her breast, and it’s a frantic removal of clothes after that; hands clawing and scratching, grunts as they fight against the laces of her boots and the zipper of her jeans.

They end up settled opposite to how they were, Draco under her, his body a beautiful splash of scarred white against his dark sheets. Her breathing is erratic, her hands clawed in his pectorals as he looks up at her, the bridge of his nose flushed, his lips bite-swollen and red.

His ring swings from her neck between them, a pendulum keeping a silent beat, but Draco’s eyes never waver from hers as Hermione lifts, wrapping her fingers around his cock. She’s already wet and he is already hard, the tip leaking as she slides it over her cunt, notching him at her entrance.

They both groan when Hermione slides down, the stretch of him burning, setting her afire. Her breath hitches when her hips settle against his again. He fills her to the brim, to the point of bursting, to the point where Hermione is sure her skin won’t be able to contain the maelstrom inside of her. Her heart rabbits against her ribs as Draco looks at her in a way she can’t decipher. She feels his heart beating beneath her hand, a quick thu-thump against her palm that fades away as his hands slide up her thighs and to her hips.

Hermione moves then, slow gyrations of her hips that make Draco’s breath catch, that turn her pants heavier. Her movements are quick to pick up their pace, the slide of him inside her a feeling Hermione never wants to lose, never wants to give up. His hands are everywhere, on her hips, her waist, over her stomach and clenching on her thighs. His eyes follow his fingers greedily as they trail to her chest, her throat, his palm pressed against her sternum. Hermione looks him in the eyes as she rides him, that heat in her belly devouring her, burning hotter every time she presses against his pelvis, or when his hands trace the lines of her body.

Hermione learns of Draco’s shattering resolve from the way his breaths turn deeper, low groans slipping from his lips as his hands guide her to move as he pleases, sweat trailing down her spine, the small of her back, the valley between her breasts. His hips move to meet hers, his hold turning brutal, a glint of something wild in his eyes.

Draco flips them and Hermione gasps as the cool sheets hit her back, as he blankets her with his weight again. Her hands find his hair of their own volition as she kisses him, pressing her chest against his, wishing frantically she could get beneath his skin, as close as two bodies can get.

She whimpers against his mouth when he slides out just to thrust roughly into her again, putting all his strength behind the move. One of his hands finds her leg, dislodging it from his waist to push her knee close to her chest, her calf resting on his shoulder.

“Hermione,” Draco groans as his hips smack against hers, the sound of skin sliding on skin filling the room. Hermione kisses him again, swallowing her name from his lips, pulling him closer to her.

“I missed you,” she gasps against his lips, eyes shutting tight as Draco fills her again and again, her legs trembling, pleasure sparking with the rhythm of his thrusts.

Draco groans, low and rough, kissing her again before ripping himself away.

“Don’t say things like that,” he says, and Hermione whines at the loss, opening her eyes.

Draco sits back on his haunches, his cock red and slick with her, bobbing against his stomach. He pulls her leg off his shoulder before dragging her closer to him. Draco moves her with an ease that makes her throb, wrapping his hands around her waist and lifting her up and into his lap again. Hermione’s knees hit the mattress again and they are so close, every inch of their chests pressed together as his arms wrap around her waist, holding her close, his cock trapped between their navels.

“You shouldn’t miss me,” Draco says, staring at her as Hermione burrows one hand between them, placing his cock back where she wants it. She slides down on his length again and they pant against each other’s mouths. “You shouldn’t like me.”

One of her hands finds the nape of his neck while the other falls behind her, her back arching. Draco’s eyes fall to her chest. “I don’t like you,” she lies, rolling her hips.

Draco’s eyes rise to hers. Hermione fingers clench in the sheets.

“Don’t lie to me,” he drawls, pulling her down hard on his cock. She hisses a breath through her teeth.

“It’s not a lie,” she says, as she finds the perfect rhythm, her body sliding against his. “I hate you.”

Draco’s lips find her neck, trailing down to her shoulder, leaving marks. “You hate me but you missed me?” he asks, as Hermione’s breath shortens. She doesn’t answer, chasing pleasure with every move of her hips as one of his hands falls to her ass, urging her faster.

Draco breathes a laugh against her neck. Hermione feels as if the sound spears through her, and she clenches down around him, movements quickening.

“So we both hate each other,” Draco says, lifting from her neck. The dark look in his eyes makes her heart jump. He smirks. “Then hate me properly and come on my cock, sweetheart.”

Hermione slides her hand into his hair, fisting it, smashing their lips together as she rides him faster, chasing the friction of his navel against her clit with every roll of her hips. Draco holds her steady, hands splayed across her back, his lips greedy and unkind. Hermione sinks her teeth into his lower lip, relishing the hissing laughter she draws out of him, angry and turned on and too confused by the emotions that riot in her chest.

The heat in her belly grows until it overcomes her all at once, her eyes snapping open, locking on Draco’s as she comes, gasping against his mouth.

“That’s it,” Draco groans, hugging her to him. “Come for me.”

Hermione’s lashes flutter, her grip on his hair turning desperate as her orgasm crests, leaving her breathless, hips pressed snugly against him, walls clenching down on his cock, hard and throbbing inside her.

Fuck,” Draco says, strangled. “How can you be this fucking tight?”

His hands fall to her hips, urging her back into motion. Hermione fucks him, trembling, everything oversensitive and slippery – her cunt, the sweat between their bodies, their mouths.

Draco’s breaths turn shallow as she moves, the fit tight, slick, his cock filling her up. Hermione’s pants fill the room as Draco’s hands grip her hips, his gaze bouncing between Hermione’s eyes, her lips, and her breasts until he stills her, groaning, one hand splaying wide across the arch of her lower back as he comes.

Hermione doesn’t break eye contact as she feels him throbbing inside her, his come filling her up. She moves her hips in tiny rolls, slowing down, luxuriating for a second in the feel of being so entwined, as close to him as she thinks she’s ever going to be – enough, just for a moment, though she fears her greed for more.

She halts her motions only when Draco groans low, forehead dropping against her sternum, his eyes falling shut. Hermione’s heart thrums against her chest, each beat sending tremors through her. She lets go of the sheets, wrapping her arm around his neck and clutching him to her, a swell of emotion she doesn’t want to feel rising and settling at the back of her throat.

They stay like that for a long moment, the sweat on their bodies cooling. Goosebumps rise where Draco’s breath brushes against her skin, and her fingers play with his hair, now loose and messy, the tie he had kept it in lost somewhere between the sheets, together with what Hermione thought she knew about herself, about them, about him.

Draco's lips brush against her collarbone in a lightweight kiss, once, twice; and Hermione squeezes her eyes tightly as her centre of gravity shifts again, guided somewhere new by Draco’s hands on her waist. He lays her back down on the sheets, his cock, now soft, slipping out of her. The dark silk is cool against her back but Draco’s body is warm as he wraps himself around her, their legs tangled together, her thigh between his, her head on his shoulder. Draco’s hand trails up and down her back, fingers skipping over the knobs of her spine until they tangle in her hair, the weight of his hand at the nape of her neck comforting. The emotion at the back of her throat swells, choking her, and she blinks her eyes open, drying the tears that threaten to fall.

Her hand rises, a reflexive motion, fingers trailing over the scars that decorate his chest until they reach his throat. They still, and she stares at her fingers as they hover over the hollow of Draco’s throat, over his pale skin. There is no silver, no necklace for her to play with, and it feels like a loss, somehow, so Hermione simply settles her hand there, feeling Draco’s pulse thrum beneath her fingertips, tracing circles on his pale skin.

Notes:

any and all comments are infinitely appreciated. the amount of times I've gone back to reread some of the comments on older chapters in these past few months is, well, bordering embarrassing. but I'm thankful for each and every one of them. thank you thank you thank you, they mean the world to me. see you soon! xx

Chapter 22

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hogwarts smells like smoke.

It makes her nose itch, makes her eyes well up with tears until they spill over.

She cries as she walks through the ruins.

Everything is silent, perfectly still, except for the flames. They rise, higher and higher and higher.

She stretches on her tiptoes—tries to catch them, falls.

The stairs hurt her ribs. She presses her hand to her side. Blood darkens her dress, but there is no pain, so she stands up.

The rubble hurts her feet. She looks down at them: they’re dirty, muddy, streaked with dust and blood. She wriggles her toes. She doesn’t really feel them.

A scream cuts through the quiet.

Her head snaps up, and she runs towards the noise.

She jumps over broken rocks, over broken wands, over broken bodies.

The screams keep coming. She keeps running.

Then she’s there. She skids to a halt, arms out for balance.

She stares at the girl who reminds her of purple.

Lavender. She always did like her name, and her hair, but her hair is matted now, half blonde, half red.

There’s a man over her.

She stares as awful claws rip through Lavender’s back, ripping fabric and muscle and veins. More blood pools.

She's sobbing now. Everything is blurry, except the girl, and her screams.

Lavender looks at her. She reaches out a hand, as the man keeps clawing, keeps digging, keeps mauling her body. He crouches over her, his nose finding her hair.

Lavender’s hand shakes.

She takes a step back. Her back settles against someone’s chest.

A black gloved hand splays on her belly. A chin hooks over her shoulder.

They watch, entranced.

She's still crying. Dark robes flutter in the corner of her vision, framing the death in black.

“Is she one of them?” they ask, their voice soft over the girl’s screams.

“Yes,” she says, laying her hand over theirs. The leather is cool under her fingertips. She jumps from knuckle to knuckle, amused. “I think I liked her.”

“Did she deserve it?” they ask.

Tears spill from her eyes. Her brows pull tight. “I don’t remember.”

“She wasn’t important, then,” they say, and she settles her temple against their heavy hood. She closes her eyes, nuzzling in the coolness of the mask.

“I don’t remember,” she sighs again. “Maybe she was.”

The girl’s screams begin to quiet. Blood reaches for her feet, slick beneath her toes.

“Please,” she asks, fitting her fingers between their gloved ones.“Will you?”

They turn, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, and as Lavender goes quiet, she begins to scream.


Granger’s eyes open in a single, abrupt move.

Draco brushes his fingers over her cheekbone, tucking a curl behind her ear, following the curve of her neck downwards. For a moment, her pulse thrums beneath his fingertips, then he moves back to the bridge of her nose, starting his journey anew.

Granger stirs silently, releasing a heavy breath. His sheets are a messy pile at the bottom of the bed and as she stretches lazily, Draco stares at her toes, curling and uncurling against the dark silk.

The shirt he’d dressed her in rides high on her thighs as she twists, her curls splayed wildly across his lap as she turns to look up at him, her head on his thigh.

Her hand, which had been tucked beneath her chin, leaves it resting place, lazily fiddling with the hem of his pants.

Draco traces the curve of her nose again, and Granger smiles up at him, sleepy and soft. The shadows under her eyes are dark.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough. He barely slept, and his voice betrays the fact. There had been too many questions in his head for sleep to take him, and Granger had been there, next to him, with her curls and her freckles and her soft scent. He’d stared at her all night, unable to look away.

“Morning,” Granger hums, burrowing against his thigh. Her eyes close as she reaches for the hand Draco threads through her curls, pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

Draco swallows, his chest burning.

“Did you have another nightmare?” he asks, picking a curl and wrapping it around his finger when her hand drops away.

“No,” Granger mumbles, and Draco exhales slowly. She blinks her eyes open again, looking up at him. “Did you sleep?”

“Yes,” he lies, letting go of her curl, following it down as it falls to delve his fingers in her hair again. He has to fight the urge to fist his hand, to pull.

“Are you hungry?” he asks instead, as Granger’s breath brushes against the fine hairs on his thigh.

“Not really,” she says, her index finger trailing along the hem of his pants. “Are you?”

“No.” Draco slips his hand from her hair. He gently lifts her head off his thigh, moving from where he’d been sitting against the headboard to the edge of the bed. The floor is cool beneath his feet as he stands.

Granger stares at him, the last tendrils of sleep slowly fading from her features.

Draco holds out his hand.

“C’mon, get up.”


The air is crisp, and the sky, with its absence of clouds, favours them.

Draco drags Granger towards the Quidditch field, her hand warm in his as their boots crunch the snow beneath their soles.

He has walked this path hundreds of times, in his years at Hogwarts, yet for a moment the view in front of him is brand new, the white pelt of snow glistening and refracting like gold under the lukewarm rays of the sun, Hermione Granger’s fingers entwined with his, the Quidditch field rising like a sleeping giant in front of them.

Draco makes for the shed where the brooms are stored, catching Granger when she slips on a thin sheet of ice, her gasp the sweetest of sounds to his ears. Her fingers grasp onto his hoodie, a weight that pulls him closer to her, satisfying something wild in him.

He turns to look at her, taking in her flushed cheeks, her bright eyes. He cocks an eyebrow and Granger rolls her eyes skywards. For a second all Draco sees is her empty, sad, still sleepy eyes, and he is alight with the knowledge that he—he, only him—can bring brightness back into them, can make her flushed and alive and excited.

He vanishes into the shed until he finds a decent enough broom, the Ravenclaw stem flashing silver on the handle.

“Are you even allowed to ride a broom?” Granger asks him when he exits the shed, broom held tightly in one hand, his wand in the other.

“No,” Draco says, smirking down at her. “Being on probation is quite limiting, Granger.”

“Then why are we doing this?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest, his Slytherin sweater too large on her small figure; but the sight of her in it quells something in him.

“Because I want to,” Draco says, and it’s simple as that—because he wants to, because he does what he wants, now, no matter the consequences, no matter the ifs and the buts.

He flicks his wand, and a warming charm drapes over him and Granger, fitting tightly against his skin beneath his clothes. Granger shivers, her lips parting softly, a blush staining her cheeks—identical to the one that had made her look so pretty that night by the Black Lake, when she had been shaking and too sad to cast the charm herself.

A thought blazes through Draco’s mind—that maybe Granger likes how his magic feels on her skin—and he has to swallow, his grip on his wand tightening.

He wants her to like his magic. Needs her to crave it, to crave him.

Draco pushes his wand into his pocket, swinging his leg over the broom and holding a hand out to Granger.

“Get on,” he says, looking at her.

Granger remains standing, her arms crossed over her chest, eyeing Draco.

“What,” he drawls, letting his hand drop. “Is little Granger scared to fly?”

Granger glares at him, thrilling him.

“Are you scared of heights?” he asks.

“No,” Granger snaps, shifting her weight. “I’m not sure I should trust you on that thing.”

“Scared I’d drop you?” Draco taunts. The sun gilds Granger’s hair, and he feels something bright in his chest.

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Granger says, and Draco laughs, throwing his head back.

When he looks back at Granger, a smile still curling his mouth, her blush is even brighter, her lips a little softer.

“I won’t drop you, Granger,” he says, reaching for her and pulling her closer by her sweater, until she’s pressed against his side. Draco searches her eyes, finding a shadow of what he’s looking for. He cups her jaw, brushing his thumb against her cheek. “You can trust me,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Granger swallows, her body rigid, until she drops her arms to her sides, softening against him.

Draco smiles as she gets on the broom in front of him. It turns into a grin when he kicks off the ground and Granger gasps, sliding towards him as they ascend high above the broom shed, above the Quidditch field, her body tucking perfectly against his. Draco curls over her as her hands find the handle of the broom, holding tightly as he guides them up, far above, where the clouds should be.

The world turns small and quiet around them and he pulls the broom back, taking a sharp turn and speeding, heading towards Hogwarts, the wind cool against his face, fresh over his warming charms. Granger tries and fails to stifle her gasp as they pick up speed, and Draco dives for a second just to hear the trill of her scream as they pass next to the Great Hall, just to hear her loud gasp as he brings them up again, over the grey roofs, flying between the towers.

The wind rushes through his hair, through Granger’s, wild and untamed and whipping against his shoulders as Draco pushes the broom faster, as he snakes between the buildings and circles the Astronomy Tower, reaching higher and higher, chasing an invisible snitch, reaching for it with all his strength.

He slows when they reach the top of the Tower, hovering for a moment in mid-air. He can’t help but look, can’t help but turn his head and stare at the place where Dumbledore had fallen, at the place where everything had gone downhill, at the place where he learnt that the limits of his cowardice stretched farther than he thought. Draco can hear the old man’s words over his harsh breathing, can hear them as if he had heard them mere moments ago, echoing in his mind, escaping from the place deep in himself where he keeps all the things he doesn’t want to think about.

For a moment, Draco is back there, his wand shaking in his hand, his voice breaking with desperation—and he doesn’t want to be, but he is, and he can’t look away, can’t help the memories, descending over him like sleet—but then Granger pushes the broom forward, bearing her weight on her hands, just beneath his on the handle, and the broom dips furiously, gravity pushing Draco’s stomach up his throat.

Draco gasps. The dive Granger has put them into is steep, dangerous, the roofs below coming closer alarmingly fast—and he steers the broom with all his might, groaning as he pulls them up, heading away from Hogwarts, towards the waters of the Black Lake.

The wind beats furiously against Draco’s face, pushing tears into the corners of his eyes as they break past the snow-covered trees, barrelling towards the Lake—and then he hears it.

It’s bright, luminous. His eyes snap to the back of Granger’s head, her wild curls.

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her laugh before.

Granger lets go of the broom, her hands finding his thighs as she leans back against him, her head dropping to his shoulder as she laughs—she laughs—and Draco looks down at her, catching the smile on her face, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. His heart skips a beat, then another, and he doesn’t hear the wind rushing by him—only the loud, carefree sound of Granger’s laughter as it spills from her, her face tilted up towards the sun.

Draco looks away then, his fingers holding onto the broom for dear life as they fly over the Black Lake, and he pushes them to go harder, faster, just to keep on hearing Granger’s laugh. He steers them upwards suddenly, gravity pushing Granger’s body closer to his, her fingers digging in his thighs as her laugh turns into a gasp—only to turn into a laugh again when Draco dives backwards, the world viciously upending and resettling into something that centres around Granger, around her hair wild in the wind, around her hands falling back to the broom, her fingers sneaking just beneath his.

Draco inhales sharply, the cold winter air searing his lungs, stealing away all of his oxygen.

Granger giggles. “Faster!” she says, and Draco huffs a laugh too. “Is this the best you can do, Malfoy?” she shouts, and his laugh is louder this time, plucked from him with a lightness he has not felt in years.

“Damn you, Granger,” he shouts, and then dives again, chasing the thrill, chasing her laugh.


The cold drafts off Granger as she strips, his sweater falling softly to the floor of the Slytherin’s Prefect bathroom.

Draco sets his wand down next to the tub, dipping his fingers into the steaming water, the sting of the heat against his reddened skin familiar and soothing.

He strips, too, stepping into the tub and hissing as more of his body comes in contact with the water, the heat of it slowing the rapid beating of his heart.

Draco settles at one end of the tub, the sun rays filtering through the Lake’s waters, sneaking past the tall window next to the bath and dancing over the soap bubbles he charmed into existence, swishing as he stretches his legs. He leans his head back, arms draped over the rim of the tub, and watches as Granger steps in, hesitating momentarily when her toes touch the water, then stepping fully inside, as if the heat is of no consequence.

Her face is still flushed from the ride, her curls in disarray. Draco stares as goosebumps rise on her skin. There are barely any bruises on her, just the shadows of his fingers around one hip, and they disappear under the water as Granger sits against the opposite edge of the tub, slotting herself between his legs.

She pulls her legs close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and settling her chin over her knees. Her eyes are soft, her expression once again the one Draco has known the longest, the closed-off, assessing one that he’s never liked. His mind superimposes it with an image of her smiling, of her laughter from half an hour ago, but Draco pushes it away, staring silently as Granger sweeps her eyes across his face, as the light he had seen in her irises fades just enough for his desire to push inside her thoughts to rear its head again.

He craves to know what makes her sad. More than he cares to admit, more than he cares to know what makes her smile.

“What?” he drawls. The water laps at the ceramic as he draws up one knee, the air cool against his wet skin. “Don’t you like what you see?”

Granger’s eyes flick to his, unreadable. She lays back against the opposite end, keeping her knees up. The water dances along her collarbones, her curls floating around her shoulders.

Draco’s stomach clenches, and he hates her, how flushed she looks, how soft.

“Are we going to talk about it?” she says, her voice clear in the quiet. There’s a hard edge to it that sends a lick of trepidation up Draco’s spine.

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Talk about what?”

“About why you stopped by the Astronomy Tower,” Granger challenges. Draco huffs a laugh at the gall on her.

“Do you really want to talk about it?” he asks. Draco doesn’t think Granger knows what she’s getting into, what he might drag out of her were they to talk about the past, about what happened—but he almost wants her to push, just to see where her limits stretch, just to learn how deep her cowardice goes.

Granger is quiet, thoughtful. Her hands, beneath the water, reach for a stray curl. “Yes,” she says confidently. Draco smirks.

“What do you want to know?” It’s an open invitation to peer inside of him, he knows, to ask him things he would never tolerate from others. It’s an act of trust, and a trap—Draco knows whatever she asks, his truths will not be what Granger wants to hear.

Draco should feel vulnerable, he thinks, if it wasn’t all just a game to him.

Granger’s eyes flash; her teeth dig into the swell of her bottom lip. She takes the offering.

“Would you have killed Dumbledore, had Snape not done it for you?”

Draco laughs, dipping further below the water, smirking at her. “Straight for the neck, Granger.”

She stares at him, her expression more closed off than Draco likes, not betraying much of her thoughts. Her eyes stay trained on his face. Draco lets her search for the truth he has no problem speaking, a truth he knows she won’t like.

“I would’ve tried,” he says. Granger’s lips press into a thin line. “I would’ve done my very best to kill him, even if it was a suicide mission.”

Granger’s voice is tight, “Why?”

“Because it was that, or go back to watch my parents die, and then die myself,” Draco drawls. “So I would’ve tried.”

It’s the truth, and saying it doesn’t weigh on him—Draco had accepted it long ago, had had to swallow down its bitterness without a word.

Granger’s question is useless, in any case. None of this means anything, none of it ever happened, and it never will. Draco will never have to make that choice again. But he remembers those moments before Snape arrived—the angry desperation that had brought forth frustrated tears, the small part of him that had hoped that Dumbledore would be kind enough to kill him, to not offer him a choice Draco could never have made.

But Dumbledore hadn’t been merciful.

Granger stares at him and Draco’s magic stretches taut beneath his skin, urging him to just brush against her thoughts, just a touch, however brief.

But her eyes soften for a moment, and Draco’s lips curl involuntarily at the pity that settles on her features.

“It was wrong,” she says, “to put you in that position. As if you could kill someone like Dumbledore.”

Draco scoffs, but it’s acidic, hovering in the air between them like a stifling scent. She sounds just like Dumbledore. “I fixed the Vanishing Cabinet. I let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Or have you forgotten?” he sneers. “No one believed I could do it, but I did. No one believed I would manage to corner Dumbledore, but I did, and I was ready to die with him on that Tower if that was what it took.”

“They shouldn’t have put that on you,” Granger says again.

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” he spits, as Granger’s jaw tightens. “You think I don’t fucking know?”

The bathroom is quiet for a while after that. Granger’s eyes drift towards the window. Draco’s anger rumbles close to the surface, agitated, and he lets it simmer, not yet hot enough to spill over. The water laps lazily at his chest, the heat turning his skin pink.

“Why did you dive downwards?” Draco asks, when the absence of Granger’s eyes on him leaves him too cold and he can’t keep the words at bay any longer.

Granger’s eyes don’t move away from the window, fixed on a faraway spot. It takes a while for her to answer, and Draco has to bite his tongue to refrain from demanding that she not ignore him.

He needs her to trust him with this, too, with the truths she might not want to speak aloud.

“I never really liked him,” Granger confesses, her voice low.

Draco doesn’t hide his surprise. “Dumbledore? Why?”

Granger huffs gently, looking away from the window. She slants a look at him before inhaling, sliding downwards and sinking beneath the water for a second before emerging. She pushes wet strands of hair off her face, settling back and exhaling. The steam dances with her breath. She stares down at the water.

“He manipulated Harry,” she says. “For years. He manipulated everyone.”

The words are a quiet admission, but resentment lines them in a way that fascinates Draco.

“He was always so secretive,” Granger continues. “Five steps ahead of everyone but unwilling to show us the way. Always making us run around in circles, always pushing Harry to risk his life.”

Draco waits for Granger to raise her eyes and look at him. When she does, the sadness in them makes his heart skip a beat.

“It worked out well,” he says slowly, “in the end. Didn’t it?”

“It wasn’t right,” she says. She scrubs her hands over her face, fingers travelling up to her hair. The flush the ride had left her with has disappeared, leaving her to look gaunt, the freckles scattered over her face too stark against her pale skin.

Granger’s voice is heavy with repressed emotion when she speaks again. “It wasn’t fair. We were just kids. We shouldn’t have had to go through a war. Harry had to die. I was—” Granger cuts herself off with a hissed breath, looking back towards the window.

Draco inhales slowly, feeling his chest expand beneath the water. A pulse of pain travels up his forearm, and he breathes out, flexing his fingers.

He eyes her. Granger looks tired, and fragile.

“Is there something,” he starts, then hesitates when Granger wraps her arms around her knees once more, folding herself into a tight shape. Draco wants to pull her close, to feel her shaky breaths against his neck. “Is there something you would’ve done differently?”

Granger laughs, the sound nothing like the one Draco heard from her before. This one is brittle, high-pitched. Granger’s eyes are wide with contempt when they return to him as she spits out, “Is there something I would’ve done differently?”

She laughs again, looking away from him, back towards the window.

“Tell me one thing,” Draco asks, because he needs to know, he needs to, needs to know what haunts her the most, what pushes her away from sleep and follows her around like a ghost of her own failures.

Granger sighs, and the sound is so exhausted that Draco can’t resist. He reaches for her, grabbing her arms, the water spilling over the edge of the bath as he untangles the tight shape Granger has pushed herself into until her knees are on either side of his hips and she kneels over him, his arms wrapped around her lower back, her arms loose by her sides. His necklace dips below the water, just a single silver chain framing her slender throat.

He pulls her closer when Granger doesn’t raise her eyes. She has nowhere to look but at him, now.

Draco wants her to look at him, always.

Granger’s eyes roam over his chest, and she raises a hand to trace one of his scars, hiding beneath the water until the scar curves around his shoulder.

“Don’t you get it?” she says. Her eyes don’t raise to his but Draco sees how they shutter, how that faraway look that had so called to him all those months ago encroaches onto the brown, stealing any brightness left behind. “I couldn’t have done anything differently. Everything I did, every bad, awful thing, I did it for a good reason.”

Her voice cracks on good, and Draco’s hand slides up her spine to cup her cheek. He tilts her face towards him, and finally, their eyes meet again.

“It was all for good,” Granger says, her voice drained and shaky, but her eyes remain empty, no silver shine to them as they bounce between his. Draco brushes his thumb against her cheekbone. Granger takes in a heavy breath, looking at him as if measuring him up, then she slumps slightly towards him, coming to a decision.

“I obliviated my parents to keep them safe,” she says. “I—I used Unforgivables to protect Harry and Ron. I deceived and lied and broke laws for them. I helped plan attacks—” her voice cracks again, and she leans into Draco’s hand. “I helped plan attacks that resulted in bad people being killed.”

Her hand finds his wrist, squeezing tightly. She looks at him desperately, begging him to understand.

“I blasted Greyback off Lavender’s dead body, then watched as Neville and Ron sliced him open and left him bleeding to death.” Her voice drops, empty and worn. “I killed Dolohov to avenge Remus and Tonks.”

Granger’s nails dig into his skin. Draco brushes his thumb under her eye, his heart beating thunderously in his chest.

“Don’t you get it?” she asks again. “All I did was for good. I couldn’t change it. I couldn’t have done anything differently.”

Granger searches his face. Then she sighs, slumping over his chest with her head onto his shoulder, turned away from him.

Her hand rests over Draco’s heart. He runs his fingers up and down her spine, trying to breathe. He should say something, he knows, but there’s a lump in his throat that stops him.

They stay like that until the water turns lukewarm, goosebumps rising on Granger’s exposed skin. Draco tries to make space for what Granger has said in himself, but everything is a mess, agitated and convulsing and unsettled.

Granger sighs again after a while, her breath tickling the skin over Draco’s shoulder. She lifts herself off his chest, looking at him. Her eyes are red-rimmed. The water dances above the line of her breasts as small bubbles of soap drift down her collarbones.

Her fingers curl gently around the sides of his neck, thumbs framing the hollow of his throat.

Draco swallows. Granger’s thumb brushes over his Adam’s apple.

“Is there anything you would’ve done differently?” she asks quietly.

Her question pulls the mess inside him into a tighter knot.

Draco doesn’t like thinking about it. He doesn’t like thinking about possibilities, about the choices he didn’t make. It’s too dangerous a road, to think about how everything might’ve been if he’d made one single choice differently—said a different thing, acted in a different manner. Who he might’ve become, if he hadn’t been backed into a corner by circumstances, if he hadn’t been such a coward.

But Draco isn’t the choices he could’ve made. He’s the ones he has made, the ones that have brought him here. Every desperate decision, every bitter, fear-driven mistake and success.

Yet, no matter how much he tries, regrets have found a home in him, too, and even if he tries not to think about them, they squat in the dark, unlikable corners of himself.

“I would’ve tried to do more to save Vincent,” he says at length.

Granger’s lips part slightly, her eyes bouncing rapidly between his. “Crabbe?”

Draco’s stomach clenches. It feels wrong, somehow, to call him Crabbe. “Do you know any other Vincent?”

“I don’t,” she murmurs. Granger looks at him intently, then whispers, almost to herself, “I thought you didn’t care.”

Draco’s lungs seize for a breath, his muscles going taut. Anger pulses hot in his stomach. “Vincent and I had been friends since we were old enough to crawl,” Draco spits. Granger’s eyes widen slightly at his tone, her fingers tensing around his neck. Draco glares at her as the old pain resurfaces, a dull echo beneath all the rest. “I knew him better than I knew myself. Vincent was who he was, but he didn’t deserve to die that way.”

“He tried to kill me,” Hermione whispers. “In that room, he tried to—"

“I remember,” Draco grits out.

Vincent’s voice crawls out of the depths of his mind. I don’t take your orders no more, Draco. Draco fights against the memories, against the ghost of the flames, the smoke in his lungs.

Granger’s mouth presses into a thin line. She exhales slowly, “It takes an incredibly powerful wizard, to control Fiendfyre.”

“I know.”

“You would’ve died, had you tried to save him. You nearly did, saving Goyle.”

Draco remembers the weight of Goyle in his arms, the slippery sensation of Potter’s hand in his. He remembers Granger, hoisting Goyle into the space between her and Weasley.

“I could’ve made Potter turn around,” Draco says. “I could’ve looked for him.”

Granger’s eyes flay him open, as she looks into his. “Harry wouldn’t have turned back for Crabbe.”

“He turned back for me.”

Granger stays silent, and Draco slides his hands from her hips to her thighs, brushing them slowly up and down, feeling how tense she is. He forces his muscles to relax, forces himself to lean his head back against the rim of the tub as he settles a smirk on his face. “But then again, Potter was quite obsessed with me, was he not? Following me into bathrooms and all.”

Granger’s lips twitch, and she fails to mask the upturn of her mouth. Her hands leave his neck to brush over his chest, over his scars.

“Don’t joke about it,” she says, her voice lighter than before.

“You like it,” he drawls. The pressure in his chest eases as her teeth dig into her bottom lip to keep her smile at bay. “The damaged look fits me well.”

Granger huffs under her breath. She traces one of his scars with her fingertip as her smile begins to fall. “Would you have done something differently, that day?”

Draco thinks of the bathroom, of his reflection in the cracked mirror. Of Moaning Myrtle’s voice and of his fingers tight around his wand as he aimed it at Potter—of the Crucio that almost slipped out before Potter’s curse hit him.

He thinks of the relief he had felt, lying in a pool of his own blood. How his only thought had been for his mother.

“No,” Draco says. The scent of dittany clouds his mind. “No,” he repeats.

Granger looks back at him, then gives a small nod. Her lips open, another question Draco knows will make him think about the past on the tip of her tongue, but he speaks before she does.

“How did you kill him?”

Granger’s jaw locks tight, her eyes shuttering. The hands on his chest retreat.

“Dolohov,” Draco says. He needs to know, needs to hear her talk about it. “How did you kill him?”

Her hands find the wet ends of her hair, threading through them slowly. Draco reaches for her waist, feeling her body within his hold, resisting the temptation to tighten his grip.

“Dolohov had this curse,” she begins. “He used it on me at the Department of Mysteries. When Harry retrieved the prophecy.” Anger seeps into Granger’s voice with every word she speaks. “He used it during the Battle of Hogwarts. Used it to kill Remus and Tonks. I used it on him.”

Granger doesn’t look away from him, and Draco keeps his face expressionless, pushing down the uprise of emotions occurring in his chest. But as Draco keeps silent Granger’s façade crumples, the corners of her eyes tightening, her brows pulling together in a sad frown.

“I was—" her voice cracks, and still she doesn’t reach for him, still her hands hang uselessly between them. “I was so angry,” she whispers raggedly. Her eyes drop to some point below his chin, and they tighten, as if searching for something. Her lashes flutter. “I was so angry, and I saw him there, and I—I didn’t think. I just—"

Her mouth snaps shut, lips thinning as she tries to keep the words inside. Draco watches the bob of her throat as she swallows. When he moves, the water laps at the sides of the tub with quiet glee. He wraps his arms around Granger’s waist and pulls her close, moving towards her so that their stomachs fit snugly together. There is no more space for her hands to hang limply, and they find their way back to him. Draco knows she needs the touch, the closeness, almost as much as he does, albeit for different reasons.

Granger looks at him with haunted eyes, but there is gratitude etched secretly in the lines of her face—a gratitude which Draco knows she would rather hide, a gratitude he has learned to recognise, greedy as he is for it.

“Good riddance,” he says in the space between them. “Dolohov deserved to die.”

Granger swallows again, and her hands slide into Draco’s hair, curling in the wet strands. “It felt good,” she whispers, and the words send a searing jolt through Draco. He hoards them jealously, pulling her closer. “For a second,” she continues, her voice cracking. “It felt good. Watching him crumple to the floor. It felt—right, for a second, but then I—I realised, and—it hasn’t felt good ever since.”

She watches him, face inches from him, her eyes swimming with such emotion that Draco wonders how she manages not to drown in them—and then it makes sense, becomes crystal clear in the space of a heartbeat—why she’d tried so hard to hide all these things, to push them down, to not let them spill through the cracks that Draco so clearly sees in her—has seen since the first day back at Hogwarts, and before, since she’d stood up in the overcrowded Wizengamot to defend him from Azkaban.

Granger takes in a shaky gasp, looking away, hands slipping from his shoulders, and it’s as if the magic breaks, as if she’s realised what she’s done—how close she has come to letting all those feelings—all those emotions too big for her body, for her heart—rise so close to the surface. Draco watches as she withdraws into herself again, as she forces her face into a miserable resemblance of calm, of control. All the spiteful, indignant anger Draco had felt at the start washes over him again, burning and searing; a fire flamed by the wind of the other tumultuous things she makes him feel, things Draco doesn’t want to feel, things that are useless and distracting and dangerous. But the anger is there, safe and reliable, familiar; and as he watches her retreat, watches her backtrack on all the trust Draco has been trying to build, all the comfort he has offered, all the understanding, it pulses, livid that his Granger is still trying to hide all her broken, shattered pieces.

That she still chooses to be a coward.

“Don’t,” he says, and his voice is strained. His arms tighten around her—he doesn’t want to let her go, doesn’t care for the distance she wants to put between them. “Don’t hide from me.”

Granger shakes her head, her body tense against his. “I can’t—"

“You can,” Draco hisses, trying to catch her eye again. “You don’t have to act like nothing happened, you don’t have to—"

“Stop,” she says, trying to slip out of his arms, but Draco won’t let her go—the sole thought of it is inconceivable.

“You don’t have to run away from all that’s happened. You can’t go back, you can’t fix it—"

“Stop—"

“—it’s who you are now, Granger, there’s no escaping that, so don’t fucking—"

“Shut up, God, just stop!” Granger hisses, pushing against Draco’s chest. Her eyes are furious, burning with emotion as she bares her teeth at him, hissing, “You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do? You think I’ve forgotten what you’ve told me? That you want to—to—break me or whatever the fuck you think you’re entitled to do to me?”

Granger’s words are spat into the air between their mouths as she pushes him again, the water sloshing against the sides of the tub, threatening to spill. “You don’t get to say that shit to me.”

“You don’t want to hear the truth?” Draco seethes. “You still don’t want to acknowledge your cowardice—"

Granger laughs—a scathing sound—as she leans closer to Draco, eyes narrowed into slits. “You want to talk about cowardice? You want to talk about who is more of a coward, Draco, really? You’ve always hidden behind your father, too scared to ever speak your own, always parroting back whatever atrocious things he had to say. You became a Death Eater, and couldn’t even do your fucking job properly. You couldn’t kill Dumbledore. You left Hogwarts as soon as you could, hiding in your fancy house when it all went to hell, hiding behind your parents and Snape, not doing shit while I was out there, fighting, doing my damn best to survive and not get my friends killed.”

Her hands hover in the air between them, counting items off her fingers as her voice shakes with anger.

“You didn’t do anything to try and stop him when he was living under your same fucking roof, you didn’t do anything until the last fucking minute, too scared to push a single toe behind the line until it became bloody clear that you were not going to make it out of Hogwarts alive that day.”

She laughs—desperate now—as her hands fall, splashing into the water, rising again and splaying wide. “Blaise did more than you’ve ever done, Draco. Blaise! He helped, he risked everything, and you did nothing—you did nothing until it served you, until fighting for us became more convenient to you than fighting for him!”

Granger’s hands curl into fists as she shakes her head, once. An angry tear slips down her cheek, trailing down her skin rapidly until it slips off her jaw, losing itself in the water that surrounds them.

“You did nothing,” she repeats, wretched. “You did nothing but stand there, as I was tortured in front of you. As Bellatrix hurt me and carved me and tore through my mind and you did nothing. Nothing. You’re the coward, Draco. You’ve always been the fucking coward.”

Another tear slips down her face as she looks at him, furious and hurting and naked in his arms. Draco watches her tears fall into the water, his throat locked tight.

It hurts, somewhere in his chest, all this anger that he feels.

“Would you have done anything differently?” Granger asks, and Draco hates that she does, hates that the pain extends down to his fingertips, making him lose his grip on her. “Would you have tried to help me that day, or would you have kept on—"

A burst of silver magic bounds through the window.

Granger gasps, her eyes widening, as silver mist fills the bathroom, frosty and breathtaking.

A large stag hops around them, circling Granger several times as she whips her head to follow it, until the Patronus stops at their side, scuffing a hoof and huffing through its nose.

Harry Potter’s voice fills the silence. “Hermione.”

Potter’s voice is the same to Draco’s ears, but something about it makes Granger’s shoulders straighten, her eyes intently fixed on the silver animal.

“Something has happened. At the Burrow,” Potter’s voice says. “I’ve come to your flat, but you aren’t here, and—you should get here. At the Burrow, actually. As soon as you can, please. It’s nothing awful, but, just get here as soon as you receive this. Thank you.”

There’s a beat of silence, as the Patronus stares at Granger. Then Potter’s voice fills the bathroom again, the message repeating, but it gets lost in the sounds of Granger’s frantic movements as she scrambles out of the bath, leaving Draco behind without a second look.

Notes:

sooooooo.......hi!!

gosh it's been a hot minute. but i promised myself i would take this story off hiatus in January and hey, it's still technically January!! thank you to all of you who have waited patiently for this story (and me). thank you to everyone who has left a comment in these past months, to everyone who has discovered or reread this story even tho I left it on its own for so long. it means the world to me that you didn't give up on us!! <333

I have so much planned for these two blorbos. I haven't been able to write as much as I would've liked (I had dreams of having this story fully pre-written before taking it off hiatus, HA, foolish me) BUT!!! I have been working on a different project (aka Wormy, iykyk) that has been such a learning experience in writing that I am paradoxically even more excited to get back into OSD now, because I feel like my skills have improved, and I'm excited to dive back into these characters and tell a better story than I might've been able to six months ago. I've got it all outlined now (thank the gods) so hopefully I won't burn out like I did back last spring lolll buttttt updates might be a little sparser than you might've liked for the next couple of months, especially as I finish writing OSSAW and pick OSD back up (this chapter I wrote all the way back in October lol, I had forgotten like 80% of it haha), but I promise that they will be constant and that this story will get its proper end!!

super mega thanks to mads, Hannah and cie for being amazing betas and not letting me spiral into self-doubt and guilt over the past seven months. and super mega thanks to all of you readers. this story is for you as much as it is for me. strap your seatbelts on babes, the ride's about to get reallll fun <333

Chapter 23

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hermione almost splinches herself Apparating to the Burrow, her stomach seized by anxiety and her lungs three sizes too small. She lands in the garden, nearly tumbling to the ground in her haste.

The Burrow looks just as it had a week ago at Christmas. It stands tall, haphazard and odd as it has always been. A thin layer of snow blankets the roofs, except for where the heat radiating from the chimneys makes it hard for snow to stick. It drips in twisting trails down the eaves.

Arthur, Ron and Harry stand close together by the front door, appraising the house. Hermione hastens her steps, her eyes sweeping over Arthur and the boy’s forms, her mind buzzing. The cold air makes it difficult for her to gulp down oxygen, the feat unaided by the rapid beating of her heart in her throat.

As she nears, Hermione takes in the Burrow and the garden beyond it, trying to figure out what might be wrong, yet nothing seems different. Nothing catches her attention, so maybe she thinks that it isn’t something that is off, but someone, someone who might be sick, or hurt, or—Hermione can’t even think; thoughts overcome one another in rapid succession, Harry’s Patronus and the restrained tone of his voice and the dread that had overcome her in scarce seconds fighting for her attention.

Hermione tries to keep her breathing under control, but the control slips away as echoes of Harry’s voice drift to the forefront of her thoughts again. His worried tone, his Patronus—they had seared through her, throwing her back to months ago, to the War. Adrenaline had filled her veins in a blink, making her sick, making her desperate to get to Harry’s side as quickly as possible. Her reaction had been disproportionate, Hermione knows, is disproportionate still, but she hadn’t been able to help it: the stutter in her chest, the need to get to Harry immediately.

She hadn’t even dried her hair; it dampens the collar of her coat. A headache curls like a snake at the nape of her neck, poised to strike.

Hermione calls out to Harry when she is close enough, trying to quell her worry as he turns around and waves at her. Questions burn on the tip of her tongue, so many she isn’t certain which one she will give voice to as she opens her mouth—but what spills from her as she crosses the invisible line of the Burrow’s wards is a groan, brutally ripped from her throat as pain lances through her body.

She stops, her stomach dropping somewhere around her feet as she bends over, hand pressed to her stomach. Hermione stares at the ground in surprised disbelief as her magic retreats far inside herself, nesting away from—from—from what?

“You feel it, too?” Harry shouts across the distance.

Hermione’s magic turns leaden, pooling low and far away, as if the earth beneath her feet is sucking it out of her. The sensation fades for a moment and she thinks she can breathe again—except that it returns, half as strong but twice as long. Then it fades away again, the cycle repeating, decreasing in intensity with every second, until Hermione can barely feel the draining sensation anymore. All that it leaves behind is a shaky sense of unsettlement.

Hermione raises her gaze from the ground, looking around for an explanation. All she finds is silence, and the smoke curling away from the chimneys of the Burrow, disappearing lazily amidst the grey sky. She takes a hesitant step forward, bile and a bad feeling crowding her throat.

“What happened?” she asks, when she reaches the front door.

Ron turns to her, his expression worried and grave. Hermione hasn’t seen that expression on him in months, and it’s as unsettling as whatever just happened to her magic is. She swallows, their last conversation flashing through her mind. She tries to stop the memories from lodging in her throat, but a flash of petty anger swells in her regardless. She swallows again.

Hermione shifts, snow crunching beneath her boots. “Why does it feel so…”

“Bloody awful?” Ron supplies.

Hermione nods.

Ron shakes his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “We don’t know. We were up at Shell Cottage with Bill and Fleur and when we came back, we all felt it.”

She looks away from Ron and up towards the Burrow again. Yet even from so up close, the Burrow looks unchanged.

Echoes of conversation reach Hermione from behind the closed front door, Molly’s voice as sharp and dry as it always is. The garden, as it extends around the house, is exactly the same, too, the hollies and Christmas roses and fireweed safeguarded from the snow by Molly’s—and the Burrow’s—magic.

“Everything looks the same to me,” Hermione says, more to herself than anyone else.

Arthur clears his throat. Hermione doesn’t like his expression, the deepness of his frown. “It’s the inside that worries us, really,” he says.

“The inside?” she asks.

Arthur nods, pushing the door open for Hermione to enter.

She does—and immediately stops, barely half a step past the sill.

Contrary to the outside, the inside of the Burrow is unrecognisable.

The entryway is no longer the entryway, but rather Ginny’s room. The short corridor that gave way to the living room on one side and the kitchen on the other no longer exists. The walls are covered with the same wallpaper that decorates Ginny’s room, and as Hermione steps further into the Burrow, she has to sneak her way between Ginny’s drawer and her bookshelf, now haphazardly blocking the way.

She reaches the opposite end of Ginny’s room, pushing the door open, and comes face to face with a large room, perfectly split down the middle. Hermione recognises one side as the kitchen, with its ceramic floors and large stove; the other side is the attic, with its slanted roof—where no roof should be—and dusty, sheet-covered chests and paraphernalia.

Molly, Ginny, and Neville stand on the line where the two rooms converge. Beyond them, Hermione can make out the stairs, except they aren’t the same wooden stairs Hermione’s come to know: pots and pans and drawers full of Molly’s aprons and cooking books make up the stairs, held together by magic.

“Pretty awful, right?” Ron says as he pushes past Hermione to get to the kitchen.

“How is this even possible?” Hermione breathes, leaving Ginny’s bedroom and following Ron. “Has it ever happened before?”

“It has not,” Arthur replies, heading towards the stairs. He walks around them and pulls open the back door, only to be met with a wardrobe full of ancient-looking dress robes.

Arthur sighs, “This is really not ideal.”

“No, it really isn’t,” Hermione mumbles, taking off her coat. It’s stifling hot inside the Burrow and sweat licks at her temples and the nape of her neck. She sets her coat on the kitchen table—which is half the size it was the last time she saw it.

“Hello, dear,” Molly says when Hermione reaches the group, squeezing her shoulder. She eyes Hermione’s wet hair. “Won’t you get sick with your hair wet?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Hermione says, running her fingers through the damp curls, disentangling them enough to braid them down her shoulder.

It gives her something to do with her restless hands as she tries to wrap her mind around the Burrow’s new layout.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a wanted change,” she says, and Molly shakes her head. “Do you have any idea what might’ve caused this?”

Hermione has never heard of a magical house rearranging itself so completely, and other than being weird, it feels wrong.

Hermione had never taken much notice of the Burrow’s magic before. It had simply been a quiet hum of magic in the background, nearly unrecognisable from the traces of Molly’s, and Ron’s, and all the Weasleys’ own magic that had seeped into the house over the years.

Yet it’s impossible not to notice it now—how amiss the Burrow’s magic is, how unbalanced and draining, like a magnet that makes Hermione’s own magic strain towards it.

“We’d already be fixing it, if we did,” Ginny answers. She doesn’t look at Hermione as she speaks, her eyes on Harry as he steps in behind Hermione.

Coldness wedges itself between Hermione’s ribs when Ginny slants a quick look at her, unimpressed and diffident. Hermione’s the one who looks away.

“No idea, none,” Molly says, looking around the house with a miffed look. “I mean, it has played tricks on us before, hiding things and putting them elsewhere, but it has never”—she raises her voice now, as if to make sure the house can hear her—“done something like this and we surely don’t appreciate it!”

In response, the Burrow creaks and groans, and then a pipe bursts with a bang, making all of them jump. Water slowly starts to trickle down the stairs, pooling on the floor.

“Great,” Ron deadpans. “Thanks for that, Mum. That’ll be easy to clean up.”

“If you can even find the place the water’s coming from,” Neville adds. Then he says to Hermione, “The house keeps changing. When I got here, the stairs were by the hearth and it was Percy’s room hogging the entry.”

Molly sighs, setting her hands on her hips. Arthur returns with a large brown sweater in his hand. He holds it out towards Hermione and she looks at him questioningly.

“Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.” he explains, pushing the sweater towards Hermione. She grabs it, staring at the blue C at its centre. “It’s very cold upstairs.”

“What’s upstairs?” she asks, putting on Charlie’s sweater regardless of the heat.

Harry sidles up to their little circle, stopping next to Hermione. His mouth is pulled tight at the corners as he says, “George.”


Reaching the third floor, where Fred and George’s room is, takes them way longer than it should.

The Burrow doesn’t cooperate.

As they try to ascend, avoiding puddles of water that freeze into thin, slippery ice, the Burrow whines unhappily. It throws up walls and turns landings into dead ends and transfigures the stairs mid-step, slowing their journey. It takes Hermione, Ginny and Harry twenty minutes to reach the third floor, panting and annoyed, losing Ron and Neville somewhere between the first and second floors.

Luna greets them on the landing, slowly looking away from the rose-covered wall in front of her. Water seeps out from beneath a door at her back, pooling around her boots and trailing down the stairs.

The sight of her friend makes relief bubble hotly in Hermione’s stomach, and she despises that it does.

“Hello, Hermione,” Luna says, smiling at her. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well, thanks,” Hermione says, rubbing her shoulder where the appearance of a surprise wall had taken her off guard. “Why are you staring at that wall?”

Luna turns back to the wall and raises her wand, the tip glowing faintly. “I’m trying to reach George,” she says, “but I think he might be asleep.”

“You still can’t reach him?” Ginny asks, walking up next to Luna and pounding the side of her fist against the wall, calling out for George.

“Don’t be so loud,” Luna reprimands, reaching for Ginny’s wrist and lowering it. “We wouldn’t want to wake him.”

“I think we would, Luna,” Harry says. “We’re all starting to get a bit worried.”

“Is George supposed to be here, somewhere?” Hermione asks, waving a hand at the wall they’re all staring at. Water laps at Hermione’s shoes as her gaze bounces between the wall and her friends.

Harry nods. “The clock downstairs says he’s at home, but we can’t find him. We’ve tried sending him Patronuses, but they all…” His shoulders rise and fall heavily, “Bounce back. And we can’t Apparate our way around the Burrow, either.”

“How are you sure that he’s still here?” Hermione asks, her eyes flicking briefly to Ginny before following the tip of Luna’s wand as she trails it across the wall. “Couldn’t the house have moved him—"

“This is the only floor that hasn’t changed since we’ve been back, so we think he must be behind this wall,” Ginny interrupts, still not looking at Hermione. “Only, the door to their room is missing,” she continues, “and we can’t find a way in.”

“Annoyingly enough, it seems like the Burrow has warded this floor to hell and back,” Harry adds. “It’s strange, Hermione. Look.”

Harry takes his wand out of his pocket. Before Hermione can truly register what he’s doing he takes a step back, aims at the wall, and shouts, “Bombarda!

Hermione flinches backwards instinctively, arm rising to protect her face—but she stares, stunned, as Harry’s spell crashes against the wall and then freezes. Lightning streaks of red magic spider web across the wallpaper, extending towards the floor and the ceiling before recoiling sharply, rushing back to the impact point. With a whoosh they compress into a single spot of red until the spell disappears, swallowed up by the invisible ward. All that’s left behind is a ripple in the wall that settles quietly after a moment.

“See?” Harry says, tapping his wand against the wall. “Ron and I have thrown every single spell we could think of at this wall, but nothing gets through.”

Hermione steps closer to the wall, pressing her palm to the faded wallpaper. “These are some of the best protective wards I’ve ever seen,” she whispers, unwillingly fascinated.

“They are quite impressive,” Luna agrees, stepping next to her. “But can you feel it?”

“Feel what?” Ginny asks.

Luna tilts her head to the side. “There’s something wrong with them.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry deadpans. “They shouldn’t be there.”

“No,” Luna says. “It’s something else.”

Hermione presses the pads of her fingers harder against the wall, taking her wand out of her back pocket. She can feel the wards press back against her touch, cold and almost sticky. They don’t feel as stable as they should.

“Luna’s right,” she says.

“They feel feverish,” Luna mumbles, dragging her wand in an arch over the wall. The tip of it flares brightly for a second as Luna’s brows furrow. “They feel—”

Luna gasps, her wand clattering to the floor. Her fingers twitch, hovering in mid-air as they all stare at her. Then Luna bends to pick up her wand, glancing at the wall. “Strange, indeed.”

Feverish is the right word, Hermione thinks. She can feel pulses of magic beneath her hand, pressing weakly and then insistently against her, as if urging her to step back. But there’s something off about the magic: it feels sludgy, rotten. It makes dread pool heavily in Hermione’s stomach. The sensation echoes what she felt when she’d crossed the perimetral wards, as if the ward in front of her is trying to pull her magic towards it. Hermione’s instinct is to take a step back, to put distance between her and the wall, yet she can’t seem to move away. The odd magic beneath her fingertips pulls her closer, warming beneath her touch and urging her to—

“Ah!” Hermione hisses as a sharp heat zings up her forearm. She cradles her hand to her chest, closing her fingers into a tight fist. Shocks of magic trail up her arm, pungent and hot.

Harry looks between Hermione and her hand. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

Hermione brushes the tip of her wand over her sore palm, thinking.

There is something she could try.

These wards can’t be more complex than Hogwarts’, and she’s already managed to tap into those, hasn’t she?

“There’s a spell I know,” she starts, cautiously. “It’s a monitoring spell. It was used in prisons, to monitor the wards there.” She runs through her memories, recalling the spell Draco had asked her to learn that night by the Lake. Hermione remembers most of it—enough to replicate it, maybe. “It might take me a while, but I can try to tap into the wards. See if I can understand what’s wrong.”

A thin line appears between Harry’s brows, but he shrugs, “If you think it can help you find a way to remove them, I don’t see why not.”

The Burrow groans loudly, the floor beneath them shaking until it settles again. Water continues to leak from the bathroom behind them, puddles forming at their feet and water trickling down the stairs.

Ginny sighs. “If you think it can help you find George, you should try it, Hermione.”

Hermione watches Ginny swallow. She takes a step back and turns around, just as Hermione’s throat constricts, the tension she sees in Ginny’s jaw not unlike the one that clamps her vocal cords together.

“I’ll try to fix the pipe,” Ginny mutters, disappearing into the bathroom, the door left ajar behind her.

Hermione looks at Harry. The line between his brows has deepened, but the corners of his eyes are almost sad. The way he’s looking at her makes Hermione feel awkward and pulled taut, and she wonders how much Ginny has told him, if he knows what happened in Hogsmeade before Christmas.

Hermione turns back towards the wall, unable to bear Harry’s gaze.

“Right.” Harry clears his throat. “I’ll…go check on Ron and Neville. If I can find my way back down. Shout if you need anything.”

Hermione mumbles an agreement as Harry trudges down the stairs, leaving her alone with Luna.

“Could you show me the spell?” Luna asks once they’re alone. “We could both try it.”

Hermione sighs. “I’m not even sure if I remember it correctly. It’s fairly complex.”

“That’s alright,” Luna smiles. “I like complex.”


An hour later, Hermione sits alone on the now dry floorboards, glaring at the rose-covered wall.

She and Luna had tried to cast the spell countless times, but there must be something—a detail, a movement of her wrist—that Hermione doesn’t remember correctly. The spell sputters and dies each time she tries to cast it, and after yet another failed attempt, Luna had murmured something about tea and break, leaving Hermione to her frustrations.

Ginny had slipped away quietly, too, without a single word to Hermione. Hermione does her best to not think of just how much Ginny’s silence stings.

She huffs, shaking out her wand hand, hoping that’ll rid her of her thoughts. She’s certain she remembers the spell correctly enough—she thought she had memorised it that night at the Lake, yet just as it had then, the spell almost resists her, sapping her magic and her concentration.

But she has to make it work. All the other spells she’s cast haven’t been useful, and the more time passes and the longer Hermione sits in this house whose magic feels deeply amiss, listening to it change and creak and groan, the more her worry for George grows, trapped as he is behind magic Hermione doesn’t fully understand.

Hermione wraps her fingers around her wand again, cracking her neck. She exhales and visualises that scrap of parchment onto which Draco had written down the spell for her, trying to recall his elegant script. She reads off the picture in her mind, casting again. Hermione keeps her grip on her wand as relaxed as she can, and when the time comes, she twists her wrist just so, drawing a half circle in the air—and finally, it works, because suddenly she’s there, sucked inside the wards, hot currents of magic rushing in and around her.

Hermione does her best not to react—not to lose her concentration and the connection with the wards in front of her, around her, everywhere. The wards of the Burrow pulse and flare, but where Hogwarts’ had felt ancient and steady, these feel disharmonious and overwhelming.

She forces herself to focus. She can feel where the wards are impenetrable and unmovable and where they are weak, can feel the magic stretching invisibly through the air. Hermione can follow the lines of magic like gossamer threads, can feel where they knot together into complex patterns and shapes, into wards—she can even feel where there are no wards at all, vacant spaces emptied of magic and leaking, rips in the pattern.

But the wards aren’t fixed: they transmute with every second that passes, as if being cast and recast by a frantic, restless hand. Rips heal together and reform, then threads fray again, gaping holes appearing where there hadn't been before, and Hermione struggles to keep track of the changes, drifting along the torrents of magic she has tapped into.

She focuses on the wards in front of her, trying to get a sense of them, to understand why they’re different—why they’re so protective—and it takes a while, but she finds it, in the end: an area where the threads feel steadier. The magic curves like a dome, above and below and in front of her, almost like a bubble, and inside it, beyond it, Hermione feels like a depression, a vacuum, something towards which the wards bend, trying to inch closer.

The vacuum, when she focuses on the wards closest to it, feels warm and fuzzy. A different kind of magic.

Hermione snaps out of the wards with a gasp, letting her wand drop from mid-air. She stares at the wall, behind which she now knows for certain, is George.


When Hermione reaches the ground floor, she finds everyone clustered in Molly and Arthur’s room, which has now replaced the half-kitchen.

The conversation quiets as she nears. Molly looks up from her perch on the bed next to Ginny and the room falls silent.

Hermione forces herself not to flinch away from the weight of everyone’s stares.

“Did you manage it?” Luna asks. She stands next to Harry, a steaming mug of tea in her hand, though Hermione doesn’t know where she might’ve taken it from.

“I did,” she says, and Luna smiles slightly. “George is upstairs. The house can’t move around his room. It’s like there’s this—" She searches for the right words. “This sort of interaction between the outer wards and him. It forms a protective barrier around his room. Wards within wards, in a sense.”

“Do you know how to get him out?” Ron asks, arms crossed over his chest, fingers tapping rapidly against his elbow. His eyes flit over her face. “Or how to fix the house?”

Hermione shakes her head. “I don’t know about the house, to be honest.” She has no clue what might cause a magical house to act this way. She turns to Harry, “Have you ever had problems like this at Grimmauld?”

“Not really,” Harry says, shifting in place between Luna and Neville. “There are some rooms that I can’t open and some that pop up randomly every once in a while, but there’s never been any…rearranging. Nothing of this kind.”

“My Grandma’s told me about houses whose magic has gone astray.” Neville leans his shoulder against a cupboard full of plates, brushing a hand over his jaw. “They end up being sort of like haunted houses—minus the ghosts.”

The Burrow groans as if in disagreement, the floor beneath them shaking as the stairs Hermione had just come down from retreat from sight, giving way to a bricked wall Hermione guesses belongs to the cellar.

Neville sighs, looking back at Harry. “But from what I know, it’s always abandoned houses that end up like that. Not—"

“Houses like the Burrow,” Ginny finishes. She bites the inside of her cheek, leaning back against the headboard of the bed as Molly clucks her tongue.

“This house certainly isn’t abandoned. I mean, we left for half a day, for Merlin’s sake.” Molly twists, hands fisted in her skirt to look at Ron. “Are you telling the truth—you haven’t done anything to make—"

“No, Mum,” Ron groans, scrubbing his hands over his face and then dropping them, an upset curve to his mouth. “If anything, this might be George’s doing.”

“No,” Molly says, turning away. “You know George hasn’t been up for anything of the kind, lately.”

Ron’s shoulders drop. “I know.”

“Hermione.” Arthur leaves his spot next to Ron to step towards Hermione. His fingers flex by his side, clenching and unclenching. “Do you have any idea what might’ve caused this?”

Hermione shakes her head, dread swooping in her belly, feeling mostly useless. The disappointment that shadows Arthur’s blue eyes makes her feel even worse.

“It’s—it’s most likely a magical unbalancing,” she offers. “But I can’t tell why it’s happened.”

“Right. Right.” Arthur’s fingers tap against his leg as he looks over his shoulder at Molly. “I’ll go to the Ministry and see if I can get someone from the Department of Magical Accidents to come have a look at this.”

Molly sighs heavily. “You do that. I’ll—"

“I might—” Hermione starts, then stops, swallowing.

The weight of everyone’s stares makes her skin crawl, worsening the anxiety swirling in her stomach. She doesn’t know why she feels it—only that it’s there, making her heart beat faster in her chest. She wants to help —knows that she might be able to—but she doesn’t want to disappoint.

Still can’t stand to disappoint, even after all she’s already done.

Hermione swallows again. “I know of a spell that might work. With reaching George.” Her hands want to tuck themselves into the loose sleeves of Charlie’s sweater, but she keeps them hanging by her sides. “But I have to go back to Hogwarts for my notes. I don’t remember it off the top of my mind.” She looks between Molly and Arthur. “I can be back in less than an hour, and we could try it.”

Molly stares quietly at Hermione for a long moment, then nods. “Alright. You do that. Harry, dear,” Molly turns towards him. “Do you reckon you might find anything that can help us in the library at Grimmauld?”

“I can go look,” Harry offers.

“Perfect. Then we can try Hermione’s spell and if it doesn’t work, then we’ll go to the Ministry. Arthur, you know I’d rather not get the Ministry—"

“Yes, yes.” Arthur’s mouth twists to the side. “It might be easier if we were to solve this ourselves. Less people in the house, and all.” He gives Hermione a tight-lipped smile.

Hermione nods, a little unsure, but follows Harry as they find their way out of the Burrow and past the perimetral wards. They Disapparate at the same time, Harry’s soft see you soon wrapping around her as she leaves.

Yet the dread in her stomach doesn’t lessen.


It doesn’t take long for Hermione to find Draco’s notes. She finds them jammed inside a notebook, tucked between a stack of thick books on Draco’s dresser.

Sneaking inside the Slytherin Dorm had been easier than expected, and she’d been lucky not to find anyone there—luckier still that Draco is nowhere to be found, his room the same as they had left it that morning, sheets rumpled and a pillow on the floor.

Hermione looks over Draco’s notes. Zotoi’s spell is copied neatly on the page, Draco’s comments in the margins, the corrections he’d made to the spell to suit it to his needs: getting an object through the wards, not a person. The spell is complex—more complex even than the one she’d cast to tap inside the wards.

Against her better judgment, Hermione can’t help but be impressed.

Draco had mastered the spell. Not only had he been able to cast the spell, but he’d altered it, too—had found a way to keep all the magical elements balanced enough to make it work—the intonation, the intention, the movements of the wrist. Hermione can’t help her awe; it’s advanced level spellwork, and Draco had executed it perfectly, casting the spell time after time as they practised, when she’d been struggling and cursing her concentration and—

“What are you doing?”

Hermione gasps, whipping around. Her elbow knocks against the pile of books, sending them clattering to the floor.

Nott stares at her through what used to be the wall he’d built months ago, turned translucent now. His eyes narrow suspiciously.

“Well?” he raises his eyebrows, and with a flick of his wand, the barrier between them disappears. He steps into Draco’s room. “Why are you rummaging through Draco’s things when I know for a fact he doesn’t know you’re here?”

Hermione ignores Nott’s question, picking up the books and trying to find Zotoi’s journal.

“What can cause a house to change?” she asks instead of answering Nott’s questions.

Nott is quiet for a moment. “Excuse me?”

Hermione turns away from the dresser and stalks towards one of Draco’s bedside tables. She rifles through the books she finds there. “A magical home, Nott. What can cause it to change? To rearrange itself?”

She can almost hear Nott’s thoughts in the silence that follows.

“To change?” he asks. “What do you mean to change? Why are you asking me?”

Hermione spies a thin leather-bound book, hidden beneath two thick arithmancy tomes. “Do you know, or not?”

She picks up the book, golden lettering catching her eye. Zotoi’s Journal—1929. It isn’t the right one—Zotoi had described the spell in 1927, but she opens it anyway, flipping through the pages.

“Magical homes develop a core, over time,” Nott says, stepping closer to the bed. “Magic settles there if a family lives in a home long enough. If it builds wards and such.” His wand flickers in her vision, pointing towards the leather journal. “Could be a matter of core instability. What are you looking for?”

Hermione freezes when she spots familiar handwriting, tucked neatly between the pages of one of Zotoi’s recollections.

She pulls out the loose pages of the notes she had sent Draco all those months ago, gaze pausing over the dark blue ink in the margins—Draco’s handwriting, scribbled comments he must’ve left behind and never shown her, detailed and messy and so different from her own.

A sentence is underlined twice. The sight makes Hermione’s heart beat faster.

She rips her gaze away, catching Nott’s eye. He stares at her with furrowed brows, mouth downturned. His eyes are the darkest green, bouncing between hers and Zotoi’s journal.

She remembers how they’d looked that night, when all of his concentration had been on conjuring ward, after ward, after ward.

Hermione doesn’t let herself think too long about her next words. “I need you to write down anything you know about wards. About how to tear them down and about…core instability, or whatever that might be.”

A muscle twitches in the side of Nott’s jaw. Seconds tick by in silence. “Why?”

“I can’t tell you righ—”

Why, Granger?” Nott interrupts, and it’s the most assertive she has ever heard him. His grip is tight around his wand as he takes a step closer to her.

She takes him in—this person she barely knows, this person who has never been good to her, but also never cruel. One of Draco’s only friends.

Hermione straightens, pushing her shoulders back. “I won’t tell you,” she says. Nott’s mouth parts but Hermione barrels on. “Not now, at least. But I need you to write those things down. You know more about this subject than I do, and I—" she swallows her hesitation, ignoring its bitter aftertaste. “I have a bad feeling. And I need your knowledge.”

Nott’s eyes widen—just enough for Hermione to notice—before he smoothes his expression into an impassable mask, so similar to Draco’s that she wonders if hiding their emotions, their thoughts, is something that all Slytherin are taught—or if it’s a prerequisite skill necessary to be sorted in this house.

Hermione rifles through Draco’s bedside drawer until she finds a blank piece of parchment. She Accio’s a quill, which floats to her from Draco’s school bag, discarded in a corner of the room. She holds the quill and paper out towards Nott.

Nott’s gaze falls to the items, then his dark eyes return to her, intense and narrowed, but Hermione doesn’t feel exposed. She pushes the parchment forward an inch, until it brushes against Nott’s shirt. “I don’t have a lot of time to waste, Nott.”

Nott’s mouth presses into a tight line before his shoulders fall on his next exhale. He throws his wand on Draco’s bed, snatching the paper and quill from Hermione’s hands. “I’m doing this only because Draco trusts you. And because ignoring Hermione Granger’s ‘bad feeling’ feels moderately stupid.”

He sits on the bed, grabbing one of Draco’s books and settling it on his thigh before smoothing the parchment over it.

Hermione goes back to looking for Zotoi’s journal. She tries to keep her heartbeat at bay but it spikes, skipping beats.

Draco trusts her—he trusts her, and Nott knows. He knows.

“Thank you, Nott,” she says, crouching next to Draco’s bed to rifle through the stack of books on the floor.

Hermione had never truly realised how many books Draco owned. She ignores her curiosity, ignores the urge to learn whether Draco leaves comments in the margin of his books like she does, annoyed that she feels this way. She wishes she only felt the anger and hurt that their last conversation had left her with, yet she doesn’t, and her heartbeat escapes her control, skipping again.

Nott makes a griping sound. “Don’t call me that,” he says, the quill scratching loudly. “I dislike being referred to with my father’s name. And don’t think Draco won’t know about this.”


Half an hour later, Hermione finds herself sitting once more on the Burrow’s third-floor landing, staring at the faded rose wallpaper.

Harry brought a pile of books back from Grimmauld—dusty, creaky tomes about the house’s history. There are other books, too, about magical architecture and protective enchantments, but the things Hermione needs—the things Theo told her to look for—are scattered throughout the text, sentences here and there that take her too long to find and that she has to cross-check with Nott’s notes. Zotoi’s 1927 journal is laid flat in front of her, too, Draco’s notes on one side and hers on the other.

Hermione wishes, for a guilty moment, that she could go to Draco for help—that he could cast the spell just as he had done that night at the Lake and break through to the other side and to George; or that he could show her the precise movements the spell requires, the right intonation she must use, and again wishes she didn’t feel this way. She wishes he could be here to tell her in his cruel tone that she’s doing it wrong, and show her how to do it right, and loathes that she does.

But Draco isn’t here, and Hermione doesn’t truly want him here, but the spell is complex, and try as she might to concentrate, to not think about Draco, snippets of their last conversation come back to taunt her whenever her eyes fall on his handwriting, wrapping around her heart like thorny vines.

Hermione doesn’t want to think about it now, doesn’t want to remember the look in Draco’s eyes when he’d told her about Crabbe, or the curl of his lip when his anger had started to show, or the way that same anger had drained from his eyes as she’d spat his mistakes back at him. Thinking about it makes Hermione feel shaky and angry, her stomach flipping unhappily whenever her thoughts stray in that direction.

She is mad at herself, too, and it makes the anger she feels towards Draco worse. She told him about Dolohov when not even Harry or Ron know, when the entire wizarding world thinks his death a war casualty and not the act of a scared, angry, seventeen-year-old, and she wants to take those words back. She wishes ardently that she still had her Time-Turner— or another way to go back and change everything, or just that conversation, or convince herself not to go to the Library that night all those months ago, not to read that book when he’d asked her to.

Hermione wants to pull her hair out, wants to hide in that dusty bathroom at the top of Gryffindor Tower and scream and cry and burn her clothes and be in silence and just not think. Not think about why she told him all she did, not think about why watching the anger in Draco’s eyes fade to indifference hurt so much, not think about how much she wants to know if he would’ve done something differently that day, at the Manor. If he would’ve helped her; if he would’ve been clement, been kind.

But she can’t do any of these things. Hermione can only stare at his notes and regret ever feeling like she could trust him with something like the truth. All she can do is learn a spell that almost, irrationally, scares her, and not think about anything but the Burrow, and George, and fixing things.

Twenty minutes later, Luna finds her again, creeping silently up the slanted stairs. There are two cups of tea in her hands, steam rising and curling gently.

“Have you found anything?” Luna asks, sitting down next to Hermione and passing her a mug.

Hermione takes a sip of the tea before pulling Theo’s notes and a book in her lap. Luna’s presence is a balm, something Hermione can focus on in an effort not to drown in her own thoughts.

“Yes,” Hermione says, dragging out the word. “But I don’t like it.”

Luna hums. She reaches for one of the stray notes, studying it.

“Magic in houses like these settles in the earth that surrounds it,” Hermione muses, eyes flicking over the small text. “But there’s always something that…becomes steeped in magic. A place where magic converges. Like a core, apparently.” She flips through the pages. “But we don’t—"

“This is Theo.”

Hermione’s train of thought halts. She watches as Luna flips one of Theo’s notes around, reading the back. “This is Theo’s handwriting,” she says softly.

Hermione looks between Luna’s profile and the parchment in her hands. “It is,” she says slowly. She should feel surprised that Luna recognized the handwriting—but she isn’t, not really.

“You went to him?” Luna asks.

“More like he found me,” Hermione admits.

Luna reaches for one of Draco’s notes, holding the two pieces of paper side by side. “This is Draco, then.”

Hermione swallows. “Yes”

Luna looks over the notes, her expression curious. Her gaze slides to Zotoi’s journal, then to Draco’s notes again. Her brows furrow, a thin line appearing betwee—

Hermione’s stomach drops.

Fuck.

How could—she’s stupid, Merlin, she’s so fucking stupid.

Hermione’s hand twitches—she wants to snatch the paper out of Luna’s grip, but Luna isn’t stupid—and Draco’s notes, Zotoi’s spell, the comments in the margins, Hogwarts scribbled on the side—and—

Luna looks up at her. Her blue eyes are sharp, and Hermione sees the moment understanding dawns on her. They stare at each other for a heartbeat.

Hermione’s jaw clenches tightly. Her pulse thrums in her throat, and she curses herself—she can’t even do one thing right—can’t even keep one secr—

Luna sets the piece of parchment back on the floor next to Zotoi’s journal as Hermione’s heart rabbits in her chest.

“Is that the spell you’ll try?” Luna asks, looking at Zotoi’s journal.

Hermione unglues her tongue from the roof of her mouth and bites down on it until it hurts. Luna looks at her when she doesn’t answer, and Hermione thinks of how it might’ve been, if it had been Harry next to her, or Ron, or Ginny. But it isn’t.

It’s Luna, waiting patiently for her to answer. Luna, who has always understood. Luna, who Hermione trusts.

Needs to trust, now.

Hermione clears her throat, looking away.

“Yes,” she says at last. “I think it’ll let me get to George, and then I can try to bring him back. It’s—" she pauses for a moment—but it’s Luna. It’s Luna. Hermione has to trust her. “It’s a variation of Disapparition. Complex, but—feasible.”

“Have you tried it before?” Luna asks.

Hermione shakes her head.

“Has Draco?”

Hermione shakes her head again. “Not properly,” she says vaguely.

Luna tilts her head. “Can I help, somehow?”

Hermione hesitates, thinking. “Maybe,” she says at last, “you could cast the monitoring spell as I try to cast this one.” Hermione reaches for Draco’s notes, rereading over Zotoi’s spell. “This spell shouldn’t leave a trace, but we don’t really know how it interacts with the wards, exactly. And these wards…” Hermione looks at the outdated wallpaper pattern. “They’re very different. So maybe monitoring them could help.”

“They’re very strange wards indeed,” Luna agrees. “Could they cause you problems, were you to try and get through them?”

“Maybe.” Hermione sighs. Draco’s handwriting blurs together, and she sets the paper down. “I’m not sure how the two spells might interfere.”

“Is it risky?”

“Possibly.”

Luna picks up one of the books Harry brought. “What if you try to get to George, and I try to trace the magic? See if I can find where the Burrow is hurt?”

It’s Hermione turn to be confused. “What?”

Luna flips through the tome. “Well, it seems to me that the Burrow is sick. Like the magic is all wrong and acting up. Must be a problem with the core, as Theo wrote,” her fingers tap against one of Theo’s notes, the glitter in her nail polish catching the light. “Maybe if I can find where it’s hurt, I can find the core, and make sure that your spell doesn’t disturb it.”

Hermione thinks it through. “Yes. That—that could work. But you have to be careful. You’ll have to pull away, if the Burrow reacts badly. But it could help.”

“That’s alright, Hermione. I don’t think the Burrow wants to hurt me.”

Hermione isn’t certain, but she tells Luna everything she can about how the wards had felt anyway—the threads, the transmuting, the instability of the magic. She shows Luna again how to cast the spell, and watches as she does, a deep line settling between Luna’s brows, her expression darkening. When she pulls away from the wards, Luna’s expression is a mixture of worry and determination.

When Hermione finally gives Luna a nod, standing from her seat on the floor, Luna stands, too, and Hermione watches quietly as she casts the monitoring charm again, tapping into the wards.

The first two times Hermione tries to cast Zotoi’s spell, she fails, the words stuttering awkwardly out of her, unfamiliar and strange. Her fingers grip Draco’s notes so tightly that she wrinkles them. Her frustration mounts rapidly with every failure. Sweat begins to line both her and Luna’s hairlines, but Luna keeps giving her encouraging smiles and Hermione hears Theo’s voice again—just because Draco trusts you—and recalls the way Draco had held her when she’d told him about her parents, when he’d said it himself as her tears dried. I trust you.

I trust you.

On the fifth try the spell flows from her lips, the Bulgarian-bastardized Latin of the incantation foreign on her tongue—and then she feels it: the tug in her stomach, the momentary dizziness, the compression of the world as the magic sparks and she Disapparates.


Pain is the first thing Hermione feels. The second is the reverberating impact of her knees, and then her hands, against a hard floor. Blazing currents of magic travel up and down Hermione’s body, slicing her down to her bones. Her wand clatters to the floor. Bile rises up her throat.

Hermione groans. A rich, syncopated beat fills her ears, causing the pounding in her head to grow.

Then there are large hands under her shoulders, lifting her and settling her with her back against something hard, her arms and legs tingling and unwilling to cooperate with her, responding slowly to her demands to move. A voice speaks by her side, but she can’t make out the words over the music that fills the room.

It takes several minutes for the pain to pass and for Hermione’s breathing to steady. The tingling, electric sensation in her limbs is even slower to recede. When it does, Hermione opens her eyes, trying to hold herself as still as possible, her stomach still unsettled.

A door greets her. It stands right in front of her, its light brown wood staring mockingly from the centre of the wall she’d just Apparated across. When she gingerly turns her head to the side, the world spinning in the corners of her vision and her stomach protesting the movement, it is George, instead, who greets her.

He sits, twisted sideways, on a chair by a desk crammed full of objects and trinkets. His arm hangs from the back of the chair as he takes her in, his fringe falling into his eyes, which look just the slightest bit worried.

“Are you okay?” George asks. His voice is rough from disuse, and he clears his throat once, lips pressed into a thin line. He looks pale and gaunt, dark circles under his eyes.

For a second the sight is too painful, even as relief that he’s okay courses hot through Hermione. Her eyes drop to his hand, hanging limply over the back of the chair; his fingers are stained black, smudges of charcoal reaching up to his wrist.

“I’m alright,” Hermione croaks out, and George nods, turning back towards his desk.

Music fills the silence between them as Hermione quietly picks herself up from the floor, grasping onto the wooden bedpost to keep herself from falling. The dizziness persists as she stands on shaky legs, taking in George’s room.

Clothes, books and seemingly random objects occupy every available surface. A large wardrobe stands in a corner. Two twin beds take up the majority of the room, separated by a single bedside table. Stickers and scarves decorate the wooden headboards. There are messy, large letters carved into the wood, spelling out two names.

George’s bed is hidden beneath a collection of books and journals and old clothes, littered here and there by chocolate wrappings. On Fred’s bed, the sheets are rumpled, an indent left behind on the pillow.

Hermione turns to George and shouts over the music, “Are you okay?”

George’s hand stills its sketching. Then it resumes as he hums a noncommital assent.

Hermione takes a step closer to him, unsure how to approach him and hating her own doubts.

“Do you know what’s happening?” She asks him.

His hand stills again, revealing a rough sketch of a wristwatch. Hermione hadn’t known George could draw.

The traces of worry she’d seen before are gone, George’s expression now flat and vacant. His tone is stiff and apathetic as he says, “No, but if it had you Apparating here, I guess it can’t be any good.”

“Something is wrong with the Burrow,” she says.

George’s expression doesn’t change even as she tells him about the Burrow’s magic, about the way the house has been rearranging itself and how this floor is the only one that doesn’t change, and about the magic that surrounds this room.

As she speaks, she tests the door, a miserable distraction from George’s vacant, unchanging expression. Her attempts at opening the door only reveal rose-covered wallpaper, and Hermione tries, fruitlessly, to call for Luna, though no sound comes back from the other side. Hermione sighs, closing the door and pressing her forehead against it, rather than turning back to face George.

Had it always been so difficult, dealing with things, with the anxiety? Hermione can’t remember. A headache pounds behind her eyes in time with the syncopated beat that fills the room.

“There’s only been the music, here,” George offers when the silence becomes too much. “I can’t get it to stop. But I don’t mind it.”

Hermione lifts off the door and crosses the small room. George’s blue eyes flick over her, fleeting over her iron grip on her wand before he turns back to his sketch.

“When did the music start?” Hermione asks.

George hums. “Early yesterday morning.”

Hermione feels a line form between her brows. “Yesterday morning? Weren’t you at Shell Cottage yesterday morning?”

George’s pencil scratches against the yellowed paper. “No.” He doesn’t offer explanations.

“Were you awake when it started?”

He shrugs. “I don’t sleep much.”

“You didn’t…” Hermione trails off. She’s not even sure what to ask. “You didn’t feel anything strange? Anything that felt odd?”

George shrugs again.

Hermione sighs. “We should go to the others,” she remarks. “Everyone is worried about you.”

“You can tell them I’m doing well.” George flips his sketch, and Hermione catches sight of intricate gears and springs drawn on the other side of the paper. “I need to finish this.”

George grabs a small metal box. He drops a handful of tiny gears and springs and bolts onto the sketch. Hermione watches as he reaches for his wand and the tiny metal pieces begin to hover over a round silver base.

Hermione can’t help her curiosity. “What are you working on?”

“I am…” George’s voice trails off as his brow furrows in concentration. The pieces remain suspended in midair as he studies the sketch. “I’m making a watch.”

“I can see that,” Hermione says softly as he carefully floats the pieces in the correct places, arranging and rearranging them until they slide into one another. “What kind of watch is it?”

George’s only answer is to nod towards an open journal taking up an entire corner of the desk.

Hermione pulls it closer, careful not to disturb George. Two different handwritings fill the page, one black and one blue, finishing each other’s sentences, adding to each other’s sketches.

Hermione looks between the journal and George’s hands. “A wristwatch version of the watch downstairs?”

“Yes,” George confirms. He turns his wrist delicately, a spring sliding into place. “Double-faced. One face tells the time, and the other locations.”

Of the wearer’s loved ones,” Hermione reads off the journal. “Is this the first prototype?”

George huffs the shadow of a laugh. “No. I’ve made dozens already. But there’s always something that…” he trails off again as the gears start moving. He wipes his wand hand over his sweater, slanting a look in her direction. He points at the moving gears. “The gears are already charmed. They will always tell the right time, no matter where the person is. But when I try to add the localization charm…”

George picks up his wand, casting a simple spell with a clear voice. The gears inside the base slowly come to a halt. Then, a microscopic spring uncurls, extending, and a gear starts spinning rapidly, and then the mechanism is changing, rearranging, gears spinning at different speeds, slowing and then picking up again in a disordered fashion.

Hermione stares at the tiny, whizzing mechanical gears.

“I think it must be an issue with the mainspring,” George says “It might be the localisation charm, but I’ve tested several, and this one shouldn’t disturb the Tempus too much. The system should rebalance itself….or maybe it’s—” George reaches for the sketchbook, flipping pages and mumbling incomplete sentences to himself. “I could try—"

Hermione’s stomach drops, George’s voice fading as he flips rapidly through the pages of the sketchbook. An idea begins to take shape in her mind as the music that fills the room retreats from her ears, her pulse jackhammering in its place.

Hermione’s breath leaves her in a stuttered exhale.

“I have to go,” Hermione says, her mouth dry. “We have to go,” she corrects.

A corner of George’s mouth twitches downwards. He keeps his eyes on the spinning gears. “You should go, then.”

“George.” Hermione thinks she should be gentle with him, but her anxiety won’t let her. “You can’t stay here. We don’t know what’s happened to the Burrow. The magic is all off. There are wards around your room that I can’t understand and we don’t know how they could change, how they might affect you or—" Her frustration mounts. She takes a slow breath.

“Please,” she says at last. “Everyone’s worried about you, and they can’t reach you. You can’t stay here.”

“You did.”

“George.” Hermione tries to catch his eye. “Please.”

George’s shoulders slump. His fingers tap erratically on the journal, leaving smears of charcoal behind. The music slows, dissonant harmonies melding, the tones of a low bass bringing them together. It’s melancholic, she realises. Blues.

“I like the music,” George says, and his voice is tired, so tired that Hermione’s heart constricts. “I don’t want to be around people.”

Hermione’s throat is tight. “We can find somewhere for you. Some—someplace calm. Where you can be alone. You could go to Shell Cottage.”

A muscle twitches in George’s jaw. He stares at the table, his gaze far away. “I don’t want to be alone.” His voice is barely a whisper. Hermione thinks she’s not meant to hear. “I hate being alone.”

The lump in her throat swells, trapping the words she should say—wants to say, even if she has never been good at this, at the grief, the comfort. Her body twitches forward, a stupid attempt at getting closer, but then George sighs, and Hermione’s heart constricts again.

Hermione understands, then, that George’s tiredness goes impossibly deep, that his loss is something she will never be able to understand, not truly, because she will never be as entwined with someone as George had been with Fred. It makes bitter sadness rise in her, that the War has taken so much from George, that even with everything they’d done, all the ways they’d fought, this had been their reward—this absence that renders George a shell of who he was.

She wonders if he is looking for Fred. If a part of him holds on to the hope that maybe, one day, magic will point him in the right direction.

George’s fingers claw into the pages of his journal, but then relax. He sits up a little straighter, grabbing his wand. The half-built watch floats back into the metal box, George’s charcoal-stained hands shutting the lid gently.

He stands and pushes away from the desk. Hermione thinks he doesn’t look as tall as she remembered. The curve and slump of his shoulders, as if there’s a hollowness where his sternum should be, reminds her viscerally of Remus, and Hermione forces her gaze away, a sting in the back of her eyes.

George holds out his hand. Hermione grips it tightly.

“This will likely hurt,” she says, getting ready to cast Zotoi’s spell.

“That’s alright,” George whispers, and Hermione Disapparates them, only a second before the pain blinds her again.

Notes:

hiyaaa!!

i was going to post this later but couldn't help myself! I finished writing my first ever story a couple of weeks ago (i miss my skeletal boy draco dearly wahhhh) so it's been a little slow on the writing side, but OSD and I have gone to therapy and we seem to have begun a new honeymoon phase. cause babe when i tell you i was tempted several times to yeet my laptop out the window and never think about this story ever again, i am not kidding. butttt now i've just accepted that OSD will just be my fun baby and I won't hold myself to unrealistic standards or tight posting schedules (sorry darlings, I just cannot mentally deal with that rn) andddd lo and behold i have (unsurprisingly) been falling back in love with these characters. and i have everything outlined now, so hopefully that will also help. anyways if you see this drop a little cake emoji or tell me something nice that happened to you i'm so curious to know how many of you actually read these notes or if i can add spoilers to them and no one will ever know hehehehe anyhow sorry for babbling but thank you so so much to those of you who have checked in on this story from time to time for your patience and your continued enthusiasm (which sometimes honestly surpasses mine but makes me want to finish this!) also i can't believe we're finally getting to the plot. i think i wrote in an old end note that the plot was going to start soon and here we finally are (tho i reckon that was like...40k words back or smth?) anywayssss thank you for reading!!! <3 <3 <3 until next time!!

Chapter 24

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor Tower is silent when Hermione reaches it, several hours past dinner time.

Zotoi’s journals and Harry’s books are heavy in her arms as she trudges up the darkened stairs and to her room, leaving dusty footprints behind.

Hermione is tempted to let herself fall face-first onto her bed; she is at the same time too drained and too awake, her mind whirring with disconnected thoughts she struggles to piece together. She sways on her feet, enticed by the softness of her sheets and the gentle darkness of her room, but she resists. She throws the journals and books onto her bed and then collects what she needs, dragging herself up the last flight of stairs and to the small bathroom.

As she scrubs the dust away, the warm water of the shower is only a temporary balm on her thoughts. The white suds of soap can’t seem to rid her of the pain from Zotoi’s spell that lingers deep in her muscles; the more she scrubs, and the redder her skin turns, the more she struggles to hang onto her phantom sense of calm. It slips down the drain together with the soap, leaving her thoughts in disarray.

Uncertainty and exhaustion roil in her stomach, swirling together and leaving her weary. Hermione shuts the water off only when her skin is tender and pink, and then she stands there, dripping, thinking about all she’s learnt in the past few hours.

Magic is a delicate thing. Hermione has always known that. Wizards and witches before her have tried to describe the laws that govern it, to corral magic into something that is understandable and quantifiable, predictable, yet they haven’t been able to sand away magic’s unpredictability, an essential yet ephemeral aspect of it that cannot be captured nor described. Magic, like time, is understandable only in broad strokes, its essence too peculiar to properly grasp.

Hermione wishes she could understand what she’d seen at the Burrow. Wishes she could explain it with numbers and logic, yet she can’t wrap her mind around it, nor around the thoughts and theories that clutter her mind. She only knows how to describe them through instinctual reactions: the uncomfortable clenching of her stomach, the faint trembling of her fingers, the dryness at the back of her throat. None of which she likes, none of which reassures her.

She gets dressed in silence, the hem of one of her father’s old shirts falling just above her knees. The reflection in the mirror doesn’t reassure her, either.

Hermione’s vision blurs and she turns away from the faded logo of her parent’s dental practice, away from the exhaustion that nestles in dark circles beneath her eyes. She doesn’t know what is that makes her want to cry: the exhaustion, or the fact that she can’t ask her parents for help, or the memory of Arthur’s relief when she’d walked downstairs with George in tow. Hermione presses her fingers into her eyes until spots dance behind her lids.

A headache pounds violently against her skull and she thinks she must be too tired to cry, yet she feels wetness trail along the liminal spaces between her fingers.

She holds her breath, cursing herself, until she manages to breathe past the tightening in her chest, past the horrid feelings of uneasiness and doubt that try to swallow her.

It’s a loud bang that drags Hermione out of her thoughts, making her jump. It comes again, slipping beneath the crack of the bathroom door. Voices rise from the stairs.

One is high-pitched and shrill, cracking as it says, “Get out of here, Death Eater!”

Hermione’s stomach drops. She grabs her wand and leaves the bathroom before she can think her actions through, the stone stairs cold beneath her bare feet.

Draco’s voice is a lethal hiss when it reaches her ears.

“Is she here, or not?”

“I will hex you,” a girl threatens, her screeching tone echoing through the dorm.

“Do it,” Draco taunts. “See if I give a shit. Is Granger here, or not?”

Hermione takes the steps two at a time. Her pulse roars in her ears as she reaches the Common Room, her wand held tightly in her grip.

A young girl stands between Draco and the stairs, her wand pointed at him. Her blonde hair is piled atop her head, her pyjamas in disarray. Hermione can hear the Fat Lady’s offended shrieking coming from outside, but it fades as Draco’s gaze whips to her.

Emotions flash rapidly over Draco’s face, too fast for Hermione to process. Then his expression hardens, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he looks back at the girl standing between them. His fingers flex by his side, his wand nowhere in sight.

“I don’t care where she is,” the girl spits out, taking a step closer to Draco. She seems not to have noticed Hermione, her attention solely on Draco.

“Have you checked Azkaban?” she hisses, and Hermione recoils at the hatred in her tone. “Might find her there, slumming it with another Death Eater. Maybe she’s gone for your father, who knows.”

Draco’s fingers curl into fists, even as his lips pull into a condescending smirk.

“Jealous?” he drawls, looking down at the girl.

The girl laughs—a demeaning sound that cuts right through Hermione.

“Of her?” she scoffs. “Never. She’s an embarrassment for all of us.”

Draco glares at the girl, his gaze cold enough to send a shiver down Hermione’s spine.

“You’re nothing compared to her,” he hisses.

“Listen to yourself,” the girl says, “panting after a Mudblo—”

Draco’s hand encircles the girl’s wrist, pulling her forwards, causing the tip of her wand to press into the middle of his chest.

“Finish that sentence,” he threatens, “and see what happens. I dare you.”

The girl presses her wand beneath Draco’s chin. “The Death Eater and the Mudblood,” she sing-songs, though her words are laced with disgust. “I bet your daddy is really proud of—”

The girl’s wand flies out of her hand and into Hermione’s. She gasps, whipping her head towards the stairs.

The hatred and anger in the girl’s narrowed stare make Hermione’s stomach clench, but she’s had enough.

Draco drops the girl’s wrist with a disgusted sound as Hermione steps towards them, and the girl wipes her wrist on her shirt, as if to clean Draco’s touch away.

Anger sparks in Hermione as Draco scoffs, reaching for her and dragging her to him. Hermione lets him do it, putting herself between him and the girl. She doesn’t know the girl’s name, but she’s seen her before, sitting at the Gryffindor table during breakfast with other Fourth and Fifth Year students. She’d seemed quiet and kind, but now her features are twisted into an ugly sneer.

“Defending him again?” she spits at Hermione. “You’re so much more pathetic than they say.”

Anger and shame course through Hermione. She feels Draco tense behind her.

“Draco’s gone to trial,” Hermione grits out, even though she hates that she feels the need to explain herself. “He’s paying his dues.”

“My sister almost died because of him,” the girl hisses, stepping closer to Hermione until they’re face to face. “He should be rotting in Azkaban, just like his father.”

She doesn’t say anything; she recognises it would be useless, trying to justify Draco’s past actions to this girl whose name she doesn’t even recall. She just grinds her teeth together, staring silently as the girl’s blue eyes sweep over her face.

“How can you do it?” the girl whispers, her voice dripping with disdain. “How can you stand yourself?”

She waits for a response, staring at Hermione—but Hermione doesn’t have an answer. She just stands there, stupid and silent, as the girl’s expression morphs from disgust to disappointment.

The girl scoffs, glaring at Draco over Hermione’s shoulder, then she snatches her wand from Hermione’s grip and leaves without sparing them a second look, disappearing up the stairs.

A door slams shut as Hermione stares vacantly at the space in front of her. The Fat Lady’s offended mutterings filter back to her. Draco’s hand over her stomach is tense.

Hermione had been expecting it, hadn’t she? The disapproval, the disgust, the condemnation from those who saw her with Draco.

And yet, it still stings.

Hermione sighs, feeling unsettled. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she says, turning around to face Draco.

Anger lingers in the corners of Draco’s mouth, his silver eyes a shade that almost looks like worry. Draco doesn’t answer her, pulling her closer as his other hand rises to cup her cheek.

He brushes his thumb beneath her eye, a thin line forming between his brows. Hermione’s throat closes up, but she’s too—too everything to deal with Draco’s tenderness right now; too tired and too bitter and too guilty.

She pushes his hand away, stepping out of Draco’s hold and putting distance between them, even if all she wants to do is deflate against him and let Draco hold her as she closes her eyes and just rests.

“It was stupid of you to come here,” Hermione says instead, speaking past the tightness in her throat.

“I don’t care,” Draco says, pulling Hermione back to him again.

The distance between them fades as Draco cups her cheeks, his fingers tangling into her wet hair.

“What happened?” Draco asks, an urgency in his voice that wasn’t there before. The worry in his eyes deepens. “Why were you crying?” he asks, swiping his thumbs beneath her eyes again.

Hermione inhales sharply, looking away from him. She can’t stand it—can’t stand him nor the look in his eyes as his gaze sweeps over her. She tries again to put space between them but Draco presses closer and Hermione is weak—she’s so fucking weak for him that her stupid hands rise and clutch, pathetically, at his shirt, pulling him closer.

Hermione tries to inhale, but her breath is stunted, her chest too tight for her lungs to expand.

“Tell me what happened,” Draco whispers. He tries to soften his voice but fails, and Hermione thinks there’s no excising his anger from him. “I can always tell when you cry.”

That, somehow, hurts her more than any one of the girl’s words—the fact that Draco knows, that he knows her well enough to recognise her tells, that she wants him to know her to this extent. Hermione hates that she wants that, hates it viscerally, and yet she wants it.

She wants Draco to comfort her, regardless of how pathetic that makes her.

Hermione slumps in Draco’s hold, burying her face in the threads of his shirt. Draco pulls her flush to him, and in the circle of his arms, his broad hand cupping the back of her head and his rapidly beating heart thrumming beneath her cheek, Hermione does her best to just breathe and not fall apart.


Hermione falls asleep in Draco’s arms, their legs tangled under her duvet and her face hidden in the bend of his neck. Draco dries her hair with a whisper of magic and holds her close, pressing their bodies together, as if he doesn’t want to ever let her go.

When she wakes sometime in the middle of the night, Draco is already awake, though she thinks he hasn’t slept at all.

They don’t speak as Hermione tries and fails to fall asleep again, not until Draco asks quietly, “What happened at the Burrow?”

Hermione sighs, slipping out of the covers, and takes out a bar of chocolate from her bedside table. She snacks on it as she tells him everything that happened from the moment she stepped foot past the Burrow’s wards, until her bed grows stifling and she begins to pace the room.

She doesn’t mention the conversation that Harry’s Patronus had interrupted. Draco doesn’t, either.

“Attempting Zotoi’s spell on your own was a fucking stupid move, Granger,” Draco hisses, glaring at her from where he sits at the end of her bed, feet propped on her wooden chest and elbows braced on his knees. He cracks his knuckles. “Really fucking stupid.”

Hermione waves him off as she reaches Ginny’s bed and turns around. “I wasn’t alone,” she reminds him. “Luna was there.”

I wasn’t there,” Draco retorts. “No one else counts. What if you’d gotten yourself hurt?”

Hermione scoffs. “It did hurt. Not that you actually care,” she mutters, biting off a piece of chocolate. Draco’s glare follows her as she paces. “I was expecting worse, to be fair. It only moderately hurt.”

Moderately hurt,” Draco repeats flatly.

“Well,” Hermione halts, assessing the soreness in her muscles.

Her magic had felt better the moment she’d left the Burrow. The pain that had overcome her when she’d Disapparated herself and George out of his room is nothing more than a feeble trembling of her fingers. “Yes. I’ve felt worse pain than that.”

Silence stretches between her and Draco, laden with unsaid words. She catches Draco’s gaze and feels sickly victorious as his jaw ticks.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” he says, voice tight. “You shouldn’t cast that spell again.”

Hermione’s teeth grind together. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do.”

Draco doesn’t look away from her. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” he repeats, just a hint of challenge in his voice.

Hermione bites into her chocolate again, ignoring Draco’s words. Her heart flutters stupidly as she resumes her pacing.

“Anyways,” she continues, “George was working on something. A double-faced watch that can also tell you where other people are at any given time. A permanent Tempus and a mix of geolocalisation charms, I’m guessing. But he said he kept encountering issues when overlapping the charms. At first I thought it could be due to some intrinsic instability in the geolocalisation spells—geopositioning magic is difficult”—she breaks off another piece of chocolate—“but then he cast it and the way the gears moved—I thought maybe it was a destabilization of the underlying charm, actually, of the Tempus. That the overlying geopositioning charms were destabilising the time-phase elements of the Tempus’ perpetuity.”

Hermione’s steps echo in the silent room as she continues thinking out loud. She draws tiny circles in the air. “The gears began rearranging themselves, searching for a more stable state between the charms. It shouldn’t have taken long. The charms weren’t overly complex, at least, the geolocalisation charm he cast didn’t seem like it was one of the complex ones. Except, it seemed they couldn’t find it.” She turns to look at Draco. “The magical system couldn’t find a way to balance itself, which goes against Harreval’s—”

“—second law on the stability of closed magical systems,” Draco says. “Which means one of the variables was—”

“—undeterminable. Or perpetually indefinite, technically.” Hermione finishes.

Draco’s mouth curls into a smirk. “Swot,” he says, humour in his voice.

“As if you didn’t just cite an Arithmancy law that isn’t even in our curriculum,” Hermione counters. “Shut up.”

“It would’ve been time,” Draco drawls, ignoring her. “Harreval’s variable. Because of the Tempus.”

“Yes,” Hermione agrees. “But it got me thinking, what if the reason why the Burrow keeps rearranging itself is because it’s searching for its stable state?”

Draco cracks his knuckles again, his silence thoughtful.

Hermione goes on. “It must’ve had something to do with the Burrow’s core, right? So I looked through Arthur’s family books.”

She’d found most of them in the Burrow’s cellar, buried under a thick layer of dust. It had taken her half an hour to find the cellar between all of the Burrow’s rearrangements, and then she’d spent the better half of the afternoon amidst the cramped, dusty towers of forgotten objects and furniture and knitting projects that cluttered the room, reading in the semi-dark.

“But the Burrow isn’t an old family home like the Manor,” she says.

“The Manor is far better,” Draco mutters under his breath. Hermione glares at him half-heartedly.

“The Burrow is young,” she continues. “So I wasn’t sure how strong its magical core could be, if it had one at all. Magic takes time to centre itself in one place. All the books agreed on that. But the wards Arthur and Molly have built around the Burrow are Arthur’s old family wards, and they’re Blood Wards, so—”

“So that might’ve been enough,” Draco finishes. “Blood Wards need to be sustained by magic. And with all those gremlins living there…there’d be lots of magic for the house to bask in.”

Hermione sighs, running her hands through her hair, moving the mass of it over one shoulder.

“I found the core,” she whispers. “Well, Luna directed me to it, but—”

Hermione stops in front of Draco. His expression is attentive and serious, wholly fixed on her.

“I modified the ward monitoring spell you gave me,” she tells him. “I found a way to make it work so that I could tap into the Burrow’s core, rather than its wards.”

Draco’s expression remains unchanged. Hermione tries to untangle the knots in her hair, unable to hold Draco’s gaze as she recalls how tapping into the Burrow’s core had felt.

“It was…It was awful, Draco. The core. The Burrow.”

Hermione shivers just thinking about it. The shower hadn’t fully ridden her of the spidery, crawling sensation she’d felt when she’d finally tapped into the Burrow’s core, sweaty and tired after hours of failed attempts. The way the Burrow’s magic had latched greedily onto hers, the way she’d struggled to keep herself composed—it had reminded her of the Horcruxes. It had chilled her to the bone, worse than when she’d tapped into the faulty wards, worse than the pain of Zotoi’s spell.

Just like when she’d come face to face with the Horcruxes, just like when she’d stepped foot onto the grounds, her magic had retreated, scared, yet it had been pulled forwards too, in a dazed sort of way. She’d felt the Burrow’s magic reach with sticky fingers towards hers, and the sensation had been so blood-curdling that Hermione had forgotten all about the diagnostic charms she’d wanted to cast and had instead fumbled for a way to cut the connection, to be free of the wretched way the Burrow made her feel.

“It was like a starving animal,” she says. “Like it was desperately trying to latch on to any stray magic. It was…utterly unbalanced. I think with George…I think it latched onto him since he was the only one in the house when it must’ve begun rearranging itself.”

Draco’s calculating gaze bores into her. “You think the Burrow was trying to reassess itself around him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Hermione gives up trying to pull the knots in her hair free, huffing in frustration. “But then I don’t know why it let him go so easily. But, Draco—”

Hermione steps closer to him, forcing herself to meet his silver gaze. “It felt like something was missing. From the core. Like…like some part of it had been ripped away, and the Burrow was trying to—to staunch the leaking.”

She waits for Draco to follow her train of thought. Her stomach clenches when understanding dawns on his face, pulling his features into a hard mask.

“You think someone did it,” he says. “You think someone fucked the Burrow up.”

Hermione nods. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, ignoring the sting.

Draco’s gaze sweeps across her features, and then his eyes widen infinitesimally. He straightens up. “You think it’s the same people that attacked my mother.”

“Yes,” Hermione says, a whisper of a word that makes alarm bubble up in her again.

“Think about Nott Manor,” she presses, as Draco spins one of his rings around and around. “What if it burning down wasn’t really an accident? What if, rather than someone burning it down, it collapsed in on itself? And think about your Manor. Why remove your Mother from its premises?”

Draco’s jaw clenches, shadows fluttering as muscles flex.

“The Weasleys don’t fit the scheme,” he says. “They’re part of the Order. They don’t have any ties to the Dark Lord. The Burrow isn’t an ancient manor like mine or Theodore’s. The only thing they have in common with us is that—”

Draco halts, lifting his gaze to Hermione.

“What if the scheme isn’t what we think it is?” Hermione says slowly.

Draco swallows. The anxious fluttering in her stomach worsens.

“Purebloods,” he says, equally as slow, stilling his fidgeting. “You think they’re going after Purebloods?”

“They’ve only gone after Purebloods. Think of—”

Draco grunts his dissent, standing to pace the room itself. “No. That’s a—a side-effect of targeting Death Eater families. We were all Purebloods, Granger, that was the entire point.”

“Yes, but—but the Rotts were Purebloods, too,” she says. “And they weren’t involved in the War.”

Draco slashes a hand in the air, dismissing her words. “They were tied to the Parkinsons. Everyone knew they supported Voldemort, even if they kept a low profile.”

“But they weren’t directly involved in the War,” she presses.

“The Rotts could’ve been collateral to—to Blaise and his mother,” Draco says. “The Weasleys are the outliers. Why—why go after them after the War? When there are people like me still around? Why wouldn’t they go after us?”

Draco stops by the large window, looking out at the dark sky. The light from the waning moon outside is barely enough to illuminate his face. His expression is cold and hard.

“It seems like these—these people have an interest in wizarding homes, for one reason or the other,” Hermione says. “This is the third household to be—attacked, if that is what happened to the Burrow—which I believe it is. Perhaps what I saw at the Burrow is the same thing that happened to Nott Manor. Nott Manor was much older than the Burrow, and it’s plausible that harming its core could’ve had much worse effects than what—”

“But why the Weasleys, then?” Draco turns to her, “There are plenty of centuries-old wizarding Manors around England. They could’ve taken their pick. Why the Burrow? It’s not—it has no history, no nothing. It’s too young.”

“How many of the older Manor belong to families that fought on your side of the War?” Hermione asks. The words hover between them, drowning in the silence of the room.

“The vast majority,” Draco says at length.

Hermione had known that already. “Perhaps they chose the Burrow because it would’ve brought less attention to them. Another old Manor tied to the Death Eaters mysteriously burning to the ground would’ve warranted further investigation, and maybe they didn’t want to bring extra attention to themselves.”

Draco turns to her, sweeping his gaze over her features, his jaw tight.

“You think that what happened to Nott Manor is going to happen to my Manor, too,” he says quietly. It’s not a question.

Hermione swallows. The bad feeling in her gut twists, squeezing her stomach.

The incidents must be connected. The Burrow can’t have suddenly decided to play a joke on them all—something must’ve happened to it, someone must’ve—must’ve hurt it, somehow. It can’t be normal, can’t be an accident.

And those people she saw in Narcissa’s memories—their interests in the Manor’s history, in its wards. It leaves a bitter taste at the back of her throat.

Hermione hates how little she knows, how little she can guess about the motives behind these attacks. But her thoughts keep snagging on one thing in particular, like threads on a splinter.

“Voldemort lived at the Manor for months,” she says. “His magic was—” Hermione’s breath hitches. She remembers the way the air in the Manor had stifled her. How Voldemort’s rotten magic had felt tangible, how it had seemed to play with Bellatrix’s curls as she tortured her on that floor.

“It must’ve stained every corner of the Manor,” she says, not hiding her disgust. “It must’ve seeped into the Manor itself, with all the—all the Dark Magic and the Death Eaters living there. What if it—what if it reached the Manor’s core?”

Her thoughts tangle together, tightening her stomach, her voice.

She can’t say what she wants, what she fears. She just falls back into the dissonant feeling of tapping into the Burrow’s core, the echoing hollowness that felt so much like something had been ripped away from it. She recalls the cloying press of Voldemort’s Dark Magic at the Manor, the way the Horcruxes had had their own tiny, gravitational pulls. The way the Burrow had reached for her magic, trying to latch onto it.

She imagines Nott Manor—magic being ripped away; magic, unbalanced, compressing in on itself and collapsing. Foundations crumbling into rotten embers.

“If magic can be taken from a core,” she whispers, “what happens to it? Where does it go?”

Hermione watches as resentment ripples across Draco’s features. He turns away from her, staring out of the window. Then he hisses a sharp breath through clenched teeth and Hermione holds her breath, watching silently as Draco’s eyes close.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, just as she had done scarcely hours ago, alone in her bathroom.

Something constricts behind Hermione’s ribs, a weight pressing her ribcage into her lungs. Draco turns to give her his back and Hermione watches his shoulder blades flex with tension, the pale moonlight casting the dip of his spine into shadows.

Draco holds himself very still and very quiet, pulled taut to the point where Hermione worries he’s going to snap. Her heart beats faster the longer Draco keeps silent, his hands sliding slowly down to cover his face, her own anxiety crawling up her throat.

Draco’s chest rises and falls. He tries to take a deeper breath, but it stutters and splits into two.

Hermione sways, but does not close the distance between them. And yet it feels wrong, Draco standing in the middle of her room, his breaths too short and his body so dreadfully tense. It makes Hermione think of how he’d looked in the bath as she’d spat all his mistakes back at him; of the flash of pain that had cut across his stone-cold features when she’d called him a coward, a flash so unfiltered and raw that it had made him look young—had reminded her of how he’s looked during Sixth Year, the angry fear that had lingered in his eyes, the one he hadn’t always been able to hide.

That flash had almost drained the anger out of her; the unexpected clarity of it, the way he’d tucked it away almost immediately, transfiguring it into anger.

Draco’s chest expands, but Hermione sees the tightness of it.

He’s doing it now, too, she realises. Tucking his emotions away, keeping them on a tight leash, and it hurts her, it hurts her more than she thought possible and it makes her ache, because a part of her wants to see Draco’s facade crack, wants to see him vulnerable and scared and not in control—because she isn’t, either.

Hermione sways again, and this time, she takes a step forward, then another, the distance between them vanishing.

She follows the shadows that caress Draco’s back with her eyes, and then her fingertips. Draco’s shoulder blades twitch, his breath stilling. Goosebumps rise on his moonlit skin as she traces her way to his arm.

Hermione steps around him, until her unsteady hands find his, pulling them away from his face.

Draco keeps his eyes shut, tilting his head towards the ceiling.

“Draco,” Hermione whispers, voice tentative and soft because she doesn’t know how to do this, doesn’t know how to comfort him, or if he even wants her to.

Draco sucks a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, fine wrinkles forming at the corners. His wrists twist in her grip, as if he wants to slip out of her hold, but Hermione holds on to him tighter, stepping closer.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Only knows that she doesn’t like the distance between them—the tangible and intangible one.

“Draco,” she says again, because his name always feels right. “Look at me.”

He scoffs, but the sound is quiet and small and it wraps around Hermione’s heart with a vicious grip.

“Draco.”

She steps closer, until their bodies are pressed together. Everything goes quiet inside Hermione’s mind as she takes Draco in, the tendons straining in his neck, the soft moonlight coming in from the window, painting him in various grey shades.

Hermione slips her fingers between his. “Look at me,” she whispers.

Slowly, Draco lowers his face to hers.

His fingers hang limply in her grip. She holds on tighter as his eyes open with a flutter of long lashes, the bright silver of his gaze making her breath stumble in her lungs. Their eyes lock without a word, and that thing in her chest flutters painfully when she sees the red lining his lower lashline.

“What?” Draco asks, his voice rough and tight. “What could you possibly say that would make this fucked up situation better, Granger?”

Words fail her, her tongue turning leaden in her mouth. Anything she thinks to offer sounds too empty, too stupid. What can she even say, what can she even do?

Hermione feels stupid, and tired, and like she’s back in the Forest of Dean, trying to put scattered pieces of knowledge together, trying to sketch a picture of the world that makes some kind of sense. Except she doesn’t know what the right words might be with Draco, doesn’t know him like she knows Harry or Ron. Doesn’t know him like she secretly wishes to. And yet the urge to offer Draco something swells in her, so sharply that it feels like a blade slicing into her bones, leaving behind splintered fragments.

She doesn’t want Draco to tuck away the things he’s feeling, doesn’t want to watch his eyes shutter again, when the glassy look she finds in them now pulls at her so strongly.

Draco stares at her silently, his eyes drifting over her face, searching for an answer Hermione doesn’t have. Draco’s hands are a steady weight in hers, cold where the metal of his rings interrupts the warmth of his skin.

There’s a terrible vulnerability in Draco’s expression. Hermione blames it on the silvery light that bathes him, or on the way his fingers twitch in her hold, slipping covertly between hers.

She wonders if this is how he must’ve looked like, that day in the Sixth Floor bathroom, when Harry almost killed him; or if he’d been far more broken then. She wonders what it must’ve been like, to see him fall apart just a bit.

Hermione craves, with a startling intensity, to see it for herself. To pull him apart bit by bit and reach the tender parts of him, the ones Draco never shows, the ones that she might understand.

“You’re not alone,” she says. The words feel stupid as soon as she gives them voice, and yet they’re all she can think to say.

Draco had already seen through her mask; can’t he see that she wants to be there for him? That she will be gentle with his vulnerability, even though he doesn’t deserve it? Even though she doesn’t want to want this quite so badly, even though she knows this will only hurt her down the line?

Draco’s jaw ticks, pushing forward. His anger rears its head and Hermione hates it, hates that all he’s gone through has turned him so acrimonious, hates that his response to softer touches is always to flinch away in displeasure.

She doesn’t want him to be this way with her. She doesn’t—she doesn’t want that. She wants something else, something more. She wants him to give her something of himself, something he doesn’t want her to have. After all the parts of herself she’s given him, doesn’t she deserve to have some parts of Draco for herself, too?

It feels like she’s seeing this side of Draco for the first time, and she wants to see more of this uncertain version of him, wants him to want her to see.

Hermione entwines their fingers until their palms are pressed together, staring into Draco’s silver eyes. Draco can read her like no one else can, can see through her in a way that makes her stomach twist. She’d hated it, all those months ago, the way his gaze made her feel so naked and exposed, but she needs him to see her now, so she gives herself willingly to his prying gaze, lets him see, just a bit, he can trust her with this, too.

“We’ll figure it out,” Hermione whispers. Her voice is tight with emotion, cold anxiety swirling with the warmth of the affection that blooms in her chest. The fluttering behind her ribs becomes a whirling wind that makes everything complicated, that tangles all her feelings together. Hermione lets his hands go to press her fingers to Draco’s collarbones, to slide them upwards until they cup his jaw, until the long strands of his hair brush lightly against her fingertips.

“You’ve got me,” she whispers, and a frisson goes through her. “We’ll figure it out. I promised to help you, didn’t I?” she says. She had damned herself for the Vow, and yet now it feels intangibly precious, like the thinnest of silk threads holding them together.

Draco’s breath hitches. He doesn’t look away from her as his fingers clumsily grip her waist.

“We will figure it out, Draco,” she says again, even though the worry in her stomach is sharp. But all she cares about now is reassuring Draco. Getting him to believe her words. “You and I. And—and Theo, and Pansy. We’ll figure out what’s happening. You’re not alone.”

Draco’s pupils are blown wide. His erratic breaths play with some of her stray curls as his hands turn desperate, holding her avidly.

Hermione pulls him towards her until their foreheads touch. Draco’s lashes flutter and Hermione’s heart pinches.

Hermione wonders how much Draco’s anger must weigh, how he can carry it all on his shoulders. How brightly can he let it burn before it fizzles out? How long before cracks begin to form?

Hermione should know, shouldn’t she? Isn’t she herself cracked in so many different ways?

Yet the thought of Draco succumbing to those cracks Hermione is so familiar with feels unbearable. It’s unnerving and scary and she wants to say more, wants so badly to find the right words to comfort him, to let her take some of that weight, but all the words she finds feel insufficient and stupid.

Hermione tilts her face up, enough to press a kiss to Draco’s lips. She watches as his eyes fall shut, her heart an ugly, trembling thing in her chest.

Draco’s mouth parts as he makes a small sound, deep in his chest, pulling her into him.

His lips are soft and cold beneath hers as Hermione kisses him gently, warming as their mouths press together, as her hands tangle into his hair. Draco tries to drag her closer but there is no space between them anymore, no distance to fill. His bottom lip is sweet between her teeth as she bites on it gently, chasing that small sound he had made until she hears it again, sighing into her mouth.

A shiver dances down Hermione’s spine when Draco’s tongue swipes over her bottom lip. She deepens the kiss, letting his tongue swipe inside her mouth, revelling in the heady taste of him, in the chocolate flavour that sweetens the kiss, their tongues brushing against each other.

She kisses Draco slowly, his mouth following hers, novel in the way he lets her guide the kiss, lets her separate their lips just for a breath as she tilts his face further still, slanting their mouths together at a deeper angle.

Draco’s breaths are all hitched things and small sounds. She feels him shiver against her, the tense tremble of his body spilling into the space between their mouths. Hermione’s blood thrums in her veins as she digs her teeth into Draco’s soft bottom lip, tugging.

His breath hitches again, a tight little sound finding its way into her mouth. She pulls Draco and that sound closer, kissing his lower lip before sneaking her tongue inside the warm heat of his mouth, tentatively, shakingly.

There is nothing mean about this kiss. Somehow, the pain of it is nearly unbearable.

Draco’s fingers slide to the curve of her back, drifting towards the hem of her shirt. Hermione shivers, gooseflesh rising on her legs as Draco’s hands slide under the cotton, exposing her skin to the moonlight.

He groans against her lips when Hermione tugs at his hair, tilting his head back as she drags her lips away from his with a sigh, trailing them down his jaw. Draco brushes his fingertips over the curve of her arse before his hands settle at her waist, skin to skin, his hold on her so tight it hurts.

She nips at his jaw, then presses a feather-light kiss to Draco’s thrumming pulse, tasting the salt of his skin with the tip of her tongue for a fleeting moment. She presses an ever lighter kiss to his collarbone. Draco’s eyes stay closed, his lips soft-looking and red, glistening from her kiss. His breathing is ragged; his breaths play with her lashes, with a cord deep inside her, making her and the entire world quiver like a harp’s string on its last note.

He looks beautiful, just the slightest hint of a flush painting the high point of his cheekbones, and emotion chokes her. Draco is tense in her arms, strained and on the verge of something that feels too big for the scant space between them.

He makes another small noise, soft and low, seeking her mouth, and Hermione is swept away by a savage, cruel need to strip him bare—to strip him of his anger and his fears and let the moonlight shine on what lays beneath, discover from where these quiet little noises come from, discover if that part of him will recoil from gentle touches, or if it will be greedy for them.

Hermione needs to find that part of him, so badly that it makes her want to cry—wants to hold him in her arms, wants him soft and loose-limbed, rather than this trembling being of pent-up emotions that he is, spilling over into rage.

He can trust her, can’t he see that? He can trust her with the parts of himself that he keeps so carefully hidden. Hermione can see past Draco’s mask, just as he can see through hers, and she wants to show him that she, unlike him, will be kind to what lies beneath, will be kind to him, regardless of how much she still hates him at times, because she needs it, viscerally—needs to let something spill through the cracks, needs to take something from him.

Letting her have this is the least he can do. Because if she can take his bruises, if she can take the parts of him that are sharp and scathing and cruel, then he can take her reassurances and her tender touches, no matter how much it might hurt him.

Hermione presses her lips to Draco’s again as she guides him, gently, towards her bed. His hands dig earnestly in her flanks but he lets her push him, lets her set the pace rather than ripping it away from her. It’s enough to make Hermione’s head spin, yet his desperate hold on her is a tether to reality, to all that is real in this moment, suspended in the quiet hours of the night and filled with him, him, him.

Hermione shivers as she pushes Draco down onto her bed. They tumble onto her sheets in a sideways mess of limbs with a lightness that feels unreal. Draco surges forward, his lips hot against hers before they soften, kissing the corner of her mouth and then trailing down her jaw, his arms wrapping around her back to hold her closer.

Hermione sighs as his teeth scrape down her throat. Draco’s hand curls around the nape of her neck as he covers his body with hers, their legs tangled together, skin seeking skin.

Her entire body is alight, and Draco isn’t the only one shaking, the only one trembling beneath the dream-like quality of this moment.

She pulls at his hair and presses their mouths together again, kissing him slowly and deeply. His mouth is supple against hers and Hermione tries to coax sighs out of him, just so she can taste them again, over and over.

Draco caresses her hip, his touch like a brand on her skin. It leaves a burning trail behind as he slides it upwards, spanning over her ribs until his thumb brushes over the swell of her breast. His mouth becomes more demanding, teeth sinking in her lower lip as he cups her breast—but Hermione doesn’t want him like this, not now, not tonight.

She tugs at his hair until their mouths reluctantly separate. Draco blinks his eyes open, and his silver irises are so close and so gorgeous that for a moment, Hermione’s mind blanks. His pupils are wide, just slivers of silver framing the black.

Her throat tightens at his sheer beauty, at the thought of what she wants to do to him. She strokes her fingers through his hair as Draco’s eyes fleet over her features, a frantic sort of need rising in his gaze. His gaze falls to her mouth and he goes to kiss her again, but Hermione tugs him away, denying him her mouth, her heart drumming an unsteady beat.

Draco’s eyes flash, the fingers at her nape twitching with tension. Hermione slides her hands away from his hair to press them against his shoulders and push, until Draco is the one laying on his back under her, Hermione’s knees on either side of his hips.

She wants to say something as Draco’s hands fall to her thighs, but the sight of Draco beneath her is too much, his hair messy and mouth soft and dark eyes blinking up at her.

He looks different, like this, and emotion lodges in her throat, forcing Hermione to swallow it down, where she doesn’t have to think about it. She can’t think about it—not now, not here, not with Draco’s fingers drawing senseless circles on her skin, his touch the softest it has ever been with her.

Hermione leans forward, her hands at the bend of his shoulders and her hair cascading around them. She presses her lips to Draco’s cheek, where the flush of blood beneath his porcelain skin is brightest in the dark, where it’s warmest.

Draco’s sharp exhale against her ear makes her stomach clench, so Hermione does it again, pressing another kiss to his other cheek, and then again and again, over the bridge of his nose, his forehead, his jaw. She presses a feather-light kiss onto his lips and pulls away when he nips at her mouth, tracing a path of small, phantom kisses down his neck and to his chest.

Draco’s hands begin to drift over her as she presses kiss after kiss onto his scarred skin, following long silvery scars down the planes of his body. His fingers flex over her thighs, sneaking under her shirt and trailing up her back only to find their way downwards again.

Draco’s hips buck when she scrapes her teeth over one nipple and her pulse races, burning hot in every corner of Hermione’s body as she feels him, hot and pressing against her arse.

Hermione trembles, a dazzling wave of emotion swelling in her. She trails her lips faintly over Draco’s ribs and down his stomach, barely touching him, excitement burning through her. Her fingers follow the path left behind by the tip of her tongue as she slides further down his body. Draco makes space for her between his legs, bending one knee as Hermione’s fingers ghost over his hip bones.

His hands grasp at her curls as she leaves a kiss just beneath his belly button, her breath disturbing the pale line of hair that leads to his navel. She presses one last kiss just above the waistband of his joggers, and only then does Hermione raise her eyes to Draco’s.

Her stomach swoops when their gazes meet, when she comes face to face with the dark want in Draco’s eyes. She exhales, her breath ghosting over Draco’s skin.

He shivers.

Hermione doesn’t look away from him as she bites softly at the spot she’d just kissed, scraping her nails down his sides as his abdominals flex beneath her mouth. Draco hisses out a breath, his grip tightening in her hair and hips bucking towards her, causing his length to press against her stomach.

Hermione plants her hands on his hips, pressing them back onto the bed. A rebuke crowds her throat, but she swallows that down, too.

She lifts off him, affection and arousal swirling in her stomach. The flush on Draco’s cheeks has crept its way down his chest, following the path her mouth had laid down for it. His scars glisten where she’d traced them with her tongue; the red tracks of her nails down his flanks are bright amidst the shadows.

Draco’s cock tents his black joggers obscenely, and Hermione can’t help but stare, can’t help but trail her index finger up his length, knowing what lies beneath the fabric.

She doesn’t think he’s ever looked quite as beautiful as he does now, lying beneath her, covered in her marks. She thinks she understands him better, now, understands why he so likes to leave bruises on her skin.

Draco groans roughly when Hermione bends again and presses a kiss to his cock through his trousers. His fingers tug at her curls, pushing her harder against his length, and this time the rebuke makes its way out of her mouth.

“None of that,” she says, voice low and sharp. She drags his hand out of her hair as Draco’s eyes flash again, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Yet he lets Hermione press his hand onto the mattress, even as his hips twitch again, straining under her hold.

Hermione flushes hot beneath her shirt as Draco takes her in, the irritation in his eyes giving way to something warmer, to something hesitantly fascinated. She reaches for his other hand, uncurling it from where he’d been gripping the sleeve of her shirt and pressing it down at his side, a mirror to the other. Their fingers brush and Hermione worries her heart will leap out of her chest, that it will fill the room with the metallic scent of her blood as it crawls its way to Draco.

Hermione doesn’t know what she’s doing—hasn’t known for weeks, now, but Draco looks beautiful splayed out on her bed like this, and she doesn’t want this moment to ever end, doesn’t want to think past the door of her bedroom, past the moonlight that illuminates them.

Draco’s thumb brushes over her knuckles before his fingers let hers go, grasping at the bedsheets, and Hermione feels like suddenly there is no air in the room. Draco’s knees drop, his chest rising on a deep inhale before he releases it slowly, his exhale stuttering just for a beat.

He’s nervous, she realises, nervous, Merlin, because of her—because of her.

Hermione watches, heart in her throat, as Draco forces his body to relax, as the tension that had so achingly hurt her before drains away from his body, lingering only in his fingers, clawed into her sheets.

All Hermione wants is to make that tension disappear completely, showing Draco that yes, yes, he can trust her, because she can be cruel to him as he is to her, but she will be sweet to him now, will be kind to him, because Draco is hers, and Hermione cares for him, cares for him in a way that scares her down to the marrow of her bones.

Hermione inhales a shaky breath, her lungs screaming for oxygen, and presses her hands to his lean stomach, feeling the muscle flex beneath her palms. Her fingers curl, her nails leaving crescent-shaped marks on Draco’s skin as he looks at her with parted lips and wide eyes, his pulse thrumming visibly in the hollow of his throat.

The urge to feel Draco’s pulse up close grows in her, a dangerous longing to wrap her fingers around his throat and give him a taste of the dizzying sensation of being at someone’s mercy—at her mercy, even just for a fleeting moment. She aches, for a second, to cover him in her bruises, in marks that take days to fade; to make him hurt in the sweetest of ways and plead for her and cry out her name amidst her pillows, for once.

Hermione watches the bob of Draco’s throat as he swallows.

“Go on,” he whispers hoarsely in the quiet of the room.

Her eyes snap to his, their gazes clashing with a clangour that echoes in the spaces between her ribs. Draco’s jaw is tight, his eyes more closed off than they had been before, and Hermione immediately misses the shadow of vulnerability she had seen in his gaze, craves it again with such an intensity that it makes her head spin.

“Do it, Granger,” Draco says. His fingers clench in her sheets as her nails leave small crescent indents amidst his scars.

His voice drops so low she barely hears him when he says, “Do you think I can’t tell what you’re thinking? That I can’t tell what you want?”

Hermione doesn’t say anything.

Draco’s lip curls back into a sneer. “Go on,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Hurt me. I can tell you want to give me a taste of my own medicine.”

For a heartbeat, the look in Draco’s eyes makes her truly want to hurt him. Makes her want to bare her teeth back at him and add to the scars already scattered across his body; but as fast as it sparks, her anger fizzles out, leaving her cold.

Hermione crawls up Draco’s body, until her hands are by his head, until they’re eye to eye. She sweeps her gaze over his features, noting the anger that begins to line them, and lets one of her hands curl around his throat. His pulse thrums beneath her hold.

She tilts his head to the side, pressing a kiss to spot just beneath his ear.

“I can see right through you, too,” she whispers, and Draco shudders. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?”

Hermione presses another kiss to his thrumming pulse. “You should stop pushing me away,” she murmurs, a wish she shouldn’t have, a secret he shouldn’t know, but true, nonetheless. “I won’t hurt you.”

Draco’s exhale ghosts over the bend of her neck. His hands stay clenched in the sheets. Hermione’s pulse beats as quickly as Draco’s and she wonders if he can hear it, if he can hear the faint tremble in her words.

“Let me be kind to you, Draco. I want to be kind to you, even if you don’t deserve it,” she says. Her hand trails down to Draco’s chest as she kisses his collarbone. Another small, strangled sound escapes him.

Draco’s heart beats rapidly beneath her hand. Hers squeezes desperately in turn, aching.

Hermione crawls back down Draco’s body without meeting his gaze. She has said too much already and all that is left now is to take what she wants from him, just as he so often does.

She kisses her way back between his legs, trying to keep her touches kind, yet sometimes she fails, when her emotions choke her in the silence, the ghosts of Draco’s hand wrapping around her throat.

Her teeth find the softness of Draco’s flanks, her nails turn his torso into a patchwork of pinks and reds. But Hermione tries to hold onto the gentleness she wants to give Draco, no matter how difficult it is, no matter how much it seems to hurt both of them.

When she settles her hands on his thighs, kneeling between his legs, and presses her thumb to the head of Draco’s straining cock through the cotton of his jogger, he throws his head back, covering his eyes with the back of his wrist, as if he can’t stand the sight of her.

In the darkness, she makes out his scarred Mark, all botched and ruined. A tender melancholy floods her, tinted with bitterness. Feelings she can’t reconcile with the affection she feels do their most to drown her, and so Hermione lets herself sink into their kaleidoscopic depths, lets them pull her under until she is made of nothing more than distorted reflections of Draco.

His scars, her scars—they glitter in the darkness, telling stories that feel far too old for how young they should be. She wants to kiss the inside of Draco’s wrist, right over Voldemort’s Mark, and claim it for herself.

But she is still, in some capacity, a coward, because she looks away instead, overwhelmed by her own desires.

She drops her gaze back to Draco’s cock, the sight bringing her back out of her thoughts.

This is what they know, isn’t it? Painful pleasure; skin to skin; unsaid words.

She wants to teach him that kindness can feel as good as giving in to the greedy, vicious beasts that live inside of them.

Her fingers move with renewed intention, even though they shake. They curl under the waistbands of his joggers and pants and slowly drag them down. The materials catch at the head of Draco’s cock, eliciting a hiss from him and a sigh from her, and it's with a tremor that Hermione frees Draco’s length and slips the rest of his clothes off him.

Draco shudders when Hermione drags her fingers up the inside of his thighs, pressing his wrist further against his eyes, his other hand pulling at the sheets. Hermione is entranced; she has never touched Draco like this, has never dreamt of touching him like this, and yet she knows instantly that she will never get sick of this, of the sight of Draco’s cock twitching at her touch, of the sight of Draco splayed out like this.

The smell of Draco’s arousal hits her when she lays down more comfortably, her hands on Draco’s navel, his thighs trapped beneath her arms. Hermione can almost taste him, heady on her tongue, smelling like salt and the soap in his shower; she’s so captivated by the sight in front of her that she doesn’t even notice Draco’s hand falling from his face until it tugs at her sheets again.

She looks up at him, finding his stare fixed on the dark canopy above them. She smiles as a muscle feathers in his jaw; a fleeting trace of her giddy excitement returning, soon washed away by another wave of deep, exhilarating desire.

She wraps a hand around his base, and Draco’s hips shift minutely before stilling.

The first swipe of her tongue over him is bliss for them both; Draco groans brokenly as Hermione sighs. She chases the taste of him again, a small lick over his slit, where the taste of him is strongest, and then another, and another.

She tastes him slowly, lazily, almost shyly. It’s nothing like the previous times she’s done this. Draco’s hands aren’t in her hair, aren’t pulling at her curls nor making her eyes sting with tears as he pushes himself down her throat until she can scarcely breathe. There’s nothing rough about this, nothing mean nor desperate.

It makes heat pool low in Hermione’s stomach. It lights her every nerve ending on fire, making her burn and shudder. It’s enticing, she realises, Draco fisting her sheets in restraint, his hips twitching towards her, movements unchecked and stunted, broken as he tries to keep control over them.

But his control slips bit by bit with every kiss she trails down his length, with every one of her satisfied hums.

More than enticing, it’s addicting, nearly as much as it is terrifyingly delicate. Hermione wonders if this is difficult for Draco, if it hurts him to let her lay kisses on the scar that reaches past his navel and down his thigh, if it’s painful for him to let her press his hips down with a barely there pressure when he bucks towards her mouth. She wonders if he’s doing his best to not let that control of his slip fully, if he’s trying to prove to her that he can take this, can take her explorations, her gentleness. If it hurts him to stay silent, to restrain himself from demanding, from taking.

She thinks it must, and if the thought lingers too long, it makes her heart hurt.

Draco chokes on a low groan when, at last, she takes him in her mouth, his thighs flexing with restrained need.

Warmth blooms in Hermione’s chest at how much he’s clearly trying for her, and she rewards him with a squeeze below his crown. The responding, stunted lift of his hips steals all the air from her lungs, makes her want him and hate him just a little bit more.

Hermione takes him deeper, sucking gently, and Draco’s harsh exhales make that warmth in her chest all the brighter. She feels like a layer has been peeled away from her—like she’s nothing but exposed, burning nerves and veins brimming with lust and Draco—Draco is being so good, and Hermione hadn’t known she’d needed this quite so badly.

Hermione kisses Draco’s leaking tip and unfamiliar, soothing words roll off her tongue, like a language she hadn’t known she could speak.

So sensitive, murmured between little licks over his slit.

You taste so good, hummed as she follows the path of a bead of pre-come down his length.

Be good and keep still, Draco, said with a smile hidden against his skin after she scrapes her teeth over the vein along his underside and Draco chokes on a gasp, hips rising off the bed.

Draco shivers and twitches, and in the darkness it fills her with a nervous glee.

Hermione wraps her lips around him and takes him in her mouth again, only an inch, only a little, swirling her tongue around his tip. Draco’s hips buck upwards as he muffles a desperate groan against his wrist, and Hermione keeps them pinned to her bed with her hands.

She brushes her thumbs over his hipbone and looks up at him again, stroking him slowly, luxuriating in the heat and weight of him in her hand.

Their eyes meet as Draco’s hand drops from his face. He lifts himself on an elbow and Hermione understands that the foreign look in his dark eyes is desperation, or something akin to that.

Draco’s fingers let go of the bedsheets to grip at the sleeve of her shirt, tugging faintly. His eyes fall to her mouth, barely an inch from the tip of his leaking cock. Draco’s lips part and Hermione waits, heart in her throat, for him to ask her to make him come, for him to ask her like he always makes her ask, always making her beg for what she needs from him.

But Draco doesn’t speak, only stares between her mouth and her eyes with an anguished look, and Hermione doesn’t want to break whatever this thing between them is.

So though she craves to hear him beg her with such acuity that it hurts—so much that she has to bite her tongue not to speak, not to implore him to beg her—she keeps her requests for herself, too scared that demanding that of Draco will shatter something in her that Hermione can’t yet afford to lose.

Hermione kisses the tip of Draco’s cock and then takes pity on them both, crawling up his body, never taking her eyes off him.

She pushes Draco back onto the mattress, and he accommodates her when she settles her knees right above his shoulders. His hands glide up her thighs with urgency, stopping only at the hem of her shirt.

His throat bobs when Hermione hovers over him, then he groans when she sits on his chest, her legs spread wide, her cotton knickers damp against his skin.

Draco grips her thighs, releasing a hissed breath. Draco’s pupils eat up his irises, so wide and deep Hermione gets lost in them. Hermione runs her fingers through his hair to hide their shaking.

She knows Draco can feel how wet she is even through the fabric that separates her from him. She shudders, pressing herself harder against him as he looks up at her—and then she rolls her hips forward just an inch, seeking relief.

Draco’s breath catches, his grip on her agonizing.

She does it again and Draco’s hand slides under her shirt, under the band of her knickers, pulling them further up her hips. The cotton catches on her clit, the pressure increasing as the material stretches, and she bites her lip to stifle a moan.

Draco’s lips curl into a small, cocky smirk. Hermione narrows her eyes and tugs at his hair, tilting his head back enough that Draco’s lashes flutter, the smirk dropping as pleasure flashes over his features.

When their eyes meet again, Draco pulls her a little closer, his legs shifting on the mattress. The knowledge that she’s left him hard and leaking sends a hot flash of want through her.

“Are you going to get yourself off like this?” Draco asks, his voice husky and rough. It rumbles beneath her, through her, making her thighs clench around him on their own accord. Draco pulls her forward again, grinding her against him.

Hermione shivers at the thought. Part of her wants to come just like this, but the sight of his mouth, pink and soft, so close to her makes her crave something else.

She tilts her head, tracing her fingers down the side of Draco’s face, over the bridge of his nose and to the dip just above his upper lip.

“No,” she whispers, before pushing two fingers between Draco’s lips. His teeth scrape against her skin as she presses the pads of her fingers against his tongue. Draco’s expression turns molten as Hermione hooks her fingers gently over his bottom teeth, pulling his mouth slightly open. “I’m going to use your mouth.”

Hermione doesn’t look away from Draco as she wipes her fingers on his cheek and slides them back into his hair. She tugs his head backwards and hovers over his face. She pulls her knickers to the side, her wet cunt scarce inches from Draco’s mouth—but when he tries to pull her down onto his face, his fingers covering hers over the cotton and further baring her to him, she tuts in disapproval, pulling his hair.

Draco freezes, his eyes snapping from her cunt up to her face.

Her thighs tremble with exertion, with restraint, with thrill.

They’ve never done it like this before. She’s never looked down at him quite like this—and it’s intoxicating. Anticipation blazes a burning path through her veins, but still, she doesn't let him touch her.

Draco’s eyes fall back to her cunt as he pushes her shirt out of the way, one hand splayed on her stomach, one curled in her knickers. There’s something verging on wild in his gaze and she wonders if he can feel the need pulsing low in her navel, right behind his hand.

She pulls at his hair again when he tilts his chin upwards, trying to get to her. Her strength is merely an illusion; Draco could press his mouth to her if he really wanted to—yet he doesn’t.

He swallows roughly, not meeting her eye, before he whispers, “Please.”

Hermione shudders, that single word ghosting over her inner thighs. She curls her fingers in his hair and Draco’s eyes fall at half-mast. They both groan when she lowers herself onto Draco’s mouth, the first touch of his lips to her sex decant, heavenly—a condemnation disguised as a blessing; all that Hermione craves.

Draco’s tongue swipes over her centre—her dripping, oversensitive centre—and Hermione gasps, closing her eyes and pressing closer to his mouth, her hips chasing his tongue as it drags from her entrance to her clit. A drawn-out moan rumbles in Draco’s chest, making goosebumps rise on her thighs as the tight knot of lust and want in her begins to uncoil, spooling through her limbs.

When Hermione opens her eyes again, she finds that Draco is staring up at her as his tongue swipes over her clit, sending jolts of pleasure down her legs. Hermione’s breath hitches, stumbles, disappears.

Draco’s eyes close as he pulls her closer to him, as his lips wrap around her clit, and Hermione is cleaved down the middle by the need to watch him and the need to close her eyes again, to let her head fall back and let everything but the pleasure Draco is giving her drift out of existence.

The decision is made for her when Draco’s teeth bite gently, so gently, down on her clit. The world goes dark behind her lids as Hermione moans, her hand snapping to her headboard, the rough texture of the wood so different from the silkiness of Draco’s hair.

She grinds herself against Draco’s mouth as his tongue finds her centre again, wanting to fuck herself on it but unable to fight off the way her entire body shakes and trembles, strung too tight.

Pleasure dances down her spine as emotion stings the back of her eyes, and she doesn’t want to cry, she doesn’t, but everything feels too different and too new and—and opposite to how things should be, to how they’ve always been between them. It should be her under him and the fact that it isn’t makes Hermione feel sovereign and paper-thin at the same time, too big for her skin, too small for all the things she wants.

Draco’s tongue pushes inside of her and all her thoughts are burnt away by desire, by the way Draco groans brokenly against her, pulling her knickers further to the side until the seams start giving. And Hermione feels like she is being pulled apart, too, like every stitch is coming undone, Draco’s for the ripping, for making anew.

Hermione slides her fingers into the thin space between Draco’s neck and the mattress and encourages him to reach deeper inside her, to take all she has to give. Draco does, pushing his tongue deeper inside of her, holding onto her as he had held onto her in that bath, with those words hanging awfully between them, brimming with hostility and contempt.

It’s with that same desperation that she’d felt in his embrace then that Draco holds her closer now, grunting his own want in her skin, giving her more pleasure than she can bear.

Yet Hermione takes it with greedy hands, grinding against him when he slides his tongue out of her for air, groaning as she rolls her hips in short motions over his mouth, his chin, his face.

The scent of her arousal is heady—Hermione can smell herself, and imagines the scent lingering on Draco’s skin, viscerally intimate. She groans at the thought, grinding harder against him as Draco makes tiny, quiet grunts. Her clit bumps against Draco’s nose and it sends a bright jolt of pleasure through her, making her choke on a stifled moan.

The high approaches suddenly, achingly, ripped from her by Draco’s desperate hold, by the rapid beating of her heart, by the filthy, indecent sounds that Draco makes against her.

It’s one such sound—broken, hopeless—that makes Hermione’s eyes snap open, that makes her orgasm crest and break. She whimpers, thighs shaking, her toes curling as she tries not to drown in the pleasure—and then that sound comes again, a strangled, muffled groan.

When she looks down at Draco, his eyes are tightly closed, his brows furrowed. Hermione watches him come with his breath held, as if he doesn’t want her to hear, but she feels it, recognises it, and she doesn’t have to turn around to know Draco’s made a mess of himself.

Hermione pulls at his hair so hard that his eyes snap open, locking immediately with hers. She doesn’t let him look away from her as she continues to ride his face—taking and taking and taking, but giving, too, giving herself up to him, over and over again.

Hermione comes again with Draco’s silver eyes intent on her, with his fingers just barely brushing at her entrance. She comes again and it’s smaller and shorter and sharper than the first and she breaks apart a little when she does, because it’s too much, and not enough, and she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to ever be the same, after this.

In the silence that follows, broken only by their panting breaths, Hermione shakes, and tries to keep her tears at bay as she presses her forehead to the cold stone wall in front of her. Her fingers go slack in Draco’s hair and a final stitch pulls free, a final crack spiderwebs and shatters as Draco presses a gentle kiss to the inside of her trembling thigh.


Hours later, as the sun begins to rise, Draco watches her sleep.

A flush lingers on her cheeks, her expression undisturbed by dreams. He doesn’t know how long this peace will last, so he does his best to memorise her features as they are right then.

He doesn’t understand the pain he feels. Doesn’t understand the vicious need to wrap his arms around her, to feel her close and alive and pressed to him.

Draco wants to scream at her. Wants to fight her, wants to spit ugly things in her face and remind her of all the ways that she has failed, all the ways in which she’s no better than him.

He wants to be cruel to her, wants to hurt her and watch her hate him and feel the sharp blade of guilt slice him bit by bit, knowing his cruelty will cut her, too.

Granger sleeps a dreamless sleep, with her cheek pillowed against her hands, and Draco wants to tell her that he wouldn’t have stopped Bellatrix that day in the Manor, even if he could’ve done something differently.

He wants to tell her that he would’ve cursed her, that he would’ve made his Father proud, that he would’ve hurt her over and over again had he known how things would go—had he divined this moment in tea leaves, or in the stars.

Draco wants to wake her, wants to ask her how can she stand herself, how can she do this to him, as if she has the right, as if he wants her to.

But Draco can’t find the words. They hide in some dark corner deep inside of him, behind feelings he can’t understand, feelings he doesn’t want to understand, no matter what it might cost him.

Draco watches Granger sleep and thinks of the pain he’d felt as she’d left him behind to run after Potter; he watches her and thinks of the worry that had tied his stomach into knots as the hours had passed and she hadn’t returned to him. He tucks a curl behind her ear and thinks of the jealousy that had seized him when Theo had told him that he’d seen her, of the fury that had coloured his vision red when the girl had called her a Mudblood—and of how that fury had turned into relief when he’d held her in his arms again.

Draco loses himself in his thoughts, until they bleed together and he can no longer discern one from the other, until he finds a way to twist them, to break them apart and reform them into something that makes sense, something that he can live with.

Draco watches Granger sleep, and then he leaves her to her nightmares, alone in a bed too small for two people, something akin to dread weighing him down.

Notes:

i am approximately 0% chill about this chapter. ya'll thought stuff was messy before? HA! *chuckles evilly* you haven't seen anything yet. i've just recently finished writing a new chapter of this story for the first time in months and i listened to the OG osd playlist on loop and y'all. y'all arent ready. dynamic shifts??? the hardship of facing emotions you don't want to feel??? the intrinsic fear and preciousness of letting yourself be vulnerable with someone??? hating and craving it at the same time??? i eat that shit up all the damn time so strap in babes. draco's gonna invent a whole other flag colour because red won't fit. but also i could go in a lengtthhyyyy discussion about my delulu boy and my little broken girl. they're just doing their best. draco is scared of all his emotions and he doesn't know how to deal with them, okay? am i gonna teach him? HA! who knows (i don't). anyways thanks to everyone who gave me a slice of cake during the last update, that was so freaking fun and made me feel close to y'all so i've decided it's gonna become a thing if y'all don't mind and this time i humbly request that you show me your favorite fruit emoji <333 mine's the cherry but i'm ironically posting this from a laptop and hence, no emojis. but i'm curious to know what they are!!! as absolutely always thank you to everyone who has been following along!! I've been super excited to share this chapter with you for weeks so I hope ya'll like it!!! <3 in fact i haven't even reread it before posting it cause its hella long and i'm too exciting (so if you see mistakes the babes and i missed, no you don't). oh and if you have any songs that make you think of osd pls share that with me!! i'd love to add more songs to my playlist - someone recently suggested 'pushing it down and praying' and i've been listening to it non stop, so thank you!!

super mega kisses to my lovely betas. mads, hannah, and cie, ya'll keep this machine going fr.

until next time!! <3

Chapter 25

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When Hermione wakes the next morning, Hogwarts is cold and blanketed in white.

Her bed is cold, too. There is no trace of Draco, no indent in her pillow nor scent on the sheets.

Hermione isn’t surprised. Draco’s absence is as predictable as it is frustrating, but it is fine, in the end, because Hermione doesn’t want to see him, either.

Time ticks by unhurried, slowly dragging forwards as Hermione’s gaze gets lost somewhere between the sheets and the window.

She tries not to think about what happened, nor why she feels so unsettled by it. She manages, at least for a while, until shame begins to curl around her thoughts like smoke.

Embarassment makes her cheeks flush hot as she lies there in her bed, and with every minute that passes, the shame pools and settles inside her stomach. The shame stems from too many things, drips from too many leaks, and all it amounts to is a growing disgust that sours everything, that makes her feel pathetic.

But Hermione doesn’t want to feel pathetic, so with a curl of her lip, she forces herself out of bed, relegating all thoughts of the previous night to a corner of her mind.

She spends the remainder of the morning going through her small stock of potions, just to keep her mind busy. She throws out the spoiled ones, making a list of what she needs to brew again and what might be good to have in her reserves.

As the Tower Clock strikes noon, she sneaks her way out of the dorm, the list in her cardigan pocket.

Emptied of most students, Hogwarts feels like it’s missing something fundamental. Colder even than she had thought, the corridors echo her steps back at her, breaking the uncomfortable quiet that reigns over the stone and stairs.

The potion storeroom’s door creaks loudly as she sneaks past it, but at least the small room is warm, smelling faintly like liquorice. She takes her time collecting the ingredients she needs, placing them in small glass vials that tinkle in the pockets of her cardigan. Hermione ticks ingredient after ingredient off her list, and only once one remains, does she let herself look for it.

The Bossawood Poppies rest in a glass vase, the frail, dried petals stacked upon one another.

The first time she had used them to brew the contraceptive potion, in that blasted tent late at night, she had been jittery with fear. The snatchers had been on their trail, and she had begun to dread the wrost. She’d crushed the poppies with trembling hands, unsure of how much potion was best to make, unsure of how long she would have to keep hiding, to keep fighting and fearing.

When she’d drank the last dose she’d made back then just a few weeks ago, she hadn’t thought her actions through—hadn’t let herself think them through, hadn’t let herself justify them in any way. Taking the contraceptive potion had been nothing more than a precaution, an easy way to not worry about what she and Draco were doing, what it meant.

But now, face to face with the frail flowers, that meaning she has tried to avoid dawns upon her. She stares at the petals, and the petals stare back, and Hermione gets the sense that even they, dusty and inanimate as they are, find her pitiful—that even they can read the weakness of her thoughts.

So Hermione flirts, for a second, with the idea of not brewing the potion again, of putting a stop to whatever she has with Draco, cut it down and pull the roots out of her heart before it is too late.

Draco’s necklace burns a hole through her chest where it rests against her sternum. The image of Draco splayed on her bed, gripping her sheets, flashes through her mind, and Hermione closes her eyes and presses her forehead against the wooden shelf in front of her.

She hasn’t taken the necklace off since the moment Draco had clasped it around her neck. She doesn’t want to take it off, can’t find the strength to dredge up some semblance of will, and it makes resentment bubble inside of her—towards Draco, towards herself.

The feeling in her chest grows uncomfortable, clusters oddily between her ribs and the cracks Hermione is littered with, the ones she can’t seem to mend.

That same, panicked feeling she’d felt back in her apartment swells in her again. She wishes, desperately, that Draco were there, that she could hold onto him and breathe him in as she tries to make sense of who she is—and she loathes it.

It isn’t right, how painful this thing she wants is. But the voice in the back of her head whispers that she won’t be able to stay away from Draco and the pain he so often brings—that she can’t.

Hermione ponders if she could ever find a way to excise that voice from herself, to let her resentment burn her feelings for Draco to ashes—but then she remembers the noises Draco had made last night, the stifled whimpers, the way he’d tried for her, and how could she give him up now that she’s seen this part of him? Now that she’s had a taste of the trust that is taking root between them, burrowing deep inside of her?

She had tasted vindication last night, together with the trust. The pain-pleasure of stripping Draco bare had been addicting, had felt a lot like their game was finally turning in her favour, like she had made the right move, and Hermione—Hermione doesn’t want to give that up. Doesn’t want to cede to him again.

She wants it to mean something. She wants Draco to feel as messed up as she does, wants to hoard the parts of him he doesn’t want to give her, regardless of the cost on her soul, regardless of whether she can stand herself for wanting him or not.

Hermione wants this pain, and wants Draco to want it as well. Needs Draco to want it as well.

She shouldn’t, she knows, but her shoulds feel so inconsequential in the light of that trust, of that something more that Hermione could become for Draco—that something that she knows Draco already is for her.

She shouldn’t, but Hermione doesn’t want to care about the shoulds anymore, so she takes a handful of the petals with her, and this time, her hands do not shake.


The next day is marked by the sound of doors opening and closing, of the Gryffindor Dorm slowly coming back to life.

Classes are set to begin on Wednesday, and so Hermione spends her Tuesday much like the previous day, segregated in her room, brewing potions, trying and failing not to think of Draco.

She lets her newest batch of sleeping draught rest by the moonlit window overnight, then refills her glass vials and stashes them in the space between her mattress and headboard.

She takes the contraceptive potion as soon as it cools, then opens her window and throws the pink-stained vial with all the strength she has. It shatters on the ground far below after a few endless seconds, and the sound isn’t nearly as satisfying as she had hoped it would be.

The Dormitory echoes with muffled laughter as the sun begins to grow pale and shy. She remains alone in her room, reading one of Harry’s Grimmauld books, though the words seem not to want to make sense.

Hermione is lost to a quiet sort of dread when a knock comes at her door, startling her out of her thoughts.

Neville pokes his head inside her room and smiles when Hermione waves him in.

“Luna and I are going to dinner. Thought I’d see if you’d like to join us,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

Hermione stares at him somewhat awkwardly, the sounds of the dorm drifting inside her room.

In an alternate timeline, it would’ve been Harry or Ron standing by her door and dragging her to dinner and away from her books. That it’s Neville instead feels odd—yet she feels grateful for it, for him and Luna and the sides they have seemed to not want to take.

“Sure,” Hermione says, marking the page she was reading with a scrap piece of parchment and closing the book.

Neville gives her another smile and waits for her just outside her room as Hermione stretches her still aching body, the lingering pain from Zotoi’s spell weighing her limbs down, and puts on her shoes.

They make their way out of the Dormitory mostly unnoticed. Luna greets them by the stairs with a soft smile, wrapped in a blue knitted scarf.

Neville wastes no time in reaching for Luna’s hand. He pulls her close and presses a kiss to her hair before they begin towards the Great Hall.

Hermione ignores the jealous pinch in her chest and tucks her hands into the sleeves of her sweater.

“Do you know if Arthur and Molly reported the Burrow to Magical Accidents?” she asks as they wait for the stairs to stop moving.

“Ginny said they did,” Luna responds. She looks at Hermione, but leans against Neville’s arm, something sleepy in her expression. “Someone from the department came over to have a look, but I’m not sure what they said. Ginny and Harry went to stay at Grimmauld. I believe Molly and Arthur are staying in London with Percy.”

“And George?” Hermione asks. She’s been worried for him, amidst all the other things she’s worried about. Zotoi’s spell, when Hermione had cast it to Disapparate them past the wards around his room, had seemed to hurt him more than it had hurt her.

“Ron said he went to stay with Bill and Fleur for a while,” Neville responds. “I think some time away from the Burrow might do him well.”

Hermione sighs. “Let’s hope,” she mumbles, though the words feel useless.

When the silence stretches between them, Luna says, “I saw Draco.”

Hermione’s shoulders tense, her gaze snapping to Luna’s—but Luna’s expression is placid and soft.

“I was going to say hello to the thestrals,” she explains, “and saw him and Theo walking back from the Black Lake.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, in lieu of anything more intelligent.

“He was in a foul mood,” Luna says airily. “Even Theo seemed crossed with him. Draco stomped away rather dramatically. Didn’t even say hello.”

“Yes, well.” Hermione lets out an unamused huff. “That sounds like Draco.”

“I did get to thank Theo for his help, at least.”

Hermione nearly trips over her feet, glancing at Neville as dread curls in her stomach.

Luna continues, unaware of Hermione. “He seemed rather—surprised that I knew he’d helped you. Or perhaps he was surprised that I was speaking to him at all.”

“Oh, don’t look so worried,” Neville says through a knowing smile. “Luna told me Theo helped you out with the wards. I didn’t know you two were friends.”

Hermione looks away from Neville’s warm eyes, guilt creeping up her chest in the form of a flush.

“I wouldn’t call us friends,” she mutters.

“Just as you wouldn’t call Malfoy your boyfriend?” Luna asks, teasingly.

Neville, strangely enough, laughs. Hermione’s cheeks begin to burn.

“Malfoy’s not my—my boyfriend,” she sputters indignantly.

“You don’t have to do that with us, Mione,” Neville says.

He stops and gives her a serious look. “We know the others have been giving you a hard time about Malfoy, but—it’s your choice. I mean, Malfoy’s not my favourite person in the world, and he can be a right arsehole when he wants, and he did bully us for years, but, well, you aren’t stupid. If you’re dating him, I’m sure it’s because he’s somewhat decent, underneath all…all that. ” He exchanges a quick glance with Luna and shrugs. “Plus, I like to believe that people can change for the better. And with all Luna’s told me about Malfoy, I don’t see why he can’t change, too.”

Hermione stares at Neville, trying to wrap her mind around his words. Her throat has gone dry, and when Neville begins to walk again, all she can think to say is, “You two talk about Draco?”

Luna slips her hand from Neville’s to loop her arm with Hermione’s and drag her through the Great Hall’s doors.

“We talk about everything,” Luna supplies. “There is very little Nev doesn’t know about me now. I even tell him all my dreams, though neither one of us understands them properly, most of the time.”

For the second time that evening, Hermione ignores the jealous pinch in her chest.

They trail after Neville as he makes his way to their usual seats at the end of the Gryffindor table. The Great Hall is busy enough that conversations overlap and meld with one another, most of the students having already returned. There’s no trace of Harry, Ron or Ginny, and Hermione feels bad for the relief she feels.

But the relief quickly burns away when her gaze sweeps over the Gryffindor table and snags on a set of narrowed blue eyes.

Hermione recognises her immediately, the disgust in her scowl unmissable. As they walk in front of her, Hermione watches the girl lean towards a boy sitting at her left. She whispers something that causes the boy to look up from his plate. He catches Hermione’s gaze, pursing his lips. His stare is cold as it flits over her, cutting in its judgment, his lips pulling into a smirk as the girl mutters something that makes them both huff out a laugh.

He whispers something back, and they laugh again.

Hermione turns away from them. Her teeth grind together in frustration, yet a flush begins to crawl once more towards her cheeks.

Luna pulls her down onto the bench as Neville walks around the table and sits in front of them. Neither one of them seems to have noticed the looks Hermione is on the receiving end of, or if they have, they spare her the mercy of ignoring them, too.

A steaming pot of lentil soup appears on the table as they settle in. Neville pours a serving into Hermione’s plate and she thanks him before forcing down a hot spoonful.

“So,” Hermione says, turning to Luna as the soup begins to warm her stomach. “What happened between you and Theo, in any case?”

Luna had told her, that day in her room, that she didn’t know whether she and Theo were still friends, and talking about this feels marginally better than talking about the Burrow, or Draco.

Luna answers as she cuts into a slice of roast, “I believe he thinks we can no longer be friends because of the War.”

“Which is stupid,” Neville interjects through a mouthful of bread. He glares half-heartedly at Luna as he swallows his food. “They are being idiots.”

Hermione’s eyebrows reach her hairline. “You know Theo as well?”

“It feels like I do,” Neville mutters, “but not technically. I don’t think we’ve ever even spoken. Luna’s just told me a lot about him.”

“Nev thinks I should just speak to Theo and clear things up,” Luna explains, “but I think that’ll do more harm than good. Theo’s a bit like the thestrals. You need to wait and let them come to you.”

“I think you’ll end up waiting forever, with the way things are going,” Neville remarks.

Luna sighs, as if they’ve had this conversation before. Neville’s eyes soften. “I’m just saying, trying wouldn’t hurt.”

“Theo ran away from me today and all I said was thank you.” Luna stares wistfully down at her plate before stabbing her roast with her fork. “He’ll reach out when he wishes to. He knows I won’t be the one to push him away.”

Neville’s mouth opens, but he swallows whatever else he was going to say down with another spoonful of soup.

“Anyways,” Neville pours water into Hermione’s empty glass and pushes it towards her. “Your boyfriend is staring daggers at me, Mione.”

Hermione freezes with her glass halfway to her mouth. She resists the urge to look over her shoulder and takes a sip of water instead.

Neville leans slightly to the side, looking over Hermione’s shoulder.

“Should I wave?” he asks, amused. “It feels like it's bad manners not to acknowledge him.”

Neville raises his hand and gives Draco a small wave. A laugh that sounds an awful lot like Pansy’s rises above the background conversation in the Hall.

Neville’s smile broadens, then falls a little when he looks back at Hermione.

“Sorry,” he mutters, lowering his hand. “Antagonizing Malfoy will be a hard habit to break.”

Hermione can’t truly fault him. She snaps a breadstick in two as she shrugs, feeling petty as she thinks of her empty bed the day before.

“Don’t feel like you have to break it on my account,” she tells Neville, who chuckles. “And he’s not my boyfriend,” she repeats, biting into the breadstick.

Boyfriend. The word sounds nonsensical when she places it next to Draco. Hermione has never had a boyfriend—what she and Ron had in the past had been too brief and too tangled with the War for her to think of him as her first boyfriend—and the thought of Draco being her boyfriend is—is too much.

The word implies things for which there is no space between them; a softness and familiarity that fits Luna and Neville more than it fits her and Malfoy. There is no space for bitterness in that word, no hard consonants to hold the anger and confusion Hermione always feels when she’s with Draco.

She thinks there is no proper word to describe what they are, what burns between them regardless of whether she wants it to or not. Their relationship is but a game, a high she can’t seem to wean herself off of—because as jealous as she is of Neville and Luna, as much as the thought of calling Draco her boyfriend satisfies some wicked thing deep inside of her, she finds that she doesn’t care to name what it is they have, as long as it hers.

As long as Draco is hers.

Things are not like they had been months ago. It’s not just Draco’s touch that thrills her, that makes her crave for more; rather what Hermione craves are those moments where Draco almost feels real, and lost, just like her. It’s those moments that make her heartbeat stumble, that make her want to strip Draco bare and study him, learn just how well their broken pieces can fit together.

This want scares her. It had scared her the other night, and it scares her now, as she feels the weight of Draco’s gaze on the nape of her neck.

Hermione shivers; she wants to turn around, to catch his gaze, to stand and plant herself on his lap so that he can’t run away from her again—but that would be too much like letting him win again, and the prideful part of her that she’d thought she’d lost locks her muscles into place and forces her gaze to not stray.

Neville begins to tell them about an orchid that turns invisible when someone looks at it. She breaks another breadstick with more force than necessary.

This time, she will not be the first to cede.


Draco worries, for an infinitesimal moment, that he will never feel anything other than anger.

It would be draining, but Draco doesn’t let himself feel drained, or empty, or like he doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore.

He just glares at Granger as she sits down at the table on the other side of the Hall, her back to him. The silver knife in his grip is cold as he cuts through the meat on his plate, the blade screeching against the ceramic and making him shiver.

Though perhaps the shiver is caused by the girl on the other side of the room, rather than the sound.

Draco throws his knife and fork on the table, suddenly disgusted, feeling like his skin is stretched too thin over his rage.

He hates her. He hates her more than he hated her at the start of the year, more than he hated her weeks ago, days ago. He hates her more with each second that passes, with every breath she takes, with every moment in which she is not kneeling by his feet, or sleeping on his chest.

She is unravelling his sanity.

At times, Draco thinks she is not even Granger anymore. Because it hadn’t been, that night. The way she had touched him, the way she had spoken, the desire to hurt him back that Draco had seen pooling in her dark eyes, so similar to how she had looked when she had cursed him for using Legilimency on her—Salazar, it had taken Draco everything not to plunge in her mind when she had looked at him like that. He had wanted to so badly it had choked him—yet he hadn’t, and days later, Draco can’t understand why.

He blames it on the late hour. He blames it on her—on a spell she must’ve cast when he wasn’t looking, a spell that had made him forget that things weren’t meant to go the way they had.

Draco wasn’t meant to be vulnerable; Granger wasn’t meant to be nice to him.

He loathes her, for having cursed him with the memories of that night. But he loathes her more for the fact that he can’t stop replaying them.

The sight of her on top of him doesn’t want to leave the forefront of Draco’s mind. He swears he still feels the ghost of Granger’s touch on his body, of her lips tracing his scars. He swears he hears her voice in his head, whispering to be good, laughing at him as he tries to rid himself of her phantom.

He loathes her, yet he can’t stop wanting her.

“I’ve heard breathing is good for your health, you know.”

Draco snaps his gaze to Pansy, glaring at her.

She stabs a green bean with her fork and waves it in his direction.

“Breathing,” she says, enunciating the word perfectly. “Oxygen. Inside your lungs. Then out.”

“I’m familiar with what breathing is,” Draco hisses.

“Just making sure,” Pansy remarks with a smirk. “You’re going all red in the face. I would tone down the murderous rage if I were you. Wouldn’t want you to pop a vessel.”

Draco ignores her as he goes back to staring at the Gryffindor table. He watches as Longbottom fills Granger’s plate with soup and debates setting his awful clothes on fire.

“And you,” Pansy says. In the corner of his vision, Draco sees her point her fork towards Theo. “You’re just an utterly pathetic wanker tonight. Why?”

“Nothing,” Theo mutters.

Pansy scoffs. “Don’t believe it. You’re more pathetic than usual,” she says.

Draco spares Pansy only a quick glance before saying, “He interacted with Lovegood earlier.”

He ignores Theo’s annoyed side-eye as Pansy clucks her tongue.

“That’ll do it, then.” She bites into her green bean. “Made an arse of yourself again?”

Theo tells her to fuck off. Pansy looks back at Draco and then turns in her seat, following his gaze.

Longbottom pours water into Granger’s glass, pushing it towards her. Then he leans to the side and, with a smile, waves at them.

Pansy laughs, turning around to face Draco again, her usual red-painted lips stretched in a cutting smile.

Draco narrows his eyes at Longbottom’s amused smirk, and well, now he has more than enough reason to set his clothes on fire. He reaches for his wand as Longbottom looks away, but Pansy’s pointed nail presses into the back of his hand.

She forces his hand back onto the table, her nail nearly piercing his skin.

“I’m really not in the mood for any unnecessary drama,” she says drily. Draco is tempted to jinx her, if he can’t jinx Longbottom. “You can curse whoever you want to curse after dinner, thank you very much.”

Draco joins Theo in telling her to fuck off before going back to glare at Granger.

The silence between them doesn’t last for nearly as long as Draco would’ve liked before Pansy speaks again.

“We need to ask Granger—”

“No,” Draco says, before Pansy can even finish.

“You don’t even know what I want to ask her,” Pansy snaps.

Draco shrugs. He watches as the Weasel and one of the Patil twins make their way towards Lovegood, Granger, and Longbottom.

“I don’t care,” Draco snaps. Irritation begins to make his skin itch.

Even from a distance, Draco can see Granger go rigid as the Weasel and Patil sit down next to them. The Weasel looks at Granger and says something, and after that, the conversation seems to grow stunted.

“You still haven’t told me why Granger needed to know all those things about wards and core instability,” Theo remarks after Pansy’s offended silence stretches between them.

Draco turns away from the Gryffindors to look at Theo, only to find that Theo’s gaze is fixed on Lovegood.

“Weasley’s miserable hut was attacked. Granger thinks it was the same people who burnt down your Manor,” Draco drawls under his breath.

Theo whips his head towards him. “What?”

He doesn’t care enough to give Theo and Pansy all the details right then, so he simply says, “She thinks they’re going to burn down my Manor next, too, and that’s why they did what they did to my mother.”

“But—the Burrow can’t even be considered a home,” Pansy hisses. “It’s a slum, from what I’ve heard.”

“Wait—backtrack.” Theo pushes his plate away and turns to face Draco fully. “What do you mean the Burrow was attacked? Granger mentioned rearrangements when I caught her in our room.”

Draco pushes down the irritation that thinking about Granger and Theo in their dorm without him there makes him feel.

“She thinks they messed around with the Burrow’s core, ripped away some of its magic. At least, that’s what she said it felt like. She thinks something similar might’ve happened to your Manor.”

Theo shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

“Why not?” Draco asks.

“Because I—I didn’t feel anything when I saw—”

“You weren’t looking for it,” Draco interrupts.

Theo shakes his head again. “There was nothing left behind, Draco. Had it been a core collapse, there would’ve been signs and—”

“Who cares about your stupid houses?” Pansy snaps, interrupting Theo.

Draco glares at Pansy as Theo huffs disbelievingly.

“If the houses are the targets, they might be going after yours too, Pansy. You’re aware of that, right?” Theo asks.

“I don’t give a rat’s arse about what happens to my parent’s home. They can burn it down for all I care.” Pansy turns to Draco. “Why bother with the Weasleys?”

“Granger thinks they’re going after Purebloods, rather than Death Eaters.”

Silence falls between them again as they take in Draco’s words, drowned by the noise of the busy Hall.

Pansy looks at Draco for a long moment before reaching into her pocket. She takes out a folded scrap of parchment and lays it down in front of him and Theo.

It’s a ripped section of the Daily Prophet. A photograph of Kingsley amidst several Wizengamot members and two men in Muggle suits takes up the majority of the page. Below it, a short description appears in the Prophet’s standard font:

The Department of Social and Magical Reform, led by Alaric Jasper, together with The Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, Wizengamot members Orval Bennet and Herber Leonald, and Paul and Daniel Kieron.

Shacklebolt gives the flashing camera a cordial smile. Jasper claps one of the Kieron brothers on the back, grinning.

“Why should this be interesting?” Draco asks Pansy.

Pansy points at Jasper. “He helped Shacklebolt set up the Reformation Centers,” she says. “He used to be openly against Blood Supremacy before the War. I remember my father complaining about him.”

“I still don’t see why this should be interesting,” Draco snaps, annoyed. His gaze flicks back to Granger.

The Patil twin turns to talk to her, but Granger doesn’t do much to engage in conversation. She doesn’t want to be there, Draco realises. Good, he thinks, because she should be in my bed, crying in my thousand-thread count bedshee—

Pansy snaps her fingers in front of Draco’s face. “Can you concentrate for two fucking minutes?” she hisses.

“If you want me to concentrate, then tell me something interesting, Pansy,” Draco hisses back, and Theo, next to him, runs a hand down his face and sighs.

Pansy huffs but points at the Kieron brothers. “I’ve never heard of them, but I thought I’d seen one of them before. And I was right.”

She pulls out another ripped out article, laying it down next to the Prophet’s. The paper is smooth and reflective, like a magazine.

“I’d stolen a magazine from a Hufflepuff girl the other day. Boring Muggle technology thing. All seemed stupid and irrelevant to me. But I don’t forget an attractive face.”

Pansy flips the piece of paper, showing them a frozen picture of the younger Kieron brother in another Muggle suit. The article title above the man’s photograph reads:

Daniel Kieron, the new face of medical technology.

“Apparently, he’s invented a bunch of machines that keep your organs alive during transplants,” Pansy says. “Or something of that kind. The article is all very Mugglish. But the interesting thing is this.”

Pansy flips the page again and points at a section towards the end of the lengthy article.

“According to this article, Daniel is not on speaking terms with his older brother.”

Theo picks up the article and skims it. His eyebrows rise unexpectedly and he says, “His brother is an armaments manufacturer?”

“Seems like it. Which explains why he didn’t answer any of the interviewer’s questions about his brother’s company. Bad publicity to have a brother that sells guns when you’re trying to save people’s lives.”

Theo takes the Prophet’s article and holds it side by side with the other. Draco watches the two brothers exchange smiles in the Prophet’s photograph.

“So, they’re rich Muggleborns?” Theo asks.

“And involved in Wizarding politics. Lobbyists, most probably. I bet they helped fund the Reformation Centres,” Pansy says with a disgusted curl to her mouth.

Frustration begins to pool in Draco’s stomach, sharpening and souring his anger. “When was this taken?” he asks, pointing at the Prophet’s article.

“Yesterday. They’ve opened another Center near Cambridge. To ‘start the year off right.’”

Draco’s teeth grind together, annoyed that he’s learning of this from Pansy. He glares at Granger again. It’s her fault, truly, for occupying so much of his mind that he’d missed the news.

Pansy purses her mouth, looking between him and Theo. Her nails tap erractly against the table. “Why is Shacklebolt getting all cozy with a Muggle gun manufacturer? He must know about the Kierons’ Muggle occupations.”

“Shacklebolt’s too smart not to be aware,” Theo agrees. “There must be something in it for him.”

“It can’t be a coincidence that a Muggleborn gun manufacturer suddenly becomes friends with the Minister the same year that my uncle gets shot in the head,” Pansy states. She takes the cut-out of the Prophet from Theo and glares down at the picture. “It must have something to do with what happened in Bevern.”

Draco pushes a hand through his hair. He stares at his plate, trying to fill in the gaps. The feeling that there are missing pieces of the puzzle agitates him, which just makes him angrier.

He tries to recall what his father had tried to teach him for years—the strings that hold the political machine of Wizarding Britain standing, the people tied at their ends, the motives. Money is never the only reason, it’s simply the easiest, his father always said. Yet Draco doesn’t see a clear reason for the Kierons to become involved in politics, other than to use their money to forward whatever cause they might have.

Theo sighs and runs a hand over his face, letting the cut out of the Muggle magazine fall onto the table next to Draco.

The frozen image of Daniel looks up at him, hands in his pockets, leaning against a white wall that blends with the white background of the article. The words medical degree and Harvard and Forbes jump out at him, though he doesn’t know what they might imply. But Daniel’s eyes in the picture are cunning; Draco thinks it takes a particular kind of skill to have a foot in the Muggle world and one in theirs and pull it off, one these brothers clearly have.

The reason why they do, or why they must, though, escapes him.

“We should ask Granger to find out more about them,” Pansy says at last. “I’m sure her Order friends will help her. I don’t like this one bit.”

Draco pushes Daniel’s photograph away from him. “Purebloods and Mudbloods,” he whispers under his breath. “I’m so sick of all this bullshit.”

Pansy only regards him coldly as Draco stands and leaves the table.

A headache creeps across his mind, stabbing thinly at his temples. He slips out of the Hall mostly unnoticed, the scattered Slytherin students at their table heeding him no mind.

He gets the urge to turn to look at Granger, to make his way to where she’s sitting and slide his hand around the nape of her slender neck and drag her away, from her friends, from the eyes of all the students in the Hall, from everyone who isn’t him. To hide her in his room and not let her leave until he forgets about it all, until the blade that he feels swinging over his head ceases to exist.

Yet Draco knows it won’t, and he knows that his obsession with Granger is only a liability, a distraction—but he can’t give it up now. He doesn’t want to, and it all just makes him dislike her a little bit more, because she shouldn’t be more important to him than the threat that hovers over them all, but she is.

Draco blames it all on her again. He wonders momentarily if she’s cast an Imperius on him when he wasn’t looking. Wonders why he feels so much as if he’s two steps behind in the game he’d dragged her to play.

His steps echo heavily in the deserted hallway, as loud as his thoughts, as he makes his way towards the stairs. It’s only due to chance that something catches his attention, a stark contrast of brassy orange and black flashing in the corner of his vision.

Draco turns his head and catches sight of Potter and the She-Weasel arguing in hushed whispers just before the bend of a corridor.

The furious expression of Ginevra Weasely’s face makes him stop.

His interest piques and Draco stares, unbashedly, as Weasley’s hand slashes through the air, then curls into a fist by her side. She looks at Potter and says something Draco doesn’t catch, and Potter’s shoulders straighten, just enough that he looks down at Weasley, though they stand almost eye to eye.

Weasely says something and Potter interrupts, stepping closer. Weasley laughs—a demeaning sound that rivals Pansy’s cutting scoffs—and she turns her head away from Potter, catching sight of Draco.

Her expression contorts, a glower hardening her features. Draco smirks and turns to face them, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Lover’s quarrel?” he calls out, enjoying the way Potter turns to glare at him, too.

“Why don’t you mind your own business, you pompous fucker,” Weasley spits. Potter just stares at Draco, his fingers, like his girlfriend’s, curling into fists by his sides.

“You’re right,” Draco says sagely, smirking. “I have…better things to think about, don’t I?”

Even from afar, Draco can see Weasley’s expression twist. She closes the distance between them in a few quick steps, and even though Draco sees the tension in her arm, the angry glint in her eye, he doesn’t move away.

Draco smirks, and when Weasley swings, he takes a step back. Her fist barely grazes his cheek.

“Nice form, Weasley,” Draco taunts as Weasley grunts out a curse. Potter walks up to them leisurely, seemingly uninterested in doing much to stop his girlfriend. “Who taught you how to throw a punch? Was it the twin or the werewolf?”

Weasley’s eyes flash at the mention of her brothers and she swings again. This time, Draco catches her fist with his hand. He squeezes until he feels her knuckles grind together, yet her expression doesn’t change.

“You’re pathetically weak,” he says before dropping her fist.

Weasley bares her teeth in a snarl. “You’re a waste of fucking space.”

“Spare me the preaching,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “Why don’t you say what you want to say? Why don’t you tell me why you’re so angry at me?”

The flash of irritation in Weasley’s eyes makes Draco’s smirk widen.

“Don’t act stupid,” she snarls.

“But it’s so satisfying to hear you say it,” he taunts. “Your worry for Granger is adorable.”

“You need to stay away from her.”

Her conviction that Draco would ever do something she asks of him is cute, really. He sighs, looking in disappointment between her and Potter and recalling Potter’s similar words.

“You and your boyfriend are mono-thematic,” he says. “How are your ribs faring, Potter?”

Potter glares at him darkly. If Draco cared to be intimidated, the look might’ve almost worked.

“Hermione’s a big girl,” he tells Weasley, enjoying the tightening in her jaw as he says Granger’s name. “She can do what and who she wants.”

“You’re taking advantage of her,” Weasley spits. “She doesn’t understand what you’re—”

“Do you really think you know better than her?” Draco interrupts, dropping his voice to a low, menacing hiss. He cocks his head, sweeping his gaze over Weasley in disgust. “Do you truly think she’s not doing exactly what she wants? I thought you knew her, Weasel. I thought you knew she’s not one to let others tell her what to do.”

“Don’t act like you know her,” Weasley says furiously. “Don’t act like you—”

“I do know her,” Draco interrupts, because he does, he knows Granger better than she even knows herself. “I know her better than you do.”

Weasely scoffs. “You’re a foolish bastard if you think you know Hermione. You need to stay away from her, Malfoy. She doesn’t need this. She needs—”

“You don’t know what she needs.” An acidic feeling starts to burn in Draco’s gut. How can she think she knows what Granger needs? Only he knows what Granger needs—and it’s him. She needs him, and nothing else.

“You don’t know what’s good for her,” he says. “You don’t know anything about who she is anymore.”

“Oh, because you do?”

“I know better than you. She isn’t your little, perfect Golden Girl anymo—”

“Of course she fucking isn’t!” Weasely bursts out. “And whose fault is that, Malfoy? Whose aunt was it who tortured her? Whose father tried to have her killed when she was just fifteen? Whose?!

Weasely’s words reverberate against the stone walls on either side of them. Her bottom lip trembles with her anger as she bares her teeth at him.

“It’s your fucking fault. Everything is your fault—and your stupid fucking family’s. You don’t deserve anything, Malfoy. You are just doing this because it makes you feel important. Don’t fucking act as if you know what’s good for her. Because if you did, you’d have locked yourself in a cell right next to your father long ago.”

The silence that follows is nearly as loud as Draco’s pulse, roaring in his ears. His body aches with the strain of holding his anger back, but he pushes it down, because he doesn’t think anger is the right blade against Weasley.

Instead, Draco relaxes his stance, tucking his anger under a lazy indifference.

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” he drawls. “I am the only who has done something, aren’t I? I’m the one who intervened. The perfect little Granger you knew has been falling apart for months and who has been there to pick up the pieces, Weasley?”

Draco takes a step back, shrugging. “I have. And where were you?”

He looks at her and then at Potter, watching as Weasely’s jaw flexes, while a flash of something breaks Potter’s blank expression.

“Hermione tells me things I doubt you even know, but who am I to stop her from sharing? You wouldn’t want to take that away from her, now would you?”

Weasley’s mouth opens, but no words come out.

Draco turns around, giving her his back.

“And do you want to know what the best part of it all is?” he calls out. He looks over his shoulder and right into Weasley’s raging eyes as he says, “She’s right where she wants to be.”


Narcissa Malfoy has always known that her life would not be an easy one.

She knew when she was sixteen, and Lucius kissed her for the first time.

She knew when she was nineteen, and her family began to break apart.

She knew when she was twenty-four, and chose a constellation as her son’s name, because she wanted him to belong to their family like she never had.

She’d known from the start; she’d seen it in the stars, and the stars were always right.

So it does not surprise her when the door to her room in St. Mungo’s opens late at night, nor does it surprise her when it is not a Healer who enters.

The man is tall, his Auror badge dull-looking in the room’s semi-darkness as the light from the corridor spills at his feet.

She’s seen him before, when Draco had visited her, and has caught glimpses of him often, guarding her door, his dark hair and blood-red robes hard to miss amidst the whiteness of the hospital.

Narcissa does not stand from her seat at the small table when he nears. He doesn’t waste time with pleasanteries.

“Get up,” he says gruffly. He holds the door to her room open, nodding towards the eerily silent corridor.

Narcissa lifts her chin and crosses one leg over the other. “And why should I do that?” she asks coldly.

The man’s expression hardens, and a flash of pain pierces Narcissa’s skull, nearly making her flinch.

“Healer’s orders,” he grunts, holding the door open wider. “Get up, or I will make you.”

Narcissa doesn’t move.

She would not be able to take him, not without her wand and not with the way her body still hurts. The pain from the curse she’s under stems from her wrists and cuts right through her bones, burning her up from the inside. She learnt long which fights were worth picking, and which were not, but still—she has her pride.

The Auror clucks his tongue in annoyance. He grabs her forearm, uncaring of the wounds that begin to bleed again, and drags her to standing.

“I don’t get paid enough to be nice to you,” he says, manhandling Narcissa out of the room.

The hallway is silent except for the Auror’s heavy footsteps. She doesn’t try to get out of his hold; it would be useless, and the corridor is marginally better than that room they have kept her locked in for weeks.

The Auror drags her towards the end of the Janus Thickey Ward. He pushes open the door numbered 19, but it’s stairs that greet them, rather than a room.

Narcissa’s blood drips on the stairs as he drags her up to the topmost floor. Her legs fail her more times than she cares to admit. Dizziness has become second nature, made worse by the echoes of Hermione Granger’s spell that still linger and fight against the Obliviate that has stained her mind for weeks.

She stifles a whimper as she stumbles over her feet, her legs too weak to hold her up. The man grunts as he pulls her up the last flight of stairs, stopping right in front of another door, one that must lead to the roof.

He glares at her as he slides his wand out of his wrist holster and casts a Muffliato. His voice grows distorted to Narcissa’s ears as he casts a spell on the door, which ripples before unlocking.

“I would guess you don’t work for the Ministry, do you?” Narcissa asks as the Auror pulls the door open.

Beyond the door is darkness, but it’s not the late night sky that greets Narcissa, nor the crisp January air.

She furrows her brows. Something moves amongst the shadows as a familiar scent curls around her.

Her stomach drops.

“Oh, I do,” the Auror says, “but I also work for someone else.”

He drags Narcissa to the sill. The darkness brushes against her bare ankles.

He gives her a wolfish grin, his eyes alight with dark amusement. “Give your husband my best regards,” he says.

Narcissa doesn’t have time to feel surprised before a stunner hits her in the chest, and she falls into the dark.

Notes:

hello hello!!! just in case anyone forgot (like me), Bevern is the town in Germany where Blaise & Co were murdered!!

anyways i hope ya'll are doing well!! thank you so much for the love on the last chapter and for being patient with me with the slower updates!! i'm doing my best, but this section of the story has been a little tough to write bc of all the pieces that are moving! but i am looking forward to pushing through this section and getting to the juicy bits that i've been waiting to write for the past year and a half lolllll and ALSO thank you to anyone who shared a song or ur fave fruit emoji!!! it made me so happy!!! this week i'm curious to know what's the emoji you abuse wayyy to much lol for me its the nodding emoji!!! idk why its just such a mood. 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ i use it way too much lmao
in any case i hope you're getting excited for what's coming next!! i am :))) and as promised here's some of the songs on the og OSD playlist with some lore as to why they're there!!
Masterpiece - Sam Short (literally the DracoTM song IMO, i always think of this when i write him... 'he's a bad bad dream, but he's good to me, and that's all I need'..... 'he's a sick sick freak, he's a sweet release...' I MEAN)
Valentine - Maneskin (the song that inspired the title!!)
High Enough - K. Flay (the chapter 18 song)
Bury You - Ari Abdul
Bad Decisions - Bad Omens
Worship - Ari Abdul
Choatic - Ellise (another banger that makes me think of them sooo much)
Sand - Dove Cameron (so sad and so hems pov coded!!)
Bruises - Ellise
Heaven - Ellise (literally that entire album lol)
You Should See Me In A Crown - Billie Eilish (is it too spoilery if i say this is act 3 herms....hehe. there's a specific scene i have been daydreaming to this song for over a year!!)
Fake - The Tech Thieves
Tied Down - Jaymes Young
Hostage - Billie Eilish

as always super mega kisses to my lovely betas and to each one of u!! <333

Chapter 26

Notes:

as its been a while (sorry!) and this chapter tackles some plot stuff, i suggest just skimming over the second scene of chapter 24 and the second to last scene in chapter 25 before reading! it might make things a little less confusing! :D

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The place is a marbled maze.

She doesn’t know where it begins nor where it ends, though she has tried to find both the entrance and the exit.

She is lost now; she has opened one too many doors and stepped past one too many sills, and she doesn’t know if she’s in the present or if she’s lost her way to the future, or the past.

The door in front of her is not anything special; it is a simple door, with a simple curved handle awaiting her palm.

She reconciles the two and pushes her way past the sill. What greets her is an eerie, blue-tinted darkness.

The door swings shut behind her, blending into the walls and locking her inside the infinite room. She is used to doors vanishing and leaving her behind by now, so she steps forward, towards the tall shelves on either side of her that seem to have no end.

Thousands of glowing spheres decorate the shelves. They cast her in strange lights and even stranger shadows: one looks like a dog, one like a raven. Images extend on the floor in front and behind her, morphing with each one of her steps, scattering and overlapping.

She is tempted to reach out for one of the glowing spheres, and she almost does, her fingertips hovering over the sphere closest to her. Cold drifts off the object, the cloud trapped within it stirring, gravitating towards her touch as if urging her closer.

But a shadow in the corner of her vision distracts her, and she doesn’t pick the frail sphere up. Instead, she follows the shadow and lets it guide her further into the room, until she is so far from the vanished door that the room appears boundless, just rows and rows of shelves and the white-blue glow of the objects they hold.

She thinks the shadow must be going in circles, and her with it. It’s a hound, now, bounding one step ahead of her, then two. On the third, it turns into a stag, and it sends a frisson through her, cold and soon forgotten.

They continue walking, and the shadow continues changing, until at once it stops, looking up towards one of the shelves.

It begins to crawl between the differently sized spheres, making them tremble and rattle, as if the shadow had a weight. She watches curiously as the shadow turns into a hand and cradles a small, softly glowing sphere. The darkness of the shadow doesn’t dull the objects’ glow, and when the shadow crawls back down to the floor and sets the sphere at her feet, the glow hurts her eyes.

Still, she crouches next to the shadow and reaches for the sphere with one finger. The glass is faintly warm beneath her touch as she rolls the sphere on the floor. She picks it up, the cloud trapped within it swirling excitedly, and looks at the shadow.

It is a hound again, and so she stands and throws the sphere as far as she can, watching it arc and vanish in the endless darkness before them. The shadow runs after it, and she runs after the shadow, and neither of them hears the crash of the delicate glass object onto the floor. The only sound that disturbs the silence is that of her breath as she pants to catch up with the dark.

When she reaches the shadow and crouches next to it, her breath disturbs the white whisps of cloudy smoke that rise from the shattered sphere, curling around her neck and disappearing in her hair.

She blows, dispersing the smoke. There, amidst the glass, is a beautiful silver mask. It is articulately engraved, with looping curves and flourishes that contrast the harsh slits left for the eyes, so thin she doubts the world can be seen through them.

The shadow inches closer to the mask, and then vanishes, together with the smoke. She picks up the mask, careful not to cut herself on the shards of glass it rests upon. It is light, lighter than she might’ve expected it to be, though nothing in this place so far has been what she expected.

She looks the mask over; the inside is no less beautiful than the outside, a thin layer of velvet covering gleaming metal. She traces its border and something hooks in her stomach, pulling her closer to the mask, or the mask closer to her; she does not know nor care.

She looks through the eye slits, trying to make out the shards of glass on the floor. The velvet is soft against her cheeks. The darkness around grows deeper as she peers through the thin slits; the light of the other glowing spheres on the shelves dimming, until all is darkness.

She misses the soft blue glow of the spheres immediately, but the mask seems to like the way it fits against her skin, so when she tries to pull it off, it resists her.

She tries to remove the mask again as her heart begins to beat more rapidly, but nothing seems to work. The air grows sharp in her lungs, cutting her from the inside as she tries to rip the mask off her face.

She stands, fear creeping up behind her like another shadow. It pushes her forward, against the shelves. She jolts in pain, the delicate objects on the shelves rattling ominously, then she jumps when the first sphere falls and crashes to the ground—this time with sound. One, then another, then so many she loses track of the number.

She steps on sharp shards of glass as she tries to rip the mask off her face, but she can’t, and the fear of the mask is greater than any pain, and there is no air, and she can’t see, she can’t breathe, she can’t—


If Hermione could change anything about Hogwarts, the first thing on her list would be the coffee.

Two cups of the foul thing haven’t been enough to drag her fully back into the land of the living. A fog hovers over her mind, much like the snow-laden clouds hover over Hogwarts’ towers, stiflingly persistent. Though the strong aftertaste of the coffee laps at the back of her throat, the bitter liquid hasn’t been enough to drown out the lingering chime of shattering prophecies, nor clear a path through the fog.

The words inked onto the page in front of her blur the longer Hermione stares at them, no amount of blinking sufficient to turn the letters into something comprehensible. With a sigh, she shifts her gaze to the window on her left, searching for a distraction.

A stray cloud presses against the glass pane, as if demanding entrance. The wind clears it away, only for it to return, the more insistent for its denial, bringing tiny frozen crystals with it.

For a brief moment, Hermione is envious of the windowpane. The cold must feel nice, she reckons, compared to the suffocating heat of the Library. She’d give just about anything to feel that cold wind sweep through her mind, clearing the haze and the shattered snippets of her dreams away, leaving a clean slate behind.

It’s an achievable wish—if only she could find the will to stand from her seat and leave the Library. But her feet have taken a liking to scuffing at the uneven floorboard beneath her chair, and the pads of her fingers have grown attached to the papercuts she’s collected in the past three days.

She would leave the Library, if she felt like she could. But only one thing has brought her some brittle semblance of peace over the past thirty-six hours: researching.

Leaving the Library to chase the wind would be a waste of time—something she cannot afford. And the Library is a respite, at least, from the hallways beyond its doors—from the whispers and cutting side glances that have been following her around since classes began again.

Hermione should be used to it. She’s been stared at all her life, for one reason or another. Muttered comments not meant for her ears have always reached her, ever since she first stepped foot onto the school’s grounds. It should be easy to ignore it all—the doubtful and disappointed looks, the derisive scoffs—and yet it isn’t.

The silence that always greets her arrival in the Gryffindor Common Room now, or the one that descends upon the Gryffindor table at breakfast, doesn’t help. The vacant seats where Harry and Ginny should be cause something in her chest to pinch and twist. The untouched bed that takes up one half of her room makes it harder for Hermione to fall asleep each night.

Everything is difficult again. Everything weighs on her like a boulder, like it had at the start of the year.

Neville’s attempts at keeping her company fall flat more often than not. She tries to partake in conversation, she does, but unless Luna is there, she feels strung too tight to offer up anything interesting, and the conversations always shrivel away into nothing. That Padma has decided to try and befriend Hermione now, doesn’t help, either. It plucks at a wrong string inside of her. Their encounters—in the hallways, in classrooms, on the stairs by the Fat Lady in the late evenings, Padma’s hair mussed and her cheeks stained red—scarcely go down well. Padma is always kind enough, but Hermione can’t stand that, and she is more snappish than she’d like. The disappointment in Padma’s deep brown eyes when Hermione pushes past her tugs uncomfortably on that string until it starts fraying, frustration eroding it down to nothing.

She would feel bad for it all, but she can’t be arsed to try for Padma, like Ron is. Not when Harry, whom she’d thought she’d regain footing with, hasn’t talked to her in more than monosyllables.

Not when she can’t stop remembering the insistent, unsettling hunger—for that must be the word for it—of the Burrow’s core.

Not when Draco hasn’t spared her more than a passing glance in three days. Not when he moves about the halls like a bad omen, his jaw hard and a dark, indecipherable look in his eyes.

The hard heel of her loafer thuds against the floor, over and over again. The other scattered students who have chosen to also spend their lunch break in the Library seem not to care about the noise. She worries at a peeled bit of skin on her bottom lip, yet the sting isn’t enough to distract her from the chincing sensation around her chest.

The stalemate with Draco is wearing on her, day by day. Yet her miserable, resurfaced pride precludes her from making the first move. It should be Draco, seeking her out, angry that she’s once again avoiding him—yet she’s the one trailing after him in the corridors, staying up late to see if a message will flutter onto her bedside table.

Behind her sternum, vexation simmers. Contempt makes her scratch at a shallow groove on the table, until small particles of wood get stuck beneath her nails.

The doors of the Library open, a gentle groaning of the hinges that floats its way to Hermione. She blinks and looks away from the window. A spot on her neck pulses with shallow pain.

Theodore Nott, when he arrives, finds her with her head bowed, the wand-held knot of hair at the top of her head tilting precariously, both hands pressed to that painful spot as if the pain that pulses from it is her lifeline.

She raises her head as he drops his heavy book-bag onto the table, pulling out the only other chair with no great attentiveness. There’s no one in the Library to tell him off for the noise, Madam Pince having vanished for lunch.

In one broad hand, he holds out a napkin-wrapped bundle and a mug towards Hermione.

“Club sandwich and coffee, as requested,” he states.

Hermione closes the Arithmancy text she’d been fruitlessly trying to read and takes the offering.

“Thank you,” she says, genuinely grateful.

Her thanks are waved away by an ink-stained hand. Theo sits down in front of her and pulls out another sandwich from his bag. They eat in a tentatively comfortable silence for a few minutes, though Hermione only nibbles at the corner of her sandwich, her stomach refusing the food. She turns to the coffee instead as Theo devours his sandwich in three bites. It reminds her of Ron, and she resists the urge to look away.

“You know,” Theo says as he wipes his mouth clean with a napkin. “You look even worse than you did twenty minutes ago. In fact, you look nearly as bad as Draco does.”

Hermione sighs into her coffee. She can only imagine how tired she must look; she’s been avoiding mirrors again.

“Thank you,” she deadpans.

Theo’s mouth curls into a small smile at her flat tone, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Have you talked to him yet?” he asks, glancing at her as he takes a battered copy of Schotter’s Laws of Closed Magical Systems from his bag.

In lieu of responding, Hermione takes a swallow of her bitter coffee. Three days haven’t been enough to get used to Theo’s questions about Draco, though he insists on asking them.

“I haven’t,” Hermione sniffs when Theo raises his eyebrow expectantly, drumming his fingers over the cover of his book.

“You should talk to him.” Theo’s eyes burn a hole through her. “I haven’t seen him sleep in days. Whatever happened to him to make him—”

“He’s bringing this onto himself,” she interrupts him, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. They’ve had this conversation twice already yesterday. “He can come and talk to me whenever he pleases.”

His gaze narrows, an irked sound making its way up his throat. “This”—he gestures to the various books strewn across the table—“would go a lot faster if Draco would help us.”

“I haven’t prevented him from that.”

Theo exhales sharply. “If you just talked to him—”

“I thought I asked you to stop pushing me to talk to Draco,” she snaps, rubbing at her brow in frustration.

Some of the fight seems to drain out of Theo. He sighs, his shoulders slumping, and tugs at the sleeve of his sweater—a nervous habit, the only tell she’s had the time to learn.

“I just—I know he’s probably going through these things on his own,” Theo says at last, his voice a degree softer. “It feels stupid not to do this all together.”

She lets her hand fall away from her brow. “I know,” she says quietly.

Dark green eyes bounce across her features. “I don’t mean to be rude,” Theo says.

There’s a moment of silence as his attempt at an apology hovers between them. Distinctly un-Slytherin of him to apologise so quickly, she thinks, but so is bringing her lunch.

Then Theo’s nose wrinkles, and he says, both amused and a bit baffled, “I can’t imagine dating Draco is anything…easy. Or nice, really. If one can even call whatever you two have going on dating.”

Though small, the words pull a laugh out of her. Theo’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners.

“Anyways,” he clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about the Burrow’s wards again. We talked about the differences between physical and magical ward anchoring, right? Patezcky’s charms and whatnot.”

They had—yesterday, after Theo had asked her to tell him again about how the Burrow’s wards had felt, how she had tapped into them, how she’d used Zotoi’s spell to get to George.

“What about it?” she asks.

“I thought about what you were worried about,” Theo says.

“Of George having become an anchor for the Burrow’s wards?”

“Yes. I don’t think that’s what’s happened.”

Something stutters and then unclenches in Hermione’s chest. “You don’t?” she asks, looking at him intensely.

“Anchors, either magical or physical, are required for wards to reach and retain stability. Patezksy’s research showed that wards cast on magical objects can be anchored either to the object per se or the object’s magic, and when it’s the magic that the wards are anchored to, these wards are generally less stable, but far more complex to break, unless you want to run the risk of destroying the object directly. He showed that any object that is exposed to magic or acts as a magical conduit—and magical homes fit these criteria—is more prone to succumbing to magical anchoring when wards are cast upon it. And, he also demonstrated that you cannot separate wards from their magical anchor without the risk of destabilising the source of magic to the point of total magical collapse.

“Had George been the anchor of the wards around his room, you wouldn’t have been able to get him out of there without severely harming him. He’d have suffered the magical equivalent of a”—he waves a hand around—“cardiac arrest. And you said he was mostly okay when you got him out, right?” Theo looks up at her. “Have you heard anything from him?”

“Where did you learn all of this from?” Hermione asks, astounded, instead of answering.

A sly smile flit’s over Theo’s features, there and gone.“Did you know that Madam Pince has a private collection of almost all first editions of books on Charms, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes? She’s also starting to collect Astrology ones, from what I could tell.”

“What?”

“I wanted to read more about Patezcky, so I broke into Madam Pince’s office. She has two cats, by the way, and they’re as hateful as her. But she had the entire collection of Patezcky’s research—hand-bound, obviously—so dealing with those beastly creatures was worth it. Now, answer my question.”

Hermione shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “I haven’t heard anything new, just that he’s staying with his brother, Bill, in Cornwall. But Ron would’ve said something if—if he’d been sick or hurt. But you’re…you’re sure he wasn’t tied to the Burrow’s wards, somehow?”

“If you managed to pull George past them and out, then he can’t have been the anchor.” Theo’s voice is certain. “Either that, or the spell you used—Zotoi’s spell—happens to be the only known—and now tested—way to separate wards from their magical anchors successfully. Something which I strongly doubt.”

Hermione swallows, trying to clear away the guilt that has surged forth. She hadn’t thought of any of this when she’d dragged George out of his room—she hadn’t known any of this when she’d pushed her way past the wards, when she’d pulled George out.

She could’ve hurt him, even more than she’d already done. The thought leaves her sick to her stomach.

“But what about the wards around his room, then?” she asks quietly. “They felt so…off. And different from the main wards of the house. ”

Theo makes a thoughtful sound, tilting his head in thought “So you said. But the anchor must still be the Burrow’s core. It’s likely that the wards around his room were simply an…unstable extension of the Burrow’s wards. And if the Burrow’s core is unstable, and all the wards are anchored to it, then so is the entire warding system, the wards around his room included. They might’ve felt different from the others because George was a—a temporary, stable source of magic within the system. A source of magic not so different from the Burrow’s core itself, too. Familiar, at the least. The wards might’ve used him as a crutch, in a way.”

The doors to the Library open with a creak as Theo’s words hang in the air. Soft laughter drifts down towards them, suspended for a brief second before it fades away.

Theo catches her gaze, “I think they did it on purpose, in any case. Attacking the Burrow while he was there. If these people are smart enough to tinker with magical cores, then they are smart enough to cast a Homenum Revelio.”

The fist around her stomach tightens. She has tried not to think about how close George had been to danger. To think that those who damaged the Burrow could’ve done to him what they’d done to Narcissa, or worse—it scares her. It terrifies her. It makes the distance between her and them shrink.

“But what would they get from having him there?” she asks. She’s been asking herself this question for days now.

“I don’t know,” Theo says slowly, as if he, too, has thought about this before. “I don’t think the result of whatever they did to tamper with the core was the expected one, but I do think that George acted as a…safeguard, in some way. His presence—or his magic, rather—might’ve prevented a full core collapse. It might’ve stabilised the system enough for the Burrow not to cave in on itself. ”

She looks out towards the window again as the conversation lapses into silence. Her mind snags, as has become a habit, on just how wrong the Burrow had felt.

The greed, the hunger—the pulsing, unstable energy of the Burrow’s core had left her with the same bad feeling as Voldemort’s Horcruxes. The way the Burrow’s magic had seemed to want to drain her of her own, the thrumming chaos that had enveloped her as she’d tapped into the Burrow’s core—all of it had brought forth memories of the Locket, of how it had seemed to call her name whenever she’d worn it.

She’s thought of the Horcruxes more in the last three days than she has in the last three months, and the thoughts weigh on her, like crows perched upon her shoulders.

“What did it feel like?” she asks after a while, looking back towards Theo. He’s picked up his quill, adding more slanted lines to a parchment full of notes.

“What did what feel like?” he asks.

“Nott Manor.”

Theo’s quill comes to a halt as his gaze snaps hers. His mouth flattens into a thin line.

“It didn’t feel like anything,” he says, his voice flat. “It was all just charred ruins.”

Hermione watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows heavily.

“Are you certain?”

A muscle flexes in Theo’s jaw. “Yes.”

“You didn’t—it didn’t feel off? There wasn’t anything that—”

“I’m certain,” Theo repeats. The words crack between them.

“Are you?” she asks again, trying to soften her voice.

Theo exhales, annoyed. He runs a hand nervously through his curls, staring hard at the table.

“I think so,” he says at last. “I don’t remember anything feeling…odd. Or anything like what you said the Burrow felt like.”

“And did you…did you see anything strange? Any—any rearrangements, or—”

“The Manor was burnt to the ground, Granger,” Theo says curtly. “There was barely anything left standing. The Greenhouse was the part that had been spared the most. But the Aurors didn’t give me a grand tour,” he adds sarcastically.

“I’m just—” Hermione huffs, frustrated. “I’m trying to understand. If we had tangible proof that the two events are connected—if we could understand what they did to your Manor, then maybe we could figure out how to fix the Burrow and—”

“You’re working on the assumption that a core collapse is what burnt down my home. That what happened to my Manor and what happened to the Burrow are connected. We don’t know for certain that that’s the case,” he says. “And you’re thinking that the Burrow can be fixed. The Burrow can’t be fixed.”

Hermione’s breath catches. “What do you mean?”

Theo rifles through his bag again and plucks out a thin book. In golden letters upon light blue cloth, the title reads: Magical Cores: A Healer’s Guide. He flips to a page marked by a thin ribbon and flips the book so Hermione can read the Chapter heading:

Irreversible Damage To Magical Cores.

Damage to magical cores and reserves is irreversible. In Wizards, overexhaustion of one’s magical reserve will result in permanent magical and neurological damage. Symptoms of magical exhaustion include, in the most severe of cases, inability to cast, memory loss, nerve damage and loss of coordination, and weakening of the senses. All current therapies are palliative. An overexhausted magical core cannot be replenished. Symptoms managment should be initi—

Hermione pushes the book away from her. “That doesn’t—it doesn’t mean anything. This is about people. Not objects.”

“A magical reserve is a magical reserve, whether tied to someone or something,” Theo says impatiently, his brows pulling into a frown. “If the people who attacked the Burrow left its core heavily impaired, I don’t think that’s something that can be fixed in any significant way, Granger. According to this, the most you can do is prevent it from getting worse.”

“Then I have to find a way to prevent that from happening,” she snaps. “I don’t want the Burrow to burn to the ground.”

“Then you need to go back to the Burrow and tap into the core again to understand the extent of its damage,” Theo snaps back. “Except you can’t, because every time you do, the risk of increasing its instability increases.”

“Then you should go back to your Manor and see if we can understand what happened to it and prevent the Burrow from—”

“Feel free to go visit that useless field of burnt rubble, Granger,” Theo interrupts, raising his arms in surrender. “I am still under probation and can’t leave the grounds, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He drops his hands and leans across the table. “My house is not what’s important now, Granger. What’s important now is understanding what they’re trying to do by fucking up the Burrow’s core, and why they’re doing it.” He raps his knuckles against the table. “Did you find out anything new about the Kierons?”

Hermione deflates, the sudden change in topic leaving her drained. She pulls her wand out of her hair and throws it onto the table in frustration, where it lands with a soft noise over the small, open book.

She takes in a deep breath. Theo’s expression is cold, and so instead of pressing about Nott Manor, she sets the argument aside for later and shakes her head. “I haven’t,” she says.

Theo had told her about the two wizards when he’d first approached her in the Library three days ago, showing her a cutout of the Daily Prophet and asking if she knew who Paul and Daniel Kieron were. Neither her nor Theo knew more about the Kierons than what the Prophet’s article had been able to tell them, which was simply that they were involved in the Department of Social and Magical Reform at the Ministry.

“There’s nothing about them in the copy of the Ministry Registry Miss Pince has,” Hermione tells him. She’d tried to look for other mentions of them, going as far as collecting old editions of the Prophet from the Gryffindor’s Common Room and going through them top to bottom—but she’d found nothing. The Kierons seemed to have popped into existence no less than a week ago, the day the article he’d shown her had been written. “I’d have to look outside of Hogwarts to see if I can find something more about them.”

“Doesn’t Weasley’s father work at the Ministry?” Theo asks. “Could he know them?”

“He might,” Hermione agrees. “I could go back to the Burrow tomorrow and ask him. It’s Saturday. He should be home.”

She hesitates for only a moment before adding, “Luna’s father might have heard something about them, too.”

Theo freezes, as if she’d pointed her wand at him. A muscle flexes in his jaw as his gaze narrows.

Hermione takes her chances. “If we let Luna help us, she might also tell us more about how the Burrow’s wards felt. I told you that she helped m—”

“And I already told you that I don’t want her to help us,” Theo says coldly. “I thought I asked you to stop pushing me to talk to Lovegood.”

He had—yesterday, when she’d first proposed they ask Luna to help them. Theo had adamantly refused, and when she’d asked why, he’d told her to mind her own business.

Hermione hadn’t pried, because he’d done her the mercy of not asking why, exactly, Draco wasn’t talking to her—but she can’t resist pushing again.

“Well, Pansy doesn’t seem to want to help us. Luna could—”

“Pansy is looking into the Reformation Centres,” Theo interrupts, tone brokering the end of the conversation. “What about Jasper?”

They stare at each other until Hermione lets the subject drop with an annoyed huff.

Alaric Jasper’s smiling face flashes in her mind. He’d been nice enought to her—talkative, with a crooked smile and glasses that kept falling down the bridge of his nose. Hermione hadn’t much been in the mood to hang around people back then—not while her parents had been at St. Mungo’s, their minds being picked apart for any salvagable memories—but he’d seemed like a decent enough Wizengamot member. She remembered his hair had just started to grey. His wife had joked about it.

“I don’t know anything more about him than I did yesterday,” she tells Theo. “He wasn’t involved in the Order. I only met him in passing at one of the Ministry events after the Death Eater Trials. Also, Shackelbolt handpicked all the Ministers after the War. If he didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t have picked him to lead such a critical Department.”

“Tell me again what you talked about when you met him,” Theo demands.

She tries to recall the conversation, but the details are blurred. Her memories of those summer days are fragmented, pieces that don’t fit together properly. She’d been researching Bellatrix’s curse, two days sober and just a few hours away from passing out on her bedroom floor in a puddle of her own vomit.

“It must’ve been mid-August. I can’t remember what the event was meant to celebrate, but Kingsley’s Reformations Centres were all the talk. The project had just been approved. Jasper was excited about them.”

Hermione remembers how they’d all toasted in favour of the Project’s success. The wine in her glass had been bubbly and fresh. She’d drunk far too many glasses of it.

“Were the Kierons there?” Theo asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. There definitely wasn’t anyone wearing Muggle suits, like in the Prophet’s picture.”

She thinks she would’ve remembered that, at least.

“I looked through my probation documents,” he says. “One of his department heads signed my Hogwarts re-admission letter. Marianne Keyll. Do you know her?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Never heard of her before.”

Theo runs his hand through his hair again, pulling at his curls and crafting a mess to rival her own—or Harry’s. He looks at her silently for close to a minute before speaking again.

“Paul Kieron is a Muggle gun manufacturer.”

Dread plunges Hermione’s stomach to the floor. She straightens, every muscle in her body suddenly tense.

“What?” The question whooshes out of her along with her breath, leaving her lungs empty of air.

Theo rummages in his bag until he takes out another ripped piece of paper, shiny like a magazine, one she had not seen before.

He hands it to her. The younger Kieron brother—Daniel—stands in the middle of the page, surrounded by thin lines of text.

“Pansy found this,” Theo says. “Read the end.”

Hermione reads it all. Theo doesn’t interrupt her as she does.

“You told me you thought they were lobbyists,” Hermione says in a harsh whisper when done, glaring at Theo.“Not that they were Muggleborn, or that one of them produced guns.”

“Yes, well. Now you know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Never mind that. The Kierons aren’t the first Muggleborn lobbyists to come around,” Theo starts. “They’ve been few, historically, yes, but there have been some in the past. The fact that you got your Hogwarts letter is proof enough of that. But Wizarding society is extremely protective of itself and very reluctant to change. Five years ago, before the War, how many members of the Wizengamot were Muggleborn? Five? Six? I’m sure you know just how closely any Muggleborn Witch or Wizard who sets foot into the Ministry is scrutinised. Everything they do or say is something someone else might use against them.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ripped-out Prophet article, flattening it onto the table between them. He points towards Paul Kieron. “For someone like him, with such an outstandingly questionable Muggle career—one that I’d wager he doesn’t try too hard to hide—to have gotten so close to such high-level politicians, to the Minister, for Salazar’s sake—I just don’t understand how that can be.”

Hermione sets down the magazine article, her mind racing. “Maybe Shacklebolt doesn’t know about his…other job.”

Theo lets out a sardonic laugh. “I strongly doubt that’s the case, Granger. But you know him better than I do. Maybe he’s not as smart as I thought he was.”

“He is,” she says resolutely. “But Shacklebolt wouldn’t work with someone like him. He’s got morals.”

Theo ignores her. “Did he have any issues with getting the project approved? For the Referomation Centres?”

“No,” she says. This she remembers clearly. “Most Wizengamot members jumped at the opportunity not to send half their family to Azkaban.”

“Unsurprising,” Theo scoffs under his breath. He stares at the scraps of paper between them, looking at the pictured men. “Maybe it’s all just about money. If the Kierons are rich and they wanted to fund the project, or Jasper’s department, why would Jasper and Shackelbolt refuse? I’m sure even with all the anti-war sentiment that’s come after Voldemort’s death, a department like Jasper’s remains a threat to those who have been in power for the past three decades, so I’d doubt the Wizengamot was happy to throw all its money at him. And this project—the Reformation Centres—it’s still a threat to any Pureblood Witch or Wizard that retains more…conservative views. They might be sending the worst ones of us there now, but how long before anything is viewed as a threat to a Muggleborn’s or Muggle’s right to live? How long will it take for believing in certain societal customs to be seen as a—a perpetuation of racist ideals? As something to correct and erase from Wizarding society?”

Hermione stares at Theo for a long moment, dumbfounded. She’d never thought of the Reformation Centres this way, but—“That’s not going to happen,” she whispers.

“It might,” Theo says. “I’ve read enough history books to know a pattern when I see one. Societies are a pendulum; they swing one way and then the other, back and forth. We’ve just come out of a near-fascist regime, and we’re set to swing the other way.”

Theo’s eyes flit over her face. “Draco said that you think those behind the attacks are targeting Purebloods, and not Death Eater Families.”

He leans closer to her. “Can’t you see the trend?”

The dread in her stomach turns cold. Even in the warmth of the Library, she feels goosebumps rise on her arms.

“We don’t even know what happens in these Centres,” Theo whispers hotly. “We don’t—”

The Library doors open with a bang, making both of them jump.

They stare at each other as hurried, heavy footsteps disrupt the quiet of the Library. The sound of a body crashing against the shelves follows—a curse after that, in a voice that makes Hermione’s heart kick up its rhythm.

She twists, ready to spring out of her seat—but then Draco is there, standing between the shelves.

His breathing is erratic, his jaw hard. The collar of his shirt is dishevelled, as if he’d ripped it open, his tie nowhere to be found.

There’s a wild glint in his eyes, yet his gaze doesn’t search out her own.

Theo is standing before Hermione can even register the screech of his chair against the floor.

“What happened?” he asks.

“What do you think fucking happened?” Draco hisses. His voice is tight, tight enough to propel Hermione to stand, too, though he doesn’t seem to have noticed her.

Draco takes a step forward and shoves something against Theo’s chest.

It’s a piece of paper, one Hermione hadn’t realised he’d been clutching. Theo reflexively grabs it, but his stare is fixed on Draco, his brows set in a worried line.

No explanations are offered. Draco just stands there, silent, hands clenched into fists.

Theo breaks their staring contest, looking down at the piece of paper. The crinkle of parchment interrupts the silence as he unfolds the single page, a broken wax seal clinging to the topmost edge. The silence that returns as he reads the letter’s contents suffocates Hermione.

The blood drains from Theo’s face. When he speaks again, Hermione mourns the silence.

“They transferred Narcissa to a Reformation Centre?”


There is something stuck in Darco’s throat; a viscous, burning thing in his lungs that creeps upwards with insistent hunger.

It makes breathing difficult, so he focuses on his hands. His nails dig into his palms, but the ephemeral clarity that comes with the pain is not sufficient.

“They transferred Narcissa to a Reformation Centre?”

Slowly, Theo meets Draco’s gaze. Dread has dawned over his features. His voice had been quiet when he’d spoken, but his words thunder in Draco’s ears, rolling over and over in his head, drowning out all thoughts but one:

They took his mother away.

They took her away, and Draco is here. Locked in this school.

They didn’t even say where they moved her to?”

The disbelief in Theo’s voice makes Draco grind his teeth together. It’s an effort to keep himself still, to not give into the urge to set that fucking letter on fire, or let his knuckles crack against the wood of the shelf next to him.

“Of course they fucking didn’t,” he grits out. The words don’t dislodge the thing in his throat. Rather, speaking worsens it, nearly suffocating him.

Theo skims the letter again and Draco’s gaze follows his unconsciously, though he doesn’t ever want to see that useless piece of parchment again. Another wave of heat swells up his chest, making his heart beat faster. His throat refuses to let him swallow, to pull air into his lungs.

He rips his gaze away, unable to bear it. Granger falls in his line of vision and he regrets the act immediately.

Her eyes are wide, her mouth pressed into a thin, downturned line. He hasn’t seen her so up close in three days—three days too much, three days too little.

Something pinches in Draco’s stomach when she makes a stuttered move forward, an unfinished half-step that makes her sway, for a moment, towards him. And for that moment, all Draco wants is to close the distance between them; to satisfy, with her body, the urge to feel something give and break under his hands—but then she halts, and Draco can’t close that distance. Can’t trust the pull that he feels towards her, that rears its head again, just as it had that night in her room, when he hadn’t been able to resist and she’d taken advantage of his weakness. The gut feeling that if he only buries his face in her neck for a minute, if she lets him hold her within his arms for a while, the ugly thing lodged in his throat will leave.

“When did you get the letter?” she asks, in that same tone she’d used when she’d told him, You’re not alone.

Draco hates her a little more for that, for how it makes that pull inside of him worsen, makes the distance all the more necessary for its unbearableness.

He doesn’t deign her with a response—looks away instead, and glee fills him at the hitch he hears in her breath, the disappointment that curls around the sound.

Theo’s expression is expectant when Draco looks at him again.

“When did you find out?” Theo asks, gaze flicking between him and Granger. He folds the letter and holds it out to Draco, but Draco doesn’t want to touch it again.

“I was called into the Headmaster’s office on my way to lunch,” Draco says. He hears his own voice like a distant echo, its curtness, the bitterness that laces it. “McGonnagall gave me the letter.”

“McGonnagall?” Granger says

“Did she know something more about it?” Theo asks.

Draco shakes his head. His fingers are starting to hurt, but he can’t make himself unclench them.

“She doesn’t know anything,” he tells Theo.

Just as it had months ago when she’d told him about Mother’s incident and her move to St. Mungo’s, the look on the Headmaster’s face as she’d handed him the sealed letter had been worried and pitying enough that he’d considered storming out of her office, or cursing her out. But when he’d demanded she let him see her, unlike in October, this time there’d been no promises of Aurors picking him up for a visit.

There had only been McGonaggall’s disapproving tut, her empty excuses that she knew nothing more about this than he did, and that no right of leave had come along with the letter.

“I need—” Draco starts, but the words flounder as he tries to form them, the lub-dub of his heart in his ears drowning out his thoughts.

There are too many things he needs: to see his mother, to know where she is. To find who has taken her and—and hurt them, somehow, make them pay for having even dared to touch her. He needs to be alone. He needs to find a way out of Hogwarts, he needs to understan—

Theo’s hand settles on his shoulder and Draco flinches back and away from him with too much haste. His skin crawls where Theo has touched him—even though Draco had come here just for him, had rushed out of McGonnaggall’s office and into the Library just to find Theo, because who else could understand the gravity of things, but him?

Draco stumbles back a step as his stomach hollows out. A drop of cold sweat trails down the nape of his neck and along his spine. His shirt is too tight, suddenly, the Library is too warm, and he wants to rip his collar further open, like he had done outside of the Library doors, suffocated by his tie.

But Draco can’t move—because if he does, the ugly thing in his throat might try to claw its way out of his chest, and Draco can’t afford that.

He needs to—needs to think. Needs to find a solution.

The anger should help, should sharpen his mind and grant him the focus he needs to solve this problem, like it had granted him the strength to fix the Vanishing Cabinet—but it’s too much. It burns him from the inside, consuming all the oxygen in his lungs until he can’t breathe properly, can’t think properly.

He needs to get to his mother. They can’t have taken her away—she can’t—can’t be in danger again, away from him, where he doesn’t know what they might do to her, not again, not again, not—

“I need to find out where she is,” he says. The words are too loud, too hurried. He’s out of breath. He’s sweating; it's too hot in the Library and he can’t breathe, can barely think— “I need to—I—”

Theo’s hands are on him again. Draco knows it only because he watches the letter he’d handed Theo flutter pathetically to the ground as Theo grips Draco’s shoulders.

He flinches again—Theo is too close; Draco hates that he’s touching him, hates that his pulse is drowning everything out again, hates that his lungs burn and he—that ugly thing is still stuck in his throat and he can’t talk, can’t—

“He’s having a panic attack.”

The words aren’t Theo’s, because Draco is staring at Theo’s worried face now and his lips haven’t moved; but he knows who the words belong to.

He doesn’t want to hear them.

He doesn’t want her here.

He doesn’t want her to see. He doesn’t want her to see him struggle to breathe, to speak—not when she’s the reason he hasn’t been sleeping right, not when he—he shouldn’t be like this—so—he’s just so furious—

“Draco.”

His name is followed by a light touch on his arm, a bare brush of fingers, nothing like the steady weight of Theo’s hands on his shoulders—yet her touch is a hundred times worse.

Draco flinches and rips himself away from Granger’s touch, but the move upsets his balance. He stumbles like a choked-up idiot into Theo, but the hands—they’re still touching him, and—he doesn’t want to be touched, he just wants to think, think—

He jerks away again, into the shelves. The books upon them shake. His thigh pulses in pain where he’s hit one of the ledges but Draco still can’t breathe, his throat is still blocked, he feels too hot and yet, he’s shaking—his hands are, at least; he can’t curl them into fists anymore.

“Mate?” Theo says in a worried whisper. His hands hover around Draco’s shoulders but he doesn’t touch him again. Draco doesn’t mean to—but he meets Theo’s gaze and the troubled look in his eyes makes Draco want to shout, to get away.

“Are you alright?” Theo asks. He’s closer to Draco now. Draco wants to rip his skin off—maybe that’ll lessen the heat, maybe that’ll make him breathe. “Do you need—”

“I need—” Draco barks, but he can’t get the rest of the sentence out.

What does he need? What does he need?

He needs to get out of here. To get to his mother. He needs to understand.

He needs—Granger.

His gaze betrays him—that damn pull again, making him look towards her, when he shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to. Why does he need to?

“Draco—”

She takes a step closer to him—but Draco’s backed agains the shelves now, with nowhere else to go to get away from her. He holds onto one of the ledges, forbidding his traitorous hands from reaching for her.

“You need to try and breathe, Draco.”

As if he hasn’t been trying. As if he hasn’t been fucking trying since McGonnagall passed him that fucking letter. Stupid. Her words are stupid. All of this is stupid. The way his throat constricts and his jaw refuses to unlock is stupid, too.

She crosses the distance and bridges the gap between them.

Holy, that gap had been holy, an absolute requirement—Draco can’t be near her, doesn’t trust himself to be near her again since that night. Granger’s face is carved in determination, though she’s pale. The circles are back under her eyes, a dark violet. He’d made them go away. They hadn’t been there when she’d slept with him—but they’re back now, and it’s all her fault, her damned fucking fault.

Draco can’t bear to look at her, and so he doesn’t—even when she nears, even when she moves Theo to the side—a gentle push because Theo is pale too, now, and quiet. Draco hates that she’s touching him, that she’s saying something to him in that low voice, the one she’d used that night, the one that Draco hates and craves and should only be for him.

He stares at his shoes—useless—and at his hands—also useless—but his vision is blurring at the edges as darkness creeps forth. He turns to the side and reaches for the shelves, for something solid to hold onto, but his balance is slipping further away from him with every inch the darkness gains.

“Draco, please, you need to—”

Her hand, again, curling around his forearm, his left forearm. Even through the layers of clothes that separate them, Draco can feel her fingers press against the scars that cover his Dark Mark, and he can’t—he can’t stand it.

He grips her wrist and pulls her away.

“Don’t fucking—” touch me, he wants to say, but the darkness steals the words from him again.

He hears a strange sound, like a wheeze or a stunted sob. Draco realises it comes from him only because of the contrast of that sound with the one Granger makes: a pained whine that slices through the darkness creeping over Draco’s mind like a blade.

Granger’s wrist is so frail in his grip.

He has something to hold onto, now, something to dig his nails into; a release, an outlet for the anger that burns hot next to that other, ugly thing.

It feels good. Granger isn’t touching him anymore, but he is touching her again, finally. He squeezes tighter and watches pain flash over her features in a grimace. Faintly, it satisfies him, but it isn’t enough.

Draco pulls her closer; the pale line of her neck is right there, so close, and if he wraps his fingers around it, maybe he’ll feel her pulse, and his will recede, slow down, disappear and give him room to breathe again.

He tugs her until there are mere inches between them, and he’s too rough on her, he knows, because that whine comes again. Her eyes are ablaze when she looks up at him, and he can see them clearly, even though the Library behind her starts to spin.

There’s no further trace of worry in the pretty lines of her face. Just a muscle in her jaw, feathering, and the defiant upturn of her chin.

Draco finds his voice again, but it's the ugly thing inside of him that speaks, the one that’s stuck in his throat, that’s constricting his airways like a vice.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he grits out. The words manage to both steal and push air in his lungs, or maybe that’s Granger’s closeness, the pull in his gut that starts humming happily. A spell, taking its course. The way he wants to pull her even closer disgusts him.

“I don’t want a filthy, fucking mudbloo—

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Granger stunts it at its worst, gripping his face with her free hand. His teeth smack together as her nails dig into his cheeks. Blood pools in his mouth from where he’s bitten down on the inside of his lip, trapped between his teeth.

“You don’t want to finish that sentence,” Granger says.

Her voice is cold—so cold, nothing like it had been moments ago, nothing like the tone she’s used with Theo, the one she’d used that night.

“You don’t want to finish that sentence because if you do, I will cut you out of my life.”

Her words make something curdle inside of him—his voice, perhaps, because he can’t find it anymore. All he can do in response is bare his teethbut as she silently stares at him, all blank expression and shuttered eyes, even the strength to do that slips out of his hold.

The vice around his chest grows so painful that his breath stutters. That sound comes again—that strangled sob. His fingers twitch and fail, her frail bones no longer his anchor.

The darkness taints his vision again, spreading from the outside in, and he can’t—he can’t stand it, can’t breathe can’t speak can’t think—

Granger’s hold on him changes—makes his mind spin again because now both of her hands are cupping his face, but there’s no pain this time. They’re frantic, fluttering, pushing his hair out of his face as his legs fail him, as he slides onto the hard wooden floor of the Library.

The metallic taste of blood coats his tongue. It makes his stomach revolt, nearly as much as his curdled voice, as the words he has just said.

Granger is speaking—Draco can see her mouth move, can see worry bleed into her eyes, replacing the coldness but bringing forth something worse, something that Draco craves and loathes; but he can’t hear anything over his heartbeat, so thunderous and—and stupid.

Her hands are still cupping his face—and there’s only one thing left for Draco to do: reach for her as well, close that distance, grant power to that pull—because he can’t—he can’t do anything else, can barely even take in oxygen between the tearless sobs that wreck his chest, but this—this he can do, because she’s here, so close, and he—he wants her.

Draco wants her so badly that it hurts, that it makes him terrified and mad. He wants her to keep touching him like this—her hand running through his hair as he curls into her, hiding himself into the crook of her neck where the room doesn’t spin, and all he smells is her; holding him to her as if there is no alternative, no other way to exist but this.

And Draco’s hands are weak—his arms ache as much as his chest—but they find their way around her body, grabbing fistfuls of her robes, and he holds onto her as if she is the answer to all he can’t do, as if she’ll grant him his breath back and take the pain away, make that ugly thing lodged inside of him vanish.

“I-I didn’t—”

Stuttered, everything is stuttered; his words, his breath, his thoughts, but he needs—he needs to—

“I didn’t mean—”

Granger quiets him with a soft hum. She slides a hand over the nape of his neck and Draco buries his face into her collarbone as he does his best to just—think.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Granger whispers.

She speaks low enough that the words are only for them. Draco can feel the vibrations of her voice through her skin; he thinks it trembles a little, or maybe that’s just him, shaking, pathetically, in Hermione Granger’s embrace.

“It’s alright,” she murmurs. “Just try to breathe for me. Just for a little while. Together.”

Together.

You’re not alone, she’d said.

Draco closes his eyes and pulls air into his lungs—holds it there for a few short moments, his lungs aflame. When Granger exhales, so does he.

Notes:

thanks for being patient! been going through some things, but therapy seems to be working, and i've written more words of this story in the past two weeks that i have in the past four months! so yay :D hoping to have more regular updates again soon. thanks to anyone who is still here! :D <3