Chapter Text
Chapter Forty-Five
There has never and will never be a time that Hermione does not stand upon the mountain of her scruples.
Where others might balk entirely, Hermione always finds a way to maintain her place. To take up the space necessary to ensure that everyone around her knows her stance. Around her, in her presence, if her moral code is broken, everyone will hear about it. Nobody will be allowed to do something that breaks her inherent moral code without hearing her deepest opinion. If that sense of justice makes her a tattletale or a bore or an uptight bitch, then so be it. Everyone will simply have to cry about it, and she’ll provide them with the handkerchief because this version of Hermione is the only version that exists.
The version of Hermione that does not love Ronald Weasley.
So when she and Ginny march into the dining hall at supper, she has no intention of letting him or Seamus get away with their behavior earlier. Their insipid, infuriating, immature behavior. And there they sit on each side of Harry, right across from a disgruntled Tillian and a downright furious Faye, merrily munching away on Draco’s food. The gourmet food he provides on the estate he’s allowing them to visit her at, while the French estate they live at remains one Floo away. After everything Draco’s done to help keep them alive, the least they could do is not attack him in his own home.
Ginny plops down next to Ron, while Hermione takes a seat beside Faye. She’s fuming. Absolutely beside herself with indignance. She will answer the questions she chooses to, and she will not be manipulated by Ron’s intolerance and Seamus’ inability to forgive.
“I see you’re enjoying the bolognese,” Hermione says. “The Elves in the kitchen are particularly skilled at prepping the beef. I believe it’s filet mignon, ground by hand. You’ve not had beef ground by hand, have you? At least, not in the past two years. Now that you’ve been living quite well on the Malfoy estate, I’m sure your experience with such things has increased.”
Harry grimaces and keeps his eyes on the table, while Seamus and Ron look at Hermione. Seamus has the decency to look cowed, but Ron’s blue eyes are narrowed. There’s outright disdain lingering within them.
“What is wrong with you?” Hermione demands, hands in fists on the arms of her chair. “What on Earth makes you think it’s respectful or appropriate to try and kill him in his own home?”
Ron’s ready with his own volley.
“What makes you think it’s respectful or appropriate to get your emotional support from a Death Eater? From the person who put us all in this mess?”
Hermione’s eye twitches. “Oh, you pick now to showcase that you have more than two bloody brain cells, don’t you, Ronald Weasley? Draco hasn’t—”
“Draco, is it?”
“Yes, actually. He’s my friend. My good friend. And the sooner you accept that, the better.”
Ron slams his fork down. “Damn it, Hermione! I’m not trying to control you—I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
Hermione grits her teeth, stopping herself from telling him that Draco keeps her safe just fine.
“I haven’t seen you in years,” Ron goes on, "and now that I have you back, I’m trying to figure out how to deal with the fact that you’ve become best mates with the absolute worst person on the planet!”
“He’s not the worst,” Faye snaps, taking a vicious bite of her meal. “Stop talking about him like that.”
“Why do you all keep defending him?” Seamus says, sounding irritated.
“Because you’re wrong about him,” Tillian answers with a shrug. “He’s got serious behavior issues, I’ll give you that, but he’s not some demonic being from the Underworld.”
“Right,” Hermione says with a nod, “and I would prefer it if we treated him with the respect he deserves.”
“Respect?” Ron snorts. “Just because he decided to wake up and choose the right side for about two seconds, doesn’t mean he’s someone who deserves respect.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Not when I think about the way he treated us all when we were at Hogwarts. Harry agrees—”
“Do not pull me into this,” Harry mutters.
“All’s I’m saying is that we—Harry and I—have a hard time separating who he was from whatever it is he is now. And we can’t help but be suspicious.”
Hermione scowls and crosses her arms over her chest. Her food steams on the plate before her, but her stomach is tied in too tight a knot to even think about eating until this conversation is done.
“Suspicious of what?”
“His motives, for one. He’s been at You-Know-Who’s side for years and now, suddenly he wants to round us all up and save us? Hide us away, risk his life, protect us? For what? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Hermione doesn’t respond, because it makes perfect sense.
Draco did it for her.
Neville clears his throat, shooting her a quick, pointed glance. “I do think his motives are genuine. Right now, at least.”
“Because they are,” Hermione says. “They are genuine. He’s a genuine person.”
“Person?” Seamus barks a derisive laugh. “He’s a bloody monster, isn’t he, then? A vampire.”
“So what if he is?” Ginny says, her first words since entering the dining hall. Her fork rests on the edge of her plate. “We’ve got a werewolf that we adore in our midst, haven’t we? Professor Lupin can’t help what he is—what he was turned into—any more than Malfoy can. And don’t insult me by acting like Malfoy would ever choose to become a vampire.”
“He didn’t choose,” Hermione says. “It was forced on him as a punishment for his father. The end of the Malfoy line was the worst thing that could ever happen to Lucius Malfoy, therefore it was a perfect punishment to dole upon him.”
“Still,” Ron says. “Whether he was forced to become one or not, he’s still dangerous. He’s obviously feeding off of all of you.”
“No, he certainly isn’t!” Faye says with an indignant gasp. “Absolutely not.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
“He hasn’t fed on anybody that currently lives in this house but me,” Hermione says firmly, sitting back in her high-backed chair. “Of that, I am certain.”
“Currently?” Neville says, a small grimace pulling his mouth down.
“It would be foolish for me to pretend he hasn’t fed on anyone else ever. That’s unrealistic. He’s been a vampire since Fifth Year—of course he’s fed before me.”
“So he’s killed people,” Ron growls, his blue eyes flashing with anger. “He’s killed people, and you want us to respect him just because he gives us a place to live?”
Hermione wants to lie. She really does. But she’s frustrated and she’s feeling petty. There’s a vicious part of her that wants to see the horror in his eyes when she tells him Malfoy has killed.
“The Dark Lord’s forces are at war, and Draco’s a Death Eater. He’s been in countless battles, and killed many people within them. I don’t know the exact number or even an estimate of how many blood sources he’s had, either. I just know that right now, his blood source is me.”
Harry frowns and speaks up. “Right now? Does that mean that you won’t always be? That he’ll…he’ll kill you?”
“No, Harry, he’s not going to kill me,” Hermione says, and unfortunately, it tastes like a lie. Because she doesn’t know what will happen, if she’ll survive by his hand or die by it. She doesn’t even know how he truly feels about her, so how can she predict, estimate, or muse about his intentions?
“So, you’re just supposed to be his blood source for what, forever?” Ron demands, his voice rising. “If you think I’m letting that happen, you’re barmy, Hermione.”
“It’s a good thing it’s not your choice then, is it?”
“To Hell with your choice!” He slams his fist on the table. “You’ve taken a potion, or he’s cursed you. There’s no way the Hermione I know would willingly offer her blood to Malfoy. No way.”
“The Hermione you know is dead!” Hermione shrieks, leaping to her feet and glaring down at him. “She died a long time ago, and when she came back to life, it was with a new purpose. I thought all of you were dead, too, so my only focus became myself, Faye, and Tillian. And I—I’m happy here, all right? I’m happier knowing all of my friends are alive and that someday, we might be able to fully reunite and start new lives together. But you have to understand that the new Hermione goes nowhere without everyone I care about. Right now, Draco is included on that list.”
A silence settles over the room, going on long enough for Hermione to take her seat and start eating. Discussion does not resume. All that can be heard is the scraping of silver against porcelain, and the occasional frustrated exhales Ron and Seamus both emit. As meals finish and plates empty, Hermione solidifies her plans.
“Ronald, will you come with me to the library? I think we need to talk.”
Ron, still chewing his last bite, nods without meeting her eyes. He says nothing, standing at the same time as Hermione. Together, the two of them head towards the double doors, one on either side of the table. On either side of the universe, two meteors shooting parallel towards different destinations.
Once in the library, they sit down in the armchairs. Hermione takes her favored chair while Ron takes Draco’s. Hermione’s heart pounds violently, the heaviness of Ron’s cerulean eyes pressuring her to change her mind. To back out of this conversation and keep balancing truth and lie.
She can’t do that to either of them. It isn’t fair.
“I feel like…” Hermione swallows, glancing down at her hands in her lap and choosing her words carefully. She has no intention of revealing her feelings for Draco, but she knows what she has to do. “I feel like there are so many things I want to say to you, Ron, and I don’t know how to say them.”
She pauses, glancing up to see if he’s going to interject. He doesn’t. He merely watches her with a gaze so intent she could mistake it for Draco’s. The tension is so overwhelming that her throat goes dry.
“I thought you were dead. I know it was an assumption, mostly, but I felt in my heart that you were all gone. I thought I was alone. And when I met Tillian and Faye, it gave me a new purpose. Something to live for. In the process, the version of me that you all grew up knowing…well, she didn’t come with me into the new life. I have memories from that time, and I still hold all of my friends in my heart, but there are new spaces that I opened up. That I had to open up, if I was going to survive.”
Ron leans forward, elbows on his thighs. He’s got the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to reveal corded forearms lined with faint red hair—arms she once longed to feel wrapped around her during those cold, despairing nights on the run. He runs his fingers through his hair, but it doesn’t seem to be out of anxiety. Surprisingly, he seems calmer than she’s ever seen him.
“What did you mean when you mentioned a ‘pit’ earlier?”
Hermione sighs and tells the truth.
“When I was captured, everyone was already dead, so I was the only one left. Some Snatchers caught me and hexed me. I came to and when I did, I was in complete darkness, surrounded by people I couldn’t see, at the bottom of a dirt pit. They fed us once a day, to keep us weak but alive, and when they took someone, they’d drug our food and we’d wake up with one less person in there with us. There was often a lot of blood, but I’m not sure why. That’s where I met Tillian and Faye, was in the pit.”
“All right. Who was holding you captive?” His brow furrows, a dark look crossing his face. “Malfoy?”
“No! God no. It was Blaise Zabini. He runs an…organization, I guess. A business.” She steels herself. “He provides blood sources.”
“For vampires?”
“Yes, and whatever other creatures require human blood to survive."
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Not at all,” Hermione says, lowering her head, “but I have no power in this world, Ron. No wand. No place to run to. And Blaise is…he’s not the worst person in the world. Draco is one of his customers, and his best friend. Blaise knew it was my blood he was selling, but Draco didn’t until he saw me. He paid for me, brought me back to the manor, and after some negotiation, brought Tillian and Faye to me, too.”
“Come on, Hermione.” Ron scoffs, shaking his head. “Surrounded by Death Eaters, making excuses for them as they sell you like chattel to be eaten?”
“I guess so.” She glances behind him at the obnoxiously-large Christmas tree. The fire that perpetually burns in the hearth makes the ornaments glitter and the lights sparkle brighter. “I’m not going to pretend I’m perfect, or that I’m not different. I am different. My morals are intact, but they’ve changed. They’ve gone…grey. I live a life of survival, Ron, and unfortunately, I wasn’t thinking of you or Harry when I decided to accept what my life had become.”
“And so you became friends with Malfoy.”
“I—yes. Yes, I did. And you’ve got to accept that.”
Ron grits his teeth. “I knew he wasn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart. I knew he didn’t rescue us all and move us onto his estate because he wanted to switch sides, or because he wanted to be the hero. He’s still a selfish, pratty git.”
“He has goodness in him...it’s just reserved for the people he cares about.”
“And you think he cares about us? In the drawing room, he practically screamed at us that we meant nothing. He nearly killed Seamus. The only thing he cares about is—”
“Me, Ron. He cares about me.”
“You expect me to believe that Draco Malfoy went against the Dark Lord to hide us away for you?”
“Yes.”
Ron’s eyes nearly fall out of his head. “That’s completely barmy, Hermione, and you know it.”
“You can believe what you want.” She adjusts her skirt and settles into her chair, clasping her hands on her lap. “But it doesn’t change the truth, which is that he’s my friend, he cares about me, and that’s why he helped you. I don’t care the reasons why he did it. All I care about is that you’re alive, safe, and here with me.”
“So he’s still a bad guy.”
“To the people that dislike him.”
“Godric’s fucking beard.” Ron’s scowls and flops back in the chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. “You don’t feel anything for me anymore, do you?”
“I’m sorry, Ronald, but…no. I don’t.” The truth.
“Do you have feelings for him?”
“No. We’re friends and we care about one another. That’s all.” A lie.
Ron sighs, his eyelids fluttering shut. “If you aren’t with him, then why can’t you be with me? Why can’t we go back to before?”
“Ron, please.” Hermione’s shoulders sag. “I can’t help the way I feel. It’s been years, and we were teenagers. I can’t muster romantic feelings when there’s none within me to muster. I’m sorry.”
Ron leans forward on his thighs again, holding one hand in the other and nodding at the carpeted floor. He doesn’t say anything, and the emotion that washes over Hermione is overwhelming. She doesn’t want to see him hurting, and she doesn’t want to lose him in her life. Not when she’s just got him back.
“Now, come on.” Hermione stands up and holds her arms out. “I don’t think we should let any of this ruin our friendship. I don’t want it to.”
Ron rises to his feet, tall and somewhat imposing as he steps into the circle of her arms. She feels his arms folding around her body, pulling her tight against him. He envelops her and she finds that she desperately missed his hugs. And while she can’t return his feelings, she knows she couldn’t possibly live without his embrace. Without his friendship and place in her heart.
“Thank you for understanding,” she says, holding him tight.
“Are you sure about this, Hermione?” he asks. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Please, just...” Ron pulls back enough to look down into her eyes. “We need to be absolutely sure.”
“I am sure.”
Ron’s jaw tightens again and then, before she realizes what he’s planning, his mouth descends upon hers. Hermione’s eyes widen to the size of tea saucers, her arms going limp at her sides and fists balling in shock. She stands there, not kissing him back, frozen with astonishment.
Ron is kissing her.
His lips are on her lips, and his tongue is smoothing over the seam of her mouth. She can practically feel the desperation that thrums through his veins, warring with the dismay she feels in hers. She’d thought he understood. That he had accepted her words. But here he is, taking what he wants and trying to change her mind as if she can’t be trusted to make up her own. The dreams she used to dance in, dreams of him rescuing her and kissing her and loving her…they’re long gone. They’re fancies of a broken teenage girl.
How can this be happening right now?
Ron’s hands slide up her back, pressing her as close to him as he can get her. Her head tilts back from the force of his kiss, and he doesn’t seem to notice that she’s not letting his tongue into her mouth. That she’s not responding. He seems to believe that if he kisses her long enough, she’ll give in and realize they still have a spark.
But they don’t have a spark. There’s love, but it’s not the romantic sort. Hermione loves him as her best, dearest friend, just the same as she loves Harry and Ginny and all of her friends. There’s only one person she yearns for. One person that she desires above all else. One person she ever wants to kiss.
It’s not Ron.
CRACK.
No.
Oh, God. No.
Draco.
Hermione rips herself out of Ron’s arms as fast as lightning, whirling around. Her stomach is in her throat and her heart is in her gut, her lungs pinned in place.
Draco’s eyes burn with something so dark and so deep that it can’t be anything else other than hatred. And he’s not looking at Ron; he’s looking down at Hermione. He’s scorching her skin with his fury and the accusation that plagues him. That’s now stretching between them.
She’s terrified.
“Leave, Weaselbee,” Draco snaps, continuing to glare at her as he unties the top of his cloak to remove it. “Granger and I have business.”
Hermione knows it’s not her fault, that Ron took her by surprise, but shame fills her all the same. She doesn’t bother to look at Ron as he wordlessly leaves the library. She keeps her eyes on Draco’s fury-stricken face as he tosses his cloak onto the floor like it means nothing. As he waves his hand and the doors lock, shutting them inside alone together. As he rids himself of her piece-by-piece, building his walls up thicker than ever.
She has to fix this.
“Sit down so I can put these memories back into your head,” Draco says, voice cold. “I’ll be gone all day tomorrow and won’t have time before the party. You’ll have to endure, but I suppose you can get your comfort elsewhere.”
“Draco, I—”
“It’s Malfoy.”
“M-Malfoy, it wasn’t what it looked like.”
“I’m not an imbecile. We have a row, I leave, and when I get home, you’re snogging your boyfriend. Seems pretty self-explanatory.”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” she cries shrilly.
“Do me a favor and shut the fuck up, Granger.”
She catches sight of his hands as he strides past her, headed for his chair. They’re trembling. Her breath catches in her throat. He was punished for leaving battle, wasn’t he? She wants to ask him, but he looks like he despises her. Like he hates her.
Draco sits down in his armchair.
“Sit down,” he growls, his eyes flashing with unspoken danger. “Now.”
Hermione’s mouth snaps shut and she sinks into her chair. The second her rear hits the cushion, his wand is out. The tip aims directly at the center of her forehead and she sucks in her breath. He looks so angry. So hateful. Her eyes prickle, stinging with her sadness and hurt. She wants to fight with him, to argue and demand he listen, but all she can hear is him telling her to call him by his surname, over and over like a depressing mantra.
Hermione braces herself, gripping the sides of the chair as Draco’s icy, piercing gaze locks onto hers. His expression is hard, devoid of any emotion other than disdain, and there’s no trace of the Draco she’s come to know. The air between them feels thick and stifling as he hisses the incantation under his breath, slipping into her mind with a calculated cruelty she hasn’t thought him capable of.
The first familiar false memory takes shape, vivid and horrid. Full of cutting and tearing and pleading, as it always is. The scene lingers, a knife twisting in her heart and with a painful wrench, Draco’s magic leaves her mind. She looks up at him, her eyes wide with betrayal, only to see his expression darken further.
Before she can catch her breath, another wave crashes over her mind. This time, she’s helpless to the vicious vengefulness of it—to the pure agony. Draco truly believes she’s chosen Ron. That she willingly kissed him. He’s lashing out, forcing the memories back into her mind, poisonous and acidic.
And he’s making it hurt.
Fear bubbles up, hot and bitter. Hermione chokes back a sob, willing herself to remember that none of it is real. But Draco’s magic is unyielding, his ire relentless. She searches his grey eyes for the gentleness she knows is buried somewhere in him, but all she sees is a scornful rage that mirrors her own pain. She tries to turn her head, to escape his magic somehow, but its icy claws only sink in deeper. It holds her there, forcing her to endure the torment.
She gasps, the agony too much to bear, her voice raw and breaking.
“Please, Draco. A break. Just a small b—”
“I said it’s Malfoy,” he snarls.
“Please, please stop,” she curls into a ball on the chair, covering her head with her arms the way the false version of herself does when the false Draco assaults her. When he pins her down and takes from her.
“No.”
By the time he finishes forcing the remaining memories into her mind, Hermione is trembling, tears streaking her face as a storm of dread engulfs her. The memories are darker, intensified by the new ones he’s had to place to cover the days between Christmas and now. They leave her hollow with despair. When she closes her eyes, she sees herself alone, abandoned, with nothing left but loneliness and loss and pain. Used and broken and abused and violated. Seeing things that never happened, with no comfort from him to remind her that they aren’t real.
She breaks.
“That’s enough, you monster!” she screams, her eyes blazing and full of desperate tears. Her fingers curve into the armchair. “Stop it! Stop it right now!”
Draco’s nostrils flare and his irises bleed purple. He stands up so fast it makes her cower with fear.
“Why should I?! Huh? Why should I do a fucking thing for you anymore?!”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You fucking kissed him, Granger!” He gesticulates angrily, his violet eyes wild as he looms over her. “What? Did you hate hearing me tell you no earlier? Can’t take it when I don’t give you what you want? I’m not your fucking friend, Granger! I’m not your fuck buddy or your property! You can’t fuck me and then kiss whoever you want when I’m only gone for a few fucking hours!”
“That’s not true!” she wails. “Why don’t you believe me?! He kissed me! I didn’t kiss him back! I didn’t want him to kiss me!”
“Oh, don’t fucking lie to me.” He looks disgusted. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, little girl.”
“I’m not lying, God damn you!” She musters up a shred of Gryffindor bravery and stands up, putting her body within inches of his. “He kissed me. I told him I didn’t have feelings for him, and he decided to test me on it. And like I said—I didn’t kiss him back!”
She can’t believe this. She cannot believe that he’s unraveling like this, refusing to listen to her or believe her or look inside her mind for one bloody second so he can see the truth. They’re outright screaming at each other, and it’s absurd.
Hermione reaches for him.
“Draco, please. Let’s just calm down, and—”
It’s like she’s just tried to reach for a wildcat in the jungle. Dark veins spread over his cheekbones and he hisses, snarling and revealing his fangs. Lunging toward her like a demon. The walls of Occlumency in his eyes are full of rapidly-widening cracks. Pieces are shattering, exposing his animalistic ferality.
Because he is an animal, isn't he?
She cries out in sheer terror, collapsing onto the armchair behind her. Pressing herself into it, she starts to scream and plead. He’s going to hurt her, just like in the memories. He’s going to chain her up and hurt her. Torture her. Violate her.
“You love him, don’t you?!” he shouts down at her. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, Granger! Do you think I’m fucking stupid?!”
Draco spins and kicks his own armchair with the sole of his heavy boot. The wood literally shatters, upholstery shredding, and the pieces of broken shrapnel crash into the closest bookshelf. Books cascade and tumble to the floor.
“No, no, I—I d-d-d—” Hermione can’t get her words out. Her vision is blurred, spotting from lack of oxygen. “D-Draco, pl-please—I c-can’t—”
He spins again, facing her with pure murder in his eyes.
Unable to discern reality from dream, unable to find a difference between this Draco and the one in the false memories, Hermione sheds the last of her pitiful pride. She practically flies from the chair, falling to her knees in front of him and clasping her hands in prayer.
“Draco, please,” Hermione sobs and shakes so hard it hurts her head and muscles, her words fleeing her mouth with fervor. “Please, please believe me. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll do everything you tell me to do. Just please, please believe me. I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me. I told him I didn’t love him. I told him, I swear. I swear. I would never betray you. I would never hurt you. I promise. You’re the only one I want. I swear. Please.”
Silence.
Silence, and then—then—
A broken, hoarse noise leaves his throat and he’s on his knees, too.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” He grasps her tear-soaked cheeks and presses kisses to her forehead, over and over. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. To scare you. I’m so sorry.”
“Draco,” she whimpers, her hands grasping the front of his black dress shirt. “You believe me, don’t you? Don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. I believe you. I’m so sorry.” His brows pull together as though he’s in pain.
“Th-The memories…”
“I know, I know. They’re not real, my sweet girl, not even a little.” He catches her tears on his thumbs, wiping them away. His contrition paints his eyes hollow. His Occlumency walls are a disaster—like they’ve been hit with Muggle explosives over and over. He looks ragged. Undone. His platinum hair is disheveled. “I’m here. The real me—I won’t hurt you. I won’t yell at you again. Forgive me. You’re everything to me, and I will never hurt you.”
Draco's tattooed hands tremble as they hold her face, the weight of his devastating-yet-meaningful words slashing her emotions to pieces. Hermione feels the universe shrinking to encompass the space around them, her heart splintering in her chest. She can see it in his eyes—the regret, the longing, the emotions he thinks he can never fully give. The pain. The shame. And yet, he’s here, holding her as if she’s the only thing tethering him to the world.
Perhaps she is.
When their lips meet, it isn’t soft or tender. It’s raw, desperate, and full of starfire that burns her inside. She tastes his sorrow, his guilt, his lips bruising like he’s trying to imprint himself into her. As if he believes this might be their last moment together.
And she’ll let him believe that, if only he kisses her like this forever.
His tongue slides into her mouth, plunging with ease and drawing hers into a dance as familiar as his touch. Her hands claw at his shirt, his shoulders, his hair. The kiss deepens as his hands slide around to sink into her kinky curls and grip the back of her head. They kiss like it’s their last opportunity, pulling each other closer. They don’t stop for a moment, even as her tears wet their lips, because they can’t bear to be apart.
He grips her hair and pulls, her head falling back hard.
The false memories flash through her mind and she flinches, the primal part of her shrinking back from him. The look on his face goes nearly feral with panic.
“No, no, no. Don’t be frightened of me. Please don’t. Come back to me. Come here.”
Draco’s hands find her face again. Hermione whimpers as he tilts his head to the right and kisses her gently, lips feather-light.
“Shh, shh. It’s not real,” he whispers against her lips. “I’m here. It’s me, right here with you. Okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers back, her eyelids fluttering open so she can meet his eyes. “Just…don’t stop reminding me.”
“I won’t.”
Their lips meet again, opening unto each other’s tongues so they can caress one another. Somehow, Hermione ends up on her back on the floor, his hands alternating between bracketing her face and stroking up her thighs and sides outside her dress. She parts her legs enough for him to settle between them, rolling and writhing beneath him. Feelings of fear war with feelings of desire, setting her nerve endings alight and causing her to be unable to focus on anything other than his mouth and tongue and fingers.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his mouth moving along her jawline, down to her throat. “It’s me. It’s just me.”
“It’s you,” she breathes on a gasp, her hands falling to the carpet beside her head.
“You’re doing so well. So, so well. And you know I’m not going to hurt you, don’t you?”
Her back arches, pushing her breasts into his hands as he cups them, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks. The feeling ignites sparks inside her, bolts of need shooting down to her core. Her breaths escape her in pants, her head lolling to the side, eyes falling upon the broken pieces of the chair and fallen books.
“Don’t you? Tell me.”
Her head jerks up and down in a nod. “You won’t hurt me.”
“That’s right, sweet girl.” His fingers are pushing her dress up slowly, inch-by-inch. “And you’re going to let me make you feel good, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
Her dress is above her hips, her body exposed to his touch. Draco slides his hand between her legs and into her knickers, pressing kisses to her waiting throat. Her feet press flat on the floor, pushing her cunt into his hold as warmth spreads over her lower body. Two fingers find their way inside her, stroking in and out, in and out.
“Mm, fuck,” he groans, fingers sliding from her channel and up to circle gently over her wet clit. “You’re gonna let me make you come, aren’t you?”
“Y-Yes,” she breathes, her voice tiny. “I’ll let you. I want you to keep touching me.”
“Good girl. Don't you want to spread wider for me?” He puts his other hand on the carpet beside her head, holding himself up so he can stroke her more freely. “Come on. Spread as wide as you can.”
Hermione does as he bids, spreading her legs as wide as possible. Her hips spasm as he moves his fingers faster. Her eyes roll up into her head, body grinding downward in search of oblivion.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, and she can feel his gaze scouring every inch of her. “Beautiful. My beautiful, beautiful girl.”
Hermione’s hands shoot up, clenching in his shirt, mouth falling open to take in more air. His words. His fingers. The pleasure coursing through her blood. Her toes are curling, thighs shaking, and his gentle ministrations are relentless on her clit. She feels like she’s both chasing it and afraid of it—of what he’s going to draw out of her.
Draco rises up and sits back on his haunches. In moments, he’s pulled her knickers off and slid his fingers into her body. His other hand presses flat on her mons, pinning her as he curls his fingers upward and fucks her with them. The fire inside her flares bright and violent, pressure building in her pelvis that makes her entire body quake.
Hermione’s eyes fly open, wide and shocked.
“That’s it,” he pants, his grey eyes full of stars and desperation, peering out from beneath his unruly hair. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she moans, frantic as it rises up inside. “Yes, yes.”
Draco drops his mouth to her throat and sinks his fangs in. Her stomach twists into a tight knot as the arousal crashes into her, causing her to fall headfirst into a violent orgasm. She cries out, a borderline sob, and her fingernails dig into his shoulders. He laps at her blood, drinking without reservation, a groan rumbling in his chest.
“Oh, God. Draco,” she sobs. “Please, it’s—”
Somehow, he’s gotten his trousers unzipped and his cock is rubbing through her wetness.
“Inside?” he whispers hoarsely.
She nods and grasps his face, pulling him to her and watching her blood drip from his chin. “Inside.”
Draco thrusts his hips forward, feeding his cock into her slowly. Her hips spasm again and again, her core stretching to accommodate him. It burns, almost painful, and she whines.
“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothes, watching himself sink in. The new term of endearment inspires golden warmth in her chest. “You’re taking me like a fucking goddess, you know that?”
“Wait,” she mumbles. “Hurts.”
He stops moving, leaning down to kiss her. Hermione tastes the metallic tang of her blood on his lips and tongue. He remains still as she rolls her hips, impaling herself at her own pace. He begins to gasp into her mouth, arms shaking and his chest heaving. The threads holding him together unspool and she can see his eyes losing focus, his hair falling into his eyes as he drops his head.
“Oh fuck,” he whimpers as her cunt flutters around him. “You’re so good for me. Just a little more.”
Hermione takes a deep breath and relaxes, allowing him to sink to the hilt. She lets her hands wander to his shirt, unbuttoning it to expose the tattoos that cover his chest and firm abdomen. After another moment waiting for her to fully adjust, she gives him a nod of assent. Draco thrusts hard, jostling her body and making her squirm and whimper again.
“Does it hurt?”
She shakes her head. “Feels good now.”
He slides out and slams back in. “That?”
“Yes, also.”
“Good.”
Sliding the fingers of one hand into her coily hair, he lifts her head and arranges it so he can pierce her flesh with his fangs. Simultaneously, he reaches down to rub slick circles around her sensitive clit. Her body jerks, legs pulling upward, and she throws her head back. He moves with power and speed, gentle outside and hard inside just the way she likes. As she gets closer to the stars, she can feel her body bearing down, getting wetter, squeezing him harder.
His movements falter.
“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Granger.” He whines and his other hand grips her arse. He's so deep inside her that she thinks they've melded into the same body. His pelvis grinds hard into her clit and she lets out a cry of her own. “You're gonna make me come too fast.”
“Draco.” Her lips hover near his chest, brushing his nipple. He's so deep. It's intense. It's almost too much. “Draco, please.”
“Shh, lovely. You know you can take it. Just keep making me feel good.”
Hermione obliges. Her fingers brush over his nipples, earning her a whimper from him, and she plucks at them. Pinches and caresses and touches. He pulls her head closer, his chest curving down into her mouth as she laves her tongue over the hard peaks. He curses and starts to tremble, his hips moving with powerful, deep thrusts.
“Keep doing that,” he says, voice pleading, murmuring the words into the hair at the top of her head. “Don’t stop, please. I'm so fucking close. Please, please.”
It isn't long before he starts to fall apart. He uses her curls as an anchor to pull her head to the side, removing her mouth from his chest. His fangs find their way into her throat, biting and pulling her veins open, sucking her blood down like an aphrodisiac. She screams as the pierce of his fangs pushes her into the furthest galaxies, his soft praise sending her reeling.
“Mm-hm, you’re so, so good, sweetheart. Your blood tastes so perfect. You’re making me come. Fuck, you're making me come.”
He pleads it like a prayer, and she grants his wish.
Her cunt starts to pulse right before he comes, and his desperate, almost emotional groan sends her fully over the edge. His hips jerk. Her body shakes. They reach the summit together, gasping into each other’s mouths, clutching and clawing with their hands. Hermione's eyes snap open to meet his gaze and for a moment, she feels like she’s tumbling into a black hole with him. Waves of euphoria eclipse her, pulling her into an ocean where Draco swims down to the depths with her.
He kisses her, sure of himself in a way that reminds her that no matter how horrific the false memories, they’re just that: false.
The real Draco is right here with her.