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We Were Prey

Summary:

“The name I used to bear is of no consequence. To you I am Draco. I must confess have grown fond of the name, as pretentious as it is. Did you know it was the dragon that guarded the golden apples of a goddess? Golden, like you.”

Draco's memories of Hermione make her easy prey for the Fae, and not even her magic can protect her.

Notes:

Prompt:

Fae Draco – “The Fae never lie. But, they don’t always tell the truth either.”

Written for the Dramione Teratophilia Fest 2.0

Fanart by @viliaud00 on IG

This is a dark story. There’s no redemption for Draco because he didn’t get a chance to have one.

Thank you to my friends Desiree and Gabriela for their feedback. Any mistakes are my own (and Grammarly's)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:


***

“For the trouble with the real folk of Faerie is that they do not always look like what they are, and they put on the pride and beauty that we would fain wear ourselves.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, Tolkien On Fairy-stories

***

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
The creature had the head of a lion, but it hissed with the tongue of a snake; the body was that of a dragon with scales both golden and green; a chimera, and it was under the mountain. Its head was bowed before the dark queen who held court there, her consort seated to the left. 

Hermione looked from afar, an invisible spectator surrounded by creatures big and small, all belonging to the dark. No one moved, and not one word was uttered when the chimera leaped on the queen, open jaws over her royal head. She gaped as blood splattered on the throne and a red puddle formed on unhallowed ground. Pale gray eyes were on her, his face was a red mask, and it had a wolfish grin, just for her.

“The Unseelie queen is dead.”  
 
Hermione woke up with a jolt. The light in her bedroom was dimmed, and the chilly evening breeze coming through the opened window made her shiver. Her mind drifted to the strange dream she had woken up from and the familiar face she had seen in it, but she could not recall who it was. It took her several seconds to register that her nap had extended longer than she had planned. These days, the exhaustion of motherhood overtook her every time she had a chance to close her eyes. Then she remembered the voice, the strange words whispered into her ear in a room where there was no one but her. 
 
“It was probably a dream,” she thought as she got up from the bed, tying the robe that had become undone while she lay down. Her slippers were nowhere to be found, and she had no choice but to drag her tired feet over the cold tiles as she walked into the kitchen.  
 
Hermione scanned the room, not knowing what exactly she was looking for. She blinked, thinking about the last thing she had done before her nap. As much as she tried, she could not remember why she had poured milk into a bowl but did remember adding honey to it and placing the bowl on the windowsill. Now, hours later, the widow was open, and the bowl and its contents had both disappeared. The always-present pragmatism made her think she should be more preoccupied with the fact that she was performing tasks with no apparent reason behind them than wondering about the whereabouts of a bowl. 

A shift; her eyes focused on the glow of a candle she knows is not there; a gust of wind makes the faint flame flicker, and then it is gone. Thoughts of milk and honey faded away as soon as they had appeared. Her eyes blinked, and another thought surfaced; she remembered her husband, Ron.
 
“Where is he?” She asked aloud. There was something she needed to ask him, but Merlin, she could not remember what. And there was the silence; she noticed the kitchen was eerily quiet, and the house seemed to be empty when it was not supposed to be.  
 
“He’s coming for you.”  

Hermione jerked her head to the right at the voice that was not there. Her heart was racing, galloping away from whatever impending danger it had detected, its sound becoming muffled by the humming in her ears.  
 
“He’s coming for the babes.”

 Another jerk of the head, this time to her left, but the space was empty.  
 
“The babies,” Hermione whispered, feeling trapped by a fog she was trying to fight. Her body responded to the panic, and she ran to the nursery.  
 
Two perfect alabaster-skinned babies were sound asleep inside a single crib. Her sigh of relief was loud enough to disturb their slumber, eyes scrunched, and mouths pouted before going back to their dreamy state. She was panting as she bent down and touched their little hands. Golden, delicate fingers traced the roundness of their rosy cheeks, and she smiled at the contrast in color. Her hands moved to the top of their heads, caressing the wisps of white-blond hair that were starting to come out.  
 
Her sons were fine; they were safe. The initial panic was dissipating when she noticed the unusual silence persisted, making the tiny hairs covering her arms stand up. Her husband was supposed to be somewhere in the house. Why was there so much silence? Had it been his voice she heard? Had he said those things to her? Was he playing tricks and games? It would not be the first time, and the thought exasperated her.  
 
Since the boys had been born, she tolerated his presence for the sake of the children having a father, but she secretly wished him away every day. If she were to analyze how everything had changed, she would conclude it had been strange. The falling out of love had been gradual, expanding over the years they had been together, but one day, everything was different. She had gone from caring about him to barely being able to look at him without wanting to curse his existence. The notion made her cheeks burn. A wife was not supposed to entertain such thoughts about her husband…  
 
Another shift. Hermione’s mind was relentless and refused to surrender. From one of its corners, tucked away in the deepest of crevices, a wondering thought wiggled its way out and escaped from its imprisonment. She remembered the comments from her husband’s family, the stares, the whispering. Should she be alarmed at the fact that her children did not resemble their parents in the slightest? She could be responsible for the soft waves that had recently made an appearance, but there was nothing of her husband in them.  

“Do you really want them to look like him? Do you want his face looking back at you every time you gaze upon your children?” She thought.

No, she did not. And at that, the wondering was over. Hermione imagined herself holding the thought as if it were a piece of parchment. She folded its corners into themselves in an intricate pattern, twisting and turning until the shape of a paper crane rested at the center of her palm. She placed it close to her lips and gave flight to its winds with a breath of her magic. It disappeared as another memory came to her, gray eyes and pale hair breathing flight into paper wings long ago.
 
Hermione blinked, and the scent caught her by surprise; it was everywhere, and it beckoned here. Her bare feet moved to their own accord away from the children’s room and across the length of the house, taking her outside through the back door. The grass was cold beneath her feet, warning her of the low temperature and the lack of garments that made her unequipped to be outside, but she could not be stopped. With each step, the scent got stronger, and it quickened her pulse. Her skin prickled at both the coldness of the night and the promise of what was to come. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recognized the danger, but imaginary fingers made of the same fog that had entrapped her self-preservation pinched the flaming thought, and it was extinguished in an instant.

Freshly mowed grass, new parchment, and tart green apple. It was not the first time the scent slithered its way into Hermione’s senses. It enveloped her; she could feel it sipping through her pores, taste it in her tongue, hear it in the humming in her ears, and now see it in the man standing before her.    

“My sweet Hermione.”

Had he materialized in front of her, or had he been there all along, and in her haze, she failed to notice him?

“Dra—Draco. What are you doing here?” She said in a breathy voice she did not recognize.

“I have come for you.” 

Confusion clouded her thoughts even more. “For me?”

He got closer to her, and she could not move. A hand trailed over her neck, moving upward and painfully slow over her jaw. His thumb brushed her lower lip, and she could not control her breathing. Her chest was rising and falling faster and faster. Then, the fog seemed to clear for an instant. 

“My wand! Where’s my wand?” In her panic, Hermione was not sure if she had thought this or said it aloud. 

“You will not need your wand anymore, Hermione.”

“Draco, what—

He sighed. “It is my fault you do not remember me since it was I who made you forget.” He stood behind her and rested his head on her shoulder. Soft lips nuzzled against her neck, and she closed her eyes in response, unable to control the arching of her back. A warm hand traced the line of her clavicle and traveled downward underneath her robe.

“You can call me by his name, for it is now mine as well. I am not him, but he is me.”

“What—what do you mean?” She breathed, unable to open her eyes.

His hand kneaded her breasts, and a faint moan escaped from Hermione’s lips. This pleased him, and he smiled as he answered her question.
 
“Draco sought peace from his nightmares and his mark. He wandered too far into the woods and stumbled upon my queen as prey stumbled upon a hunter. She was captivated by his beauty and brought him under the mountain with the promise to ease his suffering if he was able to pay the tithe.”

Her eyes opened, “The Fae,” she said as he pinched a nipple, severing her train of thought.

“Yes, my love.”

“Who are you?” 

“The name I used to bear is of no consequence. To you, I am Draco. I must confess I have grown fond of the name, as pretentious as it is. Did you know it was the dragon that guarded the golden apples of a goddess? Golden, like you.” He said in a low voice, a smirk on his mouth as he moved in front of her. His hands were now free to part the robe and pull it away from her shoulders. 

“What was the price? The tithe Draco had to pay,” Hermione managed to say, her eyes now fixed on the gray stare she had come to know in her childhood. 

“Oh, he did not get a chance to pay. I, too, was captivated by his beauty and begged my queen to have his body for me to use as my own. His memories are mine, and that is how I found you.”

“In his memories?” Hermione managed to say, sounding almost skeptical.

“Did you know he wanted you, Hermione? He wanted you, and he hated himself for it. Men are such fickle creatures, and wizards are no different.” Draco said with a roll of his eyes. “He went from hating you to wanting you to hating himself. I am no man, but here I am. Curiosity won. His desire was such that I had to come to see for myself.”

The hands were once again on her shoulders, pulling the robe down to her chest. Hermione’s lips parted, and she tilted her head back, eyes closed in response.

 “I came to see you; you invited me in and offered me tea with honey and milk. You looked beautiful and were kind to me, to Draco… 

She did not remember this taking place, but she had to believe him. The Fae cannot lie. 

“You were so clever and sharp that I even considered sparing your mind,” Draco said as long fingers tugged at her curls, wrapping the spirals around them.  

“I wanted something from you before taking my leave. I asked you to tell me your deepest, darkest secret.” A wide smile spread across his face, white teeth gleaming under the night sky, and Hermione thought she had never seen such a beautiful sight.

“You graced me by revealing your hatred against your husband.” Draco grabbed her by the waist and pressed her body to his as he bent down and licked her neck, stopping at her ear to whisper in it.

“I made him sit and watch as I took you for myself in your bed,” he stepped back, and his eyes traced the length of her body. 

“It was for your sake that I made him forget, made you both forget,” he said, almost pouting, making him look like the boy she had met in school. 

A dam broke inside Hermione’s mind, and she could remember that day, how she led him to her bedroom and lay bare for his taking. Draco in her bed, on top of her, surrounding her, a mess of entangled limbs and mercurial passions urgently clutching to life itself in the form of a bed and sheets damped with sweat. Hermione savored the memory of her body folding and bending under his touch, how her back arched and moans escaped her throat as he ravished her body.

And the man…her husband, sitting, watching, his body unable to move, his mouth a line and his eyes bulging in a silent scream.

Hermione knew she should be appalled, but neither fear nor shame for what she had done made their presence known. She felt she ought to feel trapped; like Draco’s encounter with the queen, she had stumbled upon a hunter.

“And yet…” Her mind protested, “Can you be prey if you willingly walk into the wolf’s mouth?”  

The robe fell to the ground, and Hermione stood naked in the moonlight, the bitter cold of the night fighting against the fire that was consuming her. Draco licked his lips before speaking, never taking his eyes from her as he did so. She reveled at the sight of him devouring her body just with his gaze. 

She knew her breasts were plump, her belly had softened, and her hips had widened because of her twins. He took account of this approvingly before bearing his eyes into her once again. His arms encircled her waist as he pressed their bodies together. “You look like ripe fruit ready to be picked. I did that to you, Hermione.” He breathed against her neck.

“I can smell the iron in your blood and the wetness in your core. You tasted like ambrosia, and I have hungered for you since that night. A year and a day have been far too long.” 

“At last,” Hermione thought.  

His mouth was on hers, tasting, biting, demanding more, more, more. The kiss deepened as a wandering hand moved from her waist to her hips and pressed at her center. She flustered as one of his fingers searched between her folds for the nectar he had provoked.


He let go of her lips, now swollen from his kisses, and licked the finger covered in her. His moan was replicated by Hermione as she watched him, unable to control her body moving against him, wanting his hands on her and the length of him inside her.

“The queen sent me for the babes, but that will not do when I crave the taste of you. Why should I deny myself?”  

“But you came here for me as well?” Hermione whimpered.

“Yes,” he said with a predatory look in his eyes.

“What about the queen? What will she say when she sees I have also gone with you?” She asked between breaths as she shamelessly rubbed her core against him.

Draco entangled his hand in her hair, grabbed it, and pulled it back, exposing her neck. “The queen is dead. I killed her for you, Hermione.”

The fog cleared, and her eyes widened. “Where’s my wand?” 

The panic in her voice made Draco sneer. His fingers were now on her chin, grabbing it with more force than necessary as he pulled her face to his. Draco kissed her violently, biting her lower lip until he drew blood. 

Hermione moaned; words escaped from her as they took away the panic with them. 

He managed to compose himself and leveled his voice. “You do not need your wand where we are going. Remember? You and the babes are coming with me.” 

Hermione nodded. At the mention of the twins, she heard their faint cries in the distance.

“The children call for you. Will you take me to them?” He said with a tender smile on his lips as he held her eyes in his.  

In seconds that took her to lick her bloody lip and nod again, Hermione’s logical brain analyzed the situation. The Unseelie queen was dead. Whatever her intentions had been towards her children were enough to warrant her death, she was sure of it. And, of course, she would take Draco to her babes. 

Had her eyes been closed? She blinked several times, and the robe was in his hands. He turned her around and traced the line of her jawline with his warm mouth as he dressed her.

Hermione did not remember walking towards the house and into the babies’ room, but they were now standing next to the crib, looking down at the boys.

“My sons.” 

She heard Draco’s voice coming from Draco’s body saying this, a part of her knowing it was not really him. But he had told her Draco… He was Draco. The Fae cannot lie.

"My children do look like their father," Hermione thought as she looked tenderly at the babies.

She took one of them and held him to her chest as she watched Draco do the same. The boys were still asleep, warm in their parents’ arms as they walked outside in the night. The cold no longer bothered her. Hermione looked down and beamed as she noticed her feet were covered this time. 

Something tugged at her mind again. She knew she should ask Draco about…him. The man was supposed to be in the house, but she had not seen him since before she heard the voices.

“Will he be alright?”

“Who, my dear?” Draco asked, his voice as sweet as honey swirling in a cup of tea. 

Hermione shook her head in confusion and smiled. “No one.”

She took his hand in hers as they walked towards the woods to take their place under the mountain. 

 

Notes:

This is the first story I have written and finished since 2016! I've been in the Harry Potter Fandom for 20 years, but I was never interested in reading HP fanfiction. Fast forward to April 2023 when I discovered Dramione in the form of Manacled and now this ship is my whole personality. I hope you enjoyed it.

I had to add that I’m a huge Holly Black fan. Tithe blew my mind when I read it back in 2007 and the inspiration for the Fae vibes here came from it.