Archive of Our Own ^beta

She counts each hit.

One. Two. Three.

The pain always dulls on the fourth.

Four. Five. Six.

The wood leaves angry red streaks on her skin but her outstretched hands never waver. 

Seven.

“Seven.” Her mother’s reminder ever so soft, suspends the stick in the air before it can crack down again.

It clatters to the floor and her father takes a deep steadying breath. Hermione allows her hands to fall and folds them behind her back.

“Time and time again I have explained this to you, Hermione. Books like these will corrupt thy mind. They are not meant for the gentle sex and it is not in a woman’s nature to want such a thing.”

Her eyes wander to the book she pilfered from her father. It lies tossed on the floor, looking wholly innocent.

'Tis one of the few texts in his study that speaks not of God’s word but of the world. She could not help herself.

“I know, father.” She ducks her head contritely. “I shall not do it again.”

Like always his eyes soften.

His belief in her is only second to his belief in the Almighty. He knows Hermione is good. She loves God just as much as she fears him. She knows all the prayers by heart. And though temptation is ever present, Hermione never forgets to repent for her failings.

Her father knows this to be true because he has made sure of it. She so rarely gives him reason to be angry with her, he knows this too.

Just as she knows that she will be unable to stay away from the books for long.

Still she will try. She will fail. And then she will beg for forgiveness and repent.

“Go on then.” Her father urges softly.

She takes a deep breath, “Lord Jesus, I sin. Grant that I may never cease grieving because of it, never be content with myself, never think I can reach a point of perfection. Kill my envy, command my tongue, trample down self. Give me grace to be holy, kind, gentle, pure, peaceable, to live for Thee and not for self, to copy Thy words, acts, spirit, to be transformed into Thy likeness, to be consecrated wholly to Thee, to live entirely to Thy glory.”

This home is new to her. This village, this people. The sky is always grey. Everything is muted and silent, except for the forest. Which is dark and loud; it rustles with promises hidden away in the thick foliage.

There is a scent in the air. Something unlike the smoke she’s used to. It is rain and dirt, raw and musky like the earth. Hermione likes it. It reminds her of the purity of nature, the blood thrumming in her veins, and the breath filling her lungs.

“Almighty God, as I cross the threshold of this day I commit myself, soul, body, affairs, friends, to your care. Watch over, keep, guide, direct, sanctify, bless me. Incline my heart to your ways.”

She stands before the congregation. Rows upon rows of eyes that watch her in God’s house. They watch as she pronounces each consonant crisply, as she voices each word’s intonation, as she does not stutter nor pause.

Hermione likes it.

The attention, the ability to perform, to show them how thoroughly she devotes herself.

Some look at her with appreciation, some with envy, some with malice.

Her mother smiles, stretches her lips thin, her eyes far away just as she has since Hermione was a babe. Her father looks at her proudly. It was his suggestion to the priest to allow her the morning dedication. Much like her pride is a sin he often indulges in.

She knows she should banish the rapturous feeling in her heart. She will repent for it later but she lets it sit in her heart a little longer. She sweeps her eyes across the room, raises her head a little higher, and then continues her recitation, perfect, just as God deserves.

“O’ God, my Lord I now begin—"

“You’re burning.”

Her mother’s hand is cold to the touch. Hermione moans softly and whimpers.

“You shan’t come today child, it will do no good.”

Hermione pushes up. “I will manage.”

“No,” Her father commands. “Stay. Rest.” He comes forward, kneeling by her bed to press a kiss to the crown of her head, “Your mother and I will pray for you in church today.”

Hermione nods and shuts her eyes, listening as their footsteps fade. The door slams shut, and she begins to count.

Dear Lord please forgive me.

She recites it five times and resolves for ten more tonight. 

When she is sure it is safe, she slips out of bed. Barefooted, she enters her father’s study. A book she has not opened yet beckons her and she submits, escaping with it out to their land, by the tree near the forests edge.

There facing the forest, hidden by the giant trunk of the tree, Hermione reads. She reads and reads with gluttonous abandon. She reads until she feels a wind blow, then she glances up.

“Oh, hello.”

A crow stands in the grass before her. She waits for it to fly away but it stays, looking upon her with curiosity. Slowly Hermione sets the book down. It does not move nor frighten, only regards her patiently and that pleases her.

“You’re a pretty thing.” She shifts sitting on her knees. “You’re not scared of me are you?”

The crow caws and she reaches for the half-eaten pastry she pilfered. “Perhaps you are hungry?”

She picks a nut off the loaf and tosses it at the bird. It does nothing. “What? You don’t like it?”

It caws again and hops forward on its little feet. She leans closer to admire it. She picks off a flake of pastry and offers it out in her palm. The crow edges closer and then eats.

She grins in delight. “You like sweet things do you?”

She feeds it a few more pieces watching in fascination as the animal, despite all its instincts chooses to stay by her side and eat from her hand unafraid.

She reaches her finger out, a pastry bit sitting atop it. This time when the crow pecks at her hand, it sends a small jolt of pain up her finger.

She gasps bringing her hand up to watch a drop of blood seep from the pad of her finger. “Terribly rude of you that was.” She sticks her finger in her mouth, swallowing the taste of salt and copper.

Then she surveys the bird. It looks decidedly unapologetic as it stares back. She picks her book back up.

“No more sweets for you, I’ve sated you well enough.”

She only manages a few sentences before her eyes stray to the crow again. She raises an eyebrow and huffs softly.

“How else am I meant to entertain a bird? Shall I read to you?”

The crow cocks its head, hopping forward once more.

“Tis not my favorite book, it speaks of harvest and farming, but father has a very small collection that is not the word of God. I confess those books I’ve grown tired of, I’ve read them so many times you see.”

The crow stays, she clears her throat and reads. It still stays, and only when she stands to return to the house does she see it leave and fly into the forest.

They are fortunate while most others are not and God looks favorably upon those who help their brethren in time of need.

That is what her parents tell her, before handing her a basket and sending her off to the Weasley’s. Hermione is told they have too many mouths to feed and only one girl to help with chores.

Hermione is glad to be there as it pleases her Lord, even though the mother’s smile does not reach her eyes and the daughter, Ginny, is severely prone to distraction. They put her to work mending the clothes that they’ve torn through.

Then they begin to talk.

“You live awfully close to the forest. `Tis not often one dares to enter there. Not alone, and not without a musket.”

“They say a spot will be opening up on the town council. Cornelius Fudge is getting too old. Your father ought to be considered.”

“Stay away from Cormac McLaggen.” This one is a whisper from Ginny, “The devil’s tongue he has.”

The sons storm in a time later, trampling over one another. Some tall, some short, some old, only one her age. In the commotion some of the scraps of fabric fall and she kneels to sort them.

The youngest brother grabs a loaf from the table, makes a sound as he bites into it, “This is delicious.”

“Hermione brought it.”

It is quiet after, and she looks up to see the youngest brother chewing, his eyes not on her but the neckline of her dress.

She stands with a pointed frown, and he swallows and averts his eyes. “It’s good.” He says again quietly, chastened.

“Mother will be glad you liked it.” She says and then being the good Christian she is, she reminds them of the church service scheduled tomorrow, before bidding them goodbye.

Hermione tries many things. Fruit, nuts, dough, even a sliver of raw meat. But her crow is picky, and it does not eat no matter what she offers.

It returns to the tree every time she does. She finds it flattering though strange. Perhaps its nest is nearby. It listens to her read and denies all the food she offers for its company.

That day she gives a huff as it turns its head at the seeds in her palm. She’s feeling especially magnanimous, so she pulls up her sleeves. “You mustn’t make this a habit.”

It cocks its head at her, and she offers it her hand, a single finger.

“Go on then. You’re hungry are you not?”

It hops closer and peers at her for a very long time. Then it pecks at her finger. Sharp enough to draw blood. She puts her finger in her mouth before going back to her book.

She wakes to the sensation of breath on her neck. The puffs are cool against her heated, sweaty skin. She squirms in her sheets feeling strange; heady and dizzy and still not quite awake even as her eyes blink open.

A figure lounges next to her, and when she tries to sit up he stops her with a hand to her shoulder.

“Hello.” She says quietly and knows it to be a dream from the calmness in her voice as the stranger softly plays with her hair.

He chuckles, a faceless man, so hidden in the shadows that she can only make out fair skin and dark clothes. He leans down and her breath hitches as his lips ghost over her ear, “What’s your name?”

“I—I don’t think I should tell you.”

He laughs. Her skin prickles as his hand trails up and down her arm, “Why so?”

She licks her lips, squirms again. “Will you tell me yours?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You already know my name.”

She tries to think but her brain is too clouded to focus especially when she feels him trace a finger over the bare skin of her thigh. She cannot recall his name but knows it is something dangerous, something sinful.

“You should not touch me like that.” It’s a mere whisper for she cannot muster any more strength. 

He pulls his face away, but his hand splays firmly on her thigh. “But I very much want to.” His hand travels up underneath her shift to grip her waist and her eyes flutter closed, as he whispers in her ear. “And you want me to.”

She furrows her brows, turns her face away from him.  “I do not.”

His fingers dance along her stomach making odd patterns over her skin. “No?”

She doesn’t answer, and she prays instead that she wake up from this terrible dream.

“If you tell me thy name, I’ll leave.” Again, his whisper is by her ear, only this time he nips at her earlobe gently.

“Hermione.” She gasps, and she feels the grin on his mouth as he presses a kiss to her cheek before she awakens in a messy bed, the dawn just starting to splay from the windows.

“But where will they go?”

“God knows, as long as it is not here.”

“Hush you or you may be damned too.”

“It wasn’t God’s damnation but a dalliance with the devil that caused that.”

“Mister Goldstein is a pious god fearing man.”

“Then why did god forsake him and his family?”

“The rot will spread I tell you, if you don’t be silent.”

Mister Finnigan finally listens to his wife and closes his mouth as they sit in church behind Hermione and her family. She mulls over their words. There has been much talk about the Goldstein’s departure. Their fields yielded only black husks and decayed crops this season.

She turns to her right and whispers, “Rot, father?”

“Do not trouble yourself with such things, Hermione.”

The shot cracks through the air and Hermione watches a small black creature fall from the sky.

One of Ginny’s brothers lowers his musket with a grin as another runs to retrieve their catch.

“It’s a crow.” Hermione says watching him raise the dead creature up to be met with cheer. For a moment she fears—but then something certain in her tells her not to. It is not hers. Still, she turns to Ginny with a frown. “Do you all mean to eat it?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why hunt it?”

Ginny shrugs, “Sport. They’re the devil’s bird, you know. I wouldn’t mind taking a shot myself.”

She contemplates Ginny’s words. From what she knows and what she's read Hermione finds Ginny's words unlikely.

Hermione stands suddenly from their hiding spot among the tall grass.

“Where are you going?”

She dusts herself off, “Back to my chores.”

They had snuck away, leaving their tasks halfway done when Ginny heard her brothers planned to practice with the musket and decided she wanted to watch.

“If you want to shoot, instead of watching perhaps you should ask your brothers for a turn.”

“I’m not allowed.”

Hermione assumed as much. Ginny is a woman, after all. And though unfair perhaps, there are far worse things for a woman to be upset about than her right to kill an animal with a musket.

So, she clasps her hands behind her back and speaks in her best imitation of her father, “Yes well, tis not in a woman’s nature to want such a thing anyway.”

Ginny’s eyes dull just a little.

“Perhaps you ought to focus more on God and thy self and not so much on your brothers.” Hermione suggests.

“Perhaps.”

“Shall we head back?” She turns without waiting and as she walks back she contemplates whether this is something she need ask forgiveness for. Surely not.

“You either like the sound of my voice, or you are hungry but alas I have no book to read nor food for you today.”

Her crow peers up at her.

“And no, I will not be offering myself so if that is what you came here for today, you may fly away.”

Her crow stays and she thinks.

“Shall I tell you about my day then?”

It cocks its head.

Hearing herself recount her daily rituals it occurs to her that though God may be pleased by the mundanity of it, no one else not even this crow might find it as equally interesting. Still, it stays, and she is secretly pleased.

And when she is done talking about her day, she is reminded of another thing.

“You should be careful you know. Just a few days ago I witnessed a vile act against your kind. For a moment I thought it was you, but thank the mighty Lord it was not. Perhaps you should tell your brethren to be wary.”

The crow caws as if it understands her wholly. She smiles and shifts forward, then with a slow hand she reaches out. She is surprised when it allows her fingers to brush its head. Its inky feathers are soft like silk.

“How kind of you.” She murmurs, “I should hope this makes us friends now.”

Her father is not an easy man to shake nor tire. His new position on the council has done both.

“The rot is spreading.” He paces in front of the fire.

Her mother hums, seated on the chaise, eyes shut. She looks tired even more so than usual.

“Some are beginning to worry, talking incessantly of witchcraft and the devil. I’ll be damned if I’ve brought my family to cursed lands, God as my witness, it shall not be.”

“`Tis not reached us.”

“Yes and I thank our Lord for that just as I pray it never will but other townsmen—God fearing men have prayed the same and were not saved.”

There is quiet.

Her father speaks again. “Hermione is getting older.”

Her mother picks up her head, blinks open her eyes.

“She shall be in need of a husband soon.”

“You pray to send her away?” Her mother asks quietly.

“Before—if it reaches.”

Her mother is silent though it wouldn’t matter even if she wasn’t. Her father is already deep in contemplation, “She needs a good man, a pious man, one who loves the gospel as much as she does. And he must have a proper farm with good yield, untouched by any of this.”

“You will have to look far then.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps back home?”

“Perhaps.”

Hermione nearly reveals herself hidden by the door, wanting to protest. She does not desire to return to the putrid smoke and noise of their old town, nor does the idea of a husband appeal to her at this time.

Her parents begin to pray, and Hermione attempts to pray harder than them.

“Have you thought upon my name?”

“Yes.” She whispers in the dark. She’s thought upon it many times in fact, thought upon him, the faceless man who takes nightly shelter in her dreams.

She knows of him. The adversary, the wicked one, the immortal who tempts and preys on God’s people. She knows it in her heart, she feels it in the recklessness of his hands, in the headiness they inspire.

“And?”

“And…you should not be here.”

“Why?”

Her voice wavers in the face of this evil. “I-I am a pious, God fearing woman.”

He laughs, his breath hot against her bare stomach. “You always speak of god like he is your master, like you desire for him to be pleased with you.”

He kisses her stomach, pushing her thin shift up her waist and she whimpers.

“You want to be good. You want to devote, to worship, to serve but he is never quite pleased is he? No, there’s always more. More prayer, more repentance, more fighting with your own desires to sate his. It will never be enough, will it? It will never satisfy.”

His hands run up and down her thighs, his kisses are soft and warm against her skin. His lips press against her navel, and her eyes snap wide open.

“Stop.” She tries to push him away, but he does not move away only stills. “This is sinful.” 

“Conceived in sin, born in iniquity.” He recites mockingly, “Are you not a sinful creature with a corrupt nature dwelling inside you bent unto sin only unto sin…” His teeth tease the jut of her hip bone. “Is that not what your god preaches?”

“Yes.” She gasps when he slowly runs his tongue up her stomach. “I am, he does.”  

He is atop of her suddenly, leaning down and placing heady kisses on her neck. “I could satisfy you, give you salvation, deliverance, release. You would be so good for me, wouldn’t you? I’d be so pleased with you, Hermione.”

She closes her eyes, bites her tongue before her thoughts can spill from her lips. Yes, yes, yes.

When she awakens that morning, skin heated and underclothes damp, Hermione falls to her knees by her bed and prays dearly for forgiveness.

“Whose victory do you pray for?”

“I have no stake in your game.”

“Then will you pray for mine?”

She turns her head to eye Ginny’s brother. “Will it assuage your fear?”

This causes him to bristle. “I have no fear.”

“Go on then.” Another boy taunts. “If you have no fear.”

One of Ginny’s older brothers laugh, “‘Tis a lie. He’s the palest I’ve ever seen him.”

His chest puffs with bravado, “The devil himself could meet me in the forest and I still would not be afraid.”

“Go on then.” Ginny snaps impatiently.

He does with only a little hesitance. They watch as he walks across the field stopping at the forest’s edge. He looks back once before going in. Chuckles and murmurs come from the group around her, as he walks hurriedly, pulls the stick from the ground, where the previous contender had dared venture. He takes only a few steps past, spikes the stick into the ground before jogging back to them.

She ignores his smile and searching gaze as he collapses next to his sister and her.

“Does anyone dare go deeper?” The eldest Weasley brother asks.

A boy jumps up taking on the challenge, and so it continues. Hermione cannot say she enjoys this game. She is unable to feel the same sense of fear and excitement the rest of them do when one of them dares venture into the forest.

That is until one boy, a particularly smug one, steps up when no one else does for several minutes.

They watch as he trails through the forest at an unhurried pace. He shoots them a grin before unlodging the stick and taking that one step that no one else dared take, that has him disappearing into the darkness of the forest past their vantage point.

“Alright there, Adrian?”

His voice is distant but proud as he calls back, “Just fine. Tell me what will I be receiving as my victory prize?”

“Don’t be so certain yet. One of us may yet unseat you if only to wipe that smug grin from your face.” The elder Weasley boy calls back.

Then there is silence.

“Adrian?”

More silence.

“Adrian, do not jest.”

Silence.

“Adrian!”

Only silence.

One. Two. Three.

The pain always dulls on the fourth.

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

She sits in her spot, back against the tree, staring out at the forest.

It is quiet and unmoving.  

She stares harder. Daring it. Daring it to do something. To instill fear in her. It has taken a boy, one of the Lord’s men and now she sits here so close to it, and it does nothing.

Curiosity has her in its clutches so tightly she cannot breathe. She wonders what happened to him, wonders what lies in the forest, wonders what would happen if she were to venture.

But she cannot—will not. Her father punished her for just going near it.

She closes her eyes. The crow sits perched on her knee, her fingers petting at its feathers, her hands still marred by angry red streaks.  

Hermione is awoken by a tapping on her window in the middle of the night. She walks over blinking at her crow as it pecks at the glass. Then she sees it in the distance, a boy, a boy she vaguely recognizes.

She hurries down, yanks open the door, and yes there he stands by the forests edge. Adrian Pucey. She calls his name, but he does not seem to hear her, and then she realizes he is naked as the day he was born.

“Father!” She calls, not taking her eyes off Adrian lest the forest vanishes him again. “Father!”

“They say he cannot speak.”

Hermione hums as she lays on the soft grass watching the sky. A small smile plays on her lips as she watches a black bird soar overhead. He’s taken to following her some days now when she visits town. “Can not or will not?”

Ginny contemplates her question, “He still has his tongue, they checked so perhaps will not—unless he’s been cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“You haven’t been here long, you don’t know the stories we’ve heard about the forest. Flesh eating monsters, covens of witches, the devil himself. Every sin lives in that forest they say, and Adrian was in there for three days.”

“Are you certain these stories are truth? How could the town survive till now, how does it ward off such evil?”

“In the beginning days, our men hunted these evils. Witches and monsters who hid among God’s people. They would root them out, drag them to the forest, and offer them to the devil. After that, we were left alone.”

Hermione mulls over this story.

“'Tis like the beginning days.” Ginny whispers, “Only worse. More and more people are thinking of fleeing.”

“Father says he plans to ride to a distant town to see how well they’ve fared this year. Perhaps it is not the land but the season that’s causing these troubles.” Hermione does not wish him to go. She fears for him, but also fears what or rather whom he will come back with for her.

“I pray to God that proves true.” Ginny is quiet again before speaking, “It’s started to spread on our land. Father thinks if we harvest what we have now, we’ll have just enough to get by.”

“That’s good.”

Ginny then looks at her curiously, “Your land hasn’t been touched by the rot yet, has it?”

“No.”

“That’s...strange but good. There aren’t many anymore who’ve been left untouched.”

“Gin!”

They sit up and find her brother bounding up to them.

"What is it? We were about to head to town."  

“I also need to head into town, can I join you two?”

Hermione stands brushing off the grass from her hair and clothes. “I’m going to go home actually.” She ignores the flash of disappointment in the redheaded boy’s eyes. She bids them farewell and when she arrives home, she takes a walk through their crop field, finding not one bit of rot.

“God of my end, it is my greatest, noblest pleasure to be acquainted with you and with my rational, immortal soul; it is sweet and entertaining to look into my being when all my powers and passions are united and engaged in pursuit of you, when my soul…”

The church rings silent.

The entire congregation stands before her. Rows upon rows of eyes watching, waiting. Hermione stands there halfway through her prayer, frozen.

She tries to recall the words. She can feel them in her mind but cannot reach them. She feels as if she is in a haze.

Clearing her throat, she begins again. “When my soul longs and passionately breathes after conformity to you and the f-full—” Hermione stutters and chokes on air.

As if the breath has been stolen from her lungs they burn fiercely and around her throat there is a pressure every time she opens her mouth.

She cannot speak she realizes with horror.

Dear God, please save me from this fate I—I…

Her mind falters to a halt again. Even her own desperate thoughts are not sacred from this torture.

She cannot speak, cannot pray. Her stomach turns, a bead of sweat drips down her temple. Their stares have never been more attentive, watching, waiting for her to fail.

She cannot give them the satisfaction. She forces herself to speak, forces air into lungs, “—e-enjoyment of you; n-o hours pass away w-with…”

Hermione presses a hand to her head, her eyes flutter, “Mother…” She murmurs before swaying. Her father catches her, before she can hit the ground, murmurs and gasps fill the room, and she pretends to close her eyes and be dead to the world though her heart beats wildly in her chest.

“Lord Jesus, give me a deeper repentance, a horror of sin, a dread of its approach. Help me chastely to flee it and jealously to resolve that my heart shall be yours alone.”

 “Again.”

“Lord Jesus, give me a deeper repentance, a horror of sin, a dread of its approach. Help me chastely to flee it and jealously to resolve that my heart shall be yours alone.”

“Again.”

She repeats it again, and again, and again. Her father paces in front of her listening for one mistake, one pause, one mispronunciation. Her hands remain outstretched in front of her unmarred because this time she’s perfect, she knows she is. She doesn’t understand what happened that day, she cannot bear to think about it. The humiliation, the failure, it still crawls under her skin. She's sure it is no different for her father.

“Again.”

“Father, I swear to you I know it by heart. I was worried about your journey, and the rot, and mother—”

“And I told you not to trouble yourself with such things!” His roar startles her, and she ducks her head, contrite, complacent and  whispers, “I know, father. I’m sorry.”

He softens ever so slightly then lets out a harsh breath. “I damn near well thought the devil had placed conniptions on my daughter.”

“Father.” She reproaches, “Do not even speak of such a thing.”

More of his anger melts, he places a hand on her shoulder, squeezes, before nodding to the stairs. “Go see your mother. She’s not been well since that day.”

Hermione does as told, quietly opening the door and slipping into her parents room. Her mother barely takes up the bed, almost unnoticeable under the covers. Hermione slips in and curls up on her side facing her.

“Mother, are you awake?”

“Hm.”

Hermione stares at her, this woman, whose been like this as long as she can remember. Her mother, but also a stranger. Warm but always cold to the touch. Loving but not enough, never enough.

Hermione once heard her father confess that after she was born, her mother changed. As if Hermione had taken everything from her, her joy, her sadness, her anger, her life.

She was God’s gift to them her father explained when Hermione had cried to him about it, because the Lord does not give without taking first.

Hermione thought it unfair. Her mother deserved life, and instead of conjuring a new one for Hermione, he had taken her mother’s and given it to her.

Reaching out she curls a hand over her mother’s and for the longest time, Hermione stares. Watching her mother’s chest infinitesimally rise, watching the blankness on her face as she lays there with closed eyes.

Finally, Hermione swallows and whispers, “Please don’t leave me alone with him.”

A quiet confession. A fear long unspoken. Barely there though she was, her mother always kept him from going over the edge. A part of Hermione fears being left so completely alone with her father, when her mother is gone.

Her mother’s eyes slowly open and she blinks up at something above her several times. “You won’t be alone, child. If you ever feel such a way you need only pray, and your Lord will be with you.”

Alone with her father and God. The thought does little to ease her fear.

Her mother meets her Lord that very night, and Hermione is not surprised. She cries twice. Once when her father tells her, and once when they bury her. She still manages to get through the prayer perfectly.

Only two days later her father departs on his trip to a neighboring town leaving Hermione alone.

Each night he comes to her in her dreams and each night he holds her.

“You can cry, you know.”

She shakes her head vehemently.

“Does your lord forbid that too?”

“No.” She draws in a shaky breath as he places a kiss on her throat. His arm drapes tightly over her waist keeping her in place.

“There’s no sense in it.” She takes a steadying breath, but it does little to dispel the haze. “I have faith in my Lord and my mother was devout. She is there with him now, I should not cry, I should be happy for her.”

“Whether she is or isn’t—”

“She is.”

“You still miss her greatly, don’t you?” His large hand slides right above her left breast. “You must feel that heaviness in your heart. That burning behind your eyes. Does your throat close up when you think about her?”

She closes her eyes tightly, “Stop it.”

“Why do you pretend to be strong for your god? `Tis only human nature.” He whispers, “To indulge in the pain, to want to cry, to grieve. She was your mother after all, she loved you, though she could not express it well.”

Hot tears roll down her cheeks and she only takes notice of it when he begins to murmur words of encouragement in her ear. A sob rips through her and she turns her head burying her face in his neck. She’ll regret it later, to seek comfort in some dream induced vision of what she knows is the—she scrunches her eyes tighter unwilling to even acknowledge who her mind conjures every night.

Instead, she focuses on the hand rubbing up and down her back, the other one clutches her chin and tilts her face. His tongue laps at the tears on her cheeks. She makes a noise, something between a moan and a whimper. His tongue is replaced by warm lips.

The sadness fades, replaced by a seeping warmth inside her. So familiar to it in her dreams, it is like second nature to feel her skin heat, to squirm under his ministrations, to pant and moan. His lips trace her jaw, following the curve down her throat. He ducks his face into her neck, inhales deeply before sighing with content.

“You’ll be mine soon.” The promise is as soft as it is threatening.

Her shaky limbs try to push him off, “No.”

“Yes.” He murmurs with certainty, pressing a kiss to her throat.

“I—I am a pious woman, faithful to my Lord—”

“Are you going to pray now?” He asks with a smirk.

“O’ Lord God, thou art our Preserver, Governor, Savior, and coming Judge. Quieten our souls to call upon thy name; detach us from the influence of the flesh and the senses—” She recites, and he picks up his head and though she still cannot see his face she just knows he is grinning.

His mouth goes to her ear, “Your lord will not save you, Hermione.”

She continues praying, but even to her own ears her voice fades to nothingness, as he whispers, “In fact, he will be the one to deliver you to me.”

Her father returns early, and she can tell just by looking at his face it is not glad news he brings back.

The neighboring towns had a good yield this season. The rot scarcely touched them, and so when the town gathers to discuss this revelation, naturally accusations are thrown.

“We’ve displeased the Lord, he’s turned our dirt sour and barren!” One man cries.

“It is the newcomers.” Another hisses, “Why do their fields still stay ripe?”

“And the girl! Fainted in the middle of prayer, `tis must be the devil’s doing!”

“And what of the Pucey boy? He still won’t speak, he was clearly cursed and now he’s brought the curse with him.”

“Enough!” Her father yells, “If God wasn’t displeased with us before, he is now. Like savages we turn on one another.”

“What will we do?”

“We must do something!”

“We’ll starve come winter!”

“Every hardship is bestowed on us by our Lord. A test of our devotion, and what does he merely ask of us in those difficult times? To pray. So, I beg thee all, let us pray, then we need fear nothing.”

And so, they do. They pray, and then they go to their homes and sleep, and then the next morning they wake, and the rotting fields are still there.

Her fall from grace is not a headfirst hurtling plunge, but rather a yank, as the ground, already splintered and cracking beneath her, opens up unbidden and a hand drags her down.   

Hermione starts the day by walking to town admiring the shadow of her crow as it soars above her. Then suddenly she is stopped by Ginny’s brother as she heads to their home with a basket of fruit. He offers to escort her, and she has no excuse to deny him.

Then suddenly her back is digging painfully into the side of the butcher’s shop, and his heavy weight is pressed against her.

At first she can only gape at the audacity of him to touch her so indecently. Her mouth falls open wider when he begins to confess the strangest, impure delusions in her ear.

“I cannot stop thinking of you.”

 “Let go of me right now.” She hisses pushing at his chest.

“Not until you’ve heard my piece.” His hands tighten around her wrists, before he adds desperately. “Please.”

“I do not want to hear any of it! I do not even know your name!”

He pauses, “You jest.”

“No, I most certainly do not.” There had been so many brothers how had she been expected to keep track.

He only pulls her closer, “Hermione, you’ve been playing with me for several months now and I cannot stand it any longer.”

She rears her head back in horror and incredulity, “You’re possessed.”

“Yes.” He agrees, eyes half lidded. “By you.”

“No. Control thy self. Let me go—” She gasps when he suddenly leans closer. That is when Hermione begins to panic. No man has been this close to her save for in her dreams. She cannot stand it, the crawling itch under her skin, the revulsion in her stomach.

“Stop it!” She begs when he nears even more. “No, no, no—”

Dear God, heavenly Father, my Lord, my Savior please rescue me—

His mouth quivers when he places it on hers. She presses her lips together tight, turns her head, struggles against his grip.

And then suddenly a black bird swoops down and takes a long swipe at her attackers face.

She is released, sliding to the ground as the crow swipes again at the man’s face. Long talons pierce skin drawing blood, and then the bird begins pecking and the man begins screaming. He tumbles to the floor as the bird’s beak digs into his eyes with a viciousness.

The brother screams and sobs and cries out for God, attracting the townsfolk but by then it is too late.

“Dear God in heaven.” One man whispers at the sight. The crow flies up before they reach, leaving behind a moaning man with two empty sockets for eyes.

“Witch!”

“Devil’s whore!”

The words meant to feel like lashes, do not hurt her. She knows them to be untrue, but what does grate on her nerves, is that no matter how vehemently she denies, no matter how truthful her words ring, no one seems intent on truly listening to her.

“`Tis lies, all lies!” She yells, “I have no devil in me, nor have I consorted with him! They conspire against me father. Please you must believe me.” She begs, turning to him and grasping his shirt tightly. There in God’s house among the townsfolk, her father only stares at her as if he peers into a stranger’s eyes.

“She is a witch who has the devil in her! She bade the adversary’s birds, why else was only my sons blood shed and she had not a scratch on her?”

“Your son tried to defile me.” Hermione snaps, “He has evil in his heart, if the devil has swayed anyone it is him!”

“Lies!” Ginny’s mother screams.

“It is the truth! He’s looked upon me with impure thoughts and wicked desire in his heart and our Savior as my witness, I did not succumb nor stoke it, I swear.”

“The devil’s birds listen to you. They have maimed my son because of you!”

“They are crows and I did not—I cannot bid them to do anything, just as I cannot control any animal in God’s kingdom. I was being attacked and I prayed to God he would send me a savior and—”

“They are the devil’s birds, heed your words Hermione. God would not dare send them.” Her father grits out.

“I’ve seen it.” Ginny whispers, “You make covenant with them. One even follows you around high up in the sky.”

“There you have it! She has made covenant with the devil, first she bewitched Adrian Pucey, now it has been my son, who will be next. What evil do ye plan to offer your master next whore?!”

Whispers begin, and Hermione’s mouth opens and closes but no denial strong enough comes to her lips.

Another woman sobs, “My poor Adrian, what kind of bewitchment have you wrought upon him she-devil?”

“I haven’t!”

“Witch!”

“Nay, I’ll not hear it!” Her father’s voice suddenly booms silencing them all. “Not until I have proof.” His eyes cold and unforgiving snap to her.

“On thy knees, Hermione.”

And she drops, breathing in a shuddering breath as she prepares herself. She will be perfect, the best she’s ever been.

“Look me in the eye.” She does.

“Does thou love the word of God?”

“Yes.” She whispers.

“The bible? The prayer?”

“Yes, yes father, yes.”

“Pray. Pray for thyself.”

She takes a deep breath. “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give—”

Her father tenses, and she hastens to continue forcing herself to choke out the words that begin to burn in her throat. “Give this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us n-not into—”

Gasps fill the room and then the whispers begin in earnest.

“The devil.”

“Witch.”

She ignores them, tries again. “T-temptation…”

Hermione coughs, a sudden flame in her throat as if she has swallowed burning coal. She kneels over, hacking and choking on air. “T-temptation…” She cries hoarsely unable to go on, tears slip down her face.

“Hermione, my child. Look at me.”

She stares at her hands in her lap, bound in rags soaked in holy water. The cramped room she’s locked in reeks of sage and smoke. Rough fingers force her to look up into her father’s eyes.  

“I must know the truth, the full truth. Soon the council will be called, and your life will be—”

“How can you not believe me father? Your own flesh and blood?”

“I cannot deny what I’ve heard, what I’ve seen!” He hisses.

Hermione whimpers, “What certain proof do you have father that you’d betray me so thoroughly?”

“I have made no bargain with the devil Hermione, but our field stays fruitful when not one else does.”

“That means nothing father, we live further from town—”

“And Adrian Pucey? You were the one to find him, in the dead middle of night, naked as sin and cursed.”

"I—"

“You could not finish your prayer before God in his holy house, in front of the congregation.”

“I told you I felt faint.”

“And what of the crow? The devil’s bird, it bids your command, it has maimed a man, a constituent of God. Our brethren.”

“I—” Hermione struggles for the right words.

Her fathers grip is painful. “Whatever bargain you have made, God will forgive but you must admit to it first.”

“I have made no bargain.”

“The truth, Hermione.”

“I have made no bargain! Please believe me.” She begs desperately.

“Confess…”

“Hear me, will you!”

“I beg thee confess!”

Hermione’s eyes fall shut in defeat and after a long moment, she hoarsely agrees, “I will confess father, because I love thee.”

Her father’s expression softens, and he lets her go with a nod. “Go on then child.”

Hermione draws in a shaky breath, closes her eyes, clasps her bound hands. “I here confess I’ve lived in sin. I have been disobedient to my father, I’ve had pride, envy, gluttony in my heart. I have broken every one of thy commandments in thought. I have been touched impurely by another man though I did not want it. I have offered bread to the devil’s birds. I have lied, I have...” She hesitates. “I have had impure dreams, wicked thoughts. I have followed the desires of my own heart, not the Holy spirit. I deserve shame, misery, and everlasting hellfire but I beg thee forgive me, show me mercy, show me thy salvation.”

Slowly she opens her eyes.

Her father’s eyes blaze with anger, “You will not be saved if you do not confess the full truth.”

“I spoke the full truth and omitted nothing. I have made no bargain with the devil, he has not hath me!”

He slaps her hard across the cheek, “Lies.”

Hermione swallows thickly, “If mother was here she’d believe me.”

“Let it be a last mercy the Lord has granted you that she is not here to witness this abomination.”

He steps away and she cries out, soft and contrite. “Father please! Don't go, I-I’m sorry.”

He stares at her for a long moment, unmoving. Then his expression grows terrifyingly morose, a face she imagines Abraham wore before he cut into his son.

At dusk they drag her to the forest, bind her to two planks in a poor imitation of the holy cross. Then they leave her there, an offering for the devil just like their fathers did to evil before them.

She stays there for hours, prays to her Lord until she is too tired to keep her eyes open. When she blinks them open again some time later, the moon shines down from the sky and there before her, peering up at her is her crow.

She stares at it for a long moment, before she quietly asks, “Will you speak to me?”

It doesn’t move.

“If you truly are the devil’s bird, speak to me.”

All she hears is the rustle of the forest.

“Speak.” She demands, her hands pull uselessly at her restraints. “Speak you pretender.”

And when it does nothing, she narrows her eyes and hisses, “We are not friends anymore.”

It does not have the intended effect, that is any effect. Her head falls back against the wood with a sigh, and she shuts her eyes.

“`Tis not friendship I desire.”

It’s a voice she will never forget until her last day, she recognizes it immediately as it ghosts over ear. Her eyes snap open, the crow is gone and instead stands before her the faceless man from her dreams.

Still his face remains hazy, but she sees now his dark clothing, how tall and lithe he is as he looms over, how pale his hands are as they run from her bound wrist down her arm.

“Is this all for me?” He is amused, delighted even.

“You…”

“Yes?” He leans close and she shuts her eyes welcomes the darkness, before she utters the truth, “Y-you are…”

And though she cannot bring herself to utter it, she realizes that the Devil stands before her, but it is not the first time they have met.

He finishes for her. “The Wicked One?” He cajoles, “The Adversary, the Devil? Yes, I am.” He kisses her cheek softly before moving to her ear. “But those who have my favor, may call me Draco.”

Draco.

Her mouth parts wanting to know how that name might feel on her tongue, but she bites her lip instead and begins a whispered prayer, “Oh god, oh lord, please forgive me for I—”

This time her throat closes up when a hand wraps around it and squeezes. “None of that Hermione, he does not deserve it.”

Then his grip loosens, and she draws in a sharp breath of air, as his long fingers stroke her throat in a caress.

“I’ve waited a very long time for you.” He begins in a murmur, “I’ve been very patient and I’m not usually a very patient man.”

Hermione knows this is not one of her dreams because in this realm everything is worse.

In her dreams she had not been so painfully aware, everything had been clouded and tenebrous in the dim light of her bedroom. Now she can feel every hard muscle, hear every tiny breath or rustle of fabric. He smells unjustly inviting; like the earth and dew, and she trembles in the effort not to draw in a lungful of his scent.

His breath dances along her jaw and she seeks distraction. “W-what do you want from me?”

“Everything.” His voice roughens into something unholy, punctuated by the tightening of his hands on her hips before he seems to collect himself. His next words are soft again, teasing, “I want what any Master wants. I want you to serve me Hermione, please me, worship me.”

His hands slide up her body cupping her breasts, as he continues languidly, “I want to possess you, corrupt you, consort with you, make covenant and all the other words that  suggest the Devil has had you.”  

Her whimper comes purely from fear, but her thighs press together tightly unbidden.

He continues, “For eternity I want your mind, your soul, your body, and I want to start with your cunt.”

“No!” She vehemently shakes her head. “No, no, no. You cannot—”

He quiets her with soft hushes but she continues, “I’ll be damned if you do! Punished for everlasting time you cannot!”

“You still do not understand, do you? Your god is dead, I’m not sure if he ever lived. He will not save you, nor hear you, nor please you.”

Her god dead? It is a blatant lie. The Devil’s trick surely. And yet she thinks upon a time when her prayers were ever answered. 

“You are not his to damn, you are mine. Mine to hold, mine to touch, mine to punish.”

She gasps when he bites down on her earlobe. Her skin tingles and warms, and she nearly arches for his hands as they roam over her freely. Her dreams have made it second nature to respond to him, her traitorous body reacts to his touch without thinking.

“I cannot please you.” Before her is the living embodiment of sin, and she—she does not know what she can possibly offer him. She is wholly unprepared, unpracticed, and the idea of failure causes her stomach to turn and perhaps it will do the same to him.

“You can.” He assures her instead, “You need only sate your own desires to please me, and you’ve been so very good Hermione. You’ve already pleased me so much.”

Something in her quiets. She looks up at him, “I have?”

He hums, “Yes. Tell me what do you desire, Hermione?”

“I…”

“Yes?” And when she does not answer, he pinches her skin hard. “Answer me.”

“I—I desire to see your true face.”

He takes a step back and with a blink her vision clears, and she feels a pang in her heart as she lays eyes on his face for the first time. He is the most beautiful man she’s ever seen and how could something so heavenly be evil?

He raises an eyebrow and her stomach flutters uncontrollably, “Does it displease you? I can change it, wear any face you’d like.”

“No!”

His lips press together as he contains a grin, and she only wants to stand there and watch him make all different sorts of faces. But then his eyes darken and flare with heat, and he wraps his hands around her waist. “What more do you desire, Hermione?”

“I…I want to touch you.”

His eyes travel up to her bound wrists and in an instant her restraints are gone. Having been suspended for so long, she lands on shaky feet. His grip is firm and steady as she gets her bearings. He then takes her wrists, rubs at the marks there, kissing the inside of each one before he lets go.

Her hands fall to her sides. She stares and he waits a full minute before his patience snaps, “Well? Go on, touch me then.”

She hesitates before reaching up towards his face. With a featherlight touch she slowly traces his cheek bones, the long ridge of his nose, his sharp jaw. His skin is pale like the moonlight, his eyes grey just like the sky. Her trembling fingers are reverent in their touches, careful and soft. Her thumb brushes against his lips and he nips at her playfully and she smiles ever so softly before dropping her hands.

“What else?” His voice is thick and raspy.

“That…That is all.” She answers, hoping, praying that she’s pleased him enough. She has after all satisfied his terms, spoken her desires and fulfilled them. She steps back and looks away. “Those were my desires, t-thank you for sating them.”

He laughs. Throws his head back and cackles loudly, deep, and rich and she shifts on her feet, squeezes her thighs.

“You’re very sweet.” His words are syrup, thick with darkness that makes her squirm. His hand pushes back a lock of her hair before grabbing her chin, “But when you lie to me it makes me want to punish you until you’re begging me for forgiveness.”

“I—I do not lie.”

He pushes her until her back hits the cross, his hands tangle in her hair jerking her face up, forcing her to look at him. His eyes search her face intensely and she feels naked before him. “You do not desire for anything else? Not the wicked pleasures of flesh?”

His hand crawls underneath her shift, skimming over her stomach before cupping her breast. She whines quietly when his thumb brushes against her hardening peak. Then his hand travels down, his fingers skimming the inside of her trembling thighs.

He leans down, their lips brushing when he asks, “You do not ache for me here?”

“I…"

"Do not lie to me."

"I…I cannot speak it.”

“You will, or I will seek the answer myself.” When she does not get his meaning, he slides his hand higher up her thigh and she grasps his wrist desperately before he can touch her sacred place.

“No!”

“Answer me then.”

“I do—I ache for you.”

Shame, mortification, guilt all of it roils in her stomach but then he groans low in his throat, presses his forehead to hers, and she feels that give way to something else in her belly.

“What else? Are you wet for me? Does your skin burn with need? Do you want to kiss me?”

She thinks on it only for a moment before nodding her head quickly.

“You must use thy words, Hermione.” He murmurs with a teasing grin, “I know very well how much you like to talk.”

“Yes…I want to kiss you.”

He offers her his lips, lowering his face towards her own. She feels her heart pound, staring at his mouth. He lowers and pulls away, again and again, teasing and tempting her into finally reaching up and pressing their mouths together.

A jolt of pleasure runs down her spine, as their lips mold together. He tastes like nothing she has ever tasted before, potent, exhilarating, and pure. It makes her heart thrash in her chest, and surely something so good could not be considered wrong.

He coaxes her lips open. Their kiss has been slow—gentle even, but as soon as his tongue slips into her mouth she senses a change. In him and herself. Hunger. He grasps her waist and yanks her against him as his tongue tastes her, devouring, defiling her mouth, stealing the breath from her very lungs.

It’s filthy the way she moans around his tongue. She feels him press closer to her, something hard and promising digging into her hip. “So sweet.” He moans this into her mouth, and she feels a jolt down her spine. “So good. So fucking good.”

Then he grasps her dress and before she can stop him he rips open the front.

It falls from her shoulders and the shock of her naked body being exposed nearly sends her to her knees. She tries to cover herself, but he grasps both her wrists with one hand, pinning them behind her back.

“You must never hide from me. You’re a beautiful creature. Heavenly if such a thing existed. Created for me.”

His eyes roam her skin greedily before he buries his face in her neck. She moans softly, her hips buck forward on their own accord. He presses closer and whispers, “What do you want?”

She gnaws at her bottom lip, wonders for a fleeting moment what it would feel like to have his bare flesh press against hers and once she has thought it, the sweet sticky thought she cannot rid.

“I want to feel your skin.”

So easily he obliges, so quickly he answers her desires, she both fears and longs for when she is brave enough to ask for more. He releases her wrists, and pull his shirt off, revealing firm porcelain skin. She swallows admiring the smooth ridges, and the way his trousers sit low on his hips.

She has never seen a man unclothed but somehow she knows before her stands a perfect male figure. She glances up at him and when she sees nothing but dark, burning desire, she presses her palms to his hot skin running up and down, watching muscle and flesh contort under her fingers.

His mouth attaches to her skin again. His head dips lower, and she gasps as kisses her breasts, takes as much flesh as he can in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks. Awful, indecent sounds reach her ears as he sucks and devours. She wraps her hands around his shoulders, digging her nails into his skin as she arches and cries and whimpers.

“Please.” She begs with rapture, the ache between her legs a burning, desperate throb.

He hums into her skin, “Such a good fucking girl you are.”

She nods desperately, squeals when she feels his fingers swipe at the wetness between her legs.

He pulls his face away brings up his glistening fingers, and her face burns in shame and pleasure. “Is this the result of my corruption?” He grins, sharp teeth glinting like that of a predator’s.

“I…”

“Taste.” And before she can refuse, two fingers shove into her mouth. The pads of his fingers run up and down her tongue and she is surprised that the taste of herself does not cause revulsion but rather another wave of heat. She closes her eyes, moans around his fingers. He pulls them out and she watches half-lidded as he sucks the same two fingers into his own mouth.

She swallows, watching him hum with pleasure at the taste on his fingers. When he pulls them out a thin trail of saliva follows, and she bites her lip hard. She flicks her eyes up to find him watching her.

“Turn around.” Gone is any hint of teasing or softness, his command is rough and vicious and causes her toes to curl.

She swallows and turns and is immediately hit with a pang of shame at the sight of the holy symbol before her. He bites her shoulder jolting her out of her thoughts. His hands grasp her own, placing them on the plank of wood before her as if she will need purchase.  

His hand runs down her spine curving over her bottom. She whines softly as his palms knead at her flesh, and then suddenly she feels a sharp sting caressed away just as quickly, her yelp dissolving into a moan.

He laughs, “You liked that didn’t you, you naughty little creature?”

“Yes.” She moans and then he does it once more before the warmth of his hands slip away. She has only a moment to wonder before she feels something wet and warm slide along the bundle of nerves between her thighs. She screams unprepared at the rush of pleasure that causes her knees to buckle.

He stands, his hands grasp her roughly keeping her up, guiding her own to grasp the plank of wood that runs across above her head. “Be good for me and do not let go.”

She swallows, nods, and resolves to follow the simple instruction. She turns her head to the side to rest her cheek against the cross as his hands guide her hips her back, canting them before pushing her thighs apart. They tremble with anticipation.

“Your cunt is just dripping with sin.” There is both amusement and huskiness in his voice, but she keens not from the filthiness of his words but because he breathes them over her cunt.

“Oh.” She gasps, fingers digging into the wood as he takes another long lick through her folds. “Oh god.” She chokes, gasping in pain when she feels a sharp slap against her bottom.

“Oh Draco.” He hisses, and obediently she moans, “Oh Draco.”

His tongue rewards with another long lick, and she shudders with pleasure. He does it again, and again, until his tongue is lapping inside of her hungrily. It draws filthy sounds from her mouth, wanton moans, and desperate keens. His mouth latches and he sucks, and it is simply depraved, sordid, his mouth on her most holy place and yet she feels no shame, no guilt, only pleasure.

Pleasure that builds, a coil that winds tight, deep in her stomach. She feels herself throb and ache so deliciously, almost ready to burst and as if he knows it he yanks away. She nearly cries but it is quickly forgotten when he grasps her hair roughly, turns her head, and kisses her.

She can taste her slick smeared on his mouth, she swirls her tongue around his swallowing his groan. Her hands nearly falter from their grip on the cross, but she remembers his command and holds tight.

“Good girl.” And she preens, going back to resting her cheek on the wood as he steps back. She hears the rustle of fabric fall to the ground, hears her own heart thud with anticipation in her chest.

He gathers her curls in a tight fist, stepping forward pressing his hips against hers. She bites her lower lip as she feels him long and thick press against her heat. He groans roughly, and with that same dark tone, deep and rough, he says against her ear, “I will answer all your prayers, make you feel so damn good. Ask me how.”

“How?” She breathes though she suspects the answer when he slowly slides forward, coating himself with her wetness.

“I’m going to desecrate you.” And then without any more preamble he lines himself up behind her and plunges into her cunt.

It draws a high pitched cry from her lips. He groans and chuckles behind her, his hands knead and tug at her breasts as he sheathes himself inside her. It burns like nothing else has before, and she relishes in it. Some part of her finding it fitting that this sinful deed comes with the lick of fire.

He drags his cock out, and she feels tears prick in her eyes as he pushes it back in. “Just like that, you’re being such a good girl taking my cock.” He praises huskily. The pleasure that had escaped her comes back, just a whisper but she chases it. She pushes her hips back slightly, frowning when he pulls away. She wriggles, rolls her hips, but no matter which way she moves he does not give her what she wants.

“Ask for it.”

“Please.” She keens.

“Please what?”

She shakes her head, unwilling to speak her damnation aloud. His hands tighten around her hair so much her scalp stings.

“Beg.” It is nothing short of a growl, and he drives into roughly and then does not move.

“Please.” Tears slip from her eyes, and then she draws in a deep breath, her words barely a whisper, “Please t-take me, Draco.”

She groans as he begins a ruthless pace, stretching her sinfully wide, burying himself in her over and over again with abandon. His rhythm is rough, demanding, punishing. Her hands flail grasping into the cross so tightly she’s certain she gets splinters from it.

“Look at you, spread around my cock taking it like a good little whore.” His words are ragged and cruel, but she nods along.

“Yes, yes.”

With a yank of her hair he turns her head, leaning close to capture her lips in a brutal kiss. Pain flares when she feels something sharp pierce her bottom lip. Her eyes widen at the taste of her own blood but then his tongue begins to lick at her cut lip. He groans at the taste and then sucks at her lower lip voraciously.

“It feels good to have the Devil defiling you, does it not?”

He continues to fuck her with uninhibited, hedonistic need, and she can’t find it in herself to feel any wrongdoing. “Yes.” She sobs against his lips.

He presses her face back against the wood, his hand trailing down her front to cup her mound. She hisses when his long fingers begin to rub mind-numbing circles there. Her core clenches around him and she feels herself tip closer to oblivion, spots dancing in her vision.

“Your cunt is so fucking good.” He groans, “Do you want me to spill into it? I’ll have you dripping with my sin.”

She nods and moans and with her loosened tongue, comes no shortage of utterances of wanton depravity. He bites the juncture of her neck and shoulder, sucks and laps, cants his hips driving in harder. “Say my name, Hermione.” He whispers in her ear, “In my name, reap your reward.”

And then he presses somewhere deep inside of her, and she hurtles towards release, a blaze of rapture twisting her insides. It is not light but darkness that takes over her vision as she shakes and throbs with long drawn relief repeating his name over and over like a prayer.

His hips stutter as she tightens around him, pulling him into his own release. His hot seed spills inside of her as he lets out a groaned shout, and fucks her with short brutal thrusts, “This cunt belongs to my cock. Mine.” He hisses roughly.

“Yours.” She agrees mewling and rocking her hips against him and then suddenly she is empty. Her knees hit the soft dirt and she stares up at him wide-eyed, meeting his dark gaze first then the sight of his manhood, coated with their combined slick and her blood.

“Be a good fucking whore and open your mouth.”

She does, breathing in sharply when he slides himself against her waiting tongue. She tastes copper and earth and the slightest hint of sweetness. He gathers her hair tightly and begins to thrust into her mouth, slowly at first before he builds up a steady pace.

She chokes and dribbles and flushes in mild humiliation because she’s certain she’s not doing it right.

Her eyes flick up and her thighs squeeze painfully tight at the sight. There is rapture written on his face, from his scrunched brows, his half-lidded eyes black with desire, to his parted mouth. A shudder of desire runs through her seeing the pleasure she’s giving him, and greedily she decides she wants more.

She draws a breath through her nose, watching him reverently as she hollows her cheeks and applies suction. He hisses, throwing his head back, his hips jerking forward, “Yes, fucking worship my cock just like that.”

She moans and does so, squirming and sucking as his hips grow uninhibited and his hands tighten painfully in her hair. His voice is like gravel when he says, “I’m going to come and you’re not going to waste a fucking drop.”

She nods, prepares herself, knowing that she will do anything to fulfill his command. A groan rips from his throat as he thrusts hard into her mouth. His seed spills and she swallows and swallows and with resolve she does not let one drip fall from her mouth.

He hauls her up when it is done, shoving his tongue into her mouth, and then sucking at her split lip and when he pulls away he murmurs against her bruised lips, “Such a good girl, you did so well, Hermione.”

She basks in the praise, sighs contently, as he wraps his arms around her waist pulling their naked bodies flush against one other. She is still heady with desire but her muscles ache to rest. To burrow herself in his arms and sleep.

She wraps her arms around his neck as he grips her thighs and easily pulls her up, guiding her legs to lock around his waist. Their tongues play with one another’s languidly as he slowly moves forward, pressing her against the cross.

His cock is still hard and twitching, and entirely distracting as it presses against her. She shakes her head when he rolls his hips, grinding himself into her. “No, I can’t.”

“You can. Just one more.” He murmurs. That teasing softness having returned, it is somehow even harder to look him in the eye and refuse. He tucks a curl behind her ear, then presses his thumb to the cut on her lip. She feels it warm for a second, then his thumb retracts and when she flicks her tongue against her lip, she finds it healed.

He kisses her again, slowly dragging his cock against her heat and her head falls back in pleasure but still she shakes her head and closes her eyes with a whimper. Desire simmers within her, and her cunt is slick, they both feel it, but she is also swollen and sensitive—too sensitive, she simply can’t.

“It’d please me so very much, Hermione.”

She opens her eyes to look at him. His hand caresses her cheek, as he gazes back at her, waiting. Evil would not wait. She doesn’t know what he is.

With a swallow, she tips her head up and kisses him, and he enters her in one swift motion. She winces at the pain. They both feel how impossibly tight she is around him. She braces herself waiting for him to move, but he remains still peppering her jaw, then her neck, with slow kisses.

Her fingers skim along his torso and he trembles underneath her, digs his head into her neck and remains there at the hilt buries inside of her, breathing in deeply.

Slowly she wriggles and squirms, testing little movements with her hips. The pain is nothing but a dull ache now. She jerks her hips forward, moaning softly when a shiver of pleasure rolls through her. She rakes her nails through his hair, breath hitching as he begins to move.

He’s been rough, primal, possessive but this time he’s more careful. His thrusts are slow but deep still stoking a fire inside her. Like this she can see his face, can see the blissful pleasure there so intimately and she wants to remember every moment of it.

His voice is breathless and low, “So good for me aren’t you? You’re taking me so well, so sweet, so tight.”

She tightens her legs around him, rests her head back against the wood but she is sure to keep her half-lidded gaze on him. She blushes when she realizes his eyes are equally attentive to her. She’s unable to hold his gaze for long, instead she watches his lips.

They twist into a knowing smirk. She rolls her hips, feels her insides flutter around him. She witnesses the smirk fall, watches him part his lips with a strangled gasp. She stares at the way he takes in his bottom lip, is mesmerized by the thick swallow of his throat.

Her breath hitches, when he thrusts in again his pelvis grinding against her as he hits somewhere deep inside of her. He does it again and her eyes flutter shut.

“Look at me.”

She opens her eyes, caught in his gaze again. His stare threatens to penetrate her very soul. And she realizes that is what he wants. He’s had her body, possessed it thoroughly and now he means to possess her soul. She can’t look away, she wants nothing more but to give him exactly what he desires. She wants him to have all of her, wants to give herself entirely to him, completely devote herself to him.

Her pleasure builds higher, deeper than before. A myriad of emotions swell within her, making it hard to pull air into her lungs. She nears an abyss ready to plummet, will gladly fall as long as he is with her.

He reaches forward presses his lips to hers desperately, she moans softly in his mouth, rolls her hips against his causing him to groan softly. His thrusts quicken and she begins to pant feeling herself grow taut, tingling and burning with pleasure. He pulls his mouth away tips her chin so that she meets his gaze. “Mine. You’re mine, Hermione. Mind, body, soul. I need you to say it.”

“Yours.” She moans it loudly, knowing it to be the truest words she’s ever spoken. She clutches at his neck tightly, he presses his forehead to hers.

The way he stares at her is what pushes her over the edge. The possession, the intensity in his eyes that has always been there, but now she notices he looks at her as though he worships her. When she comes it does not feel like damnation but rather salvation. It sweeps through her body, leaving her weightless and breathless. It is bliss, it is heaven.

“I’m yours, Draco. Only yours.” She swears it, utters it like a prayer as her release shudders through her, and he gasps and groans. She feels him swell inside her, thrusting deep once, twice, three times, before he comes inside her, filling her, answering all her prayers until she is sated and full.

Quiet envelops them there in the forest for several long moments. There is solace in it, giving her heart time to slow, allowing herself to stop trembling and simply breathe.

Then the Devil sighs contently against her neck and sets her on her feet. Her knees wobble and she grips the cross behind her to keep herself steady as she stands before him.

His gaze burns into her, his fingers tucking her hair behind her ears, trailing down her face to sweep a thumb against her lower lip before he steps back. She nearly whimpers, nearly follows as he takes all the warmth with him, leaving her cold and bereft.

He takes another step back slow and tempting, bidding her to follow, she wavers.

“There are…an eternity of things I wish to do to you, sinful things. There are pleasures to be had, books to be read.” He grins knowingly at her as if he knows that will entice her most, “The world to be seen. You can have it all if you desire, Hermione.”

Quiet but eager she asks, “How?”

He offers her his hand, and it is easy—easier than anything she’s ever had to do, to step forward and take the Devil’s hand. He tugs her towards him, tilts her face up, “Kiss me.”

She does, then he laces their fingers together and pulls her forward, and she follows him, deep into the forest they go.