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There was something wrong at Hogwarts.
Hermione noticed it in November when she found Padma wandering the entrance hall with a dazed, almost drugged look on her face.
Two days later, Lavender and Dean were complaining of blackouts. When Hermione came across a seventh-year boy stumbling from an alcove—dazed and rumpled, with a pallid complexion and a smudge of blood on his collar—she stopped him and demanded to see his neck.
He barely reacted when she pushed his chin up to reveal the taut skin of his throat. His jugular was pulsing rapidly. His Adam’s apple bobbed. But there were no bite marks.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. All evidence pointed one way—the blackouts, the drugged behaviour, the subsequent exhaustion of the victims. The blood. She had been so sure. But of course, if they were clever…
She lifted her wand, noting the boy’s lack of reaction, then cast a spell to reveal magical residue.
Sure enough, his neck was smothered in it.
Discovering there was a vampire in the castle feeding off students did nothing for her trust issues. Had it come from the forest? Was someone bitten during the war? Perhaps it was the new DADA Professor? Hermione had always mistrusted Aurors, and Professor Richard Thompson, ex-Auror, had a suspiciously fair complexion. And was it normal for a Professor to request to use the old music room in the dungeons—a room that notably lacked windows?
December arrived, and the castle filled with the usual Yule decorations. A massive tree was erected in the Great Hall, suits of armour sported garlands, and in DADA snowmen were enchanted to act as practice dummies.
Hermione watched Professor Thompson during class, studying him for signs of unnatural strength or hints of compulsion on the students. He was certainly quick, his wand movements fluid and precise—but was it unnatural, or merely the result of years of practice?
A flash of movement caught her eye, and Hermione spun, throwing out a Protego just as a suspicious blue light hit her shield.
“Was that a vanishing spell,” she hissed at Malfoy, with whom she had once again been partnered.
He smirked, not bothering to lift his eyes from the unbuttoned collar of her shirt. “You seemed a bit hot.” He cast a Ventus at her curls, billowing them off her neck. “What are you doing after class?”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed as he crossed to her side of the sparring mat with lithe, easy grace. His sleeves were rolled, his wand spun idly in his fingers. The Wizengamot had pardoned him of all crimes after his mother provided memories confirming he’d acted under duress. But still, he was Malfoy. And there was something about him since returning to school. Something sharp and dangerous that set her on edge. Since the year began, he’d made it a habit to speak with her, and each time she had the uneasy feeling of a mouse being played with by a cat.
“I’ll be studying.” It was her usual reply.
His smile was a little too sharp. “One day you should take a walk with me by the lake.”
There was something going on with his eyes. Malfoy met her gaze, and everything began to blur: the room, the flashing spells. Everything was fuzzy except him.
She could see every detail of his face. Platinum hair, artfully tousled. The sharp bridge of his nose. The edge of cheekbones and the lethal tilt of his jaw. Each dark eye lash. The sardonic arch of his brow. He was staring at her, pulling her in with his black eyes.
Black eyes.
She felt herself falling, tipping into something heady and glorious—
“—‘MIONE, WATCH IT!”
Pain skimmed her ankle, and the room snapped into focus. Hermione gasped, staggering back.
In front of her, Malfoy’s gaze had dropped, laser-focused on her ankle. His nostrils flared, and his jaw went tense. Without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked out.
When Hermione looked down, a trail of warm blood was snaking from where she’d been nicked by the slicing hex.
So she’d been wrong. Hermione could admit that. There was a vampire preying on students, but it wasn’t the DADA Professor. It was Malfoy.
Most people would have gone to the authorities, but Hermione had long ago learned the only person she could trust to get things done was herself.
She began brewing that night.
Three days of skipped classes later, it was done: one cauldron of thick honey-coloured potion, another chilled and blood-red.
On Friday, just in time for first-period Potions. Hermione tipped back a vial, ready to spring her trap.
Malfoy’s eyes snapped to her when she entered the class, fixing on her exposed neck with an intensity that made her pulse jump.
She settled at an empty table, trying not to hyperventilate as he tracked her movements. This was good. Everything was going according to plan. There was the risk he’d be put off by her ‘muddy’ blood, so she’d been proactive. She’d pulled her curls into a high ponytail, giving him a good view of her neck. And, as an added precaution, she’d risked censure by wearing a fitted white muggle shirt with a wide neckline that exposed her collarbones and the entire sweep of her chest.
She hoped it would be difficult to resist.
When class finished, the cauldrons were placed under stasis charms, and Hermione began packing her things. A prickling at the back of her neck was her only warning, then Malfoy’s voice whispered in her ear: “Meet me in the DADA classroom, Granger. We have things to discuss.”
Heart hammering, she made excuses to her friends, hoping they didn’t notice the flush staining her cheeks, then hurried down the corridor. When she opened the door and slipped inside, Malfoy was leaning against Professor Thompson’s desk, long and lean, the sleeves of his oxford rolled to his elbows, his Slytherin tie tugged loose at his neck.
“Lock the door.” Malfoy’s gaze travelled up her body. “Then come here.”
A gentle haziness washed over her, and without thinking she cast a locking spell. Unease twisted her stomach as she realised he must have used a compulsion. Hermione took a shallow breath. It wasn’t so strong she couldn’t resist, but it drew her to him. It made her want to obey.
Malfoy waited until she stood before him, her hands fisting nervously at her sides. This was her plan, she reminded herself.
Amusement flickered across his face. He lifted his hand, tracing a finger along the line of her jaw before pressing lightly, tilting her chin to expose the side of her neck.
“Aren’t you a treat.” His finger continued down the column of her throat, lingering on her pulse, making her breath grow ragged. He was going to bite her. He was going to drink her blood. And if her potion didn’t work—if he realised what she was trying to do…
Long fingers stroked her throat, causing her spiralling thoughts to fizzle out. He dipped his face, running the point of his nose along her jugular, and she felt the feathering caress of his breath.
“I admit, I didn’t think you’d come. I’ve been trying to get you alone for weeks.”
Her tongue felt thick. Heat pulsed between her legs. “You—You said we needed to talk—”
“Did I?” Something wet glided across her skin, and Hermione’s brain stuttered. His tongue.
When Malfoy lifted his face, his pupils were blown wide, and two wicked fangs lightly poked his bottom lip.
Instinctively, her body began to shake.
“Shhh.” Malfoy’s fingers circled her throat, holding her steady—keeping her from bolting. “I won’t hurt you.” His mouth curved in a malicious smirk. “Much.”
It should have scared her. It should have made her scream. But his compulsion wove through her, turning her mind fuzzy, and all that escaped was a whimpered, “Please.”
“Please, what, my sweet?” He didn’t seem surprised by her reaction. One arm banded around her waist while the other slid to her ponytail, tugging gently as he tilted her head. He dipped his face, fangs lightly scraping over the taut side of her neck.
Nerves fired, skittering through her body. He nipped, causing a burst of pleasure and pain.
“If you want my fangs, you’ll have to beg for them, darling.”
“Please—” she gasped. She was enthralled, barely aware of the words tumbling from her mouth. “Please—please, Malfoy—”
He made a low sound of approval. She felt the wet glide of his tongue and a tingling sensation of numbness washed over her skin.
There was no pain, only a sense of pressure as his mouth descended and his fangs punctured her skin, then rising warmth as the venom took hold. It snaked from her neck, down her chest, flowing through her arms. Spreading down her stomach, slithering between her legs. Like dipping into a hot spring, her muscles went pliant and limp. Her body sagged into his embrace as his lips closed over her vein, and he began gently, almost leisurely, to suck.
Pleasure pooled, making her limbs heavy, rolling in slow, relentless waves. She couldn’t stop the way her knees went slack, the gasping moans that turned into slurred whimpers of his name. Somewhere deep inside, a voice was reminding her to push him away. She’d won. It was over.
But it felt so good. A little more. A little more wouldn’t hurt.
Malfoy groaned into her neck, his throat working as he drank. Fresh sparks of arousal shot down her spine, and his arm tightened around her waist. She could feel every hard line of his body, every ridge of muscle. He was so strong, so powerful, so—
With another groan, he pulled his face away.
Hermione’s head lolled. She gazed up through half-lidded eyes. Her brain felt hazy. Malfoy was painted in soft focus: panting, cheeks flushed. A thick lock of hair had fallen over his forehead. Blood smeared his lips and his fangs were red.
Something wet trickled down her collarbone. Malfoy dipped his face, licking slowly up to her neck. He pressed his lips to the bite mark. “Sweet little thing. We have to do this again.”
She felt heavy. Ready to sleep. She wanted to kiss his mouth, taste the—
With effort, Hermione focused her thoughts. “No.”
“No?” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “You didn’t enjoy my bite, sweetness?”
She straightened on wobbly legs, fighting the lingering threads of compulsion, imbuing her words with the intent to command: “Touch your head.”
Malfoy lifted his hand and placed it on his head, before yanking it down and staring in bewilderment. “What the fuck?”
Success. Hermione took a shaky breath. “You are not to bite me again,” she ordered. “You are not to Obliviate me. You are not to use a compulsion or cause me harm in any way. You are not to bite, harm, or compel anyone else.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. He reached for his wand, but his hand began to shake. A snarl erupted, fangs flashing. His fingers flexed—but no matter how he strained, he couldn’t grasp the wood. “What the fuck did you do?”
Relief washed through her, and Hermione gave him a vicious smile. “A taste of your own medicine. I created a potion that, when mixed with someone’s blood, has a neat little binding effect on vampire physiology. I hope you enjoyed that drink, Malfoy, because it was your last. And don’t worry, once you stop thinking about hurting me, I’m sure you’ll be able to use magic again.”
For a moment, rage sufficed his face, then his expression shifted, and with a blur his hand shot up to grab her neck.
Hermione gasped. “The potion—”
“—knows I intend you no harm.” He held her firm, his grip making her light-headed but not quite enough to hurt. Malfoy leaned down until his lips brushed hers. “If you wanted me all to yourself, you only had to ask.”
Her pulse pounded against his hand. “I just want to keep everyone safe. You—you’re assaulting students and—”
“And?” His voice was silky, his lips trailed to her jaw. “They want it. Just. Like. You.”
“I don’t—”
Malfoy made a tsking noise. “Don’t lie to me, Granger. I can smell it on you. Desire, longing…” He pressed a kiss below her ear in a mockery of tenderness. “You don’t need to deny yourself. Remove the binding, and I’ll give you everything you want.”
His voice was low and hypnotic. Even knowing it was an act, his presence was intoxicating. She closed her eyes, gathering herself. “Let go of me.”
Instantly his hands sprang from her body, and his expression hardened. “I fucking need blood to survive, Granger. Or are you planning to defang and murder me both?”
Hermione crouched to where her bag had fallen, and fumbled with the clasp before pulling out a stainless steel bottle she’d embedded with cooling charms. “Don’t be dramatic. I made you some synthetic blood.”
Malfoy eyed the bottle, lip curling.
“Don’t give me that look. It has the same composition as human blood.” She stood and unscrewed the lid. “There’s no reason it should taste any different.”
His nostrils flared. “It smells fucking foul.”
“Taste it,” she ordered.
His eyes went tight, but he took the bottle and lifted it to his lips.
“Fuck—” He jerked it down with a betrayed expression then wiped his mouth. “It’s fucking cold!”
“It’s only stable when chilled.” She hooked the bag over her shoulder and gave him a vicious smile. “But don’t fret. Unlike you, I’m allowing a choice. If it’s too foul, you can always choose to starve.”
For six days, Malfoy refused to speak to her. Instead of the usual banter, he glared during classes. Every evening, he swooped into their meeting spot at the back of the library, snatched a new bottle of blood, and stormed out. It was irritating how much she hated it.
On the seventh day, the binding potion was due to be re-administered. Hermione had ordered him to appear and was in the library, skimming a book on magical law as she awaited his dramatic arrival—when arms circled her from behind, pulling her into a firm chest.
“My cruel mistress. Tell me about your day.”
“Malfoy—!” Hermione tried to spin, but his grip was iron. She knew that unless she commanded him to let go, she was stuck.
He swept her curls to the side with a slither of magic, humming in appreciation as he leaned down to lick her neck. “Tasty.”
Gooseflesh erupted, and despite knowing he couldn’t bite, her pulse ticked up.
“Oh, you like that…”
“I don’t—” Blood rushed through her body, making her light-headed. She tried to get away, but he only snaked a hand up to squeeze her breast.
“Keep squirming, darling. Gets me all worked up.”
“You arse, let me go.”
“Is that a command?” She felt him grin against her neck. “Considering my arms are still around you, I don’t think you mean it.” His hand slid down, deftly flicking open the button of her jeans. Before she could process what he was doing, cool fingers slipped into her knickers, curling around her cunt.
“Wet,” he remarked. “How delightful.”
Arousal, outrage, and pure blinding mortification flooded her. Malfoy pulled his hand free, and Hermione jerked around just as he popped his middle finger into his mouth. “When’s your menstrual cycle start?”
“You—” Her face was on fire. Merlin, he couldn’t be suggesting—
Hermione snatched the vial of binding potion from the library table and shoved it at his chest. “If that was a tactic to get me to forget, you failed. Drink it.”
After that, everything changed. Instead of avoidance, Malfoy stared at her during class until she felt ready to combust. He began studying with her in the library. He made no public claim, and yet suddenly every man in the castle began to keep away.
Was it some kind of vampiric magic? A side effect of the binding potion? Or was it connected to the way he ravaged her every day?
He was impossibly quick, inhumanly strong—and she was helpless when he pulled her into hidden alcoves where he proceeded to kiss her senseless.
“You can’t keep doing this.” She tried to yank her arm free, but, as usual, his grip was as immovable as a vice.
Malfoy crowded her into the back of the alcove. In the dim light she saw the flash of fangs. “If you don’t want it, then tell me to stop.”
She expected him to kiss her. That was how it usually went: kisses and the hard press of his body, mocking words, the thrilling scrape of fangs. But this time was different. In a movement too quick to follow, he pinned her to the wall, then flicked up her skirt and rubbed his finger along the gusset of her knickers, right over her clit.
Heat flared through her, and Malfoy leaned to her ear. “Tell me to stop, Hermione.”
She pushed against his arm, willing away the growing arousal. “Don’t call me that.”
“Unconvincing.” He pinched, then tsked when she let out a whimper. “You pretend to hate it, but we both know the truth. Do you want me to fuck you?”
“No,” she breathed. Her head fell back against the wall, and he took the opportunity to latch his mouth to her throat. It was his favourite spot. Anytime he kissed her, his mouth inevitably found its way to her pulse point where he would suck and lick and run the point of his fangs over her skin, leaving yet another mottled love bite for her to heal.
“I know what you’re doing, and it won’t—” She broke off, gasping as his fingers grew more aggressive, and her pleasure began to crest. “Oh—Malfoy—”
“Hm?” His hand went still and he gave a light tap. “You called?”
“Gods, please—I’m so close…”
“When you put it like that—” He released her and made a show of wiping his fingers on her shirt. “I’m not your whore. Unless you plan on commanding me to get you off? Then, of course, I won’t have a choice.”
It was pointed and cruel, and hit her like a slap.
“Well?” Malfoy stepped back, and sketched a derisive bow. “At your service, mistress.”
Hermione couldn’t look at him after that. His point was made. He hated her, and she was pathetic.
Days passed, and Malfoy grew more volatile: pale and knife-sharp, slipping between shadows. Whispers of ‘Death Eater’ began to circulate, fuelled by his habit of lashing out when anyone came near.
The holidays arrived, and most of the student body left for home. Then, three days before Christmas, Draco Malfoy disappeared.
It was Christmas Eve, and a light dusting of snow had fallen on the Hogwarts grounds when Hermione finally found him in the frosty meadow, right at the edge of the forest. Her beam of wand light skimmed his pale skin. He was on his back, spread-eagled on the frozen grass, snowflakes drifting as he stared up at the night sky.
“Malfoy!” Frost crunched underfoot as she dashed to him. Was he hurt? Did vampires not feel the cold? “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Oh Merlin, you need blood—” She sank to her knees beside him, barely feeling the cold as she pulled the bottle of synthetic blood from her bag.
“Save it for the next bloodsucker.” Malfoy pulled a silver case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette.
Hermione froze, bewildered as he placed it between his lips and lit it with a snap. “Those will kill you,” she said.
“Not sure it matters when I only have”—he inhaled, then blew out a trail of smoke that formed a serpent’s head at one end, complete with fangs—“a week. Give or take.”
“A week?”
“To live, Granger. Do keep up.”
Something panged in her chest. “What do you mean?”
“Prolonged lack of blood. One of the few ways to kill a vampire.”
She took in his pallid complexion, the shadows around his eyes, the rhythmic clenching of his jaw. “You’d have to be without blood for weeks.”
“Two weeks and three days is the longest recorded instance of a vampire surviving without blood.” Smoke filtered from his nostrils. “I’ve been tipping your bottles down the toilet, you see.”
“What? Why?”
“They taste terrible.”
“So terrible you’d prefer death?”
“It does seem that way.”
“What is this,” she demanded, “a hunger strike? A cry for help? Why didn’t you say something!”
Malfoy continued to smoke and didn’t respond. She could order him to drink the blood, but she couldn’t help remembering the bitter twist of his words: I’m not a whore. Unless you plan on commanding me. Then, of course, I won’t have a choice. She hated this. She hated taking away his free will. She hated making him hate her. So instead, she cast a warming charm over them both and conjured a thick blanket to insulate from the snow.
“Pretty,” she said, lying down on the blanket beside him and observing the stars.
Malfoy blew out a dragon made of smoke.
Show-off. She turned her head to look at him and found him already facing her.
“You’re quite irresistible, did you know?” He vanished the cigarette. “I want to bite you so fucking badly. It’s all I can think about.”
Her pulse quickened. A snowflake melted on her cheek. “Like I’m going to believe that.”
“It’s true.” He rolled fully to his side, scooting onto her blanket. Surrounded in snow and reflected moonlight, his white-blond hair shone. He pushed a lock from his forehead, and she noticed his silver eyes were blown black. “You’ve ruined me, I’m afraid. Only the best blood for Malfoys.”
She scoffed. “And it happens to belong to a Mudblood?”
Malfoy inhaled deeply through his nose, his lashes fluttering. “You taste like… cherries. Soaked in mulled wine. Laced with fucking cocaine. I know you put your blood in the binding potion, devious little witch. Every time you give it to me, I get another taste. Sweet fucking torture.”
He sounded pensive. She wanted to believe he meant it.
“How do you know what cocaine is?”
The corner of his mouth ticked up. “The Dark Lord loved that shit.”
“What?” Despite herself, a laugh burst out. “He did not use Muggle drugs.”
“He most certainly did. Got Aunt Bella on it as well.”
“And you?”
“When I was first turned, it was the only way I could function during the day. Pepper-ups didn’t quite do it. And the Dark Lord didn’t take kindly to Death Eaters falling asleep during meetings.”
Hermione caught her lip in her teeth. “I hadn’t thought about how you were turned. I guess—I suppose it was against your will?”
“You could say that.”
“When did it happen?”
“After you escaped the Manor.”
“But why—“
“Isn’t it my turn for a question, sweetness?”
She flushed. “Stop calling me that.”
“Is that an order?” He lifted a hand to her neck, stroking the back of his fingers over her skin.
“I don’t—” She swallowed heavily. “I don’t want to force you to do things, Malfoy.”
He made a humming noise, then leaned close, pressing his lips to her frantic pulse. “Is that why you won’t tell me to stop?”
“Malfoy…”
He traced the tip of his tongue along her vein. “Tell me to stop, Hermione,” he said, softly taunting. His hand smoothed down her stomach as his lips ghosted her neck. With a deft flick, he undid the button of her jeans. “Tell me you don’t want this.” Slowly, he pushed his hand into her knickers.
Desire burned through her. She dreamed about this—his mouth, his hands. Malfoy watched her expression as his fingers curved around her cunt. Her breath shuddered, a low whine escaping as she fought to stop from rocking into his palm.
His hand tightened possessively, and he leaned in, kissing her hard: his tongue sweeping into her mouth, his fangs grazing her lip. When a long, cool finger pushed inside, her mouth fell open, breaking the kiss.
“Ma petite sirène…” Above her, his eyes gleamed. “No orders for me?”
There was a darkness in his voice she hadn’t heard since the DADA classroom. Something dangerous that should have pricked her with fear.
“I’m not going to order you to do anything,” she whispered.
“Not even to fuck you?”
She swallowed. “Of course not.”
He pursed his lips, and she couldn’t tell if he was disappointed. “What about the blood? Will you order me to drink?”
“I won’t let you die, and you know it.”
“Alas, you already told me it was my choice.”
“Well, I lied.” Hermione ignored the way he curled his finger, the leisurely, coaxing strokes. “If you want to play games, then fine. Drink the sodding blood, Malfoy. That’s an order.”
“Oh, you sweet little thing.” He grinned, amusement dripping from his voice. “Haven’t you figured it out? Your binding potion has worn off.”
Hermione froze. The blood drained from her face. No. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t due until Christmas day. Her breathing quickened, turning short and panicked. “It lasts until tomorrow evening.”
“Apparently, it’s become less effective.” He dipped his face to her neck, breathing her in. “Now order me to let you go.”
She squirmed, but he pressed his forearm against her pelvis with a strength that was impossible to resist. “Drink the potion,” she gasped. “I’m ordering you to drink—”
“Hmm. No.” He ground his palm into her clit when she tried to squirm. “Well, that was easy. Shall I fuck you now, my sweet? Call it an early Christmas gift.”
Heat flashed through her, and he nipped her throat hard enough to sting. “Oh, you little slut. I can smell how much you like the idea.”
It was awful how right he was. She knew she should be terrified at losing control of the situation, but instead, she wanted to sob in relief. “You're right—” Her voice shook. “I do, I—I want you.”
A widening of his eyes was the only sign of his surprise. Then his mouth was on her, hungry and demanding, kissing fiercely while his he ripped at her jeans. She wiggled from her clothes, struggling not to break the kiss while he pushed off his trousers and tore his shirt over his head.
His pale skin was cut with scars, almost glowing in the moonlight. She couldn’t stop touching him: running her hands over his chest before dragging him between her thighs. The heavy weight of his cock rested on her belly and with a thrill of fear, Hermione took in his size, realising how easily he could break her. How the only thing stopping him was his own self-control.
A groan vibrated from Malfoy’s chest, his expression ravenous as he leaned onto his hands and rocked his hips, watching his cock smear precum over her stomach.
“Been dreaming of this. Wanted to fuck you even before…” He gripped his cock and rubbed the thick head messily over her clit before slipping down to her entrance. “Think you can take me?”
She was already panting, jolts of desire making her clench. “Yes—Malfoy—I need—” She let out a choked sound, her back arching as his hips flexed and he pushed the flared head inside.
Malfoy spread her thighs wide. “Fuck—look at you—” His thumb found her clit, rubbing wide circles, then shallowly, carefully, he began to thrust.
Hermione’s mouth fell open, small gasping whimpers escaping each time he sunk deeper. Her thighs shook, her breath expelled in short pants. When he finally bottomed out, his thumb sped up and an orgasm pulsed through her at the first complete roll of his hips.
Malfoy groaned as she clenched around his cock and cried his name. He folded over, hooking his arm under her back, pulling her flush and burying his face in her neck.
He mouthed her throat, sucking at her skin. “Fuck—fuck—” He sounded pained, his body vibrating with tension. “I need—fuck—” With a growl, he ripped away.
Hermione gasped and her back hit the ground with a jolt.
Three paces away, Malfoy was on his knees, his fingers tugging his hair.
“Draco?” She began to rise, but he let out a growl.
“Stay away. You’re too—fuck—I can’t control myself.”
“What’s wrong? You’re hungry?”
He released a pained laugh. “Yes, Granger. I’m fucking hungry.”
“You… want to bite me?”
His chest was heaving, eyes locked on her throat. “I haven’t been able to think of anything but you for weeks.” His hands flexed at his sides. “You should toss me the blood.”
With a shaking breath, Hermione reached for the bottle. He could have bitten her at any time. The binding potion had worn off—he could have taken what he wanted.
She turned the bottle in her hands. “I thought you hated it.”
“I do.”
Nodding, she placed the bottle on the grass and stood.
It felt terribly vulnerable to cross the short distance with her body completely bare. Hermione took in his tousled hair and sharp, tracking eyes. Malfoy was perfectly still as she approached, his muscles rigid with tension.
“What are you doing, Granger.”
Surrounded in a warming charm, the snow melted at her feet. She knelt before him, meeting his eyes. “It’d be rude not to offer a Christmas gift in return.” Hermione gathered her thick mass of curls, exposing her neck. “Would you like a warm drink?”
Pressure. Sliding fangs. The gentle suction of his mouth. Malfoy groaned into her neck, drinking down her blood as he rocked into her.
It was different this time. His hands reverent, his mouth tender. His lips leaving desperate, bloody kisses over her skin.
“Mine,” he slurred. Sounding drunk. On her.
