The Conqueror, a harry potter fanfic

Title: The Conqueror.

Author: Masqued.

Rating: Hard NC-17.

Warnings: BDSM, Homosexual Sex, Implied Incest, Major Angst, something close to being considered Cannibalism, and Character Death.

Disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: First off – I need to, need to, need to, thank my beloved beta-reader, lj user"mordantfebrile" for being so caring and kind and willing to tell me that my original was rubbish when it came to this story. Thanks for your consistent effort, and your willingness to put up with me despite my horrendous problems. Please, if I may plug, if not, delete this line, check out her drabble community! lj user"drabblemonthly"

Tothedoppleganger: I was utterly surprised when I was given your prompt. I'd actually noted that I'm fond of writing angst, because it's slightly easier to write angst for me. I'm not an angsty person, quite the opposite in fact, but I enjoy writing angst because there's something about not seeing the happy ending that makes me enjoy it.

I honestly re-wrote, deleted, re-wrote, deleted, and re-wrote deleted with this story. I had to finally pick a simple quote, which is the summary of this story, to guide me. I'd look to the quote and remind myself that it was what I was striving for. And I hope the fact that there is mention of love, which is not context of Draco and Hermione, doesn't hurt the idea you had for this story. Hopefully, you'll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. Let's see if I meet your expectations!

Words: 3,290.

Summary: "Man is the only animal whose desires increase as they are fed; the only animal that is never satisfied." Primitive desires and the vital need to feel are not often accompanied by compassion or loyalty, and the fight to win breaks down the walls that protected the urge to give into denied passions.

"Man is the only animal whose desires increase as they are fed;

the only animal that is never satisfied."

- Henry George -

(1839 - 1897)

Lust, passion, deception, and animalistic actions became fueled by need and want and everything in between. Revenge and anger courses through pumping violet and crimson veins as bodies are pressed against a wall, lips crashing on lips, bones grinding against each other to see who breaks first. A ripping sound and clothes are gone leaving room for torment and need to combine and take over and leave ecstasy filled, hatred coated moans lingering in the empty, dank, cold corridors of dungeons.

"I'll find you, and I'll kill you." It's a promise she utters before impaling herself onto him, their bodies uniting in eager passion to overtake, to force, to break, to burn and to conquer. They move in a harsh rhythm, in rapid positions, forcing each other to comply, to groan, to utter things beneath their breath, to admit that they need to feel in the middle of a raging war.

"Whatever you say, Granger," and he smirks and groans into her as she moves over his leaking cock, their body's burning with desire as a fiery-red spell flies passed the barred window to their left. Their movements become anything but slugged as she grinds against him, her hands bruised as she presses against the hard cobblestone that is holding them up. He bruises her collarbone with bite marks and hot kisses that leave them panting until they come hard.

His head hits the stone ground, slashing nicely against a ridged edge of rock he was unaware of, and she absently mutters a contraceptive charm. She watches him scowl at her and wait for her to pull her body from his. He's not even aware of the fact that his arms are still chained to the wall until the jingle of the rusty metal reaches his ears. His scowl deepens as she repairs her clothes and pulls her hair into a high bun. Prim, prissy, and yet everything his body longed for, standing in all of her glory in the melancholy pale moonlight, stripped of her dignity and her emotions. The bags beneath her eyes give way to the knowledge that she's fighting too many wars, too many emotions, and too many expectations; and even in her hopeless doe eyes, she still manages to betray the truth of her soul and heart – she's frightened.

"Well?"

His lips curl into a smirk and her eyes wander over his body, their combined juices still dripping from his extremities. A feathery touch peppers its way down her chest, giving a thoughtful and meaningful pinch to her nipple and his smirk widens with the twitch of his cock.

"Well. I suppose I should get going," he mutters and within moments, the previously chained blond withers down into a very small and slinky snake, scrambling to make it through the bars before the crazed woman decides to take a turn for the worst and step on him. Hollowed eyes follow his escape until not even the shadow against the fire lit corridor gives away his retreat.

"I'll find you, and I'll kill you," she promises his memory as it floats passed her with his shadow, leaving her emptiness to cling to the moonlight and flying spells. She replays their affair, comparing their screams of ecstasy to the groans of pain that were accompanying the haphazardly thrown spells just outside of the barred window she stood near. And the thought that maybe she would stop needing and could move on and into the war like Ronald and Harry and Ginny had done beats itself into her mind, but she doubts it will last.

And she doesn't really know why.

"Hermione, we need you."

She'd heard those words too often, too quickly, and doesn't expect her lips to snap in the automatic response that they do.

"What now?" For a moment, she feels power as green eyes meet blue, both quivering in uncertainty. But it fleets away as she realizes that she's giving way to letting her unearthly hatred of everything and everyone show through again.

A whip-creamed smile and sugar-coated doe eyes bring the two suspicious males out of their uncertain stupor and she adequately apologizes for snapping, blaming it on stress. The two easily offer their empathy before giving the details of their current predicament.

"Malfoy's escaped," Ron seethes the words as though they are poison to the tongue, dripping down into an inflated hiss deep in his throat. Harry's eyes resemble Ron's voice as he looks from the redhead to Hermione. Her twitching fingers stop. A thin, arched eyebrow rises slowly as she peers at the two boys.

"Oh?" The two seem slightly put out at her lack of enthusiasm or distaste for the Slytherin, and attempt to pry her into feeling the malice they so openly portray; still, regardless of their badgering, she can't seem to define what it was exactly that kept her dagger of hatred for the blond sheathed.

The badgering continues until she tells them that sitting around and complaining would ultimately do no good for their cause, and as such, should cease and decease until further notice. If they were going to attempt anything, they should either present to her the plan or start to formulate one; otherwise she would hear no more talk of the vile Slytherin that had simply gotten away.

Unnerved at the monotonous way their best friend was handling the horrid news, the two boys dart from the rustic library she'd hid herself in. Harry lingers in the doorway for a moment and casts a look she swears has something hidden in the irises of his eyes, but he's gone before she can investigate it properly.

And for the first time in months, Hermione Granger genuinely smiles.

"You've failed me."

Draco falls backwards against the floor, blood sullenly trailing down his chin. The chipped nail and bloodied fingers that had left the mark on his lip, arm, and soul, rise again and he feels the sting of defeat as he meets the dirt beneath him. The thick mud clots with the blood pooling in his mouth and he chooses to swallow instead of spit, determined to give the Dark Lord absolutely no satisfaction.

The discolored fingers comb their way through the blond's hair, a trail of sweat and blood staining the platinum locks, and the nails graze the scarred spot that his affair left him and those prying, ever prying nails claw at the dried blood, re-opening the wound. Gray eyes float vibrantly, flaring with anger and betrayal in soul, and meet the Dark Lord's sharp glare.

"Leave me."

Two sentinels of sorts deafly leave the tent to stand just a few feet from the opening. The Dark Lord gives Draco's beautiful hair a harsh tug and the prying, harsh, dead lips crash against the pale pink ones that are bruised from another maliciously found lover. As he pulls away, he smiles, sallow teeth and narrowed eyes mirroring Draco's perception of fear.

"I can taste her on you, Draco," his breath against Draco's ear causes Draco's urges and his logic to conflict, resulting in a sharp intake of breath. A dry tongue slips over the shell of the blond's ear, and Draco knows he is going to have it, feel it, want it, need it, and regret it again.

The Dark Lord takes a long whiff of Draco's mingled sweaty scent with Hermione Granger's delectable odor, rich with flavor as it has coated nearly all of the blond's body. His dry, sharp and devastatingly torturous tongue continues the path down the blond's nude form, following the trail the brunette witch had left on his follower. And suddenly, without warning, the Dark Lord's wand has been whipped out from inside his robes and Draco is chained to a nearby transfigured wall forcefully, a loud grunt of pain being the only recognition to his master that he is aware of the sudden change of position.

"That's right, Draco… think of her, smell her, dream of her, wish she were here…" the Dark Lord's prying tongue takes the proudly erect and seeping cock into his relatively tiny mouth, causing Draco to whimper, the image of the brunette sucking him dry, her head bobbing temptingly between his thighs, her eyes watching his contorted features in ecstasy filling his closed eyelids. A sharp and deep digging in his thigh causes a cry of anguish to relieve his closed eyelids of the vision of the Gryffindor princess and glancing down, he is not at all surprised to be met with the icy glare of his master whose nail is puncturing the fine skin of his inner thigh.

"Enough," his master commands and pulls harshly at the cock that is still resting between his lips; "You've done me a great injustice Draco." A vicious smirk curls over the Dark Lord's lips and he tugs again at Draco's cock, now with his calloused hands. "You will pay." Another harsh tug and Draco is whimpering, his body reacting to every single touch of his master's, crying for the release he'd not so long ago felt. And for a moment, he thinks he may be met with unusual gentleness as the Dark Lord strokes his now bruised member; but it is a short lived concept as nails dig into his throbbing prick, blood slowly seeping out and coating the discolored fingers clutching him.

"Yes, master," he cries, feeling his body be pushed rigidly against the transfigured tent-to-solid wall. His body slams angrily, and suddenly he sees stars; red, purple, green, yellow, blue, soaring over the few holes in the tent's top. The Dark Lord begins to scrape and preen and paw at the scarred flesh of Draco's toned torso and the blond tries to ignite the memories of his latest affair to help coddle the burning sensation his master is causing his entire body to feel. And without preparation of any kind, Draco's legs are thrown over the Dark Lord's shoulders and the previously cloaked man is standing nude, his own erection a clean contrast to the battered and bleeding one resting in the Dark Lord's blood covered fingers. Without warning, which of course would be a courtesy, Draco feels the harsh push of the Dark Lord's cock pressing against his prostate at an alarming rate. Within moments, he's picking up a speed hitherto unseen in the Wizarding world, and blood, sweat, and come are mingling all over Draco's lower proportions, leaving a panting Dark Lord behind.

A simpering and wounded noise emits Draco's pale and bruised lips.

"I'm sorry, master," his voice is a low rasp, a whisper, an aching that wanted to be forgiven; yet he knows he can't receive any form of forgiveness from the Lord of all things destructive.

"I know, Draco." Another sharp puncture to his thigh causes the tears Draco isn't aware of having shed to overflow. "I know. That is why you must know to stay away from her." There are teeth clenching Draco's earlobe as his master speaks in a cold, distant whisper. "Forever."

Draco already knew he wasn't supposed to seek out and conquer the brains of the Trio, but just the mere mention of having that notch under his belt caused his smirk to grow and his cock to twitch, and he knows he can't stay away.

He can't ever stay away.

"This isn't love."

He demands she know it as he slams his body into her, their tangled limbs pressing harder against the grassy ground to punctuate each word.

"It will never be love."

She rewards him with the response before slipping into the incoherent stage of fucking where one is only rewarded with groans, moans, and insistences. Her chained ankles are meant to be wrapped around his torso; he'd made it that way so she could squeeze and apply pressure and force him further with each of his trusts. Her arms are spread side to side, latched to the ground so her breasts are stretched and free to bounce under Draco's harsh teeth.

They rock together, forcing each other to attach the wounds of war, the needs of secrecy, and the hatred for life to put the passion in their rhythm. And when they come, he can feel her walls closing on him as harshly as her heels are digging into his lower back, bruising the skin, making him aware of his to-be late night session with the Dark Lord.

"This is just feeling, because I hate you, Granger." And she knows it's true as he removes her bondages, watching her writhe against the ground until she's certain she can move freely. She can't love him, she won't love him, she doesn't need to love him; she just needs to feel him, and he lets her, and he needs her as his secret nicotine, his domineering blackmail, his living personification of hatred. She can't stand him, but she needs him to survive, or she may die.

And as he watches her stripped silhouette morph into the bird of prey she has become, he knows he needs her for the same reason.

"Draco, you've disappointed me too many times." The Dark Lord's discolored nails gently scrape across the uneven toned torso that is bound to a chair before him. "But I won't be the one to punish you," he pauses to glance at the flapping opening of the tent; "Lucius." The blond wizard, completely attired in black apparel, strides into the tent with confidence and poise, ever gracing the ground with his Malfoy feet and walking stick.

"You know what to do." The Dark Lord takes a step back to watch as Lucius Malfoy pulls his dragon hide gloves from his delicate hands and prepares himself for what he knows he must do.

"Yes, master," he replies, his voice laden with something Draco can't identify. But by the end of the night, even if he can't verbally identify what it was his father's voice had been laced with, his body could.

"Why do we run, Draco?" She's empty again, sitting in a tree, her hair blowing mindlessly in the wind. If it weren't for their affair, for their need, for their hatred, he would almost find her beautiful. But he can't, he won't, and he doesn't need to.

"Because we've nothing better to do with our time." Although somewhat of a juvenile answer, the sneer that accompanies it and the pain that dances alongside it in his eyes tells her that it is the truth, and that they truly are unable to bide their time any better. And for the first time, his lips reach hers gently, softly, and communicative of nothing and everything and she pulls away with tears clouding her eyes.

"Well I'm tired of it."

So is he, but they can't give up now. They've never shared secrets, they've never expressed needs, or wants, or anything passed what they've become dependent on. Their thirst continues to grow, to strive, to grasp for anything even remotely close to what they can drink, and if they could make love, how they touch and react beneath the tree that night is what it would be like.

"I hate you," she reminds him; "I'll find you, and I'll kill you."

"Stop it, Hermione," Harry tells her as she pores over the books she has propped in front of her. And yet, with the books, and the pages, and the smells, and the words, she can't seem to even make sense of the colors the paper is. "You need to stop, we'll find it." His arm is over her shoulders and his lips are on her forehead, and she wants to cry. She wants to tell him the truth, her heart, her feelings, why her emotions are bottled in what she can't even think to call a soul. She aches to tell him that she's been prying herself away from the enemy and throwing herself into horcrux search to overcome what she's forced herself to need. But she can't, and for some reason, she doesn't think she needs to.

"Harry, I don't want to do this anymore." His hand finds hers and her dried lips are smiling. They both blink back tears as he kisses her; she doesn't know what to make of it as his hands find their way to her hair and she folds her hands at the base of his neck. He trembles for a moment and they sob together, crumpled on the floor. She doesn't need Harry, but she loves him. And as he makes love to her behind a bookshelf, she knows its all going to be all right if she has him.

Perched on a tree, a red-tailed hawk hides behind leaves, searching the high grass for any sign of disturbance. A rodent crawls through the dead, bleached grass, obviously trying to hide from the hot beating sun. With a ruffle of her feathers, the hawk launches into the sky, peering down onto the fields with only minor interest. A few more rodents burrow into the ground, crafting their way through the grass to hide from preying animals such as her. With a few more flaps of her wings, she's soaring under the sun, soaking in the heat and warmth and radiance, and she twirls, knowing it may be her first chance to do so. Or her last chance to do so for years.

Crawling not but twenty five feet beneath is a rattlesnake, one she'd hoped to never see. With a slight falter in her beating wings, she recognizes the platinum dots that are stretched over the scales. Perhaps her mind is too clogged by the suddenly too hot sun, or her thoughts are mingling with that of a hungry birds, but whatever the cause is, she finds herself diving down quickly. Within moments, the rattlesnake is squirming in her beak, and she whirls to her tree, her heart beating faster and faster as her beak spears deeper and deeper into the soft flesh of the snake.

I don't need you.

A cry, a painful need, and she reminds herself that it's the truth. The copper taste of blood drowns her tongue and she finally settles at her nest, clumsily made of twigs and dead pieces of grass, and shoves the snake into it.

Say goodbye.

Just as she settles herself, she gives little time for the snake to morph, and sinks her beak into the skin, tearing the scales and slimy flesh, blood oozing from a fresh cut on the belly. Slowly but surely, cuts and abrasions and wounds appear all over the snake's bodice and she thirstily drinks the blood and slides the scales down her throat until she's positive the heart has stopped its persistent beating. The very faint, discolored reminder of the Dark Mark is embezzled near the tail and she seems to be confident she's overcome, she's defeated. She is the conqueror.

The first convulsion causes her to fall from her nest. Her second convulsion causes her body to quickly transform back to being the frizzy-haired brunette she'd given up being. Foam curls at her lips and the torment her every limb experiences causes her to shriek, howl, and yelp in desperation.

Please.

Her mind pleads, cries, wishes for release.

Please, anyone.

"Finite Incantentum!" She isn't even aware she has a voice until it screams the spell, expelling the words from her lungs. Her cries rise above, over, louder, screaming, repeating the spell until her cracking voice is satisfied that it's worked. Green eyes and onyx hair linger in her hindsight for a moment, and when she completely closes her eyes, she knows she doesn't need anything anymore, because she is the conqueror.

Goodbye.

Finis

STORY REQUEST

BRIEFLY describe what you'd like to receive:2 animangus acting on their animal instinct.

What rating would you prefer: NC17 or at least R

Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): Mush, Fluff, Love

Ending Notes: All right. So, the ending is horrible. But, I won't have time this weekend to clean it up, and my dear Ivy seems to find it fitting. A very morbid twisted Romeo and Juliet is how I thought of it, but, who knows. I hope this story isn't too gruesome for anyone, I know it seems a bit rushed, but the sporadic and choppy way its written is for a reason. At least, I hope it's for a reason to you, the reader! If it doesn't make sense, I'm horribly sorry.

Much love, everyone!