He had known long ago that he was not born. Children are born. Love is born. Dreams are born.
Draco Malfoy had been made. Made for the promise of pain. Made for the destruction of virtue.
He was never crafted for compassion. Every crevice and nuance of his creation was chiseled by malice and cruelty. He was honed to the keenest edge of hatred, a weapon to shed blood. Filthy blood, dirty blood, blood saturated with grime and soot and muck. Mud blood.
The ivory blade of Death.
He had known no purpose but those of his masters. Serving his father, serving his mother, serving the Dark Lord. Serving darkness. Ever in service, viciously eager, always willing to be used to further the ends of others.
When had it all changed? When had his purpose been altered? When had the shadows inside him shifted, revealing new purpose, a singular purpose, to serve another? He had been created for destruction.
He was now sharpened with obsession.
It was her scent. Hazelnuts and raspberries and sunshine and power. It taunted him in every class they had together, managing to reach across the room to where he sat, until he was near drunk on the perfume. It made his head light, his hands shake, his mouth water. That scent lingered at her desk when she left the room, and he couldn't help a slight pause to drink it in once more, so much more potent and heady. He had nearly died when she brushed past him in the hall, instantly drunk and voracious. It had taken every ounce of control he possessed to keep from crushing her against his chest just so he could bury his face into the crook of her neck and breath deep.
And her hair. He could spend hours trying to discover every hue and he would never succeed. Auburn, chestnut, cherry, bistre, gold, chocolate, carmine, russet, amber, scarlet, bronze, coffee, saffron. All woven together in luscious curls that tangled with her lashes and swung with every step. When they were younger, he had taunted her with verbal barbs, calling her hair bushy, bedraggled, a bird's nest. He had lied. It wasn't bushy, had never been bushy in his eyes. It was wild, untamed, lush. As if she were some feral creature trapped in a button down shirt and pleated skirt. It nearly drove him mad.
Her hands held him captive as well. Small, well formed, with elegant fingers and slender wrists. She was always doing something with her hands, whether she was nibbling on her nails or writing notes furiously or waving one in the air to catch the professor's attention. They seemed so fragile, but they were always callused from study, strong from hard work, making them all the more precious. Her hands were useful; they weren't for destruction, but for creation. Her hands gave life to all she touched.
And of course her eyes. The color fascinated him, copper with flecks of gold, like she had the sun captured in her gaze. But it was the unwavering defiance, the sharp intelligence, the fierce courage that made his knees weak for want of falling. She refused to surrender. Even when his verbal blows cut deep beneath her surface, she never faltered. She stared him down with her hawk eyes and he knew that while he was a tool for destruction, he could never destroy her.
He was at an utter loss with himself. She threatened to shatter his original purpose, crush everything he knew to dust. If Draco Malfoy was not a weapon, not a servant of evil, what was he?
He had no answer, and therefore knew no rest. He had barely entered his sixth year at Hogwarts, and he had completely retreated into the shadows. He was a prefect, but found no joy in ordering others, though they readily obeyed, scurrying with fear to complete any task. Once he would have found such power intoxicating. Now it rubbed him raw, scouring beneath his skin until he was sure he'd find bruises marring his skin. And of course she was a prefect too, and at the prefect meetings he felt as if his bones would splinter beneath her sharp gaze. She would sneak glances at him whenever she spoke, waiting for him to act as he was meant to, to slice her with words, to cut her with contempt. It was what he was made for. To spill her dirty blood. But he couldn't. He would remain silent, and every time, something flickered in those copper eyes, and she would turn away.
The only thing that gave him joy was keeping watch over her, just out of sight. He watched her as she sat with Potter and Weasely, throwing that riot of curls behind her as she laughed, a sound like sun drenched velvet. He watched as she tucked herself into a corner of the library, curled into herself with a text book in her lap, sipping tea from a mug. He had seen her unwrap that mug in the Great Hall, a gift from her parents, and the smile that graced her face had made him shudder with wanting. She used it whenever she studied, like a good luck charm, and always with blackberry tea. Despite himself, he had ordered her some when she had run out, leaving it in front of her room's portrait when she'd been in the library, the one time she had gone without her mug and tea. He had hid in the shadows when she had returned and discovered the small package. And the smile she'd revealed then had made his bones ache, made his skin flare with heat until he felt dizzy with it. She had smiled because of him. Because of something he'd done.
He'd never caused anyone to smile before.
Without hesitation, he had sworn himself her silent protector. When Pansy had hexed her favorite book, covering it with bleeding pustules, fury had spiraled deep and dark within him when he'd seen tears glittering in her eyes. The next day, everyone had been whispering about how Pansy had woken up that morning with the same bleeding pustules all over her face as well as her head, which had somehow lost all hair. When she had wandered into the Forbidden Forest with Potter and Weasely and had gotten separated, he had faced off with the werewolf that had caught that raspberry hazelnut scent, chasing her deeper into the forest. She had hidden in the crevice of a tree, and before the werewolf could enter her line of sight, he had emerged from the shadows. He had battled the werewolf, cold rage a living thing in his chest, until the wolf was scattered in frozen pieces across the ground. She had emerged from her hiding place later, staring at the mangled corpse for a moment, then she had returned to the school, not once mentioning the encounter to her friends.
Things were swiftly changing. Tensions were running sharper throughout the school, as the inevitable approached. The Dark Lord was coming. He had summoned his followers to him and they were wreaking havoc, hungry for violence. Draco's parents had already joined their master, and the Dark Lord had mentioned granting their son a special "privilege." He wondered if anyone knew that he'd escaped before he could hear the Dark Lord's proposal. He wondered if anyone knew that he was now as reviled as Potter himself among the ranks of the Death Eaters. But he didn't care. He couldn't align himself with those who would destroy her. Even if they had crafted him to be the killing blade.
It was late, sometime around midnight, as he made his rounds through the shadowed corridors of the school. The moon hung low and was full to bursting, glowing topaz in the liquid onyx sky. He walked down the steps and opened the heavy black door, revealing the dank halls of the dungeons. Some couples would brave the dungeons to sneak in private time to themselves, so he made sure to check them last. Candles flickered wet, barely illuminated the slime slicked stone. He turned the corner, catching what sounded like two voices. As he approached, the voices became clearer, obviously an argument. And then the female voice snarled a warning, and he knew it was her. He ran down the hall, racing through the passageways, the sounds becoming louder until he threw open the dungeon door.
There stood Antonin Dolohov, Death Eater, loyal follower of the Dark Lord, robed in black with a menacing scowl twisting his features, a gnarled wand in hand.
And Hermione Granger, pressed against the wall, wand snapped in half and eyes full of courage.
"Draco, my boy, what a surprise," Dolohov sneered, eyes alight in malice, "And here I thought this Mudblood was going to be the main event."
It only took a moment, but that moment had stretched infinite inside him, as if Time were holding its breath. He had known cold rage before, but nothing like this, nothing so purely black that it sank into his bone marrow and froze so deep it burned. In but a moment, he became all he was meant to be. He was cruelty. He was hatred. He was destruction.
"Dolohov," Draco crooned, slipping his hands into his pockets and sauntering into the room. He could feel her eyes on him, but he couldn't look at her, not now, not when he had become everything dark and malicious, everything that she wasn't. "How strange to find you here. So far from your Master's beck and call."
Dolohov's face flickered with shadows, then he was grinning again, wand still aimed true. "I am always honored to follow the Dark Lord's will. And when his command was to execute Potter's mudblood friend, I was only too delighted to volunteer."
"Such a good little puppy, you are. Do you sit and beg as well?" Draco smiled lazy, leaning against the wall, muscles tensed and ready to pounce.
"Shut up, traitor. The Dark Lord rewards his followers well. And for traitors like you, well, he has only torture and death."
Draco shrugged, an elegant gesture, his voice honeyed venom. "Oh, I'm looking forward to it. It should be most delicious. Now, tell me, Dolohov, however did you get Granger to meet you down here? We all know she's too intelligent for the likes of you, so you must have threatened someone she cares about."
When the Death Eater's eyes narrowed, Draco chuckled low, spiked with mocking. "Oh, very brave, Dolohov. Such cunning. Let me guess, come to the dungeons or I kill your parents. I'm guessing her parents, because they're the only ones she can't check on immediately. You'd have something of theirs, maybe her mother dropped a bracelet, maybe you stole her father's sweater when they were out. Something she would recognize. And then she came here, knowing it would be her death, to protect those she loved."
He could see all his words verified in Dolohov's deepening scowl. He dared a glance at her, and was surprised to see her looking at him with an expression he couldn't name. As if she were looking into the very depths of his being. He turned his attention back to the fuming dark wizard and couldn't help a bark of acidic laughter.
"Bravo, Dolohov," Draco clapped for effect, baring his teeth, "bravo. No wonder your Voldemort's errand boy."
"Enough!" Dolohov snarled, pointing his wand at Draco's chest. "I will kill you and bring your head back to the Dark Lord!"
"I dare you to try."
Dolohov raised his wand, a curse ready on his lips, when Draco sprang into action. With a sudden move his wand was in his hand, all his rage and power churning, furious to be released, and he smirked.
"Expelliarmus!"
Dolohov's wand shattered in his hand. He gaped, shocked, and Draco just smiled wicked sweet.
"Stupefy!"
The Death Eater flew across the room, slamming into the stone wall with a sickening crack. He crumbled to the floor, spitting blood, glaring at Draco with burning hatred. Draco prowled forward, spinning his wand between his fingertips, and knelt in front of Dolohov, just out of reach.
He clucked, shaking his head in mock sadness. "That was disappointingly short, Dolohov. Just two spells and here you are. Your Master would be most displeased."
An instant later, and Draco's hand was curled around Dolohov's throat, squeezing hard. The Death Eater hissed, scrabbling at the hand holding his jugular captive, but to no avail. Draco bared his teeth in a feral grin, eyes sleepy with malice.
"I was made for this, Dolohov. Made for violence, shaped by hatred. I am an instrument of death. But I am not your Master's weapon any longer. So, you will be a warning, Dolohov. You will be warning to all that would dare hurt her that Draco Malfoy is the weapon that serves Hermione Granger."
A sharp crack echoed in the room, the Death Eater's head lolling unnatural. Draco loosened his hand, and Dolohov slumped onto the floor, eyes blank and unfocused. Dead.
Draco stood, and all at once that bitter rage retreated inside the crevices of his chest, leaving him shaking with withdrawal. Horror swelled in his throat, not at the death he had caused, but at what her reaction must be. She would surely hate him, disgusted by the violence that dwelled inside him. She was goodness, and courage, and virtue, all the things he was meant to destroy. And he was hatred, and cruelty, and rage, all the things she was meant to despise.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, unable to stop himself. He felt her move behind him, her presence a warm glow on his skin. "I'm so sorry."
And he ran. He ran from the dungeon, ran through the halls, ran until he saw the safety of his quarters, his own private quarters. He was about to shout the password when he felt that glowing presence again, catching up behind him.
"Stop! Draco!"
He couldn't help but obey.
He kept his eyes closed, afraid of what she might see, when she stopped in front of him. His hands shook, her scent so potent, so heady now, now that she was so close to him.
"Draco?" Her voice was sweet, strong, steel laced in vanilla. "Please open your eyes."
It was a command, and he could never refuse her. He opened his eyes, and she was there, so close, her beautiful face, inches from his. He had never been able to examine her this close. Her nose turned up slightly, and he decided it was adorable. Her skin was the color of gardenias, and she had three freckles like Orion's belt across her left cheekbone, almost too small to notice. Her mouth was soft, her bottom lip just slightly fuller, and was the color of strawberries and cream and all he wanted to know was if that's how she tasted. He could count the gold flecks in her eyes and suddenly, shame curdled acrid in his throat.
"How can you stand to look at me?" He asked, voice dark hued and shaking ever so slightly. "Knowing what I am?"
"What you are?" She looked confused for a second, then realization lit her eyes, and the corner of her mouth curled lightly, and it was so close to a smile that Draco nearly whimpered. Without warning, she lifted a hand and rested it against his cheek, and he nearly jumped at the heat of it. It was hot and sweet and so good that he couldn't help leaning into her hand, turning his head so he could breathe in that wonderful scent from the source.
"Draco, I know what you are. I've watched you. I watched you retreat from being the bully I used to know. I watched you sneak into the library so you could do homework near me. I watched you, hiding, after you gave me the blackberry tea. I watched you hiding in the tree line after you saved me from that werewolf. And do you know what I see?"
Draco shook his head, barely able to breathe, something warm and bright expanding larger and larger in his chest until he thought it would burst from his ribs. And then Hermione Granger smiled at him, and everything in him exploded.
"I see what you are, Draco," she continued, her thumb sweeping back and forth across his cheekbone. "You are what they made you. You are capable of violence, and cruelty, and destruction. But you are also capable of goodness. You are capable of love. And despite what they made you to be, this is what you chose to be."
"I'm a weapon, Hermione. That's what I am."
She nodded, still smiling that radiant smile, and Draco was sure he burning to dust. "Yes, that's what you are. But that's not who you are. Do you know who you are, Draco?"
The answer was immediate. "Yours," he whispered, his own hand reaching up to take hers, laying a kiss in her palm as if praying for salvation. "I'm yours."
A flush of crimson rose to her cheeks, and Draco swallowed hard to keep control. But words were fighting to be heard, and he couldn't keep them quiet. "Don't you see? I may be a weapon, but I'm yours. I'm your weapon, to serve you, to do with what you will. I'm yours, all yours."
His control frayed, his emotions churning heavy and hot inside him, and Draco couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed her waist, pulling her hard against him. She gasped, her mouth right by his ear, and he was drunk with the feel of her, pressed up against him, every soft curve. One hand reached up, shifting those gorgeous, riotous curls to the side and bent his head to where her neck met her shoulder. He breathed, that hazelnut raspberry scent deliciously intoxicating, and he couldn't help himself. He kissed that spot, once, twice, three times. He bit gently, his tongue sneaking a lick or two and he was instantly addicted. He moved up her neck, eager for more of her taste, more of her scent, kissing and nipping and licking up to her ear. He nuzzled the spot behind her ear, feeling her tremble against him.
"Yours, Hermione. Yours."
He pulled back, wondering if he'd gone too far, until he saw her eyes. They had spiraled dark, the copper now a hungry bronze, and he almost growled in response. Her hand snuck to his neck and pulled his throat down to her mouth in a sharp move. His surprise shattered when she kissed his pulse point, setting her teeth into his jugular and he did growl, low and hungry.
"Mine," she whispered. "You're mine."
His control, already frayed, snapped.
His hand snuck into her curls, pulling her head back just far enough so he could crush his mouth against hers. He devoured her, savored her, she did taste just like strawberries and cream, and she whimpered, writhing against him desperate, just as ravenous as he. They tore apart for air, breathing in gulps, and Draco couldn't help a shiver of masculine pride to see her mouth lush and swollen, her eyes glazed and hot.
"There's more, Draco," she whispered, and his name was so sweet from her lips that he had to steal another kiss before he let her continue. "You must know, I never wanted to have someone serve me. Never wanted someone to be mine and mine alone."
He faltered then, pain seeping between his ribs, sharp and agonizing, but she kept him firm against her so he wouldn't run.
"I never wanted someone to be mine, you see, if I wasn't theirs."
The pain dissipated. Heat flared dark bright, and Draco couldn't breathe.
"Draco, don't you see?" Her eyes were golden with truth and something he'd never seen before. "I'm yours too. I'm yours."
He trembled, something long since dormant sparking inside him, clamoring to be heard. He had felt it all along, the ache in his bones, the pain in his chest, the hunger that never could be satisfied. He felt it in everything that he was, but he didn't know the name of it. But it overwhelmed him and he claimed her mouth again, savoring her taste.
"Mine," he murmured against her mouth, "Mine." She whimpered, tugging him even closer, pulling him until she was pressed against the portrait. Somehow he managed to remember the password, hearing nothing but her kittenish mewls until the portrait swung open and they nearly tumbled inside.
She laughed then, soft and warm, smiling at him with that look from before. It made her eyes sparkle even brighter in the moonlight, shimmering pale gold. She looked at him the same way he felt inside, joyous and passionate and hungry and possessive and impossibly sweet.
And Draco knew.
"You love me."
Hermione paused for a second, perfectly still in the moonlight, then nodded. "Yes," she said, her voice strong, without hesitation, "I love you."
There was nothing anymore. Nothing from his past to haunt the shadowed places inside of him, nothing of fear, nothing of doubt. He moved in front of her and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her softly, softer than anything he'd ever done in his life. She'd given him softness. She'd given him laughter. She'd given him her smile.
"I've never known love before," he whispered, the truth beating frantically in his throat, desperate to be released. She stared at him them, sorrow shadowing her gaze.
"I'm so sorry. I-"
He shook his head, interrupting her. "Don't be. Don't be. I've never known love before you. It's you, Hermione. It's you."
He held her against him, bending his head to her ear, kissing her cheek like a heartfelt prayer.
"I love you."
A tear whispered down her cheek, and in a sudden move, she claimed his mouth again. The heat was sharper now, desperate, needy, and Draco nearly lost his head when she raked her nails across his back, clawing to get closer. He was drunk on her taste, her scent, her delicious softness pressed against him. He was losing it again, hands shaking as he tried to maintain control. Then her hand snuck down his chest, scratching all the way, and he growled into her mouth.
"Please, Draco," she mewled, nipping at his Adam's apple. "Please. I need you. I love you. Please."
He lifted her then, her legs wrapping around his waist. He made it to his bedroom, and had enough control left in him to carry them to the bed. She was beneath him, tugging at his buttons and whispering his name. The next moment he was on his back, buttons scattered across the room, and Hermione was straddling his hips, smiling wicked.
"I might be yours, Draco," she crooned, nibbling her way from his chest to his collarbone. "But you were mine first."
"Yours. Oh God, yours. Just please."
She smiled wider, one hand playing with the buttons of his trousers. "Please, what?"
Realizing her game, he bared his teeth in a feral grin, ripping that button up shirt until those buttons mingled with his own on the floor. He pulled her down and set his teeth into her throat, one hand sneaking up her thigh and beneath her skirt till she was writhing against his hand. His mouth made its way to her ear, sucking slightly.
"Please take me now or I'll have to take you."
Hermione was more than happy to oblige.
Slivers of light were just turning the room into dusky shadow. Draco was already awake, curled against Hermione sleeping soundly next to him. Her hair, that indescribable hair, was a wave of curls across the black silk of his pillow and every once in awhile he'd bury his face into those curls and breathe deep. He'd never get enough of her scent. Never. He watched the sunrise on her sleeping form. That milky gardenia skin was just touched with gold, and there were a few love bites on her shoulders that made him grin with pride. He reached a hand out, tentative, not wanting to wake her, but unable to keep himself from touching her any longer. He had never given thought to heaven before, but if there was a heaven, it was her, serving her, protecting her, loving her.
She stirred, toffee eyelashes fluttering, revealing sleepy copper eyes. With a sigh, she turned over and curled against him, resting her head on his chest and sneaking a leg between his. He held her tight against him, savoring every breathe she took, every slide of her skin against his. Even after last night, he was afraid it was a dream.
"It wasn't a dream."
Draco looked down at her, wrinkling his brow, startled. "I didn't say anything."
"I know," she murmured, kissing his chest, "but you were thinking it. I can tell."
He kissed the top of her head, smiling into her hair. "I'm that obvious? Say it isn't so."
"No, it's not like that." She lifted herself until they were eye to eye. Her eyes were even more gold in the glow of the morning, and Draco vowed to start every morning looking into those golden eyes.
She smiled, soft. "I just know you who you are, Draco. I know who you are."
A moment passed, and then he smiled, his hand finding hers and bringing it up to his mouth, pressing a kiss into her palm.
"I'm yours, Hermione. I'm yours."