SENSELESS
The war had been waging for years and from what he could tell, there was no end to this nightmare of a life. He hadn't truly seen her since their school years and was hesitant to approach her, yet she was his only hope, his last refuge. So when he finally found the strength to pick himself off the wet, grimy pavement, he found his wand and apparated to her last-known residence, hoping she would be there. He wasn't really sure where he was, but the image of her front steps were burned into his mind and from the feel of the hard concrete beneath him, he just felt he was in the right place. Yet, he was unsure whether she would even show up, if she could show up that is.
Only a year ago, he was assigned to her to gather any and all information on the enemy and their plans. Unknowingly, she would leave home, apparate to Order headquarters, and apparate home, all the while, he watched her. Her comings and goings kept him sane and helped him keep track of the days as they passed, never-ending. As the months stretched, he learned nothing; except the way the wind played at her hair, and how she always managed a beautiful smile before the start of the day, and how the light of early morning made her eyes shine, and how, despite all her attempts to put herself together, nothing could hide how the war was draining her. And yet, every day, she would leap back into the fray not knowing if this would be the last time she would see the sunrise. Her endless reserves of courage gave him strength and he would play this game they were forced to participate in and just hoped beyond hope that they would both be there at the end of the day to see her make it home safely. Their ingrained animosity melting away with every second he watched her. Only then was he beginning to see what he had been missing out on all those years.
But one night, she didn't make it home and he wept. Wrong as it was, he couldn't help but mourn her loss. His mates could tell he was slipping, but they didn't know what from, nor would they ever. No one would ever know, but they could see that something was off. After that night, he was pulled from the assignment and given prisoner duty. Every time he made checks on the dungeons, all he could see was her face; her eyes in theirs, her hair on them, her sweet smile on their broken mouths. He was slowly losing his mind and spiraling out of control. There were times where he would see her, just over there in the corner, huddled to keep the dank cold at bay. He would rush to the cell, to her, only to find her gone. Sometimes he would dream of her, of her ferocity, of her intellect. At times, he would be sitting there, guarding the dungeons, and he would hear her. It would be his name, and the bite in her words would hit him and he would whimper at how he never had a chance to change things between them. But over time, her voice would start to caress his name, ease his pain, and envelop him in an ethereal love that never truly existed. And yet, he loved every bit of it.
Soon, any resemblance of that unruly hair would set him off, and even the inmates would think him crazed. His comrades would report him, lock him in a bare bedroom, remove all items that he would identify with. Even the slightest stirrings of his surroundings would make him perk up and wait for her embrace. Not long after his confinement, his father came and attempted to curse, torture, and spell the insanity away. Soon enough, word of his rapid deterioration reached the ears of the Lord and Master and he made a noteworthy visit to the "poor sod" to put him out of his misery. Or so they thought.
The lad had only been at the ripe age of twenty, yet the Dark Lord decided to make an example of him. His weakness in mind and spirit was not to be tolerated and all those who followed the boy down that dark road would be treated as equally guilty as traitors. No, death would be too easy a punishment. Those who lost sight of the cause and prioritized their own needs above those of the group would be taught a severe lesson. And those caught would be punished in accordance to their crimes. If a man defected for galleons, he would lose his greedy hands. If a man traded secrets, his treacherous tongue would be removed. If a man lost faith in the cause, his gullible ears would be chopped off. And if a man tried to protect an enemy, his heart would be cut out and burned.
Drunk on the ecstasy of his power, the Dark Lord brought the boy before the rest and declared his punishment. Along with his mind, the lad had lost his sight. He could no longer see the true and clear path, that which they all walked. He had put his own pain before his comrades' pain. Since he was already lost, he need not his eyes, which could not see anything other than what was within his own mind.
The necessary potions were retrieved and spoons were placed out on a table for the Lord to use to his pleasure. Small spoons would cause more pain. The smaller the dose, the longer the process would take. If he was feeling particularly merciful, he would use the larger spoons to minimize the length of the torture. As his hands skimmed over the assortment of silverware, he gazed at the boy, contemplating his mood. The boy had failed his first mission, relying on another to fulfill the task. He wasn't an exceptionally eager follower, nor specifically skilled in any way. His only feat was that he found a way to get them into that blasted school and took the mark.
A choked sob could be heard when he chose the one-quarter spoon. For the full effect of the procedure, one complete unit of the potion was required; he would receive 4 spoons of potion in each eye. Although this would not take long, it wouldn't be quick either. Four were chosen to hold down the lad's limbs, as the potion disintegrated a portion of the cornea, rendering the victim blind, and wreaked havoc on their nervous system.
Although the Lord had a small fondness for the boy's tenacity, the boy failed and had to be dealt with. As each dose was administered, his screams echoed throughout the hall they had gathered in. He felt as if little flobberworms were biting each of his pores, while blast-ended skrewts took residence within his organs, and his eyes burned as if they were being physically removed from their sockets. His unabashed vocalization of agony forced even his cold, heartless father to turn his head and attempt to comfort the boy's dear mother who couldn't stop from retching at the sight. Except for the single tear that fell down her cheek, his aunt remained unmoved, unable to change his fate.
Spasms racked his body and his arms desperately struggled against those restraining him, trying to relieve the pain somehow. Once it was finished, he was given a few minutes with his mother before he would be left on his own, no longer a member of the cause. His poor, gentle mother, who had the misfortune of marrying his father, was one of the select few who had any love for him and now he would be ripped from her, one of the only people who cared about what was left of him.
Something cool wrapped around his head, easing a bit of the heat in his eyes. One of his mother's scarves; he could tell from the smell of the perfume. She whispered a couple loving goodbyes and placed a trembling kiss on his temple before he was roughly pulled away. From their voice, he could tell someone from the inner circle had been assigned to seeing to his disposal. He could feel the familiar tugging in his stomach as another apparated them.
He was given his wand and a gruff "Muggle London" as the only hint to his current location. Soon after, he heard the pop as his escort disappeared. Reaching out with one hand, he tentatively searched for a wall, a building, anything really. He was reaching exhaustion and was barely able to keep himself upright. Finding something solid wasn't easy. In his newly blind state, he felt off-balance and vulnerable and jumped at the slightest sounds. He could hear footsteps somewhere, everywhere. He whirled around, panicked. When he stopped spinning, it was silent. Was someone there? Was he hallucinating again? Would he spend the rest of his life in this panicked, defenseless state? He was slowly backing up, hoping he wasn't heading for the street when he tripped.
A startled howl erupted beneath him. He had stumbled over an alley cat, which now bit and scratched at his ankles. As he kicked the feline away, he realized he had dropped his wand in the fall. Of all the bloody luck, he thought. Ruddy cat better not have snatched it. He cursed himself for not learning how to perform wandless magic and searched the ground for his wand. As the minutes passed, his search proved fruitless and he soon found himself lying out on the ground. The cold of the cement seeped into his robes, but exhaustion soon took him.
And now here he was, wand found, clothes damp, and sitting on the steps of his possibly dead, secret love's flat. Pathetic, obsessed, vulnerable. All the things his upbringing as the Malfoy heir and Slytherin prince taught him not to be. Banished from the Dark Lord's ranks, now treated as an enemy, as all traitors were, he couldn't return to the camps. He couldn't bloody walk into Order territory and expect to come out alive. He couldn't fend for himself in the wilderness either. So his last viable option for survival would be to appeal to the compassionate heart of the Gryffindor princess and, Heavens forbid, beg for her help. If she were alive, that is.
How ironic that he now loved and groveled for that which he was raised to hate the most. Both Hogwarts royalty, but total opposites. He a pureblood, she a muggle-born. He a Slytherin, she a Gryffindor. Their personalities as different as day and night, and yet similar; both passionate, hot-blooded, and fiercely loyal. And here he was, waiting, hoping that she was still out there somewhere and would come home to find him there. It was a long shot, but he had no other choice but to believe that she was alive. He loved every part of her with every essence of his being, knowing that there was no possible way she could return those feelings, yet wishing desperately that she did.
SENSELESS
It had been another frustrating evening at Grimauld Place. They were no closer to finding the last few horcruxes than Ronald was to finding his brain. Honestly, the bugger barely noticed how busy she was, trying to keep the Order up-to-date on the latest Death Eater activity; trying to keep them all alive. And yet, every night he managed to fit in another 'Mione-never-spends-time-with-me tantrum and each time she would have to artfully dodge his attempts to take her home with him without hurting his feelings. It was a useful skill she had perfected after years of friendship, and now a relationship, with him.
It's not that she didn't love him, or think he was adorable when trying to impress her, or brilliant with passion when hunting down the enemy. But then there were the times where he wouldn't leave her alone, or pick up on how she was feeling, or do something for her just for the satisfaction of seeing her happy. No, it was usually all Ron, all the time.
Oh, he had such a rough day looking for horcruxes and nearly getting blown to pieces by a Death Eater, shouldn't she help him feel better and pleasure him? It would really help him relax if they did the dirty little deed. It was much more effective than any massage or hot cup of tea. Honestly, could he be any dafter? The last thing she would want to do after a day of counteracting attacks on Headquarters and squeezing every last ounce of knowledge her sources had on Voldemort would be getting down with a sweaty Me-Me-Me Bloke.
The night before, Order business had kept her up and working, unable to even stop at home quickly to feed Crookshanks, bless his soul. He was getting rather old and cranky and was barely surviving through the war. Any loud noise would rattle him, his fur would stand on end, and he would then proceed to hide under the nearest piece of furniture. The times, such as last night, where she couldn't come home to feed him, he would manage to find a way out of the flat and prowl the streets for something to eat. Although he could manage this, she never truly understood how he failed to figure out how to open the cupboard to the cat food containers.
Thinking about her poor familiar and the state he must be in, she hurried out the front door and apparated to her neighborhood. She was visualizing the contents of her kitchen, envisioning the meal she would be preparing when she turned the corner. As she reached her building, something stopped her in her tracks. Was that… a homeless person on her steps? Taking a closer look, she could see they were wrapped in rather expensive-looking robes. A homeless wizard? she mused, Is there even such a thing? As she stood there, the person began to stir.
"Er, excuse me, sir. Can I help you in any way?" she asked, her compassion for those in need taking control. The bundle moved a bit more. Whoever it was struggled their way from beneath their robes and a sandy brown-haired head was revealed. With their head now uncovered, she could see a dirty, bloody bandage wrapped around their head. She gasped, realizing that the poor person was probably a war victim hoping to find shelter in Muggle London. Running towards him, she added, "Should I take you to the infirmary for medical treatment?"
"No," the man croaked.
"Nevermind that. Here's just as well," she huffed, only a tidbit panicked about this man's obvious state of distress. "We'll get you some food and water and you'll be good as new." I really should have been a mediwitch with the amount of war victims I've helped.
The stranger grasped her arms, almost desperate in his embrace. Although unsteady, the man seemed mostly in control of his limbs, the only clear injury under the bandages on his forehead. First things first, get him some food. Oh and a spot of tea wouldn't hurt! And then a bath would do wonders, he smells awful. I could probably grab him a couple of things that Ron's left to wear…
"…hello?" the wounded man gasped, his voice barely audible. Oh goodness, she had forgotten him in the middle of the flat, alone and unbalanced.
"I am so sorry about that! Here, take a seat at the counter," she said, easing him into a stool in the kitchen. "I'll just put together some tea for you and then start making supper. Afterwards, you can bathe and I'll set out a change of clothes for you."
Nodding in acquiescence, the man rested his head on his arms on the counter. Turning around, she got to work, setting the teapot on the stove and pulling ingredients from the cupboards for dinner. It didn't take long for the stranger to fall back asleep, a soft snore coming from his lips. Despite his damaged state, his bone structure was well defined beneath the grime. His mouth set in an adorable pout beneath a nose just perfectly so in the middle of his face. What was she doing, admiring this man in his suffering state? And to think of what Ronald would say. Bugger.
Once supper was almost ready, she placed a cup of tea near him, hoping the aroma would rouse him. As she set out plates and dished out the meal, she noticed he still had not awoken. So as not to frighten him, she very gently nudged his shoulder. His body was hard, and not in the I-haven't-eaten-in-days way. Lean, toned. This was no ordinary war victim, he had clearly kept himself in shape.
"Excuse me, sir," she whispered near his ear. He sighed, stretching his arm out and suddenly it came about her waist and pulled her closer to him. Oh no! She had left her wand by the front door, worried about the injured man before her. Had the enemy found her? Had she fallen for some conman who prayed on the compassionate? He nuzzled into her neck, the hand about her waist fisting in her shirt. Was he… Would he?
"Smell so good," he rasped. Despite the position she found herself in, his voice was rough with lust and she couldn't help but react to the sound of it. "The most beautiful woman. Are you real?" He began placing sweet kisses on her neck. She laughed, he was clearly delusional but oh so dashing and handsome. And that smirk, so playful and daring.
"Alright you, I think supper can wait. Before you really go seducing me, let's get you a bath first. Maybe that will help clear your head a bit," she giggled.
Grabbing him a cup of tea, she led him to the bathroom. She walked him to the edge of the tub and instructed him to remove his clothing as she drew water for the tub. With each rustle of clothing, she could feel her cheeks getting hotter. Oh bother, it's not like I haven't seen the male anatomy before! She heard a quiet splash as her stranger eased into the tub, sighing at the feel of the water. Once he was settled, he carefully removed the bandage. Beneath was a flawless face smeared with blood and tears, his eyelids swollen and red. He turned his head, his cheeks burning from his embarrassment. She quickly set out a change of clothes for him and placed a bar of soap and the cup of tea in his hands.
"Just call out if you need anything, okay?" He nodded.
She picked up his dirty robes on her way out and closed the door as she headed to the laundry room. She would wash his things and hopefully send him on his way. Taking a second look at his belongings, she noticed that his bandage was actually patterned beneath the blood stains. A scarf? As she unraveled it, a piece of parchment fell out. Slowly, she opened it:
To whom it may concern,
Congratulations! You have found a weary, injured wizard. Please care for him in your utmost. He is a dear friend of mine and has recently suffered a trauma and will need time to recover. If he's an arse and refuses, ignore him. Once this blasted war is over, I will fetch him and reward you handsomely.
Forever in your debt,
Blaise Zabini
Shaking, she dropped the letter. Who is this man? A dear friend of Zabini? No. It couldn't be. There was no way that Draco bloody Malfoy was currently in her flat. In her bathtub! And naked of all things. Mid-panic, she heard a commotion coming from the bathroom. Merlin, now what? she thought.
Opening the door, she saw the maybe-Malfoy in all his naked glory, bent over the side of the tub, arse high in the air and broken china on the floor. For Godric's sake…
"Excuse me sir, what do you suppose you're doing?" she bit out. At least he had already taken the time to clean himself up before breaking one of her favorite teacups.
"I apologize Miss…" he started.
"Granger," she huffed, "Hermione Granger."
"Ah, yes. Miss Granger. I apologize for the mess. I had placed the cup on the edge of the tub and in my carelessness, knocked it over. I then attempted to pick it up from the floor but then forgot," he trailed off, waving his hand in front his face. His face was now spotless and gorgeous, no traces of blood left. His eyes were closed and she could see raw, pink skin around them. Was this the trauma Zabini was referring to?
He cleared his throat. Oh, was she staring? Good Godric. "Again, forgive me, but I seem to be having trouble navigating. And, er, may need your assistance in dressing myself." If she wasn't blushing before, she definitely was now. It's a good thing his eyes were shut tight or he would have laughed at her embarrassment. Sighing, she moved to help him out of the tub. Questions could wait until later, he was struggling enough.
Pulling him out of the tub, she suddenly noticed how tall he truly was. She barely reached his chin. Should he have the inclination to, he could easily rest his head upon hers. But that would be rather intimate, hmm? Shaking her head, she grabbed the shirt she had laid out and pulled it over his head. It was a strange sight seeing this man standing before her in nothing but Ron's old Chudley Cannons shirt. He must have been a bit taller than Ron because she could see his, er, manhood peeking out beneath the shirt. Or maybe he was just bigger than Ron. Ahem, things you don't need to be thinking about, girly.
Furiously blushing, she made quick work of the rest of his clothing and had him dressed in no time. He did not look pleased. It was as if he knew he was dressed in full Chudley Cannons garb. Looking up at him, it was as if she was seeing him for the first time. He certainly was handsome. His brown hair was a bit lighter now that it had been washed and his skin was no longer covered in a layer of dirt. But what she really wanted to see were his eyes. Eyes are the windows to the soul, eh? But will he have Malfoy's eyes? Or is he some other misfortunate, blond Death Eater? And since when did I decide listen to Zabini?
"Are you going to make me stand here all day, Hermione?" Her name on his lips sent shivers down her spine. Did her name always sound that sensual? Certainly not when coming from Ron.
"I was wondering why you haven't opened your eyes," she blurted out. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me."
"Don't apologize, I just don't know if I can."
"Have you tried?"
"I-" he choked, jerking his head. His cheeks flushed in shame. "I'm scared that it won't make a difference whether they're open or not." Understanding washed over her and her own eyes welled with tears.
"Come, let's sit on the couch and we can talk through this," she offered gently. If this really is Malfoy, he certainly isn't acting like it.
Once seated, she didn't know what to do with herself. She kept wringing her hands, as if the magic in them would come up with a solution. As if it would make everything right for the man sitting next to her. She didn't know how much time had passed in silence before she spoke up.
"I found a letter," she started. "In your, er, bandage. It was from-" she paused to watch his expression, "-Blaise Zabini."
He sighed, "So you know."
"Well?"
"Well what?" he mimicked.
"You are Malfoy, right? Draco Malfoy?" He liked the way she said his name. Her voice was beautiful, like her. He decided then that he would keep this to himself. They hadn't seen each other in years and it wasn't on such good terms. There was no telling what she thought of him now. Famed pureblood and Death Eater. Scratch that, just a famed pureblood with nothing to his name; disgraced and disinherited. He was silent too long. Although he couldn't see her, he could feel her gaze upon him.
"Call me Draco," he responded softly.
"Um, just Draco?"
"Just… Draco." He really did like hearing her say his name.
"I can try, but do you want to explain?" He understood her prying. Why, after years of hatred and name-calling and hexing, would he want to be on a first name basis with her? He didn't know if it was her kindness or his forbidden love for her or the emptiness in his heart, but he found himself telling her everything.
He didn't know when it happened, but he was suddenly in her arms with his head on her shoulder, crying. All the pent up frustration, loneliness, and hatred for Voldemort flowed out of him. It was as if each tear was lifting a burden off his shoulders. Everything that he had known and loved was taken from him and ripped apart. Turned upside-down. Topsy turvy and all those other strange Muggle sayings.
Her hands were on his back, her fingers tracing soothing patterns. If he hadn't known better, he would say that she was drawing ancient runes. Maybe he was delirious and imagining it. Although, that would be such a Granger thing to do.
"Alright, Draco," she whispered, "you can stay with me as long as you need." All he could do was nod in agreement. His emotions were running rampant and squeezing every logical thought out of his mind. If she had told him she was going to murder Harry bloody Potter he would have believed her, even helped.
"You've had a long day. You can sleep in my room for now. We can work on more permanent accommodations later."
They stood and she led him to the bedroom. Inside, the air was not thick with tension and definitely not sexual tension. It was a simple thing really. This kind and compassionate woman was offering her home to a disabled man. No strings attached, nothing to be gained, no scam to be played. It was as if a calming draught settled over his body.
SENSELESS
Since when was Draco fecking Malfoy so bloody good looking? Wasn't he a ferret? Like yesterday? Sighing, she wandered through her flat, tidying everything. Anything to prolong sleep. He was asleep. In her bed. Under her sheets. In Ron's clothes! That last thought made her snort. That was an image she'd have to show him sometime. Absolutely priceless. Master Draco Malfoy in a Weasley's clothing of all things. No one would ever believe her. Actually, they'd probably just come and curse him to Hell. She couldn't believe she was thinking it, but he had already been through so much and she would not be the one to add to it. Especially when he looks so peaceful and adorable when asleep.
She was just about done putting everything to rights when she heard... Moaning? Groaning? What? As she got closer to the bedroom, she heard him more clearly. He was desperately calling out to her. Grounding out her name in pain.
He was sitting up in bed, the moth-eaten Chudley Cannons shirt crumpled on the floor. She avoided looking directly at his body, it would only prove distracting from the current situation. His hair was a mess, sticking out at funny angles, much resembling Harry a bit. But what struck her were his eyes. Those eyes she had been looking for just hours before were now wide open.
Grey and hazy, it was almost as if he had cataracts. As she stepped into the room, a single tear traveled down his cheek. His eyes blinked rapidly, hopelessly holding back a torrent of emotions.
"Granger," he half-cried. She didn't know what to do. Usually she was so level-headed and quick to react, but something about this man had her grasping at… Godric-knows-what. Hermione Jean Granger, you did not become the brightest witch of your age to be unmanned by a hysterical, sobbing, blond tosser named Draco bloody Malfoy. Good lord, where are your senses girl? Get a grip!
Mustering all her flustered insides into some sort of courageous—
Oh bother, she just flung herself at him. In the most lady-like manner, of course. She wasn't about to embarrass herself in front of Malfoy of all people. She took him in her arms and let one of her own tears fall.
Honestly Hermione, what do you think you're doing? He's a Slytherin, a good-for-nothing pureblood, a rich and pompous arse, a Death Eater. A Malfoy! But he was just looked so fragile and hopeless. She couldn't help but ache for him.
"I- I can't see. Granger, I can't see anything," he whispered. She hugged him tighter and felt where his eyes were wetting her shirt. "Please don't leave me. It's so dark."
She shushed him. Despite their history, he was breaking her heart and she was at a loss for words. She couldn't even imagine what it would be like to be blind, alone, lost, and despised by almost everyone in the wizarding world. The only world he knew.
When she pushed him to lie back down on the bed, he grabbed her arm. He couldn't seem to let her go. Appeasing him, she lay down beside him. When he curled his arm about her, she didn't protest. When he pulled her closer to him, she snuggled closer. She couldn't stop herself and her body was betraying her. And soon, sweet bliss took them both.
SENSELESS
"Granger! Granger!" Merlin, was he always this panicked?
"Relax Malfoy, I was just in the loo." It was still early and Headquarters had told her to take a day off her duties. She had been working relentlessly for the past couple months, sometimes not even making it home if she was too engrossed in her findings. Today she planned on getting some much-needed rest before she threw herself back into the fray. And so, here she was, climbing back into bed. Malfoy or not, she was getting her well-earned relaxation.
If only he would let her. When she lay back down, he did the same and now they were facing each other, only centimeters apart. In the morning light, he really was even more striking than he had been the day before. Now that he knew she was still with him, he let his exhaustion cling to his barely-open eyes. That sleepyhead look paired with his serious bed hair was adorable. It was hard to believe that this man had been tortured and maimed only a day or two ago. Just now, he was no longer the over-burdened war soldier of the Dark Side and she wasn't Light Side's under-appreciated counterintelligence head. He was just a boy and she was just a girl.
"I'll go to the library," she decided aloud.
"You're leaving?" he asked, a slight edge to his tone.
"Not today. But soon. I want to help you." How she was going to accomplish this, only Godric knew.
His brow creased with confusion. Not thinking, she reached over and smoothed his forehead and push a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He had grown his hair out and it was about shoulder length, like the twins had in fourth year. He couldn't see her, so she let her eyes roam over him, unabashed. Even though he was Draco Malfoy, he was still a man. And for once, she wasn't nervous to let herself appreciate a man. Maybe it was because he couldn't judge her looks or maybe because he bared his soul to her only hours before. She sighed. Age had treated him kindly, unlike many others she knew.
"Why would you want to help me? I deserve this don't I?" he spit out.
"Despite all you have done, no one deserves this. Not even you." He turned towards the ceiling, trying not to let his tears show. She was too kind, too gentle and caring for him. All those times he had imagined her being his were just that, a fantasy. It would never happen and she would never want it. There was too much history, too much hatred. Her friends would never accept him and he would never fit in. And yet, he couldn't help but wish it could be a reality.
Suddenly, he felt her hand on his cheek. It pulled at him and he turned his head in compliance. They were so close he could feel her breath fan over his face and he closed his unseeing eyes as her hands cupped his face. They slowly slid up, her fingers covering his eyelids and cool to the touch.
"These are precious. They see everything and they are expressive. They are known as the windows to the soul and you have had yours stolen from you. If there is anything in this world that is unforgivable, it's the taking of something so precious from a person. We people come from the same stock. Whether muggle or wizard, muggle-born or pureblood, we are all human and equal. Unforgivable curses are named so because they are unforgivable. To steal a person's freedom, their will to live, and their life is unforgivable. To remove something so fundamental as the sense of sight is even worse. You are no longer free to do as you please. You no longer have the courage to live as you always have. And your life is now at the mercy of your blindness." Her thumbs ran over his eyelids, trying to ease the pain.
"I want to see if there is a way to restore your vision," she whispered. "And if that doesn't work, I want to help you learn to live with this."
"Truly?"
"Yes. And once that's accomplished, you can return to being the ferret I know you are and I can go back to telling you to 'Piss off!' and life will be jolly again."
"And if this changes things between us?" he asked, hopeful.
"One step at a time, Malfoy. Old habits die hard."
Thoughtfully, he wondered, "Can I touch you?"
"What! Why would you want to do that?"
"Feeling out my surroundings," he stated, as if it were obvious. "Learning to cope with my impairment. Honing my sense of touch and depth perception."
"But why would you need to touch me?"
"Call it practice for future… social interaction. I promise, nothing funny. Unless you want it," he teased, his patent smirk plastered across his face.
"Fine," she huffed. "I guess you can practice on me." He snorted at the sexual connotations of her statement. Once she caught on, her cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of red. Ignoring him, she took his hand and slowly brought it to her cheek. Letting go, she trusted him not to do anything smarmy with his roaming hand.
He was surprised she let him do it, and even more so when she gave him control. He honestly didn't know what to do. All those times in school, he never took the time to even properly look at a girl, let alone feel every centimeter of her. Learn all the nooks and crannies and the ticklish spots and the erogenous parts and the perfect soft spots. Never. It was always all about him. But this was different. He didn't want to scare her and lose the only person he had left, even if she wasn't his to be had.
Carefully, he let his hand travel across her face, feeling where nose protruded from her cheeks. Up the crook of her nose, his fingers danced over her arched eyebrows and across her eyelids. Her eyelashes were plentiful and feathery. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, almost silken. He reached her jaw and caressed her chin. Gently, he let his fingers trace her lips. They were soft and distinctly shaped. Her top lip was a perfect bow and her bottom lip was plush and pouty. And they felt oh-so-kissable.
With her eyes closed, she felt every touch and movement. If this is how he felt when she touched him, she hoped he didn't feel strange about it because experience this was curiously sensual. By sacrificing her eyesight, she let the rest of her senses take over and everything felt heightened. The change in pressure from his fingers was highlighted. The change in speed as he moved over her chin to her lips was glorious. Her lips were so sensitive and each touch of his fingers elicited a deep desire within her. His light caresses made her feel like something precious and if he stopped just now, it would be so very cruel of him.
Not wanting to linger too long, he pushed her fallen bangs from her forehead. His thumb traced the shell of her ear and then traveled down her jaw to her neck, rubbing her in a known erogenous spot. Unable to resist, she let out a small moan. It had been too long since she had been touched by a man and never had it seemed this exciting.
His breath hitched at the sound as his hand continued its journey and smoothed over and down her arm. Reaching for her hand, he grasped her fingers and placed them on his shoulder. Running his fingers back over her arm, his hand then descended down her side, lightly grazing her breast on the way. Her back arched just barely, responding just so to his attentions.
Curving over her waist, his hand reached her hip and lightly caressed her arse. When she didn't protest, he grasped her upper thigh and pulled it over his hip, bringing their centers together. Surprising him, she rolled them over so she was straddling him and ground her hips into him once, then twice and he groaned. This was pure heaven.
"What are you doing, Granger?" he moaned.
"Finishing what you started."
"I didn't mean to start anything…" he lied.
She leaned over with her hands on his chest and purred in his ear, "Then you wouldn't mind if I got up and left right now?" His hands flew to her hips and kept them in place. She found her answer. If he was going to tease her, she wasn't going to be the girl she was back at Hogwarts and shy away from every sexual innuendo tossed her way. Despite his person, she was still a woman and a girl's got needs. If she got a quick shag out of her system, maybe she wouldn't find his presence so distracting. And they always say, nothing better than sex to cure the body's aches. So really, this would all be for his benefit. Definitely not to scratch a secret forbidden itch she may or may not have nursed during her school days.
His nose nuzzled hers and he placed a light peck on her lips, as if testing out the waters. She knew she would give in, but he didn't. Yet. First she would take control. She had to be honest with herself, when didn't Hermione Granger have control of a situation? Never, that's when. Blazing past his attempt to tiptoe into things, she dove in, head first. Actually, quite literally.
She touched her lips to his and made short work of prying them open. He eagerly responded when she slipped her tongue in for a taste. Soon enough, it was a full-on snog session. Who knew she and Malfoy would be such compatible kissers? Most times, she found her mouth a bit wet after a go with Ron and things never seemed to quite click between them. But with Malfoy, she couldn't get enough. His hands and scent were everywhere and overwhelming her senses. From his ferocity, she gathered that it was the same for him.
Pulling back for air, she trailed light kisses down his neck to his chest. She could feel the tension in his muscles each time her lips touched his skin. Although he couldn't see what she was doing, he had an idea of where she was headed and the thought made him tremble. It didn't take long for her to strip him of his clothes and he was suddenly that much harder when her warm hand grasped his length. And when she slipped her tongue over him and welcomed him into her mouth, he gasped.
From his exploration beforehand, he had a rough idea of what she looked like now and his imagination was running wild with visions of her throat deep on his cock. She was expertly working his manhood and even took the time to tend to his aching balls. He wondered at how she had become so particularly skilled in this area of… oral communication. His musings turned possessive when he thought of her performing this specific act on another man, especially if that certain man was the Weasel. But oh Salazar did her ministrations feel delicious.
Before he came all over her face like a prepubescent boy having his first wet dream, he pulled her up for a sweet kiss. Rolling them over, he intended to give her the same attention she had just previously shown him.
"But Malfoy," she protested as his lips descended past her waist, "you don't have to. You didn't even finish!" Her argument faltered the second his tongue flicked over her clit.
"You deserve this," he murmured against her. "You are beautiful and intelligent and you smell fucking amazing. I just want a taste."
The vibrations from his voice against her center shot straight to her core and had her pussy weeping with desire. She gasped and whimpered from every lick, every nibble, every suck. And when he pressed his tongue against the roof of her inner walls just so, she came. Hard. It was the most glorious feeling and she couldn't help but vocalize it. He hummed against her in appreciation of the sound and lapped as her juices flowed.
Ron never did this for her and had always tried to hush her when she made too much noise. But Malfoy was eager to fulfill her needs and very skilled with his tongue. He made her feel desirable and feminine and only now were his words from before sinking in. He thinks I'm beautiful? Things to ponder about later because he was currently making his way back to her mouth and, oh, she could taste herself on him.
"Thank you, Malfoy," she sighed against his lips. "Now I feel awful that you didn't finish."
He chuckled, "Did you think we were done, Granger?" She pulled back confused. Ron had always fallen asleep or stopped once someone came.
"This is only the beginning," he rasped, slipping his hard-on through her dripping folds. She moaned, his penetration suddenly filling her in a way she had never felt before. Sex with Ron definitely did not feel like this.
"Don't compare me to the bloody Weasel," he grunted, while shifting his hips against hers. She was surprisingly tight and he kept his thrusts shallow, easing her down from the ultra-sensitivity of her orgasm and getting her accustomed to his size. Merlin, did she say that aloud?
"But aren't you a ferret? They seem quite comparable," she taunted. She could tell he was holding back, but after her comment he suddenly thrust hard and deep and it felt wonderful. As if to tease her, he returned to his light and lazy thrusts. She met each and every one of his thrusts, attempting to create the friction she so desperately needed. But each time, he would pull back, knowing her intentions, teasing her.
When she wrapped one of her legs about his hip to force him to thrust deeper, he stopped moving completely. She tried to roll them over so she could set the pace, but he chuckled and wouldn't budge. She gave up and he resumed his thrusts, but it still wasn't enough. She dug her fingers into his lower back, no doubt biting him with her nails. Finished with teasing, he grabbed her hands and pinned them above her head with one hand. Reaching down and caressing her breast, he thrust once more.
"Granger, there's no going back now," he said easily. "Whether it's today, tomorrow, or next year, you will be mine." His tone was possessive and as he continued, he began burying his cock into her. Although he took his time, his thrusts were long and hard and angled so he rubbed against her clit each time.
"I will make you forget about Weasley."
Now his thrusts were coming quicker, but still hitting her in all the right places. The hand that was tugging at her nipple reached up and took one of her hands. He laced their fingers together and she held on tight, for he was soon moving at a breakneck pace and all she could do was hang on for the ride.
He leaned down so their chests were touching, the only movement coming from their hips. In her ear he rasped, "I wish I could see you right now. The way your tits would sway with each thrust. How it looks when I sink my cock deep inside you. Your face when I make you come." What was this man doing to her? His words were making her dizzy and she could feel her orgasm approaching.
"However, I'll settle with you screaming my name." And she did. As his orgasm followed hers, he whispered, "I love you, Hermione."
Catching his breath, he rolled them over so she lay on top of him, his length still buried to the hilt. He wasn't quite ready to let her go, especially since she would probably run from him the second he did.
She rested her cheek on his chest and let her tears fall. For some reason, he made her feel truly loved. There was no reason for him to deceive her and she had a hunch that it wasn't a sudden revelation on his part. He felt her tears and hoped that she wasn't already regretting what they had done.
Propping her chin on his chest, she looked at him. His hair was mussed and his skin was covered in a slight sheen of sweat, but his expression was content. Although she couldn't ignore their pasts, he had definitely changed and clearly so had she. It would take time and patience and a lot of communication and compromise, and maybe even some convincing, but maybe…
"Maybe someday," she smiled brilliantly. In that moment, he saw her. He cried. Someday would be worth it.