Awake My Soul

Warnings: profanity, sexual content, ambiguous ending

She came to him in the middle of the night, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and wrists red from here the ropes had dug into her skin. Her hair was in complete disarray, flowing from her head in great waves of wild, frizzy curls, the colour of melted chocolate. Her clothes—t-shirt and denims; her sweatshirt seemed to have disappeared—were torn where Fenrir had pawed at her when she had first been captured two weeks previously. He could still hear her furious, terrified cries from that night.

Hermione Granger had never looked more beautiful.

And Draco hated it with all he had.

Which really wasn't anything much, in all honesty.

He tried to keep his voice neutral when he opened his eyes and saw her standing in his doorway, clutching the doorframe and staring at him with those sad, wide, brown eyes.

"Why have you come here?" he said quietly, suddenly aware that all he'd worn to bed was a pair of boxers. "Aren't you supposed to be in your room? Didn't Wormtail lock and ward it?"

She only answered one of his questions. "I wanted to see you."

"Why?"

As if he didn't know.

Hermione looked as if she wanted to cry, though he supposed she felt that way most of the time now-a-days. "Don't say that," she whispered. "Don't say that like nothing ever happened."

"What did happen?" he said, tone even but intent vicious, malicious, and brutal. The effect was obvious, as Hermione's eyes began to glitter with tears and her whole body began to shake.

"Please, Draco," she pleaded softly. "I haven't forgotten, and I know you haven't either. You're the only person here that doesn't want me dead. You're the only one who doesn't call me 'mudblood' or 'whore' or 'filth'. You're the only one who doesn't torture me for fun or touch me or hate me," she said. "I know you haven't forgotten, or you would have been just as cruel." When he didn't answer, she took a step into his room, without his permission. "Or maybe you aren't as cold-hearted as you'd like to be. As you pretend to be."

He still kept silent, and he might have seemed asleep, except for the fact that his eyes were still open.

"I know you wouldn't have killed Professor Dumbledore that night in the Astronomy Tower," she said gently. "I know it killed you to know what you did to Katie Bell. I know you regret it all, even poisoning Ron."

"You're wrong!" Draco said, much too loudly. His voice echoed off the walls and high ceiling of his bedroom, and he quieted as he continued. "I know my place in this war. Do you? How do you think Potter would feel, knowing his best friend was approaching his arch nemesis in the middle of the night, asking for company? Do you know your place?"

Hermione recoiled, and Draco felt triumphant for a moment. Then her eyes began to gleam—never a good sign; it meant she had found an idea, as well as the nerve to go through with it—and she took two steps forward, closing the door behind her. "You're twisting everything around, Draco," she murmured. "You've still got some good in you." She took another step forward. "Your heart is still deciding, though." Another step. "Whether it wants to stamp that good out—" Another step. "—or let it flourish. Am I right, love?"

The blond could do nothing to stop the flinch that flashed over his features.

"You remember," Hermione whispered. "You remember, how I used to whisper that into your ear—love—when I clung to you and scraped my nails down your back and through your hair as we clima—"

"Shut up!" Draco said, covering his ears with his hands and turning away from her, towards the window. "Shut up, shut up!"

"Don't hide from me, Draco," she said, leaning over his bed. Her voice was no longer threaded with sadness; there was only hard determination and silky persuasiveness. "I know you still think of it. I can see it in your eyes. You've never forgotten."

It was true. He never forgot. How could he? Those beautiful forbidden days filled with hidden looks and touches, and those long, warm nights of passion and lust and need and desire, and what was sure to have turned to something more had the war not gotten in the way. He could still feel her sweet lips against his own, the way he fit so perfectly inside her, hear all the beautiful noises she made with each nip and peck and lick—

"What do you want?" he demanded. She was going to drive him mad at the rate she was going.

Hermione's voice was softer, gentler when she spoke this time. "Like you said—company. That's all. Just to spend the night with someone who doesn't hate me. I'll leave before sunrise. And no one ever comes in your room, right? You told me that, once."

Draco sighed. He couldn't understand her motive. Her tone suggested she was guilting him, and yet her voice was honest as usual. He wondered briefly if it was possible for a Gryffindor to lie. "Just don't touch me," he hissed, scooting farther along the bed. He could feel the dip in the mattress as she lay down and the rustle of the blankets as she pulled them up.

All the way up to her neck—she hates the cold, especially when she sleeps.

Fucking hell.

She's not even there, Draco. The Dark Lord will never know. Your father will never know. Blaise will never know. Forget forget forget…

And then he was asleep, dreaming.

A memory. He can tell because he dreams memories in colour and things from his own imagination in black-and-white. She's there, wearing her Hogwarts uniform, though her jumper, shoes and socks are missing.

"Come on, Draco," she says, beckoning him forward with one hand. He walks forward and wraps his arms around her waist, nuzzling his nose and lips into her neck, breathing in her lovely scent and thinking about the night before.

"Where are you taking me?" he murmurs into her skin. "I don't have much time. Quidditch practice tonight."

"This place I found. It's like… it's like the castle had it made especially for us to use. But we're not going to get anywhere if you don't put me down." Draco reluctantly complies—he loves how she seems to be made for his arms to be wrapped around her.

Hermione pushes past a cluster of tall bushes and steps through, leading the way for him to follow. When he raises his head to take in his surroundings, Draco is almost left speechless. There is a stream, glittering in the receding afternoon light and quietly gurgling. It ends in a pond, bordered by a few stones and patches of flowers—daffodils and lilies and tulips. The clearing is enclosed by a ring of trees, verdant and flowering. There's a patch of grass just large enough for both of them to lie down.

It's strangely yet wonderfully romantic; Draco can feel his cheeks flush. It's not like he doesn't like the surprise, but this is the area of a relationship they'd strictly avoided, despite their growing feelings for each other. It would make things too complicated, and that's the last thing either of them needs right now.

She leads him to the patch of grass and gently pushes him back against the soft green blades, curling into his body and resting her head on his stomach. He combs his fingers through her curls and she places a hand on his chest, thumb running over the fabric of his dress shirt. This sort of touch, gentle and sweet, is new, but not any less enjoyable. He should be stopping it, but he can't bring himself to. "It's a secret now," she tells him. "Promise you can keep it?"

"Promise."

When he came back to consciousness with soft hair brushing under his chin and a warm body bent into his, Draco still thought he was dreaming. It took him a long time to realise that one palm was pressed against the back of Hermione's head, the other around her waist; that their legs were entangled under the silk blankets; that one of her hands lay outstretched on his chest and her warm breath poured onto his neck.

Hermione awoke before Draco reached that realisation, and she smacked her lips lazily and looked up. "Hello, love," she said giddily, and then he realised that she probably thought she was still dreaming, too. He needed to move, before she caused them trouble.

However, he was still frozen as Hermione moved in to place a chaste kiss on his lips and smooth his hair away from his forehead. Understanding filtered into her eyes, though, once she finally realised she was no longer dreaming and that this was reality. Her lips parted with words that were yet to be said and thoughts that were not yet formed.

But the kiss had sparked something in Draco. Something he didn't quite understand at that point, but something that he couldn't ignore. It was everything and nothing at once, beautiful and horrible, good and bad. He wanted to kiss her again. Feel the gentle pressure of her mouth pressed into his.

So before Hermione could utter a single word, Draco craned his neck to reach her lips, planting a single, short kiss. And then he kissed her again and again and again until he was drunk, intoxicated on the sensation of her lips, soft and welcoming under his, until he became both immensely satisfied and thirsty for more at the same time. And finally, he tilted his head and kissed her hard, only this time she kissed him back and her lips moved against his, and their mouths opened against each other, and their tongues met with something like fire and twisted and dance with each other, exploring and stroking.

Draco pulled her around so that she was no longer to his side but on top of him, straddling his waist with a knee on either side, crouched over him and hands caressing his face.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked while her fingers still ran over his cheekbones and the corners of his forehead. Draco couldn't come up with an answer—what was he doing? Forget forget forget…

If only it was that easy.

Because he had held her in his arms again, because he had tasted her lips again, because she was on top of him now, her slender hands touching his face and her breath blowing warm and sweet over him.

"I have no idea," he replied truthfully, and he gave into the temptation of her. His hands came up to rest on her waist, pulling her down for another heated kiss that made his stomach churn and the blood disappear from his brain (where it was probably needed most at this point) to lower parts of his anatomy.

Draco gently rolled her over so that Hermione was on her back, underneath him, and he pushed his hips hard into hers, listening to the gasp and then the moan that always followed when he did this. It sounded like music to him—a song he knew by heart, but hadn't heard in a long while.

He lowered his head to her neck, trailing wet kisses down the pale skin, getting lost in the feeling of it. Draco could feel her hands come to rest on his bare back, the pads of her fingers digging into his smooth flesh.

A choked sort of sigh ambled from between her lips as his nose pushed aside the collar of her shirt to travel farther down her front. "All I wanted to do was see you," Hermione said as he placed open-mouthed kisses all over her chest. "We don't have to do this."

"Now we do," Draco managed—the smell of her, the feel of her, the sight of her beneath him like this was overwhelming him, and soon he would have no control over his actions. He reached for the bottom of her shirt and pulled it up over her head to find that she was bra-less, a fact that caused his already stiff member to harden considerably. Draco caressed her breasts, thumb flicking over the nipples in a way that made Hermione arch her back and gasp each time. Her hands had abandoned his back and made for his hair instead, winding it around her fingers and tugging at it with each kiss and touch and stroke.

"We shouldn't do this. This isn't a good idea. We're going to make things… complicated," she informed him breathlessly as his lips dipped into her cleavage and drew a line down to her navel.

Draco fought back a derisive chuckle. "You made things complicated as soon as you stepped into my room."

"I—I didn't mean to," Hermione stammered as he hooked his thumbs into the belt-loops of her jeans. "Not like this. Draco—"

"Shh," he said before closing her mouth with a kiss. That seemed to work, as she kissed him back with a singular sort of passion that he had come to expect from her in the months that they had spent together.

Draco made short work of her jeans, throwing them to the side and crawling back on the bed so he could nuzzle and nip her legs, pale and dry and coarse and yet so beautiful to him. Hermione appeared to have stopped breathing, and she was so still that the only hint present that she was still alive was the fluttering of her eyelids.

He reached for the waistband of her knickers next and she made no move to stop him, gasping softly as he uncovered her sex and tossed the underwear with her jeans. Draco could smell her, wafting into the air. Even in the poor lighting of the night he could see that she was wet.

The former-Slytherin hovered over her dripping heat, lips aching to delve into the wetness. "I remember," he whispered, voice husky and low with lust, "how much you loved it when I ate you out." He ran a finger down her centre, revelling in its slickness. She quivered under his touch, her breath returned and slipping through her parted lips in brief pants.

"Do you still want me, Hermione?" he whispered, just as he had on countless nights back what seemed like a lifetime ago. "Do you want me to fuck you with my mouth the way I used to?"

"Sweet Merlin…" she breathed.

"What was that?" he said, teasingly brushing his finger over her clit.

"Oh Gods, Draco, please," she replied, and the blond obliged, bending down to thrust his tongue into her sopping sex.

Hermione let out a low moan, back arching deliciously off the mattress, fingers scrabbling for the something to hold on to, which turned out to be his hair.

Draco's tongue probed along her tight walls and he groaned, knowing that the vibrations he sent along the slick flesh there would have her babbling deliriously in moments. Meanwhile, he occupied himself with the taste and scent and feel of her on his lips and tongue and teeth, a sensation he'd tried to forget countless times but failed miserably each time.

He moved his mouth from her centre and slid up to her clit, stroking the little nub with the flat of his tongue, feeling her hips jerk with each run. He'd almost forgotten how tantalising those little spasms were, how they turned him on and sent blood racing towards his prick.

Just when he was sure she was going to come at any moment, Draco rose to his knees, delighting in the moan Hermione gave at the loss.

"Can't have you finishing up so soon," he said in explanation. "I would prefer you come around my cock." Draco could see the blush rise to her face in response to his filthy words, but knew at the same time that they were getting her wetter than ever.

He shucked his boxers and could immediately feel Hermione's gaze on his erection, standing proudly from between his hips, a drop of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

She looked away and up, into his eyes, and he could see unbridled lust glimmering in her honey-brown irises. He loomed over her, holding himself up with one hand placed to the side of her head, and gently stroked up and down her sex with the head of his cock.

"I've missed this," Hermione murmured, seeming to surprise both of them. "More than I should have," she added before absent-mindedly running a hand down Draco's shaft.

And with that he plunged into her, both of them letting out a hoarse cry of pleasure.

"Fuck," Hermione muttered under her breath as he pulled out halfway and pushed into her again. The profanity was both strange and beautiful coming from her voice. "Fuck, Draco, yes, yes…"

He leaned down to place wet, sloppy kisses down her neck and she slung her arms over his shoulders, pulling him closer. "Harder, love. Please, God, harder," she pleaded, her nails digging into his back.

Draco followed her direction, driving harder into her tight sex. He developed a steady, predictable rhythm so Hermione could lift her hips and meet him thrust for thrust. He listened hard for every little sound she made, from the smallest intake of breath to the deepest, throatiest moan.

"Fucking hell," he whispered as she groaned in pleasure. He bet he could come just by hearing her voice alone. Draco could feel his orgasm mounting, could feel the blinding heat building in his groin as he lost his rhythm and his thrusts became more and more erratic and powerful.

And just as he was ready to come, his eyes flew open and he sat up with a strangled cry. Draco's head whirled about the room but Hermione was nowhere to be found. He looked down to find his hand fisted tight around his cock, engorged and hard underneath the sheets.

It was all just a dream, he realised, struck with a surprisingly crippling sense of disappointment and loss. He thought back to the dream, which had been so realistic, scrabbling to keep a hold of the memories. It would be better not to, Draco told himself. You don't want that sort of thing on your mind when Voldemort's around. But he wanted to remember so badly—remember again the way she smelled, how her voice sounded when she pleaded with him, the way her lovely eyes looked, laced with lust and something more… that something more that was sure to have come had the war not interfered.

Perturbed, desperate, and restless, Draco rose from his bed and grabbed his wand. He walked towards the door, from his room and down the many winding hallways of Malfoy Manor. Finally, he arrived at a large door, unguarded but heavily warded. It didn't take him long to lift the enchantments, and when he walked through the door and shut it softly behind him, he quickly redid the wards.

Then he turned around and saw her, lying on her side in a small bed with one coarse, thin blanket. Her face was sad and angry and disappointed, all at the same time, but her eyes were closed and her breathing even with sleep. She was facing the door, as if waiting for him to come.

Draco approached her slowly, trying not to wake her up just yet. He crouched before her, eyelevel. He reached out and pushed her frizzy, dirty, beautiful curls from her face and ran his hand down her cheek. "Hello, Hermione," he whispered, fingers trembling.

Her eyes opened. "Hello, love," she whispered back.