Continued thanks to LightofEvolution and In Dreams for their beta/alpha support.
Also the warning for dubcon still stands here, but again, I am happy to answer more specific concerns if you teeter on the edge of that type of material and would like to know more.
For days to follow, Hermione is never certain which Malfoy has come to pay her a visit. Sometimes he is downright nurturing, offering her lush foods and plentiful drink.
Some days he crosses boundaries, much as he had before, pumping himself while he touches her. Everytime that particular Malfoy comes to visit, she is awaiting the day he will actually take her. As of yet, that has not been the case.
Sometimes he is a dangerous and angry Malfoy, and she isn't sure if she prefers the sexual perversion or the fits of rage. They both terrify her in different ways.
On what she calculates as her fifth waking day, he casts the Cruciatus on her. It isn't as strong as that cast by Bellatrix, and it is brief, but it hurts nonetheless and leaves her shivering. That night, Pipsy brings her meal, and her arms are freed so she might feed herself. It's almost worth the pain, having some small taste of freedom. When the elf leaves, her arms remain unbound, and a book is laid on the bed by her side. It's nothing special. Some wizarding fiction about a dragon poacher with a heart of gold, but she devours it, grateful for anything to distract her.
Malfoy doesn't return for three days, Pipsy continuing to give Hermione whatever she needs. On the third day, she is even given a new book. Having already read the other one twice and starting on her third pass, she nearly sobs when she sees it. It's a historical account of the construction and early years of Ilvermorny; much more her speed.
On the fourth day, Draco pops into the room with blood literally on his hands. This time, he doesn't ignore her as he undresses. Instead, he greets her and keeps his gaze on hers as he unbuttons his robes. She is looking at him, his red-stained hands slipping the buttons, completely horrified.
"Don't worry, kitten, it's not mine."
Her gaze snaps back up to his. That wasn't at all what had worried her. She had assumed it wasn't his. What worries her is…
"Whose is it?"
The playful smile falters a little as he thinks back, head cocked to the side like he's trying to puzzle it out. "Dolohov's, I think."
She's stunned by that. Has he… is it too much to hope he's turned traitor to his cause? Turned against his own side? "Did you kill him?"
He laughs again, a sound she has come to fear, as unpredictable as he is. He's as likely to strike her as kiss her, and she's not sure which is worse. "Of course not! He's on my side. No, no, someone in your lot really had it out for him. I told him not to go after that Loony Lovegood bird. Only served to make it personal."
He looks at her then, and his expression softens, his eyes taking on a far away look. "That's why I did it right by you. Didn't make it personal for them. Didn't let them know I'd taken you."
"Someone knows," she blurts out, having thought on their earlier conversation. "That other Death Eater with you. You told him you were going to… play with me. He knows you took me. If he thinks I'm dead, he knows it was you who did it."
"Greg? Oh, darling, Greg definitely thinks you're dead," he says so cheerfully she could scream. "Some Muggle girl was killed in a raid, and I charmed her body all up to look like you. Of course, I didn't tell him I'd done it. Blamed it on Mulciber after that great pillock Wood killed him. Greg's just stupid enough to throw your death around to the wrong people. And, as I said about Dolohov, Salazar bless his soul, I didn't need any vigilante's trying to punish me over you."
Her head spins. That's it then. No one knows she's here. The only hope she has is to survive long enough that the war ends. And, even then, only if her side wins will it matter. After ten years of fighting, a quick end is not in her cards to hope for.
He has stripped to nothing and is standing naked at the foot of the bed. "I'm not into punishment, pretty kitten."
His tone is disgustingly flirty, and it gives her enough bravery to retort, "No, you're only into punishing me."
His face goes dark, lips turning down into a frown. "I don't punish you."
"Oh, yes? The Cruciatus was a reward then?"
"I don't care for you questioning me." His tone tells her she has pushed as far as she dares. She won't apologize; she's not that broken. But she doesn't respond or goad him further.
There's a beat in which he is silent and she keeps her eyes trained over his shoulder. Finally, he speaks, and his tone is back to light. "I thought you might like to feed yourself again tonight." It's true that, so far, she has only been allowed to feed herself when Draco wasn't there. Before that, he had always done it for her.
"That would be fine," she says carefully, unsure if he would take offense if she said it would be 'nice' or welcomed it in anyway.
He nods once and turns his back to her, walking into the en suite and closing the door behind him.
Two days later, after uneventful hours in which Hermione was allowed to feed herself and given new books to read, she is lying bound once again on her side, Malfoy rutting against her. Her eyes are shut tight, but she doesn't cry this time.
He was in a good mood today, calling her pretty and sweet and good, and when he had crawled into the bed, he left her modesty covered, only touching her face where he has cupped her cheek, the tips of his fingers buried softly into her hair.
She can feel him, hard and thick, slammed up against her thigh, only her thin robe between them. His face is buried in the apex of her neck, grunting and moaning softly against her.
"So fucking soft, Hermione. Gods, you're so fucking soft and sweet." His mouth, open and hot, lays against the skin of her neck, panting and grunting out his praises. He compliments her smell and her taste, licking up her throat and suckling her earlobe into his mouth. "You're mine," he likes to say in times like these. "All mine. No one can take you. Not Potter," he grunts, "not fucking Weasley, not even the Dark Lord. No one… but me."
He turns her head then, pulling her toward him with the grip on her neck, and crashes his lips against hers. She should bite him, she will think later, but for now she's so shocked, she simply opens her mouth on a gasp and lets him lap at her tongue while he shoots his cum against her leg. He moans into her mouth, and, when he is spent, keeps his forehead pressed against hers as he gulps in oxygen. "Absolutely perfect," he says, and she isn't sure if he means her or the orgasm.
He pulls himself away from her and starts to dress. As he is halfway into buttoning his shirt, he stops and looks down at her. His face has gone passive again, eyes blank. Not all the way to angry or dangerous, but he no longer looks as if anything about what just happened is perfect. "I'll send Pipsy to clean up this mess." He says it with accusation, as if she is to blame for his cum dripping down his silk sheets.
It must be weeks, not days, before he lets her walk. His spell has somehow kept her body strong, regulating the blood flow and contractions of her muscles. Still, when she stands, she feels every bit a baby deer and has to hold onto the post of the bed.
"You look rather fetching hugging that pole," he comments from across the room, watching her like she is his own private dancer.
She dares to give him a glare, and he merely chuckles at her.
This is the first time she's seen him in two days. Pipsy has been ever faithful, bringing her books and food. It has become obvious to her that a spell disposes of her waste for her as well. Her greatest hope, being back on her feet, is that she will be allowed to take care of her own functions in the privacy of the en suite.
Hermione is almost afraid to ask, but she has to know. "Will you please leave me like this? I'm sure the wards are too strong for me to leave. Please? Just let me have this room?"
He looks taken aback. "I hadn't intended to keep you bedridden forever," he says, as if that should have been obvious. His eyebrows drop, though, once he's said it, and adds, "But it is a privilege that can be taken away if you are a bad little kitty."
She feels disgusting when she promises, "No, I'll be good." She doesn't know if she can survive much longer, trapped in that bed. Is her pride worth this mobility?
Yes.
"We'll see," he says with quite a lot of accusation. As if she has been anything but compliant since he brought her here. As if she has had a fucking choice.
"I'll be gone tonight," he tells her next, and she is taken aback. In the days… weeks… she's been here, he has never given her any indication of what schedule he might keep.
Too stunned to reply, too afraid to ask questions, she only looks at him.
"Not going to miss me, Princess?" he sneers at her, his face going even harder.
Hermione doesn't like these games. How can she ever know the right answer when he is so manic in his own moods? Diplomacy has been her best bet so far.
"It is lonely when I'm by myself."
It's true, at least. As much as she fears him, as much as she dreads his arrival and his strange moods, human interaction is still preferable to those three days she spent laying on her back, nothing but her mind to keep her company. It occurs to her, when the Dementors ran Azkaban, this is exactly what the inmates suffered. It's a wonder Sirius came out cohesive enough to reunite with Harry at all.
Malfoy frowns and stalks towards her. Wrong answer, she thinks, bracing herself for what comes next.
"That's not very specifically grateful, Granger, considering all the time I spend here with you. Do you imagine it's easy to slip away? Unnoticed by the Dark Lord? I've taken to telling him I visit the dungeons. When he catches me leaving here, smelling of sweat and sex, I tell him a Muggle got me off. He thinks I fuck them and obliviate them. And," he leans in, "he's rather proud of me for it."
She turns her head away, not liking the image, and knowing there must be truth to it. When he disappears from her room, is that what he is doing? And if not him, obviously his brethren must be indulging the same.
"Don't worry," he tells her then, softer. "It's not true."
She blinks, Malfoy managing to surprise her yet again. She turns her head his direction when he pets one palm down her curls, reassuring. "You're mine, I told you. I"ve no use for those other girls, the cold cunts and battered bodies." Hermione thinks she might be sick.
"Greg can settle for that if he wants, but I'm a Malfoy." Pressing his body against her, he cups her face in both hands and runs the tip of his nose across the bridge of hers. "Malfoys don't settle, pretty kitty…" His voice grows stronger, full of conviction and power. "Malfoys take what they want."
He tosses her back onto the bed and she shrieks, expecting this is why he freed her today. He finally intends to abuse her fully, and wanted her full range of motion so he might feel her writhe and fight. The sick bastard wants her to flail and scratch so he can take her like a beast. She thinks maybe she should just lie there, like any other time, but her instinct is to fight so she immediately thrashes as he lands atop her.
Before she can make a sound, her wrists are pinned over her head before in one of his strong hands, and his other palm covers her mouth. She whimpers and writhes just like she promised herself she wouldn't as he lays kisses along her jaw.
By the time he removes his hand from her mouth, instead reaching down to knead and caress her breast as he continues to kiss her, the tears have started to leak from her eyes and she is begging. "Please… please… please…."
He looks up, meeting her eyes. "You don't need to beg, love," he tells her. "You're mine. Tell me what you want. Do you want my cock?"
She whimpers, fear rising.
"That's it, isn't it?" he grins against her lips. "You want this cock inside you?" He grinds himself against her, illustrating his point.
"No," she chokes. "No, Draco, please."
Malfoy startles then, seeming to be confused. "No?" Then, that dangerous flash comes, and his mood shifts once again. "What have I said about you refusing me?"
"I'm… I'm not. I'm asking," she tries to placate him. She doesn't know what else to do now. "Please," she adds.
"Master?"
The voice is preceded by a pop and then Malfoy is groaning into her neck. "What, Pipsy," he growls out.
"It be time, Master. Dark Master is waiting."
He sits up suddenly, pulling away from her. As he stands to his full height, looking down his nose at her, Hermione holds her breath, waiting for the verdict as to her immediate fate.
"Pipsy, feed Miss Granger. I will be gone for a time."
With that, he is gone, and Hermione spends the first night in a very long time with the use of her own legs.
Weeks pass. Probably months is more accurate, but Hermione can't bring herself to admit just how long it has been. With time, she begins to worry over things outside her tiny room in the world. She wonders after Harry and Ron. She thinks on the war and what is happening to those she loves. Malfoy is an unreliable source. In his better moods, he refuses to speak of anything regarding the war. He is almost childlike, unwilling to discuss anything serious and preferring to wax philosophic on the nature of Hermione's many charms or even his own egotistical love of himself. In his worse moods, he is cruel, telling her the war is no longer her concern. "When the Dark Lord wins, your situation will hardly change, Granger. Get comfortable, kitten, you're home."
But Hermione is clever and she listens very well. Sometimes, he says things, and she thinks perhaps the Order is in a stronger position than he might like to think. She presses her luck one day, asking if he knows if Ron is still alive, and he flies into a rage. It's the second time he uses the Cruciatus on her. Though again brief, it is painful, leaving her feeling as if fire is licking at her very bones. From that, however, and his ranting afterwards as she lies crumpled in the floor, she gleans that Ron is very much alive and has been instrumental in the death of quite a few Death Eaters. It makes her a little sad to know her sweet former lover has been forced to be part of such dark dealings. There was a time, early in the war, when the Golden Trio swore they would never take a life if they could help it.
It is unfortunate, probably, they made that vow. Perhaps if Harry had not defaulted to a disarming spell at the Battle of Hogwarts, this might all be over. She tries not to give a voice to those darker musings.
Malfoy's moods continue to range, erratic and unpredictable, as the seasons change twice outside the one large window. Mostly, he moves from cold and verbally intimidating, to playful and almost affectionate. His more violent tendencies remain in check, provided she doesn't bring up anything to do with the war or the Order.
He touches her, sometimes. In Death Eater robes, he is demanding and insistent, though he has yet to penetrate her. He talks about it, whispering in her ear as he ruts against her, promising all the things he can't wait to do. Why he has not, she really doesn't understand, but it's one of the things she is grateful for every day.
It is the days he arrives in casual attire that he is the most like his old self. Today, he comes swaggering through the door. Hermione immediately lays her book aside, knowing it's better not to ignore him when he deigns to visit.
"My lovely little kitty. Having a relaxing afternoon, I see?"
She agrees that, yes, she's doing well. He doesn't like when she complains and tends to take luxuries away. Luxuries being things like books and the use of her legs.
He approaches her slowly, unbuttoning his cuffs as he does. He rolls up his sleeves, and reveals his mark, ugly and irritated, against his pale skin.
He catches her staring. "Beautiful, isn't it? An amazing piece of spellwork, able to connect us all, his children, together, no matter our distance."
'Beautiful' isn't the word she would have chosen. "It is an incredible bit of magic," she concedes, hoping it will mollify him.
Malfoy cups her chin, forcing her to look, and shoves his forearm into her face. "Look at it, Granger. Does it make you afraid? Can you feel His power? I can," he whispers like a secret. "It's like He is pulsing beneath my skin, writhing like the snake in the skull."
She looks closely at the mark, realizing that, for all her months here, she's never studied it before. Usually, it is hidden inside his formal attire. Or, in those times when he is nude, she is closing her eyes and hoping he will be quick and gentle once again.
Now, gazing at it with intention, it does indeed appear to be writhing, like the Morsmordre she has seen in the sky. Mesmerized by it, she reaches her hand up, intent to feel the ink. To know if it feels as if it is in motion just as it appears.
Before she can make contact, Malfoy grabs her wrist, firm enough to hurt a little. "Don't," is all he says before tossing her hand away.
"Sorry," she mutters, not sure what she's apologizing for.
He waves her words away, a gesture she takes to mean that she is forgiven for this particular offense, and then makes his way to the en suite. Rather than close the door as he usually does, he pauses at the threshold and looks back. "Come on, Granger. Have you had a bath today?"
Immediately, panic settles against her bones. She knows better than to ignore the question and slowly shakes her head in the negative as she rises to obey. She likes her books and her legs, and that is her motivation to follow him.
Once inside, he closes the door. It's an odd gesture, she thinks, since no one has ever entered the room where she is held except for him. Habit, she would suppose. It is simply habit to close the door when entering the bath.
She watches as he starts the tap, testing the temperature of the water with his fingertips. When he seems satisfied, he gestures for her to come closer.
Part of her, the part that is still waiting for more torture than the very occasional she has experienced, wonders if the water will be scalding… or freezing. She looks at him fearfully, arms wrapped around herself.
"It's important to keep you clean, kitty. Untie your robe."
She doesn't think she hesitates long. Only a moment. Or perhaps it only feels that way because the blood rushes to her ears and she thinks she might faint. He has seen her before, of course, but never so completely. Never this vulnerable. It was always hurried and inefficient, pushing and pulling the fabric from her body, revealing parts of her but never the whole.
"Untie it," he says again, colder, "or I'll rip it off you, and you will remain nude as a house elf, wishing for the privilege of clothes."
She shudders a little, even as she pulls the tie at her waist, undoing the bow and letting the robe fall open. Hermione hears him suck in a breath, but keeps her eyes closed, shielding herself from whatever lay ahead.
One long finger delicately tucks beneath her chin, lifting her face towards his. "Open your eyes, my lioness. Show me your pretty pretty eyes." She looks up to find him standing close, but not touching her. "Has any wizard ever told you that you are exquisite, Hermione Granger?"
She shakes her head at him, and he frowns. She's afraid she might have said something very wrong, something to anger him, but he just tilts his head and laments, "Any man who has seen you and not praised you is a fool. I'm intelligent, love, I did not expect you came to me a virgin."
Stiffening, she is afraid of where this might lead. He has never asked about her romantic history. Knowing how possessive he has been, she is terrified to tell him anything about her experience with other men. Her only idea is to distract him. "Are you going to bathe me, Draco?"
His eyes widen infinitesimally before he answers, "That was my intention. Do you object?"
"No," she replies, thinking there are worse things than being clean. Worse things that have yet to happen, but she knows could on any given day.
Answering with a broad grin, Malfoy slides the robe from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet, and smoothes his hands down her arms. "Look at you…"
He takes her by the hand and leads her closer to the large soaking tub, now almost full with water. "Test it," he says, gesturing for her to touch the water. She does, and it's nice. Almost too warm, just how she would prefer.
"It's lovely," she tells him, and his grin widens.
He takes her hand again and, with his other on the small of her back, guides her to step into the water. Once submerged, still nervous in spite of the perfection of the water, she settles her back against the end farthest from the door so she can watch the opening. Some habits learned in a war are hard to break.
"May I wash you?" He's reverent Draco today. Attentive and accommodating.
Hermione answers politely with a small nod, preferring to keep him in this state of mind. "Thank you."
From somewhere behind her, he procures a soft sponge and dips it into the bath beside her, letting it soak up the fragrant water. "Do you like the scent? Moroccan mint. I noticed you prefer mint tea."
"You never give me tea," she says without thinking. It's always dangerous to disagree with him.
"Not here, you twit," he snaps, sponge stilling in his hand. She hears him take a breath, and then continue. "At Hogwarts. You always chose the mint tea." He lays the sponge against her shoulder, gently squeezing the water to cascade down her breasts.
This is not the first time he has mentioned her from before the war. She wonders how long he has had some level of obsession with her, because it is becoming increasingly clear that she was not simply in the wrong place. Had she been any other Order member, he would have killed her in the field or allowed someone else to do it. On that day so many months ago, he had said she was special. At the time, she didn't imagine he meant it at all.
"I do," she agrees, hoping it's not a mistake to continue the conversation. "My mother always liked her mint tea at home."
"Ah… the elusive Grangers. Do you know the Dark Lord hunted them for years? You are a formidable witch, Hermione, however you managed to hide them."
To that, she has no response. She could weep with relief to know that they are still safe, even if she will likely never see them again. Even if she comes through the war alive, they no longer know who she is. The memory charm she cast was incredibly thorough, and they will no sooner recognize her as a daughter or know they were ever the Grangers in the first place.
She doesn't realize she's crying when she feels the tip of Malfoy's finger catch the tear on her cheek. "Why so sad, love? If they were dead, I'd know," he adds, probably thinking it will make her feel better, but the flippant way he says it just makes her cry harder.
"I'm sorry," she says, not wanting to upset him. "I only miss them."
"I imagine you do," he says, and it's too late. His tone is dark once again. "No more than I miss mine, Granger. You're not the only one who matters, you know, the only one who had something to lose."
This time when he touches the sponge to the back of her neck, he pushes harder, forcing the water out quickly. Once it has drained down her back, he throws the sponge in the tub near her feet. She looks up to find him removing his shirt with precision, and her heartbeat quickens. "Malfoy…"
"It's Draco, you stupid witch, I've told you."
He hasn't, actually, but that's neither here nor there. Perhaps he meant to. Regardless, she tries again. "Draco, thank you for the bath. Could I please dry off now?"
"Oh, no no," he says with a manic grin. His anger is slipping away and leaving her with the most frightening Draco. This is the one that you can never anticipate. He might crucio her or touch her or simply walk away. When his trousers drop and she sees he is already erect, she knows what it is to be.
"Shove over, then. It's room enough for two if you make it."
Hermione pulls up her feet, tucking her knees against her chest. "That won't do," he chides. "You're covering up the best part."
He steps, first, one long leg over the tub and then the other and settles into the water in front of her. With one hand on each knee, he pries her legs apart and guides them to either side of his body. "Magnificent," he breathes out, running his hands up her thighs.
"Would you like me to wash you?" she tries, thinking that is not such a terrible fate. Perhaps she can satisfy him with light care.
"What a sweet witch you are. But, no, I am not here to be cleaned. I've joined my filthy witch in her filthy bath. Do you notice a theme, love? I come to you to be dirty."
She doesn't whimper any longer when he says these provocative things. After so many months, Hermione greets the unknown with a brave face.
Draco is on his knees between her thighs, leaning over her. He cups her face with his hands and presses one soft kiss to her lips. "Fuck, I'm so lucky. So fucking fortunate. Do you know how my brethren would have killed to take you? If they knew you were here, you with your beautiful eyes and sweet cunt. They would take you away and tear you into pieces."
She shuts her eyes. He's teetering on the brink, somewhere between veneration and those nights he tries to frighten her. He seldom promises harm from himself, as much as he reminds her how lucky she is to be in her position. How fortunate to not have have been Luna or Angelina Johnson or any number of nameless muggles who the Death Eaters have used to alleviate their boredom and their needs.
"Look at me," he whispers, and she does. His eyes are the deepest of stormy skies, and she knows he is looking for release. "Touch me."
It's a request he's never made before. For half a year, he has taken his pleasure by thrusting against her, perhaps touching her lightly, but never has he requested she partake in their coupling. If this was his long game to make her compliant, she hates herself for knowing that it has worked. If it will keep his cruelty and mania away, she will do as he asks.
Reaching between them, she takes his cock in her hand, testing to see what will make him respond. She first runs her fingertips lightly up the shaft, teasing more than anything. She feels him shudder, and his forehead falls against hers. She wraps her hand around him then, squeezing slowly and pumping up toward the head and back down again as he continues to moan, his breath coming faster now.
"That's it. Just like that. Can you go faster for me, kitten? Stroke me faster." She does, following his instruction and hoping for yet another day she avoids anything more than this heavy petting that seems to satisfy him. One of his hands releases the side of the tub and finds her breast, kneading it slowly then pinching her nipple between his fingers, twisting lightly. He's so gentle, his expert touch so precise, and she moans, hating that she is encouraging him.
"My lion likes how I pet her," he comments against her hair. She continues to tug on his cock as he plays with her gently. "So perfect. So fucking perfect, Hermione. Tell me you like this. Tell me it feels good how I'm touching you. Talk to me, my love. Tell me how hard my cock is in your hand. Fuck, you make me so fucking hard…"
She can't speak. She doesn't want to and she can't. It does feel good, what he's doing. And his words, though she knows they must be false, are the closest thing to affection she has. Hermione is smart enough to know she's teetering on the edge of Stockholm at this point and could weep for herself.
She is surprised more than anything else by his next request, for permission. "Can I mark you this time, Hermione? Let me come on you." He continues to caress her as he virtually begs. He's never let himself cover her, as he had said he so wanted to do back during their first days together. He has finished himself onto her robe and the sheets of the bed and the carpet around it.
To refuse is a dangerous game, so she nods her acquiescence. "Tell me," he says again. "Say it Hermione. Say I can."
"You can…" she says quietly, choking on the words. He continues the assault on her breast, his other hand holding her head, fingers playing in her curls. "You can come on me," she finishes, feeling lower than she ever has, but undeniably wound up as well.
He grunts at his release, and his lips search for hers. It's a sloppy, broken kiss as he comes, his body quivering. "Thank you," he finally says. He pulls back and searches the water near her feet for the sponge. Once found, he wrings out the excess water and begins to wipe his seed off of her clavicle and chest. He's gentle and even playful, swiping softly over her still-hard nipple and smiling at her as if to tease. "I've waited to do that for so long," he confesses, and she isn't sure if he means he has waited these past months or even longer. She doesn't feel bold enough to ask.
Once she's clean, the water drained and refilled to finish the job, he pulls her from the tub and dries her with a thick towel. He wraps the robe back around her gently, tying a bow at her waist, and then carries her to the bed. He lays her down, tucking the sheet beneath her chin, and kissing her once again. It's so intimate it makes her angry, knowing tomorrow he might be a different man altogether.
"Good night, sweet witch."
She doesn't see him again for three days.
Sometimes, when Draco disappears for days at a time, Hermione tries to ask Pipsy when he might be back. She dreads his absence as much as it gives her relief, loneliness constantly at war with fear. Of course, Pipsy never answers, either saying simply that "Master Draco be keeping his own council" or literally saying nothing.
This time, however, she says, "Master Draco is not his-self, Miss."
Hermione, grooming her hair in front of a mirror, a hairbrush being one of her more recent luxuries, snorts in response. "Which one?"
"Miss?"
"Which Draco isn't he? I can hardly keep up with his personalities."
Pipsy doesn't reply, and Hermione turns to look at him. The little elf is tugging at his ears, wincing all the while.
Hermione drops the brush and crosses the room, dropping to a crouch in front of him. "Hey, don't do that. You didn't do anything, Pipsy. I'm the one who made a comment."
"Pipsy shouldn't talk about Master."
Hermione sighs, patting the little elf on his shoulder. "You didn't say anything really. And, I won't say a word to your Master."
His large round eyes are bulging and wet, lip quivering. Hermione is certain he is about to break down. She shushes and coos, petting him gently, until his trembling ceases.
Pipsy turns suddenly, picking up her empty dinner tray and giving Hermione a curt nod. "Miss should expect the Master soon." And with that, he pops away.
It's only when Draco arrives a few minutes later that she realizes Pipsy must have felt a shift in the wards. Today, Draco is nearly morose.
He doesn't speak when he enters, walking straight to her en suite and closing the door behind him. So it is to be one of those evenings. Hermione resigns herself to wait patiently, sitting with her legs folded beneath her in the center of the bed. He wasn't wearing his robes, she had noticed, nor his mask. It's preferable to her when he doesn't come to her with blood on his clothes. Preferable. Easier. Easier to believe he's not a monster, at least no more than his quick flashes of mania, and that whatever physicality he pushes between them she allows because she chooses to do so.
When he emerges some time later, he still remains silent. He is undressed completely, his hair mussed and his skin still dripping with moisture. She's not entirely sure he used a towel at all. The most surprising part of his appearance is that he is flaccid between his legs. He has never been undressed around her without palpable arousal.
He approaches the bed, and she climbs off of it, greeting him quietly. "Hello."
Draco glances at her then, his eyes profoundly sad, but he still says nothing. Sliding the bed clothes to one side, he climbs in and covers himself. She stands over him, waiting for him to make some move. She's not sure how long she stands, unmoving, before he speaks.
"This room is cold. Get in."
He doesn't sound angry or welcoming. Resigned, perhaps.
Hermione gingerly lifts the edge of the sheet and slides her legs in as well, immediately touching his feet with her own by accident. She mumbles, "sorry," to which he makes no response.
For all the times he has come to her bed, laid beside her to satisfy his needs, this is a new experience. Hermione turns on her side, snuggling more deeply into the mattress, and closes her eyes. She hopes she will find sleep, and equally that she will wake to a cold mattress rather than a demanding and quite naked Malfoy.
Sleep has nearly taken her when she feels the bed shift. Draco turns toward her, inching his body closer, and slipping his arm around her waist. She feels his nose pressed against her skull through her curls, and he slips one leg over hers, running his toes up her calf.
He's holding her, like a lover.
It is only after some time, her breathing steady as she is once again near sleep, that she feels his body quake, and she knows he is crying softly. She doesn't dare comment, does not offer comfort. Perhaps just being here is enough to fight back the demons that chase him through the day. She is not sure she would have called him conflicted at any time during the war, but suddenly she is reminded of a scared teenage boy, sobbing to a ghost in an abandoned bathroom, and she wonders just what lengths it has taken to completely destroy this man.
In the morning, the mattress is cold as she had hoped, only she is disappointed rather than relieved.
The best nights are often marked by the hardest days. When Draco returns the following evening, he is eerie.
"It's All Hallow's Eve, Hermione. Can you feel it?"
She lost track of days at some point. One of her punishments weeks ago was a loss of her window for a time. Draco magically concealed the opening, leaving her with no natural light or way to track her days and nights. She assumed it was October but could not have known the day.
Instead of any explanation as to why she didn't know, she answers, "No, I didn't realize."
"Muggle," he sneers at her, angry and awful. "The magic should sing to your blood if it wasn't so dirty. I can feel everything."
He looks away from her then, glancing about the room and then approaching the window. He gazes into the blackness, the sky clouded and moon obscured, before whispering, "The veil is thin tonight and the dead are walking." She shivers, unsure if it is his words or the conviction with which he says them. She nearly believes it to be true.
She stays where she is, standing awkwardly beside the bed. When she gives no response, he looks a her, barking, "Well?!" to which she has no answer.
Then he's storming about the room, pushing over the vanity chair and knocking the various bits of brick-a-brack from the shelves and mantels. "There's no room for the dead here, Hermione! We used it all up! Where would He suppose we keep them all?! The dungeons?! Oh, there's enough dead to deal with, and the smell will never come out of those walls!"
He stops mid-rant and looks at her, haunted suddenly. "What would Mother think? Ashamed, I'm sure of it. She's so ashamed," he laments.
Then he turns again, grasping a glass bird and smashing it against the wall just to the left of Hermione. She screams and covers her head, ducking to the side and barely hearing him as he continues his tirade.
"I'll burn everything down, those fucks! Then they won't have to worry about the dead, will they? None of us will! We'll all be the same anyway! All fucking dead!"
He's breathing heavily, standing in place and body heaving as his lungs consume the air around him. Then he is stalking toward her, and Hermione pushes herself back against wall, bracing herself.
When he is close enough, he takes her face in his hands, not gentle though not precisely painful, and searches her eyes. He no longer seems as panicked as he had only a moment ago, and now simply looks intense. "You knew, didn't you?" he accuses her, and she is left at a loss.
"What did I know, Draco?"
He shakes her once, hard, then tries again, louder. "You know fucking everything, Granger. Everything!"
"I don't," she says with some strength in her voice. "I don't know everything."
She's not sure why she bothers to reason with him when he's like this. It never accomplishes anything. He will throw her to the bed and find release against her robe, or stomp out of the room, screaming obscenities behind him, or maybe even shove her into something and grin maniacally at her surprise, but he will certainly not listen.
"You do," he emphasizes. "I have to believe that you do." His voice goes softer as he speaks, and his grip on her lightens in pressure. Then he is merely cupping her cheeks, looking at her passively.
"Or maybe you really don't. Maybe you really are just a mudblood."
He leaves her there, walking purposefully from the room and closing the door with perfect civility behind him. Hermione slowly lets the tension leave her muscles and her body slides down the wall to the floor. When Pipsy brings food later, she doesn't ask about Draco or try to learn anything new. She just chews her food slowly, wondering how long it would take for his madness to seep into her like poison.
"What about here?"
It must be close to the holidays by now. Draco came to see her early in the morning today, which is rather rare. On most occasions, he comes in the evening, presumably after whatever terrible things he is a part of each day as a Death Eater. Sometimes, he smells like blood and smoke, and she pretends it away as best she can.
He moves his hand from the swell of her breast to the curve beneath. He's a gentle Draco this morning, his mood almost serene. He had asked her politely to lay on the bed and curled in beside her. When he touched her, it was cautious, asking permission with each step. "Here as well? Can I touch you here, Hermione?"
She doesn't respond, which is relatively typical for this type of game. He hasn't broken her pride enough that she will acquiesce to his advances, but nor does she fight. It's been months since he did more than push her into a wall in his anger, and she does not want to visit any of the cruelty for which Death Eaters are known.
"Here, then? Your trim, little body… You really are such a delicate thing, love." His large hand palms the dip at her waist, fingertips tickling her gently. He's moving slow today, patient. She would almost say he's trying to seduce her.
He trails down, slow circles and patterns traced on her flat tummy, until he reaches the band of her knickers. His mouth is close to her ear, breath warm and slow. How relaxing to be touched in this way, how easily lulled into comfort by this rare sort of caress.
"I've never touched you here," he tells her quietly. "Could I pet you today? I'll treat you so sweetly, kitten."
She stiffens a little, heartbeat increasing. The way he's touching her today, the gentle sound of his voice, would it be a terrible thing to let herself take what he's offering? It doesn't change who they are, and it doesn't mean she's complicit in her abduction… right? Hermione finds herself conflicted the most on days when he is kind.
So, as is her habit, she doesn't respond, nor does she push him away. And when his fingertip slip just beneath the silk, she whimpers in anticipation. "Good girl," he says on an exhale, almost as if he had held his breath for her response. "My very good girl." His forefinger reaches further, sliding over her mound and settling gently against her clit. A simple stroke up and down, and Hermione moans softly, turning her head away from him, ashamed by the pleasure pulsing through her.
She feels him shift, his hand remaining where it is, but then he is leaned over her. He lowers his face toward hers and presses one soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Don't hide from me, lover." He adds light pressure now, stroking just a bit faster. "Let me see those beautiful eyes."
He slides the tip of his finger down to her slit, gathering the moisture he finds and returning his attention to her clit. Now slick and warm, he sets a steady pace on her once again. "Do you like when I touch you here, pet?" He kisses her again, lips parted and tongue peeking out to swipe at her lower lip. He does it again, tongue lingering this time, and again. Each time a little more wet, a bit more hesitation before he pulls away. He adds his teeth, nibbling lightly on her lip, alternating his nips with the licks of his tongue, and his breathing picks up to match hers, the pace of his hand increasing in tandem.
Then they are kissing, her head turned back toward him and her hand sliding to the back of his neck. Draco moans into her mouth when she laps her tongue against his, and she pushes her pelvis up to meet his hand, suddenly desperate to feel the rush of orgasm, lost in his physical touch and trying to forget anything of her circumstances beyond the immediate. Their kiss has turned harder, deep, just as his pace reaches near frenzy, and she is bucking at him, lifting her hips from the bed and gripping his face with both hands.
He pulls his mouth from hers just enough to whisper, lips nearly touching. "Fuck, Hermione, come for me. That's it… come all over my hand, gorgeous fucking witch…."
She breaks, and her body convulses, and she clings to him. "Oh God, Draco…" She shudders, his finger still laying gentle pressure makes her twitch with every minute movement.
Then he kisses her again, achingly sweet. "It all could have been different," he says. "Maybe, in another life, it was."
He leaves then, that final cryptic comment echoing in her mind as her body comes down. She's confused by him, as always, and also feeling guilt settle in for having succumbed to her body's craving for attention. For affection. It will be even harder now, when he is cruel. When he is drowning in his madness. How do you hate someone, pity them, fear them, and crave them all at once?
This time, rather than hours or days or weeks before his return, Draco simply doesn't come back at all.
Thank you for reading! I really appreciate every one of your reviews and, since this is not my typical, am honored by those of you who, like myself, don't usually read dark stories and chose to trust me anyway. There is one more chapter after this. I would love to hear from you!