Chapter Nine
Hotter than Hell
Hermione had many childhood memories of grand balls. Every few months the ball room would be overly decorated in colors that even Hermione couldn't name. Dark golds not yet bronze, and dark whites yet not gray or silver. There would be waiters dressed almost as nice as the guests serving small unappetizing finger-foods.
Hermione grew a disgust for the affairs. The adults were snobby and she had to remain silent, keeping opinions to herself, because she was a child and should know no better.
And there she was again, standing in front of her mirror in a black dress, a cloak clasped by a silver coiled snake. It was a gift from her father. While he allowed the dress, he refused to let it be too "muggle." She could hardly argue, considering the way her father was. They were Malfoys and they had a reputation that needed to be upheld, and it mattered not how much Hermione loathed the reputation.
Draco poked his head in. "Ready, Herms?"
She turned and his jaw dropped giving the impression of a statue with his pointed features and slicked back hair.
"Wow," he breathed.
"You've seen me like this loads of times," she reminded him.
He wrapped a tendril of her smooth curls around his pale finger, admiring the effects of the potion she brewed. He admired her painted lips and lids in a way that caused her to blush. "Yes, but it's been years."
She ran her hands over the creases of his dress robe. "You look handsome."
He held out a hand. "One dance?"
"Here?" Her makeup supplies littered her desk where her books would normally be, her books piled where her chair would be, and her chair near the mirror on the wall where she applied said makeup. It was messy for her taste.
"Better than with the boring adults. They could put Professor Binns to sleep."
She giggled in agreement and let him pull her to him. He held her hand up to their shoulders, his other on her lower back where the dress was cut. She held his shoulder and they stepped to the left, Draco leading.
They waltzed in the privacy of her bedroom, the moon and stars spying from the window. He twirled her and she laughed remembering all the times they were made to practice by their mother.
He twirled her again, and she felt beautiful for the first time.
He kept her to him, just like in practice, except this time came with ease, not being watched or ridiculed. Just the two of them dancing however they liked. She snaked her arms over his shoulders, his around her waist, flushed against her.
Hermione's mind screamed that it was wrong. It was her brother. But... It didn't feel that way. There was a part of her, that she had trouble denying then, in that moment in Draco's arms, that wanted only to be closer to him. She wanted to feel him.
In a haze she saw Draco's face edging nearer to hers. She couldn't recall why she had to stop it, so she let his lips touch hers. She let herself push against him. She let him prod her mouth open with his tongue. She let herself taste him. Hot desire, Fire whiskey and bright nights.
Her mind exploded.
Draco.
Smirks.
White blond hair.
Mess.
In.
Mornings.
Touches.
Dances.
Lost.
Found.
Wounds on knee.
Healed.
Draco.
Home.
Drake.
Draco.
Brother.
Hermione wrenched herself back, falling onto her bed. She was gasping, heaving for breath.
Draco misread and hovered over her, his knee by her hip, his hand caressing under her dress over her thigh. He kissed her neck, groaning passionately.
She didn't want to stop him, but her brain was screaming at her. He's your brother! Your brother! Every move he made was amplified, his burning graze at the seam of her knickers hotter than hell.
"Drake, no!"
He jerked back, startled.
"Drake, you're my brother."
The recognition shined in his eyes. "Oh... Herms..."
She hid her face into the nearest pillow, tugging her dress down to her knee. It was not out of humiliation, but of shame. He's your brother.
"I'm so sorry, Hermione."
Shortly there came a silence that only came when someone left the room. It was dead and lonely.
Your brother!
Hermione reapplied her smudged make-up and went downstairs, avidly avoiding any thoughts of what had taken place in her bedroom. She entered the ball room with the sweet air and grace her mother raised her with.
Wizards and witches commented on how she had grown, how lovely she looked. Not one commented on her brown hair, her brown eyes, or anything else that set her so far off from the Malfoy's trademark genes. It was not surprising when she knew that the last man who questioned it went mysteriously missing. The last person who was seen with him was her father.
"Excuse me," her mother told a stout man she was speaking to, and pulled Hermione to a dark and empty corner, her claw-like nails piercing the flesh of her arm.
Hermione rubbed her minor wounds. "Yes, mother?"
"Why are you wearing that Merlin-awful thing, Hermione?"
"Father said I could. It's a dress, mother."
On cue, her father came, looking important, pompous and menacing in a robe similar to her cloak and carrying his walking stick, the head of a snake the hint that it held his wand. His eyes appraised them kindly. He didn't look at anyone the way he looked at his family.
"Is something wrong, Narcissa?"
"Lucius, look at what she's wearing."
"Father," Hermione said in reminder.
"I know," he told his wife disdainfully. "Hermione is nearly of age. I believe the cloak does aid. No one appears to have noticed. Go easy on our daughter."
"Our daughter is dressing like a mudblood," she hissed.
That did it. That epithet. "Dirty blood? Is that all that matters? Blood?"
"I don't understand where you picked up sympathy for those lower than you. What did I do wrong?"
She felt a tightness in her chest. "Please, mother. They are not lower beings. I've been taken Muggle Studies and -"
"You've what?" She looked horrified, as if her worst nightmare had come true. "Hermione, we strictly told you that you were not to take that class. How could you disobey us?"
"Because you're wrong!"
Lucius snapped. "You may not speak to your mother that way, Hermione!"
"Do you think less of me, too, father?
When he didn't answer, looking at her as if all hope had been lost, she stalked to the other side of the room, her heart wrenching when her mother let out a teary gasp. Hermione's surroundings were doused in tears, and she was glad to have had used waterproof make-up the second time. She wiped her tears across her heated cheeks as she felt a touch on her arm.
"Drake."
"Why can't you make them happy?"
"I'm -" she gulped "a freak."
He took her to another secluded corner, away from prying eyes. "You are not a freak. You are a Malfoy. You are as far from a freak as there is."
She went to wipe more tears from her chin, but he caught her hands, kissing her knuckles. Her heart sped up painfully.
"Look at me, Drake, and tell me I'm not different."
"'To be nobody but yourself in a world doing its best to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human can ever fight and never stop fighting.'" He quoted E.E Cummings so quietly he was only breathing the words of the muggle writer. Draco's secret favorite.
She sniffed and embraced him, shoving recent memories of his kiss in the back of her mind. It was difficult for she wanted so desperately to kiss him there. She wanted to feel his hands on her, and it was the worst disgust and worst pleasure she would ever feel together.
Slowly, they began to dance, close and silently to the violin strings hauntingly playing from the walls.
"Do you see it, Lucius?"
Lucius saw it. His son dancing too comfortably with his daughter. Limbs entangled, hips swaying, lips to a forehead. It was a revolting sight to witness.
Hermione was a tool of the Dark Lord, and he reminded himself of that every day since she saved his life. It was times like he was having then that reminded him that she was not an ordinary mudblood. That realization may certainly cause the death of him, but gratitude grew to love. He loved his daughter.
Now, it appeared that his son did too. He loved his sister, but not as a brother would or should.
Lucius didn't know if he was more disgusted or sad. Draco obviously didn't know the truth, blissfully unaware that his father killed the girl's biological parents. Blissfully unaware that Hermione wasn't his sister at all. Yet, it did not stop him from laying his hands on her, and Lucius had never been more furious with his precious son.
However, Lucius knew the truth, and he was sad for Draco. He was sad for them all.
"We should stop this," his wife said peering around for stunned eyes.
"No. Let them dance." He looked down at her, conveying how little time they had left.
Yes, Lucius was sad for there was no chance their little Hermione would live. In the end, Lucius and Narcissa would lose a daughter. In the end, Draco would lose his sister.
A/N: I apologize for how long it took to post this chapter. My reasons are simple: Sickness and computer malfunctions.
Here's hoping I can post the next one sooner!
Love you all.