A/N Insert in c1, after the second break. You can thank me later.
"You're a fucking menace," he breathes, hot, into her neck, chest heaving for air, "to yourself," he adds, gripping tighter against her increasing struggles until she cannot move without him moving first.
"We were happy," she spits at him, railing at the tears that rise and fall without her permission. Her shoulders shake, finally grieving. Malfoy's arms redirect, his hands make soothing motions across Hermione's back and shoulders, he rests his chin on her head and breathes her in.
Moments pass, while her wracking sobs give way to hiccoughs and eventually sniffs.
"No you weren't," he sneers, releasing her. "My Mother is happy, I know exactly what happy looks like." Resentment builds that even after Weasley's death, she has this passion to defend her own within her still, after everything Weasley has put her through. He wants it, wants someone to feel this strongly about him, he wants more than anything, to win her from the jaws of the aftermath of war.
He pauses while she seats herself to huddle in one corner of the couch with her feet tucked to one side, under her. She tugs at a blanket over the back at the couch until it falls, softly draping itself over her legs. He sheds his coat and jacket, draping them over a vacant chair with a sardonic smile. He remembers how his Mother's face changed when the tall, dark man entered the room and the atmosphere lifted like so much dewy mist with the morning sun. All he has earned from Hermione is spit and vinegar.
Hermione watches his fingers tremble, before getting to grips with pushing his sleeves up and leaving the dark band of his timepiece plain against his pale forearm. What remains of the Dark Mark etched deeply into his skin stands out as ridges and whorls like a white ink tattoo. Malfoy steps to the fire and reaches for the poker, he crouches, watching her from under buckling eyebrows before turning his back.
"I heard she disinherited you," she stabs at him with words between filling her lungs. Her blood hums, singing for battle. No-one makes her feel the way this man does, everything he does seems to be for the sole purpose of getting under her skin. The hollow ache of Ron's absence fills with fury that this man is here, in her house, touching her, touching her things with his hot hands. She feels his very presence here like bands around her middle, crushing her ability to breathe freely. There is nothing wrong with the fire that the briefest spell wouldn't cure. There is nothing in her grief that rage cannot burn away.
The metal poker tip rings against the hearth stones once, before it crunches into the embers of the fire with a swift thrust. Sparks erupt above a blue licking flame while logs hurl themselves into the hearth, one, then another, when his fingers curl and beckon.
"And how is Viktor these days? Night blooming Minochs are a native of Bulgaria aren't they?"
"She renumbered the vault didn't she? Changed the Floo address at home twice? Your Father's dogs wouldn't let you in the Manor gate." Almost as an after thought she half answers his question, "they were a wedding gift."
His shoulders stiffen, but his jibing tone is the same. "Ah, Viktor. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride."
"I don't know what you mean." She leaves off the goading in defence of another. She says it like she believes it, but there is a cold knot in her belly that refuses to budge. "You sent one too, remember? Ron had it built into the South wall of the scullery." She remembers the tile especially well, it bore a snake, proud of the surface rendered so perfectly, she had run her fingers over the spine of it to feel the mesmeric texture of the scales repeating themselves from flat, spade shaped head to pointed tail.
Malfoy tilts his head to one side, one eye on the fire, the other on the simmering anger that has put colour into Hermione's cheeks faster than the dull heat rising from the hearth. "Krum never married did he? Still pining for you?"
He rises, poker in hand, regarding her steadily. "Want to play a little game, Granger? Let's play Person of Interest. Here's how it works, someone says a name and the other person describes their interest in them. I'll go first. Viktor Krum."
"We correspond, not that is any of your damn business." His latest missive bore the sad news of Viktor's ill health. She burnt that too.
She already knows what Malfoy thinks from his tone. Witch Weekly ran a piece before she and Ron had married which was scurrilous at best. She has never sought Malfoy's good opinion and has no plans to start now. Let him think all Viktor represents is a simple affair of the heart rather than an understanding of something that will shake the Wizarding World to its foundations. Viktor has a replica of the fledgling experiment she has under wraps at work. If it does what she believes it will, it will set the Ministry on its head.
"Ah, but it is – you see in my role Head of International Relations, and Viktor being very much a foreign national, the clue is in the title. International. Relations." Carefully Malfoy replaces the fire-iron on the four-armed stand by the chimney breast. Each of the fire companions sport an animal's head as a hanging loop, a lion, a raven, a badger. One arm is empty.
"Reading personal mail carried by diplomatic bag is massively overstepping your departmental brief." Her eyes fix on the rising flames.
"It's unofficial, obviously. Post is meant to be read, diplomatic post most especially," he rebukes. "Call it a pet project."
"Viktor?"
"You," he says thoughtfully. It is enough to give her pause. He purses his lips, "before you offer yourself on the sacrificial altar of you former husband's stupidity, stop it."
"Stop what."
"Whatever it is you are doing with Viktor."
In the flames melted Cyrillic letters grow and fade, Hermione translates at will. …all things connected by the web of ideas written and shared across the ages, like the love and respect I hold for you most dear. We are all servants of what has gone before, but our children will be masters of their future. Nothing will be beyond their grasp. Drink. Libre liber….
"He's not well."
"Viktor?" His voice drags her tired eyes from the leaping flames. Divination has never been her forte, but fire has always been her medium. She closes heavy lids against the futures in the hearth, switching instead to the man backlit by them. Her voice comes out, fitful with equal measure of irritation and exasperation.
"I don't want to talk about him, to you of all people."
The faltering light from the fire highlights the hollows beneath his eyes and cheekbones, making a mockery of the fullness of his lips. His eyebrows have darkened with age, but his hair is as pale as it ever was.
In what Malfoy does with his days, she knows he would be interested. Him being here makes a kind of sense except that she still doesn't know what he wants. Exhaustion sinks through her, she fights it with what remains. Now that he is here, she is more on edge, not threatened, not directly, simply more wary and aware. The events of the day weigh heavily. There is still so much more to do.
She tries to concentrate on the fireplace as a distraction to the dry prickle behind her eyelids, but it is difficult since Malfoy's very presence pulls at her attention. She has learned to keep watch around him, she knows him well, even if only for the collateral damage that comes with him. If anything his appearance is a reflection of how grave a danger she has placed herself in. She could do worse than Malfoy, even if only for now.
The logs in the hearth shift, one of them splits with a popping sound like a gunshot, making both of them jump. Parchment ash spills onto the hearth, expelled from the bed of the fire. The letters in the licking flames gutter and die before her eyes.
"What did you burn?" He snaps his eyes to the fire, his question sounds half disbelief, half accusation.
"Only the past. It's how we remake ourselves. By fire, isn't it, Draco?" She catches that she used his first name too late. The heat is making her mind stupid with warmth and the fire-whiskey whispers sluggishly in her head that Draco looks good. Very good.
She waits while his eyes rake her face, resisting the urge to bite at the inside of her cheek. The way he looks at her makes her want to stare right back into his fascinating gaze.
He sits at the other end of the couch, stooping to free himself of his shoes and stretching socked toes out to the fire.
"What are you doing?" she murmurs.
"Keeping you alive." He rests his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes to the plastered ceiling and the temptation beside him. Patience has served him before, but the yoke of it chafes.
"How?"
"I'd kill for you." He says quietly. The news should shock her, but it is no more or less than she has heard from the fragments she stitches together.
"You'd kill for yourself."
"That too." She wonders if she has underestimated him. She pokes the hand settled between them with a bare toe, catching her breath when he snatches at her ankle faster than a whip. His face is serene, eyes still closed his lips squeeze a faint smile, echoed with a squeeze by his fingers. "It is the same," he says, almost to himself.
"I want my foot back."
He resists her small attempt to draw her foot away, raising her heel instead so that it is level with his shoulder and turning to face her, eyes implacably fixed on hers.
"Don't offer something you are not prepared for me to keep."
"Don't be stupid, Malfoy." She flexes her knee, almost catching him off guard so he has to flick his chin out of the way of her strike, but he doesn't let go.
Instead, he settles her foot in his lap, one hand on the ankle to control it, the other cupping the heel. His thumb strokes across the underside of her heel, making her shiver. He studies the small bones, where they brace the arch of her foot, the weave of blood racing under her skin and the dark shiny aubergine of her painted nails.
"Cold?"
Mutely she shakes her head, drawn to watch his profile and the way his lips part while his fingers dance over her skin.
"All of you is here," he presses softly. "Kidneys, spleen." He swallows when he presses elsewhere and sighs. Her stomach drops at the sensation it makes, making her stifle a gasp and his fingers move on. "Ron, shame on you. Heart," he murmurs, "not broken. But the marriage bond is." He smiles wryly to himself and works his teeth into his bottom lip. "Stupid boy."
"You can't feel something like that. You don't know anything," she whispers.
He fixes her with glittering eyes, his fingers returning to the spot that makes her stomach swoop and twist. "Don't I? Is it five weeks or six?" His fingers work their way upwards, to the ridge of muscle under her big toe. "Since you and Ron…." He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to. Hermione grips the seat cushions, what he is doing makes her want to tip her head back and groan, it feels so good.
"So tense," he admonishes. Her big toe splays outwards, triggered by his touch and he runs a forefinger under the joint with her foot and into the space between one toe and another, pushing it further apart. His thumb sweeps under her instep, back and forth, making her toes curl against his intrusion.
"So untrusting." He tugs at each toe in turn, hooking it straight and pulling gently. Hermione feels like she is being unwound from the inside out. She tries to breathe steadily. Her heel stretches away, against his warmth and he pants, working his jaw.
"Death doesn't break a marriage bond." He says. "You have to have someone do that."
"Maybe I did that," she fires at him.
He regards her with heat in his eyes. "You feel too much."
"For what?"
"For that."
"You don't know me."
"You couldn't do it, even now he's dead."
She laughs hollowly. "Nice try," but her lips are dry and her tongue drags her lower lip in with it when she licks it. He is pulling her leg taunt, easing her body flush with the couch.
"What were you doing when he did it?" His fingers tempt the skin at her pajama leg hem. "At work? One evening?" She goes to cross her ankles, but his hand is planted on the couch and he leans in, between them. She raises herself on her elbows, on the way to sitting up entirely. She drapes the blanket around her shoulders and holds it shut to hide the flush on her neck.
"I've never seen you leave in such a hurry."
"You're an ass. Do you watch for me to leave every night?"
He pushes his face closer to hers. "Right though. Aren't I?" When she makes no move he asks, "going to hit me again?" His eyes dart over her face. "You want to."
"You want me to," she half laughs, giddy with him being so close, hunger so obvious in his eyes.
"I want you to be free of him," he grates, watching for her every move. He feels like she is vibrating at a pitch he can't quite hear, but desperately wants to. He can read her body, but her mind escapes him at every turn.
He seizes her wrist, planting her palm against his cheek. "Do it."
"Don't," she twists her hand, angry when he uses her to clip his own jaw. Contact with his scruff makes her hand tingle.
"Don't let me," he goads, allowing himself to be pulled forward by her pulling her hand back until he is over her and the weight of him supporting himself holds her wrist above her head. "Don't let me," he repeats as his face lowers to hers and she stares at his lips, looming closer until it is too late.
His kiss is the barest touch on her cheek. He turns his face so that his cheek is next to hers. "It's supposed to sting like hell." His teeth catch on her earlobe and she feels his breath behind her ear, before his lips track down her neck to suck at her shoulder. Her head falls back, to one side and a gasp leaves her.
It had stung, each and every time. Six times in total over the coming weeks. She pants, filled with the burn to extinguish remembered pain and fill it with something else. Anything. Her knees come up, either side of his body, one heel arcs over him, pushing down at the base of his spine.
He doesn't go and she snarls in frustration. His lips curl against her skin, parting when she levers her body against him instead of waiting for him to fold. He drops one knee to steady himself, driving his lips to the underside of her chin to force her head back so he can plant his palm there, away from her wrist. Fingers spread against the base of her throat, his kisses turn voracious, his hands tearing at her top. She claws at his back, ripping his shirt free and dragging it half up his body.
"Wait," he hisses into her skin, fumbling madly with belt and buckle. She wrenches at the single button fastening her pajamas, desperate to be free of them and feel. The cold latch of his buckle slaps against the back of her hand and the head of his cock bumps briefly against her knuckles before she has him tamed, dragging him down and between while her bottom wriggles free of her pajama pants. She arches up to place the hot plump flesh jumping in her fist against herself and it feels like she beat him at his own game.
At the first touch of her body, his lunges forward, further than either expect, jarring the pair of them suddenly still.
"Holy fuck," he breathes, staring at his cock rooted firmly in her, then up at her. Her eyes are wide open, wild and staring. Her chest heaves with short, sharp gasps, but her hand moves away and her heel presses against his spine, down, down, until he is further in, trembling against her.
"You have to move," she whispers, against the hair on his forehead. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat that sounds like, 'not yet.' She pinches under his ribs and he bucks into her, making her groan, starting a steady slide of his body against her in a tight figure of eight. It makes her squirm under him, mewling and hot with his unyielding weight.
She breathes out hard through her nose when he catches her just right, that turns into a hum when he adjusts a fraction so that it happens every time, but he is too slow and she pushes with her heel, pushes and pushes. Bare heel over base ass, uses it to push his pants further down until he pulls out entirely and tears himself free.
When he returns it's with his face between her legs until she is bent up and entirely away from the cushions with her fist stuffed in her mouth, hard against her teeth. She won't call out for him, no matter what he does. His face is flushed, breathing ragged, he still has on his shirt. His hair is flat to his forehead, up at the sides and on top where she has been through it and pulled and pulled at him while his tongue beat at her and entered, withdrew and suckled at her wetly.
Her bare heel touches down on the starched cotton on his shoulder and slips, as his body moves under its weight towards her.
"Malfoy." She loses her breath when the bracket between his finger and thumb slides up the back of her calf, and catches behind her knee. The damp head of his cock brushes against her inner thigh.
"Draco, remember," he says tightly, leaning forward so that the weight of his shoulder rests in place of his hand, behind her knee and warm, into the back of her thigh. He thought he could make her cum, just like that, he thought. Now he thinks it's the sight of him that's stopping her letting go. It slashes at his belly. Between her leg and the back of the couch, his hand slips past seeking purchase, finding it at the top of her thigh, close to her hip and dragging her down the couch, towards him.
"Turn," he urges, pressing and pushing until she is half up on one knee, before arching himself over her. Her back scrapes against the front of his shirt as the weight of his shoulders forces her to collapse onto her elbows, face turned to the fire to breathe. She told herself that she could do this, that in some part, it would make her even with her dead husband. She tenses as Malfoy eases back in, filling the space and making her moan. He makes her forget her own name.
His arm, closest to the back of the couch reaches under her belly and back towards him. His fingers rub at her rhythmically and she shudders, taken aback by a spark that leaps from her groin to her shoulders. In rolling her hips away from them, she forces him further in until she can scarcely draw breath without feeling him in every movement.
His face pushes into the side of her neck so she can feel how hard it is for him to breathe. She can feel the tremble in his thighs bracketing her. He pushes her shoulders further down and himself further in and stays still. She can feel him inside, hot and heavy. A single finger circles her clit, slow and wasteful of time, flickering over the nub and around, down and lower. Up and back until her mouth opens to gasp because the air is too thick to swallow whole.
The burden of his body makes her sweat, a bead of it drifts into her eye and in concentrating on blinking the sting of it free, she misses him starting to rock his hips. Unconsciously she unfurls herself into the new space. Behind her legs and up her back, he encases her, but there is room to move, fast and faster until there is there nothing both the sound of gasps and the hollow slap of skin on damper skin.
She pants, greedy for air, reaching for a sound buried halfway down her throat, clawing its way out in a guttural cry that comes with release. Over and around her, Malfoys body quakes and shivers, huddling against her heat and tightening his arms grip against her soft belly.
His astonished sigh is something she never thought to hear.
"Hermione."
He eases away from her, slumping to lay between her and the back of the couch. His eyes close, waiting for his rushing blood to quiet so he can think, think what happens next, now that this has happened too soon.
She rolls away from him, stretching hugely, every muscle longer and more elastic than she has ever felt. She doesn't stop him when he gathers her back up, her back to his front. The blanket levitates and settles around them, grown long enough to cover them both.
She lies unsettled in unfamiliar arms. The heady scent of sex whispers into her lungs, his warmth seeps into her back, into her bones. By degrees she circles sleep, shifting subtly. She can feel the sturdy thump of his heart steadying against her ribs lulling her own to slow.
What would Ron think, she wonders. He would think she has lost her mind, but the closer Draco is, the easier it will be. Ron would expect her to be rational, to investigate his death methodically and extract justice from the guilty. She uses this to stop herself from stupefying the warm body behind her, accio-ing a steak knife and summarily cutting his throat.
There was no proof. When Malfoy met her at the door to this very house that day, Ron was already dead. All she saw was the sole of one of Ron's shoes. Malfoy wouldn't let her in. He even gave up his wand so she could see what he last cast, as a distraction while he called the authorities.
"The dogs never made the papers," he says into her hair. "And keep your arse to yourself."
She is too sleepy to move away from him, but is suddenly aware of the heavy heat stirring behind her. It takes a long time for her breathing to even.
There is a grace in the curve of her neck, a taunt in the swell of her hips. Reflexively the base of his spine angles itself towards her. It doesn't help that she squirms closer to the contact and sighs. He drops his chin to snuff cautiously at her hair, it smells like the pink flowers he walked through to reach the door. The dark sweep of her eyelashes underline the pale mauve eyelid, twitching with the pitch of her thoughts.
From time to time, a high soft keening comes from her throat. He tightens his arm around her waist until it stops, half hunched over her to scan her face.
When it starts again, he lowers his lips to her ear, close enough to graze the soft pink shell and tells her what he has come to think about her, safe in the knowledge that she will not hear it awake, because the information in the wrong hands would undo everything he builds at night, in his dreams.