There was a sob—startling and heart-stopping because the moment he heard it he knew who it was, knew even before they spoke—and then a distressed, panicked, high pitched, "Tom?"
"Hermione?" He breathed, and he met Bella's eyes when he did. She shifted from her position half turned toward her computer, her fingers curling around the edge of the desk until he could hear the scrape of her nails against the wood. Harry stood in the doorway that led to Bella's bedroom and he sagged against the doorframe, the room suspended in silence.
"Hermione?" He called again, and another sob tore through the line, panicked, loud breaths her only response, "Hermione," He said a bit sternly, "Where are you? Are you hurt?" He heard something, like she was trying to respond, a stuttered consonant that sounded like her attempt at saying 'no,' but no words sounded. "Are you calling from Rabastan's phone?" He asked.
"I d—don't—" Was all she managed, and he saw Bella impatiently signal for him to hand her the phone. He ignored her.
"Can you tell me where you are?" He asked, trying and failing not to sound impatient. He recognized her distress, knew she couldn't help it, knew she was trying to respond, but the fact that he wasn't there with her to help her just made him angrier and the longer it took to draw any answers out of her just made his temper rise.
Unceremoniously, the phone was plucked from his hands.
"Hermione, love?" She cooed into the phone. Tom glared, his jaw twitched, and Bella purposefully strode away from him so he couldn't snatch the phone back.
"B—Bella?" Hermione replied, the shock at the second voice enough to, however briefly, cease her panicked breaths.
"Yes, love," Bella said, trying to sound calming, "Tom and I have been looking for you. Do you know where you are?"
"N—No—" She started, "Oh god—oh—"
"Love," Bella murmured, "It's alright. We can come get you," Her words seemed to do nothing to calm Hermione, who had gone back to her panicked crying. Bella took a look at the number, recognized it as Rab's, and pressed the phone against her ear once more, "Is Rabastan with you?" Bella asked, "Did he leave his phone behind—"
A particularly loud cry left Hermione's lips, cutting Bella off, another sharp intake of breath and then, "What have I done—what have I—"
Bella met Tom's eyes, who was watching her closely and awaiting any sort of answer. When their eyes met he tensed, sensing the distress in Bella's gaze. "Hermione," Bella started carefully, "Is he…with you? Is he…what did you do?"
There was nothing else she could get out of her, because Hermione was crying and repeating, "What have I done?" Over and over like a mantra, like there was nothing else she could say.
"Give me the phone," Harry demanded, finally moving from his lace in the doorway, , "Give me—"
Hermione heard him on the other end of the line, apparently, because she sobbed, "Harry?" And her mantra changed, "No, no—"
"Hermione?" He spoke into the phone once he had wrestled the phone from Bella's grip. He followed Bella's example from earlier, quickly moving away so that she couldn't steal the phone back. "Hermione, are you—"
"Harry!" She wailed, "No—Not Harry—"
He swallowed thickly, not quite knowing what she meant, and as calmly as he could he said, "Hermione, whatever happened doesn't matter." He didn't stop to wait for a response, knowing she wouldn't give him one. He could tell but the stuttered breaths that she was trying to stop crying, but couldn't, and Tom and Bella's singleminded approach to find her was somewhat emotionless and useless, so he pressed the phone against his shoulder and spoke to Bella—"Can you track the phone?"
She nodded, "Just keep her on the line," She told him, picking up her own phone, no doubt to call that cop she had in her pocket.
He pressed the phone against his ear again, her breathing hadn't calmed. "Can you see where you are?" He asked, "A house or a flat or a car?"
"Flat," She answered shortly.
"Alright, good," He said, "Are there any windows?"
"Yeah—" She replied, punctuated by another sob. "A bal—balc—"
"Balcony?" He guessed, "Great, great, go out to the balcony." He told her, running a hand haphazardly through his hair, trying to sound calm, "What can you see? From the balcony?"
"I—I don't know—where I am—" She tried to explain.
"That doesn't matter," He told her, "We'll find you. Just tell me what you see—"
"No!" She interrupted, "No! Don't come—don't come—you'll—"
"Hermione," He said unevenly, but she continued despite his interruption.
"You'll hate me—" She said in what he could only describe as a pained moan before she dissolved into those quiet, panicked sobs again.
"I won't," He assured her, his heart breaking for her, "I won't ever hate you, Hermione, I don't care what you did." He spared a glance at Bella, but she was turned away from him, Tom at her side. It looked as if she was still talking to that cop but he couldn't spare her the attention at the moment. That was what Bella had asked, after all, wasn't it? 'What did you do?' "Alright? I just care that you're alright." He felt a hand at his shoulder, and turned to see Bella gesturing to the front door, Tom already halfway out and Malfoy in tow. He followed after her, "Can you get to the balcony?"
"Why?" She sobbed.
"Humor me," He said, attempting at something light. "Are you there?"
"Yeah," She said in a wobbly voice.
"Shut the door behind you," He told her, "Don't go back in the flat. Just look outside, and tell me what you see."
"But why—" He was gratified to hear that her voice was somewhat still even—still thick and wobbly and he could still hear the hitch in her breath immediately after she spoke, but at least she was coherent and distracted enough to stubbornly demand an answer. He didn't give it to her, knowing that if he were to tell her he was only trying to distract her that she would just go straight back to hysterically crying over whatever was behind her in that flat, whatever she didn't want them—or him alone, it seemed—to see.
"Please?" He said instead, sliding into the backseat of Bella's car, Malfoy sitting on the other side looking like he wanted to be anywhere other than there. "What can you see?"
"Uh—" She said, before she pulled in a shaky breath, "I—see the…London eye?"
"Yeah?" He indulged her, "Are you close."
"No," She said, "I can just see it. I'm high up." Her sentences were still somewhat disjointed, punctuated by sobs that sounded more like the aftermath of her crying than anything else. He heard a telling whimper on her end, so he pushed it further.
"What else?" He asked before she could get swallowed up in her thoughts.
"The Tate," She rasped, "And the Thames."
"Can you see straight down?" He asked.
"Yeah," She said with a long sigh, another shaky breath, then, "Its a big road, there's a bus passing through, but it's not very crowded." She sniffed, "The street, I mean. I can't see…." A hitch in her breath, "In the bus, so—"
"It's nearly two AM." He said, "Not a lot of traffic at that time."
"Two AM?" She echoed.
"What else?" He asked, "What else is there?"
"Plants," She answered, "On the balcony. It's like…a garden."
"Yeah?"
"It's huge," She said, her voice breaking, "It's pretty."
"Probably better than anything you could grow, huh?" He teased lightly.
"I could garden," She snapped weakly, "If I wanted to."
"Are you going to try and prove it?" He asked, "Like the baking?"
"Those cookies were good." She defended.
"Those were terrible, Hermione." He said gently.
"Like you could do better." She scoffed, a sniff and another hitch in her breath the only reminder of her previous breakdown.
"I could," He argued, happy for the distraction, "I inherited my mother's baking skills."
Evidently, the casual nod to his parents seemed to be the wrong move. He heard a long, shaky breath in, and another whimper that signified she was trying not to start crying again. "Hermione?" He called carefully.
"I don't want you to see," She whimpered, "What I did—"
"It doesn't matter what you did." He told her solemnly, "And you don't have to tell me. If you want me to wait in the car I will, but it doesn't matter to me. I just want you to be okay." It was quiet on the other end. "Alright?" He pressed.
No answer. Confused, he pulled the phone away from his ear, and his heart dropped a bit when he saw the call had ended. He swore under his breath as he pulled up the recent calls list, intent on dialing her back. Tom, hearing the curse, turned around in the passenger seat, his fingers digging into the dash.
"What?" He demanded.
"She—the call ended—" He started, stopping mid sentence when his call went straight to voicemail, "Shit—uh—it went to voicemail—"
Tom's fingers carded through his hair, the usual style mussed up until it nearly resembled Harry's unruly mop. "Are we almost there?" He snapped at Bella, who said nothing and simply pointed irritably at the GPS on the dash that said it would be another 10 minutes, "Call her again." He ordered.
"I'm trying—you think I'm not trying?" Harry snapped, redialing the number and immediately reaching voicemail again. "Shit—maybe the phone just died."
"Maybe." Tom said simply through gritted teeth.
"Did she tell you?" Bella asked, a forced sort of calmness in her voice, "What she meant? What she did?"
"No." Harry said, "She just kept saying she didn't want me to see."
"It isn't hard to guess." Tom said tersely.
The rest of the ride was in silence.
—
Hermione stared at the black phone screen in silence, pressing the lock button over and over again as if it would magically come back to life. She drew her lower lip into her mouth, bit down, but pain and long since become a useless tool in stopping herself from dissolving into tears. And she tried to calm down, she tried to be helpful, to tell them where she was and what had happened but she couldn't, she couldn't say it out loud, every time she tried her throat would close up and—
And Harry was there. Harry, her best friend who wanted to be a policeman, her best friend who's parents and godfather were all on the force, Harry who was always lighthearted and lovely and looked out for her—he was going to see the man inside with the blood around her head and know that she did it, that it was her, and he would never look at her the same again—
Tears spilled over her cheeks and it didn't matter anymore if she wiped them away, he cheeks wouldn't stay dry for long. She turned away from the view of London at night, leaned against the balcony walls and slid down, her knees tucked up into her chest. She could see him through the windows, jut barely see him past the reflection of London's lights. But she didn't even need to see him to picture him, to know he was there, every time she blinked he was there.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and hid her face, trying to think of anything else, wishing she could still hear Harry talk to her, distract her, make her forget for a second that a once living body now lay behind her, make her forget the image of the man who didn't want to kill her stare blankly into nothing, killed because he couldn't kill her, dead because she killed him.
Pull yourself together, she snapped in her own head, Stop thinking about it. It was self-defense, it doesn't matter if he might not have wanted to kill you, he kidnapped you and tied you up, you were only trying to get away. But the justification didn't matter, not while she was stuck here alone staring at the body, her hands stained with his blood.
She just wanted Tom. Maybe it was because she knew he couldn't judge her for it, maybe it was because she knew he could do worse, maybe it was because he had been her best friend since she was a child and she always wanted him when things went wrong—all she knew was she wanted him there. She wanted to feel him, his hands at her back, his chest against hers, just to know that he's there with her, just to know that she's not alone.
Another sob ripped through her, left her chest sore, and she found herself dissolving into another emotional breakdown no matter how badly she wanted to keep it together.
—
"What is this place?" Harry asked when they pulled up to the huge, newly built—or rather, newly refurbished—block of flats in the center of London. The moment Bella parked the three of them jumped out of the car, Bella ordering Malfoy to hop in the drivers seat and wait for them there. He did as he asked, and Tom, Bella, and Harry started toward the front door.
"A new building of flats," She answered, "Owned by the Lestrange Family, they were going to start selling spaces next week."
"Why bring her here?" Harry asked, "Isn't that…bad for business?"
"I'm certain he didn't mean for anyone to know." Tom cut in, and for as bored as he attempted to sound, there was no hiding the tension in his shoulders and his twitching fingers, "Can we get in?"
"Please," Bella scoffed, pulling something out of her pocket and kneeling down to pick at the lock at the front door, "Can I get in? You insult me."
"Cameras?" Tom asked, casting his eyes above him to seek out an answer for himself.
"Not on yet," She said, "Alarm system probably is, but my guess is Rab turned that off in order to get in."
"Guess?" Tom clarified sharply.
"I suppose we'll find out," She said, pulling open the door. She waited a moment, then sent a self-satisfied smile up at Tom who was glowering down at her, "Nothing so far."
"Unless it's a silent alarm." Tom snapped.
"Unless it's a silent alarm." She agreed, standing again and starting inside, "Did she say anything about where she was?" She asked Harry.
"Uh—she was high up," He said, "There was a balcony with a garden."
"That'll be the penthouse." She muttered, "I doubt the elevators are on, so we're going to have to climb the stairs."
"You seem familiar with this place," Tom commented, pushing open the door that led to the stairwell and leading the way up.
"I am," She told him, "This is the first project Rodolphus had a hand in with his family. I accompanied him here a lot."
"No silent alarm?" He queried.
"No silent alarm." She confirmed, "They were going to have a twenty-four hour front desk. The alarm is only tripped if someone presses the button."
"If you knew about this place," Tom said, a decidedly dangerous quality to his voice, "Why didn't you mention it before?"
Bella's good mood—or at least what appeared to be a better mood than she had been in all night—dissipated immediately. "Because if I were to start breaking in to every place I thought Rab might take her, we would have never found her." She snapped back.
Tom ignored her, and continued up the stairs.
It took them some time, but out of breath and legs burning they reached the penthouse, and the moment Bella had the door unlocked Tom was pushing in past her. The hall that they entered was lined with doors on either side, the first on the right Tom pushed open to find an empty bedroom while Bella uncovered a bathroom on the opposite side. Tom continued forward, opened the door to the second bedroom, saw the coat strewn across the bed, and continued forward. The door at the end of the hall led to the living room, the kitchen to his immediate right.
He saw a figure on the other end, near the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony. He started forward with the intent to examine the figure on the ground, part of him already knowing who it was, but the moment he caught sight of the blood his eyes slid back to the balcony, and he saw her. Curled against the wall of the balcony, her head tucked into her knees, and without even thinking he strode past the body as if it wasn't even there.
When he slid open the door, her head snapped up, wide terrified eyes staring into his. It only took a moment for that expression to fade, her eyebrows tipping up and her mouth twisting into a grimace as she reached for him with bloody hands, "Tom—" She rasped.
He dropped to his knees in front of her, her head herd between his hands, trying to discern if she was hurt. "Are you injured?" He asked, a bit severely, and she shook her head, tears building up in her eyes. She reached for him again, her hands grappling at his shoulder and pulling him close. He let her, his hands falling from her face to wrap around her back.
He couldn't describe the way he felt in that moment, because there wasn't a word for it. He was relieved, tension falling from his shoulders the moment she touched him, that chord that had wrapped around his lungs the moment he found out she was missing finally loosening, letting him breath. But he was angry, too, angry for the way she shook, for the smell of blood in her hair, for the sound of her ragged sobs against his ear, angry at the body that lay behind him.
Realizing she could see it, that she was still facing the very thing that had her falling apart, he turned so that his back rested against the wall, and he pulled her to him, sitting across his lap with her head buried in the curve of his neck.
He saw Potter in the kitchen, leaning over the sink as if he was about to be sick, and Bella was crouched by the body, carefully avoiding the puddle of blood around his head. She raised her eyes to meet his.
"Hermione," He murmured, his eyes jumping between Potter's back and Bella's severe expression, the wheels in his head already turning. His hands smoothed up and down her back, "You need to go with Harry," He felt her fingers dig into his shoulders.
"No," she refused.
"Darling," He said, trying to remain gentle, pulling her back far enough so he could see her, "I need to fix this." She shook her head, looking panicked, and his hands moved to hold her head still, "You need to let me fix this,"
"No, I need you." She said firmly, and he thought for as frazzled and terrified as she looked, she sounded remarkably final, as if he wasn't meant to argue back. He ran his thumb along the high point of her cheek, blood smeared across her skin from her hands, her eyes rimmed with red and her hair a tangled mess, and still she looked at him with a stubborn sort of finality, a set to her jaw that dared him to disagree. He was caught between pride at the way she stilled the quivering of her lip and anger at the fact that she had to still it in the first place. And some part of him, despite the fear and the fury, the part of him fueled by the relief at finding her alive, thought that despite the blood and the tears and the bite of her nails into the skin at the back of his neck—or maybe because of it—she had never looked more beautiful to him.
"I need two hours," He said softly, "Maybe three. Harry will take you to Bella's flat, and I'll come straight to you after." She took a deep, shaky, calming breath as her fingers drifted up the side of her neck and rested on his cheeks. "Rabastan was likely following Rodolphus's instructions, which means Rodolphus will know that he's here, and that you were with him." She nodded quickly, "I need to take care of him."
"What will you do?" She asked quietly, her fingers dancing up to his temples and smoothing his hair back off his forehead, fixing the mess of hair on his head until it just about resembled the way he usually wore it. She hadn't done that before, she usually preferred to mess up his hair rather than anything else. The sensation of her fingers along his scalp sent a spark of warmth to his chest, and he might've smiled in any other circumstances. Instead, he pressed a careful, chaste kiss against her lips, and again at her cheek, and once more at her temple.
"I'll make him wish he was never born," He promised her, his voice quiet and comforting against her forehead, "You don't have to worry about him."
"I love you," She said, her hands falling back to his shoulders, "I don't want to go."
"I know," He said.
"He'll hate me," She told him, "He's not like you."
Tom eyed Harry's back where he was still leaning over the kitchen sink. "He's not," He agreed, "But he won't."
She nodded, her mouth twisting into a grimace, "He uh—" she started, interrupted by a hitch in her breath, "He kept—getting calls. It sounded like he was trying to get someone to come meet him—it might've been Rodolphus."
He nodded, his lips still pressed against her temple, "Alright." He said.
"And," She continued, "He has a gun, inside. It's on the floor near his—his—" Her lips formed around the word body but she couldn't say it. She shook her head, and his hand slid back down to her back to rub soothing circled there, "He had a knife at some point, too."
"He threatened you with a gun?" He clarified. She nodded, and he felt his grip tighten on her waist without meaning to.
"I'm just telling you so that you know," She said. He heard the pitch of her voice, the wobble in her tone, the tell-tale signs that she was about to cry again.
"Hermione," He said lowly, "You did nothing wrong."
"I did," She argued quietly, "I killed someone. That's wrong. I don't even think he was going to kill me, and I—"
"He kidnapped you, threw you in his trunk, and threatened you with a gun," Tom reminded her severely, he trailed his nose into her hair, but all he could smell was the blood, "Whether or not you think he was going to kill you is irrelevant, the fact of the matter remains that had he still been alive when I got here, he wouldn't be anymore. And what I would do to him would be much worse than a blow to the back of the head."
"It was an accident," She defended sharply, her fingers curling into his shoulders.
"I know," He assured her, his lips by her ear, "Which is exactly why you did nothing wrong."
"Hey," Hermione tensed, and Tom turned his eyes up to Harry in the doorway, "Uh—Bella says you'll need to clean up and—deal with Rodolphus…whatever that means. Shall I—?"
"It's time to go," Tom murmured at her ear, and she nodded, turning in Tom's arms to meet Harry's eyes. He smiled a tight, sad smile and offered his hand, which she tentatively took, her hand shaking before her grasped it and pulled her gently to her feet. Part of tom didn't want her to go, wished she could stay with him even if it meant she would see whatever him and Bella did to clean up her mess, but there was some part of her yet that remained untainted, and he wanted to keep it that way. She didn't need to be exposed to anything more that night, or ever, if he had any say in it.
Harry enveloped her in his arms, kept her head tucked into his chest as they passed the body, tried to keep it out of her sight until they were gone. Tom picked up the phone which lay on the balcony floor before he stood as well, stepping calmly into the living room and shutting the screen door behind him.
"What's first?" Bella asked, sat upon one of the lush armchairs in the room. He hesitated, examining the body where it lay by the glass table.
"We have to clean up," He told her, "get rid of any evidence of Hermione being here,"
"And the body?" She asked.
"Will have to stay," He told her, "Hermione said he's been making calls to Rodolphus, asking to meet him, which means Rodolphus knew he was here with her. If we hide the body it will only rouse suspicion from him."
"So Rodolphus?" She pressed.
Tom hesitated, images of everything he wanted to do to Rodolphus running through his mind. But he needed to be careful, meticulous, he couldn't just kill him and be done with it. That would only succeed in two bodies to hide, not to mention the search party that their parents will send. He needed a plan, something to spin the situation. After a moment of silence, he met Bella's eyes again, who seemed to be back to her old self, lounging in the chair and looking much to pleased.
"In your personal opinion," He began nonchalantly, "What would drive Rodolphus to murder his brother."
Bella lit up, "Not a lot," She admitted, "They fight, but nothing quite like this."
"Jealousy?" He suggested. She paused, thoughtfully, before she replied.
"Quite dramatic," She said.
"But possible?" He pressed.
"Probable," She agreed, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as she took another moment of silence in thought. After a moment, she grinned. "And imagine how devastated Roddy would be when such a terrible accident happens."
"Yes," He agreed, a bit distractedly, "Devastated,"
"I suppose I'll be the reason," She sighed, "Affair, probably. I suppose I can kiss my easy ticket into the Lestrange fortune goodbye, at this point."
Tom eyed her for a moment, contemplated the put-out, but not quite upset tone of her voice. He hadn't truly considered, before that moment, that Bella had any personal interest in any of this. He knew he could count on her to help only because, out of everyone he knew, Bella was the only one he felt even an inkling of loyalty to, or even an ounce of trust for. For all her love for drama, she was still someone he felt he could count on. He hadn't, however, considered that she would help him purely on the grounds that she wanted to. He had assumed her interest in Hermione began and ended in the knowledge that the best way to get under his skin was to get under hers.
But the way she so readily agreed, the way she hadn't seemed to carry an ounce of humor in her until Hermione was found, he wondered if her loyalty didn't end with him. He was grateful, if it didn't.
"I'll remember this." He promised her, and her dark eyes snapped up to meet his.
After a moment, she replied. "I know," She said, with a quiet sort of finality that brought whatever moment it was to an end. And then, with a grin that stretched across her features in that familiar, slow way, she said, "Shall we get started?"
"See if you can track Lestrange," He told her, "Find out where he is, how much time we have."
She nodded once, hopping to her feet and pulling her phone from her pocket, "Well then," She murmured, "All this trouble I'm going to, I think I at least deserve a kiss."
"I'm not kissing you," He muttered, starting toward the kitchen to see if there was anything to clean with—just to wipe down any areas or prints Hermione might've left behind.
"Wasn't referring to you." She fired back. She grinned in the face of his glare.
—
The ride back to Bella's house for Harry, Hermione, and Malfoy was mostly silent. Harry sat with Hermione in the back, his arm around her shoulders, content to remain in silence until they were somewhat alone. He figured that Hermione knew Malfoy had some idea of what was going on, but there was no reason to make her talk about it while Malfoy could listen in. Hermione had stopped crying, at least, and she sat beside him in silence.
When they reached Bella's flat, Malfoy flopped down on the couch and promptly ignored them, intent on sleeping there as it seemed. Harry gently led Hermione to Bella's room.
"Do you want," He started, weakly gesturing to the blood, "Uh—to—" She shook her head, not meeting his eyes, "Okay, that's—that's fine," He agreed weakly. He led her to the bed, laid down beside her, wrapped her up in his arms and tried to think of something to say, something to make her feel better and to make her stop looking at him like he was going to yell at her or something.
She spoke first. "I'm sorry," She said.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, 'Mione." He assured her.
"I do," She told him, "You don't deserve to be wrapped up in this—"
"And you do?" He challenged. She sniffed, and her fingers curled into his side.
"I just mean," She started, her voice breaking, "That you—you shouldn't have to deal with all this—this—illegal stuff—and hide secrets for me—and—"
"I don't care." He told her sternly, a bit annoyed that she thought to single him out from all of this at all, "Hermione, you're my friend, I'm just happy you're alive, I don't care if you—"
"But you want to be a cop," She said unevenly, "And how can you—all of this—and—"
"I don't," He interrupted, "I don't want to be a cop."
She didn't answer straight away, the two of them laying there in silence for a moment. "You don't?" She asked after a moment, "Is it…because of me?"
"Nah," He said lightly, "I've been considering it for a while. I just think I'm not…it's not for me."
"What do you…want to do then?" She asked.
"I'm not sure," He admitted, "Maybe…be a teacher."
"Teacher?" She echoed.
"Yeah," He affirmed, "I'm told I'm the type."
She hummed thoughtfully in response, "Yeah," She agreed quietly, "I can kind of see it."
"Yeah?" He asked.
She hummed again, "I mean you practically got Ron through his GCSEs," She said.
"So did you," He told her.
"No," She disagreed lightly, "He didn't like me helping, since I'm younger. It made him feel stupid."
"You make everyone feel stupid," He told her. She laughed quietly, he felt the shaking of her shoulders as she did.
"Especially Ron," She joked, and this time he laughed with her. But a moment into her laughter, it morphed into a cry, "You can't tell him," She said weakly, "He can't—I can't bear to think how he would look at me if—"
"I won't tell him," He promised her, "I won't tell anyone. I promise. Tom and Bella will fix this, and no one else has to know, okay?" She nodded against his chest. "And I don't care," He assured her, "I'd rather have you alive than him."
She nodded again, and he felt the quiet sobs that wracked her shoulders, but this time she didn't let them sound.
"You're my best friend," He told her, "I love you."
"Ron's your best friend." She protested weakly.
"You can have more than one," He pointed out.
"I guess so," She agreed, "But it's different."
"Yeah it is," He agreed, "But not completely different."
She didn't answer after that, and the two of them laid there in silence. It didn't take long, once they stopped talking and she stopped shaking, for Hermione to fall asleep. Harry waited for a while after she did, not wanting to wake her, until he finally untangled himself from her and tucked her underneath the blankets as best he could without upsetting her rest. He wished she would have washed her face or something, but he didn't have the heart to make her if she didn't want to, so he left her bloodied and resting.
In the living room, Malfoy was asleep on the couch, and Harry took much less care with him.
"Oi," He said, shaking his shoulder, nearly laughing at the way Malfoy flinched awake and stared at him for a few seconds in bleary, half-asleep confusion. "Did they call you?"
"What?"
"Did they call you?" He repeated, "To say if they're coming back or—"
"How the fuck should I know?" Malfoy moaned, throwing his head back as he did. Harry remained silent and glared, and after a moment Draco sighed a bit dramatically and reached in his pocket for his phone, glancing down at the screen before shoving it in Harry's face. "There. Nothing." He told him.
Harry nodded, noted the time was nearly three in the morning now, and sighed. Setting his hands on his hips, he stood awkwardly by the couch for a moment saying nothing. Malfoy just stared up at him, his expression caught between annoyance and confusion.
"Uh—thanks." Harry said after a moment. Malfoy's expression didn't change, and Harry realized it probably seemed like he was just thanking him for the time, so he tried to clarify, "Uh—for—you know," He shrugged, "Not being a total arsehole."
Malfoy smirked at that, still bleary eyed, and stretched his arms above his head. He let them hang there, off the side of the couch behind him. "Yeah?" He prompted.
"Yeah," Harry agreed, "For…you know."
"For not letting your friend die in the back of some bloke's trunk?" Harry flinched at that, glaring down at the blonde boy, "Yeah, I made a bloody phone call, Potter, not exactly worth thanking."
"For fucks sake," Harry muttered under his breath, already regretting speaking to him, "You're a real arsehole, you know that?" He griped, turning away form him and then throwing himself in the armchair across from the sofa.
"You just said I'm not." Draco pointed out.
"I said your not a total arsehole," Harry clarified sharply, running his hands through his hair before letting his head drop back. He stared at the ceiling, intent on ignoring the other boy, who was watching him as he fidgeted.
"Well, you're welcome." Malfoy replied. Harry peered at him down the bridge of his nose, slowly raising his head and examining him. He had followed Harry's lead and was staring up at the ceiling, and Harry was a bit surprised he didn't immediately go back to sleep. He didn't know what to say, but he still felt the need to say something, to fill the silence.
After a moment, he tersely said, "You can't tell anyone."
Malfoy scoffed, casting a look in Harry's direction as if to portray he thought he was an idiot, "Believe me," He drawled, "I don't want your mess of a girlfriend to wind up in prison," He gestured to the room where he knew Hermione was in, "She wouldn't last."
Harry was ready to snap back at him, but after a moment he realized there wasn't really much meanness in Malfoy's tone, not enough to justify an angered response, at least. He took a moment to think of a response, not used to this type of conversation. Ron was pretty straightforward, and when he said something mean he generally meant it. Malfoy seemed to say something mean simply for the sake of saying it.
"Nah," Harry said after a moment's thought, "She'd be fine. She has enough of Tom in her—and he can be pretty scary when he wants, it seems."
Malfoy's whole face lit up like Christmas, and he said quickly back, "Yeah, I think she's had plenty of Tom in her."
Harry felt his ears get hot, and he picked up the cushion behind him to chuck it at Malfoy as hart as he could. "Jesus, fuck, mate," He heaved, pushing the mental image from his head, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Malfoy caught the cushion, and one of those nasty smirks stretched across his face again. "Did you just call me mate?"
Harry hadn't realized that he had. It had just slipped out without him even meaning to, so when Malfoy pointed it out, he could do nothing other than stare at him in silence for a few moments, which Malfoy just seemed to adore. "Uh—" He started, "No," He shook his head, turning his eyes away, "No, I didn't, I said—uh—"
"Yeah?"
"Just—shut up." Harry snapped, but it had very little heat. Malfoy shrugged.
"Sure," He agreed far too easily, and then pointedly added, "Mate,"
"I take it back," Harry said, "You are a total arsehole."
Malfoy laughed, a short, barking sound that reminded Harry a bit of his godfather. They didn't say anything else, for a while, and Harry couldn't help but think about how easy it was to joke with him. Maybe it was the fact that they were sort of complicit in a murder, or something, but banter with Malfoy had never been so…well, it had never been possible at all.
He watched Malfoy's eyes close, watched the even expansions of his chest, and thought how strange this all was. And he wasn't even angry, not really, at how suddenly everything had just changed, more than anything he was relieved. He would have been a shit cop, he thought, or maybe if he was a good cop he would have been an unhappy one. And he probably would have hated Malfoy still which, while not exactly a tragedy, probably wouldn't have been fair considering Malfoy didn't really seem as horrible as he always thought. At least, not under it all.
Clearing his throat, Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and writhing his hands together. "I uh—" He started, forcing himself to meet Malfoy's eyes when he turned to him because this was important, he needed to say it. "I meant it, when I said thank you." He told him, "If you hadn't made that call, no one would have known she was gone until she was probably dead, and—uh—" He swallowed, his eyes falling somewhere to the side without meaning to, "Whether or not you think that's worth thanking," he continued, meeting his gaze again, "It means the world to me."
Malfoy looked exceedingly uncomfortable, and for the first time looked as if he was at a loss of any snarky comebacks. Harry actually wished he would just throw back something obnoxious, because at least that would be better than the incredibly awkward and intense silence that followed what he said. Instead, he just stared at him, eyes a bit wide and brow furrowed as if he had been genuinely shocked by the sincerity. Harry cleared his throat, looked away, fidgeted for a moment before standing up again. "I, uh—I'm gonna look after Hermione and uh, let you…sleep."
"Yeah," Malfoy agreed, "Okay."
He didn't move right away, just stood there and battled the urge to punch himself in the face. "Okay." He nodded.
He spent the rest of the time in the room with Hermione, just in case she woke up. He assume Malfoy went back to sleep in the front room.
—
Rodolphus arrived at quarter-past four in the morning. Bella and Tom were sharing a cigarette on the balcony when he stumbled upon his brother's body.
"Evening, Rodolphus," Tom greeted, crossing the doorway into the livingroom. Rodolphus, half crouched over his brother's body, turned his head slowly and stared up at Tom in a mix of fury and shock and grief.
"What—" He choked, "What have you done, you fucking—"
Tom seized him by the shoulder and kept him still as he punched him in the face hard enough to break his nose. Lestrange swore, and Tom seized the moment Lestrange took to nurse his nose to grab him by the throat and throw him to the ground, following up with a kick to the stomach.
"Don't get too carried away," Bella called from the balcony, still smoking her cigarette, "It won't do us any good if you beat him to death." Tom sighed sharply through his nose, considered ignoring her, but she added, "Not to mention it might not be wise to get his blood on your clothes."
He rolled his eyes, knowing she had a point, and he pulled Lestrange quickly to his feet, shoving him in the direction of the couch. He reached behind him, pulled the gun he had tucked into the waistband of his trousers and held it out so that Lestrange wouldn't try to fight back.
The moment the gun showed, Lestrange's expression shifted form fury to terror, and he lifted his hands in the air in front of him, "Wait!" He called, "No, don't, I—"
"Shut up," Tom snapped, "And sit down."
He did as he was told, hesitating when he passed Rob's body on the ground. "Jesus," He shuddered, "Can't you at least shut his eyes?"
Tom ignored him, stepping over Rabastan's legs so that he could sit on the glass table across from Rodolphus, who cowered on the couch. "Now where did you get ahold of a gun in London?" He asked quietly.
"You're a fucking monster," Rodolphus snapped, "You fucking killed him—"
"You told him to kill Hermione," Tom fired back, "Did you honestly believe that would go unpunished?"
"He wasn't supposed to—" Lestrange's eyes filled with tears, the first overt display of emotion Tom was sure he had ever seen on him. He tilted his head as he regarded him, watched the grief play upon his face. He hadn't expected him to grieve. Fear and anger he had expected, but with how recklessly Rodolphus threw his brother's life around, he hadn't expected him to care much if he died. "He was just supposed to kill her—he wasn't supposed to drag her back here." Tom gritted his teeth, "He was just supposed to slit her fucking throat and be done with it—random murder—" Tom leaned forward, pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple, soaked up the way Lestrange cowered away.
"Tom," Bella snapped. Tom cast a quick, irritated glance in her direction and refused to lower the gun. Lestrange was very near hyperventilating at this point.
"Why?" Tom seethed.
"I just—" He glanced between the gun and Tom's severe expression. "You involved me in a fucking murder," He spat, "I just wanted you to feel as fucking scared as I felt."
It took ever ounce of Tom's self control not to pull the trigger then and there. He glanced at Bella once more, her jaw clenched as she watched him, and it was only because he knew it would do Hermione no good that he was able to lower the gun.
"So—so what are you going to do?" Lestrange demanded, his voice growing shrill, "Is this—another one of your fucking power plays? What—I'm supposed to just do whatever you say because you killed my fucking brother—?"
"No." Tom interrupted tiredly, "That's not what this is."
"Then what the fuck do you want?" He spat.
Tom took a moment to silently observe him, the shaking of his shoulders and the terror in his eyes. He had expected him to be more of a problem, once he arrived. He had expected him to fight back, or threaten him—he had attempted to orchestrate a hit on Hermione, after all—but instead Rodolphus seemed to teeter on the edge of a breakdown, constantly glancing at his brother's body as if he honestly hadn't expected this to be the outcome, as if he hadn't expected him to die. All this time Tom had treated him as something of an equal, at least in terms of how dangerous he was, all this time Tom thought he had underestimated him.
He thought now perhaps he had overestimated him instead. How disappointing.
"I want you to die." Tom answered candidly, just so that he could see the fear play across his features.
"Tom, may I remind you we don't have all night," Bella drawled.
"I'm enjoying myself," He answered evenly.
"You sick bastard—" Lestrange started, but Tom cut him off, backhanding him across the face.
"Yes, I can see that," Bella griped, "But I'd rather like to get this over with before it all goes wrong."
"You worry too much," He told her, keeping eye contact with Lestrange because he could see how much is unnerved him.
"You don't worry enough." She challenged. He met her eyes for a long moment before he huffed a breath through his nose.
"Fine," He agreed.
He moved so quickly, Lestrange wasn't even able to rear back and away from him. His hand seized his jaw, holding his mouth open so that he could slide the barrel of the gun between his teeth. He jerked back and away, trying to turn his head away from the gun. Bella leaned over from behind him, her cheek pressed against his and her arm winding under his chin, her hand against the other side of his head to hold him still. "Relax, Roddy," She cooed.
Tom kept the gun still, reached down for his right hand and dragged it up to wrap it around the handle of the gun, but he couldn't exactly pull the trigger while he was fighting against him. That would hardly look natural. "You should know," Tom said calmly, quietly, "I didn't kill your brother."
His words had the desired effect, and Rodolphus—likely against his better judgement—stilled and stared at him with wide, horrified eyes. Bella moved back, her hands resting on his shoulders before she pulled further away. And when Tom smiled, it was wide and horrific and proud, "Hermione killed him."
He pulled the trigger before he could see Lestrange's reaction.
He pulled his hand back immediately after, letting the gun and the hand fall naturally, and he peeled the glove he wore off his hand and slid it into his pocket. He would have to get rid of everything he worse today, most likely, just to be safe. He took a moment to examine the body, the head that had fallen back against the back of the couch, the blood that seeped into the cushions, the stillness of the man that only a few hours ago had nearly killed what was inarguably the most important thing in his life. It didn't feel like enough, his hands still itching to hit something.
He hadn't ever fired a gun before.
He glanced up at Bella, who stood very still behind Lestrange. She had moved somewhat to the side, but it didn't stop her being sprayed by the blood, the bright red starkly contrasting with her pale skin, even in the darkness of the living room. When he caught her eye, she slowly started to smile.
And then she laughed. It bubbled up in her chest, starting out as something close to a girlish giggle before evolving into something a bit more crazed, white teeth bared and eyes dancing. He watched her while she laughed, the gleeful arch of her neck, and he found it odd that he was certain he had never seen her look so thoroughly delighted until they found themselves standing over a man they killed.
"You should go," She told him when her laughter died down. "I have to call the police. My poor fiancé just killed himself, and I'm rather shocked."
"Don't mess this up." He warned her.
"Honestly Tom," She drawled, her mouth still stuck in the widest grin he'd ever seen, "You have no faith in me."
—
When Tom returned, after leaving Bella behind to call the police and spin the story which would no doubt be played on every news station that could get their hands on it, Potter greeted him at the door.
"She's asleep," He told him immediately, without Tom even having to ask, "She didn't wash off the blood, she said she didn't want to, so I didn't push it. But she's alright, she—"
"Thank you." Tom said shortly, and he meant it, but he didn't have the patience to sound sincere. Harry seemed a bit put off, but ultimately let it slide, nodded once, and turned to Malfoy who was still asleep on the couch.
"Hey," He said, shoving his shoulder, "We should go."
"What fucking time is it—?" Malfoy started, still half asleep.
"Time for you to leave." Tom snapped irritably, quietly enjoying the way Malfoy flinched awake and rolled off the couch, brushing off Potter's hand when the darker haired boy reached out to steady him. Tom waited until they left, until the door shut behind them, before he turned and quietly made his way to the bedroom.
Her face was shoved into the pillow, blankets wrapped around her haphazardly, almost entirely hiding her except for her hair that puffed out around the pillow. It was just past five o'clock in the sun already rising and shining in through Bella's windows, playing upon her hair in a way that only made the blood more visible, the blood she had carded through her hair from her fingers. She needed to wash it off, whether she wanted to or not.
He sat on the bed beside her, reaching out and pulling down the edge of the blanket so he could see her face, half hidden in her pillow. "Hermione," He called, brushing the hair from her face. She didn't wake up, so he pulled the blankets down off her shoulders, the loss of warmth making her scrunch up her nose and moan. "Wake up." He told her.
"Tom?" She rasped, eyes blinking open, and he had to take a deep, calming breath when the thought happened upon him that he had come far too close to never seeing this again, seeing her, hearing her voice. "Is everything done?" She asked.
"We need to clean you up," He told her. "Get up."
She hesitated, watching him warily from her place buried underneath the blankets before she nodded, pulling herself up into a sitting position and letting the blankets fall. She sat there for a moment longer, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. He didn't rush her, just watched the slow movements of her body until she finally drew herself out of bed and started slowly toward the bathroom. He followed.
She stood quietly in the bathroom when he entered, chewing at her thumbnail in thought. He guided her closer to the shower as he entered, his hand pressing into the small of her back, his other hand reaching to turn the shower on. She didn't say anything else, and while it was not entirely unusual for Hermione to fall into extended moments of silence, it was certainly unlike her to leave so many questions unanswered. But he didn't say anything, didn't want to anger her, not now, so soon after he almost lost her when she was still covered in blood.
"Can you stay?" She asked, and he nodded because he never had any intention to leave. She nodded, too, and took a calming breath before pulling her shirt up above her head and holding it in her hands "Do you need to get rid of the clothes?" She asked. He nodded, so she silently handed him the shirt instead of dropping it on the floor
"You can borrow something of Bella's." He told her. She unbuttoned her jeans while he spoke, sliding them off her legs and kicking them off her feet, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of her underwear and sliding those off, too, before picking both those and the jeans up to hand to Tom, unclasping her bra and handing that over. The movements were jerky, rushed, so before he left the bathroom to find her something to wear after her shower, his hand slid across her jaw, his thumb fanning out across her cheek. She paused for a moment, meeting his eyes.
"I'm alright," She assured him, "I just…don't want to see the blood…going down the drain."
"Then don't look," He offered, and she let out a surprised laugh.
"Right," She scoffed, turning her eyes to the shower drain, "That easy."
"Hermione," He called in a low voice, drawing her eyes back, but whatever he planned to say he didn't get the chance.
"What did you do?" She asked. He hesitated for a moment.
"Get clean," He told her in leu of an answer, "I'll find you something to wear,"
"Don't look at the blood?" She guessed. He observed her for a moment in silence, but at a loss of what to say, pressed a kiss against her forehead and simply offered for her to call for him if she needed him, before he left the bathroom in search of something for her to wear.
Hermione didn't mind, really, that he didn't offer much in terms of verbal comfort. Tom had never truly been good with words unless he was trying to tear someone down, so she didn't expect him to be able to strip her of the panic and the worry and the distress of everything that had happened. But it was enough to have him there, to see that the way he looked at her hadn't changed, to feel the warmth of his hand at her cheek and know that even if everything turned on its head in an hour she would still have him, looking at her the same way he had since they were kids, like she was important, like she was something to be protected.
She didn't look at the blood, kept her eyes shut as she scrubbed at her face and her hair, rinsed her hands clean. Once she was certain she couldn't see red staining the water at her feet, she opened her eyes, borrows Bella's expensive shampoo and let that smell overtake the smell of blood in her hair.
When Tom came back, he had the borrowed clothes in his hand and a towel for her to dry. She got dressed quickly, dried her hair with the towel in a way she was absolutely certain was going to turn her hair into an absolute mess, but she just didn't want it to drip onto Bella's sweater.
"This sweater feels like it costs more than my entire wardrobe." She told him, pulling the sleeves over her hands and shuffling toward where he was sitting on the bed.
"It probably does." He told her, his hands reaching for her when she neared him, resting on her hips. She ran her hands through his hair before her hands found his shoulders.
"Do I have to go home now?" She asked. He pursed his lips and shook his head.
"Not if you don't want to." He told her, "Not yet."
She took a deep breath and nodded, pushing back on his shoulders so signal she wanted to lie down. He did as she silently commanded, shifting back until they laid back against the pillowed, pulling Hermione close so she could rest her head against his shoulder, his arms around her waist.
"How long until I have to go home?" She asked.
"It's only five," He told her, "What time do you think your parents will expect you back?"
"They would have expected me last night," she told him, "But they won't panic until afternoon, probably."
"Then we have all morning." He murmured.
"Where is Bella?" She asked.
"Spinning the story with Lestrange," He answered evenly, "She'll likely be out all day." There was a brief hesitation before he added, "If you wanted to see her, you'd have to wait until this evening."
"Alright," She agreed a bit robotically, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "What did you do?"
He had avoided the question earlier, uninterested in the reaction he was certain she would have. His fingers tightened around her waist, "You don't want to hear it." He promised her.
She pushed up against his chest, raising her head so she could meet his eyes, and there was something familiar in her eyes—that stubbornness she always had—but something a bit unfamiliar as well, and she said firmly, "Yes, I do."
He stared up at her in silent contemplation before he shifted, pushed her down against the mattress and hovered over her, watching her expression. It was a while before he finally answered her. "He shot himself in the mouth." He told her, straightforwardly. She clenched her jaw, lifting her hands and trailing her fingers across his cheeks.
"Did he?" She pressed.
"That's what it looks like," He told her, and after a moment he added, "I had never fired a gun before."
She drew her lower lip between her teeth, and he watched the movement, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment when she dragged her fingers through his hair. "Yeah?" She prompted.
"I didn't like it," He confessed, open and honest, "It wasn't enough."
"Enough?" She asked carefully. He had himself propped above her with one arm at her side, but the other slid underneath her borrowed sweater, his fingers curling around her waist and his nails biting into her skin.
"It was too quick," He clarified, his voice raspy as she gently dragged her nails down the back of his scalp. "I wanted him to suffer," She paused, her fingers still at the back of his neck as his hand slid around beneath her back. "I wanted him to hurt, for what he did to you."
"But I'm alright," She assured him, her voice shaking, propping herself up on one elbow, her other hand still at the back of his neck, "I'm alright,"
"But I'm not," He admitted quietly, his eyes jumping between hers, his hand still hot at her back. "I spent the past six hours facing the possibility that I might find you dead," Her hand shifted so that her thumb could fan across his cheek, back and forth, a small gesture of comfort that she wasn't even sure he needed but she gave him on the off chance that he did. "It took every ounce of my self control not to take a knife and skin him alive," He told her, "I wanted to hear him scream, to see—"
She shushed him gently, partly because his voice had started to shake with anger and partly because she didn't want to hear every torturous thing he wanted to do, even if it was to the man who nearly had her killed. But she couldn't find it in herself to be angry with him for thinking it, couldn't find the strength to lecture him for his lack of morals or his violent tendencies. She let herself fall back against the pillow so that her other hand could raise to rest against his other cheek, her eyes flittering around his expression, taking in the tightness of his eyes and the downturn of his lips.
"Are you upset?" He asked her, and they both knew what he meant. He wanted to know if she was angry with him for wanting to hurt him, if she was angry that he killed him or that the only reason he hadn't liked the gunshot was the mercy it allowed. She felt her throat well up again, as if she was about to cry, but she shook her head and swallowed it down. She had cried enough, she thought.
"I love you," She said instead, "And I don't want to fight anymore."
There was a moment's hesitation, before the arm that kept him propped above her slid so that his fingers carded through her hair, his hand at her back pulling her closer as his lips found hers. He felt warm and familiar and overwhelming, something wonderful coiling in her stomach when his tongue slid between her teeth and tangled with hers. It felt lovely and normal and she was struck by a sudden sense of guilt that she should feel so happy when mere hours before she had—
She slid her hands into his hair and pulled, hooking her leg around his hip and grinding her hips against his. He broke away from her lips with a sharp intake of breath, "Hermione—" He warned.
"No, please don't," She begged, holding him close, not letting him pull away, "Don't stop, please don't—I don't want you to stop."
She kissed him again, her hands dropping down to slide under his shirt and drag her nails down his stomach. He groaned against her mouth, his hand leaving her hair so he could slide his palm up the bare skin of her thigh, sliding under her borrowed shorts so that he cupped her backside, and when he bore his hips down into hers she sighed against his lips.
She slid her hands further under his shirt, drawing it up his waist and forcing it off. He pulled away just long enough to allow her to pull the shirt up over his head before he tossed it to the side. His lips sought out her throat, trailing down from her jaw, swipes of tongue and scrapes of teeth. She bared her neck, her hands sliding up his back to pull him closer as desperate, breathy moan fell from her lips. His nails dug into her back, his teeth catching at her throat, but it wasn't enough. She wanted that out-of-control, spiraling feeling, the overwhelming sensation of him surrounding her, she didn't want to think, she didn't want to think about anything else—but she could feel him holding back, and whether he was holding back for his sake or hers, she didn't care. She wanted to strip him of that restraint.
She hooked her other leg around his hip, her hand wrapping around one of his wrists and dragging his hand down her stomach, until both their fingers dipped under the waistband of her shorts. He groaned against her neck when his hand slid between her thighs, when he felt how wet she was, and she released his hand to grip at his back again, her nails already biting into his skin. Slowly, his fingers dragged up her slit, his teeth digging into her shoulder when her hips jerked and she moaned.
"Tom, please—" She breathed, when his fingers circled around her clit and then traveled back down, gentle and careful and controlled. She tried to roll her hips against his fingers, but his hand at her rear slid around so that he was pinning her hip to the bed
"What do you want?" He rasped, lifting his head so that his lips were at her ear, holding her still while his finger circled her clit once more. The tone of his voice, desperate and commanding, sent a wave of heat between her legs. "Tell me what you want,"
But she didn't know what she wanted, she wasn't even sure what to expect. She knew she wanted him, completely and freely and unrestrained, she wanted him to feel as lost in her as she always did in him when he kissed her. She wanted to forget about what happened hours before, she wanted to forget about everything except him and his hands and his mouth, and more than anything she wanted him to stop holding back.
But she didn't know how to say that, didn't know how to make him lose control unless she made him. After a moment's hesitation, her hands slid down his chest, dragging her nails again just to hear the stutter in his breath at her ear. His finger slid into her, and it sent a delicious spark through her abdomen, but she still grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. Before he could say anything, even though he shifted as if to look her in the eye and see what was wrong, she unbuttoned his trousers, slid her hand in, and she couldn't help the intake of breath when she felt him, hard and hot and wanting her. "I want you to come this time," She said in his ear.
Immediately, he snatched her wrists, pulled them away and pinned them above her head so she couldn't reach for him. He watched her for a moment, pupils blown wide and breath uneven, and then his lips twitched upwards in that almost smile and her heart stuttered. "Alright," He said, his lips pressing against the corner of her mouth, the center of her cheek, just underneath her ear, "But not yet." He kept her wrists pinned above her head, returning to her neck and dragging open-mouthed kisses down to her collar bone. His hands slowly slid down her arms as he went, as his lips trailed to her bare chest, and as his tongue swirled around her nipple she arched her back against him, her hands falling town to twine through his hair.
As soon as she had touched him he seized her wrists again and dragged them away, pinned them to the mattress once more. "Don't move," He ordered, and while normally any command he gave her resulted in her doing exactly the opposite, she found in the moment she didn't particularly mind. Slowly, she turned her hands to curl her fingers into the pillows, and something dark and mesmerizing flashed across his eyes.
He continued his descent, moved past her chest and down her stomach, dragging her shorts down over her legs. She gripped the pillows so tightly she was afraid they would tear, fighting the instinct to touch him, and when his tongue glided up and over her clit she had to stretch her arms above her head and grip the headboard, arching her back and pressing her hips against his mouth. It felt just like the last time, fantastic and overwhelming and intimate, but now it didn't feel like an apology, it wasn't careful and meticulous, it was haphazard and rough and he didn't wait to slide his fingers into her, curling them and dragging them back out so that she had had to fight the urge not to scream. She hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, her heel digging into his back, and when he groaned she felt it reverberate through her like an echo, already so close, already unraveling under the ministrations of his mouth and his hands and—
When she came, her fingers dug into the wood of the headboard, the scrape of her nails unheard over the volume of her cries, and his fingers gripped at her thigh so tightly it hurt, hurt despite the pleasure of his other hand in her cunt, his tongue at her clit. She wondered if he would leave bruises when they were done. She hoped he did.
She could barely breathe when her orgasm faded away, but he didn't stop. Her hands fell from the headboard, threading through his hair to pull him away because ever movement of his tongue sent near-painful jolts of electricity through her. He lifted his head, reached up and pulled her hand from his hair and slowly moving back up her body, his hand replacing his tongue, his thumb pressing firmly into her clit. She pulled at her wrist, her hand sliding into his as her fingers curled and her nails dug into the back of his hand, her other hand at his shoulder. "Tom—" She started, cutting herself off with a choked whine, her back arching again as she felt the telltale signs of an orgasm building in her lower abdomen, the pressure coiling in her stomach and threatening to undo her.
She could hardly breathe, pulling in lungfuls of air just to let them rush out in moans and cries and whimpers. She hadn't felt anything like this before, hadn't ever experienced an orgasm so soon after the other, but she could feel it building so quickly and intensely it felt like an attack. "Tom—" She choked again, but this time without the intent to stop him, undulating her hips against his fingers and throwing her head back to moan her assent. He watched her for a moment, watched her come undone beneath him, before leaning in to press just underneath her jaw, trailing to her ear.
"I won't ever let anything happen to you," He swore, his tone uneven, disjointed, his voice raspy and low, his lips pressed against the shell of her ear as he spoke. Her fingers moved from his shoulder to thread through his hair again, holding his head there, unable to form any sort of articulate response, "I'll kill anyone who lays a hand on you—" Her nails curled against his scalp, and he fell silent, his fingers still dipping in and out of her and his thumb pressing cruel and steady circles into her clit.
"I know—" She managed, her voice higher than she meant and punctuated by gasps, jerking her hips into his hand. Later she might explain to him that the last thing she wants him to do is start killing anyone who means her harm, but at the moment she doesn't care, she sees his words for what they are—an apology for everything she went through, everything she had to do, and a confession, too, assuring her he was hers. And there was so much she wanted to tell him in that moment; that none of this was his fault, that she didn't blame him, that she wasn't scared anymore, not with him. She wanted to tell him that all she had thought about while she was taken was him, wanting him, missing him, she wanted to tell him that she didn't care what he had done to Rodolphus, what he wanted to do—but all she could say was, "I know," And as his fingers brought her over the edge, she gasped, "I'm yours—"
His teeth dug into the skin just below her ear, but it did nothing to muffle the groan that left his lips, and he ground his hips into her. She felt the hardness of his erection against her hipbone, and when he pulled away form her neck and withdrew his fingers from her cunt she caught his wrist, dragged his hand up to her mouth and pulled his wet fingers into her mouth. She liked the way his jaw clenched, and she smiled a bit impishly when she said, "Your turn?"
He huffed an almost-laugh, withdrawing his hands from hers so that one could cup her cheek and the other pulled her legs around his waist as his lips met hers again, hungrier this time, with less precision and more teeth. Her hands went for his pants, pulling them roughly down his hips so he could kick them off, and she found that despite the attention he had already paid to her, she was still soaking wet and desperate for him, a tight feeling in her abdomen that begged for him. She felt a bit selfish, wanting to feel him inside her instead of using her hands or her mouth like he had, but she figured she had a bit of a right in that moment to be selfish.
"Condom?" She asked, a touch of nervousness in her tone. She knew what to expect out of this, for the most part, but the fact remained that she had never experienced it before, and the unknown send a certain amount of anxiety through her. But she still wanted him, wanted him despite the nervousness. He swore, against her lips, turning to the side to pull open Bella's bedside drawer and shuffle through whatever was inside it. She watched his expression as he did, his eyebrows pulled together and his jaw set—he looked so annoyed that they had to pause for even a moment and for some strange reason, the familiar sight of that expression put her more at ease than anything else. She cupped his jaw, peppered kisses along his cheek and his neck quickly and excitedly and happily as he slammed the drawer shut and opened the one below it instead.
He found a condom there, pulled one out and ripped the packet open with his teeth. "I'll have to thank Bella later," Hermione joked.
"You will not be thanking Bella," He told her.
"No?" She pressed, and when he pushed into her she moaned, half in pain and half in pleasure, the unfamiliar feeling of being filled so completely causing her breath to catch. And it did hurt, quite a lot, but with the pain came satisfaction, too.
"No." He agreed, one hand holding her leg around his hips and the other sliding under so that his fingers splayed across her upper back, between her shoulder blades, "Are you alright?" He asked.
She nodded, her breath coming quick and uneven, "Move." She told him.
"Are you sure?" He murmured, as if he didn't really believe she was ready yet. Irritated that he wasn't listening to her, she clenched herself around his cock, lifting her other leg to hook her ankles behind him. His fingers dug into her thigh, and he grunted, his hips jerking forward without meaning to. A flash of pain shot out from her core, tendrils shooting out between her thighs and up into her stomach like electricity, but she liked it. Her breath hitched, a cry spilling from her lips as he drew out slowly and pushed back in.
"Harder," She gasped, begged, as his hand slid up her back and her neck until his fingers were in her hair, clenched into a fist and baring her neck to him again.
"Yeah?" He breathed against her throat.
"Yes," She panted, "Please—" He snapped his hips forward suddenly, and Hermione might've thrown her head back at the sensations it caused if it weren't for his hand in her hair keeping her still. She moaned loudly, her hands sliding down from his shoulders and sliding around to his lower back, pulling him closer as his hips dove into hers again. The pain was less and less with each thrust, still present and sharp, but overshadowed by the sparks of pleasure with every stroke of his cock. He continued with that jagged, rough rhythm, snapping his hips into hers, his mouth alternating between lips and teeth and tongue as he traveled downward, his breath as uneven and gasping as hers, his hand pulling at her hair and his fingers bruising her thigh.
"Tom—" She gasped, but before she could beg for more, his hand at her thigh slide down to hook under her knee, pulling her leg higher up his waist, push her leg closer to his chest, his hadn't leaving her hair and wrapping almost gently around her lips, a sharp juxtaposition to the way he was so harshly thrust into her, the new angle making every movement feel like something was about to give, about to explode. He drew her hand between them, brought her fingers to her clit so she could draw quick circles into her clit while he reached down to draw her other leg further up his waist. His lips pulled away from his neck, and the way he groaned, deep and low and uncontrolled, nearly undid her in and of itself.
"Are you going to come for me?" He rasped at her ear, and she hoped he wasn't counting on a response, because she knew there was no way she could say anything at that moment, so she only responded with a strangled sort of cry. She felt close, so close, every thrust of his hips into hers she felt clear to the tips of her fingers and toes, her head felt light and the bite of his nails in the back of her knees and his voice at her ear, such a far cry from the tone he usually held—she nodded, dragged her nails down his back as hard as she could, felt the stutter in his rhythm and the way he moaned by her ear.
He came first, but she was quick to follow. When he pressed his hips into hers that final time, one of his hands moved to her waist, his nails digging into her ribs, pinning her to the mattress, and the heady groan against her ear probably would have sent her over the edge even if it hadn't been for her fingers across her clit.
They stayed there, Hermione legs falling back down to the bed and Tom's arms winding around her back, neither wanting to move until their breath had evened out and their minds came back to them. Hermione, once her head stopped spinning, lifted her hands to wrap loosely around his shoulders, and she laughed a bit breathlessly, pressing quick and sloppy kisses across his face, cupping his cheeks and keeping him still when he scoffed and tried to turn his face away.
He rolled them over, finally slipping out of her and pulling the condom off, and Hermione kept peppering his face and neck with kisses partly out of happiness and partly because she could tell it annoyed him, in some small way. She felt giddy and excited and she ached and her body thrummed and she didn't think she could just lay there and act relaxed if she tried. He caught her face between his hands to stop her, pressing his lips against hers quickly before pulling away, laying his head back beside her, but she pulled his hand away from her cheek and pressed another kiss to his palm, tracing them up to his wrist. "Hermione." He intoned, but when she smiled and looked at his face he didn't look annoyed.
"I love you," She reminded him, because she did. Because she had spent all night thinking she would never see him again, that she would die before she did, thinking that if she did see him again nothing would ever be the same, and the fact that he could lay there and throw her that barely-there-smile and look at her as if nothing had changed made her love him more than she ever had.
He turned on his side so he faced her, threaded his fingers through her hair and pressed his lips against her hairline. "I love you," He echoed, and even though she couldn't tell if he said that out of obligation or out of the genuine need to say it, she found she didn't care. He didn't need to say it for her to know it was true.
She slid her arms around his bare waist. "I know." She assured him.
She knew she would have to go home soon, face the wrath of her mother for not coming home when she said, she would have to lie about everything that happened. But for now she pressed her forehead against his collarbone and traced her fingers over the marks at his lower back, the ones she left.
They laid there in comfortable silence until they had to leave.
—
GOD DAMN IT
THIS ONE IS EVEN LONGER SHIT
IM SO FUCKING SORRY! HONESTLY! hahahahah god… i have no damn self control its just that I'm like….i need 2 fit all these scenes in….and there was still about to be n extra scene to this but lmao
IM A SHIT AND IM NOT PROOFREADING IM SORRY lmao I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH! I wanted to get this out sorta soon since it was another sort of cliff hanger u feel so like….idk….i hope this is ok? AHHH IDK OK IM JSUT FREAKING OUT I SHOULD PROOF RAD THIS BUT I CANT IM TOO SCARED anyway enjoy these 13000 WORDS IM SO FUCKING SORRY OMFG
anyway for real i love you guys, the response for last chapter was super nice! and we're almost at 900 reviews which is so exciting! so thank you s os os os os os os so much, I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH U R ALL SO NICE AND WONDERFUL i wish u all wonderful things in life u beautiful beans
ANYWAY BYE! IM SORRY! OK BYE! AHHHH!