Breath Mints / Battle Scars
XX
November 30th, 1998
McGonagall assures her that it's just a formality.
Still, her hands are cold and shaking, crusted with dried blood — every inch of her arms beneath the elbows is stained red. The front of her blouse, too.
She doesn't know what possessed her in that moment. What absurd, cautionless, lawless entity took control of her and pushed the Imperius Curse off of her tongue. What had she been thinking?
The truth of it was she hadn't been thinking. She'd been looking — at him. Watching him grow paler with each second and imagining him with one less limb. Imagining him losing one more thing as a result of this war.
And then everything Madam Pomfrey had been saying about Dark Magic just took root in her head and grew like a weed. Dark for dark, light for light.
It was only logical.
But it'd taken the Ministry no time at all to trace the Unforgiveable, and now, despite McGonagall's avid defense of her actions — despite Madam Pomfrey's and Zabini's and even bloody Parkinson's witness accounts — she's being led through the Ministry atrium, with Theodore Nott, of all people, as her companion.
"You'll be required to make a statement," the Ministry escort is explaining, "and then a twenty-four hour stay of magic will be placed on your wand."
She's numb to it. To all of it.
She can't take her mind off of that gruesome wound.
"No use lying on my account," Malfoy had said. Which meant it hadn't been an accident.
Another attempt at suicide.
It sends her into a tailspin. Of guilt and confusion and rigorous overthinking. Was it the boathouse? Was it what she'd said and hadn't meant?
Was it her fault? Again? Again? Again?
"Oi, Granger," Nott snaps and yanks her out of the way before she can walk into one of the black-tiled walls. "Pay some bloody attention."
Nott has been enlisted to serve as a neutral party — someone who won't defend her blindly, like McGonagall, but also who doesn't openly despise her, like Parkinson, although Hermione has some doubts about that. He's been fairly open in his distaste regarding her and Malfoy.
Still, he's there to speak in her defense, and for this she allows him to treat her like an imbecile at every given opportunity as they make their way to the hearing.
A small part of her brain unhelpfully floats the possibility that she's just obliterated any chance of working for the Ministry. Of becoming an Auror or a Healer.
For Malfoy.
News travels too quickly at Hogwarts. Again, she has Parkinson to thank for that.
Still, she's been blindly hoping during the entire journey back from the Ministry that she'll be able to slip into bed undetected. To deal with yet another round of heavy scrutiny in the morning, when this headache has subsided.
Luck is not with her. Hasn't been and never will be.
And when she steps through the portrait hole and into the common room, at least half a dozen pairs of eyes are waiting for her.
"Hermione?"
"'Mione?"
"What happened?"
"'Mione, bloody hell…"
Her shoulders slump. She heaves out a breath and collapses into one of the armchairs by the fireplace. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Dean, Seamus, Neville, Parvati…every Gryffindor she can possibly imagine at this point. They're all gathered around her like children expecting a bedtime story.
And for a long moment, it feels safer just to stare down at her own hands.
But they're still covered in Malfoy's blood.
"I'm sure you already know what happened," she manages at last. She pulls out her wand to cast a charm for her headache — waves it uselessly until she remembers.
Ginny catches on quickly. "They put a stay on you?"
"A what?" asks Ron around a mouthful of Turkish Delight he's eating from a box.
"A stay — a ban. She can't use magic," Ginny explains, and as she does Harry leans forward. Pulls out his own wand, green eyes gentle and cautious.
"'Mione," he says quietly, "can I…?"
For a moment, she doesn't understand. But he points the tip of his wand at her hands, and she's suddenly reminded of how uncommonly kind Harry is.
Malfoy's blood vanishes.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
"Go on, then — what happened?" Seamus says, and he's instantly hushed by Dean.
"Give her a bloody minute, mate."
"No, no…it's fine," she says primly — smoothes her skirt, now that her hands are clean. "It was a warning. The Ministry gave me a warning. That's all."
"That can't be all—"
"Shut it, Seamus."
"It makes sense, though, doesn't it?" says Parvati over them. Hermione turns to look at her, watching her twist her braid around her finger as she talks. "I mean…you're a war hero, Hermione. Malfoy's a Death Eater…"
"Ex-Death Eater," she mumbles, surprising herself. She's relieved no one seems to hear.
Parvati continues. "No one can really fault you for using whatever force needed to defend yourself."
"Yes, well, it was an Unforgiveable, so there are certain procedures that—" she stops as Parvati's words register. Thinks for a moment she might've misheard her. "Force? What do you mean force?"
They trade confused glances. Harry shifts uncomfortably.
"We heard you and Malfoy had another, erm…" he searches for a word, "altercation. And you cast the Imperius Curse. But we know it was self-defense, Hermione — don't w—"
"Oh, bloody hell," she snaps, lurching to her feet, and all of them lean back, startled. Ron swallows too quickly and chokes a bit on the Turkish Delight.
"'Mione—"
"This is unbelievable." She storms toward the dormitory stairs, but as Ginny rushes to follow, she whips around. "Malfoy didn't attack me. Don't you see? Don't you realize how unfair you're being? It's prejudice. It's bloody prejudice. Don't you see it?"
"Hermione, what on Earth are you on about?" says Ginny, gently, cautiously. She reaches out as though to grab her shoulders and calm her down. As though she's a mental patient. The others stare from behind her.
Hermione gathers a thick breath — lets it stream out through her nose, suddenly uncertain at her own fury. "Malfoy's Dark Mark was wounded," she bites out at last. "They brought him to the Hospital Wing. He didn't attack me, he was half dead. I used the Imperius Curse so Madam Pomfrey wouldn't amputate his arm." And she turns her back on their surprised eyes, starting up the stairs. "Stop listening to bloody Parkinson."
She keeps her curtains drawn tight until she's heard the other girls get into bed — listens for each individual pair of feet and the creaks of each four-poster.
She's restless. Knows already she won't sleep tonight. And for the past hour, she's been going over each and every reason she shouldn't go to the Hospital Wing in her head. There are almost too many reasons. Seemingly endless reasons.
But she keeps seeing Malfoy's last glance behind her eyelids, and it proves to be a powerful reason all its own.
And as soon as she hears Ginny's breathing even out with sleep, she's swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She doesn't bother with robes. Pads off towards the dormitory door in her lavender-striped pajamas.
This is a bad idea. She knows.
She's perfectly cognizant of the similarities between her and an addict. Mentally goes through them again as she makes her way through the dark castle, easily avoiding the memorized routes of Prefects.
Nothing positive has come from interacting with Malfoy. He's detrimental to her health — pulls her from sleep every other night with vivid dreams. He reminds her of the Manor. He's rude and arrogant and a sinking ship all his own. He's destroying her friendships.
And yet she can't keep from going back to him.
What's the difference, really, between Malfoy and heroin?
What are they but two shipwrecks, entangled by the same tide? How fucking poetic.
She's one hall away from the Hospital Wing when she hears voices. Thinks for a moment that it might be Madam Pomfrey and flattens herself to the wall beside the entrance.
But the voice is too youthful. Too high-pitched.
"I'll come back in the morning," it says, and all too soon, she recognizes the simpering tone of Parkinson. "Keep you company."
Hermione peeks her head around the entryway's arch. The Wing is dim, but she can see Pansy draped over Malfoy's cot — watches as she leans in and plants a kiss on his forehead.
And there's a sudden, inexplicable sourness on her tongue.
Malfoy says nothing as Pansy gets up to leave, and Hermione doesn't have time to conceal herself before she's rounding the corner.
She startles, letting out a ridiculous little squeak upon catching sight of her. Then her face sinks into a dirty sneer.
"What are you doing here, Mudblood?"
Pansy hasn't changed at all, even after everything that's happened. It's sort of remarkable, really.
"Madam Pomfrey asked me to check on him overnight."
She's changed though. Lies come so easily to her now.
"No, she didn't," snaps Pansy.
And Hermione just shoves past her, knocking their shoulders. "And how would you know?"
She feels Pansy's dark eyes follow her through — hears her angry little sniff before she stalks away.
Malfoy doesn't look surprised to see her. He's propped up a little awkwardly on the stiff pillows of the cot, laying on top of the covers, the beds around him empty. The Wing is silent, save the quiet breathing of the comatose Quidditch player at the far end— a Ravenclaw who's been here several days.
"Pomfrey didn't send you," he rasps, tone as bored as ever. "She's releasing me tomorrow afternoon. There's no reason for you to be here."
Hermione pauses at the foot of his cot, unfazed by his coldness. She doesn't sit by his side. That feels too intimate. She leans instead on the bars of the footboard.
"Was there a reason for Parkinson to be here?"
Malfoy blinks slowly at her. His eyes are hooded with exhaustion, rimmed with purple lines, and he's still pale from blood loss. "To comfort me, obviously."
"I didn't think you liked Parkinson." Hermione adopts his bored tone as well, although inwardly his words sting, and she doesn't know why.
"She likes me."
"Clearly."
Malfoy's eyes tighten. He shifts, adjusting his arm in its off-white cotton sling. "Going to fault me for seeking positive attention, Granger?"
"No."
"Human beings fucking need it, you know?" He gives a frustrated huff, again trying to adjust himself more comfortably. Failing. "Even Death Eaters," he murmurs, staring at the bedsheets — an afterthought.
"How is your arm?" she asks, because the topic feels too poisonous.
"Still connected to me."
"You're welcome."
Malfoy sits up suddenly — so abruptly she starts a little. "I'd rather it was fucking gone," he says through gritted teeth, either with pain or anger. She isn't sure. "You didn't even fucking ask."
And for a moment, she can't believe what she's hearing. "You're joking," she says flatly.
A glare is his only answer.
"You ungrateful bastard," she snaps, unconsciously leaning forward. "I saved your arm — your fucking life. Which, I might add, you tried to waste. Again."
Malfoy's face floods with something. He splutters with confusion for a moment, incredulous and furious all at once. "Merlin, you know fucking nothing, do you?" he manages at last.
"What? What do I not know?!"
Their shouts are echoing off the high ceilings. She's surprised they haven't roused the portraits.
"NOTHING! You know nothing!"
"You tried to kill yourself!"
"I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"
It echoes for what seems like an eternity. Stuns her into silence.
And Malfoy dissolves into pathetic, humorless laughter. "You stupid, stupid bitch. You don't know anything. Fucking nothing. I didn't try to kill myself. I don't want to die. I'm scared. I'm so fucking afraid to die."
Hermione grips the bars of the footboard in a vise, knuckles going white. "The lake…" she whispers numbly. Feebly.
Malfoy forces out another laugh, and it sounds more like a cry. "Merlin, you really thought—? Bloody hell, Granger, do you know how much this burns?" And he rips the thin fabric of the sling out from around his neck before she can even think to stop him. Yanks his arm free of it, hiding a wince as he displays the slow-healing Mark. "Do you know how hot it gets? I feel like I'm boiling. I'm on fire. I'm always, always on fire."
She puts it together quickly, but not before he spells it out for her.
"I needed to cool down. The lake is below freezing at night."
"Don't lie to me," spills out of her mouth instinctively.
"I'm not fucking lying, Granger."
"And yesterday?" she snaps, suddenly aware of tears welling in her eyes. Confused by them. Furious at them. "How do you explain yesterday?"
Malfoy gathers an unsteady breath. Falls roughly back onto the pillows and winces again. "I didn't want to look at it anymore," he says to the ceiling. "Didn't care how much it would hurt. I didn't want to look at it." Then his eyes flit down and meet hers sharply. "And d'you know? For one fucking second, I thought — maybe. Maybe I wouldn't have to. When Pomfrey made that tourniquet."
A heavy dread sinks into her stomach, weighing her down.
"But you had to fucking ruin that too."
And then he shakes his head and closes his eyes, practically dismissing her.
She stands, still as stone, for a good minute or two, unable to move. Unable to form words. Tears unable to fall. Her mind frantically tries to reorganize the last several weeks, months, around this new information. Tries to make sense of everything in a different light.
The cold of the bars fades, grows warm in her grip.
An apology sits on her tongue. But she finds herself swallowing it, and when she moves she doesn't feel like she's in control. Feels hypnotized. Doesn't fight it.
Letting go of the bars, she moves around to the side of the bed, sitting exactly where she told herself not to. Malfoy's eyes snap open — shoot to her, sharp and untrusting.
She shoves back the striped satin of her sleeve. Takes him by the wrist of his injured arm, so that he can see both scars.
"If I have to live with mine, then you have to live with yours." And a tear falls, finally. Just one. It hits the skin of her bare thigh where it's tucked under her on the edge of the cot.
"Fuck you, Granger," he spits, but the venom is weak, and her response is soft. Dazed, almost.
"Stop that." She lets her eyes trace him, sliding over the bloodstains on his dress shirt — the few inches of bare, alabaster skin she can see of his chest, above the top button. "Stop doing that."
"Doing what?" And now the venom is entirely gone, replaced with uncertainty.
Cautiously, she runs her fingers over the mottled ink of the Dark Mark. Gooseflesh fans out across the skin of his arm, quick and yet she doesn't miss it. "Pretending to be cruel."
"I'm not pre—"
And something strange and stupid and courageous overcomes her. She shifts quickly, and suddenly her knee is between his, her other bracketing his thigh — and she's leaning over him, palms beside his shoulders. His words die in his throat.
Usually, she doesn't have time to think like this. To take him in, like this. His cold blue eyes flit desperately between hers, uncertain, perhaps even a little afraid. Her hair falls down around them, brown curls brushing against the edge of his jaw.
"You don't have to do that with me," she whispers.
The muscles of his throat constrict as he swallows. She leans lower. Close enough to smell the peppermint. Always peppermint.
He's so much like heroin.
And she forgets she should be afraid, too. Forgets all her rules. Forgets about the boathouse.
Forgets on purpose.
She says, "I see right through you." And she kisses him.
His mouth is dry. His lips are chapped. Her tongue grazes the sweetness of the mint he's sucking on, moments before he swallows it.
"Stop doing this to me," he says against her lips, even as his hands snake their way into her hair — fist in it. "Stop," his teeth catch her bottom lip — trap it. "Stop, stop," he murmurs, pulling her closer, and when her body flattens against his, it feels so right it's almost wrong. Too right.
A frantic part of her brain tries to set off alarm bells. Tries to remind her why she swore never to do this. But the rest of her is sinking into a gelatinous surrender. Drowning slowly. Happily.
Malfoy sits up against her, grip tightening, one hand abandoning her hair to belt around her waist and yank her close. Locking them together. That foreign, forbidden tingle flutters to life low in her stomach — lower. The one she's only felt a handful of times. The one she discovered in Third Year, under her sheets with her own fingers. The one she never felt with Ron.
Malfoy pulls her hair — drags her neck back, exposing it. For a moment she stares at the upside down Hospital Wing behind her, but then he latches onto a perfect spot and bites down, and her eyes flutter shut, a sound she didn't know she could make escaping through her teeth.
Slowly, his other arm works her hips into a gliding rhythm against him, and it brings color to her cheeks. That tingle becomes a steady pulse, and her shaking hands mirror his, threading through platinum strands, damp with sweat. Malfoy mouthes a searing path up the side of her throat, leaving bruises in his wake — she can feel them. His hand cradles her skull — holds her head steady as his lips find her ear.
"I hate you," he rasps as he sucks at the lobe, tracing his tongue along the shell of her ear. "I fucking hate you."
"No, you don't," she breathes, her pulse skipping and stuttering in her chest, the blood loud in her ears. She pulls away — finds his lips, wanton and unashamed. "You don't," she says around his tongue, silenced when he flicks it up against the roof of her mouth.
Both of his hands find her hips — shove them back — and her head misses the bars of the footboard by a fraction of an inch as he drops her roughly to the mattress, reversing their positions. The mattress creaks angrily beneath them as he drapes himself over her, hooking her thigh up around his hip.
For a moment, he goes still, staring down at her. Their breaths are short and heavy, nearly gasps. He searches her eyes. Releases a sigh like a surrender. "No, I don't."
He props himself up with one arm so he can trace his fingers over her jaw — up over her lips, toying with them. Parting them and sealing them. The pulse in her abdomen triples, but her eyes can't help but catch his injured arm shaking.
"Aren't you in pain?" she whispers against his fingers.
"Of course I'm in fucking pain," he hisses and parts her lips with his thumb. Dips low to kiss her hard. "Be quiet."
He pulls away in enough time to catch her glare. Surprises her with a huffed laugh. A real laugh. One that melts her glare as quickly as it formed. He leans back slightly, resting his weight on his knees. His eyes lock onto hers, and both their smiles fade as he watches her carefully. Watches while he runs his hand up along the line of buttons on her nightshirt, sending a shiver through her.
He's waiting for her to panic.
She realizes it soon enough — even takes a moment to search herself, search her nerve-endings for any sense of it, but they seem to have given in at last. She wonders what's changed between this moment and the boathouse, but when he frees the lowest button with two fingers she forgets to care.
"Fucking ridiculous pajamas, Granger," he says, going for the second button.
"You realize you're covered in your own blood."
His mouth curls up on one side — the way she's admitted to herself she likes, and with a sharp yank, he rips open the rest. Buttons fly as she gasps, arms flying to her chest to cover up instinctively.
"Don't," he says, voice low as he leans in again. "Don't." He pulls at her forearms as he brushes his nose against hers. Kisses her once. Twice. "Show me."
He opens his eyes inches from hers, and again they stare at one another. His gaze is challenging, and for a moment she has to grapple with just how well he seems to know her. Enough to know she can't resist a challenge.
She lets him pry her arms open. Lets him pin them down on either side of her head.
And he looks.
Stares at her naked chest until she feels so much heat building in her cheeks she's tempted to fight to cover herself again. She's plain. She knows that. She's always known. In fact, Malfoy himself made sure she was quite aware of it in earlier years.
She's thinking about reminding him of this when he says, "Fucking hell, look at you." It's so quiet he might be saying it to himself.
And he says nothing more, but she stops being embarrassed when his tongue glides over the space between her breasts. Her breath hitches. His eyes find hers from beneath his lashes, and he adjusts his course, mouth closing over her left nipple.
She gasps — jolts so abruptly she knees him in the thigh.
"Fuck, Granger — ow," he hisses, dropping his forehead to her chest for a second.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry," she splutters, trying to sit up, but his grip remains tight and he keeps her pinned. He shakes off the pain. Laughs at her, settling himself down again and pressing their hips together. The hardness she feels stops her breath again. Enhances her blush.
"You'd think no one had done that before," Malfoy murmurs, biting down on her lip.
"N-No one has," she breathes, realizing too late what she's admitted.
He pauses. Goes completely still for a moment. And now she does feel panic. It spreads like a wildfire through her stomach, along with doubts and second-guesses. Insecurity. Fear.
He pulls away from her lips, and she risks a glance — opens her eyes expecting disappointment or something similar.
Instead, his expression is calm. Serious. Deep in thought. She'd give anything to know his thoughts in this moment.
She considers asking.
But before the words can leave her throat, his hand is sliding up her thigh. He keeps his eyes on hers, blinking slowly, expression unreadable as his fingers ghost, featherlight, over the front of her satin shorts.
"What about this?" he asks quietly.
She feels her knees shaking. Her heart is struggling to pump blood fast enough, her mouth dry. "What?" she says, barely a whisper.
He twists his hand — slides his fingers between her legs over the fabric, and it takes all of her strength not to let her thighs clamp together at the intensity of the sensation. "Has anyone ever done this?" He nips at her bottom lip. "To you?"
Her eyes flutter shut. "No." Her voice is hoarse.
"No?" He adds pressure. Careful, practiced pressure.
"No," she gasps, trying to come to terms with what her body's telling her. With the fact that she's never wanted anything like this. Never felt hungry like this. Starved like this.
Her hips rise to meet him without her permission.
It was supposed to be Ron. She was supposed to feel this Ron. Want this with Ron.
Or with Harry.
Or with Dean.
With Seamus, with Cormac, with Viktor.
With anyone but him.
"And this?"
He cuts off her thoughts abruptly when his fingers dip below her waistband — slide beneath her underwear and over where she's never, never been touched.
"Never," she says aloud, voice trembling.
His mouth finds her ear again, sucking gently and doubling the sensations shooting through her veins like sparks. "Just me?" His fingers slide back and forth rhythmically, purposefully, hitting spots she never knew about. Never read about. Never thought about.
"Just you," she gasps out.
Malfoy groans, and the sound of it sends shockwaves straight to the place his fingers keep teasing. It's tortuous. Incomplete. Unfair.
"Please," she hears herself whisper. Can't believe what she's saying. Can't believe what he's reduced her to in a matter of minutes, when she'd thought her resolve was so strong.
He relents. Just barely. Dips his finger inside, but only for a split second before retreating. It forces out a moan — another, "please." All these sounds she never imagined she'd make.
"I'm a bad choice," Malfoy says against her ear, even as he slides his finger in deep. Holds it there. "Fuck, you're tight. You've really never — I'm a terrible fucking choice. Dammit, Granger. The fucking worst." He twists his finger even as he says this, making her back arch, making her mind hazy.
"I don't care," she hisses, and it morphs into a desperate keen when he adds a second finger. "It's my choice. It's my choice. Please."
And she finds herself reaching for his belt buckle. Malfoy yanks his wand from his pocket as she struggles with it, and she sees his hand shaking. Is glad for it, if only to know he's as affected as she is.
He casts a contraceptive charm, and for a moment her bare abdomen glows pink. The color reflects off of his eyes as he glances up at her, uncertain.
"It's my choice," she says again firmly, before he can speak.
He tosses his wand to the floor with a heavy exhale, hooking his thumbs in her waistband and yanking her shorts and underwear off — throwing them somewhere. He divests himself of his shirt and trousers just as quickly, and she's surprised at herself, but she's too shy to look. Keeps her eyes glued to his.
Malfoy lowers himself over her slowly, sensually. A small part of her recognizes that he's good at this. Must've had practice. It's almost painful to think about.
But just as she feels him at her entrance, he pauses. Brushes his nose against hers, eyes closed. "How can I trust you?" he whispers. "How can I trust you not to regret this?"
Her heart constricts. And it guts her to say it, but she tells him the truth. "You can't."
He breathes out. A short, angry breath.
And then he thrusts in.
White hot pain shoots up through her stomach. Tears prick at her eyes. She lets loose a little scream, hand fisting in the starched sheets.
He isn't being gentle. He's trying to hurt her. His thrusts are angry. Punishing. He slams into her with what feels like years of pain and anger, with no regard to her inexperience, and as the tears roll down her cheeks, she sees his face. Sees the tilt of his brows and the way his eyes are squeezed shut. Sees the raw hurt. All of it.
A sob wracks its way out of her chest. "No."
His painful rhythm cuts short. He opens his eyes slowly, reluctantly, as he goes still inside of her, and for a moment all she can focus on is the sting.
"What?" he asks quietly, coldly — pretends he doesn't know what he's doing.
It awakens her own anger. Hardens and determines her, and she reaches up to twist her hand in his hair. "No," she says again sharply, giving his head a jerk. "I'm not letting you do this. I'm not letting you ruin this on purpose. You don't get to make me regret this on purpose. You don't."
"I—"
"Shut up," she snaps and she kisses him silent. A furious kiss, at first. But she forces it to soften. Forces his jaw to unclench as she runs her tongue gently along his bottom lip. Nips at it. "Don't do it," she whispers. "Because this?" And she clenches her stomach muscles — squeezes around him. He lets out a hiss, eyes sobering as they find hers. "I want this. With you."
Something fractures in his gaze. Some wall falls.
And watching it crumble is as sensual as the way their bodies are interlocked.
"Do it right," she demands. "I know you can."
He doesn't speak. His eyes speak for him, flying from one emotion to the next as he stares at her, more lost and more desperate than she's ever seen him.
"Show me."
His mouth falls on hers — collapses. His muscles go slack as he kisses her deeply, hungrily, and he melts into her the way he's never allowed himself to before. Vulnerable.
He starts to move. Slowly. Deftly.
He rocks his hips against hers — pushes in and out, in and out, and the sting fades away into nothing. In its place, a slow-burning friction starts to build. A tension. The only tension she's ever known to feel impossibly, inexplicably good. Better than good.
But it's the noises he makes — the quiet moans and the hitches in his breath, the way he kisses her — lazily, a tangle of tongues and gasps, the way his hand curls into hers against the sheets. It's this that starts to tip the tower of sensation that's stacked up inside of her — has it teetering, ready to fall.
"Malfoy," she breathes, free hand tangling in his hair, drawing him closer.
He thrusts hard suddenly, making her gasp, eyes flying open.
"That's not my name," he growls. He thrusts in again — hard, deep. It's overwhelming, and yet it isn't painful the way it was before. "Say my fucking name."
Her lips lock shut. She doesn't know why. An infinitely small piece of her doesn't want to fully give in to him yet.
Malfoy growls again and dips his arms beneath her. Yanks her up as he sits back, holding her in his lap. The friction is twice as powerful at this angle, and for a moment she sees white spots. Loses her concentration as he rocks up into her.
"Say it."
She shakes her head, letting it fall back, eyes closed. That tower is swaying dangerously.
Malfoy bunches her curls in his fist and forces her forehead against his. "Please…please say it."
In and out, in and out…
"No," she whispers feebly.
"Please." He bites down on her lip. "Say it. Say it, please."
She can only whimper.
He throws her back down, the old mattress squealing in protest, and he yanks up her thigh again, driving in deeper, sending her reeling. "Admit it to yourself. Say it. Fucking say it. Say it."
"Draco."
The tower collapses.
Her body jerks, and she grabs onto him for support as the sensation wracks its way through her, thighs shaking, hands trembling. Her eyes roll back into her head.
He sighs — groans in approval, and then he loses himself in her, gasping against her lips as he carries himself through his own collapse.
Then his full weight sinks against her, heavy and warm, for once, the sweat of their bodies mixing. The sudden silence is thick — weighted with what they've done, filled only by their gradually slowing breaths.
"Fuck," he murmurs into her neck, but it doesn't quite cover it.
Doesn't quite encapsulate her losing herself to the boy who tormented her for years for the sport of it, here, in the Hospital Wing, on a cot soaked with his own blood.
It doesn't.
She stares up at the ceiling.
They've definitely woken the portraits. Out the corner of her eye, she can see that most of them have vacated their frames. All but one. The portrait of a chambermaid, who peeks at them from between her fingers, blushing.
"Fuck," Hermione echoes, looking back to the ceiling.
Because it was him. It was with him and it was the last thing she should've done. The last thing she'd ever thought could happen as a result of coming down here tonight. The stupidest, most reckless, most un-thought out thing she's ever done.
And it felt right.