Draco stops. Mid-step. Stops. Turns, looks into the shadows were the witch had disappeared.
Thought.
For a moment.
Just a moment.
A smile, horrid, creeping up his features. No longer the broken boy walking away. No longer unsure, lost.
Found.
Ten years.
Slytherin prince, Malfoy Heir.
Recreated.
He starts after her. Silent step, swirling of air about his black cloak, the moon lighting his white hair, elegant white hands, easy at his side.
Easy. Strolling with the assurance of one who has had everything taken away from him only to regain it all back. Through work. Blood. Sweat.
Confidence.
And anger. Lacing it, underlying it, twirling with it, weaving in and out. Crimson red, swirling with the black.
Dismissal, not even a word in his vocabulary, one that he has purposefully tore out, brutally, burning it.
He'd forgotten. Again.
Two days.
But seeing her, seeing the easy way she yet again dismissed him, the easy way she controlled him.
No. That will not do.
Compulsion, magic, stroking about his person and even without calling on it, without reaching out with his senses he can feel her, the mere touch of her magic on his own.
Something throbs, low deep in his belly. Throbs and heats.
He comes around a corner and stops. Mid-step, seeing her stand against the shadow of the moonlight, against the shadow of the night, back turned towards him, towards a window overlooking the grounds.
A slight witch with magic coloured like his own swirling about her.
Quick steps until he is right behind her, until his hands descend on her cloaked arms. Bracing.
A sigh, barely discernable, echoing in the silence of the hallway, breath fogging the window in front of her, just slightly, just enough.
The smell of lavender, of autumn, the smell of the night twirling about them as he leans close to her, not touching, nothing touching but his hands on her clad shoulders, but leaning in enough so he can almost feel the curls of her hair against his face.
Just enough.
"Would you like to know why I left?" He asks, his voice low, distinct, a breath along the top of her head. He feels her shiver under his hands and he smiles, slow, lifting of his lips, glinting of his teeth.
The darkness pooling, hardening, tight against his trousers.
Leaning just slightly more, feeling her heat, her magic, even as he knows she can feel his, twisting about them.
A whisper, "Because I think you do, I think you can't help but wonder even if you deny yourself the question." The tightening of his hands, almost unconscious on her arms, the slight intake of her breath, the shiver that moves through her body as he leans down so his mouth is next to her ear, right next to it, so close that if he turned his head he could lick the lobe there, the delicate pink skin.
He keeps his head straight. Eyes focused on the dark night outside the window before them. Reminding, anchoring himself by the slightly rough nature of her cloak under his hand even as he feels the control slipping, faster, faster.
A part of him, albeit a distant part of him, warning, a dark voice telling him that his control is essential, that to lose control is to lose so much more.
But he ignores the voice, ignores it for the more immediate concerns; the witch trembling in front of him, trembling because of him, his words, of the magic circling about them.
Trembling because of him.
He will not be dismissed.
As if the thought is a catalyst for something else, he drops his head, capturing the curve of her neck, to her shoulder, placing his lips there, just at the juncture of her cloak, and when she sighs again, when she sways back towards him, something growls deep in his magic, growls and rears up in possessiveness.
He will not be dismissed.
He bites down on the skin, flooding his mouth with the taste of her skin, with the sudden scent of her arousal. His hands moving from her upper arms, moving over the cloak, rough fabric under his hands, moving down her arms, to her wrists, bare and frigid in the coldness.
He grasps them, his hands easily circling their expanse.
Hermione moans into him, leaning back towards him, but he holds her rigid by the wrists, holds her away from his body.
Barely moving his lips, barely touching the skin.
Whispering.
"No, my dear, for you see I have not told you my reasons. I know you want the answer to your question; you have not changed so much, after all." He pauses, letting his lips descend on her skin once more. Tasting her, warm smoothness under his lips, under his tongue and the slight graze of his teeth.
Then.
"Ever the know-it-all Gryffindor," whispered against her skin, blowing along the wetness he leaves there.
She shivers again.
He smiles, and as if he can read her mind, as if the knowledge comes unbidden, tickling about his conscious, he leans just a small amount, just enough so his chest just barely touches her back.
"Hermione." He breathes her name into her ear.
She whimpers.
He pulls away.
Smile growing, darkness swirling, blood swirling, and he holds her rigid, away from him, so close though, so very close. His body screams at him, to close the distance, to get on with it, to take the witch before him, bend her over against the glass, to make her his, mark her.
Base instinct.
Primitive.
He holds it in check, harsh and absolute check.
Because there are other things to consider. Other things that are more prevalent.
An answer to her question being the first.
And perhaps the last.
"So tell me, Granger, why do you believe I left you lying naked on my bed?"
The use of her surname does not go unnoticed by either of them.
He can feel her magic, pulling towards her, bracing, can feel it even if he cannot see it in the darkness. He feels her will, pulling it towards her, gathering it.
It causes the heat in his body, the desire, the need, the spark to flame, and for a moment, less than a breath, his control wavers and his hands strengthen about her wrists, his body leaning towards her.
Stopping.
Almost touching.
Almost.
But not.
And then her voice, quiet, barely there, but controlled, without a tremor.
The words.
"Because you are Draco Malfoy and I am Hermione Granger."
The words.
A tightening in his gut. A low guttered growl rising up in his throat, rising, purging, fury, anger, murder.
Clamped down.
Hard.
Control. Of his own.
He purposefully relaxes his hands about her wrists. He purposefully lets go of the skin there, his hands moving once more up her cloaked arms, up to her shoulders, resting them there, long white fingers against the blackness of the fabric.
He feels the tension coming off her in waves, feels her power gathering, her magic gathering, preparing herself for whatever his reaction might be to her words. Sensing, if not knowing for sure, that there is danger standing behind her, so close, so very close.
But Draco has control, always, always control, his body winding itself up with it, tense with it. Precious, precious control.
"Perhaps." He says finally when the silence is too much and he knows she is about to break, knows she is about to turn to confront him.
Feels her still once more.
The word echoing off the stone walls. The stone floors. The glass, cold in front of them.
To feel that coldness, under his palm.
To counteract the heat moving about his person, about her.
Instead, leaning in, to smell her hair, to let it tickle his nose, his face, to feel the strands against his chin, moving his hands down her arms once more but instead of stopping at the wrists, instead of stopping at the first contact of skin, he continues, lacing his fingers with hers.
A tension.
Radiating off of her.
Readiness.
Fear.
Even as her delicate hands wrap in his own almost with thought.
Trust.
It amuses Draco to no end.
At the same time it cries out to him in soft whimpering breaths.
He speaks to the top of her head. "But that is too simple. Too simple. You and I. Yes, but so much more. A past, a future. It's what I see in your mind."
A coldness. Wafting across his skin as she registers his words.
Delicate fingers tightening, tightening in his own.
Continuing.
"I see desire. I see heat, I see you wanting me to lay you down on a sheet of green silk and kiss you, starting at your ankle, making my way up with tongue and lips, up your calf, your knee, up your silky thigh, until I reach your centre, so wet already, aren't you Granger, so very very wet for me, and what then, I kiss you, my tongue delving into you even as my finger play, moving, swirling."
A whimper.
Fingers clenching at the image.
He can almost see the colour of her arousal circling them in magic.
Control.
Still. To not take her against the window.
Control.
Leaning down, breath against her ear, against her neck, against the point that he had kissed just moments before.
"But that is not all, not all I see. Because as I see this playing in your head I also see fear, and panic, ah yes, panic." He pauses, lips gliding just a moment, a brief moment, against the delicate skin of her ear. Voice hot, vibrating. "Don't get my wrong, my pet, those thoughts, they do things to me, make me harder than ever before, your desire and your fear, a heady combination those are and it makes me want to do nothing more than bend you over, right here, in the middle of this hallway and thrust myself into you."
A pause. A whisper. Against her ear.
"I ache for it."
And as if to prove a point, he brings one of their linked hands around and places it against the front of his trousers, the friction of fabric against his aching member eliciting a moan even as she gasps at the contact.
His voice slightly horse, effort. Control. "Do you see, my little Muggle, can you feel what you do to me, seeing what's in your mind, your desire, you wanting me, but also your panic knowing you shouldn't, knowing it is wrong. Can you sense how I want to kneel you over, press into you, that wonderful warmth, and move inside you. Filling you." Pressing her hand firmer against him, the fabric moving against him in agonizing torture, even as his voice drops lower, blacker, harder, "How I want to fuck you."
"Gods." Her voice. Heavy in the darkness, whispering.
But he is not done. Not nearly. And he moves her hand away from his trousers, smiling almost cruelly at her whimper of protest as he does so, leaning backwards now, away from her, taking his heat.
But not dropping her hands, keeping them locked together. The only contact.
"But do you know what else I see?" And in the question murder. In the question blood.
She hears it if the tightening of her body is any indication. But he knows she is dazed, he knows she is drugged by what is taking place, by his thumb stroking the inside of her palm.
And something malicious, something echoing of the days of old, something dark and putrid sighs through Draco's mouth.
Words whispered.
"I see Weasley."
The cold. Rushing down on him. Her hands, fingers, tightening, tightening, until they are wretched from him. Swirling of black cloak, of curls, face white in fury.
Step back.
A flick of his wrist and her drawn wand is instantly in his hand.
Hermione shakes and even without the compulsion between them, even without the bond, he could have seen her magic swirling about her.
Red.
Brilliant in its anger.
Frigid in its righteous.
"How dare you?" Her voice hisses even as he barely makes out the light sparking in her eyes.
He twirls her wand between his fingers. Control. Nonchalance, though he is tense, every muscle ready, preparing for whatever she will throw his way.
But the only thing that comes his way are three words. Repeated.
"How dare you?"
Draco does not smile as he holds her wand confidently in his fingers, moving it back and forth.
He stares at her. Contemplating her.
She takes a step towards him, her face a picture of fury.
And he does not back away.
"You have no right to say his name. You, who are nothing, you have no right to even say his name."
Anger. Fury. Deeply buried.
His control. Absolute.
"Perhaps." He answers her. His answer, the same as before. "But it is still the answer to your question."
He sees her pause, thoughts catching up with his words, understanding only indicated by the slight widening of her eyes.
Draco does not move, does not move but it is as if he does, as if he is pressing his body against her, the light in his eyes brilliant even in the dark. He knows. He can feel it, his own magic swirling about him.
A throb. At the base of his spine, at the point under his chin, in his trousers.
"You see, Granger, he is always there, always between us, and I was dismissed out of your life once, dismissed because of your honour and your love for that git, and I will not be treated so again."
Fury, wrapping around her once more, at his speech, at her own guilt, he doesn't know, but he sees it, feels it.
"I did not dismiss you." Words, through gritted teeth. Eyes wide with anger, with fury, hands clenched at her side.
One eyebrow, rising towards white hair, highlighted by the moon.
"No? Well, pray, explain exactly what it was that happened."
There is fury in the words, sarcasm, yes, but fury and he does not try to hide it.
She hears it and takes a step back. Unconsciously, even though her body is still defiant in front of him.
Chin lifted.
It almost takes away his control.
But so much to lose.
And he holds tight onto it.
"What?" She says, and her voice is almost rigid in its own control. "What would you have had me done? The Muggle-born, the Mudblood, and the Malfoy Prince, together? Oh yes, that would have worked spectacularly."
He narrows his eyes and takes a step forward.
She does not move though she flinches.
His tone level. Silky. Dark. "Always hiding behind that, aren't you? More than I ever did, it appears. Hiding behind titles." A pause. A breath. "Opposites and all that, it didn't matter, still doesn't."
Her own eyes narrowing at the accusing tone of his voice. At the accusing tone of what he is not saying.
"It did." She says, that chin moving so slightly further into the air. "It does." She finishes.
Control. Slipping.
One step and suddenly he is against her, his body pressed against hers, heat, magic, wrapping around them and before he can think on it he is kissing her, smashing his mouth against hers. Brutal. Harsh. Anger. Fury. He pries her lips open with his teeth, tasting blood even as her hands fight against him, reaching up between them to push him.
Away.
And he catches her tongue, catches, holds it, plays with it, sucking into his mouth, and suddenly the hands that were meant to push him away are grasping at his cloak, grasping and holding on.
He swallows her moan even as his tongue, lips, attack, swirling against her teeth, delving, drinking.
Her taste.
He wretches his lips away, tasting her blood on his tongue, her lip swollen from his attack, pulse racing in her neck, but he sees none of this, not really, looking down into those big chocolate eyes, staring up at him in fear, yes, panic, certainly, but also with desire so hot it nearly seers him.
Taking his control almost entirely.
But not yet.
And he leans his forehead down to touch hers.
"And when were like this," he murmurs to her, his hands coming up and grasping at her waist, pulling up her shirt so the coldness of his fingers singes the smooth heat of her stomach. "When we're like this, do opposites matter, do you feel the opposite, the Malfoy Prince and the Mudblood?"
A gasp. At his words. At his fingers moving across her stomach.
Pressing his body into hers so she can feel his arousal, so she can feel what she does to him.
All the bloody time.
"What Granger?" He growls even as she moans into him, even as her hands grasp at his cloak, her head falling back to hit the glass behind her. "Does it feel like it matters, right now, does it?"
And he attacks her throat, lips, tongue, teeth, and he relishes the feel of her pulse under his tongue, the taste of her, the smell of her.
So sweet.
So Hermione.
And her hands are moving across his face, to his hair, grasping at the strands there, moaning something incoherent, his own hands moving across her skin, up to where lace covers her breasts, wrenching it out of the way, two fingers playing with the pebbled nipple there.
Continuing, mouth, down her throat, pausing at the top of her cloak, the hollow at the top of her chest, and then moving up, to the spot under her ear.
Whispering.
"You always make me hard, always, so fucking hard, so you can't tell me that there is not something right about this, about you, me." Nipping at her skin. Trailing kisses. He brings his hand down from her breast, down to the waist of her Muggle jeans, downwards, one finger moving under the fabric, down to the elastic of her knickers, downwards, tip barely touching the curls there.
Breath against her heated skin.
"And I can feel you, my pet; I can feel your heat, your wetness, ready for me, so fucking ready for me. Opposites maybe, but does that really matter when all you can think of is having me inside you, moving inside you, slowly."
His other hand moving away from her breast, down her side, to the buttons of her jeans, pushing them away with ease, and the feel of her, the heat of her, the magic surrounding her. It creates havoc in his mind.
Havoc.
Chaos.
Madness.
Because he is forgetting what it is he was supposed to be proving. He is forgetting everything, unable to focus on anything but the woman in front of him, head tilted back against the glass, eyes closed, curls about her face.
The smell of her, the heat from her.
And the way her face takes an unearthly glow when his fingers move across her swollen sex, the moan low in her chest, her hands grasping at his shoulders as she arches unknowingly backwards.
And his other hand reaches for his own trousers, to release himself, from the pressure, to do all it is he can think to do, right then, right at that moment, his entire focus on being inside his Hermione, his beautiful witch in front of him.
Then she opens her eyes, and he looks down, and their eyes meet. Brown. Silver. Amber in the shadows. The grey of a Northern Sea.
Meeting.
Control.
Without thought, without meaning too, a connection through their bonding, through their minds, through their magic.
Draco does not mean to but suddenly he is there, in her mind, swirling in the heat of her desire, in her lust, in the emotions of wanting him, desperately almost wanting him, but underneath that, underlining everything, always there, always bloody there, guilt.
And it's cold.
It's what douses him.
And before he can look away, before he can lose the contact, the guilt in her mind focuses, creates a face.
A bludgeon, in the gut.
Darkness. Hatred. Fury.
Murder.
Releasing her. His hands dropping to his side. Curling to fists.
One step away from her. Another step. Control. Control.
Seeing the fear run the desire from her face, running the passion away.
Seeing the incredible increase of her pulse at her neck.
Wanting to slit that neck with a knife.
Watch it bleed all over the floor.
Or take that knife to himself. To make it go away.
Dismissal. Guilt. Forgetting himself.
Control.
Seeing, but not seeing the witch in front of him with the swollen lips, the mussed hair, shirt hanging out of pants unbuttoned, cloak fallen to the floor, her wand where he had dropped it though he doesn't remember.
Fury.
Her eyes wide in fear. Her body trembling in unreleased desire, in recognition of his magic swirling malevolently between them.
"But perhaps, Professor Granger," he says and his voice is flat. Cold. Distant. "You have been right all along and I was a fool to believe that this is, or has been, anymore than a tantalizing taboo. A warped desire for me to fuck a Mudblood and for you to fuck an enemy."
He bows. Mocking.
"My apologies." He sneers.
And turns, leaving before the image of his hands around her throat becomes reality.