Difficult

By: Provocative Envy

OOO

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

11:30 a.m.

The bed was soft.

My entire body felt broken—beyond belief, really—but the bed was soft.

"Are you finally awake? Miss Granger?"

The voice was grating and feminine and completely unfamiliar.

I winced.

"Miss Granger!"

I didn't know where I was—I didn't know who I was with—but the bed was soft.

"Open your eyes, Miss Granger."

Should I? That seemed like such a silly thing to do—there was, after all, a ferocious pounding in my head, angry spurts of blood thrumming against my skull, vivid and harsh and stupidly methodical—and I still didn't know where I was.

The bed, though—the bed was so soft, so incredibly fucking soft.

"Where—where am I?" I finally managed to croak, surprised by how raspy my voice was.

The woman, whoever she was, sighed.

"Malfoy Manor," she replied testily.

My eyes snapped open; I blinked, flinching at the light, and waited for my vision to adjust.

"Nar—Mrs. Malfoy?" I blurted out, gaping at the statuesque blonde standing at the foot of the bed—the soft bed, too soft, feather-soft.

She offered me a thin-lipped smile.

"Indeed."

"How—what—"

She raised a finely-arched brow.

"You don't remember anything, do you?"

I fidgeted under her scrutiny, glancing anxiously around the room—a boy's bedroom, I realized, taking in the Quidditch posters and the dark green curtains and the haphazard collection of textbooks and magazines collecting dust in the bookshelves.

"There was—fighting," I answered quickly, scrunching crisp black sheets between my fingers. "Draco was dueling…and then there was a man, in a mask, and—I died, didn't I?"

She shifted, almost imperceptibly.

"Clearly you did not die, Miss Granger."

"Then what—"

"I'm sure Draco should be the one to explain," she interrupted, waving a vague, graceful hand in my direction.

"He's—he's alright, then? Draco?" I asked timidly.

Her eyes turned cold.

"My son is fine, Miss Granger. No thanks to you. He nearly killed himself trying to transport you here."

There was a peculiar ache in my chest as I stared at her.

"What do you mean?" I whispered.

Narcissa sneered.

"He was in quite the state," she said icily. "There was blood…everywhere. Took the elves hours to clean up. And you—well, you were no use at all. He had to carry you all the way from the school to the Apparition point in the village."

"But he's okay now?" I persisted.

She nodded sharply.

"He's sleeping."

I relaxed.

"What about—everyone else?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"It should have been a slaughter, from all accounts," she sniffed, straightening her already-straight shoulders. "Twice as many Death Eaters as there were teachers. If it hadn't been for the Zabini boy—well. I imagine losing the element of surprise was a…particular blow to the Dark Lord. The school was absolutely teeming with Aurors by the time anyone got there."

I was incredulous. All of that panic—all of that incessant fucking worry—and for nothing?

"So Harry—"

"Harry Potter is alive and well."

"And Voldemort—"

"The Dark Lord is dead," she confirmed with very little discernible feeling.

"The castle, though—"

"The school is…intact, Miss Granger," she said snidely. "There were very few casualties."

I let this sink in.

"Very few still means there were some," I pointed out.

I watched, fascinated, as she clasped her hands together.

"My sister, Bellatrix."

I looked away.

"My husband did it, in case you were curious," she went on, ignoring my discomfort. "She was after you and Draco."

"Lucius Malfoy killed her?" I bleated.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Yes, Miss Granger. He did."

"I—I mean—"

"Your condolences aren't necessary, I assure you," she interjected. "My sister was a…difficult woman. Life was never very kind to her."

Abruptly, she turned towards the door.

"I'll have someone send Draco in, if you're feeling up to it."

"Thank you," I said thickly. "Really. Thank you so much."

She smoothed the front of her dress down, as if embarrassed by my gratitude.

"Well. Of course you're welcome."

She paused.

"There are some cookies on the nightstand, by the way. I don't make them, of course—an elf does—but don't tell Draco that. He adores them—thinks they're a family recipe." She smiled fondly, just for a second. "Silly boy."

And then she was gone—in a whirl of expensive perfume and superfine silk, her scent lingering in the air long after her footsteps had receded down the hallway.

I settled back into the bed, my head spinning as I thought about what she'd just told me.

It was over.

It was all finally over.

"Hermione?"

I started.

Draco.

He gently shut the door behind him and approached me.

"You're awake," he said dumbly, staring.

"Your mother woke me," I replied.

He looked tired. He was still wearing his school uniform—a dirty white Oxford, smeared with blood, and grimy black trousers, slung low on his hips. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his tie was loose around his neck. I felt my pulse skip, jump, and turn skittish as he got closer—because I wanted to touch him.

I wanted to touch him, and the bed was soft.

"I can't believe…" he trailed off, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm so glad you're alright."

"From what I understand, I should thank you for that," I tried to joke, my voice weak.

But he didn't laugh.

"No, you shouldn't."

I pursed my lips, confused.

"What happened to me?"

A shadow passed over his face.

"Cruciatus," he said softly. "An Unforgivable. That Death Eater—he knew who you were, and he wanted to—Aunt Bella had apparently talked about you. You were…something of a target. Or a trophy. I'm not sure."

I gulped.

"Oh."

"Except—it was a bit odd, because you didn't…react to it at first. It was almost as if your body didn't want to respond."

"I thought I was dying," I explained, twisting the sheets in my hand. "I thought I was dead."

He shook his head.

"That shouldn't have made a difference."

I sighed.

"Do you expect me to have a rational explanation? I don't even remember what happened."

"No. Of course not. It was just…it was odd. It took me—and him—by surprise. Which was handy, as it turns out, because that was when my father showed up."

"How is your father? Is he…okay?"

"He's in Azkaban again, actually."

I gaped at him.

"What?"

"It's a formality, I think. There were plenty of witnesses that can attest to—well, it was obvious whose side he was on," he said awkwardly.

What was wrong? He was gazing at me with concern, yes, but there was something else there as well, something that made me nervous.

"Your mother brought me cookies," I said abruptly, needing to fill the silence.

"Did she pretend that she was the one who made them?" he asked with a grin.

"No, although—she did instruct me to not ever tell you that it's the house elves who do," I replied wryly.

His smile faded.

"We need to talk, Hermione."

"That sounds awfully ominous."

"I'm serious."

"I couldn't tell."

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, mussing it even more.

"I can't do this," he said quietly. "I can't—we don't belong together. After everything that's gone wrong—I mean, fuck, maybe we should just take the fucking hint."

Something small and hard flared to life inside of my stomach.

"Take the fucking hint," I echoed.

"Yeah. There's just so much—too much, really—to get past. I just—I can't."

I cocked my head to the side, disbelieving.

"Really, Draco? After yesterday—after last night—I mean, you were so wonderful—you're choosing now, when everything hard—the difficult part—is already fucking over—you're thinking now is a good time to turn into a coward?"

His jaw tensed.

"Always nice to hear what you really think of me, Granger," he bit out, turning to leave.

"Wait—stop, please, that isn't what I meant," I argued feebly, deflating. "You know that isn't what I meant."

He curled his lip.

"Do I?" he countered.

I flinched, placing a tentative hand on his arm.

"Draco, why are you doing this?" I whispered.

"Doing what?" he snarled, wrenching himself away from me and stalking to the other side of the room.

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

"You know exactly what you're doing," I said firmly, toying with the edge of my pillowcase. "You're—you're reading into things and twisting them around and pushing me away. And I want to know why."

He didn't reply for a long moment, his eyes trained on the wall behind me—beautiful eyes, normally such a sharp, piercing grey—but now, now they were curiously blank, a dull pewter, the mesmerizing ring of navy around the iris almost entirely invisible.

"You almost died," he replied unexpectedly, curtly. "You—you almost fucking died, and it was because of me. It was for me."

I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say.

"But I didn't," I finally said, swallowing. "I didn't die, Draco."

He studied me for a long moment before slowly coming towards the bed again—the soft bed, so incredibly soft.

"But you could have. You almost did. You don't know—you wouldn't wake up, Hermione, you wouldn't fucking wake up—do you understand what that felt like?"

I recoiled.

"I don't suppose I do."

"I've been a shitty fucking person for quite a long time," he said coolly, reaching up to adjust his tie. "I'm not a saint. I'm not a hero. I'm—I'm uncommonly fucking selfish, in fact. I'm—"

"Oh—shut up, Draco," I burst out, frustrated. "I already know all of that. I hated you for seven years, in case you've forgotten—I know exactly how awful you can be."

"Then you know—"

"Do you love me?" I demanded.

He rolled his eyes.

"Of course I fucking love you," he said roughly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "That isn't the fucking point."

"You sound ridiculous—you realize that, don't you?"

"I might."

I reached for his hand, flinching when he pulled away.

"Why are you doing this, then?"

"Because I almost got you killed, Hermione! I watched that fucking Death Eater turn towards you and raise his wand and I couldn't even fucking—I couldn't fucking move, it was like I was paralyzed, and I—I can't forgive myself for that, don't you get it?"

I inhaled sharply at his outburst.

"All those things—all those awful fucking things I was—am—they never mattered to me before," he admitted tightly. "Never. I was an arrogant little shit, and I couldn't have cared any fucking less. But—then—last night, it suddenly fucking mattered."

I hesitated.

"I don't understand."

He glanced away, his eyes raking over the walls, the bed, the windows—anywhere, it seemed, but me.

"I could have told you about the attack," he whispered. "I could have figured out a way to not get Marked. I could have fucking—I could have fucking prevented last night from ever fucking happening and—I didn't. I was scared. I was weak. I was exactly who I knew how to be—and it almost got you killed. Do you get it now?"

I shook my head.

"Draco, it was a battle," I said soothingly. "I would have been in danger no matter what. What happened to me—it would have happened regardless. It had nothing to do with you."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his posture defeated.

"You don't fucking understand."

I furrowed my brow, inexplicably stung by his comment.

"No, I understand perfectly," I replied defensively. "I just think you're being—"

"Ridiculous," he finished tiredly, flopping onto his back.

I shut my mouth.

"I'm sorry, Draco, but—I'm alive. I'm okay. You made sure I was okay."

He rolled over to face me, his expression thoughtful.

"I did, didn't I?"

And then he was crawling towards me, his eyes fastened on my mouth, and I promptly forgot how to breathe.

"This is my bedroom, you know," he said, draping his body over my own. "I grew up in here. And you, sweetheart, are lying in my bed right now. My sheets, my pillows—how does that make you feel?"

His bed, of course it was his bed—and it was soft, so soft.

"Warm," I answered truthfully.

He chuckled, leaning forward to brush his lips over mine.

"You're also wearing my pajamas, Granger—did you know that?" he murmured into my ear, trailing his fingers down the satiny green fabric.

"No, I—I didn't."

"Mmm. Yes. Do you have any idea how fucking sexy you look in them?" he continued, his voice a deep, melodic purr.

I shook my head, frantically.

He smirked.

And then he'd ripped open my top, tearing it, uncaring of the way the shiny black buttons flew off and pinged against the walls, some landing on the floor, some falling back onto the bed—so soft, the bed was so soft.

"I think, though, that I prefer you naked," he said, skimming his hands over my chest, my arms, my stomach. He straddled my hips, tugging my pants down, before planting a fluttery, sensuous kiss on the curve of my waist.

"Do—do you?" I asked, arching my back as his tongue delved into the sensitive hollow between my breasts.

"The first time I saw you like this—bloody fucking hell, Hermione, I wasn't sure I was going to last long enough to be able to make it good for you," he confessed, glancing up at me.

"Wh—what d'you mean?" I managed to pant when I felt his hand creep up my inner thigh.

"I mean that I would have started being nice to you a lot fucking sooner if I'd known how fucking delectable you looked without a skirt on," he replied, shrugging off his shirt impatiently.

"You were hardly nice to me," I felt compelled to point out, watching him unbuckle his belt.

"That's true," he conceded, hopping off of the bed to divest himself of his trousers. "But I think you liked it."

I bit back a moan at the loss of contact.

"Impatient, are you?"

"You could say that," I answered, licking my lips.

He climbed back on top of me; our eyes met.

"Am I the only one who's ever made you feel like this, Granger?"

His gaze was intent, almost predatory, and I felt my heart constrict.

"You know you are."

He leaned down, running his tongue along my bottom lip before biting down.

"Not fucking good enough," he whispered savagely. "Say it. Say I'm the only one who's ever done this to you."

"You—you're the only one," I breathed.

"I'm the only one who's done what?" he demanded.

"You—" I paused, groaning when his thumb curled over the front of my knickers. "You're the only one who's ever made me feel this way."

"I'm the only one who's ever going to fucking do this to you," he said hoarsely, his face tense as I pushed my hips up, grinding myself into his hand. "Say it. Say it."

"You're the only one, Draco," I mumbled, lightheaded from the feel of his hands—large hands, long fingers, pale and strong and soft, so soft, like his bed, just like his bed—roaming over my body. "You're the only one who's ever going to do this to me."

"And you want this? You want me? You're fucking mine, aren't you?" he snarled, yanking my underwear down my legs.

"Y—yes," I stammered, kicking off the offending garment when it got stuck around my ankles.

"Yes?" he pressed. "Fucking say it, say it, say you're mine."

"I'm—I'm—"

"You need me, don't you? You fucking need me. You fucking want this. You fucking want me, right now, don't you? Say it, say you fucking want me, Granger."

His words had a hypnotizing effect on me, though, and I could barely wrap my lips around a response before he was continuing.

"You're mine, I need you to say it—you want this, you fucking want me. Tell me how much you want this, fucking say it, say it, you're mine, fucking mine—"

"I don't know—" I whimpered.

"Say it," he hissed. "Fucking say it, Granger."

But he felt so good, an enchanting, almost too-heavy weight pressing into my body—and he couldn't possibly expect me to speak, not now, not like this, not with his skin rubbing against mine, roughly, silkily, with his hands gripping my thighs, wrenching them apart—he couldn't possibly expect me to be anything but lost, dizzy, my toes curled, anticipating, needing, wanting—and as he thrust into me, and I cried out, I had the most asinine thought, so inappropriate, so ridiculous, so—

"We've never done it in a bed before," I murmured, gasping when I felt his teeth nip at my ear.

"That isn't what I told you to say," he replied angrily, trailing his fingers down my legs before hitching them around my knees.

My head fell back, exposing my throat.

"I don't—"

He pushed up on my legs—I exhaled, loudly, helplessly, surprised by the change in position.

"Say it, Granger."

The friction was exquisite, and I tried to focus, tried to concentrate, tried to think of a word to describe the feeling of his body so completely connected to my own—but all I could feel was a senseless, delicious pulsing in my abdomen, a desperate, aching emptiness when he pulled out—

It was euphoric.

It was magnetic.

It was wet.

Tremendously wet, unimaginably wet, hot and sticky and smooth, like melted chocolate, like honey and tea and treacle and toffee, sweet and delectable and oh, oh God, the bed was soft, that was what I needed to remember, the bed was fucking soft, the bed was so fucking soft—

"Say it," he repeated, his teeth clenched as he ground against me, into me. "Say you need me. Say you want this. Say you're mine. Say you fucking want me, Granger."

I bit my lip, holding back a scream—and then I felt his hand on my chin, jerking my head down, and I opened my eyes, blinking blearily, my mind glazed, dazed—and I was jolted, thrown back into reality, utterly unprepared for the intensity of the moment, because his gaze was deadly and desperate and—feral, that was what it was, it was wild, unfiltered, so unlike the primly polished silver I was used to—and then I shuddered.

Because I wasn't certain of what was happening.

Because I wasn't certain of what he was asking.

Because I wasn't certain of anything, not anymore, and despite the delightful throbbing between my thighs, I was suddenly cold.

"I want—" I broke off, unsure.

He stopped moving, the muscles in his shoulders bunched up and strained as he held himself above me.

"Say it," he whispered.

And then, without any warning at all, I was nervous.

Apprehensive.

My stomach—it clenched, rolled, unpleasant and unexpected, and even though he was still inside of me, still staring at me, still touching me—I knew that something was wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Because of course he knew that I wanted him.

Of course he did.

Which meant—this wasn't about that. This was about something else, something I didn't understand.

"Draco—" I began cautiously.

"Why won't you just—fucking say it?" he growled, yanking my hips even closer, burying himself even deeper. "Say it, Hermione, just—say it, say you want this, say you're mine, say you want me, say it, please, please—say it—"

"I don't—"

"I need you—I need you to say it," he interrupted roughly. "I need you to fucking say it, and I need you to fucking mean it, and, oh, fuckI fucking need you, Hermione, you don't—you can't—when I saw you go down—I couldn't stop it, I couldn't fucking save you, I couldn't—I couldn't stop it, I couldn't stop it, I'm so fucking sorry, I'm fucking sorry—I don't deserve you, I've known it all along, I fucking—I should have let you push me away, I shouldn't have tried so hard—I couldn't fucking stop it, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I don't know how to stop this, and I need you, I don't know when it happened, I don't know when it changed, but this isn't—it isn't about wanting you so much I can't see straight, not anymore, and it took—it took me almost losing you to fucking see that, and I can't—I need you to say it, I need you to be mine, I need to hear you say it—I'm so fucking sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, please, please don't leave—I'm so sorry, Hermione—"

I laid beneath him, in his amazingly soft bed, stunned into silence, hearing words—so many words—tumble out of his mouth, unstoppable, incoherent—and I wanted to cry.

Because I'd been so dismissive, because I hadn't wanted to listen, because I'd been convinced that I was right.

Because I was always right.

Because I didn't know how to be wrong.

"Draco, it wasn't your fault," I managed to say, running my hands up his chest.

"Yes, it fucking was," he choked out. "It was all my fucking fault and—I can't—I love you—I need you to say it—fucking say it—"

But then he started moving again, harder, faster, as if he'd just remembered where he was, what he was doing—and I gasped at the sensation, staring up at his face, his eyes never leaving mine as he thrust even harder, even faster—and I gripped the sheets between my fingers, my breathing erratic, uneven, and my lungs felt like they might collapse as the pressure in my abdomen suddenly expanded, erupted, and still, still he went harder, faster, and there was a violence to it, an aggression that hadn't been there before, and I felt a shiver at the base of my spine, but surely I wasn't afraid, not of him, never of him—harder, faster, again and again and again—and a scream clawed its way out of my throat, loud, defenseless, and I watched his features contort with something, something different, as if he was in pain, but that wouldn't make any sense, not when he—harder, faster, harder, faster, over and over—

"Fuck!" he shouted, shuddering, collapsing on top of me.

I snaked my arms around his shoulders, ignoring the warm, clammy feeling of our sweaty bodies pressed together.

"Say it, please," he slurred into my neck. "Please, Hermione. Please say it. I need you—I need you to say it."

I held him closer, tighter.

"I'm yours," I whispered tremulously. "I'm yours, and I need you, and I want you. I want you so much. I want this. I'm yours, Draco."

He leaned back, just the tiniest bit, and hungrily searched my face.

"Mine," he confirmed, his voice gruff.

"Yours."

He kissed me, then.

He kissed me, and the bed was still soft.

OOO