Mute was s a challenge for me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

Chase- is its exact sequel, the same rules apply, but I am allowing myself to drop a word or two here and there.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plotline, and storyline may, therefore, get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers on this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

The Warmth of His Palm

Hogwarts
8th year

It was a silly inter-house party. They were throwing these at the end of each passing month. Simply to celebrate the fact that they were here. Alive. Full of Live. They could now make future plans, enjoy, grow to have families and a settled job, children, whatnot. She could hardly see past the smokescreen.

The resident bookworm. The brightest witch of the age. Her medallion of Merlin's first-class lay neglected inside in her dresser. That was her way of dealing with all these accolades. There was a time when she would pine to be noticed. She would write endless essays, read and read and read, to squeeze in as much as her brain to accommodate. Why? She was out to prove she belonged here. In this magical world. The muggle alternative had already been treating her as an unfit, who would spout streams of additional discourse simply to prove she was way better and the rest.

No, she never desired to raise above. She wanted to belong. She wanted to be surrounded. To be loved, held, cared for, nurtured and nourished. Here in this big castle, among those hundreds of students and her mentors, she felt alone. Deserted. And bereft. Apart from this constant need to be touched by him, she was otherwise lifeless, mechanical.

It was as if his fingers alone knew the sequence of buttons to push on her body, to make the blood course through its designated path, to let the nerves throb into action. Her brain was otherwise tuned to run the mill since the start of her education. But the rest of her that had died with the war, now rose from their daily slumber only very his hidden touches.

She had gone down to breakfast. Had sat among her housemates, only to tolerate the nonsensical chatter of the girls about boys, and the rowdy Quidditch stories shared over a hearty spread of breakfast among the boisterous Gryffindor boys. Only Neville had looked up from his herbology textbook and had nudged her with his elbow, "Moine! Are you fine? Slept at all?" Biting on her single toast, gulping it down with some pumpkin juice, she had mumbled back, plastering a cheeky smile, "Never better."

Neville had stared at her a little longer. Then shrugging his shoulder, he had gone back to his reading. She had envied him. she wanted to have this comfort from books once again. But her veins had tasted a million spices that adventure could generate. They had been screaming at her for allowing them to have some form of similar excitement. And his presence had shown them the promise of excitement.

She had spent hours lying awake, staring up at the canopy. Imagining him. His eyes were stormy grey. His nose was perfectly tipped, she wished that she could nibble on it someday. His ears there the very first one to turn a shade redder at the burst of emotions. He preferred to remain clean shaved. But she had noticed the ghost of a stubble, during the late nights, when few of the 8th years would remain in the common room, playing cheese, relax with books and periodicals, or even homework, or just chat about anything but the war. Together they preferred to heal.

He would talk in whispers with the returning Slytherins, sometimes share an opinion with a debating Ravenclaw. She had seen him smirk at the lighter conversations of the Hufflepuffs. The Gryffindors would show their abhorrence about him openly. Though the Headmistress had openly reprimanded every student for cornering him and bullying him. People still baited to get him alone. But he was a consummated snake, the one that could hide better than anyone could imagine.

She liked the way his shoulders hung. Like a new bow ready to release a life-threatening arrow. Like She had found out he was slender. Below those layers of cloth, she had felt his muscles flex at her soft brushes. His arms were long. Long enough to wind themselves around her and cage her within his cold heat. His heart would always beat along with hers. Right below her pressed down ear. Loud and clear thuds would give her reason to believe there were many reasons to love this new life.

But above all of these she loved his palm. Long, slender, pale, a chessboard of hardness and softness. They could squeeze out her life, and they to spread warmth over her cold withering away senses. His fingers were a sculptor's ultimate creation. They could draw out passion, swirl magic on their tapering tips, play the erotic dance with a tumbler filled with amber firewhiskey, twirl an exotic quill within their grip and write the letter "g" over her exposed skin. She had lost count of the numerous places he had managed to write that letter on her body. If he would allow it, she would offer him her bare self. A filling canvas for an artist like him to draw a single alphabet in as many strokes as she could desire in this lifetime.

She had never realized that she had left the Great hall, and had already started walking towards the dungeons. His thoughts just like him as so addictive. A hand had shot out of the dark corridors, and she had been pulled inside an alcove. He had her pinned to the wall. Her face was pressed down, he had her hip firmly gripped, and had been leaning over her body, touch everywhere possible. She knew it was him. mentally she had already ticked off the smells.

Ripe green apples

Old dusty books

Polish of Broomsticks

Sweat and a distinct musk

Sugar quills

Stagnant ill in an old inkpot

Sandalwood aftershave

Stale firewhiskey

She was reeling over the onslaught of these smells. Her lungs were heaving out of steady breath. She was about to lose the little control she had mustered to see her through the monotonous day…when he had added the last ingredient to that mix of sedative. His palm had slithered past her throat and his fingers had wound around it. She could feel his entire palm warm and sweaty over the expense of her bare skin. His wrist had pushed on from one side, and his fingers had flexed tight enough. She had no other option back to tilt back her head, to allow his better access.

She was slowing drowning in the haze of his consuming presence, when she had realized he had leaned forward, pressing his body deeper, pressing her further against the hard wall. She had felt his breath over her soft ear shell. He had lazily nuzzled right behind it. Then had caught her ear, in between his teeth, and had given in a soft pull. Just a subtle suck on the redden lobe had made him have his fill. He had next grazed her neck with his flicking tongue, leaving a single wet track of his existence on her skin, forcing goosebumps to appear as soon as his touch had traveled further down.

He had paused at the juncture of her neck and collar bone. She had then realized how easily, he had pulled off her heavy cloak, robe, and her uniform. Before she to remember when did that debacle actually happen, he had bit her, sure and definite. In reply, instead of a cry, she had gasped and then moaned. Her eyes had rolled back, and she could have fainted, if she had not squeezed her throat once and had just massaged it up and down, to ease her breathing. He had nipped over the now reddening wet patch and had pressed his tongue possessively to write the letter "G". long and sure stroke. She was glad, he had claimed yet another small patch of her being as his. Then over her sizzling and smarting skin, Draco Lucius Malfoy had growled the word, "Mine."

Shoving off her roughly against the wall, he had left in a swirl of black robes. She still had her eyes shut, her breath hitched her heart racing and her head pounding. In no time the dark corridor outside had echoed the fading way sounds of his regal boots.

A/N: Please drop a review or two. in much need of positive vibes, India is still suffering under the harsh attacks of the virus.