This chapter should explain why Hermione is so adamant about keeping her sexual past close to the breast.
Also things will be getting better with Draco and her soonish, but it will take time before she can tell him everything and for them to get through it. But I will say that a shocking event in 24 helps them along, and 25 is sad but fluffy. And there is smut.
TRIGGER WARNING: NON-CON in flashback of Hermione's journey on the run that uses somewhat vulgar language/descriptions. Murder.
I considered describing the non-con a bit more because let's be real, those of us who have been assaulted know there is no warning or censoring when it happens, but I think I reached a happy medium.
Counting the Stars
Chapter Twenty-One
The Burning Sands - Masashi Hamauzu, My Friend - Hayley Williams, Why We Ever - Hayley Williams, and Give More Care Less - BIBI
O
Three days went by before Draco spoke a word to her.
It wasn't for lack of trying. Hermione found it seemed easier to go back to her normal routine with the potions lab, tea room, and treating Narcissa, than it did to sit in her room and panic over when the Dark Lord would send his summons. When she walked into the lab the first day, he wasn't there, but on the second, he was.
She couldn't think of anything to say to him at first. She was still angry over what had happened. Embarrassed over her actions, over taking it that far. In hindsight, she wished that she hadn't allowed her emotions to control her. It was so far out of character for her to do such a thing that she couldn't even think about it without cringing. She couldn't believe the things that had come out of her mouth, the things that she'd gotten the courage to do.
Thinking about it now, she could see that she was distressed that night. She'd just stabbed a man in the throat, so it was understandable that her mind was frazzled and her emotions were going to be knee-jerk reactions. And Hermione naturally had a hot temper, so throwing that into the mix explained why she had let it get that far.
But that wasn't the problem.
The problem was that Draco was the one in control, at that point. He was the one who should have made the choice to stop her. To keep her from making such a huge mistake.
He hadn't.
He'd chosen to give in to temptation, and now she had no idea what was going on. Had he given in because he was a man and she was offering? Or because he truly wanted her to be the one to do that to him?
Whatever was between her and Draco was irrevocably changed.
Even worse were the strange feelings that kept cropping up whenever she was near him, or in the same vicinity as him.
In the lab, she'd looked over her shoulder more times that she could count to stare at his slender hands moving across the parchment, or to view his statuesque side profile. She found that her eyes tracked the movements of his fingers when he pushed his hair back. The worst part was the time when she accidentally headed for the door when he did, and she got the strangest urge to melt into his side just to see how warm his body was.
"Oh, you sweet girl."
What she wouldn't give to hear him call her "sweet girl" in that soft voice again.
It made her feel confused, disturbed, and more than a little terrified.
On the third day, she tried greeting him to see if she could start a rapport. The House Elves were still gone and the food in the kitchens was running low. Hermione had been eating whatever was left, but now there wasn't even enough to put a sandwich together. She didn't want anything to do with Lucius, so her only solution was to talk to Draco.
It was difficult when the air he gave off was negative.
But that's my fault, isn't it? she'd thought when she was sitting on her stool and agonizing over whether or not to speak to him so she could ask. I wanted to humiliate him and I did, but I'm the only one who should be embarrassed. I took it too far and now I'm left feeling like I want to do it again.
She'd nearly dropped her ladle.
That wasn't . . . No. That was not what she felt like.
Am I just blaming everything on him because it hurts less than blaming myself?
On the fourth day, Hermione had eaten the last apple in the pantry. She didn't know how Lucius or Draco were eating, but since they were the ones with the galleons and wands, she was sure they'd figured it out. Hermione was helpless in that regard, and she needed food.
It was time to approach him about it.
In the lab that morning, she decided to just blurt it out.
"I need food."
He froze, his quill coming to a flat stop. He didn't look up from the parchment. "So make yourself some."
"I have been," she said. "It's run out."
"Fine," he said. "I'll handle it."
She continued grinding her poppy seeds for a moment. A bubble was expanding in her chest. It burst and pushed her words out.
"Do you know when the House Elves come back?"
"No," he said in a monotone. "It takes a while to question them because of spells that Pureblood families weave into their contracts when we take them in."
"Oh," she said, resuming her work.
The silence stretched on for a few more seconds before Hermione couldn't bear it any longer.
"What do we do about your mother?" she said, setting her mortar down.
"What do you mean?" He sounded annoyed.
"When we go to Buckingham. Who is going to make sure that she gets her medicine?"
He opened his mouth to speak, and then scoffed. He turned to glare at her. Her heart skipped a beat when his gaze fell upon her expectant face.
It was the first time he'd looked directly at her in three days.
"Do you not grasp the gravity of this situation? The Dark Lord isn't inviting us to tea, Granger. I broke his law. I've been harboring Undesirable Number One in my home. I'm fucked. You are Undesirable Number One. You're fucked. And he suspects my father and I of killing Carrow. We're all fucked."
Hermione didn't know if it was the fact that he was talking to her, or if it was the fact that she was finally getting some social interaction, but she yelled at him.
"Of course I grasp the gravity of the situation! I'm the one who's most likely going to be killed when the Dark Lord gets his hands on me. So, pardon me for caring what happens to your mother when I'm gone!"
His eyes flashed. "I'm not in here to have lover's quarrels with you, Granger. I am in here because the Dark Lord will fucking burn this house down if I don't make him his potion. So leave me the fuck alone."
He turned back to his work, and Hermione turned back to hers.
Though she was fuming, she wondered.
Why doesn't he seem to care what happens to his mother?
O
The kitchens were stocked full the following morning, but Hermione wasn't hungry.
She was depressed.
When she woke up, she didn't have the energy inside of her body to sit up, let alone put her feet on the floor. She felt like she was an extraterrestrial being living inside a body that wasn't hers, in a life that didn't belong to her. As the days counted down to whenever the Dark Lord decided what to do about Draco's betrayal, she found herself becoming more and more disillusioned with life as she knew it.
She had a matter of days or weeks left alive. Was she meant to spend it going from the lab, to Narcissa's room, to the library every day? Was she to follow that routine until she died at the end of the Elder Wand? And all with Draco spreading his hatred for her throughout the corridors, and Lucius avoiding the ground she walked on as though she were the plague?
This Manor was dreary, but her circumstances felt even more so.
Skipping breakfast, she went straight to the lab.
She pouted down at the jar of moonflowers. She wished she could have been able to figure out how to make them work. It seemed like a lot of excitement for absolutely no payoff. It would have been a miracle if she could have seen some improvement in Narcissa's condition before they received the summons from the palace.
It seemed like there was no hope for her. She was lying in the exact same spot and position that she had been when Hermione arrived. Hermione was beginning to worry that her medicinal brew was doing nothing except keeping Narcissa alive.
What if Draco didn't care because he knew there was no hope after all?
"Can I use your wand?" she said over her shoulder to him. "This potion isn't as potent without magic."
"I purchased you that cauldron specifically because it has the self-heating charm on it," he muttered. "So, no."
"Malfoy," she said with an exasperated sigh. "I'm telling you the truth. I mean, without magic, I'm just making a - a poultice, or a -" She threw her hands up in defeat. "- a bloody soup."
"Don't talk to me," he said, his words lashing against her sensibilities like a whip.
It stung.
Hermione stared at the tabletop for a long time, even after he rolled up his parchment, bottled his brew, cleaned up his workspace, and left.
Normally, him lashing out like that wouldn't bother her. She was Hermione Granger, after all, and petty things didn't bother a girl with a temperament like hers. But with everything that happened, she supposed she just needed a friend.
She wished she hadn't ruined their friendship with her own paranoia and fears.
After making an extra dose for Narcissa after the first so she wouldn't have to come back to the lab in the evening, she left. She spent the day in her room, lying in bed and staring at the wall. She left only one time, and that was for Narcissa's nightly dose.
She slept fitfully throughout the night.
O
July 2002 - October 2002
Hermione took the boat all the way out of the mountains to the first Muggle town she came across.
Exhausted and stricken with grief, she wandered in without ever checking for the name. She had no money, no food, and no water. Nothing but the clothes on her back.
Her grief was absolute. Luna was gone, and so was the sanctuary. She felt like there was no purpose to her life anymore. Like everything she'd ever worked towards was for naught. She and Luna had been together for over two years, running and hiding and taking care of one another.
Now, she was just gone.
Hermione fell back against the side of a bank building and sank down until her bottom hit the concrete hard enough to bruise. She fell apart into uncontrollable sobs, not knowing where to go, what to do, or whether or not she even wanted to be alive anymore.
What was the point of living in a world without anyone left to love?
It wasn't until a pair of snakeskin shoes came into her line of sight that she stopped weeping. Before Luna died, she would have scrambled to her feet and ran, or found something to defend herself with just in case he was a dark wizard. But now?
She just looked up at him.
"Why are you crying, darling?" he said. He was older, probably around forty, and he had salt-and-pepper hair with a set of kind blue eyes. He wore a sharp-looking suit and carried a leather briefcase. His smile contained a full set of pearly-white teeth that Hermione's parents would have fawned over.
Hermione, who was in a half-starved state of mind, told him.
"My best friend died. All my friends died." Tears began to fall down her cheeks again. "I have no one left."
The man crouched down beside her, giving her a concerned look. "Do you need me to call someone for you? Perhaps your mother or father?"
The thought of her parents - who she didn't think she would ever see again - sent a fresh wave of emotion through her. She buried her face in her hands and continued to sob.
"Do you need a place to stay?" he asked.
At that, Hermione had looked at him and weighed her options.
Up until the sanctuary burned, she would have run before she even got to the point where a man asked her if she needed a place to stay. This man could be a Death Eater, for all she knew.
The longer she looked at him, the more she realized she didn't care. It was over. It was all over. Her time running and surviving had come to an end. If this man turned out to be a wizard in disguise, then she didn't care. If she was caught and taken into Voldemort's custody, she didn't care.
"Yes," she said to him.
And she followed him home.
He turned out to be a Muggle named Cillian O'Connell. He lived in a small but tidy flat. It was the sort of flat that contained one of every necessity: one couch, one coffee table, one TV, one coffee maker, and so on. He gave Hermione the one couch with one fluffy blanket and told her she could stay as long as she liked.
How kind of him, she'd thought.
She should have known that a forty-year-old Muggle man extending the kindness of indefinite free lodging to a twenty-year-old girl he didn't know was a bad sign.
Or perhaps she did know. Perhaps she knew exactly what he would want. Perhaps she just didn't care about anything anymore.
Her life was pointless.
Her honor was pointless.
Her body was pointless.
It was only four days before he came out to the living room at night and propositioned her. He didn't threaten her, didn't force her, and didn't warn that he would kick her out. He just stood beside the couch and waited for her to make her decision.
Hermione knew her friends would be repulsed. They would look at her with disdain and think she was either under the Imperius curse, or a whore.
But they were all dead and Hermione didn't care to be alive anymore.
Hermione felt like the version of herself that would have said no died at Hogwarts on May 2nd, 1998.
So she sat up and unlaced the drawstrings on his pyjama trousers.
Three months passed. Hermione didn't tell the man who she was or anything about herself, and he didn't ask. He gave her money occasionally, but she never left the flat. She spent all of her time lying on the couch, watching the telly and zoning into worlds that weren't her own. In all that time, she learned that they were in the city of Rosslare, and that was it.
At night, Cillian used her body and she allowed it.
I'm still me, she assured herself, night in and night out.
Her birthday passed by and she turned twenty-one. She told Cillian and he brought her a cupcake. It tasted like ash. She spent that night on her knees in front of the couch for him, jerking him off and asking him if he wanted to come on her face. Not because she wanted to, but because that's what he told her to say, and he pulled her hair if she didn't.
She felt like she was dead inside.
She felt like she was dead inside, but as long as she thought, I'm still me, everything was fine.
It wasn't until October 5th, 2002 that everything changed for the worse.
Cillian had slowly been getting more and more controlling. He started ordering her to eat at certain times and taking the remote for the telly away after 8:00PM. He stopped allowing her to wear trousers and soon, she was told that she wasn't allowed to step outside of the flat even to get fresh air. The day after he made that rule, he had the doorknob changed so he could lock her inside the flat when he went to work.
The amount of times that he found pleasure in her body increased and went from being in bed to anywhere he wanted. The kitchen, the bathroom, the living room, it didn't matter. It got to the point where she thought anything was better than this life she'd carved out for herself. Even living at the Malfoy Manor as a slave to Draco Malfoy would be preferable to this torture.
She had become Cillian's property and she had no one - not a single friend or family member - to contact for help. And it wasn't as though she had a way of contacting anyone. She was a witch without a wand.
She couldn't even remember the last time her magical core flared to life.
On the evening of October 5th, he brought a mate from work home.
He worked at the bank that Hermione had been crying outside of when he first met her. This man was someone who, according to him, signed loans. And according to the man, he had a family waiting for him at home, so they needed to "make things quick."
At this point, she regretted her decisions. The guilt and shame was starting to creep in at the edges of her psyche and make her wish she would have just let herself scrounge for food in dumpsters and live on the streets.
So when Cillian outright told her to lay down on the bed and allow his mate to "have a go," she knew that she couldn't take another day of this. She was going to take her chances on the streets.
She just needed to escape.
"I took you in," Cillian had said when she protested. He was angry, but he seemed to be trying to remain calm in front of his burly coworker. "It's my right to do with you as I wish."
Hermione had felt the lioness inside of her start to growl, the lioness that had been with her in her spirit since her days at Hogwarts.
"You may have taken me in, but I don't belong to you!" she'd cried. "I don't belong to anyone!"
Cillian didn't care. He grabbed her, choked her, and beat her. At this point in her life, her lioness was too weak of heart. It was unheard of. She was Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger wasn't weak.
This Hermione Granger was.
So with tears of rage glittering in her eyes, she allowed herself to be bent over the side of the bed and rutted into like an animal by the man with the family.
I'm still me, she'd thought as he emptied himself all over her back, decorating her skin like he was painting the walls of a broken-down, ramshackle house. I'm still me.
Then, Cillian took his turn, sealing his fate.
When he was asleep that same night, she crept into his room and stole a pair of his trousers and a belt. It was October and it was cold, so she took one of his jumpers, too. He had stashed her old boots that she'd been wearing on the run in his closet, so she took those back and put them on in the living room.
At the last minute, she decided it was best to take some Muggle money with her, too. At the very least, it could help her make it to the ferries. She was going to get as far away from Ireland as possible, even if it took her right into Lord Voldemort's waiting arms.
And the key. She needed the key. It was on the table as well. He'd never needed to hide it before because her spirit had been too broken.
Not anymore.
She crept back into Cillian's room, where his pocketbook lay on his bedside table. Heart pounding, she held her breath and slowly reached for the black leather. He'd only ever been rough with her a few times, to make sure she understood the rules, but she wasn't sure how he'd react if he woke up.
Relief flooded her veins when she plucked the pocketbook as well as the front door key from the dresser with ease. Turning, she tip-toed back out of the room. The pace of her breathing picked up with excitement. Soon, she would be free of this Hell.
"And where do you think you're off to?"
She whirled around right as her fingers were sliding the key into the lock. Fear exploded in her heart as he grabbed her by the hair and swung her around until her back slammed into the wall. Smack. He slapped her, and her ears rang where his palm hit.
Hermione managed to slam her knee up into his groin, her adrenaline pumping. She was leaving this flat. Tonight. She was not going to stay and be his willing prisoner forever.
This wasn't who she was, and it wasn't who she was going to be.
Not anymore.
They struggled further into the house, a flurry of slapping hands, shoving arms, and clawing fingers. He pushed her onto the table in the dining room, and she heard the flower vase in the center of it toppling over as he did so. Water spilled out, slicking her fingers as Cillian began tearing at the clothing she'd stolen from him.
The vase!
When his fingers began tugging at the buckle on the belt she'd taken to ensure the trousers stayed on, the much smaller girl twisted and grabbed the heavy, porcelain vase. Using all of her strength, she rammed it into his temple as hard as she could. It cracked and broke apart on impact, the dead flowers that remained inside of it spilling out on his back and the tabletop.
Cillian went limp.
Screaming slightly with lingering terror, Hermione kicked him off of her and he slumped down to the floor. When she hopped off of the table, she could see that he had fallen with his head twisted at an odd angle. There was blood pouring from an open gash on the side of his forehead.
His eyes were open.
Unblinking.
Dead.
It took every fiber of strength and Gryffindor courage she had remaining in her body not to empty bile onto the floor. She'd killed someone. She'd killed a man.
She hoped that wherever Harry and Ron were, they couldn't see her sins.
She wasted no more time. She took the money and ran.
Fortunately for Hermione, the flat was located on a busy street that had a map on the side of a building across the road. She followed the directions to the ferry terminal and sat outside of it until it opened. She wasn't worried about the Muggle police.
In this world, she was as good as a ghost.
Hermione paid for her ferry ticket with some of the euros in Cillian's pocketbook, and then she waited until it was time to start loading. She watched her fingers tremble. Not even four months ago, she was still just a girl, Luna was alive, and they would watch dragons play on the plains.
Now, she was a woman, and everyone was dead.
She left Rosslare behind and settled in at a table on the second floor of the ferry, headed for Cherbourg.
O
Hermione woke with tears on her cheeks.
She didn't remember crying and she didn't think she wanted to remember. Her mind was full of the lasting images of her nightmares, showing her Cillian O'Connell's lifeless face over and over. They were interspersed with memories of the way it felt to stab Carrow. How something that took so little effort could cause so much permanence. Sprinkled atop all of those were Draco's words echoing in her head repeatedly.
"I fucking knew it. You just want me to use you."
She didn't think she had an appetite today, either.
Draco was not in the lab today, so she assumed he must have gone to Buckingham to deliver the Dark Lord's potion. Hermione still wondered what it was for, but she didn't dwell too much on it. She was depressed and felt nervous on top of it. What if Draco came back with the summons?
It was hard living every day wondering if it was going to be her last.
Once Narcissa had been given her medicine, Hermione wandered down to the tea room. She wasn't hungry, but she wanted to savor the view just in case it was her last opportunity. She sat at the round table and placed her chin in her hand, sighing every so often with the weight of her depression. She hadn't eaten since yesterday, but she just didn't feel up to it.
The food would be there tomorrow.
Three white peacocks trundled into view, their beautiful tails seeming to shine underneath the May sunlight. Hermione watched them go by, wondering what it would be like to do nothing except wander the estate. The peacocks didn't have to worry about anything except where their next meal was coming from.
"It's important for growing girls to eat, Miss Granger. Surely your Muggle parents thought to teach you such things."
Hermione jumped with surprise at the suddenness of Lucius' voice in the doorway behind her. She cast a wary glance over her shoulder at him. To her surprise, she saw a blatant lack of malice in his face.
Odd.
"I'm not hungry," she said, her tone clipped. She turned back around to watch the peacocks wander.
His cane thunked against the stone floor a couple of times and then a plate of fruit appeared in front of her. Eyes wide and brow furrowed, Hermione stared up at him. He raised one eyebrow down at her.
"I highly doubt my son would be pleased to know you're not eating." He lifted his chin and viewed her with an expression that indicated he knew something that she might've thought he shouldn't. "In spite of the rather . . . Tense situation you've found yourselves in."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. There was no way Draco would have told him what happened in her room the night of Carrow's death. She didn't know if he loved his father, but they certainly weren't on good terms.
So why was Lucius looking at her that way?
"Have you been watching me?" she asked, voice cold.
"I'd rather cut my hair than spend my precious time on this Earth studying you, Miss Granger," Lucius sniffed, smoothing one hand back over his long silvery-white hair. "However, if you weren't aware, my son is not exactly discreet. His poor moods dampen the spirits of the entire Manor."
Hermione snorted. "It's not as if the Manor's spirits were very high to begin with."
Lucius ignored her and placed both hands atop his cane, leaning upon it. "He would not be pleased. It's best that you eat."
Hermione frowned at the food. "What, you're not going to tell me he's laced it with poison, or that he's killed some other political official?"
"Not this morning." Lucius pursed his lips. "However, I'm not so sure that my son's the only one with a killing hand. Isn't that right, Miss Granger?"
Hermione looked up into his eyes and she saw the accusation there. Draco must not have told his father outright that Hermione was the one who wielded the dagger that night. She understood why. One crucio from the Dark Lord, and he'd throw Hermione into the Malfoy estate pond to drown.
"I wouldn't know," she said, shoving the plate back towards him. "If you think I'd trust you after everything you've done, you're mental."
He stayed there for a moment longer before he picked up the plate and walked away.
She listened to the thunk, thunk of his cane on the stone until it faded up the stairs.
O
Draco was the one to come to her in the tea room the following day.
Hermione was watching the peacocks again, still trying to savor the view every single day that she possibly could. She'd eaten the night before, sneaking down to the kitchens in the middle of the night to grab things out of the cupboard and ravage them with her mouth until she didn't feel like her stomach was caving in any longer. But she'd woken up again today without an appetite and so was sitting in the tea room to try and muster up the energy for hunger.
"My father," came his voice as he strolled into the tea room without ceremony, "has enlightened me as to your death wish."
"What?"
Draco came to stand in front of her, blocking her view. He wore a pair of tight black trousers, an oversized black knit jumper, and his boots. That, coupled with his black rings, made his skin look stark pale in comparison. He held two plates in his hands and there was fruit on them both, just like Lucius's plate yesterday. There was even some toast and scrambled eggs. Both plates had forks sticking out of the side of the eggs.
"Did you . . . Cook?" she asked, confused. Her brain was unable to conjure up even an imagined version of him cooking. He didn't seem like the type.
"The House Elves are gone," he said, "so obviously."
"Well, I'm not hungry." Hermione gritted her teeth to hold back her anger. ". . . Thank you, though."
"My father told me you said that yesterday," he growled. "So, either you're lying, or you're just trying to be a brat."
Hermione crossed her arms and legs, fixing him with a sharp look. "And why would your father care about my appetite enough to tell you about it?"
"He knows that I care," Draco bit out. He held one plate out to her. "Eat."
Hermione thought back to the time he'd walked past her in the library and told her the same thing. Only this time, everything was different between them. The chasm was too wide.
If it weren't, then he would have showered her with gifts, like he always did when he was sorry.
Except how much does he really have to be sorry for? she thought. I'm the one who pressured him.
She glared at him.
"If I say I'm not hungry, that means I'm not hungry. My stomach isn't going to magically open up just because you tell it to."
His eyes flashed with familiar flames of ire and he set the plate down so hard on the table that the toast shifted on the china. Then, he pulled out the chair adjacent to hers and sat down. Hermione watched in shock as he started to eat the eggs on his own plate. She didn't think she'd ever seen him eat before.
"What are you doing?" she said.
He paused to chew slowly, looking at her as though she were stupid. "I'm eating my breakfast."
"I can see that," she snapped. "But why here? Why now?"
"I'm making sure you eat," he said, spearing some more eggs on the tines of his fork. A lock of his hair fell forward and he combed it back. "Neither of us is leaving this table until you've eaten."
Hermione quickly looked away, hoping he didn't notice the slight heat of her cheeks.
Who did he think he was, anyway? He couldn't force her to eat. Not like last time. Things were not salvageable between them.
"I don't want to eat with you, Malfoy," she practically snarled. "I don't want to share my meals with you. I don't want to look at your face."
He finished his bite and then leaned back in his chair, resting his wrists on the table in front of him. "Granger, if you don't eat with me, then you don't eat at all."
"Then you can just force feed me again," she said with a slight sneer. "Because that's the only way you're getting that food into my mouth."
He stared at her for a long time before he said, "Why aren't you eating? What is the issue?"
"The issue is that you're trying to force me to do something that I don't want to do!" she cried angrily. "So if you want me to do it, you're going to have to play your stupid Master card, because it's not happening other -"
"Damn it, Granger!" he suddenly shouted, slamming his fist down. "I can't do this with you. Do you not grasp that? I cannot do this back and forth with you. I don't have the energy, nor do I care to spend my precious time bickering with you."
"Then stop trying to force me to eat. Go play with your potions or with your sabre in the bloody gym!"
"I took you in," he snarled, rising to his feet and placing his hands on the table. "It's my right to ensure that you're taken care of, in spite of how we may feel about each other right now. If you want to go that route, then I will order you to eat your fucking food!"
She wanted to ask him to elaborate on how she felt, but she couldn't seem to get past the words that he'd just said.
"I took you in. It's my right to do with you as you wish."
Hermione sucked in her breath and exploded.
Leaping to her feet with her face contorted in rage, she hooked her fingers under the round edge of the table and upended the entire thing. It crashed against the ground and the plates shattered on the ground, sending the food spilling out on the floor. Her heart was beating wildly and her hands were trembling.
"If it's your right, then you might as well just push me down and take me right here on the floor!" she shrieked, her hair and eyes wild.
Something in his face shifted and closed off like a light going out. His expression went from open and aflame to cold and frozen like ice. Without a word, he turned and headed for the open doorway.
Chest heaving, Hermione called out after him. "And where are you heading off to?!"
"I have to fucking go."
"Why?!" she cried.
He paused without turning around. "Because if I don't, I'm going to fuck you until I'm not angry anymore."
Hermione gasped, her heart stopping its wild beating. She watched him walk away with her hands shaking at her sides. She felt like she couldn't breathe.
When would she learn to stop toying with the feathers on Lucifer's wings?
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