Trigger warning: uhhh some toxic sexual content. I don't know how to explain it. it's not bdsm because this isn't a bdsm story, but its pretty damn raunchy.
Apricity – Chapter Twenty-Seven
Draco felt fuller than he'd ever been in his entire life.
He'd eaten all sorts of food from homemade to gourmet, but there wasn't a single morsel of food that he'd tasted that was better than Molly Weasley's food.
A laugh escaped him at something George was saying. He was relaying a tale of an incident at the Wizarding Wheezes, of a boy who'd tried to make off with an entire box of candies. Apparently, he'd attempted to escape on an old Nimbus, which had shorted out and died in midair right outside the shop, enabling George to walk right up to him and drag him back inside.
Draco had eaten his fill and was now leaning back in his chair, his arm stretched across the back of Hermione's chair in a nonchalant manner. Absentmindedly, his fingers played in the back of her curls. No one seemed to have noticed.
Hermione's plate was full and untouched.
For the past ten minutes, Draco had been trying everything he could to get her to eat something. He'd tried nudging her and taking pointed bites of his own food. He'd tried squeezing her knee affectionately under the table to let her know he was there. He'd even tried rudely reaching past her for the potatoes, whispering please try to eat in her ear when his mouth lingered near the side of her head.
All she'd done was give him the smile people reserved for moments of distraction.
He couldn't figure out what had happened. She was so happy outside and after the game—after they'd crowned Team B the winners—she'd been chatting quite amiably with everyone about how excited she was for Molly's cherry-glazed ham. Then, Draco had asked where the loo was.
Had something happened while he was absent?
There was a rise in mingling conversations, enough so that Draco realized he had a good opening. He turned his head to look down at Hermione, who looked up at him with a beseeching expression. He raised his eyebrows; she raised hers, too. He shot a pointed glance in the direction of her plate. She looked crestfallen for a second, but Draco wasn't having any of it. He held her gaze again, took a deliberate bite of his food, and then lowered his gaze to her plate once more.
Come on, he thought, wishing she could hear him. This is why you invited me here, innit? Just try, Granger.
She closed her eyes for a moment and then picked up her fork, leaving one hand in her lap. Her leg began to bounce under the table, as he'd expected, but he was ready. He leaned back in his seat and snuck his hand to hold the one of hers that was hidden, squeezing her fingers in what he hoped was a supportive gesture. She squeezed back.
Draco exhaled in relief.
An entire conversation in complete silence, and still he'd managed to get her to try. That was something.
Everyone chatted for a while, and Hermione ate. She managed to eat ten bites, by Draco's count, before her leg finally stopped shaking. Her pace increased, and soon the plate was almost empty. There was even a small smile on her face.
"I sure wish Fred could be here to enjoy your pie, mum," George said. There was a sad smile on his face.
"Yes," Molly said. "He always did love the cinnamon and apples."
Draco shifted in his seat, feeling somewhat awkward as he watched the members of the Weasley family exchanging mournful glances. He knew what it felt like to lose someone—he just didn't know what it was like to share his mourning with anyone else. His father was in prison, and the only connection Draco wanted to have with him was the chest of unread letters on his dresser.
It wasn't Draco's fault that Fred had been killed, but it may as well have been. He fought on the side that caused it. He felt uncomfortable because in some ways, his mere presence at their home was sacrilegious.
Hermione set her fork down.
Oh, fucking Hell.
"Hermione," Arthur said as he finished the last of his meal, "have you heard from your parents?"
"Oh . . . No, I haven't," she said, lowering her gaze to the table for a moment. "I suspect they're probably having a great Christmas, though. Or they might already have. I'm not sure of the time difference exactly."
"Well, perhaps there's something you can do later," Molly said. "After you graduate, you could take a trip there and speak to a Mind Healer. Maybe there's something that they can do."
"I already saw a Mind Healer," Hermione said, the sadness in her voice opening a cavern in Draco's chest. "When I explained which spell I used and what I'd done, he deemed it irreversible. Obliviation isn't meant to eradicate memories, but since I was inexperienced, I put confusing intentions behind it. They—my parents will never remember who I am."
The silence afterward settled heavy and thick like snowfall upon the table.
"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Bill said. "That's awful."
"Maybe they vill dream of you," Fleur added. She was sitting on Hermione's other side, so she placed her hand over hers on the tabletop. "I'm sure their hearts von't ever be able to forget you."
"Thank you, Fleur," Hermione said, turning her hand over so she could squeeze Fleur's fingers.
Draco frowned. He'd known Hermione was sad, but he could feel it now. Really feel it, like a heavy weight in his body that wanted to drag him down. She'd been through such darkness, all within a matter of months, and to top it off, she'd never see her parents again.
The way her shoulders slumped. The fullness of her plate. The forlorn slope of her eyebrows.
He wanted to hold her.
"You'd think with how much you pride yourself on being the best," the Weaselbee said, laughing around his goblet of mead, "you'd have cast a spell that was reversible."
Draco's head snapped in the Weaselbee's direction. He'd hated him before and had imagined himself ripping his head off plenty of times, but this anger was different. Darker. More violent. He felt his fingers slipping out of Hermione's curls as he sat up in his seat. He rested his elbows on the table and cracked his knuckles, exchanging glances with Potter, who grimaced.
Before anyone else could say anything, Hermione said, "And how would you know, Ronald? You can't even cast a spell that works."
The Weasel's laughter choked off into a cough. He slammed his cup down on the table. Molly gasped, looking angry, but before she could reprimand him for it, he was snapping at Hermione.
"Well, your weight loss spell certainly worked because you look like a disgusting bag of bones!"
Just like she had with Pansy that one day in the Great Hall, Hermione lost it.
She lunged forward, like she were going to crawl over the table to slit his throat. She looked as enraged as Draco felt. He had to grab her by the hips and drag her almost onto his lap to keep her from leaping to commit murder.
Everyone was yelling at the Weaselbee, chastising him for his cruel words. The Weasel was responding by throwing his hands about, defending himself with lame, half-drunk excuses. George rolled his eyes and took the mead glass, setting it as far away from his younger brother as he could.
"She just tried to attack me!" the Weaselbee was shouting. "You can't seriously be mad at me when she's the mental one!"
"Let go of me, Draco!" Hermione screeched, clawing at his forearm. "I'm gonna kill him! I'm going to absolutely kill him!"
"Ron, please shut up!" Ginny cried. "You're going to get yourself into—"
"Yeah, and I'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you!" the Weaselbee yelled back at Hermione, cutting his sister off. "You've been an absolute nightmare since this Summer! All because I thought your dress looked slaggy, which it did!"
Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking fuck.
Hermione went rigid on Draco's lap. She sat up straight and leaned forward, one hand on Draco's wrist and the other pointing a livid finger in her ex-wizard's direction. Draco's body thrummed with energy, poised to spring if he needed to.
He could very easily set Hermione back in her seat, draw his wand, and curse the Weaselbee before anyone stopped him.
"You left me in a city I'd never been to before without my wand," she hissed.
"You know how to use directional spells without magic!" the Weaselbee screamed.
Potter, Percy, and Ginny all spoke at the same time, a chaotic jumble of words.
"Ron, you can't use wandless magic without a wand."
"It's not possible to do directional spells wandlessly without having your wand on your person, or at least in the vicinity, Ron."
"You're such a bloody idjit, Ron! She needed her wand to be able to do that!"
The Weaselbee's jaw dropped as he shot them all disbelieving, offended glances. "I'm only saying that she's nineteen! She's a full-grown woman and the most formidable witch in the bloody country! She was only a short walk away from the club!"
"You still shouldn't have left her there, son," Arthur said, frowning. "Why weren't we told of this? Hermione, he left you in Paris?"
Hermione started to reply, but the Weaselbee was yelling again.
"This is ridiculous! Absolutely bloody mental! All she has to do is pout, and you all fawn over her like she's a goddess! Hasn't anyone ever given any thought to me and the way I feel?! Has anyone thought in the past two minutes to ask why I left her there? We were having a row, and she was being an absolute bitch, just like she's been all year!"
Hermione was trembling, still astride Draco's thigh. "You cheated on me this year. With multiple people. You cheated on me this Summer, too. Were you going to mention that? Or just keep disparaging me to my fam—" She stopped herself. "To everyone here?!"
The Weaselbee's vision went unfocused for a moment, and then in a slurred voice, he said, "I wouldn't have had to look elsewhere if you would have acted like a normal girlfriend instead of making me wait until some arbitrary date, only to suddenly switch and be repulsed by me just because I left you at the pub!"
Except that wasn't what the issue was.
The issue was that him leaving her without her wand had caused her to get fucking raped.
Draco flinched as a violent, acidic rage overcame him. He tightened his arm around Hermione's waist and leaned past her.
"If you don't shut your fucking mouth, you cheeky piece of rubbish, I'm going to rip your tongue out and feed it you!" he snarled. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, so shut your hole or pour some more liquor down it until you do!"
There should have been silence after that. There should have, because he was Draco Malfoy and he'd just threatened Ron Weasley at his family's Christmas dinner table. But there wasn't.
Hermione filled it.
"You hurt me, Ronald!" She was on her feet, absolutely screaming at the top of her lungs. "You made me feel worthless! The second you realized I wasn't like Lavender—that I wasn't going to just throw myself at you like you were the moon to my stars—" She fluttered her fingers. "—you started treating me like I was a burden. You've insulted me, called me names, shamed me, and haven't given a damn about me since the moment we first kissed."
The Weaselbee hopped to his feet, stumbling against George's seat, who looked exasperated.
"That's not true, and you know it! You know I care about you! You've been my best friend for a decade, Hermione! Don't act like that counts for nothing."
"It counts for something," she said, her voice trembling, "but it doesn't erase anything that's happened."
"For Godric's sake! It's not as if I hit you!"
Hermione didn't seem to think about her actions before she carried them out.
She grabbed the nearest goblet—Draco's—and lifted it. With an outward fling of her arm, she tossed the contents of the cup in his direction. In seconds, the Weaselbee was soaked, face dripping with the mead that Draco hadn't seen fit to drink. The shock of it had caused the oaf to plop back down in his seat, spluttering and scrubbing at his wet eyes.
Because it didn't matter if he hadn't hit her.
There were plenty of ways to hurt someone without ever laying a finger on them.
"I hate you, Ron," Hermione whispered, her chin quivering. She gave Molly a heartbroken expression. "I'm so sorry, Molly."
Hermione turned and fled for the stairs.
The room erupted.
"Well, now you've gone and done it, Ronald!" Molly hissed, looking as angry as a violent thunderstorm. "I ought to tie your ears behind your head. You bumbling fool. You absolute bumbling fool! I did not raise you to be this horrid!"
"Ron, did you say all those things to that girl?" Arthur looked disappointed and stunned. "How could you treat her like that?"
"You're such a loser," Ginny said. "You cheated on Hermione Granger. What an idjit."
"Take it from me," Charlie said in his gruff voice. "Ginny's right."
"Ron, I don't know what the bloody Hell is wrong with you." George slapped the back of the Weaselbee's head so hard that he pitched forward and had to catch himself on the table with his elbows.
"I can't figure out what the big deal is! It was a crowded pub! We were right down the street from the club you guys wandered off to! Why is she so angry?" the Weasel yelled.
Potter was the one to speak this time. "Ron, this is ridiculous. I'm your best mate, but really? How could you cheat on her?"
"I don't know!" the Weasel spluttered, throwing his hands up. "Witches have been throwing themselves at me ever since the articles in the Prophet that came out after the war!"
"So, you get an Order of Merlin and completely lose all respect for women?" Arthur slammed his fork down, glowering at his son. "I'm ashamed of you. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Well, it's not as if she's acting like a normal person! I understood her asking me to wait, but to go from letting me kiss her to not letting me touch her at all just because I left her at a pub after a row? Honestly, she should just get over it. It's not as if we were a good match, anyway."
Did the Weaselbee not know?
Did he not know how badly Draco wanted him dead?
There was a loud sob from the stairwell, and everyone turned to see Hermione standing at the foot of the stairs. She'd been on her way back down, but now, she was motionless with her arms crossed over her chest and an expression of despair on her face that tore Draco in two.
"Us being a match wasn't the problem, Ron. Not everything is so easy as just forgetting. I know it is for you, but that's not how it is for me."
"You're acting like a complete girl about it," he shot back. "You're making me out to be some—some abusive monster, when all I did was cheat on you! So, yeah—I think you should get over it. Our relationship is done because you broke up with me. Why are you still sniveling about it?"
"Maybe it's because you're not the part I can't get over, Ron!" she yelled, tears streaming down her face. "Do you ever stop to think about anything deeply at all?"
With a cry of frustration, she bounded up the stairs and did not come back down.
The family's yelling at the Weaselbee resumed.
Inside, Draco felt his heart racing as it struggled to keep his blood from simmering to a boil. He scrubbed his face with his hands, bouncing his leg and fighting the urge to bleed the Weasel like a stuck pig. He was past the point of anger. At this point, he wanted to laugh in incredulity at how badly he wanted to fight the Weaselbee.
He knew that Hermione hadn't told anyone other than himself about what happened in Paris. He understood that. But it wasn't exactly about that. It was the way the Weaselbee had said the horrible things he'd said, delivering them as though she were the last person he ever wanted to commit to memory. As though she were snow that had been tracked inside a clean home.
"I'll go talk to her," the Weaselbee grumbled, starting to stand.
"You sit down," Draco warned, his hands flat on the table as he pushed himself to his feet. He looked at Molly and then Arthur. "I apologize for my outburst. It was disrespectful to you and if you want me to, I'll leave. But I'm going to go take care of her now."
Draco jogged up the stairs, ignoring whatever happened behind him as he did.
The sound got fainter and fainter, until he was on the second floor and their voices were muffled. Right as he came to the top of the landing, he saw her. She was standing in front of one open door, pacing and chewing on her thumbnail. Her cheeks were wet, but she wasn't crying anymore.
Suddenly, she turned and started to walk into the room she stood beside.
Oh.
Oh.
It was the loo.
Draco dashed forward, sprinting to catch up to her. His hand slammed against the upper part of the door, curving around its edge to stop it from closing. She stared up at him, her eyes red and glassy and her chest heaving.
"Draco, don't try to stop me," she bit out through clenched teeth. "Don't even try to stop me."
"Just come here," he said in a low tone, his voice pleading with her. The loo was tiny and he was so tall—it was cramped. All she had to do was turn and drop to her knees. He didn't want her to.
She stared into his eyes and as each second crawled by, he saw her getting more and more upset. Finally, her face crumbled and she started to cry again.
"I'm gonna do it."
"No, you're not," he said, sighing. He tried to wipe her tears with his free hand, not wanting to let go of the door lest she try to shove him out. He could always use his wand to get it open, but Hermione was fairly good at charms. That meant she was better than he was.
If she wanted to keep him out of the loo, then she would.
"I'm going to do it."
"No," he said, "you are not."
The pace of her breathing picked up.
"Hermione, you're not gonna do it," he said, raising his voice as he leaned down and cupped her cheek. "Do you hear me? You're not. Not today."
She tried to bat his hands away, to pull her face back so she could shake her head. "You don't understand. You just don't get it."
"I do understand, and I do get it," he insisted, "but you're still not doing it."
"You don't understand!" she cried, her eyes wild. "You don't know anything about it."
"Hermione," he said through his teeth. "Please, please don't purge."
She blinked, frowning up at him. "Where did you . . . ? Nevermind, just—I know about the rules, okay? I know we're not at the castle. But I just ate all of that food and Ron said that—that stuff to me, and I can't deal with it." She shrugged her shoulders and gave him a helpless, defeated look. "I can't cope, so I need to get rid of it now."
Draco didn't know why, but his legs were shaking. Whether it was anxiety or fear, it coiled tight in his chest and made him feel like he were trying to stay afloat in choppy waters.
"Hermione, please." He grabbed her hand. "Please. I'm begging you. I will get down on my fucking knees for you if it will make you stop."
She let out a sound of irritation and stomped her foot. "No. Draco, every second is a second wasted, and I—"
"I know, all right?" he whispered. "I know. But you have to figure out how to cope with it for a little while. Look, we can leave together if you want. We can just—just go anywhere. To a hotel suite, or—or back to Hogwarts. Anywhere."
"I don't want to go anywhere. I want to get rid of it."
He squeezed her fingers. "I know you want to, but I'm not gonna let you."
"Draco, you—"
"What are you guys doing?"
Draco scowled and looked over his shoulder. The Weaselbee stood there, his eyes narrowed in suspicion and his cheeks ruddy from drinking. He swayed slightly on his feet.
"We're—"
Draco cut her off, having had enough. "We're busy. Can you leave?"
"It's my house," the redhead snarled. "Who invited you, anyway?!"
"I did," Hermione snapped. "Now, go away, Ron. This is a private conversation."
"You're in the loo together. At my house."
"I don't care!" she shrieked, starting toward him. Draco stuck his arm out and grabbed her opposite arm to stop her. "Just leave us alone!"
"What, you thought you'd get back at me by fucking Draco Malfoy in the loo in my family home? Tch. Figures." He held onto the railing of the stairway, trying to stay upright. "It's not like I slept with any of your friends."
Draco gazed down at Hermione, hoping she could read his preemptive regret. He dropped his arm back to his side and slowly turned to face him. He held the Weaselbee's gaze with a murderous one of his own, sending all of his hatred and rage in his direction.
The Weaselbee leaned back.
"Start. Walking," he growled. "Down the fucking stairs . . . Now."
"I told you, this is my house."
"Now!" Draco roared, ripping his wand out of his sleeve and taking a threatening step toward him.
The Weaselbee crumpled like a paper tower, scrambling back down the stairs with several terrified glances over his shoulder. Draco stood with his back to Hermione for a second, seething and vibrating with the distinct image of himself slamming the Weaselbee's head into a wall plaguing his mind's eye.
"Draco . . ."
Hermione's hand on his arm pulled him out of the inferno and he turned back around.
"You should probably go," she said. "I don't see this situation getting any better."
Draco heaved a sigh. His eyes flickered back towards the loo and then down to her again. He raised his eyebrows.
"How do I know you're not going to do it?"
"You have to trust me."
"I simply don't."
She gave him an exasperated look, which he returned, and then she clasped her hands in front of her.
"Draco, please. It's not that much food."
"If it's not that much food, then you can stand to keep it down."
"You told me in your letter to try to keep it down."
"And I'm telling you now, to keep it the fuck down," he said.
She looked near hysterics. Touching her fingers near her temple, she closed her eyes and said, "Draco. I'm going to do it whether you're here or not. So, you can either accept it, or cry about it later."
Draco felt her words like a barbed wire whip. He knew now that it wasn't her that was talking to him—it was the part of her that was desperate to be empty. The part that needed to deal with everything that the Weaselbee had made her feel.
He wanted to fix it.
"Come with me," he said, holding his hand out to her. "Come with me back to the Sunamuras' cottage. They decorated way thicker than you decorated the common room, and I'm sure they'd love to meet you."
Surprise crested on her face. "You mean . . . The friend of your family's that you told me about?"
"Yes. They're the only family I have now." And so was she.
Hesitancy took up residency in her eyes, and Draco took his hand back. He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Those are your options. Purge and stay here. Or keep it down and come with me."
"Or keep it down and stay here." She frowned.
"But do you really want to stay here?"
She was silent.
"Which do you want more?" he asked. "To stay here, with him? Or to come with me?"
She lowered her gaze, appearing thoughtful.
"I want to be with you."
His heart skipped a beat at the words, even if he knew they were niche. "But to come with me, you have to agree to keep it down."
She pursed her lips. ". . . Fine. Fine, I'll come with you."
"Yeah?" He couldn't help it—the smile spread across his face.
"Yes."
He bent down and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her into the air and ignoring her cry of dissent. She cradled his face between her hands and raised her eyebrows.
"I don't like how smug you look."
"I like getting my way," he said, smirking.
"Established. Set me down."
He set her down, pretending not to notice her sour expression and the somewhat longing look she sent back to the loo. But he was proud to see her turning the light off and walking back out into the hallway.
"Let's go say good-bye to everyone," she said.
"Hey."
She turned to look up at him. He searched her eyes.
"You don't have to 'get over' anything, do you hear me? No matter what anyone says, your pain—" He reached out to touch his finger to her chest, right over her heart. "—is yours. It's yours to process for as long as it takes. Anyone who sees your worth will be there, no matter how many years go by. Even if it takes eternity, the right person will have patience and do what it takes to make you feel safe again. The right person—" He touched her heart again, lifting his eyebrows. "—won't leave you in Paris without a wand."
She tilted her head to the side. "Like a soulmate?"
He took his time replying.
"Yeah. Like a soulmate."
She bit her lower lip, engaging in a visible silent debate with herself. Then, she rose up to present her lips to him. He moved his hand from her chest to her jaw and caressed it as he kissed her. After one last lingering look, they went down the stairs to face the Weasleys.
". . . And I looked at her and said, 'Narcissa . . .' I said, 'Narcissa, don't you think you ought to take his toys away from him when he acts like that?' And she looked at me and said, 'Any time I take anything away from him, he sits me down to give me a thirty-minute speech about why he deserves to have them back. And he demands a new toy to make up for the time he lost with the old ones.'"
At the tail end of Ryo's words, Hermione dissolved into a fit of giggles so severe that she had tears dripping from overflowing eyes. She covered her mouth with one hand, laughing and laughing and laughing. Her laughter was infectious, spreading like wildfire to Draco, who was able to push the pain of his mother's memory aside to laugh with her. Rose laughed, too, a sound that drifted below the hearty volume of Ryo's.
They'd been sitting in the living room for the past thirty minutes, talking stories and answering all sorts of questions. Ryo and Rose both didn't mind Hermione being there, but they seemed to be interested in getting to know her, so they asked about her studies, her life, her experience with the press after the war, and her hobbies. They avoided talking about the war itself and they seemed to get the hint not to ask why Draco and Hermione had decided to leave the Burrow and come back to their cottage.
Strangely, Draco felt like he'd brought a girlfriend home. Like he'd brought her to meet his parents.
Rose stood up while Ryo launched into another story of Draco's childhood that he remembered from a past holiday visit, wandering into the kitchen. While he spoke, Hermione settled in. She was perched on the arm of the recliner chair Draco currently sat in, her legs curled up under her. Her arm rested somewhat on the top of Draco's shoulder, and she had her temple propped against her palm.
Thankfully, they'd both seen fit to remove their Weasley sweaters when they go to the Sunamuras. As lovely as it was that Molly had knitted them herself, they really were horrid to wear. Draco was certain his neck was going to have a rash within hours if he didn't take it off as soon as he could. Now, he was comfortable in trousers and a tee shirt, and Hermione was in her leggings and a jumper that she'd borrowed from him.
As Ryo continued, Draco slipped his arm around her waist, his fingers tracing circles on her thigh where no one could see. She shifted closer to him.
Rose returned, floating plates of cake towards everyone. Draco and Ryo accepted theirs, immediately taking bites. Ryo tucked in, complimenting Rose's baking. A plate hovered in front of Hermione.
Draco exchanged glances with Rose.
Would she take it?
"What is it?" Hermione asked, her tone polite. "If you don't mind my asking?"
"It's a simple vanilla sponge cake with chocolate buttercream frosting," Rose said, smiling. "Is that all right? I can get you something else?"
"No, no!" Hermione cried, and she accepted the floating plate. "This is all right. I love cake."
She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. Then, she took another. And another. Draco felt his emotions swirling, warring with one another. Part of him felt happy to see her eating more. Another felt concerned for how it would make her feel, especially given that he'd made her keep her dinner down.
"Great!" Ryo said. "Rose is an excellent cook, but her baking is my favorite part of our marriage."
"Just the baking?" Rose teased, sitting beside him on the couch. "I should feel hurt!"
"I'm only joking, my love." Ryo leaned over to share a kiss with his wife, and then gave her a look that spoke of adoration. "You are my favorite part of our marriage."
"And you are mine."
They kissed again, and Draco looked down at his cake, a lock of his hair falling into his face. His cheeks were warm. He took another bite of his dessert to hide his mild embarrassment, and then felt fingers brushing his cheek. He glanced up and saw Hermione looking at him. Her lips twisted up into a half-smile as she combed his hair back.
"Draco, have you ever told Hermione about the time you tried to trick the goblins at Gringotts into letting you into your father's special savings vault in your Fourth Year? The one that required express permission only from him?"
Hermione's gaze tore away from Draco's face. "He did what?"
"Ohhh, yeah," Ryo said, pointing his fork in Draco's mortified direction. "And I'm gonna tell you all about it."
They listened to Ryo tell Hermione the story, eating their cake until all four plates were empty. Hermione ate like a normal person, too busy laughing and listening to seem to worry about what she was putting into her body. There were so many times she nearly laughed the food right out of her mouth that Draco was worried she was going to choke.
It was weird, listening to Ryo tell stories of his childhood the way a father would. Lucius wasn't the sentimental type, so he highly doubted he'd sit around a fire and talk stories like this. Narcissa was quiet, but she liked to tell Draco stories of his childhood sometimes.
And he'd give anything to hear her tell one.
The last bite of his cake felt like it was lodged in his throat.
After the Sunamuras went to bed, Draco and Hermione went to the room that he'd taken as his for the time he was at the cottage.
He closed the door behind him and leaned back against the wood, watching her walk around and study everything.
"I like it," she said. "And I like the Sunamuras. Ryo is very friendly and Rose is kind."
Draco lifted his chin. "So do you regret coming with me tonight?"
She shook her head. "I felt bad for leaving early, but I think they understood. And Ron definitely wasn't happy about it. But I don't much care what he thinks about what I do."
Draco watched as she walked over to the bed, spun on one foot, and sunk down onto it. She was frowning, lost in thought. He wondered what she could be thinking.
After another second, he turned the light off, pushed away from the door, and went to join her. He sat down beside her, the mattress bouncing a bit.
"How are you feeling about the cake?"
She smiled in an almost accusatory, confused way. "You're so invested."
"Of course I'm invested," he said, because they were alone. "I care about you."
She averted her face towards the other side of the room. "I don't know why."
"Stop that," he said, grabbing her chin and pulling it back to face him. She couldn't seem to maintain eye contact. "What's the matter?"
"I'm nervous."
"What? Why? It's just me." He placed his free hand behind her on the blankets to prop himself up. His thumb caressed her chin as he scrutinized her. "Worried about sharing a bed with me again?"
"Maybe."
He smirked. "You wanna sleep on the couch? We can charm it into a bed for you."
"No." She gave him a revolted look. "Are you mental? I'm sleeping in here with you."
Before he could say anything, she pulled out of his grasp and crawled behind him, clambering towards the pillows. Draco laughed when she slid beneath the covers and pulled them up to her nose. Then, he stood.
"What are you doing?" she asked, voice muffled.
He walked over to his things, where he picked up his trackies and tossed them onto his side of the bed "I'm putting on my pyjamas. That all right with you?"
"I suppose."
"Want me to transfigure you some?"
She stared at him for a long moment, for as long as it took for him to step out of his trousers and stand there in black pants and his shirt, and then she spoke.
"Can't I just wear your shirt?"
He threw his head back and laughed again. "Yeah, all right."
Draco pulled his trackies on, tying the drawstrings, and then reached over his head to pull his shirt off by the back of the neck. She sat up and took his shirt from him. He was about to ask her if he should turn around when she casually reached for the hem of her jumper and pulled it over her head. Then, in another extraordinary show of trust, she stood up on the mattress, teetering as she pulled her leggings off.
Except that it wasn't casual. He knew exactly what strength it took for her to reveal herself to him. And she was standing there on his bed, wearing naught but her brassiere and knickers. He tried not to look at her for too long, but it was difficult.
She was achingly beautiful, too.
Hermione pulled his shirt on, and the hem fell to the middle parts of her thighs, dwarfing her like the sweater had that day. She sunk back down to the bed and under the coverlet. He saw her gaze flitting about his body, from shoulders to hips to fingertips.
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what?" Her gaze returned to his face.
"Look at me that way."
"Because," she said, "I like your tattoos."
"Do you like them?" he asked, crawling into the bed with another smirk on his face. "Or do you like them?"
She shrunk back, looking up at him hovering over her in the moonlight that spilled across the bed from the cottage window. "I like them. They look like they took a lot of time."
"They did take a lot of time. A lot of money, too."
"Something you have no shortage of."
"You just love to be right, don't you?" He slipped beneath the covers, and he felt his feet brushing hers. They were ice cold, but he didn't mind it.
"I'm not opposed to it. Hold me."
Draco obliged, sliding one arm beneath her and curving it around her back. With his other hand, he began to touch her, his fingertips tracing lines along her face, neck, shoulder, and arm. They sunk into her hair, scratching along the back of her scalp. They tickled the back of her neck, and he pretended not to feel her shivering.
"So, what do the roses mean?" she asked, her breath hot against his bare chest. He felt her fingers drifting along his neck.
"Huh?"
"Remember when we were doing rounds, and I asked you what the roses meant?"
"You mean when you tricked me into doing rounds with you so you could practice revenge on your ex-wizard that you never ended up going through with carrying out?"
". . . You're a prat, but yes. I remember when I asked you, you hesitated. What do they actually mean?"
Back then, things had been a lot different. He hadn't known about the bond. He hadn't had such strong feelings for her. But now, all he could think about was her. All he wanted to do was protect her and keep her.
Maybe if he was honest, she'd want to stay?
"I got these tattoos," he said slowly, gentle as he touched her curls and felt them sifting through his fingers, "because I needed to find a way to represent the way it felt to watch my aunt hurt you that day in the Drawing Room."
She stiffened in his arms but said nothing.
"The chains represent how it felt to know that I could do something to help you, but that I was too cowardly to. They represent feeling trapped by rules and societal constructs. By fear. The roses are thornless, and if you've noticed, they're at full bloom even though the chains are wrapped around them. It's because even though you were trapped by chains, too, you were still trying to be strong. Still trying to bloom. And I found that beautiful."
The silence rang.
"You got a tattoo for me?" she whispered, and he felt her hand pressing to one of the roses on his throat. "For me?"
He gazed at the wall past her head. "Yeah. I guess I did."
"I—Thank you. I don't know what to say. Just . . . Thank you."
His hand trailed down to the end of a curl and let go. He watched it bounce back into place. "You weren't ever supposed to find out, of course. My tattoos are for me. I think they're how I deal with my emotions."
"Draco Malfoy has emotions?"
"Shut up," he said, his lips curling upward. "Sometimes, it feels like the war was a lifetime away, but the emotions and everything I felt still feels fresh. The tattoos give me something corporeal to focus on. A place to put those like, emotions."
"Yeah," she replied softly. "It feels like it was yesterday and twenty years ago, all at the same time. Sometimes I can't focus in class because it all feels so pointless. I can't decide whether I'm terrified he's going to come back, or terrified that he's not."
"Is that why you haven't decided what you want to do after Hogwarts?"
Draco knew he was asking a lot—that he was digging too deep, especially given his opinion on this topic had been formed from watching her memory of Paris—but he wanted to know. He wanted to know her.
He wanted to know everything about her.
"I haven't decided what I want to do because I'm scared. I don't know who I am or what I enjoy, and I don't want to get stuck in a career that brings me no joy. Part of me wants to travel far away and never come back." She was quiet for a moment, and he felt the heat of her gaze against his chest. "I made a mistake in dating Ron. I ruined our friendship. I ruined what we had with Harry. I can feel us growing apart by the day and it makes me question everything I thought I knew. Everything I thought I deserved."
"Because you think it's your fault?"
"It is my fault. If I would have just . . . Been a little more normal about it all, perhaps I would have married Ron."
Except that she never would have been happy if she did. Not if she was bonded to Draco and never knew it.
"There's no such thing as normal," Draco said, his hand curving tight around her waist. His other hand traced through the hair at the top of her head. "And if you were, you'd be pretty fucking boring, don't you think?"
She giggled. "Yeah, maybe."
"The war may not be a lifetime away right now, but someday it will be. Don't get hung up on the way you feel right now because it won't last forever. Nothing does."
"Nothing except the bond."
His heart skipped a beat. She was right about that. He just didn't know how she felt about it anymore. Every encounter they had brought them deeper and deeper into the bond. Every time they kissed, he knew he could feel himself falling faster. Every step brought them closer to the third level.
Consummation.
"Should I tell them what happened?"
"Who?" he asked, shifting in the bed so he was slightly on his back. She followed, pillowing her head on his chest and arm. "What?"
"The Weasleys. Harry. Ron. Everyone. Should I tell them what happened in Paris?"
He felt his hackles rising, but didn't show it outwardly. He didn't know if it was because he didn't want anyone to know and be privy to those darker sides of her, or if it was because he was afraid she wouldn't need him anymore. He just knew he felt uncomfortable.
"Is that what you wanna do?" he said.
"You don't want me to?"
"They don't deserve to know that information if they couldn't see the forest for the trees, Hermione. It took you almost thirty minutes before you started eating at dinner, and they didn't even notice."
"Did you?" she countered.
"Did I what?'
"Did you deserve to know that information?" She lifted up onto her elbow so she could look down at him. "Because last I checked, I didn't invite you into the memory. The tea made me more susceptible to allowing you in. It weakened me. So, you saw it. But at the time, did you deserve to know?"
He frowned, studying the moonlit glow of her face as he tried to find an answer to her question. Because once again, she was right. She was always right. He didn't deserve to know anything about her at that time. He didn't even deserve to have access to her dreams like he had for the past five years.
Who was he to decide who did?
"No one has a right to you, Hermione," he said after a second of thought, gazing up into her eyes. "No one. Especially me. I don't think you should tell them until you feel they've earned that right because I didn't deserve to know. And I'll spend every day that I can earning that right posthumously to prove it."
Her brows twitched together and she laid back down, her hair soft against his skin and her face turned out towards the bedroom.
As they laid there in silence for a bit, Draco wondered to himself if maybe he wasn't doing enough. If perhaps he wasn't fighting hard enough or doing as much as he could to really help her. Was she getting worse, or getting better? Was any part of her healing at all?
Was he making a difference?
He closed his eyes for a moment as a strange emotion overtook him, rumbling in his chest and rising to an ache in his throat. The hand of his that wasn't on her waist rose to rub at his eye as he fought against his desire to burst into the same rare tears that he shed for his mother.
What if he wasn't making a difference? What if all of this was for nothing and she was going to die, just like his mother?
"Draco?" she whispered.
"Yeah?" His voice cracked, hoarse and throaty.
"I ate a lot today."
He stroked her waist in a comforting motion. "No, you didn't. It was half a dinner plate, and one slice of cake."
"You asked how I felt about the cake earlier. I'm telling you how I felt about the cake."
"Okay, well it really wasn't a lot. I'm telling you that it wasn't a lot because you aren't able to think clearly." He was careful with his words, not wanting her to know he'd done his reading.
"I'm going to gain."
"No," he sighed, "you're not."
"Yes, I am." She rolled onto her back, her hands waving in the air as she ranted. "You don't understand anything about this. I have barely kept anything down in weeks. I've gone multiple days without keeping a single morsel inside of my body, which means that I will gain on small amounts of food. So, the cake matters. The dinner matters."
"You won't gain any real weight that way. And anyway, is that what it's really about? Numbers and weight? I thought you said—"
"It's not about the numbers, no. It's about the fact that I know what's going to happen days in advance because I track everything. I plan everything. I know exactly what I'm supposed to weigh two weeks from now. I plan for contingencies, and this went way outside of my plan. My contingencies take into account how much I can exercise away on my own, and this was way more than I'll be able to exercise off. It's going to set me back."
"Set you back?" He sighed again. "Set you back from what? Some arbitrary goal?"
"Yes."
"And what happens when you reach your goal?" He shook his head, hovering somewhere between annoyed and worried. "You turn into a unicorn and gallop off into the nether?"
"When I reach my goal, I see if I like myself. If everything feels better. If it doesn't, I make a new goal."
Alarm bells.
"What, smaller?" He tried to sit up, but she beat him to it, pressing her hand flat to his chest so he remained lying down. "Hermione, no. Absolutely not."
She laughed. "You think it's your choice?"
He wasn't doing this with her. His gaze flattened, hardened like rock. "Absolutely fucking not. I swear to Godric if you try to go smaller than whatever your goal is now, I will fucking lose my shite."
She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Okay."
"Granger."
"Okay! God. Okay." She looked away and then said, "Thank you for not commenting on it."
"On what?"
"My body. A bit ago—when I was changing. I know it looks bad, but—"
"Stop."
She looked down at him, her hair falling over the front of one shoulder. Her expression was almost shy. Guilty. Like she was apologizing for her body. He hated it.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, turning away again so that she was looking down the end of the bed, at the bedroom door. "I know I'm being selfish. I'm a horrible person. I should not even be saying this to you because it manipulates you into caring about me."
"You're not selfish, and you're not a horrible person." He placed his hand on her back, his heart wrenching at the way he could feel every bone in her ribcage. "You just need help. And saying you're making me care about you is stupid. What, like you don't deserve to have anyone care about you? No, you're not a horrible person."
"I am," she said, her voice getting smaller. "I'm not a good person at all. I'm the worst person I know. I must be to . . . I don't deserve good things, and I should not have eaten that cake. The food was bad enough, but the cake, too? Godric, I'm so disgusting and—"
The moment he heard her let out the first sob, he sat up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He bent his head, peering and seeing that she was holding a hand over her mouth to stifle the cries.
"I'm sorry," she said from behind her palm. "I don't w-want to w-wake them up, I j-just—"
"Shh, it's all right," he whispered, rubbing her arm while he used his other hand to wipe her tears. "This is why I didn't want you to purge. Because I'm here."
"But Draco." She looked up at him with big, tear-filled eyes. "You can't take the place of the emptiness."
Draco wanted to cry at that. He couldn't stand himself sometimes. Hermione did not need him to cry right now. She needed him to be strong.
"I know," he said, bending his arm to use his knuckles to push her chin upward. He looked into her eyes. "But right now, just pretend I can."
Her lower lip trembled and the tears began to fall again. He cupped the side of her head and pulled her close. He felt her tears wetting his skin, dripping down his chest, and he held her while she cried for a while.
Holding her like this, it was so, so fucking difficult to imagine a life where he didn't get to hold her anymore. When he didn't get to be the one who she cried to. When he wasn't the person she could break down for. To imagine a life without her in it, whether because she kept with her decision to reverse the bond, or because she died.
He was scared as fuck.
"You know with me," he whispered, "you would never want for anything, right?"
"What?" she mumbled, sniffling.
"If you chose to accept the bond and stay with me, I would make sure you never felt irrelevant. I would make sure that you had every fucking thing you ever dreamed of, and I wouldn't stop until I was sure that you were happy. I would make sure we had a home of our own, far away from anything that's ever caused you pain." His heart raced. "We would go anywhere you wanted. Do anything you want. If you chose to be with me, then I would make sure you have everything you think you don't deserve."
She searched his eyes, tears still rolling down over the apples of her cheeks. "What if I wanted to live in another country?"
"Any country you want."
"And if I wanted children?"
"Then you'd have them."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we'll have thirty-five kneazles."
"Can we go to heavy metal shows in London?"
"And sneak onto the roof? Hell yeah."
"And decorate our Christmas tree the Muggle way?"
"Every year."
"Make it thirty-six kneazles, and you've got yourself a deal. Because I have a half-kneazle at the Weasleys'. He was just hiding."
"From me?"
"You're terrifying."
They stared at each other, and then their faces shattered into simultaneous grins. Uncontrollable giggles escaped her mouth, mingling with his overwhelming laughter. Draco's heart swelled to bursting.
He needed this. Needed her.
Then, as fast as it had come, her mirth faded. Like a fading sunset, her face fell into a sad excuse for a smile.
"I don't know if I can see myself in a life like that. Happy, with a house and a family of my own," she said. "I don't think I deserve it."
"Why wouldn't you deserve it?" he asked, his tone almost cajoling. "Huh? Bad people don't deserve good things. You do."
"What do you define as a bad person, though?"
He thought for a moment, watching as she wiped her face. He pursed his lips.
A bad person. There was a time where he would have considered himself a bad person.
Until the Dark Lord swept through his life and destroyed his family, killing thousands along the way. Until he saw the way the Weaselbee treated Hermione. Until he saw the man in Paris go from being a passerby to a monster.
How could Hermione see herself in the same vein?
"Someone who goes out of their way to hurt other people and doesn't feel remorse. Someone who hurts other people without taking responsibility for the fact that they've done it, and does everything they can to get their own way, regardless of who it hurts. Someone like that doesn't deserve to live, let alone have good things."
She arched her eyebrow. "What if I can't take responsibility because I'll want to end my life if I do?"
Was she speaking hypothetically?
"If you went out of your way to hurt someone for your own gain, then I'd have no sympathy for you if you couldn't take responsibility," he explained. He wasn't meaning her specifically; he hoped she realized that.
"If I'm such a bad person, then it doesn't matter, right?" Her voice rose, and then after a quick glance to the door, she lowered it again. "It doesn't matter if I'm dead."
Was she talking about herself? Was this not hypothetical?
In a slight panic, he pulled his arm away from her and pushed his hair back. "Look, I thought you were—"
"Because what you don't understand, Draco," she said, cutting him off with anger in her tone, "is that when you say that people who do bad things don't deserve good things, you're not understanding that we all do bad things. We all do things that we can't take responsibility for. That doesn't mean we don't deserve good things! It just means we're people who've made bad choices."
"So, then why are you telling me you're a bad person, Hermione?" He held both hands to his temples. "By that logic, you're just a person who's done bad things."
"Yes, and that means I don't deserve good things."
He stared at her, incredulous. Where was this coming from?
"Stop looking at bad choices and equating them to verdicts," he said. "I don't think you understand what I was saying."
"Murder is a bad choice." She pushed a curl behind her ear. "That's equal to a verdict for me."
"But we're not talking about murder. That's an entirely different topic. Because you're calling yourself a bad person when you haven't murdered anyone."
"I'm manipulative," she said, and he heard the notes of challenge in her tone. She was arguing with him. She was actually arguing her belief that she was a horrible person who didn't deserve to live.
What did she think he was going to say?
"That doesn't make you a bad person!" he said. He glanced behind him for a second, debating grabbing his wand off of the bedside table so he could cast a muffliato. But he didn't want to give himself an excuse to yell. "Salazar fuck, who is telling you this?"
"Everyone. No one." She shrugged and threw her hands up. "No one has to say it for me to know it. It's in the way they treat me. It—it's the way I look. I act like a bitch, so Ron called me a bitch. My voice isn't sweet enough. I'm not sweet enough. I'm not quiet and I speak what's on my mind, and that's not supposed to be a bad thing. And where did it get me? In a back alley of Paris with my nylons around my thighs." Draco flinched at her words. "So that must mean it was a bad thing the entire time. I'm a bitch, Draco, and that's why I'm a bad person who doesn't deserve good things."
She believed that because she spoke her mind and stood up for herself that night with the Weaselbee, that it had led to her being assaulted. And that that made her a bad person? Where did the manipulation come in?
Okay, she didn't exactly sound like she was thinking clearly.
He wracked his brain, sifting through the information he'd learned from the books. It had to be the lack of nutrients. They had to have warped her brain in a way that made her actually believe that she was such a bad person for whatever reason, and that she didn't deserve to live.
Draco had no idea why she wanted to have this conversation with him, but he wasn't going to miss the opportunity to make sure she knew how he felt.
"No." He shook his head, pulled his knees to his chest, and rested his elbows atop them. He tangled his hands in his hair. "No. You're wrong. You're not a bitch—you speak your mind. That doesn't make you a bitch, and it doesn't mean you deserve bad things. Even if you were a bitch, you still wouldn't deserve bad things to happen to you. That's mental."
"I'm manipulative, Draco. I am manipulative and that means I'm toxic. Toxic people are bad people. I'm a bad person and I don't deserve—"
"Shut up!" he snapped, feeling overwhelmed with an anger that had nothing to find foundation on. "Who the fuck is telling you this?!"
"No one has to say it for me to know it." Her voice bordered on monotone.
Fuck. He should have brought weed.
"Hermione, listen to yourself. We all manipulate people sometimes. We all make bad choices. None of us are perfect. By your logic, what's the point of living?"
The dam broke.
"I don't know!" she cried, forgetting the volume of her voice. "It's not like anyone would care if I was gone. If I'm such a bad person—if I'm so toxic and so evil, then why do I deserve to live?!"
Draco was speechless. He had no idea how to respond because it was all untrue. It was so beyond untrue that he didn't know how to articulate to her how untrue it was.
Her eyes filled with tears. Again.
"You can't even answer the question."
He spoke slowly, because his shock was that deep. "Because it's an absurd question."
"Because it's true, and you know it!" Desperation spun in her eyes. Her voice was a near-snarl. "I was a bitch, a know-it-all, and a prude, and that's why Ron treated me the way he did. And it all started with me obliviating my parents, taking their choice away and manipulating them to make sure the war had an outcome that I wanted. My personality is shite. I'm a bad person and you know it."
"Okay, yes," he said, conceding partially. "You obliviated your parents. But ask yourself why. Why? Because you wanted to protect them. A bad choice with good intentions doesn't mean you don't deserve good things! You didn't murder anyone. You didn't attack or stalk or bully or . . ."
His words trailed off.
He'd bullied someone.
Her.
Like the Earth spinning around the sun, his thoughts fell into orbit. Suddenly, everything made sense.
She didn't truly think she was a bad person. She didn't want to be a bad person. She was using it as an explanation. Because if she wasn't a horrible person, then none of the bad things that had happened to her would make sense. Nothing made sense, and she needed it to make sense.
And all of that was so overwhelming to deal with that she handled it with food. Calories. Exercise. Purging.
Something she could control.
Something that made sense.
And to top it all off, she had a reprehensible oaf in her ear for months, telling her that if only she wasn't such a prude, everything would have turned out just fine. Maybe if she'd just been a normal girl like Lavender Brown and spread her legs for him, he wouldn't feel like he had to treat her like Thestral shite.
Hermione didn't want to be sick. She didn't want to be sad. She wanted to be herself again. But she couldn't. She was trapped. Stuck in a pit of despair from which the only escape seemed to be death. And she was terrified of it.
She wanted Draco to tell her she deserved to be dead so she didn't have to feel as frightened of what she thought was inevitable.
Draco knew exactly what to say.
"Hermione, look at me."
She did, a pout on her face that he was determined to erase. She had her arms wrapped around her knees, too. The two of them gazed at one another and, after Draco was certain she wasn't going to break eye contact, he spoke.
"I don't know who thinks you're toxic. Even though they're wrong, I can't speak for them. But what I do know for damn fucking certain is that you're nothing like the Weaselbee, and he is toxic. You're nothing like the Dark Lord. He was toxic. And you're not a single thing like the man that raped you. He was toxic.
"So stop taking a disgusting, reprehensible word that's reserved for truly, truly bad people, and applying it to yourself. Setting aside what I think, you have to look inside yourself and ask yourself what makes a truly, truly bad person and remember that abusing people, murdering them, and raping them is not the same fucking thing as obliviating your parents for their protection. It's not the same thing as having an eating disorder and hurting yourself. It's not the same thing as telling me you're sad and struggling. It's not the same fucking thing at all."
He paused for a moment, ignoring the fact that she was crying again.
"You're not toxic. You're not bad. You're just a person who needs help, and who needs to know how fucking amazing she is. If I have to scream it into your face, then I will. No—look at me . . . You are amazing, Hermione. Your personality is fucking amazing. You're fucking amazing, and anyone who can't see that is severely missing out.
"The fact of the matter is this: a truly bad person can't be defined by imperfect people. Only a perfect person has the power to decide who is bad and who is good. This world is made up of imperfect people passing judgment on other imperfect people. Whether you're objectively bad or good, does it matter? I still want you."
Her eyes widened in fractions as realization dawned on her. As his words settled deep down into her psyche and forced her to see herself through his eyes. And the moment he saw it click, he reached over to hook his hand behind the back of her neck.
"Do you hear me? I still want you."
Hermione closed her eyes against the tears that clung to her lashes. The moonlight spilled opalescent and dim across her face, and he could see it there.
She was savoring it before her tears watered it down into something bearable.
He kissed her as she crumbled, swallowing her sobs with his lips and tongue. He cradled her face between his hands and devoured every part of her that hated herself, wishing that he could take every burden away from her and stow it somewhere else.
She arched her back towards him, closer and closer, until his hand was on her thigh, pulling her across his lap. Their hips slotted together. His heart slammed against the cage of his chest, beating just for her as her fingers explored his chest and fluttered up the sides of his neck.
And he did want her. He didn't care how short a time it had been. He knew what he felt. He knew what he wanted. He wanted her—every part of her, even the parts that she thought were rubbish.
"Wait—" she whispered between kisses. Her hands were shaking. "We can't—You know that we—"
"We won't," he murmured, touching the tip of his tongue to the spot beneath her ear so he could hear her whimper. "I just want to show you how good you are."
He caught a glimpse of the shy look on her face before he was attacking her throat, suckling at every part that he could with a sensual tongue. She gasped over and over, until it became clear that she was trying to keep the sounds she wanted to make inside. He felt her hands curving around the back of his skull, her fingers searching deep through his hair, and he moaned into her ear.
Hermione dipped her head down and began to explore the column of his throat. His skin, as sensitive as though it were new, tickled and tensed. He felt another moan growing in his chest. He dug his fingers into the flesh of her thighs, letting out a stuttering breath.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, Hermione. That feels so good, it—"
His eyes rolled up into his head when she traced one of his roses with her tongue. He moaned again, his head falling back against the pillows and his chest rising faster. It was like a star, seconds away from supernova.
He was going to lose control of himself.
Her teeth scraped his pulse, sucking. His teeth clenched. His hands crept closer to her backside, pulling her until she was grinding against his hardness. A hiss escaped him, tapering off into a masculine whimper, and a shiver caused his shoulders to spasm.
And then her lips brushed his ear. Her hands began to drift down the planes of his abdomen. Her back arched down towards him and he felt her breasts through the fabric of his borrowed shirt.
"I want to make you come," she breathed. "Can I?"
Hearing her voice, promising him ecstasy and opening herself up to him like that? It was the epitome of erotic.
"Oh, fuck," he moaned, turning his face towards hers to brush his lips against hers. "Please."
She pressed a light, almost chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. Her hand continued downward. His fingers trailed up to her waist, twisting and clenching in the shirt as she reached beneath the waistbands of his trackies and pants.
His mind spun on a carousel. He hadn't expected anything like this. He'd assumed any time they did anything like this, she'd be on the receiving end. He hadn't thought she was ready.
What if she was only doing this because she felt pressured? What if it was because they were alone in his room in what was the equivalent to some random cottage for her?
"You don't have to," he said, starting to push her back by the waist. "This isn't—"
Her hand wrapped around him, tight and firm. His eyes met hers, the look of concern in his contrasting with the determined look in hers. He was harder than he could ever remember being, so hard that he pulsed in the circle of her hand. He could feel each of her fingers like a separate entity.
"How do you like it?" she asked, and her tone was as logical as though she were completing an essay, or studying for a group project. Her gaze traversed his face, taking in his facial expression like it would tell her what to do if he couldn't.
He could, of course. But Draco wasn't exactly the shy type.
"I don't want to scare you," he said, forcing his attention away from her hand and up to the conversation. He took one hand off her waist and rested it against the side of her throat. The look he gave her was as serious as he could manage. "If you want to stop, we can."
"I don't want to stop. I didn't ask to stop." She raised her eyebrows and squeezed her hand as she dragged it slowly upward. He clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to buck his hips upward. "I asked you how you liked it."
He cursed and kissed her again. His fingers twisted in her curls, tight enough to see her wince. His gaze burned.
"I want to see you cry."
Her eyes dropped to his lips and then returned to his eyes.
"So make me cry."
Her words cleared his mind, wiping it like a slate. Within moments, he was snogging her into oblivion, pulling her hair so that her head tilted all the way back. The kiss was hardly better than sloppy, but she had somehow found the wherewithal to start moving her hand up and down the length of him.
And it was good.
Draco felt every nerve in his body catching flame. He was already seeing stars, watching them spin for eons behind his closed eyelids. His other hand drifted down to cover hers, showing her how fast he wanted her to go, and then the stars exploded.
"Do you want me to show you how I want it?" he breathed, gasping.
"Y-Yes."
"Harder. Squeeze har—fuck. Yeah, that's it. That's it." He hissed as he felt the blood pounding in his loins. "Ah, fuck. You're so fucking good. You're so—What are you . . . ?"
She had moved to straddle his legs. She looked up at him through her lashes, not saying a word as she arched her backside upward and bent towards him. Objectively, he knew he should stop her. He should stop her and ask her if she wanted to go this far.
But she looked so pretty with her lips wrapped around his cock like that.
Her mouth enveloped him, slow and sure as she lowered her head farther. And farther. And farther still. Until he was at the back of her throat. And then she sucked.
It was too much.
His head fell back and he groaned to keep from moaning too loudly and waking the Sunamuras. She felt like heaven. It felt so good that he wasn't sure he was going to be able to last. Looking down at her, at the plumpness of her lips as she pulled back up.
Had she done this before?
"Fuck. Fuck." He was whimpering, unable to think clearly. Distantly, he knew this wasn't at all what he'd thought she'd be ready for. He worried she might regret it. But her hair was so soft. He was falling apart for her. "Hermione—fuck."
He yanked on her curls, pulling her back up until her tongue swirled around the head and his hips jerked. He bit his lip, whining in his throat to keep quiet.
"Do that again," he pleaded, their gazes locked. His hips rolled upward. "Gods, please—please, you fucking—good fucking girl. Oh, my fuck."
Draco was barely coherent. It was too easy for him to focus on the velvet, smooth heat of her mouth. The way she seemed to either know what she was doing, or know what she was supposed to do. What she thought he wanted to hear her say. He didn't even know if that made sense.
Circe, she was good at this.
She rose up again until her mouth came free of him.
"What do you want to do to me?" she asked in a sweet, hoarse voice, her hand moving fast and hard along his slick flesh. His toes curled against the sheets. He was trapped between her thighs.
He didn't think about the fact that she might not be very experienced. He couldn't. He just spoke to her the way he wanted to.
"I wanna fuck your mouth," he hissed, his stomach twisting and clenching as her tongue darted out to taste him again. She looked up into his eyes as she did it. "I wanna fucking come in your mouth."
"I want you to," she whispered, and she looked sincere.
Salazar fuck.
Okay, he needed to gain some control back.
"Have you ever done this before? Do you know how?"
She nodded. "Once, this Summer."
He didn't need to ask more. Didn't want to. He just wanted it to be better for her. But he knew he looked wrecked. He felt wrecked. His hair was in his eyes and he could feel himself trembling as he hovered somewhere between desperation and release.
"I really, really don't want to overwhelm you," he said, propping himself up on his elbow so he could reach down and caress her face.
"I want you to do whatever you want to me," she said, closing her eyes for a moment. "I trust you, and I want it to be you."
Draco stared at her, his thumb pressing and pulling on her swollen lower lip. Feeling the soft skin beneath his fingertip and imagining himself biting it.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I don't want any part of them to be a part of me anymore," she said, lowering her gaze. "I feel safe with you. I want it to be you."
His heart clenched tight. Small. It curled into a box and locked itself there.
If that's what she wanted, then he couldn't hold himself back any longer. He didn't want to.
"Yeah?" he growled, and then his hand moved to the front of her throat. He began to squeeze. "You want me to be the one to do this to you? You want it to be me that fucks your mouth?"
"Yes," she said, her voice constrained and tiny.
His hand moved around her neck, digging deep into her hair and clenching his hand into a fist within it. "I'm gonna fuck your mouth until you can't breathe, aren't I?"
Her lips twitched up into a smile. "As long as you're quiet. Wouldn't want to wake them up."
He breathed a laugh. "Cheeky brat. Open your fucking mouth."
Still holding his gaze, she opened her mouth and lowered it again. But this time, right when he felt himself entering that slick, soft heat, he took complete control and let the galaxies take over. He tightened his hold on her hair. His hips snapped upward again and again, driving himself in and out of her mouth with an almost vehement force. It was messy and hardly quiet, but it felt so good he was already beginning to quiver. And she seemed to know exactly what to do to make it better for him. A hum here, a flattening of her tongue there.
Minutes later, he was beginning to crumble and praises were flying from his lips like shooting stars.
"You're so fucking perfect. Do it just like that—just like that. Fuck. Fucking fuck. Oh, you fucking perfect fucking—" A choked moan left his lips. He could feel it getting closer, rising to the surface like molten rock beneath the Earth's surface. Her fingernails were digging into his hips, nearly breaking the skin. The pain made him whimper.
He glanced down, his eyes cracking open. There were tears in her eyes from how hard he was pulling her hair, or how long it had been since she'd come up for air. He didn't know. His stomach twisted.
"You look so fucking pretty when you cry with my cock in your mouth," he groaned. "I'm gonna come. I'm right fucking there. Harder."
She sucked harder. A tear rolled down her cheek.
She was so pretty. Why was she so fucking pretty?
He couldn't hold it back any longer.
"Ah, fuck," he moaned.
Draco felt his entire body shuddering as he came down her throat. His release filled him with electric shocks that ran from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He uttered several more curse words as he watched her swallow every drop he gave, feeling his heart expanding the emptier he got. And then, when he was completely spent, he was quite sure he was never going to leave her for any reason short of death.
Finally, Hermione rose up to hover over him, using one hand to hold herself up as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She had a small, almost mischievous smile on her face. Draco couldn't think about anything other than how perfect she was. She started to crawl up his body.
"Come here," he said, sitting up meet her halfway. "Let me taste myself."
They kissed again, and it was sensual and heated. His hands reached down between them so he could tuck himself back beneath his waistband, and then they were roaming up her back beneath the shirt. As their tongues melded together, he pulled her close. She turned her head, deepening the kiss against a moan the moment her hips rolled against his.
His fingertips splayed out on her back, which arched closer to him. She ground her hips again and again, clearly in no mood to stop anytime soon. He smirked into their kissing, feeling attracted to the fact that pleasuring him had turned her on. He pulled back to look into her eyes.
"Can you be quiet?"
She looked confused. There were still tears on her face. "Quiet? What do you mean?"
He smirked again. "Can you . . . Be quiet?"
She searched his eyes and then her eyebrows rose. Then, averting her eyes, she nodded.
"Are we going too fast?" he asked, tilting his head so he could capture her gaze. "We can stop right now if you want."
She shook her head. "I don't want to stop. I can . . . I can be quiet."
"Good."
She let out a soft cry as he flipped them over, depositing her onto the mattress beneath him. He kissed her neck and ear until she was writhing beneath him, whimpering. Her fingers tugged at his hair. She lifted her knees on either side of him, grinding her hips against his bare torso with no signs of stopping.
The moment he touched her beneath her leggings and knickers, he felt just how turned on she really was. He cursed and slipped his fingers through her arousal, swirling her clit with wet fingers and relishing in the strangled sound she let out. He continued, gentle and slow.
"Keep quiet for me," he murmured into her ear. "Shh. Good girl. You're so good, staying quiet like that."
"Mm—Draco," she whined, one hand over her mouth and the other playing at his ribs. "Draco, I'm—already gonna—gonna—"
Draco didn't switch up his pace, knowing if he went faster or even slower, it would ruin it for her.
Her mouth fell open. Her head tilted backward, her curls becoming tangled against the pillows. She gasped for air and her feet slid against the sheets.
"Tell me when you come, sweet girl," he breathed, dropping a kiss to her bared throat. His tongue traced where his lips had touched, and it caused a deep, throaty moan to escape her. "Come on, you can do it. You're almost there."
"W-Wait, it's—" She squeezed her eyes shut. Another choked sound. Her thighs fell open. "You're—oh, God. I—"
She didn't seem to know what she was saying.
Her back arched, her breasts pressing firm to his chest. Her hips twitched. She was shivering, absolutely trembling. Still, he never stopped playing with her body. Never stopped giving her what she needed. What she deserved. What he would give to her ten thousand times over if she let him.
Yet another whine. She opened her eyes, looking at him through a near-delirious haze. Her eyes were filling with tears again, spilling over because they were too full. Full of need.
"Draco, please. Please—I'm so close." Her voice was nothing more than a whine. He loved hearing her whine for him.
"Do you want it?" he said. "Do you want me to make you come?"
"Please," she gasped. "Please, please, please make me come. Please."
The plea continued to fall from her lips and then, a few swipes of his fingers later, he had to slam his hand over her mouth to stifle the loud cry that tried to burst forth. Her body reached for the stars and consumed them all, twitching and convulsing beneath him as the orgasm shattered her body beneath his. He watched the emotions flickering across her face, absorbing how absolutely fucking lucky he was.
"You're so beautiful when you come," he whispered, kissing her as he slipped his fingers inside her still trembling body. He swallowed the wail that she uttered when he began to slam them in and out, just like he had in the common room. Hitting the spot behind her pelvic bone that made her go rigid.
Then, he sat up on his knees, his hair in his eyes and a look of pure desire on his face. She lay there, limp and moaning as he dragged her leggings and knickers down to her thighs. He pressed flat on her mons and pinned her down while he fucked her with his fingers until she was begging him to let her come again.
When she did, he looked down into her teary eyes and told her she was beautiful again. She reached for him, exhausted and satisfied, and curled up against his side. It was moments before she was fast asleep.
He held her that night, her head tucked beneath his chin, and realized that even though they hadn't actually had sex, she'd given him everything she possibly could give him. She'd given parts of herself to him that she never would have given had she not completely trusted him.
Hermione trusted him.
Draco would do absolutely anything for her.
Absolutely anything.
