Shame. It's an emotion that Draco doesn't normally feel. Partly because it's rather embarrassing, but also because every time he does start to feel that way, he resorts to drowning it out with cocaine. Who has time to feel this disgraceful and useless, anyhow?
Not Draco.
So, he fights it.
But loses the battle.
He sits in his bed later that night, legs outstretched across the mattress and head resting against the headboard, waiting for Hermione to return from comforting the others.
Of course she's strong enough to do that. There's something entirely golden and effervescent about her and her soul. Because even in the most difficult times—even when she breaks down in tears and shakes—she is still strong enough to pull herself out of that dark place for the sake of her friends.
Draco wishes he could be that strong too. But his resilience comes in parcels, and he's exerted everything possible tonight trying to just stay conscious. Trying to not falter under the unbelievably heavy weight of the world as he thinks about his friend—his best friend—almost fucking die right before his eyes—
He'd seen Hell before. Draco had looked the Devil in the eyes many times. He'd undertook unspeakable tasks, suffered torture and coercion at the hands of actual villains, fallen victim to a crippling drug addiction that pits him in a black hole every second of his life. But never—never—had Draco felt as afraid as he did just twenty minutes ago.
It was the stench, the blank look of Adrian's eyes, and the evidence of it all—puddles of vomit surrounding Adrian's body and coating his lips, cocaine spread on the counter in frantic lines. There were three lines visible, but Salazar knows how many Adrian has already taken by the time he succumbed to his seizure.
It was also the fact that it could've happened to any of them, even himself—
Draco tightens his eyes to dispel the thought. Bends his knees and drops his chest to rest upon his thighs. Almost cries, but not quite. He resists those tears to the best of his ability and instead compels another emotion to wash over his body, take charge, colonize him. Anger, rage, wrath—all synonyms for the way his blood feels as it courses through his body. It's hot with the promise of flames. Flames that could reach the sky, should he exert them.
But when the door to his room finally opens, and Hermione quietly slips inside, that anger dissipates and drowns in something else: need.
She turns slowly, leans her back against the shut door, and purses her lips. "Sorry," she finally whispers, glancing down at her feet and then back at Draco. "Everyone's asleep now, but Crookshanks was being rather stubborn."
He doesn't respond. Can't find the strength in his lungs or throat to do so.
Fuck's sake, the cat? The cat is going to bring him to tears? The fact that he shares that connection to Adrian with a fucking cat is going to lead him to sulk and scream and cry? That bloody kneazle, that little shit—that's what's going to break him right now?
He hears Hermione's quiet footsteps tap against the wooden floorboards, and then a moment later he senses the mattress dip beside him, adjacent to where his legs are bent. Her own legs hang off the side of the bed. Draco glances at her for a moment; she's staring at Adrian's bed. The corners of her eyes grow moist with tears, but she quickly swipes her fingers across the bottom of her eyelids to dispel those tears.
Strong, strong, she's so fucking strong.
"I think it's best for now if we all just go to sleep," Hermione starts. "We'll hear from Titus in the morning."
"I don't know if I'll be able to sleep."
Hermione turns her head to look at Draco. She hesitates, but then reaches her hand over and sheathes hers over his.
"What do you need from me?" she asks in that sweet, sweet voice—that voice, which makes Draco's insides feel as light as snow.
He has to think long and hard about that question. What is it that he needs, truly? Because right now, his anger could enflame the whole world in one exhale. His rage could swallow all the oceans and seas and lakes that cover the earth. His hands—crazed and voracious with a desire for revenge—could wrap around a neck and wring it dry. And what could Hermione possibly do to hinder those intense cravings? How could she possibly bring him back from that?
"Nothing," he says, retracting his hand from hers and dipping under the duvet.
Draco knows he's shutting down. But perhaps that's better than wielding his anger against her, especially when she, of all the fucking people in the world, doesn't deserve it.
Although, to be honest, his sentiments haven't changed. Draco would do anything to watch Hermione Granger surrender to his passion and fury. Succumb to the blazing touch of his hands, the fierce press of his lips against her body—any and all parts of her body—and the skintight grip of his fingers around her waist, face, legs, arms. His desire for her had grown so strong over the last few months and only escalated even further in the past few weeks. With her tepid stares and warm touches, Hermione made Draco feel deserving of admiration. To give that back to her—to make her feel as warm and alive as he does when he's around her—it would be like a fucking dream. An honor. He'd wear that badge with pride.
Hermione doesn't even ask if she can stay in his bed tonight—just crawls around the foot of the bed to reach her spot next to him. Shuffles under the covers to share in the heat.
He whispers a word of gratitude to the gods that she wasn't spooked and offput by his curt response. And when her arm wraps over him and she once again sheathes his hand within hers, and she presses her body up against his back and exhales against his neck a nice, slow, tepid breath, Draco lets that breath lodged in his throat dissipate and closes his eyes.
But he doesn't sleep.
Not for hours.
There's far too much anger within him to do that.
He can hear Hermione breath softly behind him, and those sounds help in scattered moments. But they're fleeting, temporary, impermanent. Because each time he begins to think that things will be alright, he's once again reminded of what happened today—what he witnessed unfold in the restroom of Amortentia—and suddenly sleeping is the last thing on his mind.
All he can think about is what was in those drugs, if anything.
So, he slowly and carefully unwraps Hermione's arm from his body.
Sits up and steadies himself at the edge of the side of the bed.
And he stands up.
He creeps to the dresser just past the foot of his bed, lifts his wand from the wooden countertop, and transfigures his pajamas into appropriate street clothes. Craning his head over his right shoulder, Draco gazes at Hermione as she continues to sleep peacefully, her chest rising and falling in a balanced rhythm, and her hair slipping down her cheeks and forehead.
He wishes he could kiss her and tell her that he'll be back soon—that he just has to take care of something very quickly. That he's doing this for her, for them, for Adrian, for himself.
Draco considers approaching her—just speaking the words into existence: don't worry, Granger. I'll be right back. That's all he'd have to say.
No. She looks so peaceful. He'd do anything to keep her in that state.
And Draco—he feels like an inferno. He still worries that every time he touches her, he burns her.
So instead, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and apparates into thin air.
He lands effortlessly on a side street in lower Barnet.
And immediately begins to wander down the street.
The roads are bare on a Sunday night—perhaps it's even Monday morning—with only loose stragglers stumbling around the sidewalks after an evening at the pubs. They're sporting football jerseys with similar colored scarves wrapped around their necks, having likely just finished watching reruns of matches from earlier in the day. A group of six laughs and cheers, tripping and skipping and wrapping their arms around one another in pleasant spirits.
Draco passes them quickly and quietly.
He uses the streetlights and the dimly lit lampposts to maneuver his way around the town. He knows it relatively well—the tattoo parlor he occasionally stops by is only a few blocks away.
But he's not looking to get a tattoo tonight.
With all the energy he still has within him, Draco intends to find Andrew.
A task that might appear daunting and impossible—how on earth is he to find one drug dealer in the middle of this massive suburb?
Draco knows what Andrew looks like: tall, lanky, brown hair that's shaved to a buzzcut, owl-like eyes with hollow cheekbones. He'd seen him twice before while picking up the drugs with Adrian.
He knows where Andrew likes to hang out at night: in an alley behind Al's Records, in the parking lot of the public library, or against the brick wall on the side of the Red Lion Pub.
And he knows—Draco is fucking sure of it—that Andrew laced those drugs.
Or, at the very least, that someone messed with them.
Draco considers that he's trying to convince himself of that reality. It could just be that Adrian's body reacted poorly to the sheer amount of cocaine that flowed through his system. But then again, there's something off-putting and terrifying about that fact. There has to be a deeper reason for the severity of the overdose. Because coming to terms with that simple possibility—that any one line of cocaine could lead to one last breath, regardless of whether the batch had been tampered with—that's far too fucking scary for Draco to think about.
It could've been him. It could've been any one of them. Fuck, it could've been Hermione.
Draco grits his teeth at that thought. Tightens his fists and digs his fingernails into his palms to oust that dreadful possibility.
He scopes out the library first. Wanders around the parking lot with his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks. But he has no luck finding Andrew. He moves on quickly.
Al's Records is only three blocks away. When he reaches the closed storefront, he swings around the back by way of the sidewalk, peers down the alley, and sighs despondently when he finds it empty.
Andrew can't be far. He's out here somewhere—he has to be. And Draco will return to this town every fucking night for the rest of his life if that's what it takes to avenge what happened to Adrian.
He lets his anger continue to guide him down the dim streets of Barnet until he reaches the Red Lion Pub—a quarter of a mile away from the record store. He loiters outside the front of the pub, peering left and right occasionally in the hopes that Andrew will appear out of the darkness. After several minutes of waiting, Draco closes his eyes, shakes his head, and dejectedly knocks his fist against the brick wall which he leans upon. He pushes himself from the wall and turns to wander down the street more.
That's when Draco sees him—Andrew—crossing the road with his hands dipped into the pockets of his leather jacket. He has the hood of his sweatshirt up and hanging off the back of his head, but as Draco analyzes the features of his face, he's sure that it's him. Skipping across the empty street with hurried steps and wide eyes.
Draco's chest tightens with the amalgamation of all the anger that has festered in him all night. Briskly inspecting the street for muggles and sighing in relief when none appear to be present, Draco lowers his head and awaits the moment that Andrew will inevitably pass him.
It's like the heavens are finally giving him a fucking win after what they put him through tonight.
Just as Andrew is about to dart past him, Draco steps forward and cuts off his path.
"Hey," Draco mutters under his breath, "You Andrew?"
Andrew furrows his eyebrows and drags his hood further over his head. "Depends who's asking," he responds, crossing his arms over his chest.
Draco's voice is husky. "You know my good friend. Adrian."
At the sound of the name, Andrew's eyes widen. His back shoots up from its slouched position.
Draco raises his head and clenches his jaw.
"You might remember me too."
Andrew lets out several shaky breaths and takes a large gulp. "I, uh… I'm not sure I—"
"I think you remember me," Draco says menacingly, taking a step towards Andrew and wrapping his fingers around the wand in his pocket. Andrew paces backwards, scouring the streets for witnesses. "And, judging by the look on your face, I think you know why I'm here."
Andrew's eyes bulge with fear as he steps backwards slowly, and Draco can see calculations being made behind his distorted and dilated eyes.
All of a sudden, Andrew turns and breaks into a sprint in the opposite direction.
But Draco is quick. With his hand already on his wand, he yanks it from his pocket, aims it at Andrew, and mutters a purposeful "Stupefy."
The stream of white light hits Andrew's back and blasts him several feet into the air. His arms and legs flail, and then when he lands face-first on the pavement, he's completely motionless. Stunned. Still as a rock.
Draco takes slow steps towards him, much like a predator stalking its paralyzed prey. He bends at his knees, cranes his head, and inspects Andrew's face. He's unconscious, those wide eyes now closed and his mouth hanging slack.
Draco huffs. "I'm sure you won't forget me after this."
He takes Andrew's forearm, scours the area for witnesses one more time, and when he's confirmed that they're just as alone as they were only moments ago, Draco apparates yet again.
He lands in Amortentia with a sharp crack in the air, and all of a sudden, it's like he's been transported back to that catastrophic and horrifying moment. The moment things fell apart. The moment Adrian almost died.
The smell of the club is different. It's like steel—dead, glacial, unnervingly asphyxiating.
Andrew hangs limp in Draco's grip, so he adjusts his grip—shifts his hands to hold him by the hood of his sweater—and drags him across the dance floor towards Titus' office. The club is empty, just as Draco assumed. He can do his bidding in private. All the better, honestly. Should anyone know about this, it could put him in a precarious position.
Once at Titus' office, Draco swings the door open, hurls Andrew's limp body into the office, and takes pleasure in the sound of his body collapsing against the hard ground. It's the sound of his skull colliding with the floor that feeds Draco's anger—multiplies it tenfold. He huffs with pleasure at the sight, then pulls the chair from behind Titus' desk over his head and places it next to Andrew.
With immense strength, Draco bends down, lifts Andrew from the ground, shoves him into the seat, and while holding him upright with one arm, Draco reaches into the pocket of his pants to remove his wand again. He aims it at Andrew, mutters a quick "Incarcerous," and watches as ropes fly from the tip of the wood and snare themselves around Andrew's limp body—around his torso, his thighs, his ankles, and then around his hands, shackled behind the chair.
Draco steps back. Admire the sight. Chuckles to himself and then balls his fists.
He takes on that draconic persona—lets the anger within him stream down his arm and then manifest in his fist.
And then he strikes Andrew's cheek with his knuckles at full force, triggering his consciousness.
Andrew gasps as he spins his head to face Draco. He struggles underneath the ropes, adrenaline gushing through his body.
"Morning," Draco says calmly. "Sleep well?"
"W-where am I?" Andrew asks, his voice unsteady and his lips quivering.
Outstretching his arms to his sides and looking around the dusky office, Draco sardonically answers, "Look around. You're at Buckingham Palace, of course."
"What's going on? Who the hell are you—"
"A real Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"
Andrew sniffles and lowers his head. "Look, man, if you want money or drugs, you can have them—"
"No," Draco interrupts. "That's not what I want."
Andrew lets out a sorrowful whimper. "Shit, man, alright. Look, I—I've got a kid—"
"Yeah?" Draco interjects, leaning forward slowly. "I have a family, too. People that I love. And you… you almost killed one of them."
He creases the dimensions of his face—squeezes his eyes and wrinkles his nose. "God, please man, I—"
"Nobody's going to help you," Draco says, shaking his head. "Nobody is going to save you. It's just you and me tonight."
Out of some sort of animal instinct, Draco's hand juts out and fastens around Andrew's neck. He mercilessly digs his fingertips into his skin and can feel the unsteady, reckless pulse of his neck. "You've fucked with the wrong guy."
Draco cocks his arm behind his head.
"W-wait!"
Andrew doesn't finish his sentence. He instead cries out in abject pain as Draco punches him in the face yet again. And as he begins to cry, Draco shakes off his fist. His knuckles are already red and bruising.
"Want to go again?"
"Please, you've got to listen to me, okay?" Andrew begs through tears. "I didn't know what was going to happen to Pucey, o-okay?"
"Excuses, excuses!" Draco exclaims, slamming his fist into Andrew's jaw on the beat of that last word. Pain explodes through his hand—sharp and excruciating—but the thrill of it all supersedes the agonizing, burning sting in his hand. And then, just for kicks, as Andrew sluggishly recovers and lifts his head, Draco slams his knuckles against his face yet again. Gods, it hurts like a bitch, but he hopes it hurts more for Andrew.
"Fuck, man!" Andrew chokes, spitting out pools of blended saliva and blood onto the floor. "I can't tell you—"
Another strike. Another piercing cry.
"I can't—"
Another one.
But then he's bored of beating Andrew in the face, and he's intent on giving his dear knuckles a break. Instead of continuing to punch him, Draco whips out his wand and holds it firm against Andrew's forehead. He recoils in the seat—his feet squirm back and his hands tremble beneath the binds.
"No!" he shouts with the last bits of energy he has left, shaking and rotating his head to the side to avoid eye contact. "No, okay, look man! Some—some guy approached me a few days ago, right? He corners me, threatens me, says I have to give Pucey this fucking 8-ball."
As he listens, Draco relaxes the pressure of his wand against Andrew's hand by just a tad.
Andrew continues. "Alright, so, I do it. Because he—he threatened to kill me, man. Kill me. He was insane, okay? He and that woman. I mean, she was fucking hot, right? But, Jesus Christ, they were both so terrifying—"
"A woman?" Draco asks, furrowing his eyebrows.
Andrew wheezes for a morsel of oxygen. "Yeah, man. She had these fucking crazy eyes—"
"What was her name?" Draco demands through gritted teeth. "Did she tell you her name?"
Andrew hopelessly scoffs. "I don't remember—"
Crash.
"Fuck!"
"Her name!" Draco shouts, shaking Andrew's slack shoulders. "His name! Tell me their names!"
He realizes that Andrew's eyes are growing weaker by the second. That his head is hanging down and his chin is glued to his collarbone. That the blood gushing from his nose and lips is now staining his face. He's fluctuating in and out of consciousness.
"Not so fast," Draco seethes, his palm shoving Andrew's forehead back so that he can look into his eyes. His eyes, which barely have life in them. "If you won't tell me their names, then tell me what they looked like. Or better yet, tell me what was in the drugs. Was it laced with fentanyl? Huh? What the fuck did you give to my brother?"
Andrew only has enough strength to mumble incoherent words.
Draco curses under his breath at his insipid victim. "Give me something," he entreats, grabbing the back of Andrew's neck and holding his head upright.
But the longer he stares at Andrew, the more that Draco begins to realize the destructive consequences of his anger.
Andrew's face is swollen, purple, scarlet, and cracked. His nose is bent, his pink lips are stained with blood, and his eyes are rolled into the back of his head. Sweat glistens on the creases of his forehead and down his temples. And bits of drool trickle out of the corner of his sagging mouth.
He looks about a second away from death.
Draco lets go of Andrew's head. It drops limp, his chin fluently falling to his chest. Draco looks down at his own hands, notices how they're bruised and bloody, and realizes another thing: they're nothing like Blaise's.
They don't heal or comfort—they mutilate.
How can he touch anyone with these hands? How can he do any good with them? How can he… hold Hermione. Touch her, embrace her with these vicious hands that come straight from Hell without hurting her too?
While he reflects on what he's done, a sharp gust of wind wails behind him, followed by a severe crack in the air. Draco turns on his heels and jumps at the sight of Titus, who simultaneously jumps and shouts in shock. Titus grips his chest with one hand and leans his other hand against the edge of his desk.
"Fuck's sake, Draco!" he shouts, steadying his breath. "What the hell are you—"
He looks past Draco's right shoulder before finishing his sentences, his eyes falling on Andrew's tied up, bloodied body. Titus' lips unseal in shock, and the look in his eyes morphs from surprise to utter disbelief.
"Surprise," Draco mutters with a dull snarl.
"What have you done?" Titus asks, circling around his desk and approaching Andrew's side. He bends his knees and inspects his face from below.
Draco flares his nostrils and tightens his fists, like he's not done quite yet. "What I had to do."
There's a beat. Titus looks up at Draco, mouth open and eyebrows furrowed. He stands, towers over Draco, and then like a father would do to his son, he briskly slaps the back of Draco's neck with his palm. Not enough to hurt him, but just enough to scold his careless exploit.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Titus reprimands. "How is taking your anger out on a random person going to benefit the situation in any way?"
"He's anything but random," Draco responds, gesturing his index finger towards Andrew. "He's our dealer. He gave Adrian the drugs that almost killed him. And he's going to tell me why."
"You think he's going to be able to speak to you after the number you've done on him? He looks about a moment away from being pronounced dead."
That inkling of shame and that swarm of anger collide within Draco, vying for power in the moment. Anger wins again—like it normally does—and out of his mouth falls a spiteful declaration:
"Good. He should be dead."
"Draco—"
"I could fucking kill him for what he did to—"
"What good does that do?" Titus insists, digging his finger against Draco's heaving chest. "Huh? It doesn't change what happened to Adrian. It doesn't change the shite situation you're in. It doesn't help any of your friends. And it certainly doesn't make you look like a hero. Not to any of them. Not to Adrian. And certainly not to Hermione."
"You don't know anything," Draco whispers, his neck and jaw churning and pulsing with anger.
"I know that this isn't really you."
"Spare me that tacky excuse," Draco responds, and suddenly he finds himself rambling and spilling words like never before. Like some foreign presence takes over his body and forces all of his emotions and feelings to course out of him like a waterfall. There's no direct line of though, no organized thoughts—just words and feelings and sentiments that represent exactly how discombobulated the moment feels:
"This is me. After years of trying to protect my friends but failing time and time again, this is what I can resort to in order to feel better. In order to have just a sliver—" he balances the pads of his index finger and thumb next to one another— "of control over something. And you know what? It works, damnit. But this entire charade—this role of a dragon—fuck's sake, I'm not a fucking dragon like they say. I don't protect. I destroy. I'm just a washed-up arsehole with anger issues. Anger issues that I can barely fucking control. Anger issues that are heightened when I'm on drugs." He huffs out of his nose. Continues almost immediately. "I'm always angry. Always bitter. Always resentful. I hate everything that this world has made me. I hate myself. I hate it all. But this—this is how I let that anger go. This is how I find my source of control and autonomy. This is how I feel better. This is how I keep myself from ending everything. This is how I fucking survive!"
Titus is silenced. In utter awe. His mouth hangs slack as he stares into Draco's invigorated eyes.
Draco takes four deep breaths—he counts them in his head. And then he sighs. "It's the only time I feel… alive. Like I have a purpose. Like I can do some good. Like I have actual feelings inside of me. That I'm not some useless bundle of cells, but an actual fucking person with actual fucking feelings." Draco turns his neck slowly and glares at Andrew. "He deserves it for what he did to Adrian. What he put all of us through."
"This isn't the right way," Titus mutters. "You know that."
"Do I?"
Titus drags his hand down his face, clawing at his skin and ignoring Draco's terse remark. "Listen to me. None of them would want this. They'd want you to try to relax, to get some sleep, to take care of yourself. Not seek vengeance."
"As long as Adrian is lying somewhere in St. Mungo's in pain, I'll engage in all the revenge I want."
Titus shakes his head and tiredly rolls his eyes. "That bloody stubbornness of yours gets you into too much trouble."
Draco runs his tongue across the inside of his bottom lip. Scuffs his bloodied knuckles with the palm of his other hand.
He knows that's true. His stubbornness being in the way of everything—it always has been. He was just figuring out how to control it, too.
Titus steps forward with a sigh. "Look, they've stabilized Adrian. He's alright, for now. But they escorted me out of the hospital. Said I couldn't wait there because I wasn't family."
"What?" Draco asks, creasing his eyebrows in confusion. "How the fuck is that possible?"
Titus shrugs concededly. "I don't know. But I'll be back first thing in the morning to see how he is. For now, you need to go home and sleep." His eyes glance over at Andrew, then back to Draco. "I'll take care of him. You… you need to be with your friends. And control that anger or channel it into something else."
Something else.
Perhaps someone else.
All that runs through his mind in that moment as an option is Hermione.
Because he remembers feeling rage around her, then feeling passion at the same time, and then considering that those emotions could be synonymous. Two edges of the same sword.
It's something about the way that she places her hand on his body that seems to bring him back to earth—or perhaps transcend it. He loves that feeling—he really does—but he doesn't want to be calmed by her right now. He wants to be angry. He wants to let that fury out while being cognizant of the power and heat of his flames. He wants… he wants…
He wants her.
Draco lets out the breath trapped in his throat. "He has information," he says, pointing at Andrew. "You have to keep him here. Please. I'm… begging you."
Titus nods after a moment. "Fine. But no more violence. You hear me? If you want to know what happened to Adrian, then we take this slowly and justly. Understood?"
Eventually, Draco concedes and nods.
Titus steps forward and places his hand on Draco's shoulder. "Go home," he whispers. "Be kind to yourself. This isn't your fault."
"Feels like it is."
"It's not. You have to stop telling yourself that."
Hermione says that to him all the time.
He's sure of it again—he wants her. The only thing that can calm him down is somehow also the best at bringing out the fire within him—they're the best at doing that to one another, in fact. And he needs that.
He's not done feeling this heat.
Draco nods. "Tomorrow, we all go to St. Mungo's."
Titus nods in agreement and drops his hand from Draco's shoulder. "Until then, get some sleep."
He silently agrees with a bow of his head, and with one last look at Andrew, Draco closes his eyes and apparates back to his room.
Hermione hears a gust of wind at the foot of the bed, and when she jerks up from the mattress to check what's just appeared, she exhales in relief when she sees that it's Draco.
She'd been in his arms one minute and then alone the next, and that itself sent her in a spiral for the whole night. Exhaustion tried to distract her—she fell in and out of sleep multiple times, stroking with her fingertips the side of the bed that he should have been lying upon.
It was the events of the night that drove her to this sheer fatigue, and as much as she wanted to get out of bed and search for him—wherever he was—she couldn't bring herself to move her limbs. She just kept thinking about Adrian seizing and Draco crying.
But now that he's here, standing right in front of her, she suddenly feels energized enough to sit up in the bed. And then another burst of liveliness washes over her, and she scuffles out of the bed and walks towards him.
She makes it to his side. Opens her mouth to speak.
"Malfoy, are you alright?"
Draco just stares at the wall in front of him. And after a brief moment of silence, he scoffs quietly and turns to look at her. "Do I look alright?"
Not the response she expected. There's something curt and blunt about the way he answers her genuine question. She half-expected him to crumble in her arms like he did in the restroom, or at least answer sincerely and sweetly. Instead, his answer is coarse and sour, and it takes her back to those first few months of dealing with him at meetings when he'd shut down, lash out, strike the air and environment with chaos and resentment. She fears a relapse of emotions—worries that as the lumen in his eyes dims, so does his will to stay strong.
Her eyes trail down his body to his hands—they're scraped and bruised. Even in the dim room she can detect the outline of patches of blood and cuts.
She takes one careful step towards him. "What can I do to help you?"
Draco scoffs again, shaking and lowering his head. "Fuck, Granger."
"What?" she asks, her eyebrows dipping to the center of her face.
"Why do you always resort to sympathy?" he questions, gritting his teeth.
Hermione sighs, trying to see things his way. "Well, sometimes it's better to just step back, take a deep breath, and analyze the situation—"
"Who has time to analyze things when the world is falling apart?" Draco asks, taking her arms in his hands and shaking her. His fingers dig into her shoulders, and she takes a quick, sharp breath. He dips his head to be closer to hers, and she can practically feel the ire embellished in this breath. "Aren't you pissed about what happened to Adrian? Don't you hate our dealer for doing that to him? Don't you just fucking hate Aberfield and Bruiser and all those fuckers that put us in this position? That forced us to... that... Salazar, Granger, how—fuck's sake—how are you not as angry as I am?"
"I am angry," Hermione responds with a hint of fire in her tone. "Of course I'm angry. But I'm more so concerned about you and everyone else than I am vengeful—"
"How can that be?" he asks, shaking his head and glaring into her eyes. "How do you have so much fucking patience? With everyone? With me? How do you not want to just scream and cry and give up?"
She gulps. "Is that what you want to do?"
Draco's lips quiver. "There's a lot of things I want to do. A lot of ways I want to release this anger inside of me." He blinks and looks away. "But they're probably not that healthy."
Her breathing speeds up as she lifts her right hand to cup his flushed cheek. It's hot to the touch.
"Perhaps I could help."
Draco exhales this beautiful sigh, dipping his head into her hand and pressing his lips against her palm. She shifts her hand forward, her thumb finding his lower lip and pulling it down slowly. And she locates that sense of confidence in herself again. Clutches it within her grasp and runs with it before it dissipates.
"You can't help—"
"If you need someone to soak up all that anger," she whispers, stepping forward and pressing her chest against his, "use me."
He stares at her. Hermione witnesses the way Draco's face morphs from total anger to this state of awe and wonder. His lips part slightly to release a breath.
"You can use me," she says with several nods. "I've told you once before that I don't mind being burned. That you're not as dangerous as you think. That your touch doesn't hurt me, but instead it invigorates me. Makes me feel alive." Hermione closes her eyes and leans forward. "So, use me. I can handle it. Do whatever you need to do to me. And don't hold back."
He sighs again, his hands dropping to grip her waist and pull her against him with a quick tow.
"I want you," he declares.
She gulps. "You have me. All of me."
He tuts, and it's almost silent. Chilling. But so, so tempting. "Give, give, give, Granger," Draco whispers, shaking his head. "That's all you do, isn't it? I was right about you."
Hermione lifts herself onto her toes to reach him—he's not that far, but gods does she wish he was closer.
"Kiss me," she whispers, desire in the rasp of her throat and in the exhale of her velvety whisper.
Draco sighs out of his nostrils and closes his eyes. "You're sure?"
Her hand on his cheek snakes to the back of his head. She tugs him towards her, and just before their lips connect, and as she hears his breath hitch, she whispers, "Use me. All of me."
In the next moment, she can feel his lips linger just centimeters away from hers. He pulls back—forces her to chase him just a few more inches. But once she catches him—once Hermione traps his lips between hers—he sighs and gives in. Wraps his arms around her back and clutches her tighter than ever against him. As he pulls her in, Hermione trips over her own foot, and she has to dip her head to the side to keep their lips connected during that misstep. Entirely worth it—the trip only leads her to be nearer to him, anyhow. Compels him to part her lips with his tongue and run it across her own over and over.
He's warm. So warm. Like flames, yes, but they're controlled. Strategic. Purposeful. She can feel the drive of his spirit latch onto her lips and oscillate into her skin through his touches, caresses, kisses, and sighs.
Before she knows it, Hermione is hoisted in the air, her legs wrapped around Draco's waist and her arms latched around his neck. She gasps in his mouth, spreading her lips open further for more access. He spins her, props her on the wooden dresser with a thud, parts her legs by way of his knee, and centers himself between her open legs. Hermione releases a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands trail up and down her side, exploring every inch of her figure like he's memorized her. She inches herself forward to press against him—glue herself to him.
And since she's desperate to memorize him in the same way, Hermione grips the hem of his shirt with her fingers and lifts the fabric off of his torso, arms, neck, and head, until that soft pile of blonde hair emerges from the black shirt in a ruffled state. She barely has a second to gaze at the way he looks before he's on her lips again, like a second away from her would push him over some metaphorical edge.
Hermione enjoys it on the dresser, but her eagerness takes over. Dropping her hand to his chest, she shoves Draco backwards. As his lips disconnect from hers, he stumbles backwards and drops himself onto the bed. She chases after him with spirited steps, straddling his waist and prodding his chest with her palm once more. He falls back on the bed with a satisfied moan, and Hermione pursues his lips yet again.
Her hair gets in the way—Draco ignores it. Ignores the curls that fall against the sides of his face. Ignores the loose mess of mousy-brown hair strewn along the path to Hermione's lips. Instead, just focuses on the ebb and flow of their kiss.
Hermione's hands dip to Draco's belt. She's purposeful in her actions; sitting up straight and pulling the strap out of the loop, she whispers over and over, "Use me. Use me. Use me." The belt comes loose out of the loops, and she tosses it to the side quickly to make way for the button, then the zipper, then the waistband itself.
Draco shoots up in the air and meets Hermione in that seated position, one hand pressed against her lower back and the other cupped around her breast. She sucks in a sharp breath at the way he feels around her—the vigor of his grasp, the softness of his palm above that loose, grey t-shirt of Draco's she wears to bed every night, and the curl of his long, nimble fingers.
"You'll let me have you," he sighs against her mouth, to which Hermione vigorously nods. "I can't believe you'll let me have you."
"Accept it," she whispers, shifting herself further onto him, so much so that she can feel him growing against her. "Stop convincing yourself that you don't deserve this."
They have the same idea in the next moment: clash their lips and kiss again. That's what they do, followed by vigorous palpitating and pulsing against one another. Their kissing is deep and insistent, almost aggressive. It's as if their lives depend on the tension, the uncompromising consolidation of their lips and bodies.
"I'm pissed," Draco moans against her lips between their frantic kissing.
"I know, I know," Hermione responds, fastening her hands to his cheeks.
"I'm so fucking angry," he seethes, and Hermione can feel his lips stiffen and his nose flare. She bites down gently on his lower lip and knocks her teeth against his.
"I know," she continues, brushing her nose against his. "Here, come here—"
She spins herself onto her back and drags him down on top of her. "Use me," she begs, her hands falling to his waistband and pulling him taut against her. She can feel him harden against her thigh, and so to deepen the way they're connected, Hermione bends and lifts her legs to curl around his legs.
Draco presses himself against her center, and they both let out a solemn sigh. He dips his head into her neck and lays kisses across her beating veins, then travels down to her collarbone as he tugs the collar of her shirt down.
"Use me," she begs one more time.
Draco takes his time dragging her silky, evening shorts down her legs, his breath shaky and his hands unsteady as he tosses the fabric aside. The tips of his fingers lift her shirt by gliding up her skin, leading Hermione to exhale an equally trembling breath.
Her hands take control—shoot forward and tug down his pants at the waist. She looks up at him, eyes begging for consent, consent that he gives through a purposeful nod and a kiss against her lips.
She pulls the fabric down.
Lays back on the pillow.
Composes herself and nods one more time when Draco seizes her eye contact.
With his eyes on hers, Draco reaches to the right and grabs her wand on the nightstand. Holds it over her stomach and mutters a perfect contraceptive charm. She feels a warm sensation rise in her lower stomach as he tosses it to the side of the bed.
And then with one final nod from the both of them, Draco shifts forward and slowly pushes himself into her.
There's a pang of mild discomfort—it's been almost a year since Hermione has been in this libidinous position. She tenses around him, shutting her eyes and knocking her head back onto the pillow with a soft moan.
Draco follows that motion, burying his face into the pillow next to her to let out a low groan and then craning his neck to face her and plant a deep kiss on her neck.
"Are you okay?" he whispers against her skin.
Hermione gets chills from the way his warm breath meets her skin. But she nods, pursing her lips and closing her eyes.
"Yes," she sighs, rotating her head towards his and catching his gaze. She takes his face in her hands and pulls his face to hover on top of hers. "I'm more than okay. I promise. Keep—keep going."
Draco exhales a sigh of relief and smiles ever so softly. "You're everything."
He drops down and places a bold kiss on her lips.
It's with that kiss that Hermione loosens the tension in her body. Releases every nerve and inhibition and just lets go. She sighs in soft pleasure as Draco sinks a little deeper into her, and suddenly the pain is gone. There's no discomfort. He creates a slow and steady rhythm with his hips, shifting himself further and further into her with each push, and it doesn't feel uncomfortable or untimely, but rather like the world is erupting into a supernova, like the sun and moon are meshing and becoming one all-powerful star and force, like the tides are singing and the sky is opening to swallow them whole in its cataclysmic but innocuous rapture.
She reaches for his shoulders. Digs her fingernails into his skin and runs them coarsely over his tattoos. Exhales as he continues to steadily flow in and out of her.
He's smooth against her. Bewitches her, claims her, adores her with the influx of his varying emotions. And the way his heart leaps against her chest as he drags it across hers with each thrust upwards is a testament to that—she can feel it beating through the fabric.
"Y-you can go faster," she whispers in a stammer, peppering kisses against his neck. "Don't hold back. Please. You're not hurting me."
He releases a groan against her collarbone. Sucks in a quick breath between his teeth. Speeds up the cadence of his hips against hers. Hermione spreads her legs a little further to take it all in, her whimpers starting to grow and her neck extending up and out as her back follows in an arch.
The bed begins to squeak.
"Damnit," Draco groans, slowing himself down.
"No, no," Hermione begs, and then she reaches her hand over, grabs her wand, and waves it in the air. "Don't stop. Please—muffliato—keep going. Go—go faster."
There's a snap in the air as the spell binds to the atmosphere and creates this pocket of privacy and pleasure for just the two of them.
And then Draco begins to mercilessly fuck her harder, his anger steering his motions.
And she likes it.
She really likes it.
She thinks it's because he's unconditionally and unapologetically himself in this moment. His walls break in a way that was different than just a few hours ago. He's angry—he has a right to be angry. He's unwinding and untangling himself for her. And he's letting it out in a way that practically worships her. Because before, he would've scowled at even the thought of her help. He would've laughed and walked away. Now, she's below him, he's above her, they're fucking in these tumultuous circumstances, and yet it's still so damn perfect.
Hermione's mouth falls open as she releases a pleasurable moan, one saturated in fiery desire and matchless gratification. Never—never in her life has she felt this warm and important. And the way Draco mutters sensual affirmations to her— "gods, you're so perfect for me," "you're mine, all mine," "I'm unconditionally addicted to you"—she could unravel with just those velvety words if need be.
One particularly rapturous slam against her sends Hermione's right leg into a bend; her thigh practically meets her chest. Draco's left hand scrapes up and down that thigh with his nails, and then his right hand finds the top of the headboard as it creaks and bangs against the wall.
But he continues to thrust unsparingly, rage spilling into her with every motion.
And then her toes begin to curl as he hits a deep spot within her. She keens—bites down on her fingers to keep from being too loud. The build-up moves from her toes to her thighs, and her muscles contract.
"You—" she tries to talk, but the overwhelming construction of her orgasm traps her voice in her throat.
"Say it," he begs with a hint of a growl. "Come on, sweet girl. Say it."
The words are lodged in her throat. She almost chokes on them because of the excruciating pleasure of it all.
"Wait," he instructs, dropping his arm from the headboard and wrapping it underneath her back. In one swift motion—gods, how is he even able to do it so effortlessly—Draco flips the both of them over so that Hermione now straddles him again—has the power to set the tempo.
It's like a restart button. The orgasm that was building falters, and she finally catches her breath.
Draco sits up, pushes her hair out of her face, then sheathes her back with his arms and slowly guides her up and down his cock.
"Take your time," he whispers into her neck. "Say it when you're ready."
Hermione gulps, cloaking his neck with her arms as she musters all the strength in her thighs to handle him in this position. She's breathless at the way he fucks her—at the way she fucks him—but she manages to say what she wanted to say:
"You make me—oh gods—you make me feel alive."
He exhales in ecstasy. "Gods, if only you knew how you made me feel," Draco starts, burying his face in her neck and eagerly sucking on her skin. His teeth indent against her beating pulse, and she parts her hair to the other side to give him total access. "All the drugs in the world could never make me feel as good as you do right now—"
He croaks on that last word, and Hermione can feel him twitch inside of her.
And it's something about that—something exhilarating about feeling him move within her—that guides her to her own edge. Compels this thrillingly intoxicating feeling to wash over her body, her mind, her fucking soul at this point. Her toes begin to curl again, her thighs tighten, her stomach contracts, her mouth falls open, her breathing totters out of control, and then—gods—there's this release that she's never felt before that sweeps across her body. She dives forward, against him, clutching his shoulders to balance herself as she comes undone with a sonorous sigh.
Draco follows close behind. She has only a moment to compose herself after riding the curve of a crescent moon before Draco unfolds—spills everything he has into her, coupled with a carnal groan.
When he dips his head against her shoulder to catch his breath, Hermione simultaneously cranes her neck to match his position. Places kisses up and down the back of his neck. Smells him. Admires him.
Maybe even loves him.
Draco takes her cheeks in his hands and brings her to look at him. He gulps when she stares back into his eyes, parts his lips to exhale a shaky breath, and then places a gentle kiss on her lips.
When he pulls away and looks down, Hermione takes that as her cue to climb off of him. As difficult as that is—for this position is everything she's ever hoped and dreamed to be in—she finds the strength to swing her legs off of him and slowly recline on the bed. He follows close behind, turning her so that she lies on her side and his chest is pressed against her back.
His heart is still beating so fast. She can feel it.
She feels so many things, truthfully. Scared. Sad. Angry. Satisfied. In love—
"Don't leave again," she whispers, closing her eyes and crowding up against his chest with her back. "Please."
He sighs into her hair, pulling it out of her face and securing it behind her ear.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here."
They finally sleep, their chests rising and falling in a synchronous pattern, much like the way stars fluctuate their luminosity in the night sky.