Don't Look Back
- 32 -
Suffer / Feed
Dear Tonks,
I'm sorry to write again.
I'm sure something beyond your control has prevented you from getting in touch, but I'm desperate. My situation grows more tedious by the day, and I'm terrified of what's to come. Please write me, I have so many questions. So much to tell you.
With love,
Hermione
She writes it first thing the next morning, still in bed — spilling ink on her sheets more than once. And the stranger makes himself known just as she dots the 'i' in her name.
The first time in days.
Ah, he muses. The cousin.
She's so startled, she drops her quill. Stupidly blurts, "You're back," aloud. And she sounds winded and a little too excited for her liking.
Someone in the dormitory stirs behind their bed curtains. It's early. Maybe six.
Would you prefer me not to be?
There's an edge to his voice. A reluctance. Anger too, she thinks, if she digs deeply enough.
No, of course not. You know I wouldn't.
And when met with silence, she adds,
Please — stay.
A lingering pause. It's almost as though he readjusts himself in her mind, shifting to lean against the wall of her thoughts. Then—
Why do you look to the cousin for help? What use is she, really?
The topic feels somewhat forced. She thought he'd be far more concerned with other things in this moment. That he'd have more important questions to ask after the past forty-eight hours. It's not what she expects.
I don't want to know, he says abruptly, because her thoughts are bare to him. Not about any of it.
A hollow sort of pain opens up in her chest. Even not knowing his true face, she can somehow picture it in this moment — and the look in his eyes cuts like a knife.
I didn't do it to hurt you.
But you don't trust me.
No, you're wrong. She shakes her head at the empty space in front of her. I do — I do trust you. It's Malfoy who doesn't.
More silence now.
I thought it was the only way. I did it for the bond.
It takes him almost a full minute to ask what he does next, and the words are ravaged. Like they agonize him.
Was he gentle with you?
She feels a physical twinge of pain.
Yes. He was, she thinks. Then, as an afterthought, The bond less so.
He changes his mind so quickly, he nearly cuts her off.
No. Talk to me about something else. Anything but this, he rasps. You know I adore the sound of your voice, but not about this.
She blinks into the quiet for a few long moments. Catches herself massaging the spot on her chest where that fresh, invisible ache throbs. She imagined it would hurt him, but never this badly.
I...
Please.
The silence envelops them, and she searches in vain for a change of subject. Struggles to clear her thoughts of anything and everything to do with Malfoy. But beyond that, there's only one thing pressing on her mind hard enough she can think to bring it up.
Last night, when I came back... She shifts uncomfortably where she sits. A few of the girls from my House saw my scars. The Glamours had worn off.
The stranger considers this for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice has some of its strength back.
This worries you?
She vanishes her quill, carefully sealing the letter in her lap. These girls tend to gossip.
I see. A prickle of distaste. Spare your effort, then. Gossips are often liars, and liars have reputations. It will pass.
His tone aims to soothe, though she feels anything but.
"Will it?" she asks aloud without thinking.
...
Will it?
No.
No, she doesn't think it will.
Any semblance of peace gets left behind when she leaves the Owlery.
It's stupid of her, really, to think she could attend breakfast. Would've been wiser to stay in bed and wait out the gap before her first class.
All things considered, she could've very well skipped the day entirely. She feels sick enough to justify it, what with her leg throbbing and her muscles sore and that overwhelming emptiness sitting in her gut. The one that reminds her she's no longer whole on her own. The one that's crying out for Malfoy.
Still — with Glamours meticulously cast, she tries to enter the Great Hall as though nothing's amiss. Plasters a smile on her face for the Gryffindor table and pointedly keeps her back to Slytherin. It'll be fine. She can talk her way out of anything — or at least that's what she tells herself.
But it's obvious even before she takes a seat that Lavender's had a busy morning.
The table goes quiet. The sort of quiet only a muffling charm could rival. And she finds an assorted mix of worried glances and suspicious stares focused on her from all sides. Like a rare, dangerous animal on display at the zoo.
Screwing up her courage, she glances down and away — starts to fix herself a cup of tea. But before she can add the first spoonful of sugar, Harry goes for the jugular.
"Hermione..." He carefully tucks away Advanced Potion Making and leans in close across the table. She's not sure there's really a need to whisper at this point — everyone is clearly listening — but he attempts to nonetheless. "It isn't Black Cat Flu, is it?"
Instincts kick in before her brain does, and her brow furrows defensively. "What are you talking about?"
Harry looks to Ron briefly, as though for help, but Ron's face is stuck in a wince — and with Lavender leaning on his arm, pretending to butter a slice of toast even with her eyes fixed on Hermione, he doesn't seem sure what he's allowed to say.
"What?" Hermione forces out, stirring the sugar in earnest. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Ginny opens her mouth on Harry's left but Seamus beats her to the punch from the other side of the table.
"Lavender says you're in rag order. Worse than you let on. Got some nasty scars from somethin', haven't you?"
Christ. Only Seamus could be so bold.
It's her first desperate thought to look to Neville, but after glancing both ways, she finds him missing from the table. "I..." she fumbles, panicking and looking back to Harry. Clinging to her nerve. "I really don't know what you're talking about." And she forces out an incredulous laugh. "What scars?"
"You can tell us," says Ginny. "Whatever it is, you can tell us."
"I—" Her throat closes up, spoon clattering loudly against the saucer as she sets it down. "There's nothing to tell. I don't understand. I haven't got any scars."
"I saw them." Lavender finally stops pretending to care about breakfast, squeezing Ron's arm and cocking her head like she's talking to a child. "You might as well tell the truth."
Hermione scoffs in disbelief. Can think of nothing else to do but get to her feet. "This is ridiculous," she splutters, opening her mouth only to shut it again.
"Don't leave—" Harry tries, but she speaks over him, hitching her bag back over her shoulder.
"I don't think I'm hungry, actually." And she clears her throat, stepping out from around the bench. "I'll see you all in class."
She leaves feeling like a fool, but she has the good sense to walk slowly on her way out. Forces herself to. Slowly enough that the backs of her thighs remain in plain view beneath the hem of her skirt. For whatever it's worth, they'll find no scars there.
But this pace leaves the window open for her eyes to wander — accidentally gravitate to the left of the Hall where she can sense Malfoy.
Their gazes meet. Brief and electric. Not long enough to mean something, not quickly enough to mean nothing. And that emptiness clenches the way the walls of her stomach might after days without food.
Grip tightening on the strap of her bag, she makes herself look away, holding her breath until the gold doors shut behind her.
Either Neville has left the Grounds entirely, or he's spent the majority of his morning in the Room of Requirement.
That's what the map tells her, at least.
She can't think of a good reason he'd be in there, what with Malfoy's Wolfsbane long dead. But there's no one else she wants to talk to, and with her first class in the afternoon, she resolves to tuck herself away in the alcove nearest that blank wall and wait.
This corridor doesn't tend to draw a large crowd, and Harry doesn't have the map. There's very little chance she'll be found.
At least not physically.
Paramour...
He hasn't spoken since this morning, but now there's a note of disapproval in his voice. Admonishment.
Yes?
She busies herself sifting through her bag — intends to read to pass the time, even if it's a text she's already memorized. She doesn't want to be alone with her thoughts.
But her brow wrinkles at the sight of that familiar, tarnished-red cover. Glossy and smooth against her fingertips. Squinting, she pulls out The Will & The Way and sets it in her lap. Doesn't remember packing it this morning.
You should not skip meals, the stranger murmurs. You need your strength.
She huffs at this, opening the book to the table of contents. Better that than stay for an inquisition.
I do not like to see you go hungry.
I'm not hungry. You don't need to worry.
That's a lie.
She's famished, though not for food. And she thinks they both know that.
The stranger sighs.
Loathe though I am to suggest it, perhaps you should seek out your Malfoy. You're overdue to feed.
The thought is so violently tempting, she can't be allowed to consider it.
No. She shakes her head and clears her throat, ignoring the flush that rushes to her cheeks as she flips to a random page. If he's so certain he doesn't need me, he can suffer for it.
The stranger makes a sound she can't quite place. Something low and animal.
I'm not sure whether I'm pleased enough hearing that to forget you're suffering too. He hums. It's enchanting.
What is?
Watching you exercise your power.
The praise feels like warm water on her shoulders, powerful and unexpected. She fights a shiver. Fights the urge to thank him, not certain it's the sort of thing she should actually be thankful for. The words fall out of focus in front of her, and she has to force her eyes to make sense of them.
Benefaction
- to heal -
It's a red ritual, she realizes. A soul ritual. The edges of the page have been dyed crimson.
Incantation
Henceforth
Take that which is mine
What have you
I claim in grace
Burden me thus
I grant you solace
Burden me thus
I gift you strength
A beautiful ritual, the stranger murmurs, and it jostles her from an unexpected daze.
What does it do?
He takes a moment to think, as though trying to decide how best to phrase it.
It allows a paramour to trade for any wound. Any ailment.
Her brow furrows. Trade?
Yes. One could use it to relieve something as simple as a headache, or perhaps as grave as a mortal wound. The practitioner agrees to claim this burden in their paramour's stead.
She glances up from the page, forgetting for a moment that she can't look him in the eye. How is that any different from the Descent?
No new strength or power is offered here. Whatever health is given is also taken away. Nothing can be gained, only lost.
I don't understand.
He speaks as though his patience for her is endless. As though he could explain for hours. The Descent is a flesh ritual. Flesh rituals deal with physical barriers of the body and mind. Reverence, for instance, erased the barrier between your thoughts. The Descent erased the barrier between your hearts. Your muscles. Your veins and the blood within them. In each of these, something is to be gained. Power. Understanding. Sustenance.
She shuts the book, confused. Something is gained even if we have to feed off one another to get it?
It seems counterintuitive.
I understand how it might, he says, tracing her thoughts. But the act of feeding is inherently symbiotic. When we feed off of you, we grow more powerful — and therefore so do you. Both sides benefit.
Gradually, as he continues, his voice takes on an air of modesty. Softer, like prayer. As though he speaks of something deeply sacred.
Soul rituals are less straightforward. They nurture the connection between paramours that transcends beyond the physical. That which demands selflessness. Abnegation. Sacrifice. In rituals such as these, something must always be lost.
Sacrifice? She echoes. How would that—
Shoes scuff on the flagstone, derailing her train of thought, and she's quick to tuck herself more tightly into the alcove's shadows. Gathers the book against her chest and goes very still.
Voices emerge from the end of the corridor, near the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Raised voices, flustered and talking over one another.
"—can't expect me to—"
"Don't. Don't. You have to let me finish—"
"—accept this. Not when it's you."
Moments later, Neville appears just beyond the alcove's stone curve, and she thinks for a moment she's been caught.
But he isn't looking at her.
He's looking down — straight at the floor. And his eyes are red and swollen, lashes flecked with trapped tears. One falls away, plummeting to the flagstone between his feet just as Adrian appears behind him.
"Listen to me," he says, taking hold of Neville's arm before he can step away. She doesn't think she's ever heard Adrian sound desperate until this moment.
She's certain she's never seen him cry.
But his eyes are glassy, every aspect of that cool, self-assured expression she's come to expect stripped from his face.
"You don't understand—"
"I do," says Neville in a quiet voice, wiping his eyes on the overlong sleeve of his jumper. He's still got his back to him, refusing to look. "I do understand."
Adrian tugs on his arm, forcing him to twist halfway around. "No you don't. Listen to me." He takes Neville's face in both hands, tilting his chin up. "Listen to me. Look at me."
Hermione holds her breath, deathly still now — refuses to let this be the second time she's intruded on something so private. The stranger is silent too. Seems interested. She can feel his curiosity swirling inside her head.
"Look at me," Adrian demands once more, giving him a gentle shake, and after a moment's hesitation, Neville finally glances up.
"I should go," he says, red-rimmed eyes almost pleading now.
"No. No. You're not going. Not yet. Not until you've heard everything—"
"I've heard enough."
"You haven't." Another shake, this one rougher than before. Adrian seems to realize as much, releasing him seconds later and threading his fingers into his own hair instead. Trying to compose himself. "You don't — there's not..." He squeezes his eyes shut and gathers a breath. "You don't understand the position I'm in."
Neville looks small in front of him. Vulnerable. Can't seem to decide whether to twist his fingers together or tuck them away into his pockets.
"If I had a choice..." Adrian trails off again, and she thinks his voice actually breaks. Just barely. "You know me. If I had a choice — any other choice — I'd take it. You know me."
"I want to believe I do." Neville's throat bobs as he swallows, the words almost inaudible.
"No." Adrian seems to panic. "No. Don't look at me like that. You do. You know you do."
Neville shuts his eyes, restless fingers clenching into fists at his sides. "Please," he whispers, a stray tear catching on the corner of his lip as it falls. "Can I go now?"
Adrian stiffens. Straightens up, blinking as though the words don't make any sense to him. And then — all at once — the weakness drains from his face, swiftly replaced by a cold, still mask.
"Yes," he says flatly. "Go."
Neville vanishes from sight, uneven footsteps echoing as he rushes from the corridor.
Which leaves only Adrian, standing there — staring after him with unfocused eyes. Like he's gone blind. A shaky exhale falls from his lips.
And then he turns, and suddenly he's staring at her.
Never in her life has she wanted to be more invisible.
Cruelty leeches into that lifeless expression, Adrian's jaw setting as his eyes narrow to slits. "You again," he spits.
"I—"
"Why are you always where you shouldn't be?"
She never gets the chance to apologize. To say anything at all.
He sizes her up through the blur of his own furious tears and appears to search for whatever will hurt the most. "Filthy fucking Mudblood," is his choice. Hissed in her face as he turns on his heel, and only moments later he's gone.
She blinks at the empty corridor in front of her, lost for words.
The stranger finds them easily.
Shall I break his fingers?
It takes a moment to form a response.
"No," she says when she can manage it, blinking once more and swallowing hard.
It would be no trouble.
"No, I..." Quickly, she gets to her feet, tucking The Will & The Way back into her bag. "I know he didn't mean it."
The stranger wants to argue. She can feel it. But she's grateful when he chooses instead to stay silent, watching from within as she lifts her bag onto her shoulder and takes her leave.
In all likelihood, she thinks she would've spent the rest of the day thinking about it. Wondering what exactly she just trespassed upon. What Adrian could've possibly done. Wondering if perhaps Neville discovered him with someone else.
Would have, were it not for turning the corner and coming face to face with Malfoy.
The breath vacates her lungs as though sucked into a vacuum, and she nearly trips as she stumbles backward.
He's breathing hard. Chest heaving, lips parted. The sheen of sweat on his forehead and collarbone glistens in the nearby torchlight, top few buttons of his shirt yanked open and tie undone. As though he's overheating.
He is. She can feel it across the bond. He's feverish.
"Malfoy, what—"
The stranger's low, rumbling laugh cuts her off, echoing between her ears.
Tail between his legs...
It's unclear whether Malfoy hears him or not. His mind is focused elsewhere, those bright, bloodshot eyes searching hers. His thoughts tangle and overlap, desperate.
—found—
—too long—
—where has she—
—fucking misery—
—sure she's proud of herself—
—what I need—
—was right, of course she was—
—beg for it—
—fuck—
One thought she hears more than once, louder and far more out of control than the rest.
—feed—
—feed—
—fuck, please—
—just—
—feed—
—feed—
—feed me—
The stranger's laughter starts to echo over itself, ricocheting, and Malfoy looks ready to collapse. Those heavy breaths have turned to pants, one hand flying out at his side to grip the wall for support.
She realizes abruptly that she has no idea what to do.
Of those many ways to feed the stranger mentioned, she knows of only one — and she's terrified to try it again.
"What do I—" she stumbles, pulse starting to race. Mirroring his. "I don't...how do I—"
You know, the stranger offers, entirely too calm.
"We can't."
And why not?
Malfoy is beyond words. Nearly beyond consciousness, if what she's feeling through the bond is true — and when has it ever lied before?
"We can't," she splutters in a panic. "Not yet. We aren't—"
More of that dark laughter spills from the stranger's mouth, entirely at Malfoy's expense.
You'd best do something soon, paramour. Your boy is seeing double.
"What?" she demands. "What do I do? What do I—"
Malfoy's desperation starts to overtake all rational thought in her own head.
Trust your instincts, the stranger purrs.
She has no instincts. Nothing left in her mind but the searing heat of fever. No ideas but one, and it's absolutely mad.
Vile.
Unnatural.
Do it.
At the stranger's command, her inhibitions die a painless death.
Without another thought, she takes her wand from the pocket of her skirt.
"Diffindo."
Fresh blood spills from the open wound she's sliced into her palm — and in a moment of startling clarity, she offers it to him.
Malfoy doesn't hesitate.
His eyes flash with hunger and he takes her wrist in both hands, yanking the wound to his lips. A sensation that makes her gasp and grip the wall herself — because the moment his tongue meets her skin, the pain of the wound vanishes.
No, it doesn't just vanish.
That hand suddenly feels like the strongest part of her body. Pulsing, bleeding, gushing power. She trembles in the face of it, watching on wide-eyed as Malfoy devours every available drop. Pauses with his bloody lips against her flesh and inhales deeply as he waits for more to bloom to the surface, eyes closed. Rapturous.
She can't even remove herself enough to consider the situation.
To consider what it means to watch Malfoy drink her filthy blood like the only water in a desert.
No, all she can focus on is the way it makes her toes curl — the way his tongue laves across her skin. The way his teeth graze the gaps between her fingers. Can only focus on her bad leg growing steady beneath her and her tired muscles waking to the day. That emptiness inside of her blossoms like the spring, suddenly lush and green and full of life.
She can feel it in Malfoy, too.
Feels his own muscles coil, tensing with renewed strength — perhaps more than there was before. Feels his blood sing.
"This way," she murmurs to him, coming to her senses enough to consider their exposure.
The Room of Requirement welcomes them like long-awaited guests, and Malfoy doesn't allow her skin to part from his lips for even a fraction of a second. Not as she guides him backwards across the corridor to those tall, open doors. Not as they close behind them. Not as she rests her weight back against the nearest wall and resolves to let him drink his fill.
Through the haze of euphoria, she somehow manages to catch a glimpse of the room over his shoulder.
She's been to the Room of Requirement more times than she can count, but never once has she seen it empty. Not like it is now.
There's nothing. Not on the walls, not on the floor. No carpets. No windows. No other doors. Only a solitary torch glowing in the far corner, sparing them from total darkness.
And though she realizes what this suggests, she chooses not to think on it.
Not right now.
They stay for an hour. Maybe a little longer.
When the blood stops coming and the wound runs dry, Malfoy's lips move on. Span the length of her forearm, up along her sleeve to her shoulder, leaving bloodstains shaped like kisses on the fabric.
She lets his mouth find her pulse point, not entirely lucid as her head falls back against the stone and her eyes slip shut. With no more blood to feed on, she's not certain he gains anything from this.
But that swell of power in her veins doesn't dissipate.
Not until she peels herself away from him with only minutes to spare before Transfiguration.
And though she thinks she feels him reach for her, she doesn't allow herself to look back. Never knows if he truly did.
It's quite possibly the hardest week of her life.
She can't spend more than a few minutes around Harry and Ron without getting poked and prodded about her scars. Lavender and Parvati have branched out beyond Gryffindor, working all hours to ensure the whole school knows. And Neville is so far removed from himself that she can't find it in her to burden him with any of it. Can't even work up the courage to ask how he's faring.
And as the days pass, she learns to accept that there are now only two ways she can feel.
Frail. Starved. Sapped of all energy and light. The way she feels most evenings as she limps up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. The way she feels every morning when she wakes — anytime she spends more than three or four hours away from him.
There's this, and then there's ecstasy.
Nothing in between.
She begins to feel like she only exists in those moments she spends in his presence. In the fractured seconds between classes when he can trap her in an alcove and steal a kiss. Sometimes more than a kiss. In those rare, late-night hours they're able to lock themselves away in the Room of Requirement, never taking their clothes off. Never treading any deeper than the shallows.
Though he never admits to anything.
Never caves to the bond's will and confesses to craving her presence — never out loud.
No, he fights his way through those days like the person he becomes when he needs her is someone else. A man possessed. Like their bond is some basic, primitive instinct he feeds for survival and nothing more.
She doesn't have the strength to challenge him. She copes. They both do.
Blood is found to be the quickest fix. When the hours grow long and they seek each other out, desperate — twitching like addicts — it's always easiest to slice a hand or a wrist to chase away the emptiness.
The first time she tastes his, she thinks she'll never hunger for real food again.
But perhaps it's not just the taste — not just that tart, potent sweetness, like a ripe plum. It's the way he changes in those moments. When he's high on the bond's effects and he almost...coddles her, in a way. Pets her head and murmurs encouragements as she sips from the wound.
It's a warmth she's never known.
The stranger is largely silent in these shared moments. Surprisingly so. And more and more, she begins to suspect that when they feed, they become one.
A routine forms quickly. They have no choice but to adapt, unable to stave off the exhaustion if they neglect to feed on a regular basis.
In moments when there's no time at all, she might prick her finger as she passes him in the corridor, smearing her blood across his open, waiting palm unbeknownst to their surrounding peers. And it's never enough — that fleeting euphoria they share when he licks it away the moment he's out of eye-shot. It's never enough, but it's something.
The days feel endless. Every moment that isn't reward is punishment. And too often she catches herself imagining a life where they might not have to hide. Where she might spend all hours in his presence and never have to feel that pleasure wane.
It's childish. A fantasy. She need only check the date to remind herself of that.
Everything is fragile. Temporary.
And come Friday, they face the next full moon.