A/N: This chapter is M rated and contains dubious consent. I appreciate the continued support for this fanfic. It was difficult to write a chapter like this so please be kind.
There was a jewelry box hidden somewhere in Hermione's bedroom in London, with nothing inside except for a dancing ballerina. Her grandmother gifted it to her on her ninth birthday. It had a little silver lock and key, as well as a small hidden sleeve. Having no jewelry to hide, she'd open the box just to watch the ballerina dance. She'd spin round and round, on this endless loop, to sad melancholic music.
This was how she felt. Like she was on a strange merry-go-round she couldn't get down from. Every time she was anywhere near Draco Malfoy she'd end up lost, unable to look at him one moment, staring at him the next; the pallor of his skin, the bow of his lips, the grey-blue of his eyes, the line of his jaw, the wisps of his blonde hair. And every time she was nowhere near him, she was haunted by the ghost of his presence.
Had it really only been last night that they were at the Three Broomsticks huddled up in a dark corner of the pub, his hand touching hers, asking her if he was in the equation.
And then… whispering her name, looking at her like that. He had no right. Because out of all the nasty things he'd ever said or done to her, saying her name had been the cruelest. She heard it even now, echoing in her memory, tempting her.
But she couldn't.
In a way, she was grateful for Luna showing up. She didn't want to think about what she'd have done if they weren't interrupted. There are some things you can never take back. Draco Malfoy would be one of those things.
It'd be like going down the rabbit hole.
And yet, after nearly two hours of failing to concentrate on Ancient Runes, she'd messaged him on the coin asking him to meet her in the library. She hadn't received a reply. It was a stupid idea. What was she thinking—to ask him to come here just to, what, see him for a few minutes, say goodnight? Letting her forehead fall on her open book she admitted that she'd most definitely lost her mind.
Everything was a mess.
It crossed her mind that maybe Ron was really to blame. If he'd never gotten together with that god-awful succubus… Why hadn't Luna seen the fairy dust with Ron? She loved Ron, she did. She'd imagined how nice it would be to hold his hand, have him smile at her, make her laugh, kiss his freckles, curl up in the common room together. She didn't want to do any of that with Draco. She was too scared to speak of the things she thought of doing with him. She'd come very close to asking Ginny what it means when you want to strip a boy bare, hold him, smell him, bite him, breathe him, drown in him…
She was so lost in her musings that she didn't realize the library was closing till Madam Pince found her and issued a stern warning. Packing her bags, she vowed to stop thinking of the blonde-haired boy and fairy dust, once and for all. But the fates were conspiring against her because as soon as she stepped out into the open corridor he was there, leaning against the wall, waiting for her.
He had come.
"Draco," said Hermione surprised. Her eyes darted around, anyone could see them standing in the corridor. "Not here," she said leading him to a nearby classroom. She whispered Alohomora and unlocked the door.
"I read your book," he spat as soon as they were inside.
Hermione was confused. "Again?"
"No, for the first time."
"You said—"
"I lied," he scowled tossing the book carelessly onto the desk. He stepped into her. "But I get it now. I figured it out. I'm one of your little house elves, a new project for you. Trying to save me from myself, trying to save my soul. Granger to the bloody rescue."
Hermione didn't understand his hostility. "I'm just trying to help, I care about you, we… we're friends."
"Friends?" he hissed in a low voice, the slight scent of Firewhiskey on his breath.
"You've been drinking," she huffed. "On a school night and on school grounds. Alcohol isn't permitted—"
A growl pushed up through his throat and the sound reverberated between them.
"Let me make something perfectly clear to you. We are not friends. I will never be your friend. You are a thorn in my side, a bloody pebble in my shoe. I hate you, Hermione Granger, you mean nothing to me, nothing."
Each word cut deeply through Hermione like a sharp blade. She was on the verge of tears. Her mind was spinning, she thought there was something between them, something inexplicable and she allowed herself to feel it, despite knowing she shouldn't. Then all of that warmth she'd had for him began to boil and burn her and then suddenly she hated him, never wanted to see or speak to him again.
"Fine!" she choked, shoving him. "Let this be a lesson, a reminder to never consider you, Draco Malfoy, worthy of any kindness or consideration! I don't know why I even bothered. You are a failure in every sense of the word and a bitter disappointment, a coward—"
Draco's lips fell violently against hers in a bruising kiss. But she couldn't, she still needed to hate him, hurt him even. She pursed her lips, denying him, trying to tear away from his mouth but then one hand was buried in her hair and the other was on her jaw holding her in place.
Draco could hear her words ringing in his ears, muted by the pulsing, gushing sound of blood. He had failed to catch the snitch, to best Potter at a duel, to outsmart Hermione, to repair the vanishing cabinet, to protect his mother and he was failing at this too, failing at being a Death Eater just like everything else he ever bloody did.
And he just wanted her to shut up.
He pressed into her, nipping her bottom lip, biting till he could taste blood. She whimpered into his mouth. Her moans, her blood, the scent of gardenia's on her skin, it all stirred this perverse desire within him; worse than his fevered daydreams, because this was real and he couldn't wake up. He groaned, crushing his hips into hers. Hermione shuddered.
The sensation sobered him and he pulled himself away.
He was almost panting. She was holding her hand to her mouth and staring with wide glistening eyes. Still as stone.
He felt an eternity go by.
Then suddenly, she came to life.
"You don't get to kiss me!" she yelled. "You don't get to even touch me, you don't get to—"
"But McLaggen does?" he said, his anger resurfacing. Hermione was taken aback. She opened and closed her mouth, like a fish out of water. He watched her flounder and took pleasure in it. He'd finally found a question she didn't know how to answer.
"It wasn't like that—"
"First Krum, then Weasley, now McLaggen. Didn't know you were such a slag for large dumb Quidditch players." And he was so incensed and out of his mind with jealousy that he didn't care that he was being cruel. He wanted to hurt her. "Probably why Brown is with Weasley, she's not as fickle as you are."
Her mouth hung open and then she was screaming again, "How dare you!" She was slapping him, pounding his chest with her fists and he was seething, images of Cormac and her taunting him. His ogre arms all over her, touching his Mudblood. His.
He kissed her again, hard. She gasped as her back met the wall. He slid his tongue against hers.
Breaking the kiss, he asked, "Was he good Granger, did you like it?"
"Stop it, just stop," she whispered. Her voice sounded hoarse as if she'd been screaming for hours.
"Did he touch you?"
She was shaking her head, tears threatening to spill.
"No?" he whispered into her ear. He bit down on her exposed neck then licked the tender skin of where he'd bitten her. She hissed. Then he was undoing her robes, letting them fall.
He was vaguely aware of her hands pushing and pulling, of her whimpering and whispering, "We can't, God, Draco, we can't…" He heard the words but didn't understand. Because she knew, she knew this would happen.
It was all too much for him. He just needed her to stop fighting it, be still, he just needed a minute to touch her. He cast a wandless sticking charm and her hands were against the wall above her head.
This was better, so much better.
He allowed his hands to roam all over her body, over her clothes. He dragged them down the small of her waist to the curve of her hips and up again to her chest. Rising and falling, trembling like her bottom lip.
"Don't." Her voice was wavering. "We have to pretend it isn't there."
He sighed deeply, losing patience. "No, no more pretending," he whispered and then he ripped the buttons of her shirt open. She was… perfect, just how he'd imagined. He touched her skin and searched for warmth. She flinched as he traced the thin white scar over her breasts. Dolohov. It occurred to him that maybe if he had to kill anyone, he'd like to kill him.
He closed his eyes, burying his nose in the crevice of her neck. He could only think of gardenias here. Gardenias and her pretty little neck. Everything else fell away. He could breathe like this, he could forget. He dropped to his knees.
"Wh-what are you doing?" she asked, her voice breaking with panic. Instead of answering, he yanked her skirt down in one swift motion letting it fall to her feet. Her lips parted, maybe she wanted to scream at him, for help, for it to stop, but she only stared in shock as he made lecherous scrutiny of her half-naked form.
Her shirt hung off her, ruffled by his ministrations.
He was drunk with her.
He placed his fingers on her dainty ankles trailing them up and down, a gentle caress of her legs. They were shaking and he didn't know how she was still able to stand. Hermione whimpered as he ran his lips against her creamy skin, the tip of his nose caressing and inhaling her. He raised his eyes to look into hers then it fell to the apex of her thighs, at the light blue cotton that covered her. He heard her breath hitch.
"Don't," she breathed, following his gaze. And he knew she meant it. Knew she was afraid. But he was so tired of being afraid.
He leaned in and swept his tongue along the cotton of her knickers. She gasped, squeezing her eyes shut. He pressed a kiss there. He wondered if she could feel his mouth through the fabric. Then his teeth brushed against her clit and her eyes flew open. "Dra-co," she panted. He shuddered at the sound of his name and the way it jerked out of her. The irony wasn't lost on him. He was on his knees and he had never felt a control like this. Power.
If he could just taste her once…
He grabbed the hem of her knickers and began pulling down.
"Oh God, no," she trembled squeezing her legs closed, "I can't."
But it was no use fighting. He tugged it all the way down. Taking her calf, he pulled her leg over his shoulder, bringing her hips to his mouth. She was shaking. She tried squeezing her thighs closed again, but he held them apart, his fingers digging into the soft of her flesh. He felt the warm wet of his tongue dip in and out of the warm wet of her. She let out a mangled noise. Draco was suddenly so calm, so far away from himself. He could only think of their warm wet meeting each other, of kissing it, biting it, lapping at it.
Everything had fallen quiet. Even she'd become quiet. All he could hear was heavy panting and the sounds of his tongue. He liked it like this, without the words, without the screaming. He learned her. There were some things that made her gasp and some that made her sigh. Then his tongue began to stroke her faster and he could feel her legs begin to quiver uncontrollably.
Then she was moaning or crying, he didn't know. Her hips writhing in a feverish frenzy, moving to meet his mouth on their own accord. He had to steady her.
He heard her say, "Please, no," and choke his name. Her knee almost buckled as he felt tremors course through her, a pulsing underneath his tongue. A contorted cry tore out of her.
He stopped. He could still hear his heart pounding in his ears. He licked his lips, the last taste of her. He moved her leg off his shoulder and placed it back onto the floor. Breathing over her crotch, he brushed his mouth to the skin just above, and then to her stomach and trailed a line of light kisses up to her mouth. She parted it ever so slightly, just enough for him to run his tongue along the edges of her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, cheeks splotchy and flushed. She looked drunk too.
Draco caught her forearms as he released them from the spell.
"You shouldn't have," she said weakly, turning away. She was putting her clothes back on. He watched wondering if he should do it for her since he was the one who undressed her. He felt… numb. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
"Hermione," he whispered, reaching for her hand but she was already pulling away.
He walked at a steady pace back to the dungeons in a daze. He showered, brushed his teeth and dressed for bed. He had no trouble falling asleep but it all came crashing down on him in the morning like a heavy veiled fog was lifting and the full force of what he'd done had hit him.
Merlin.
He ruined everything.