Alpha'd by jamethiel.
Beta'd by Pidanka and jamethiel.
From Hermione's POV. Set before the events of Chapter 1.
In astrological terms, Enif was dying. At a furious rate, the star's sheer size was exhausting its supply of hydrogen, although the conclusion of this demise could not be predicted. It might explode in a supernova, or slowly decay as a white dwarf.
All stars were degenerating. They ate themselves, ripping at their essential elements until their toxic core remained. It was their eventual fate; they'd collapse under their own weight and their deaths would light the night's sky for millions and millions of years.
Was that what she'd been doing? Slowly putting off the inevitable?
"Dear one, if you don't stop playing with your food and actually eat it, I'll force-feed you."
With a sharp sound, her fork clattered onto her plate. She dropped her eyes from the sky and looked at her dinner companion.
"Good," he said, and with long fingers picked up his water glass. "I thought that might get your attention." He took a small, refined sip. "What in the heavens has you so preoccupied?"
She ignored him and instead picked up her discarded fork. With deliberate effort, she silently stabbed another slice of duck and chewed.
The china on the table clinked as he lowered his water glass. "A problem shared is a problem halved – is that not how that Muggle saying goes?" He set about slicing up his own dinner of rare steak. She'd been able to predict his order before the waiter had asked. "Although, as I am sure you regard me as the problem, that slightly defeats the point." He smiled and raised the bloody meat to his mouth. "Come come now, dearest. A Sickle for your thoughts?"
"I want a baby."
He swallowed, thickly. "You are mindful, my dear, that for a child you will have to sleep with me."
She lowered her cutlery and leaned forward as if imparting state secrets. "Yes."
"More than once in all likelihood?"
"Yes."
He reclined into his chair, moving away from her. "Lucky me," he breathed. His hand hovered over his fork before moving on to grasp at the glass. "My family are not known for their parenting abilities –" he took a gulp " – but if you had my child, I would not sit idly by while you indoctrinate them into the customs of Gryffindor."
Her chin went skywards. "You mean qualities of decency?"
"Yes, yes. We all know that Gryffindor is the superior of all the houses. Off your high horse. This is not the conversation to be putting on airs."
"I'm not put –"
"Yes you are." The glass came crashing down, and once again the crockery clinked. "This is not a competition. We are talking about a living, breathing, bawling –" he stopped and raised a hand as if to tug at his collar.
"Child," she completed. She pulled back and reached for her own water, her mouth suddenly dry. "I wouldn't expect you to be idle in the raising of a … child."
"Then what are you suggesting? Some sort of merger, or partnership?"
Even though she disliked the terminology, she nodded her head. "As much as possible, an equal share of labour."
He snorted. "If you can call shagging you labour."
Her brows snapped together, and her hand fisted the tablecloth, drawing it closer. She let out a breath, and the candle fluttered between them.
He lifted his eyebrow a fraction. "Not that I won't do my part in that respect," he said with agonising ease.
She gritted her teeth partly in denial and disbelief of what she was about to say. "Thank you," she said and made herself loosen her grip on the tablecloth.
"Always happy to rise to the occasion," he tipped his glass in a mock salute, "so to speak."
The dress may be his, but the shoes were her own, and she hoped the pointy toe of them bruised his pale skin as she kicked him under the table.
"Gods!" He bent and rubbed his shin but angled his head so she could see his grin. "I do like getting you riled up. You should see how astonishingly beautiful you are at this vantage point: fierce, and like you are imagining my slow death," he said, still grinning, canine. "Very few things drive a man wilder. I am surprised at your change of heart," he said as he finally sat back up.
"What change?"
"Your sudden interest in sleeping with me."
"It's not interest. Not in the way you're thinking." She cleared her throat and rubbed her finger along the tablecloth. The thread was thick and chafed at her skin, which was already sore from the hours spent tracing the grain of the suite's bathroom door. "The purpose of this law is procreation."
"As you have said. Conjoin and propagate, I believe that was the Ministry's unwritten order."
"Yes."
"And so," he said and waved his fork in a lazy circle, "after months of refusing this law and me, you have now decided to play along? I am not buying that for a single moment."
"Why should it matter to you? You're getting what you've wanted." She dropped her eyes, and they swam around the table, searching for something to fix on.
All the tableware seemed to glint; to reflect the light and the distorted colours of their two faces. Her darkness to his light. She settled for staring at her water glass. The tumbler was thick, and condensation stuck to the sides like rainwater and prevented the glass from sparkling Malfoy's paleness back at her.
"Which is?" he said, feigning languid curiosity. She could hear the gentle tapping of his fingers; slightly out of rhythm, as if he couldn't contain his excitement.
She closed her eyes, but the knocking dance of his fingers only grew louder.
"Don't make me say it," she said, quietly so as not to disturb.
"Oh, I think you will have to, my love. My limited cranial capacity does not permit such a high level of cognitive reasoning."
"Don't –"
"How do you ever expect me to learn if you refuse to educate me."
"It's not my job to educate you."
"If there is one thing the wizarding world knows about you, it is that you never fail to take advantage of another's ignorance. With that in mind, therefore, tell me: what has you so distracted that you cannot spare me a glance?"
She wondered how he could ask such a question when this entire facade of an evening, a wedding, a day was all for one purpose. A purpose which was creeping its way into the forefront of her mind and seating itself firmly within her brain.
"Say it," he said, and his tone didn't allow for mercy.
"You get me." Her eyes flashed upwards, but past him. Up, up towards the sky where the stars were fixed for tonight. "To bed me, to have me, and do what you will." She was conscious that her voice was getting louder, but she had to be able to hear herself above the rush of blood in her ears. It roared at her. "You've been telling me for months. Provoking me. How can't I be aware of what you want!"
Her neck would be exposed to him as she craned and showed her face to the stars. The lights flickering as she blinked, and she let their brightness burn into her memory.
"You, my dear," and there was ice in his voice, "have no idea what I want."
She heard a rattle and looked at him. He'd picked up his fork and had begun to eat again. He consumed with an obvious appetite; a vicious appetite. Wielding and piercing as he gobbled up the meat.
"To what end?" he said as, like weapons, he laid down his cutlery, side by side, on his empty plate. The blood pooling on the white porcelain like staining snow.
The hotel's restaurant was quieter now, and their voices clearly carried over the recently vacated tables.
"Does it matter?" she said and placed her own cutlery in the same twelve o'clock position.
"For the moment, no." He gave her an appraising look. Those grey eyes covering every inch of her like a layer of morning frost. "Will you tell me? If I ask, later, will you?"
Again, she turned up her eyes. "If I decide it's necessary." The red-tinged dot that was Mars had already peaked in its arc. If there had been a moon, Mars would have passed it and be on its descent. "It must be getting late."
Yes.
Enif was soaring, brightly.
Her wedding day was almost over.
"Very," he said.
"We should go. We're keeping everyone up."
"Eager, are we?"
"Never."
She heard the scrap of a chair, and suddenly he blocked the stars.
"I understand that I am not to your predilection." He inclined his head, and for a second she thought he might kiss her, but he just bent further and cooed in her ear. "I know a spell which can change my hair colour to red – only temporarily, mind – however, it will only work on my head. Not the rest of my body."
"You disgust me."
Like a light breeze on sunburnt skin, there was a tingling which skimmed up the backs of her thighs and across her lower belly.
"Lust, disgust," he said in a sing-song. He placed a hand on the back of her chair, and she heard the creek of the wood as he pressed forward. "They cause such similar sensations it is difficult to tell them apart."
His mouth was curved, and its centre was red. He'd recently bitten it and then licked the wound, and she could see the marks of his teeth in the delicate skin.
"We can continue to skirt around the issue," he said, casually tucking his free hand into his jacket pocket, "or we can fuck. It is a case of when, not never, my dear." He straightened and backed away, his feet skidding and dancing over the cobbles of the outside terrace. "I will be in the room."
When she arrived, he was leaning against the open door of the balcony. One shoulder propped against the wood as he looked out over the sparse darkness of the city.
She'd been quiet, making sure to slowly turn the hotelroom's handle, but, like he'd sensed her coming, he turned the moment she stepped over the threshold.
The look he gave her was long and icy as if he was annoyed at her having kept him waiting – he'd barely left five minutes before her – and his mouth raised unkindly.
"I expected you would take your time," he said, but his face said otherwise.
"We don't have much time," she said, repeating his own language and tone back at him.
She paused in the open arch of the doorway. Her silhouette was backlit by the corridor's electric lighting, whereas his was lightened against the darkness of the sky.
"That we do not." He pushed off from the wall but didn't move closer. He stood there, his arms crossed, and waited. He seemed to be expecting her to do something, only she had no idea what.
There was no cord of understanding which connected them; the space was cavernous and vast and unbreachable.
She remained rooted to the spot and did not let her foot creep backwards and towards the abject safety of the corridor.
She should go.
He lazily blinked at her from under heavy-lidded eyes. Heavy-lidded from lust, tiredness, or a combination of both. She couldn't be sure.
She couldn't do this.
Her eyes slid down his crossed arms, to his hands. One hidden, tucked underneath the plain, fine weave of his jacket, and the other rigid as he gripped his upper arm, his fingers bent as if clamped around his bicep.
Even through the cloth of his jacket and shirt, he'd have crescent marks on his arms. Even with his nails so short and polished; so tightly did he hold himself.
Her eyes followed the folds of his jacket; the tight creases which were almost ironed. They were formed around his arms, shoulders, and, from what she could see, stretched along his ribs and behind his back.
Lanced by those lashes of material.
She felt the metal barrier of the doorframe under the sole of her shoe, and the little vibrations of the grooves jittered up her legs as she ran her heel along them.
"I know you are obsessed with me," he said, uncrossing his arms and walking towards her, "but you could stop staring."
Her eyes widened to keep up with his approaching form, but she didn't stray from the middle of his chest. "Not at you," she said, lowering her foot.
No. Through him. Past him. Beyond to the sea, and the sky. Never at him.
"Your eyes have not left my person since you graced me with your presence," he said. "Riveted would not be an inappropriate description." He stopped a few feet away from her and flung his arms wide. "Have a good look. But I forgot: you are someone who values a person by their intellectual acumen, not their physical appearance."
She knew her mouth twisted at his innuendo, and he laughed in response.
"Tell me," he said, slipping closer, "how do I make out for size?"
She could see her reflection in the buttons of his jacket. Her face distorted and squashed in she shiny brass. Her eyes impossibly large, however, and pinioned over a pin-sized nose and mouth.
"I like both, myself." He raised a hand, lifting it towards her. "Looks mixed with a little bit of intellect. Such a pretty face." He didn't touch her, but only because she jerked her chin up. His smile was bright and gleaming. "On such a pretty neck." He ghosted her throat, and she felt the swipe of his thumb against the fine hairs on her skin. "Will she leave, or will she stay? The suspense is killing me." He said 'killing' like other people uttered 'kissing'. Full of lip and tongue, although his tongue clicked against his back teeth rather than hiss.
Every fibre of his being was mocking her. From the sing-song tone of voice, to the hand which strayed too close to her face. To the artful spin of his hair, from the hand which swept it back.
It was...annoying. He annoyed her. Draco Malfoy was leering over her, like a dog in a butcher's shop, and he annoyed her.
She'd felt this way before and often with people like Malfoy. All people like Malfoy. The rich, entitled, and privileged, who since birth had been told their existence mattered above all others.
Who internalised inequality and ignored — no, reviled— in the pain of others.
Her pain. He was dancing in the wake of her loss.
Anger was better than fear. She'd be like Enif — the head. She'd use her brain and rein her in her emotions for another day.
"Come now?" he said, bracing a hand on the doorframe and looking down at her. "Where is that little Gryffindor lioness? I am waiting."
She cleared her throat and glared up at him. "You're blocking the doorway."
His smile was sharp as he stepped out of her path and flourished a hand into the room. "By all means, enter."
She strode past him, her steps muffled by the carpet, but stopped when she was confronted by the sight of the bed. The big, freshly turned-down bed, with floral sheets and its pillows plumped professionally.
He swept past her and flopped himself onto the bed. Like the print of a boot in fresh snow, the duvet sunk under his weight.
"I am just going to make myself comfortable over here." He patted the side of the bed next to him in what she presumed he thought was an inviting manner. It was like being coaxed into a snake pit by a badly disguised viper. "Take your time. We have" – he spared the clock a glance and grinned – "oh, minutes to spare."
His mocking reminder that she was running out of time should've spurred her on. He'd waved the red flag, and she should have come running. But even with such little time – too little – she couldn't bend to the click of his fingers.
Snap, and off came her clothes.
"I can order champagne, strawberries," he said. "Whatever your little heart desires." He reclined onto the pillows and gave an exaggerated groan of pleasure. "Gods, Granger, I could very well spend an erotic afternoon licking cream off your naval and other… conjoining places."
He wasn't looking at her, but her eyebrows raised even so. "Can you drop the act?"
He slowly lifted his head, as if it was a great effort, and peered at her through slitted eyes. "What act, my love?"
"This 'romantic' act."
"I take it you do not desire alcohol or fruit of any nature."
"My only desire," she almost spat the words, "is for this law not to have happened."
"That is something I do not believe is on the room service menu." He reached across the bed and towards the phone. "I can, however, call the concierge and check. This is a first class resort. Nearly everything is possible."
She looked around – she had a brief thought of picking up an ornate valse on the bureau beside the door and throwing it at him – and grabbed her lily-of-the-valley bouquet. "This," she said, brandishing the flowers, "is just another example of your vain attempt to turn this charade of the day into something more than it is."
"I take it you do not like flowers either?" He sat up and stretched his arms to the ceiling, flicking his wrists in a florid gesture. "It really is going to be a bugger to have to come up with something other than the conventional flowers and chocolates to apologise for whatever mistakes I make in our marriage. I will have to settle for orgasms and make-up sex."
"You've never given a sincere apology in your life, Malfoy." Tension transferred up to knot at the base of her skull. She wielded the flowers at him.
"I am almost perfect. Apologies rarely have to be bestowed."
"Apologies aren't bestowed. They are given. Freely"
He slid onto his side, so he was lying width-ways across the bed. His body left a crumpled imprint in the sheets. "Are they not one in the same?"
"No," she said breathing hard.
Apologies were not bestowed like some prize to be coveted. Only a fool like Malfoy would misunderstand the purpose of an apology was to be selfless. It was to give of yourself. To make yourself vulnerable to another's censure, and hope they forgave you.
"I take it that this dramatic pause," he said, "is not you waiting for me to present you with an apology."
The flower stems cracked under her fist. "Because you've got nothing to apologise for." Her tread was silent, but her dress swished as she started to pace the room. She hoped she wore a hole in the carpet.
"Exactly." He shrugged the shoulder he wasn't leaning on.
His passiveness astounded her. Everything about him was inactive, from his posture, to the lazy smile that rested on his face.
He'd accepted, he'd allowed, he'd been complicit.
Those who are complicit to wrongdoings are as guilty as those who perpetrate.
She often said this to herself. In meetings with ambassadors, or with administrators who tried to tie her up in international red tape. She'd mentally spell out the words to those who inhibited her; imagine the tip of her quill looping the letters together into something tangible that she could fix on as she took another breath.
She could avoid the conflict – cross the street and turn her head – or she could face it, wide-eyed to the reality.
"Not all of us, Malfoy, have been able to watch while others experience suffering."
His face flickered. Like the click of a camera, the movement was brief, and his expression snapped back to its usual lazy sardonicism. That flicker, that wince which slanted his eyes and pricked the corners of his mouth; that imprisoned his features, but only for an instant.
"There are some darknesses so deep that one cannot see out of them."
His eyes were no longer empty; there was something behind the grey. But, like stagnant water, it was murkey, and, as a misty drizzle which beaded her hair and face, it compacted her vision.
"Eyes can adjust to the darkness."
Neither did they dance, even as she paced. They didn't caper and wind over the darkened crowd, but met hers with a levelness which disquieted her.
"You watched me as I watched you."
She walked past him again. "I never watched you."
"No, you are correct." He twisted his neck; the tendons tightening and flexing as a fist. "You didn't spare me a glance. You," and there was a distinct lack of accusation in his tone, "never saw anything worth looking at."
Perhaps it was the lack of accusation – of anything – in his voice, but she did look away.
"Do you want to know why I chose that particular flower?"
His question was like a shot in the dark, and like the superb marksman he was, it hit its target.
"What?" she said, the vowels hesitant on her tongue.
"Why I chose those flowers for you: lily-of-the-valley."
Her pacing slowed. Her back was to the balcony window, and she faced the open bathroom door. She saw herself. Reflected and framed by the door. A double encapsulation. Like a piece of art hung in a museum, the layers of wood surrounded her.
"I presumed they were the most expensive," she said, turning her back on the mirror.
If she stopped moving, she'd look like a painting: captured in that static pose.
She walked faster.
He laughed. A brisk laugh that one would give a child that had said something unexpectedly astute. "Not an incorrect observation. They are rather costly. I had them shipped from Germany. But that is one of the joys of owning an import company –"
"You don't charge yourself an import fee."
Another laugh. "I have to. But only to please the taxman. Either way, it all goes back into my vault as expenses."
"I expect you're as calculating in your business dealings as you're in real life, Malfoy."
"Ouch," he said, mock-lying. "You cut me to the quick with your quips, my dear."
"I cannot hurt something that doesn't bleed."
"Blue it may be; but if you cut me, I shall bleed. Then again" – he picked at, what she was certain was, an imaginary piece of lint on his arm – "at this precise minute, the blood is rushing away from my brain." He looked downwards, towards the black of his suit trousers, to reinforce his meaning.
She didn't look. She didn't want to look. She didn't want to know.
"To wound me," he raised his eyes to hers, "you will have to try harder than that."
He'd said far worse to her, but colour flooded her cheeks. As she twisted her fingers, her wedding ring slid and spun, like a top, made slippery from the heat of her palms. "What about the flowers?"
"Indeed," he said, and in a tone which suggested her change of topic wasn't fooling anyone, "what about the flowers? They are a sweet scented and highly poisonous plant that thrives in a cool climate. They are deadly; but only if you consume them. Luckily, you have a carnivorous nature, so we do not have to be concerned with that."
"Is that all?"
"Not quite. They are a symbol of humility. Of returning happiness. Or purity. Virginal white in colour and shedding from the verdant stem like a maiden's tears. Apparently."
Her mouth thinned, and, imagining it was his neck, she gripped the little posy tighter. "I am not some blushing bride, Malfoy."
"Or virginal, I presume."
She spun and her free hand flew to her side where she normally kept her wand, but all her questing fingers felt was the empty patterns of lace.
He idly ran a hand down the coverlet. "Judging by your reaction, someone has succeeded in getting into your knickers."
"Not all of us feel the need to parade our sexual pasts."
"I have little interest in your past choices; I am fully occupied with thoughts of your present and future ones."
"Choices. There is no choice. The Ministry has seen to that."
"I have taken nothing from you, Granger. But it will be my pleasure to remedy this. Speaking of choice," and he smiled as if he'd made a joke. "Ladies' choice. Missionary, on top, or from behind. Which will it be?"
"None of them."
"I am fine for trying anything kinkier later on. But for our wedding night, why don't we stick to something simple."
"Shut up, Malfoy. This isn't a wedding night."
He rolled onto his stomach and waved his feet up into the air, like some overly large toddler in the middle of a tantrum.
"Yes, it is, light of my life. We were both there when the Ministry official pronounced us man and wife. Now we are on our honeymoon, staying in this delightful resort for the next week."
"This is utter bollocks. Complete bollocks." The urge to throw something was too great, and she chucked the lily-of-the-valley onto the floor. It was crushed under the heel of her shoe as she walked past the bed.
"Yes, yes," he said smiling, "total bollocks."
"It's all a joke to you, isn't it? You think it's all a big laugh that the Ministry has taken away hundreds of people's freedoms with this inane marriage law. Paired people up with complete strangers or worse."
He looked riled at her implication that he was less than the perfect specimen of manhood he believed himself to be, and acted it as he pushed himself out of his lothario incline and sat up.
"It could have been worse," he said, his eyes narrowing to slits of anger rather than desire. "It could have been Goyle. Instead, you got me. Wealthy, good-looking, and passably intelligent. So suck it up, Princess." He moved like some powerful predator as he rose from the bed and descended upon her. "I have been to Azkaban," he said, in a low treble which caught her unawares, "and I have no desire to go back there. If you wanted to martyr yourself on the altar of good intentions, then you should have done that before you said, 'I do'. We are stuck with each other now, and if you go down, so do I."
"Azkaban or marriage," she said, her own eyes sinking down his features to where his jugular throbbed, caged by the collar of his shirt, "it's hardly a fair choice."
"It is, however, still a choice."
How could he speak of that as a choice?
He blocked her path and forced her to stop or fall into him, and the idea of having to touch him caused her heart to beat in her chest like a rabbit's. "I hate you."
His mouth curled in a very familiar way. "At this precise moment, the feeling is more than mutual."
"Why us? Why did they pair us?" She turned to the side, biting her lip and clutched her hands around her body.
"Merlin knows. I have a theory they put all the names into a hat and picked at random. How else can you explain Blaise Zabini and Luna Lovegood?"
She didn't jump when she felt Malfoy's hand brush her shoulder where her skin was exposed. She did shiver, but that was due to the breeze that blew in from the open window.
"Well, we have exactly," he said, pulling back from her, "fourteen minutes till midnight. We have to consummate this marriage before then, otherwise we'll be arrested. So, unless you believe that sleeping with me is worse than spending an eternity with the Dementors, would you please pick a position?"
She was out of time.
In less than six hours it would be dawn. No moon would linger in the pale sky, and the star's light would be banished by the sun's glorious rays.
Malfoy's pupils were blacker than the night's sky; but, like the dawn, they held no stars.
All those years ago when he'd been sentenced to Azkaban, had he felt like her? Counted down the hours and wondered if he'd ever see another sunrise the same way? Experience the trickle of dawn as it bled into the blue, or track the change of colours as they fell into vibrant shades of the rainbow. Too bright to be believed as natural.
"Behind," she said, making her choice. "Then I can pretend it's not you."
"Wise decision."
He quickly moved away from her, and she heard the tell-tale sound of clothes being removed. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together.
"Please, don't tell me you want me to undress you?"
She turned. Malfoy was staring at her, his jacket gripped in his right hand. His left had stilled on his belt buckle. Behind him, the bed was white and only slightly creased from his body. Barely a mark. A trace. Little indication that he'd ever been there.
"No," she said, and she almost choked on the word. "Don't take off anymore." She shifted her hips and was able to yank the dress up enough to pull at the cotton of her knickers. She stepped out of them and balled them in her fist. "I can't have what we're about to do imitate a real wedding night. Our marriage is for procreation." She lifted her free hand and swiped a strand of hair back. "Nothing more."
"What are you trying to say, Granger?"
"Malfoy." She hurried towards the side of the bed, where her suitcase lay open on a luggage rack. She stuffed her knickers into the furthest corner of the case, making sure to wedge them tightly under the rest of her clothes and few Muggle books. Hopefully, she'd only find them while she unpacked safely back in London. "It's Malfoy, now."
"You are always going to be Granger to me."
"What I'm trying to say, Malfoy," she walked back towards the bed, "is that we are going to do this consummation as quickly, and as efficiently, as possible." Before she could change her mind, she thrust her legs hip-width apart and bent her body over the foot of the bed.
"You cannot be serious?"
The inside of her arms looked as pale as the bed sheets, and they flexed with the effort of holding herself at this angle. "I am." There was a tremor in her left arm, and she gave into the inevitable and pressed her face into the duvet. "Will you get on with it? It's almost eleven fifty."
"I know we don't have much time, but I can perform wonders in less than five minutes."
The cotton thread was tickling her nose, and she gave a small sneeze into the fabric. "Not interested."
Malfoy swore.
It seemed his mouth was made for curses.
It curved the right way. Or maybe it was the thinness of his lips? The caustic sharpness in the corners.
Curses, oathes, and lurid words dripped from. He oozed them. He spat them.
Fuck.
It appeared to be his favourite.
She disliked the word on principle; however, to describe the acts which they intended to participate in the word seemed too … physical.
It implied violence, it implied ruin and damage, and bruises on the backs of her thighs and calves and hips.
She could almost feel the elongated circles of his thumbprint; those marks which would turn from blue to yellow as they faded on her skin. She'd feel it in the most intimate of times. When dressing, or undressing, or touching the back of her leg because she'd briefly forgotten why she felt this little hurt.
She'd touch those bruises with her own fingers, frown with the pain, and then turn her head and look and feel and remember. Slapping back into her mind, like the act was happening all over again.
It would happen again, and again, and again; and all because she needed it to.
She would strike this law, but she would not burn the parchment. They would need reminding. She would not have these sacrifices be forgotten.
As he lifted her skirt, he swore again.
"Fuck."
He groaned it.
He was fumbling. She could tell by the clink and slide of his belt. The simple action was extended and lacked any adeptness or artistry.
Was he nervous? Was it her that made him nervous, or was the reality of this situation occurring to him?
There was none of that sublet reassurance in his hands as when he'd clasped his necklace around her throat. No; there was a tremble in his index finger as he slid it between her legs. A flutter of his palm as he cupped her sex.
But, as she remained still and with her breath held, he grew confident, and the thumb which delved for her clit was unfaltering and unwavering, and her hips jerked forward without conscious direction.
Her desire was fickle but faithful, and the tightness coiled in her lower belly with every little flicking push of his.
"Malfoy, we're not doing this for sexual gratification. I'm not interested in being another conquest."
His thumb, which had been pressed with such self-possession, stilled.
"You are my wife." He said it as if it made any difference.
"Only technically," and the tremble in her voice matched the one in her thighs.
"For the love of Merlin. Will you at least let me give you an orgasm?"
There had been no ambiguity in his touch. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew where to press and tease and give her tastings of pleasure. Of the pleasure he could bestow.
"I don't want one," she said above the silence of their breaths.
"Who doesn't want an orgasm?"
"This person doesn't."
There was a microsecond pause before he withdrew. "Fine."
The click of a cap.
"How does that feel?"
The lubricant was cool, and she was conscious of its inorganic slipperiness. Very cool; just like the supposed indifferent finger which applied it.
She tried not to think. She tried not to imagine how she looked. Bent over the bed, her dress around her waist, and him: behind her. His sleeves rolled up as if he was about to set to work, the raunching of his shirt as it slipped from his loosened belt, and his eyes.
Those pale, pale eyes. Pale like frost and winter; which held no colour to hint of spring.
"Cold."
She bit her cheek.
The fabric of his trousers chafed at the backs of her legs. Little hot rubbings as he pressed himself to her.
He was a dry heat, soothingly gliding towards the inevitable.
"Are you sure about that orgasm?"
He stroked himself along her. Smearing and spreading. Thickly coating. Covering.
If she slid back, he'd be inside of her.
Too close. He was too close, and she was too.
That deep, sinking feeling; that pleasure mixed with breathless discontentment.
The ear pressed to the covers reverberated her heartbeat to ten times its normal level, but his strokes were constant even as her heart sped up.
Please move. She found herself begging as he slid against her, but not in her, again, and again.
She held her tongue and gnawed, and there was a sting of copper as abraded skin of her mouth wept.
"I've never been so sure about anything in my entire life!" she said, and the cooper tasted bitter.
"Just wonderful."
He thrust and all that slowness and subtly left as he groaned into her.
She refused to move her hips. It was the principle of the thing.
It would've helped. It would've adjusted her body quicker to him, but it also would have scored and encouraged that maddening friction.
"Are you alright?" he said.
She opened her mouth. "Yes."
"This is ridiculous. I am going to touch you."
Those long fingers were on her, and even the brush of his thumb sent a little shock into her pelvis.
"Don't you dare," and her voice was breathless. "I don't want any pleasure from you, Malfoy."
There was a little slap of silence before he replied. "Understood." He was almost gentle as he placed his hands on either side of her hips. "I won't move my hands from here."
"Be certain that you don't."
Each thrust moved her forward. Her nipples rhythmically rubbed against the inverted lace of the dress. Her skin, so hypersensitive and swollen, brushed the bed with agonising lightness.
If she moved, he could be deeper.
Just a little adjustment. Just a small one didn't count. It didn't indicate anything. She was just making herself more comfortable.
Oh.
She felt suddenly overly full.
Burningly full, and her gasps mimicked his hips.
Eyes shut, she made no protest when he jostled her legs apart, rapping at her ankle till she widened, and pushed himself closer. His movements were harsh and jarring, lifting and repositioning her with practiced ease, and bringing her hips back with tight squeezes of his palms.
His breath hot on the back of her neck; cooling the sweat which beaded like dew and limply stuck to her hair.
She turned her face into the sheets; the embroidery coarse on her lips. She couldn't stop the sounds which bubbled from her throat like a fountain, only muffle them. If she'd been able to prise her hand from under her shaking body, she would have closed it over her mouth. Cries, almost inhuman, burst from between her lips and spilled into the air, as echoing answers to the slaps of their bodies.
He sped up.
He was inside of her; around her; enclosing her. And she liked it.
Perhaps it was the shock of the thought, but she became painfully aware of the strength of his hands on her and the soreness beginning between her legs.
She didn't think she'd been fucked so hard before. Or quickly.
The word hurt to think – as if he'd had some small victory which he would never know about – because this was fucking. Hard, fast, fucking, and the language bled into her brain; dripping down through all her previous intimate experiences, because this one lacked intimacy. It lacked that sympathy of thought and body. Draco Malfoy was just good at fucking; no matter who the person. She didn't mean a thing.
He came.
She wouldn't have been surprised if the people below made a noise complaint. Malfoy was a loud climaxer.
Perhaps he thought it was praise; the long, low, masculine, loudness of his moans. Like a bravo; a clap at the end of a performance. A congratulations to himself, however.
All she'd done is lie there. Passive and –
He moved out of her, and the loss of him ached.
She was stiff, and swollen, and all she wanted to do was let go and slide onto the floor. But she wouldn't. She was not going to have Malfoy think that he'd made her weak at the knees. Neither could she stay like this; with her body bent over the bed like folded linen, and her skin probably red and chafed.
She struggled up and hurriedly pushed the material down her legs.
Out of sight; out of mind. It could be like it had never happened.
Like the habit it had become, she checked the clock which read a minute to midnight.
"And with only a minute to spare." She rubbed at her arms, scratching at the skin which was puckered and pink from resting on the duvet. "Cutting it a bit fine, weren't you."
He looked up at her from lidded eyes. "I never like to fuck under time constraints." With lazy grace, he re-tucked his shirt. The material clung to the base of his stomach, sweat making it almost translucent, and she could make out the indents of muscles underneath the white. "I can do a lot in one minute," he said and copied her by dropping his eyes down her body.
Her whole body clenched, and for the first time she felt the aftereffects of what had happened. That unfamiliar stickiness between her thighs. "That's not necessary."
She had Muggle friends still. Acquaintances which had lingered on since early childhood from when she used to play catch or try and ride her bike outside her parent's house, and even a few from nursery. Although, she thought, she'd mainly known them because of her mother's friendship with their mothers.
The memory of her mother waiting at the school gate with the other parents, the afternoon sun bleaching the image like a faded photograph. Like a stop motion film, her mother's laugh was captured. Her head thrown back, her eyes creased shut and her brown hair, cut in that wide bob, shaking like autumn leaves.
Out of sight; out of mind.
Once she'd moved back to Guilford, she'd occasionally run into these non-magical friends on the high-street or in the local supermarket. Those grating but polite conversations had struck up, and the inevitable question had been asked. She had cursed herself for lingering in front of the magazines for expecting mothers; their glossy covers gleamed in the overhead lights and seemed to bounce harshly off the smiling faces of new mothers with their chubby-cheeked infants. Nevertheless, she'd come out of these confrontations with promises of books, offers of babysitting, and a surplus of advice on 'going it alone' (once her lack of ring had been discerned) which she could've really done without.
She'd read the books – as Harry would say, 'there was a book, so Hermione read it' – and according to these books (all six of them) a simple way to improve conception was by lying on her back and putting her legs up in the air. The book(s) had advised that the most comfortable way to do this was on a bed, resting her legs against the headboard. The books, however, had disagreed on the ideal amount of time to remain in this pose. Some stating that thirty minutes was sufficient, whilst others advised upto an hour. She'd mentally decided to do a rough average and try for forty-five minutes sans legs in the air.
Yet as she climbed onto the bed, strategically placing herself so she didn't have to look at Malfoy, she considered that extending the time to an hour and a half was a reasonable idea. Just maximising the chances. That's all.
"Granger, this might be a stupid question, but what are you doing?" He sounded irritated. A little like a child which has had its crayons taken away after drawing on the living room wall.
"Something I saw on a Muggle documentary," she said. It would be nice if the ceiling had a watermark or some blemishes; anything to let her eyes rest on other than the bland whiteness of fresh paint. Too white; like the bedsheets. "It helps conception."
As she'd settled onto the bed for the second time that evening, her dress had ridden up. Now she slid the fabric back up her legs, pushing the few inches up so the lace ran smooth and unbuckled.
She wished he'd leave, but he was moving around the room. His footsteps were making more noise than was necessary. She was aware of how silently he could creep up; she'd only notice him by the prickle on the back of her neck and the change in the air. As the inaudible buzz of a storm on the horizon. But now he was stomping – demanding her attention as easily as if he'd been waving a red flag, begging for her to run.
"Of course, how could I forget," but his tone suggested otherwise. "Sex between us is just for procreation and nothing more. Well, I guess you will not need me for the rest of the night."
"No, I won't," she said. She purposefully raised her hand and caught the Muggle baby book. She winced as she cracked the spine in her haste to open it. The title of Chapter 12: Morning Sickness, Increased Libido, and Other Changes, hit her in the face. "Have a nice time, Malfoy."
Hermione could sense his astonishment without seeing it. It was in the click of jaw and the intake of breath as if he was breathing through slitted nostrils, and the lack of some blithe, witty, and cruel retort.
"I am going to find the bar." The door opened.
Wave the red flag.
"Goodnight. I won't wait up."
And make him run.
If the hotel hadn't been so new or solidly made, plaster would've fallen from the ceiling at the strength with which Malfoy slammed the door.
The crack lingered in her ears, but she still held her breath and listened. All she heard was silence. He was still there, still waiting for her. The bastard.
Her eyes compressing to slits, she thumbed through the book – her fingers slipping on the pages – until she reached the relative safety of the introduction.
Now that you've decided to start a family, the page taunted.
She slid to the next page, and then the next, and kept turning until she reached the next section: the one regarding conception.
Raising her index finger she ran it along the first line of text, only to pause when she noticed the blood. Just a little blood, like a first show, but brilliant on the white.
She sucked her finger into her mouth, letting her saliva sting the papercut closed.
Man commits a grave error when he attempts to impose his own rhythm on his partner and when he is determined to give her an orgasm: often he only manages to destroy the form of pleasure she was experiencing in her own way.
– Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex
Title quoted from Angela Carter's 'The Erl-King'.
Tumblr is the best place to reach me under the name stargazing121.
While many moons ago now, I was delighted to win the Granger Enchanted Awards for best in character Hermione. As someone who has followed the awards since the start, I am honoured to now be a part of them. Thank you to everyone who voted and still enjoys FMK. This chapter is for you.
This is the final Hermione's POV. The next chapter will be from Draco's POV and carry on from the present.