Disclaimer – I own nothing.
A.N – I had a serious love/hate relationship with this chapter, as what you are looking at is the third (fourth?) draft of the second half of this chapter. This chapter is going to get a bit (very) intense, so I hope you guys are strapped in!
On that note: a special THANK YOU, I ADORE YOU to olivieblake for beta'ing that first draft, which was seriously another level of dark (we all would have wept together), and for beta'ing the flashback scene.
Also, a very loud shout out and YOU'RE AWESOME, TAKE MY HUGS to my new beta ellabelle12! :)
To TheseLittleWonders, tilly90, ellabelle12, Eidyia1, fncmullin, Team Dramione, , RooOjoy, Emeraudedeux, lle1987, HeatherQuynn, olivieblake, , Nichole O, Estrunk, TheLittlePrincessSnowWhite, TassanaBurrfoot, Chester99, TeamKristen4U, Guest, viola1701e, mesa24, pgoodrichboggs: You guys are all so awesome that I just want to Molly Weasley hug each and every one of you. Your kind words of encouragement and support mean everything—they make me smile, laugh, feel all warm inside, and motivate me to continue writing when I get stuck. I seriously can't rave about you all enough. I've worked super hard on this chapter, so I hope it's up to par and that you all enjoy!
/Don't let me show cruelty, though I may make mistakes
Don't let me show ugliness, though I know I can hate
And don't let me show evil, though it might be all I take
Show me love, show me love, show me love/
-Hundred Waters, Show Me Love
Chapter 8 – Dancing with Demons
"What are we doing, Granger?" Draco asked quietly. His chin was propped in the space between her breasts, his fingers playing idly with a few wild curls of her hair.
"I don't know," she shrugged awkwardly, half lying on the bed, and half propped up against the headboard. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't always have the answers."
"What answers do you have?"
"I know how I feel."
"How do you feel?"
She looked away, because she wasn't ready to share that. But the moon looked so huge, so bright, and so within reach that she wondered if maybe it was time to share. Maybe it was time to be better than they were.
"Tell me the truth, Draco—"
"Draco? When did that happen?" he smiled, and it was the sweetest feeling. So infinite in its beauty, because, gods, he was beautiful.
"Do you love me?" Hermione ignored his question in favor of her own. The moon was moving closer. Time was running away from them. She lifted her arms and hugged him tighter to her, so tight that the universe could have exploded from within his ribcage. She repeated urgently, "Do you love me?"
"Granger," he whispered tenderly. It was too much and not enough. Tears sprung in her eyes, and she could barely stand to look at him. "Love is so fucking normal. When have we ever been that simple?"
She couldn't help but let out a teary laugh at his outstanding audacity. But there was a mountain of sincerity in his eyes. Silver became the new color of love, and it ensnared her the way only he could.
She was captivated.
But the tears started to flow freely, and her body began to tremble in distress.
"I need you to love me, Draco," Hermione admitted. The moon was upon them. It was crashing into Hogwarts, and everything was falling apart.
The world was disintegrating all around them, but he wouldn't budge—he didn't know how to, because Hermione's heartbeat was like the greatest anchor ever created, and it kept him on shore, level, connected forever to her.
"Is that all you need, Granger?" Draco lifted his head, slowly crawled up her body, trailing feather light kisses as he went in search of her mouth. "Is that all you require? My love?"
"Yes," Hermione nearly sobbed. "That's all I need. I swear it, by Merlin, that's all."
Draco kissed her deeply as Hogwarts fell before their very eyes. He kissed her with the fervor of a man who had lost all hope, and believed unequivocally that he could find it again in her.
Hermione kissed him as though the world could be recreated through their passion, made better through their love.
Even in a moment like this, they didn't want the same things. Not really. But that was okay, too. Their differences made them better somehow, more honest. More brutal too, sometimes. But they could live with that, as long as they had each other.
"Please," Hermione begged as gravity started to force them apart. It was pulling Draco away from her. It was stealing him slowly, and she couldn't—she just couldn't. "Please."
"Fuck, I love you," Draco said frantically as the severity of the situation attacked him. His arms were bulging as he fought against the universe that was trying so hard to rip her from him, trying to tear them apart. "I love you, Granger. You know this!"
"I don't," Hermione dug her nails into his skin, trying to keep him. But try as she might, he was floating away. He was floating away into that elusive darkness that tore at her chest with its cruel existence. "I don't know. Draco!"
"You know—Granger!"
"Don't let go!"
"I won't! Fuck," Draco's eyes started to tear. He couldn't help it. He was going to lose her. He was going to lose her, and he wasn't sure if he ever had her. "I love you. I've loved you for so long—"
"Not long enough!" she openly cried hysterically. It hurt so much to know there was a time that he hated her. The knowledge felt like a boulder on her stomach, heavy and unmovable.
"Too long!" Draco disagreed as his own tears finally slid down his cheeks. The wind whipped around them harshly, slinging his tear drops against her like sharp diamonds cutting into her flesh. Only they cut directly into her soul. "Loving isn't enough, Granger! It'll never be enough. Yes, fuck, I love you, but that's just the surface. That's just the beginning. I swear it, Granger—"
Hermione opened her eyes suddenly, Draco's loud snore having awoken her, tears sliding smoothly down the side of her face. Draco's form slept next to her, his arm thrown possessively over her stomach.
The moon glowed through the enchanted window, taunting her with its power.
She continued to cry, letting the tears wash away the madness in her heart, because she wanted it all to be true.
She let herself cry like she hadn't cried in a long time—ugly, heart-wrenching sobs that shook the bed—because she had wanted Draco's love to be genuine.
His love wasn't real, and it broke her heart.
She'd hate him tomorrow for it.
The first week of classes was the strangest. There was a heaviness in the air that had everyone on edge. The only ones immune were the First Years who had no clue what Hogwarts had always been like before. That magnificent Before—before Dumbledore had died, before the war had permeated the very walls of the place.
The worst, hands down, was DADA. Alecto Carrow had been placed to teach First through Third Year, while Amycus was tasked with Fourth through Seventh Year; clearly Snape thought that only Amycus was at all suited to teaching. Well, as suited to it as any madman could be.
Horrible stories were spreading by the end of the first day concerning both twins, though Amycus Carrow had been deemed slightly more unhinged than his sister.
Who wants to try non-verbal asphyxiation, today?
Who thinks they can cast ten slicing curses back to back?
Frankly, the class seemed more and more like Death Eater training each day. Even worse were the bouts of helplessness that could assault Hermione; she had no real power to stop anything—she wasn't even named Head Girl, the honor of the esteemed titles of Head Girl and Boy going to Padma Patil and Ernie MacMillan. Nonetheless, Hermione drew a sick comfort from the fact that being Head Girl didn't earn Padma any special treatment from Amycus Carrow either. Oddly enough, Amycus tried to ignore Harry most of the time—most likely the product of a harsh talking to by Voldemort and Snape; Potter was His. His to torture, and His to kill. It was just the irrationally possessive sort of thing Voldemort would say.
Some days he'd fail, other days he'd fail horribly, and those were the days that Hermione felt as though her nerves were being fried and shot straight to hell. Harry and his prideful mouth refused to keep quiet in front of an unjust verbal attack on his character. Suffice it to say that someone always ended up in the infirmary, regardless if it was the intended recipient of a curse or not.
Amycus frowned severely whenever Hermione walked into the room, and Draco was never far away when they attended the class. Most people made it a point to sit next to or at the very least near their fiancés or wives when it was time for DADA.
Hermione's inner feminist raged whenever she saw Draco scowling at Amycus if the man stepped too close to her. She could handle herself!
She gave up caring by the second week when she realized that she had been so focused on Draco's reactions that she had completely missed Ron and Harry's overprotective stance when the man came near as well.
Now, into the third week, Hermione thought she had caught a rhythm of sorts—wake up, get dressed, go to meals, spend the day with Harry, Ron and occasionally Ginny and Luna, make sure to stay away from either of the Carrow siblings, go to dinner, walk to the Slytherin dorms, sit with Tilly for a little bit, antagonize Pansy pettily (she'd stop once Pansy learned to stop sending longing looks to her husband), get ready for bed, spend most of the night making love to Draco (really, the man was insatiable!), fall asleep in the embrace of ecstasy, and wake up again.
Hermione thought she'd caught a very nice rhythm, though the situation could always be better. She and Draco could start actually talking. They did talk—about classes, about how unsafe it was for her to go off on her own to the library without any of her friends, about their coursework, and even about quidditch. It was nice because caring wasn't a sentiment that either of them showed easily to each other, but it was also highly annoying. Hermione wasn't an invalid! She was not a damsel in distress! She could protect herself if need be; she'd done so in the past against an entire group of Death Eaters. She liked to think that she'd only gotten better.
What hadn't gotten better was real communication between Hermione and Draco. They spoke about things that didn't really matter. Every once in a while he'd walk into the room like a man possessed by all types of demons, kiss her hard, and then whisper in her ear.
These were the best nights. He'd whisper that they belonged to each other, that nothing short of hell itself would separate them. These were the nights that she knew he went to Death Eater meetings. It was hard, reconciling the person she knew he'd been a few hours before with the husband who nipped, sucked, and made her feel like she'd spontaneously combust if she didn't hold him tighter, kiss him harder, want him deeper. So fucking deep.
The irony wasn't lost on her that these nights, the nights that her conscience railed against all the injustices that she'd envisioned he'd performed were the nights she wished would happen more.
Understanding meant nothing. The way he could spend hours purging his demons within her, pushing her to her limits, plummeting them both the worst and best versions of themselves meant nothing if they couldn't face it all in the daylight. They couldn't continue like this forever. Something was stirring—she could feel it.
One Saturday morning, no later than 8am, Hermione sat alone by the enchanted window, watching the sparkling water below of the Black Lake. Normally on a Saturday morning, she would have already been in the library, revising, researching, or just reading for pleasure, but the situation had changed. Hogwarts might still be safe on the surface, but it didn't feel safe to Draco, and she could live without another lecture from her husband for leaving so early on her own.
"You're up and about early," Hermione noted.
Draco, unsurprisingly, was not an early riser. Living a life of leisure had ensured that he spent Saturdays and Sundays in bed as long as possible, and then awoke with a superior look as though she had been the one lazing about.
"We need to talk," he said somberly. Hermione's stomach fluttered in nervousness. A thousand thoughts went through her head—all as horrible as the one before it. Images of Draco being tortured or worse flitted through her mind, and her body went rigid in fear. Draco saw her reaction, and instinctually knew what had happened. "Don't worry, it's nothing too terrible, but we do need to talk about it."
"About what?"
"I'll be taking my father's seat on the Wizengamot today."
Hermione didn't know what to do or say, so she did and said nothing. The Wizengamot! All the change that he could bring forth! He could petition to help the House Elves! He could rally others against Voldemort! A hope so pure roared in her chest. This could be what the Order had been waiting for.
But she took in the worry lines on his face, though he tried to hide them with that constant dispassionate and imperturbable mask that he wore like a constant shield. She saw the coldness of his gaze; he knew what she had been thinking, and he shot the idea down without any words.
That's where they were—they could speak a whole conversation without saying anything at all. It was progress. If only it didn't hurt so much to be on opposite sides. If only it didn't feel so good to be wanted by him.
"Shouldn't you joining the Wizengamot be a good thing?" she asked cautiously, though the unspoken "for the Dark Lord" was as loud as anything they'd said so far.
Hermione wanted to look away from him, to hear him without seeing him, but she couldn't. She couldn't move from her position because something was coming. Something was coming, and she didn't want to be in motion when it hit her.
"It's a good thing and bad thing," he sighed. This was the Draco that carried too much, bore too much on his shoulders.
Hermione patted the space next to her. He walked the few steps to her, and slid into the space with the same grace and ease he slid into her. She couldn't help the blush that raged on her cheeks; he raised an eyebrow in return, but this moment wasn't about that.
She pushed at his arm, a silent demand to turn around. He did so, and reluctantly slouched against her, his back to her front, his leg straight before him on the seat, her legs bent on either side of him. She wanted to massage the pressure away, but they were too torn, too fractured.
They weren't those people, even though they wanted to be.
Instead, she let her fingers run through his hair, much like she had imagined doing once upon a time, the first time she'd seen him run his own hand through his hair in Third Year. She had looked at the way his fingers went smoothly all the way through, that annoying smirk permanently etched into his features, and had wondered what it would have felt like for her hands to replace his. She had wondered, and now she knew.
She knew, and it was a different type of pleasure. A simple pleasure, but simple didn't always mean simplistic.
He moaned in response, and relaxed his body into hers. They were silent. In this silence, the sun shone through the opulent enchanted window with its snake engravings. All of the rooms in the Slytherin dorms except the common room, had enchanted windows that gave the appearance of being above the lake, instead of under it. They basked in the heat of the sun, in the clearness of the blue sky. For just a moment, they let themselves feel what they could if they stopped loathing each other so much, so often.
It was a warmth that spread through their toes, up to their fingertips. They were connected in a moment, suspended in time—frozen from the way things always were, and the way things would be once he took his family's ancestral Seat.
But this moment wasn't real. Not to Hermione. This wasn't who they were, and she didn't like to play pretend. Not after Draco had shown her the cruel beauty of truth. She'd never play pretend again, and so she let her fingers continue to rove this hair, but broke the silence.
"Talk to me," she pleaded quietly. She wanted to be with him in everything so badly, but he would never just let her all the way in. "I'm your wife, Malfoy. Despite what side on this war I'm on, I'm still your wife, and I'm here. I'm here with you if you'll let me."
"What can I tell you, Granger? What can I say without fear that you'll run to the Order with it?" He truly wanted to know. He wanted to know where they drew those lines. Because it was so hard to see sometimes. Especially with Snape breathing down his neck, and the Dark Lord insisting on private meetings with him. "How can I know when I'm talking to Hermione Malfoy and not Hermione Granger?"
She let his words wash over her. She let them settle into her ribcage, somewhere brutal and uncomfortable. If words were weapons, Draco would be the greatest blacksmith in the world. But Hermione had learned in that first month of marriage that sometimes, the best weapon was honesty. She had learned that from him.
She hated that she had learned that lesson at all.
"I'm always Hermione Malfoy," she pulled a little harder as she continued to run her fingers through his golden lock, at the roots, not the ends, because she knew it hurt more. It was petty, but it assuaged something feral inside of them that needed to hurt and be hurt by each other. "I'll always be Hermione Malfoy, now. That'll never change, and it doesn't matter what you tell me. I would never tell the Order anything that could be traced back to you, something that could get you in trouble. Something that they couldn't have found out through someone else."
She remembered the welts on his chest and back, she remembered how brutal those welts looked the following day, black and blue on his fair skin. She vowed to herself that she'd never be the reason for Voldemort to hurt him ever again.
She knew as soon as she made that vow that she'd break it; she was the defender of the light, self-righteous in her causes. One day she'd fight, and Voldemort would try to break her through Draco.
One day, but not today. Not today.
Still he didn't say a word, and so Hermione repeated his own words back to him. "We're in this together, remember."
He did remember. He remembered too often, and it tore at him that he felt he could only be in this with her in small doses. But he wasn't that poor Sixth Year who had been running around like a chicken with its head cut off, wracked with fear and guilt over a task that had seemed too enormous. That wasn't him anymore.
He wasn't desperate or a puppet. Never again.
"Being on the Wizengamot isn't going to be a picnic," Draco said as he shifted his head on her shoulder to be able to look up at her. "There'll be laws to be passed, and I'll need to decide which ones to support and which to oppose. That kind of situation can get tricky for us."
"With great power comes great responsibility," Hermione joked idly; the muggle superhero reference came to her automatically, though she just received a blank look for her efforts. They could get whiplash from the way their conversations changed shape so suddenly, but that too was intrinsically them. She shook her head, "Remind me to force you to watch Spiderman on the telly when we get back home."
"More like with great power comes great problems," Draco snorted. "And I might have to have a chat with the owner of that hotel if we're going to be calling it home. The rate he's charging us is practically criminal!"
"Oh, don't be cheap," Hermione teased good-naturedly. It was a refreshing change of pace, to let go of that festering anger at each other for a moment. "I'm sure you could buy the hotel if you wanted."
"Not at the rate he's charging us, I couldn't," he grumbled, but let his eyes rove her face. These kinds of moments were rare, but they always left him feeling like the ground was shaking beneath his feet. She always left him unbalanced. He shook his thoughts from the light laughter in her mahogany eyes. "This is serious, Granger. This could go badly for us. Really badly if I don't play my cards right."
"Then we'll play your cards right, won't we," she responded with an air of confidence that left Draco slightly awed.
She believed in him. Didn't matter that their passion could so quickly turn into vitriol and scorn. Didn't matter that they practically redefined the term "star-crossed lovers."
I'm yours.
I love you.
Fuck, why did it always feel like they were inching closer and closer to that truth whenever she said things like that? Whenever she gave him that look she wore now?
But the look in her eyes faded; he took a breath in tandem with her; the sun shined brightly in the sky; her hands never stopped moving, and a slight tremble shook his frame (from desire or fear of all the things to come; he wasn't sure).
He trembled, and she noticed.
"We'll play this right, Malfoy," she assured him. "We have to. We don't have a choice, because losing isn't an option."
It never occurred to her that she was thinking of ways to play this war on both sides, just like so many others she'd once criticized silently.
"You look worried," Ginny remarked as she and Luna took a seat next to her on the lawn of Hogwarts. "What's wrong?"
"Must be the Umgubular Slashkilter that seems to be in season," Luna said randomly. "They're appearing everywhere, aren't they?"
"Nothing's wrong, per se," Hermione ignored Luna with a roll of her eyes, and answered vaguely. She couldn't help but frown at her own non-answer. This wasn't who she was. This wasn't who she needed to be. Not with Ginny, her closest female friend. Not even with Luna, though the girl could vex her with her made up creatures and logic. She sighed, "Draco's taking his father's seat on the Wizengamot."
"Why?" Ginny asked in confusion.
"His father's still a wanted escapee from Azkaban," Hermione couldn't help but smile because if Draco hadn't pointed that same fact out to her before they'd gotten married, she would have had the same response as Ginny. It was amazing how small her own world, their world, the world of the Light side, really was. "It doesn't matter that most everyone knows that he's just in Malfoy Manor lounging about and catering to the Dark Lord. The DMLE can't just barge into an Ancient and Most Noble house without proof."
"Hmm" Luna smiled that unfocused smile of hers as she gazed into the distance. Perhaps she saw things that Hermione didn't. Maybe she had answers that Hermione needed desperately as to how to turn a mostly hostile marriage into something more, outside of sex. Something so much more. "He's not the only one. Theo's taking Lord Nott's place as well."
"How do you know that, Luna?" Ginny asked.
Hermione's eyes swiveled to Luna's incredulously. Surely Luna had told their friends of her possible engagement. Surely she wouldn't have kept such vital information to herself…
"I'm engaged to Theo, of course," Luna said flippantly.
"Since when?" Ginny gaped.
Hermione couldn't help but shake her head in a weird admiration. Luna definitely lived her life on her terms. Hermione grudgingly respected her for it, if only because she was being pulled in every other direction regardless of what she wanted.
"Well, we've been in talks for a while since the law was passed," she continued to look elsewhere as she answered, as though she hadn't a care in the world. But Hermione knew that wasn't true. If Theo was joining the Wizengamot, then certainly Luna had the same worries as she did. "We've only established that we're engaged, but haven't settled on a wedding date yet or filed any of the papers until everything's settled."
"What things?" Hermione and Ginny asked simultaneously.
"I'm not quite sure," Luna finally settled her serene stare on them for an instant. "Haven't thought to ask, really."
"Why didn't we know any of this?" Ginny frowned, a blazing look of betrayal on her face.
"Hermione knew," Luna shrugged.
Hermione groaned, and held out her hand in a physical show of defense before Ginny launched a tirade her way. "I only found out once I got to school, and since I'm the last to know any sort of gossip, I'd just assumed you all knew, too."
"Well, we didn't," Ginny huffed in annoyance. Hermione knew that her ire would disappear in a few moments; it was extremely hard to maintain anger at someone who wouldn't notice—Luna had perfected a long time ago the ability to ignore the distasteful emotions of others toward her. Ginny, predictably, sighed in consternation and moved on. "Why does it matter anyway that they're on the Wizengamot now? So you'll be acquiring your titles early, but I doubt you care about those types of things, Hermione."
It hadn't even occurred to Hermione that for Draco to take his spot on the Wizengamot he'd have to ascend to his lordship—taking her with him. She could box his ears, she was so furious suddenly. He'd barely given her a few hours of notice! She knew next to nothing about being a Lady. She'd have to go straight to the library to figure out exactly what it meant to be Lady Malfoy.
Or she'd ask Tilly in private. The girl really was a fountain of useless (and not so useless) information about Purebloods, current affairs, and everything in between.
"I don't," Hermione fumed silently. She tried to keep a hold of that anger, but she couldn't help the way her knuckles turned white from her clenched fists just at the thought that he'd known for a while and had chosen to stay silent on the matter. "Things just sort of get more complicated now that he's on the Wizengamot, that's all."
"Not as complicated as Voldemort trying to kill you at every turn," Ginny belittled Draco's plight, her plight.
Because everything revolved around Harry Potter. It was typical Ginny behavior, though she didn't mean to be that way. She loved Harry, and Hermione could appreciate that. She could. But her own world couldn't center around Harry anymore. It couldn't. Not if she wanted to survive this war. Not if she wanted her marriage to be more than a constant battle of wills.
To both Hermione and Ginny's surprise, it was Luna who came to Hermione's defense.
"Yes, well, Harry isn't Hermione's husband," Luna pierced Ginny with a rare solid gaze that told her exactly what she thought about her comment. "The Dark Lord is everyone's problem in their own way."
Dark Lord.
Hermione wondered if someone had told her not to say his name as well. It didn't matter because Luna looked at Hermione, and nodded ever so slightly.
They were both girls playing at being women, the same as Draco and Theo were boys playing at being men, in a world controlled by powerful and dangerous creatures masquerading as men with hearts.
Hermione nodded back.
"The man might be a crackpot," Theo raged. "But he's a bloody extortionist, too!"
"How much is he asking for?"
"Ten thousand gallons!" Theo cried, and Blaise's eyes bulged. Even Draco whistled in concurrence.
"That's pretty steep, mate." Blaise murmured. "Even for us."
"Steep?!" Theo ground out. "That's bloody highway robbery is what it is!"
"But Lovegood comes from a good family," Draco wondered. "He might not be rolling in money, but he's no Weasley. Nowhere near poor or destitute. So why the high price?"
"He might not be poor," Theo rolled his eyes. "But his newspaper, The Quibbler, isn't exactly a money-maker. It's filled with more nonsense than the Daily Prophet!"
"So he's making up the deficit with your marriage to Luna," Draco finally understood. Theo nodded grouchily, and Blaise couldn't help but laugh.
"Gotta give the man credit where it's due, Theo boy," Blaise's smile was filled with mirth, and infectious. "It's pretty genius. He knows why you're willing to marry the chit, and he's banking on you going for it at any means."
Draco couldn't help but chuckle. Xenophilius Lovegood might not be the sanest man in Wizarding Britain, but he was certainly clever.
Hermione didn't dare intrude on their conversation, but she watched from afar. Slytherin common room might have looked like any other common room in Hogwarts with its square and round coffee and studying tables, and its comfortable and elegant sofas, but socially, it was set up much like Hermione found Pureblood affairs were unconsciously set up: the wives or fiancés whose husbands were friends sat together, studying or gossiping in the intimate tables by either stairs, while the men whose friendships were founded on something more concrete (Hermione hoped) than simple association lounged near the fireplace discussing politics and private affairs of importance.
It was strange to see First and Second Years imitating the Sixth and Seventh Years in this manner, though she'd listened in to their conversation one day and realized that their conversations of importance were limited to the important affairs that their parents or older siblings had going on in their lives. They innocently spoke of quidditch games, and classes, ignorant to the very real problems that abounded, yet aware on some subconscious level that something wasn't quite right—it was in the set of their shoulders when they walked off to class, and the smiles that dimmed when someone mentioned DADA.
Suffice it to say that Slytherin House was vastly different to Gryffindor House.
Whereas active teenagers bustled in and out of the common room in Gryffindor, aspiring gentlemen and ladies waltzed in and out of the common room in Slytherin.
Everything had an air of formality, even among friends. Friendship among Slytherins, though as firm and real as any Gryffindor friendship, held a weight and history that wasn't present among Gryffindors. Hermione realized that when she told Draco one afternoon that she refused to sit with Pansy in the common room.
"We're not friends, Malfoy." Hermione had been walking with him to the quidditch pitch. Apparently, as his wife it was her duty to watch him practice, though she found it rather hilarious that he took for granted that she wouldn't betray Slytherin quidditch plans to Gryffindor. She wouldn't, but she didn't like the fact that he just assumed. As though she were on his side. Unquestionably. "She hasn't suddenly become less annoying and cruel just because I'm married to you. I'd dare say that cow has gotten even worse!"
"Don't care, Granger," Draco had pursed his lips. His arm had swung lightly with his broom in hand. "You can't just give her the cut direct, regardless of your personal feelings on the matter."
"Why not? I'm a free human being, and she's not made of glass or gold!"
"Because you're a Malfoy, now, and her name is Pansy Parkinson. The Parkinsons have been allies of the Malfoys for generations. Appearances and family loyalties may mean nothing where you come from, but they do to us, and whether or not you like it, you are one of us now."
"What does me not wanting to spend time with Parkinson have anything to do with the Malfoys' relationship with her family?"
She hadn't asked to be difficult, though that was always an added bonus. She truly hadn't seen the connection, and frankly, that had everything to do with the Purebloods that she'd been exposed to. If Ron was upset with Harry, Harry still spoke to the rest of the Weasleys without a problem.
"Everything, luv," Draco had said sagely. It had been the absentminded "love" that threw her for a loop. She had wanted him to mean it, even if she didn't love him. Even if she might never love him, she wanted him to mean it. But Draco, boy until the end, obliviously continued on. "In Pureblood society, connections mean everything. Pansy is the only heir to the Parkinson name, which means one day she'll take the family seat on the Wizengamot, or pass it on to her son, etc. Yeah, I've already formed a connection with her, but that was back when everyone and their bloody aunt thought that I'd be getting married to her. Now that I'm married to you, it's up to you to keep those bonds with her. It would be unseemly for me to do so outside of the company of others, and I know you already see how common room politics work. I can't just walk up to your table, and sit down to talk to Pansy."
"I don't see why not," Hermione shrugged, trying to take it all in—the nuance of "common room politics." "It's not like there's some law. You Slytherins make everything more complicated than it has to be."
"Say what you want," he shrugged as they reached the pitch. The stars sparkled above their heads like little diamonds. "But things are what they are."
Hermione harrumphed, unmoved by Draco's logic.
He saw her displeasure, the night sky twinkling above them, so clear, and something had moved in him. Maybe it was a moment of teenage carelessness, where they misjudged their own power, their own authority in the universe, but Draco just wanted to kiss her and damn propriety or who could see them.
But they weren't those people. They barely liked each other on good days, despite their mutual desire. They weren't the Weasleys or Potters of the world who could kiss carelessly under the stars.
But, fuck, he had wanted to.
Maybe he had lost everything in that moment, where her eyes had sparkled and she'd seemed like such a wife, grumbling about social problems like who she was forced to sit with in the common room.
Hermione had seen his silver eyes smolder, and her breath had hitched, surprised and full of yearning, too.
She had been so sure that he'd walk away. They weren't those people. They weren't. But Draco invaded her space instead.
Her eyes pleaded with him—to either retreat, or consume her; she hadn't been sure and neither was he. But Draco wouldn't run, never again. They were colliding, under the stars, in silence, in their very souls. They were being unburdened and chained simultaneously. He couldn't stand it.
He couldn't control it either, and so he bent his head and kissed her cheek softly. So softly that his kiss could have been a whisper. Hermione's hands lifted of their own accord, and latched to the lapels of his quidditch uniform.
He had looked at her, so close that his nose bumped her cheek as they swayed to the whims of gravity. Her eyes had closed when his lips touched her skin, and burned her.
He'd taken in her lashes, button nose, and defiant chin that always seemed to oppose him. He'd taken in the heat that she gave off so close, so fucking close, and he wanted to watch the world go up in flames around them—he wished that it would, if only so he wouldn't have to move.
But wishes weren't for the strong. Wishes weren't for those with power, and he'd never be powerless again.
Instead, he had pressed his lips to her skin, right below her ear, and said flatly, "Deal with it, Granger," and walked away abruptly.
She had been left, alone, gazing at his back under the stars.
Now, as she listened in on Draco's conversation, she realized that more went in to marriage unions than hers had.
"Why would Mr. Lovegood be charging Theo?" Hermione couldn't help but ask Tilly. Unfortunately, Pansy and Daphne Greengrass sat with them, and heard Hermione's question.
"Well, obviously you wouldn't know, would you?" Pansy said snidely. Hermione gritted her teeth, and tried to remember that Draco wanted her to play nice—even if it she was pretty sure Pansy was the Devil incarnate.
"No, I don't. Or else I wouldn't have asked," Hermione said sharply. Merlin, give me patience.
"Well, didn't—" Tilly began to ask Hermione if Draco hadn't given her parents money, but Daphne, thoughtful and socially graceful as always, saw where the question was headed and cut her off.
The girl really could be decent when she felt like it, and Hermione hadn't decided whether or not she liked Daphne, just as she was sure Daphne hadn't decided whether or not she liked her.
"I'm sure for someone who isn't raised in Pureblood customs, it's quite abhorrent, but families of Ancient and Noble houses especially tend to pay the bride's family. It doesn't have to be money, since most pureblood families aren't wealthy. Some offer great poetry, or paintings done by the groom."
"This is a law?"
"Oh, no!" Tilly jumped to answer, slightly miffed that Daphne had answered when she hadn't been the one asked. "It's not a law, just an old Pureblood custom from a time when men gave money to the family of the bride to compensate for raising her. But, you know how wizarding society is—they tend to get stuck on things and never move on."
"But ten thousand gallons?" Hermione questioned incredulously.
"My grandfather paid twice that amount to marry my grandmother," Pansy boasted smugly. "It's really about how much your husband thinks you're worth, I suppose—how much you're worth to him. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Granger, since I have it on the best authority that Drake didn't pay a sickle for you."
Drake. Ugh.
Tilly's eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her head, she was so scandalized. Daphne gasped quietly, and looked away quickly to hide her small smile at Hermione's embarrassment.
Daphne could also revel in other people's misfortune just as quickly as she could help someone out.
"Well, I'm sure that Draco—" Tilly began in that fretful way of hers as her hands waved this way and that way, but Hermione didn't need anyone fighting her battles.
She couldn't tell Pansy to go to hell, but that didn't mean that she couldn't hit her right where it would hurt the most.
She remembered images of Pansy loving Draco, wanting his love, from Draco's memories, and smiled maliciously.
"Yes," Hermione nodded mockingly, eyes hard, smile vicious. "Your grandmother must've certainly been worth a lot to your grandfather for him to pay that amount. And no, Draco didn't pay a sickle to marry me. But, well, he did marry me, didn't he? So, I suppose that's Mrs. Malfoy to you, Parkinson—oh that's right, Miss Parkinson, you're not married yet, are you? Not even engaged. How horribly embarrassing for you. Perhaps you should lower whatever price you're demanding, since, well, no one seems to think you're worth it. But what would I know, anyhow? I only married Draco, but you're right, he didn't pay a sickle. But then again, at least I'm married."
"I'm not going to ruin my bloodline with—" Pansy started to rant, positively enraged.
"Tsk, tsk," Hermione taunted derisively, and took a page out of Narcissa Malfoy's handbook that she remembered hearing the older woman say. "There's no need to be up in arms about any of this. Wouldn't want to go throwing around vulgar and horribly common words, now would you? Just friendly conversation. After all, the Malfoys have been allies of the Parkinson family for generations."
Pansy's body went completely rigid, as though she were controlling herself by sheer force of will. Daphne's face was filled with mirth—at least the girl was an equal opportunist when it came to enjoying other people's pain.
Draco's smile was sinful as he watched the scene unfold from his seat in front of the warm hearth. She'd learn, he smiled to himself. She'd learn.
Monday came hard and fast, and Hermione was itching to know what had gone on at the Wizengamot meeting on Saturday, but Draco had yet to share.
She knew he would eventually because he'd started tracing her back with his fingers when he thought she was asleep. It was a good sign; well, as good as any sign could get between them.
That morning, they shared DADA along with a healthy mix of Gryffindor, Slytherin, and a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. The class started as normally as any class could with a notoriously suspected Death Eater teaching it.
That was until Amycus Carrow did the unexpected, and unthinkable—he stopped prowling around the classroom like a panther searching for its next food, and stared at them hard.
It reminded Hermione of Barty Crouch Jr. when he'd been impersonating Mad Eye Moody. It was unsettling, but in in a good way—in that way that everyone thought they just might learn something.
"Let's talk for a moment, yeah?" Amycus leaned against his desk at the front of class, and looked at everyone. It wasn't until this very moment that Hermione realized that he had the darkest blue eyes that she'd ever seen. His eyes looked like the ocean, and she had to look away. If it weren't for his psychosis, he'd almost be handsome.
Harry and Ron shared an ominous look, much like Blaise and Draco across the room.
"What do any of you really know about the Dark Arts?"
Everyone was sure that it was a trick question, but no one would dare call him on it. No one wanted to be today's punching bag.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Amycus called on Hermione—the first time this semester. It was as though everyone had held their breath, it was so still in the classroom. Draco's knuckles were turning white from his grip on the table in front of him.
"Easy, mate," Blaise whispered to Draco, but Draco knew that if Amycus made one wrong move, he'd lose it. No one touched what was his. No one.
"You've got a voice, girl!" Amycus pushed when Hermione said nothing. His voice boomed like a metal ruler hitting the top of a wooden desk. "What do you know about the Dark Arts?!"
"The Dark Arts taint the soul," Hermione spoke slowly. She wasn't sure what kind of answer he was looking for, and he wasn't the type of teacher that she could simply ask.
"Yes, yes," Amycus sneered. "The Dark Arts, doom and gloom, we get it. Don't you have a brain, girl? Stop regurgitating what those fools have taught all of you. What do you really know about the Dark Arts?"
He pierced her with a gaze so intense that Hermione was afraid that she'd go up in flames if he stared any longer. That or disappear from the force of his will.
Draco didn't like the attention Amycus was giving Hermione any more than she did.
"She doesn't know anything about the Dark Arts, Professor," Draco mocked Amycus' position with a twist of his lips, and a hard gaze.
"Yes, yes," Amycus ignored the dig. He wouldn't be cowed by little Draco Malfoy who wasn't so little anymore. "But why wouldn't she know anything about the Dark Arts?"
He looked around at the class, and very timidly a few hands were raised. Everyone knew things were bad when even the Slytherins hesitated in talking in DADA.
"She doesn't know anything about it because she's never tried it before," Vincent Crabbe said. It was a valid answer, and apparently just the one Amycus had been waiting for.
"Exactly!" Amycus boomed. "What can anyone know about the Dark Arts if they've never tried it before? I mean, really, tried it—tried to feel it."
Everyone could see it coming, like a crashing plane, but no one could move away from its path. Everyone was stuck to their seats.
"So," he continued. "I want everyone to pair up. Today, you'll be practicing the torture curse. Crucio!"
"On each other?"
"But how are we supposed to cast it?"
"Isn't it illegal?"
People were speaking over each other, disturbed and heartbroken at the thought of having to perform such a curse themselves. But Hermione could only look at Draco.
Draco only had eyes for Hermione.
If anyone would cast the curse on either of them, it'd be each other. Yeah, they could do it. They hated each other enough for it.
"Silence!" Amycus shouted, a manic gleam entering his eyes. Silence descended upon the room, everyone aware of what would come if they didn't heed the warning in his stare. "Why don't we have one of your peers explain it? Nott perhaps? Or maybe Malfoy? Yes, yes, Mister Malfoy! Tell the class how to cast crucio."
Everyone looked at Draco, wonder and disgust mixing. Some couldn't believe he'd ever cast it. Others could see it too clearly, because they saw him only as a monster.
"The curse isn't about any specific movement," Draco began, his voice solid and secure in a world that was slowly crumbling around them. No one wanted to do this. Please, Hermione pleaded silently. Do something. But he wouldn't. He knew he wouldn't. Deal with it, he had told her, and this fell into that category. They all had their crosses to bear, and this wouldn't be one of his. "All of the unforgivables are about intent. You have to want to hurt someone. You have to want to make them feel excruciating pain. You have to desire their screams. Anything less than that, and you might as well tickle them for all the pain they'd feel."
Amycus had been nodding the entire time. Harry had been looking at his desk, remembering when he'd tried it on Bellatrix—it hadn't lasted long, but it had worked. It had worked, which meant that he might not be so different from Draco Malfoy after all.
Ron and the rest of the class were captivated.
Time didn't exist. They didn't exist. Only the Dark Arts. Only the image of crucio.
But then…
"Why don't we have a volunteer," Amycus leered, his gaze intent on Hermione. "Come Mrs. Malfoy."
Hermione couldn't move. She couldn't.
She was back at the Death Eater meeting, right before the Revel. She was surrounded by shadows and fear. Move. Run. Do something. But she couldn't. She couldn't. She was too afraid.
"Come Mrs. Malfoy," Voldermort had said smoothly.
Tears came unbidden to her eyes, and she shut them tight. She was brave. Braver than this. Remember who you are, but right now all she could be was that scared girl who had knelt before the Dark Lord.
Am I not merciful? Am I not kind?
This wasn't real, this wasn't real, but it felt so real. It felt too real. She just wanted to go home. Just want to go home. But this wasn't real. Remember who you are.
Draco saw her shut her eyes, as though the world could disappear if she didn't see it. His heart clenched tightly, suffocating him, crushing him from the inside.
She was so fucking scared, and she was his. No one had the right to make Hermione afraid—he remembered when he had promised to protect her.
But how could he protect her when he was the monster? How could he play the hero and the beast?
Screams.
Please, no!
Help!
Don't do this! I'm begging you!
Blood. So much blood.
Draco felt as though he were back in a Death Eater meeting, being tested and tested over and over again until he couldn't move. Over his dead body.
"Mrs. Malfoy—"
"Get the hell away from her!" Draco roared as his body sprung to action. He had been immobile before, stuck as though his limbs had forgotten to move.
But not anymore.
Never again.
Draco's fists quacked, he was so incensed, as he stormed over to Hermione's seat. She hadn't opened her eyes, and he didn't give a damn either way.
That was his wife. His wife, and he didn't care how horribly they treated each other or how sweetly and terribly they clashed. She was his wife, and that mattered. That meant something to him, something he had yet to admit even to himself.
"Now, now, Malfoy," Amycus purred with a mischievous grin. They weren't in a classroom anymore, not anymore. This wasn't a Professor and his student pitted against each other. This was two Death Eaters facing off. "Wouldn't want to play with the big dogs, would you? I heard you were crying like an ickle baby the last time Our Lord punished you."
But fuck if Draco Malfoy wasn't a goddamn great Death Eater now.
"Talk a big game, Carrow," Draco felt the coolness of his wand slip into his hand from his wrist wand-holder he'd taken to wearing. Magic, so energetic, so raw, flowed into his being. Yeah, he could do this. This if nothing else, he could do, because the world would sink to the bottom of the ocean before he let anyone touch a hair on Hermione's head. He'd made a promise. De magia et fides—on my magic and my honor. "But I don't see your little twin around to protect you. What? Finally got tired of all the incest? Left you for Avery did she? Frankly, I'm not surprised."
He taunted Amycus with the same ease he always hit Hermione right where it hurt. Finding weaknesses was a specialty of Draco's and it was supremely useful when it came to dealing with others in the Death Eater ranks.
Amycus seethed, and it was a sight to behold. Unfortunately, it was also horrifically terrifying, and suddenly most of the class sprang into action and moved out of the way, lining the walls of the classroom. No one wanted to leave and miss the spectacle, but no one wanted to get hurt either.
Neville positioned himself far enough from the problem so as to not be a target, and close enough that he could help his friends if they needed him. That was the beauty of Neville Longbottom: he just wanted to help protect those he cared about, no hidden agendas necessary, no other worries on his mind.
Blaise smoothly moved next to Neville, prepared to help Draco if it came to it. Blaise and Draco, though complete opposites on many accounts, loved each other in a way only best friends, brothers, could. It was a quiet love that neither ever spoke about because they'd picked up along the road to growing up that men just didn't talk about those types of things. It was a quiet, unmovable love that kept his feet firmly planted next to Neville though every fiber in his being was itching and begging him to run, even as his mind wandered; he tried to draw some sort of comfort from one of his most cherished memories…
"I'm a dragon!" seven-year-old Draco had said pompously, his chest puffed up like a peacock.
"Well, my mother says I'm a Prince!" little Blaise had responded, trying to one-up his friend. Theo had stood solemnly, and torn, looking from one to the other.
Lucius Malfoy along with his wife walked towards the children imperiously. They'd been the perfect image of poise, elegance, and power. They were everything that Draco, Blaise, and Theo were trying to be at the tender age of seven.
"How are you boys getting along?" Lady Malfoy asked, a beautifully tender smile gracing her face. Few saw this image of her—the loving parent and friend. Most only saw the typical icy Pureblood mask.
"Well," Theo said slowly, trying to figure out a way to explain the strange situation they'd found themselves in. "Draco's a Dragon, Blaise is a Prince, and I don't know what I am."
Draco and Blaise nodded as though they'd planned the answer and Theo had nailed it perfectly. Narcissa's eyes filled with mirth, and Lucius chuckled throatily, his hair glimmering like sunshine and grace. He was the master of his home, king of his domain, and it showed in every movement; it showed in the lines of his face.
Lucius knelt on bended knee in front of the boys and motioned for them to come in closer. When they did, he cleared his face of all laughter. His voice had been somber, and his eyes intense when he'd said, "Yes. Draco is a dragon, and Blaise a Prince, but you Theo, you are special, too. You're a Protector. You're the guard that protects the Dragon and the Prince, seeing how you always take the blame for any mischief gone wrong…Remember that boys," he made sure to make eye contact with each one. "Remember that you are each important—special—to each other."
Lucius stood up, and offered his arm to Narcissa. She gracefully took it, and together they had walked away, with the echoes of the three boys bouncing off the walls.
"Told you I was a Dragon!"
"Yea, well, I'm a prince—Uncle Lucius said so!"
"Hey, don't forget about me! I'm a protector!"
The memory was back in a time of peace, when he'd known unequivocally what his place in the world was, and that his godfather, Lucius Malfoy, could fix anything, would come running if any of them needed him.
But that was then. Now, things were different. Too different.
Blaise turned and caught Theo's eyes; he saw what neither wanted to admit—that somehow they'd grown apart, and, today, fear ruled Theo, and Blaise would have to take the mantle of protector. It was terrifying.
Theo, though in the room, stood safely with the other students. If it were any other situation, he'd be right there next to Potter and Blaise backing Draco up. But this wasn't any other situation. He wasn't a Gryffindor, and he didn't boast any Gryffindor tendencies. Self-preservation was key, and he wasn't about to throw himself into the arena when he had too many reasons to stay out of it. The Notts were already in disfavor with the Dark Lord. Theo couldn't afford to be seen as siding with the Malfoys in Death Eater politics. Theo had seen enough to learn that Malfoys always landed on their feet, whether or not anyone helped them. Unfortunately, Notts weren't born with that kind of luck.
On the other hand, Harry and Ron stood, stiffly holding themselves and their wands in case they had to start fighting. Harry had been fully prepared to step in and defend Hermione, Ron too, but Draco had beaten them to it, and now Harry stood, wand ready, but mouth still open slightly in shock at the idea that Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, was openly standing up to another Death Eater on behalf of his Muggle-born wife. Harry knew he shouldn't be so surprised; Malfoy excelled at doing the unexpected, being unexpected.
Ron wasn't staggered at all; Purebloods defended their own, no matter what, and despite how much Ron wished it wasn't so, Hermione was Malfoy's.
They weren't on Draco's side, but Draco was on Hermione's side, so they'd jump into the fray if they needed to. They'd defend Draco, only because they'd be defending Hermione by default.
Didn't mean that Ron didn't glare at both Death Eaters. Bile rose up in his mouth at the knowledge that this was what he'd come to—without Hermione, and defending the Death Eater who stole her from him.
Didn't mean that Harry didn't wonder what Malfoys were made of—truly made of. But Hermione was a Malfoy now, too. He refused to believe that whatever Draco was made of, whatever his heart and soul were made of, that Hermione's were made the same.
Instead, he kept his emerald eyes on the situation at hand, a constant vigil on the magic in the air; it was a trick that Dumbledore had imparted to him the year before—if there was a surge of magical force in the air suddenly, then someone was about to cast a spell, charm, hex, or curse. It was just the way magic worked.
He wasn't great at keeping track of the magic around him, at the way it moved and flowed, but he could feel it. He always felt it acutely. It was Voldemort in him. The part of him that couldn't escape Voldemort, try as he might.
Suddenly Amycus laughed, a brutal laugh that cracked and spiked oddly. He shook his shoulders as though he were about to begin the best dance in the history of mankind…or the dance that would save his life, because if he made one move towards Hermione, Draco would kill him.
He would. He would kill him, and he didn't care who was watching.
Draco came from an Ancient and Most Noble House; if the Ministry hadn't torn down the doors of his Manor when his father had escaped Azkaban, they wouldn't throw him in jail for killing a suspected Death Eater. His army of lawyers would make sure of it, even if his name and position didn't.
Nonetheless, Hermione didn't move at Amycus' loud and irritating laughter, but her eyes snapped open. Remember who you are.
This wasn't Voldemort. She wasn't there. Not anymore. Not for weeks. But it was like her body couldn't understand what she knew to be true. She felt her magic bubble to the surface, craning for that touch of darkness. Her temples had started to sweat, heart beating furiously.
Fear was a cruel master, and it dominated her well. Too well.
They would have to talk about that, find a way to fix that, but not now. Not today. There was a time and place for everything, but this wasn't it.
Draco spared her a glance, and in that instant she was grounded. Like a rope that had been stretched too far, and now released, Hermione slowly regained her bearing.
He did that for her. He brought her down to Earth.
She wasn't grateful, and he didn't need her to be. That wasn't who they were, and it likely never would be. She was fire, he was ice, and together—together they made the perfect blade. That was who they were, and it was more comforting, better, than any gratitude on her part could ever be.
"Malfoy," she whispered nervously. Now that she was back in the present, she took stock of the situation and she desperately didn't want this to get out of hand. "Malfoy," she pushed.
"Shut up, Granger," he snapped.
"Aw, guess the Mudblood keeps a short leash, huh?"
Amycus was readying himself. Draco could see it. Hermione, Harry, Ron, Neville, and Blaise could see it too. Harry, Ron, and Neville prepared themselves to fight. Blaise prepared himself to be prepared to fight. Theo in the back of the room prepared himself to slink away and out the door.
Hermione didn't know how to prepare herself to do something. It was like she'd forgotten whether or not she was the warrior in the room or the damsel in distress.
But she prided herself on being strong.
She was strong. She was. But she knew that Draco wouldn't want her fighting his battles. She knew he wouldn't appreciate her help, her intrusion. Instead, she prepared herself to apply as many healing charms as she could when this standoff was over.
Draco didn't need to prepare. After being trained by Bellatrix Lestrange herself, he'd earned his place among the ranks. After he'd taken the mark, he'd shown the depths of depravity to which he'd sink.
His heart slowed. The air around him caressed his skin softly. The frantic whispering faded into the distance.
He smiled.
Crucio. Dodge.
Confringo. Block.
Expulso! Expulso! Expulso! Dodge. Dodge. Block.
Praefoco. Block.
"Fight me!" Amycus thundered. But Draco only continued to smile.
The first lesson Bellatrix had taught Draco was that wars, battles, were fought mentally first. Once he could get into the head of his enemy, he'd already won. The second lesson was that the worst thing that he could be was predictable. Sadly, Amycus was extremely predictable. The man had an almost pathological attachment to suffocation and torture, which meant that he'd always throw about crucio and praefoco.
Crucio! Crucio! Dodge. Dodge.
Hermione could only watch in stunned silence. This wasn't her husband. This couldn't be. The Draco Malfoy she knew was a sniveling prat that cried foul at every turn and wouldn't even meet Harry for a proper duel.
The Malfoy she knew cried in a bathroom, and hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore.
But he hadn't been that guy for a long time.
She needed to remember that.
She kept forgetting. She kept forgetting, and it was a very dangerous thing to do because the calculated and strong, so strong, soldier fighting against Amycus wasn't sniveling, crying foul, crying at all, and had killed plenty of times.
"Fight me! Fight me!" Amycus shouted crazily, and in that instant when he'd been yelling, tired of playing cat and mouse with Draco, Draco struck with the precision of someone who'd cast the curse a thousand times.
All that was heard was a "Crucio" as soft as a gentle breeze from Draco's lips, and Amycus' screams bouncing off the walls.
His screams were like honey, and Draco let his shoulders, which had been so tense before, relax.
Yes, yes. Scream. Scream for me.
Draco's crucio didn't falter. It didn't waver in the slightest. He didn't need a mask or cloak. Being a Death Eater was so much more than a brand on his forearm. It was ensnared into the very essence of who he was now, and though he was disgusted at the pleasure he felt at causing someone so much pain…he felt that pleasure fully, without restraint.
Fuck, yes. More.
Sixty seconds were excruciatingly long when someone was screaming. It was too long.
Please stop, Hermione wanted to shout, but the words were stuck in her throat. Her tongue felt like it was made of heartbreak and sorrow—mouth too full of it to utter anything at all.
Most couldn't look. Many turned away with tears in their eyes, their figures trembling with so much emotion and fear. It didn't matter that Amycus would have done the same to one of them if given the chance. All that mattered were his screams, so raw, so powerful in their pain.
When Draco finally lifted the curse, Amycus' gasping, near breathless chuckle rippled and cracked as he slowly sat up from where his body had only moment ago thrashed on the floor.
"That's a real crucio, class. Only a true Dark Wizard could cast something like that," he rasped, a dark smile upon his quivering lips, a dangerously satisfied glint in his eyes.
Draco's smile disappeared. The moment of euphoria evaporated. Hermione's gaze burned him, branded itself underneath his skin. His stomach felt like it was made of lead.
Carrow had won.
Draco might have won the fight, but Carrow had still won the dance.
"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Hermione practically attacked him as soon as he walked into the sanctity of their living quarters. "Are you absolutely mad? Or only slightly to attack a Professor?!"
"I'm not really in the mood to go ten rounds with you, Granger."
"I'm not your emotional punching bag!" Hermione shouted, her voice full of raw emotion. "Or your demented excuse to do horrible things! I'm not yours. Not like this. Not like we've been."
"Look me in the eye and tell me that you hate me for how I treat you," Draco walked to the tiny bar he'd had one of the house elves set up. She'd been furious when she saw it, but she couldn't help but note that whenever he had a drink, it took the edge off of his anger and bitterness. She'd been less angry after that. "Tell me you hate me for doing what your Weasel hadn't done. For doing exactly as I say I'm going to do. Go ahead, Granger. Tell me."
"I hate you," Hermione said firmly. She meant it too. At least, she meant it now, in this moment that was so fleeting.
She always meant it, until she didn't.
"That's perfect," Draco barked out a dry humorless laugh. "Well, at least you'll be among good company with all the other Pureblood society wives. Didn't take long for you to fit right in, did it?"
"That's not what I want for us!" She cried out. She didn't walk towards him, and he didn't try to bridge the space, the gap between them. "That's not what you should want for us, either."
He didn't reply, and she couldn't stay quiet. This needed to be said. Something had to give. Anything, really.
"My parents have always loved me deeply," Draco sighed with stormy eyes. "They might not be the best parents a bloke could ask for, but they love me. In their own ways they love me. But I don't think they ever truly loved each other. Not the way we like to think about love, anyway. They—it's hard for us. Malfoys. Blacks. To love. We don't do it well. I don't do it well. Fuck, Pansy's proof of that if nothing else."
"You loved Pansy?"
"Thought I did, or at least I thought I could. But I don't know how to love, Granger. It's not something I ever learned."
"It's never too late to learn…"
"Don't patronize me, Granger," he stared icily. "You don't learn how to love. If that were the case, then Dumbledore would've taught the Dark Lord when he was at Hogwarts for seven years."
"What do you want from me, then?" Hermione said harshly. They were toe to toe in this moment, neither willing to budge. "You can't just pull me closer when you feel like it and then shove me away, Malfoy! That's not how relationships work! That's not how love works."
"I don't love you."
She knew it was true, but it still irrationally hurt to hear it.
"This isn't about that and you know it!" Hermione said savagely. "You crucio'd someone, a professor no less, in front of an entire classroom of people. You think they aren't going to write to their parents about it? You think they won't mention that when they go home for Christmas? You could be behind bars before the week is through!"
"Can't be that unforgiveable if the fucker's asking students to perform it in class," he reasoned but Hermione simply pursed her lips, unconvinced. He rolled his eyes and scoffed nonchalantly, but it was a mask. He knew it, and so did she. "Relax, Granger. No one's arresting me. A lot's changed in a year—back at the end of fifth year, sure, but now? Now, if aurors want to come at me, they'll need a helluva lot more than a crucio in class."
He leveled his steady gaze on her, watching for something he couldn't recognize in her eyes. He remembered how she always dug her nails into his skin when they fell in each other, and refused to let him go. He remembered how wonderfully she made him bleed, made him feel everything, good and bad.
He knew how easily hate turned into passion.
Hate towards her, towards Voldemort, even towards himself. It all meshed together in a ball of incomprehensible fury, until all he could do is expel it. Somehow. Someway. Through her. Always through her, and he could almost love her for letting him.
Almost.
But not today. Not now. Not when she couldn't accept who he truly was. Not when he wasn't sure he even wanted her to.
"I'm not a good guy," Draco whispered hauntingly. "I'm not a good guy, and I told you that. I told you that I'd never be a good guy. But you didn't believe me. You and your Gryffindor fucking thoughts convinced yourself that somewhere deep down I'm hiding a heart of gold. But I'm not. I'm not and that'll never change."
"I don't need you to be a good guy," Hermione rebutted with a shake of her head. But they both knew she was lying. Neither bothered to confront it, too tired and too recklessly wishing that things could be different. "But you have to reign it in—get it together. Get it together because both of our lives are riding on you, Malfoy. You're not alone any more, and you need to accept that."
"I'm not the one who has problems accepting herself," Draco glared. His fingers tightened on the glass, a sure sign that he was irritated. "You think I didn't notice that little episode you had during DADA? Yeah, guess you're not so perfect after all."
"I've never claimed to be perfect! But I'm not here to be your punching bag, Malfoy. And when you hurt people, even Professor Carrow, in my name—when you use unforgivables in my name, it hurts. It hurts me, you know it does, but you don't care. You do it anyway. You did it anyway, today, and that's not okay."
"Get off your high horse, princess," Draco took a gulp of his brandy, and sneered with a roll of his eyes. He was so tired of Hermione's good auror-bad auror attitude that he could scream. "You think you treat me any better? Constantly comparing me to Saint Potter—don't even try to deny it—constantly wishing that I'd suddenly wake up and be a different man than the one you married? What happened, Granger? Surprised that people don't fucking change? You think I haven't noticed that you like to make me bleed? Thought I'd ignore the fact that every chance you get you draw blood? Yeah, I'm the bad guy here but fuck you and that high horse you rode in on because from where I'm standing you treat me just as bad!"
They were at an impasse.
They both knew it.
It might never change, either.
But he didn't want to wake up for the next thirty years, look into her eyes, and see scorn. He didn't want that to be the rest of his life. But he wasn't sure how to come back from all that they were, all that they've always been really.
"You said you'd cherish me," Hermione looked away. She didn't want to seem weak. She didn't want to seem needy, but the words tumbled out of her without restraint. She was too tired for games. She was too tired for pretenses, though everything with him was like one endless boxing match. "You said you'd adore me, and I hate you because I believed you. I believed you! I thought—I thought—"
Draco sipped at his drink, coolly observing her, but underneath it all he was withering because he wanted to. He wanted to cherish her. He wanted to adore her. He wanted to hold her up to the sky and bathe her in all the rays the magnificent sun has to offer, because she was the light. She was the light in this forever darkness.
But he didn't know how. He didn't know how.
Merlin, don't let me ruin her. But he knew it was already too late. It'd been too late the first time his lips had pressed themselves against hers, so painfully sweet.
"If you'd stop fighting me for one second, you'd see that I'm not just yours," she stood and walked over to him as though she were approaching a wounded and nearly rabid animal. Perhaps she was. She stopped in front of him, and let him see her heart. "We belong to each other."
These words weren't said in a haze of lust; they were strong and firm. Truth, even when it was scary.
We belong to each other.
Warriors have brought down kingdoms with the strength of their fists; Hermione Granger only needed the truth, and enough bravery to say it.
"Fuck, you really are a Gryffindor," Draco groaned out as though he were being tortured. He swallowed the rest of his drink in one full sweep, carelessly sat the glass back on the bar, and cupped her face with both hands. "But I'm not, Granger. I'm not."
His lips descended on hers like hellhounds on a soul.
It was the nectar of heaven, and Hermione was as spellbound as always, but there was something different—desperate—about his kiss that made her want to savor it.
But she couldn't. This wasn't them. Not really. Not if she wanted to be his equal, and not just his wife. But she couldn't stop either. Like magic of the best kind, he moaned into her mouth, and Hermione was lost.
They were hands, teeth, deep, and rough. Their clothes were inconveniences that he evanesco'd away like an irritating bug. Their bodies collided with the bed that would tell stories of the most intimate kind if it could talk.
They attacked each other with hisses and moans, constantly a second away from breaking. From growing. From spinning out of control.
But they'd never been in control, had they? Not when, unbidden, Hermione whispered "I love you" frantically just because she knew Draco liked to hear it. Not when Draco told her to "scratch me harder" as he groaned his passion just because he knew she liked to make him bleed.
Every nerve in Hermione's body was quaking. She wanted to drown in Draco's arms. She could feel that he wanted to drown in hers too, convinced somewhere that if only he drove into her deeper, harder, that he could find some sort of communion.
Draco, somewhere between the fights and the apathy that changed shape like a caterpillar transformed into a butterfly, convinced himself that that Hermione could make his soul right, if only he could make her happy.
With his blood, his passion, his ferocity in everything, he tried. He tried with his lips because this was the only way he thought he truly could make her happy.
Finally, finally, as they climbed down from the ladder of infiniteness, she understood what he'd known all along: they didn't make love when their bodies merged in heat and life, they made madness.
They made madness; Hermione sat up as she watched as Draco stood, retrieved his glass, added two more fingers of scotch, and took a gulp from it—yeah, they made madness, and there was nothing on this Earth like it.
Who needed to make love, when making madness felt so much more everlasting? When in the middle of the day, she could still feel him imbedded inside of her, under her skin, stamped onto her very soul.
But his profile was too somber for a man who'd clung to euphoria until Hermione had been twitching and mewling keenly. His shoulders were too tense for a man that had whispered, "don't let me go, Granger" and "fuck, never gonna let you go." His mouth was too downtrodden for a man who hadn't had to urge her to say "I love you" ardently this time around while in the throes of desire.
"What's wrong?" she kissed him with her eyes. "Really?"
He turned back to her, eyes cloudy like a tornado from lust and resignation. He walked back to the bed and sat next to her, left leg crossed over his right knee at the ankle, one hand gripping his glass of scotch like a lifeline, the other raising to touch her face.
"The new Supreme Mugwump is trying…" Draco hesitated, his thumb brushing her cheek lightly. Her stomach fluttered deliciously, like it used to with Ron, and Victor. Innocently. He didn't want to hurt her, not like this. Not when it was out of his control. But she was strong, he knew. She'd have to be, to live the rest of her life as a Malfoy. "He's pushing a Muggle-born Registration Law through the Wizengamot court."
"What?"
"It hasn't passed yet," he tried to console her.
"What does that even entail? You're not going to be for it, are you?"
His hand dropped. They could feel the gulf between them enlarging as they breathed.
"It entails various things, only one of which is Muggle-born witches and wizards having to fill out a sheet declaring themselves to the ministry as Muggle-born."
"Are you going to be for it?" Hermione pushed. This was one question Draco wouldn't be able to sidestep. His silence was enough. "You monster!"
"I can't be against it, Granger," Draco reasoned, as he grasped her firmly by the forearms while she struggled to push him away, glass of liquor forgotten as it fell from his hand to the floor. "How would that look, one of the Dark Lord's own voting against the law?"
"How could you?" she screamed at him. Tears flooded her eyes, but she hated him in this moment too much to let him see her cry. "How could you? Are you so heartless that this crime would sit so easy with you? Do you even know where this leads? Because it might start with a simple registration law that looks harmless, but it'll end in genocide. You know this is just a way to track all the muggle-borns in Great Britain."
"Pick your battles, Granger," Draco growled, face red over the exertion of trying to tame her. But man never could tame lions. Surprisingly, neither could Dragons that burned everything in their path. "You would have me fight against the law, but to what end? What end, Granger? Because the Supreme Mugwump is pushing this through—very few people on the Wizengamot are going to go against it once he's done blackmailing, and bribing."
"The Light side has supporters—"
"Yes," Draco interrupted with a sever scowl, and a deep sadness in his heart for being the one to trample over her idealism. "The Light might have supporters, but they're not infallible. They are as human as you and I, and they can be blackmailed and bribed like anyone else. The ideologies of some, bloody hell, maybe most, may lie with the Order, but just because they believe in a cause doesn't mean they're willing to risk their families for it. Everyone remembers all the families that went missing—just disappeared—in the middle of the night during the first war...I won't let that be us."
Somewhere in the middle of his diatribe, Hermione had calmed down enough to stop shoving at him. But her eyes still shined suspiciously.
It tore at him. She tore at him, viciously.
"I'll do what I can, Granger," Draco promised. "I'll always do what I can."
She nodded stiffly, "Please let me go."
"Anything but that," he denied her seriously. He meant it physically, but he also meant it in every way possible. Hermione could hear the layered meaning in the severity of his voice.
"Please," Hermione pleaded as the tears started to fall. Her heart felt heavy, broken, in this world that had once held so much promise. Please: she was begging him for so many things that she knew he would never be and never give her.
"I can't," Draco admitted huskily as he drew her into a rough embrace. It was an admission of the worst kind. Or maybe of the best kind because Hermione couldn't help but let out a choked sob filled with empathy—she knew how he felt because she felt it too. "I can't let you go, not anymore. So don't ask impossible things of me."
Don't ask impossible things of me.
But they both knew she would. It was just a matter of time.
A.N – Soo, intense right? What do you guys think? Love it? Hate it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love**