Disclaimer as for other chapters. I'm sick of Draco's suffering, so this is the last chapter in which he will be the focus. Thank god.
Flashback - What Hermione did to Draco.
I dreamt of Hermione last night.
I dreamt of her touch on my throat, the first warning I had that things were not right. I could almost smell the flowers and fresh cut grass that surrounded the ministry car as I stepped out of it. In my dream I saw the shapeless bundle beside the door resolve itself into a cloaked assasin, who smiled at me with such vermilion lips. In my dream, I was rooted to the ground as she advanced on me, I cowered back against the car, the symbol of my master's supremacy, and it was weak and shaking against my back. She stood in front of me, her lips still curved into that smile that promised such a little death, such an eagerly awaited death. Such a death that I would pant and moan for. Then her lips were on my throat, in that tender spot where the right touch causes oblivion. I fell, and fell, and kept falling....
I dreamt of Hermione last night.
I dreamt of her voice in my ear as I awoke in the cell, smooth with silken control, rich with secrets, drifting like woodsmoke over my slowly awakening nerve endings. In this dream she wears her mask, the mask of the assasin, so all I can see is her mouth, still so sinfully red, still reminding me, somehow, of blood and wine, and its so, so, painfully apt as I feel the stretch on my arms outstretched, torn on a cross of chain and leather. I can only hear her whisper, her soft low whisper... and my mind breaks under the words, under her tone, so gentle and warm: 'You look pretty good for a dead man.'
I dreamt of Hermione last night.
I dreamt of her hand on my arm, on the soft, tender flesh of my inner elbow. Her hand is hard, not like her soft, sweet voice. Her hand has calluses from the blade. Her hand has scars from the blade. Her hand has the memory of death from the blade, and I can feel it sinking into my skin. All the blood she has spilt sinks into my skin, and in the dream I can see it running through me, over me, I can see it streaking my skin, I can see it trickling from the corner of her mouth in a seductive ribbon. She extends her tongue to lick it away, and her tongue is a blade. I turn my face away, but the screen is on the other side, and I can see the images of my body washed with blood there too. I close my eyes, but she croons in my ear, her voice as shiny and clean as the knife, her mouth as soft and wanton as the blood. I twist and turn under her hands, as far as the restraints will let me, but she will not let me go, her hands hard on my body still slick with blood, and I tilt my head back onto her shoulder and listen to that voice, let it cleave me from my safe haven of denial, let it slice me how it wants to, let it dig into my brain... And I see my brain laid bare in front of me, with Hermione sliding through it with delicate abandon, her fingers so skilled and so slick with blood, her tongue such shiny steel as it laps against my mind, disecting it with such care. She looks in my eyes as she digs through my disembodied brain with her fingers and her tongue, and I see such greed there. She whispers endearments around the whorls of grey, and I hear the last one quiver on her tongue: 'You taste so good.'
I dreamt of Hermione last night.
I dreamt of the last time I saw her, the time she broke me, the time I wept and screamed and begged and broke and rushed out all the secrets I had in a pleading little heap. In the dream I watch from outside myself and flush with shame that I couldn't even break properly, couldn't even give up the dignity of silence with my pride intact. I shake and sob, and she watches me with unfathomable eyes, her cloak of black standing tall and proud and untouched by my pleas. This time, this one time, she does not speak, just looks at me. She just looks at me. I watch from outside myself as she lets me spill everything I know, everything I think, everything I damn well dream, and I see her mouth, that amoral, scarlet mouth, that mouth that promised such carnal delights, I see it smile with secrets at another defloration.
When will I be able to look at Hermione without seeing that mouth?
Flashback - What Hermione did to Draco.
I dreamt of Hermione last night.
I dreamt of her touch on my throat, the first warning I had that things were not right. I could almost smell the flowers and fresh cut grass that surrounded the ministry car as I stepped out of it. In my dream I saw the shapeless bundle beside the door resolve itself into a cloaked assasin, who smiled at me with such vermilion lips. In my dream, I was rooted to the ground as she advanced on me, I cowered back against the car, the symbol of my master's supremacy, and it was weak and shaking against my back. She stood in front of me, her lips still curved into that smile that promised such a little death, such an eagerly awaited death. Such a death that I would pant and moan for. Then her lips were on my throat, in that tender spot where the right touch causes oblivion. I fell, and fell, and kept falling....
I dreamt of Hermione last night.
I dreamt of her voice in my ear as I awoke in the cell, smooth with silken control, rich with secrets, drifting like woodsmoke over my slowly awakening nerve endings. In this dream she wears her mask, the mask of the assasin, so all I can see is her mouth, still so sinfully red, still reminding me, somehow, of blood and wine, and its so, so, painfully apt as I feel the stretch on my arms outstretched, torn on a cross of chain and leather. I can only hear her whisper, her soft low whisper... and my mind breaks under the words, under her tone, so gentle and warm: 'You look pretty good for a dead man.'
I dreamt of Hermione last night.
I dreamt of her hand on my arm, on the soft, tender flesh of my inner elbow. Her hand is hard, not like her soft, sweet voice. Her hand has calluses from the blade. Her hand has scars from the blade. Her hand has the memory of death from the blade, and I can feel it sinking into my skin. All the blood she has spilt sinks into my skin, and in the dream I can see it running through me, over me, I can see it streaking my skin, I can see it trickling from the corner of her mouth in a seductive ribbon. She extends her tongue to lick it away, and her tongue is a blade. I turn my face away, but the screen is on the other side, and I can see the images of my body washed with blood there too. I close my eyes, but she croons in my ear, her voice as shiny and clean as the knife, her mouth as soft and wanton as the blood. I twist and turn under her hands, as far as the restraints will let me, but she will not let me go, her hands hard on my body still slick with blood, and I tilt my head back onto her shoulder and listen to that voice, let it cleave me from my safe haven of denial, let it slice me how it wants to, let it dig into my brain... And I see my brain laid bare in front of me, with Hermione sliding through it with delicate abandon, her fingers so skilled and so slick with blood, her tongue such shiny steel as it laps against my mind, disecting it with such care. She looks in my eyes as she digs through my disembodied brain with her fingers and her tongue, and I see such greed there. She whispers endearments around the whorls of grey, and I hear the last one quiver on her tongue: 'You taste so good.'
I dreamt of Hermione last night.
I dreamt of the last time I saw her, the time she broke me, the time I wept and screamed and begged and broke and rushed out all the secrets I had in a pleading little heap. In the dream I watch from outside myself and flush with shame that I couldn't even break properly, couldn't even give up the dignity of silence with my pride intact. I shake and sob, and she watches me with unfathomable eyes, her cloak of black standing tall and proud and untouched by my pleas. This time, this one time, she does not speak, just looks at me. She just looks at me. I watch from outside myself as she lets me spill everything I know, everything I think, everything I damn well dream, and I see her mouth, that amoral, scarlet mouth, that mouth that promised such carnal delights, I see it smile with secrets at another defloration.
When will I be able to look at Hermione without seeing that mouth?