Well, hello there, Lovelies! x

Skyselisse… It's been… 84 years… - Yes, I know and I'm sorry!

After such a long time, inspiration has finally decided to visit me! So, yeah, I hope you like this one! :) I will be rating this story M for future chapters, I'll see where this story leads me.

Also, please note that English is not my native language, so there might be some minor mistakes here and there. Still, I hope you like it!

Enjoy your reading! x

Her broken-hearted Veela

Chapter I: Was his mind betraying him?

…

I didn't know I was alive in this world until I felt things hard enough to kill for them.

...

"Weasley, Weasley, Weasley... Did you really think you could hurt my mate and I'd let you get away with it?"

…

It was an old, small golden cup, with two finely-wrought handles and a badger engraved on the side. To a layperson, it was just that. An ancient dining utensil that had once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. Irrelevant, unimportant, nothing remarkable about it. But to The Brightest Witch of Her Age and Lord Voldemort, that cup meant much more than anyone could ever imagine.

To Lord Voldemort, it represented a part of his hidden soul, which he had been so foolishly, arrogantly certain would never be discovered. He had performed powerful enchantments to ensure that part of him would be protected for eternity, and being the mighty dark wizard that he was, it was impossible for anyone else to even touch it without getting harmed. – That overconfidence had been the biggest mistake he'd ever made; and he would find out soon enough that he was going to pay very dearly for it.

To Hermione, holding that Horcrux in her possession meant to be a step closer to the end of the Wizarding War. It would put a halt to the unnecessary bloodshed of innocent people, and it would bring peace. Peace she so desperately needed. She had been on a rollercoaster of emotions for the past few months, not knowing whether what she felt was love or hatred, and she was unbelievably tired, so excruciatingly exhausted. – Hermione Granger was determined to put an end to it. She'd had enough.

According to what she and Harry found out, Helga Hufflepuff's Cup had to be destroyed in the Chamber of Secrets with the fangs of the Basilisk. And so, she had gone. Alone.

At least, that was what she'd thought. That was what she'd hoped for.

The entrance to The Chamber of Secrets, that round door adorned with seven stone serpents, opened up once Hermione mimicked Parseltongue, a skill she'd sadly acquired listening to Harry's nightmares back in their tent. The long, dimly-lit, offishly dark-green hallway, was decorated with daunting open-mouthed snake heads along both sides, landing in ponds of water, only to end with the sight of a marble bust as high as the chamber itself, the ancient and monkeyish Statue of Slytherin.

Her every step echoed all around the room as she approached the piazza right before Salazar, loudly, proudly announcing that she, a Mudblood – and not the true heir of Slytherin –, had entered the Chamber, whilst she firmly held the fang of the Basilisk in her right hand, and the Cup in her left.

The closer she got to the end of the hallway, the more she felt dreadfully horrified. In the middle of the square, there lay what she first didn't quite recognise, like a cluster of thick sticks, badly covered by a sack made out of some sort of fabric. But with every step she took, it became evermore clear that she was seeing a human skeleton wearing a Gryffindor tunic.

On that robe, a single reddish hair.

Hermione's amber eyes widened in horror as she let the cup and the fang fall onto the cold, dirty floor. The echo of the golden cannikin was so loud it deafened her ears, but she never cared, as she let out nightmarish screams. After a minute, extreme nausea overwhelmed her, and she put both hands in front of her mouth, pressuring hard against her lips; trying to prevent her from vomiting, silencing her pained howls. Her legs trembled and she let herself fall onto her knees, her gaze never leaving the rotten corpse laying before her. She broke a cold sweat, as freezing shivers ran down her spine. – But she didn't shed a single tear. Not yet.

Behind her, she heard some steps. She didn't need to turn around to see it was her Veela, Draco Malfoy.

He knelt beside her and said nothing. He simply wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her slightly to him in a comforting motion. She let him. Even though she had very strong suspicions about what had happened, she let him. Because he was her Veela. Because he needed it, and even though she hated herself for admitting it, she needed it, too.

The silence was perturbing. The view was mortifying. The ambience was dreadful.

'But it needs to be done.' Hermione thought.

She managed to look at him, as she slid her hand into her pocket, pulling out a tiny flask, handing it out to him. Draco stared right back at her, knowing full well what the flask contained and what it meant. Obediently, he took the small container and drank the potion within it: Veritaserum.

Hermione's hand went up his cheek and lightly stroked it. Draco closed his eyes, leant into her hand and let out a purr, unbeknownst to him that would be the last time she'd caress him.

"Why?" She asked him in a whisper, her thumb going over his lips.

"He hurt you, so I hurt him."

She dreaded the following question, but she felt the morbid need to ask. That was the reason she'd given him the Veritaserum, after all. She needed that closure. She needed that peace.

"How?"

He gave his truthful answer, his intense, possessive gaze never leaving hers. She was crushed by absolute desolation and repulsion. And yet, there she was, leaning her face closer to his, feeling his warm breath on her lips. Hermione looked in his eyes before kissing him, they were still pitch black. They were still those pools she had lost herself into so many other times, trying to discover each and every one of his secrets.

"Mine." He murmured, as he closed the distance between them.

Their kiss was passionate and fiery. Their mouths open, their tongues intertwined. They were so close to each other that their teeth collided. She grabbed him by the hair and pulled tightly by the roots, earning a painful groan from him. He firmly gripped on her nape with one hand, drawing her even closer to him, whilst rubbing her cheek with his other thumb, roughly, hearing how she achingly moaned in response.

As the kiss came to an end, he heard her whisper.

"Veela," She called him, "I can't do this."

He knew where this conversation was headed, and he feared the worst.

"Hermione." he pleaded, "Are you saying you'd let me die?"

One tear ran down her cheek, as she looked him in the eye.

"You broke my heart, Draco. It's only fair I break yours."

…

Third year

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle had been laughing and joking around about Buckbeak's nigh execution when the Golden Trio appeared in the distance. Chuckling, Draco decided to give the Gryffindors what he would call 'a warm Slytherin welcome'. He spread his arms, smirked, and mockingly greeted them.

"Ah! Come to see the show!"

"You." A very angry Hermione flounced towards Draco, "You foul, loathsome, evil, little cockroach!"

As Granger, Saint Potter and the Weasel approached him, young Draco Malfoy couldn't help but closely observe how she walked. As she seemed to be quite enraged at that moment in time, her whole body exaggeratedly moved in sync with her emotions: The witch took long, rapid steps to get to him faster, leaving her two friends behind her back. Her arms flung around, as she clumsily tried to reach her wand from the pocket in her blue jeans. And her bushy, unruly curls bounced with every step she took, making it seem as if she had a lion's mane, ever the Gryffindor. – It unsettled him a little when he didn't find the sight to be distasteful, but rather appealing. There was something mysterious in the way she was moving that intrigued him, and he wondered what it was.

Malfoy lost his train of thought when, in one swift motion, the tip of her wand was on his chin, pinning him against the boulder wall behind him, threatening to stupefy him. Crabbe and Goyle stepped aside, afraid of what the furious Muggleborn could do to them, seeing that she was not afraid to hex them if she really intended to. There was such wrath in her eyes, such determination to curse him into oblivion, yet the blonde didn't understand why she was so displeased. That Hippogriff had attacked him, and not the other way around! Even though they disliked each other so strongly, Malfoy knew that Granger would be at least close to worried about his wellbeing, just as she had been concerned when said attack had happened. She had cried out for Hagrid to take him to the Hospital Wing, so why was she so eager to hurt him now? Something in him shrank at that thought. Why would she want to hurt him?

Luckily for Draco, Harry and Ron convinced Hermione not to hex the blonde. Even though her eyes were still filled with anger, the brunette seemed to calm down just about enough to decide against it. And so, as her wand slowly, reluctantly, went down, the Slytherin felt like he could breathe again. But as he was letting a long sigh of relief, almost celebrating with his friends that Granger didn't do anything, her hard fist met his nose, taking him by surprise. There was a loud crack, and he groaned in pain as his knees lost balance and he almost fell on the floor.

After the initial shock, and while Crabbe and Goyle were taking him away from the Gryffindors, Malfoy could have sworn he'd heard Granger say that punching him had felt good. And while part of him knew that he should feel outraged at the audacity of her remark, a little voice in his head told him otherwise.

'She touched me.' He thought, somewhat dumbfounded, 'She touched me and her touch felt good, indeed.'

Rubbing his broken nose, though it pained him, physically and emotionally, Draco found himself wanting more.

…

Fourth year

Draco had been pouring himself some pumpkin juice when, all of a sudden, everybody turned around and started whispering. Almost every student stood there in awe. He shortly wondered what the commotion was about, took a sip of his beverage and turned on his heels to see what was happening.

Suddenly, his breath fell short. His jaw dropped ever so slightly. His eyes were locked on her figure.

Hermione looked divine – like a goddess come down from heaven to grace everyone along her path. She held herself with so much charm and finesse, smiling at everyone in such a sweet, shy manner, whilst being confident in her own beauty; so differently than whenever she walked around the castle, holding her books to her chest for dear life, only minding her own thoughts. The floaty robes of her pale pink dress flowed elegantly with every step she took; as the material wrapped up her upper body elegantly accentuated her womanly curves. Only a couple of brown, defined curls fell down her shoulders like timid, honeyed waterfalls, as they ventured out of her pinned-up hairstyle.

And her face, oh, her face.

Her skin looked radiant, smooth and silky; her minimalistic approach to make-up highlighted her lovely features ever so elegantly: She wore a coral shade of blush, it looked so natural it seemed almost undistinguishable to the naked eye, as her charming freckles peeked through. Her eyes were neatly polished, her eyebrows were combed in place and her long eyelashes looked defined and curled up, giving her eyes an enigmatic sensual appeal. Hermione had chosen to wear translucent lip gloss, making her lips seem more plumped up, making them look so irresistibly kissable.

Once the Gryffindor Princess had gone down the stairs and had mesmerised everyone, the Slytherin wanted to take a step forward, as if to greet her. Yet, out of nowhere, Viktor Krum showed up from the multitude of people, and charmingly bowed to her, as he grabbed and kissed the back of her hand. That Bulgarian Quidditch player snatched Hermione as if she had been the Golden Snitch. – Draco wondered, what did she find in that guy? It wasn't as if Granger was very much into Quidditch, so he couldn't have impressed her in that regard. Was it his looks? Malfoy didn't think so, considering that he'd assumed that she'd be into Weasley. Krum was a whole other type of man, so that couldn't be it, either. So, maybe it was the accent, did she find it exotic? Draco had overheard him mispronouncing her name, calling her 'Hermyown' instead of 'Hermione'. Maybe she'd found that adorable; maybe it had piqued her interest, as Krum came from another culture entirely, and she was always so eager to learn new things.

Whatever it was, the blonde didn't like it. Not. One. Bit. For only a second, he'd found himself in an enormous sea of jealousy, as he felt a burning rage when Krum kissed her hand. Somewhere deep inside him, something had stung. It had felt as though a dagger had pierced through his heart, giving him the feeling that it should've been him kissing her hand and having her as his date.

The blonde gasped and shook his head, while he tried his best to mask how absolutely horrified he was feeling at that moment. What had just happened? He'd been admiring the Mudblood, and he'd just had an internal fit of jealousy over some student from Durmstrang giving her hand a light peck. –Was his mind betraying him?

He was so confused.

…

Fifth year

Rage, rage, rage.

When he'd found out Dolohov had critically injured her over at the Ministry of Magic, everything Draco could feel was complete and utter rage. He saw red. Antonin Dolohov had had the arrogance and recklessness to hex her, aiming to kill her. Fortunately, he hadn't succeeded at that, but the Death Eater had accomplished to hurt her badly. The nerve of Dolohov!

Antonin had explained to Draco that the witch, along with her pathetic friends, had broken into the Ministry of Magic thinking they could save Saint Potter's excuse of a godfather, Sirius Black. But the Dark Lord had had another thing in mind and had wanted those teenagers to search for a prophecy for him, thus luring them into his trap. All of Voldemort's loyal Death Eaters were waiting for Dumbledore's Army to get that prophecy, and when they had had it in their possession, the dark members had surrounded them, and thus a battle ensued.

A strange sense of pride rushed through him as he heard that Granger had stunned Nott, Theo's father, and had silenced Dolohov. The young Malfoy even found himself chuckling at the Death Eater, as he told him that, because of that Mudblood's curse, the shelves which held other prophecies had collapsed and had crushed Nott. The image of Nott being injured by a shelve seemed to amuse the blonde, and his grin grew wider. Dolohov called him out on it and demanded he'd better stop grinning, as his face darkened when he mentioned that, seeing that Potter was still alive, the outcome of that chaotic battle had been clear, and each and every one of Riddle's followers had suffered his wrath.

At that last comment, Draco couldn't help but think that, for having hurt Hermione, the Dark Lord's rage had been a well-deserved punishment and absolutely justified. He would have done the same.

Draco frowned. Once again, he was surprised at the thought his mind had just fabricated. It wasn't the first time that the blonde had felt so possessive of the brunette, and he was beginning to wonder why that was. He was beginning to wonder whether or not Granger had done something to him, anything that made him feel that way. But then again, he would remember if she had done that. He would've noticed if Granger had done anything to him.

…Right?

What was with Granger lately, anyway? That witch was supposed to make him feel repulsed, and yet, ever since third year, he'd been craving for her touch. She wasn't supposed to make him feel attracted to her; she was supposed to have rabbit teeth and bushy, unruly hair – And yet, at the Yule Ball back in fourth year, Hermione was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his mercury eyes on, and oh, how he regretted not having been her date! And now, she was supposed to be seriously injured, and he wasn't supposed to care at all!

And yet, there he was, enraged that she'd been hurt.

…

Sixth year

The most powerful love potion in the world, Amortentia, smelled differently to everyone, according to whom a person felt attracted to. – Or at least, that was how Hermione had gotten 20 points for her house. So surely her assumption was correct.

Draco briefly closed his eyes and smelled:

The woody scent of pages in a book, the sweet aroma of a warm cocoa with cinnamon, the aura of raindrops falling on a field full of orchids.

It hadn't been the first time he'd sensed that fragrance, of that he was certain. Over the years, Malfoy had developed quite the delicate sense of smell – even after Granger had punched him –, and that distinctive scent had been there every time she was around. Be it in the Great Hall, or in any class Gryffindor and Slytherin shared; Draco would be able to identify that particular aroma and feel infatuated by it. And every single time, he'd look at Hermione and his mind would have these thoughts of wanting to possess her in every way possible, and wanting to kill anyone who dared as much as touch her. – Of course, his rational self would cringe and shrug it off; but that primal self of his was becoming more and more persistent. It was becoming ever more impatient. – But that beautiful fragrance seemed to tame the beast within him.

The woody scent of pages in a book, the sweet aroma of a warm cocoa with cinnamon, the aura of raindrops falling on a field full of orchids.

Truth to be told, the blonde's sense of smell hadn't been the only thing that had changed. Malfoy noticed that, particularly by the end of third year, his physique transitioned from looking like a boy, to looking like an aristocratic, built-up, well-dressed man. His complexion wasn't so round, soft and child-like anymore – Beginning with a different hairstyle, not gelled-up anymore, Draco's platinum blonde hair seemed velvety and wavy. Some shy locks graced his pale face, making him look so effortlessly fresh and attractive. He had high, smoothly defined cheekbones, a sculpted jawline, and a lightly pronounced chin. His eyes were pools of shining mercury, one could get lost in their depths. And his lips were slightly pouty and pinkish; not too thick, and not too thin. – Just like Granger's lips, they were, indeed, irresistibly kissable.

He was handsome. – Way more handsome than all of Slytherin's men. And that, for whatever reason, bugged him and made him suspicious.

Draco frowned. He had many questions and demanded to have them answered. He was determined to find out.

…

So! First chapter's up! Tell me what you think, I always appreciate that so, so, so much! :)

Thank you so much for reading! You guys roooooooooock! x

Skyselisse