The world is kind of bonkers right now so I really hope everyone is okay. Take care of yourselves! It's hard to not feel lost right now. I hope we can all get through 2020 safely.
Here is a new and long chapter. Many interesting things happen. Reviews are always, always welcome. I've posted some new pieces I made for my own fics on my social media (links in my bio) and I'm pretty proud of some of them so check them out if you like.
The family had spent the better part of the morning in the library. The day was unusually cool but still bright—the library's windows were all uncovered and flooded the huge room with light. Hermione would rather have slept in a little longer, or go for a walk outside, but after breakfast Draco had taken her hand and ordered her and Lucio to accompany him to the library. He had given no reason why, and she had not asked—she suspected he merely wanted their company, and if that was all he wanted then she would oblige (not that she had much choice, his large had was a cuff around her wrist as he had led her and Lucio to the library).
When they'd got there he'd said nothing, merely given her a kiss and then went to his desk where a hefty pile of correspondence demanded attention. Lucio had looked out the window rather unhappily—Hermione could sense his anxiousness to go play outside, but if he wanted to complain he said nothing. Hermione noticed Lucio gave Draco and his desk a wide berth as he wandered around the library, finally coming to take her hand.
She had sensed distress in his demeanor but felt he wouldn't be so forthcoming with Draco around—they would have to speak privately later. They had walked around the library and he had been quieter than normal which worried her, again wondering what had transpired while she had been unconscious. He didn't seem inclined to speak and neither did she so they roamed around in reassuring silence. Hermione made sure to squeeze his little hand gently, and he looked up at her, his pale eyes solemn.
Did he hurt you? She kept wondering, fighting the urges to glare suspiciously at Draco, who sat at a desk by a window, reading numerous letters and drafting short replies, that day's yet-unread copy of the Daily Prophet still fresh and folded to his side.
When they had tired of their walk Hermione had taken a book at random from one of the many bookcases and sat down on a thick rug with Lucio. There they were surrounded by bookcases and Draco couldn't see them. She noticed Lucio relax almost immediately and felt a pang of sympathy, but didn't comment on it.
The book had turned out to be a travel journal written by a long-deceased wizard who'd decided to travel to Romania in search of rare dragons. His accounts were funny and detailed, and she read them to Lucio, who paid rapt attention and laughed where it was appropriate, but still she sensed his mind was elsewhere. All the talk of travel and dragons made her think of Bill—and Norbert the baby dragon, whom she'd had the fortune to meet in her first year at Hogwarts. Pain twinged at the resurfacing of the memories—she felt her voice shake briefly as she read and cleared her throat, detached herself from them, and set the book down.
Lucio looked at her curiously. She said nothing and merely smiled, reached out to bop his nose with her finger—he giggled, and she felt her mood lighten briefly.
"You look sad," he said. "Are you sad, mummy?"
"A little," she admitted. She thought about telling him about Norbert and Bill, but changed her mind. Draco probably wouldn't want her to, and she wasn't sure she wanted to talk about it, anyway.
"Have you ever seen a dragon before?" He asked, staring at an illustration from the book of a Welsh dragon, its huge wings opening and closing.
She found herself wanting to lie.
"Yes," she said. "Many years ago."
"What kind of dragon? Was it very big?"
"A Hungarian Horntail," she replied. "A very dangerous type of dragon. It was enormous."
She wouldn't say under what circumstances she'd seen it, and whom had faced it in her Fourth year.
Excited now, his eyes wide, Lucio tugged on her sleeve.
"Did you fight it?" Were you scared?"
She laughed. "Goodness, no, I didn't fight it. It was far away, but I was scared of it. Its roar was so loud, even covering my ears didn't help."
"Wow," Lucio said. "I want to see one, too! I'd fight it!"
"It's extremely rare to find a dragon in the wild," Hermione said in her old lecturing voice, the one she'd used countless times with Harry and Ron. Another twinge at her heart. "Most of them are in captivity. The best thing to do is to Apparate away. Their fire reaches so far, they could burn you to a crisp before you reach them."
"Not me," Lucio said stoutly, "I'll bring my broom, I'll fly away!"
The vivid, haunting memory of Harry speeding around the Horntail on his Firebolt flashed across her mind's eye—Hermione flinched before she could stop herself.
"Never confront a dragon unless you're a trained handler," she heard herself saying sharply. "It's too dangerous. They don't play, and they will kill you."
Lucio looked hurt. Regret tore through her.
I should have just played along.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I just want to make sure you know to be careful."
He nodded and accepted her hug. The book lay forgotten on the floor.
"Can I play outside, mummy?"
She looked out the window, studied the sky.
"Yes. Pansy will go with you, of course."
"Okay," Lucio said, standing quickly, almost buzzing with the prospect of a good race with Pansy, or another flying session. Perhaps he might even manage to catch a frog this time! He'd been trying for days. If he caught one, maybe they'd let him keep it as a pet. Really, he would have preferred an owl, but a frog was a good place to start.
"Make sure you're back inside before dinner," mummy reminded him gently. "Father doesn't like it when you're late."
Lucio nodded silently, his face falling.
"Where did you and father go yesterday?" He asked.
Mummy took the book from the floor, brought it to her lap.
"We went to look at some buildings," she said. "Your father wanted to show me some of his projects."
Our projects.
She couldn't keep distancing herself from the fact that she was very much part of this now. He might do as he liked with the construction of his new boarding school, but he kept saying that now she would be the one to destroy Neville, and had made her take her first steps in that course of action the night before, at the Burrow.
Would he find out that she had defied him even then? She remembered how empty the secret place had been, but she still couldn't shake the fact that she knew she was being watched, that someone had known she was there, and that they might have heard her message.
He probably expected it. Every time he gives me some modicum of freedom, another invisible chain is added to the collar on my neck.
There was so much more she should have said. Why hadn't she told them about his Horcrux? Why hadn't she told them about her own? She wanted to smack her palm against her forehead—she was losing herself—she normally wasn't this forgetful—that, or Draco had put some sort of charm on her to keep from disclosing it to anyone.
She wouldn't put it past him.
It's one thing to tell them about his. It's another entirely to add you have one now, too. You're turning into a monster in front of them. Of course you didn't want to tell them. Draco probably didn't restrict you from it to see what you would do. The thing is, what did he want me to do? Did I play right into his hand?
She sighed, stood, and took his hand in hers.
"Come, let's call for Pansy."
As they walked Hermione held the book up in the air and let it go—it caught in an invisible, gentle current of magic and calmly floated back to its original location. Lucio stared at it as it floated behind them.
"Mummy, when will I be able to do magic?"
"You're not far off, actually," came father's voice from in front of them—mummy had already stopped. Lucio, who'd still been staring at the book, hadn't realized, and almost bumped into her. Father chuckled.
"It's usually around age seven or eight when magical children begin exhibiting their first signs of magic," father said. "But seeing as you're so advanced in your studies, I wouldn't be surprised at all if you started earlier. I'd expect no less, really, considering your mother was showing magic when she was only six, and I when I was five."
Hermione frowned, surprised that he knew—how? She'd never told him that. Then again, he'd used Legimency on her a few times in the early days of their marriage—he must have been thorough. That, or he had looked for it specifically. She met his knowing glance uneasily.
"Pansy," he called, and with a nearly silent pop, Pansy was now standing with them.
"Yes, my Lord?"
"Watch over Lucio as he plays outside," Draco said. "And bring his broom as well. Be back in time for dinner. No lingering after frogs," he added a little sternly. "They make for very boring pets."
Lucio started beside Hermione. He looked at his father, wide-eyed, a little guilty. How had he known?
"Of course, my Lord," Pansy said, bowing. She and Lucio left the library together.
Draco held out his hand to Hermione, who took it and let him lead her to his desk. He sat in his chair, pulling her onto his lap, and made no move to hide any of his correspondence.
Hermione reached out tentatively, gaining confidence when he made no move to stop her, and she rifled through the notes and letters, scanning each one quickly.
Nothing she could decode. Some were cryptic messages sent from his followers with nothing but coordinates. A few bills and receipts scattered throughout. An inquiry from a reporter here or there.
His hands were on her waist as she waded through it all.
"The pressing duties of a Lord," he said, his voice wry. "So much useless fucking mail."
She gave up, put the last roll of parchment down.
"If you don't like it, why bother with it?" She asked. "You can do what you want."
"I may not always enjoy it, but if I want to keep control, this job has maintenance of its own and so it's for the best that I stay on top of things. If I want things done right, I'll do them myself." He smirked. "I seem to recall hearing you say that on several occasions in our time at Hogwarts. What, do you not approve of my methods?"
She frowned. How often did he eavesdrop on her during their school days?
"What about the resistance, then? You crow like you've got such a tight grip on our world, but there's still people who know what you are and what you've done."
His hands tightened on her.
"There will always be cracks in the walls rats can squeeze through," he admitted with a curl of his lip. "They can nibble on the concrete foundations I've set down, but it will take a lot of effort before they get anywhere, and they haven't got the numbers to make any real damage anyhow." His smile was in full now, gleaming. "Yes, they can cling to their pathetic resistance. Let them raise their fists in the air and vow to bring me down. They've been doing it for years, and their numbers continue to dwindle, and I'm still here. Not very good for morale, is it?"
He took her hand, kissed it.
"And with your power back, with you by my side, we'll finish off what's left of them."
She said nothing. He stood from his chair, cupped her face in his hands, pressed a kiss to her temple.
"How are you feeling?" He asked.
"Back to normal," Hermione said.
Whatever normal means.
"I'm glad to hear it," he said.
Hermione let a brief silence settle between them, a crease between her brows. He sensed that she wanted to ask something and stayed silent.
At last, she found the courage to speak.
"What am I to expect now that I have a Horcrux?"
He released her and walked to the window, his hands in his pockets.
"The results depend on the person, I believe," he said. "Myself, I've noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Increased power is a likelihood, as it happened to me, and I suppose there's the blood-drinking and the fangs—for you, it might be different."
"Why does it depend?"
"I was already a monster when I made mine," Draco said, turning to smile wickedly at her. "I've got rage enough inside me that the Horcrux didn't really add anything new there. I've been detached enough for my emotions for a very long time and I think the Horcrux has helped that along nicely, now."
He came back to her, pressed himself against her from behind, one of her arms in his grip. His other hand reached up to hold her jaw carefully from behind.
"Then there's you, my little sweetheart, who still struggles with her emotions and is very much tuned into them. You're maybe a little less human than you were last month, but still human enough that the Horcrux will help you along in letting go. Your anger was a seed inside of you from the moment we met—it's taken root over the years, grown, and warped. Did you have any regrets or disgust over what you did to me yesterday after you woke?"
"No," she said at once. "You deserved it, and more."
"So I did," he acknowledged. "But there might have been a time when even after you'd done that, you'd have reacted more negatively at your actions rather than brushed them off, regardless of your hatred toward me."
She was frowning.
"Rather, what I also found extremely interesting was your response to cutting my throat. You were so wet, darling—" His teeth grazed against her throat and she flinched. "That's another response you would have been shocked at less than a year ago—don't tell me you haven't taken note of this yourself."
"I have," she said, conflicted. "I told you that I knew something wasn't right. About you, or I…How did you do it?"
"It's a complicated process," he said. "But reduced down to its barest principles, creating a Horcrux centers almost entirely around a blood ritual."
She went still. His tongue brushed against her throat.
"Not all the blood I took from you was for my own consumption, you see," he said. "Greedy as I am, I had to stop myself from bleeding you dry that first time. I put quite a bit of your blood aside to complete the ritual."
"The dagger…"
"Was part of it, as I explained before. The ritual demands blood of the innocent as well of the blood of the Horcrux-bearer, but more of yours was required than that of the prisoner's."
Draco nipped at her throat—she tensed—he held her more tightly.
"You said you had it specially made," she said.
"I did. Borgin runs a good shop, but he's an even better blacksmith and glassworker. He's made quite a few projects for me over the years, and even helped with your stained windows. He's made every single one for every place we've lived in. He's been so pleased to know you've loved them so much, he was happy to create the dagger for free."
All this time, and she'd never once wondered how the windows had come around. She'd never have expected Borgin, of all people, to have been behind them.
"You extorted him," she accused.
"Not at all. I didn't have to. He's devoted to his Lady though he's never even met you. I suppose he'll have to, to hear how much you appreciate his works."
"A letter would suffice," she said, and he chuckled, pressed her firmly into his desk. She could feel his erection prodding against her.
No. Not now.
"What did the dagger do?" She asked. "I could sense magic on it. It was like a living thing. It felt wrong."
"Besides absorbing some of the prisoner's blood, it absorbed a piece of her soul as well," Draco said nonchalantly as though he were reading the weather report. "A necessary component of the ritual. Of course, you had to kill her on your own. It wouldn't have worked had I done it for you—not that I planned to."
"So you took blood from me, and you had the dagger, and that was it?"
"Not quite. I put a bit of my own blood in there—not required, but I hoped it might have some favorable results after some testing I did. In short, it helped bond you to me."
Hermione pulled from his grip, surprised that she'd managed to free herself at all, but he'd let her go willingly. Dread knotted in her stomach.
"What do you mean, bonded? How?"
"I'm going to alter the ring, you know," he said, eyes glinting. "Don't get your hackles up, sweetling, you'll still have your magic, but you are my wife and I want the ring back on you."
At her expression of displeasure, he gave her a sly look.
"If the idea is so unappealing to you, I'll give you a choice: you can either choose the ring or a gold collar. What would you rather have?"
"The ring, you prat," she said angrily. "Why even bother giving the illusion of choice? That's the one thing I ever commended you for, that you never forced me into a collar, even though that suits this—" she gestured between themselves violently— "better than a ring."
"Perhaps it does," he mused, "but I've seen enough collars on other girls in situations similar to yours and find them distasteful. I could collar you in private if that makes you feel better, though."
"Never!"
"Then there you have it. As my lady and wife, you will wear the ring. My claim on you will not be unseen."
The scar of his bite on the joint of her throat and shoulder throbbed.
"You've left enough 'claims' on me," she said coolly.
"Debatable," he said, smiling. "But as I was saying: the ring was useful in the fact that it was charmed to let me know your location as well as alerting me if you were ever in danger. Without those back on you, I'm rather at a disadvantage, and I don't like to be in that position, as I'm sure you know, so that's another reason why it must come back on."
"Why don't you go ahead and track my sleep, while you're at it?" She asked, annoyed. "Or better yet, let me track you as well so I can avoid you better."
Draco laughed. "Your fire grows, sweetheart. It warms me to hear it."
"So if that's not how we're bonded, how are we?" She asked.
Like this, he said, but he hadn't moved his mouth, and his voice had come from inside her head.
Hermione froze.
Startling, isn't it? His voice was in her head, as clear as if he were physically speaking. His mouth was shut, his eyes were gleaming still. Bit of a shock when I first tried it—the wizard I'd linked myself to wasn't pleased, either, but I killed him after I made sure my test worked, so I suppose he's got nothing to complain about, now.
Horrified, Hermione clutched her head in her hands, trying to will his voice away.
"What are you talking about? Get out of my head!"
No. Get used to it, sweetheart, because this will be a constant from now on, and I expect we'll both find it to be extremely useful whether you like it or not.
Shaking her head, Hermione flashed her own thought back to him.
You've invaded me enough, but you had to do this, too?
"I can't read all your thoughts, if that's what you're thinking," he said aloud, but she felt his presence in her mind like a lover's caress, trying to soothe her agitation. "Not unless I wanted to, and I can only use Legimency for that, remember? This only works with thoughts you intend for me to hear. As if we're sending letters to each other, but much more quickly. What do the Muggles call it, these days? Texting, I think. I can't know your thoughts if you don't hit 'send', metaphorically speaking."
That news was a relief. A very small one.
Trust me, firebird, he said, this will come to both our benefit. You'll see.
Her jaw was clenched, but she chose her next move wisely.
Yes, my Lord.
His eyes gleamed in approval.
As for the rest of the ritual, he continued in her head, there was an incantation to recite—a very long one. Voldemort passed it to me some time before Potter did him in. It was the only concrete clue he gave me on how to make a Horcrux—I had to work out the rest for myself, and that took years and lots of trial and error, and lots of bodies.
A thought struck her then—she paled. The wizard he'd mentioned earlier, the testing, the home labs and dungeons she had never been allowed near except on one occasion, when the only prisoner had been Neville…
She'd thought all he bothered with in his labs were the love potions and the fertility potions, the vitamin potions he'd forced her to take when she was trying to starve herself, things of that ilk.
How many times had she not been the only prisoner in the manor?
"You don't hunt for sport, do you."
I do, he replied. But I hunt humans, not creatures.
All this time—she should have known. When had Draco ever cared about hunting? She had thought it strange the first time he had told her he had taken it up, but rather than dwell on it she had decided it meant she got some peace from him for a brief period of time.
She responded in her mind, probing their new mental connection warily with her magic.
They were your experiments.
His eyes were cool.
Yes.
Martin was one of them, wasn't he?
At this, Draco nodded.
He was meant to be a victim, yes. He was…referred…by an acquaintance. I meant to kill him and then he said he might be of use to me, which most of them say, and is never true, but his acquaintance had told me he was a painter, and I've wanted your likeness taken for a long time. I had him show me his work and I liked it so I spared him. He's the second one I've ever spared.
Poor Martin. It was no wonder he was so afraid of Draco. How had they really met, then? Did Martin even know the fate he'd barely escaped?
How do you do it?
I made a rather elaborate plan with the owner of a tavern in a nearby village, he responded, sounding as if he were proud of himself. Feed some snoops a ghost story and they'll come running to investigate. Keep their disappearances as quiet as possible. Remember that day months ago when I fucked you against a window and there was that intruder at our gate watching?
She remembered too well. He was one of them.
Yes. He was the first I spared. He recommended Martin to me.
He wasn't intruding, she accused. The gates are always locked and the path warded. It was no coincidence that they were open when he came. You led him there. You wanted him to watch as you—
She looked away, trying to push back the memory of being raped against the window, which was traumatic enough, and even more so when she'd opened her eyes and seen the horrified stranger down below, staring.
His voice was gentler. I didn't know he'd arrive so quickly. I punished him for gawking at what's mine.
She shuddered.
That injury on your leg…
From a Muggle who fought back bravely and still died at my wand. As if a mere knife could bring an end to me.
He gave her a pointed look.
How many?
He didn't blink or break his stare.
Forty-seven.
She shook her head, her mind spinning.
Where?
Far from here. I knew you would have issues with my hobby.
She let out a reflexive laugh of irony and derision.
"That ends now," she said back angrily. "You're never going to hunt humans for sport again."
"Fine," he said, nonplussed. "I did it mainly to get subjects to test on, and it lost its appeal some time ago anyway. It never was much of a challenge."
She looked at him in disgust.
"Yes, poor you, so powerful and so bored you've got no one else to prey on."
"You're the only one who has consistently challenged me since we met," he said, his eyes flashing.
"Yes," she retorted, her voice so sharp it flung out and echoed around the library, "and then you bound and collared me to tip the odds in your favor because you can't stand to lose."
"Wild things sometimes have to be caged to help them reign in their power, sweetling."
I am not wild.
But her anger was fraying, splintering. Forty-seven victims, both Muggle and magic. The dagger. Her blood. Their new mental bond. Her pulse had picked up, she felt on edge, wanted to rush him and claw at his eyes. He was staring at her, aware of her current struggle, and seemed pleased.
Distantly, she was aware of the bookcases around her vibrating, the books in their hold shifting loudly. Some sheafs of parchment slid off Draco's desk.
Let it go, Hermione, came his voice, soft and insidious and coaxing, into her mind. Unleash it. Let's see what you're capable of.
She almost did. Almost. Her body begged for her to find an outlet for that energy and she would have aimed it right at him.
Before she could give in a question darted into her thoughts and she stopped, distracted, her furious magic dissipating almost instantly.
He watched, frowning. Their eyes met.
Hermione gave him a cold look.
"You caged me for your own selfish reasons. Neither of us knew what it would do to my magic, so don't pretend you had a higher plan all this time."
"You're afraid of your magic," he said plainly. "You think it's been corrupted by me."
She ignored him, trying not to appear as shaken as she felt.
"Where is the dagger?"
His eyes glinted again.
"A safe location."
So he wouldn't answer her next questions, then, either.
"What is my Horcrux? And what is yours?"
Draco finally stood and approached her, his expression guarded. He took her face in his hands, bent her low to kiss her deeply.
When they straightened and he broke the kiss, he put a hand lightly around her throat.
"How convenient it would be if I ever told you," he said. "You'll never know. You think I'd give you the information you need to destroy us? Look around the Manor until there's no stone to turn over. Ask me until your face turns blue, little bird, but I'll never tell you."
Martin arrived after lunch to commence Draco's portrait. Hermione and Draco met him in the library.
"I am relieved you are recovered, my Lady," he said after he had bowed to Draco. He bowed to her.
"I am glad to be back," she said simply.
They went to his easel, still perched by the window and the chaise where Hermione had spent so many hours in an uncomfortable pose for her portrait.
"I won't be a constant model," Draco said. "My business keeps me rather busy, as I'm sure you know."
"Of course, my Lord," Martin said. "I wouldn't expect to keep you from your work."
Draco had donned his fanciest robe. Trimmed with gold and cut from the finest material, just like all the clothing the Malfoy family wore it had been made just for him so that it flattered and decorated his form. Even if the silhouette of the robe with its mass of fabric covered most of his muscle, it was fitted enough that anyone could tell that the wearer was in excellent shape, and the cruel coldness of his eyes ensured that he was not afraid to use his strength.
So vain, Hermione thought, staring at the robes absently.
Martin was looking through his drawing box, selecting bits of charcoal to work with. The new blank canvas was stood up on the easel, awaiting the first draft of Martin's next masterpiece.
What would you rather have me wear, sweetling? Came Draco's amused reply. I'll pose in the nude if you would prefer that better.
She sniffed indifferently and turned away.
I could have some robes made for you as well if you don't want your portrait to be upstaged, though that's impossible, he added. But I hate to hide that beautiful body of yours.
You know I don't care about that sort of thing, she shot back.
Martin, having had no idea of the ongoing conversation in his presence, stood and looked at Draco.
"Will you prefer to sit or stand, my Lord?"
Draco turned to Hermione.
"What do you think, my love?"
Irritation prickled at her. What did it matter?
She was about to say so when her own reminder, occasionally forgotten, popped up:
Play your part. Please him now. Destroy him later.
Although stemming from their earlier talk that day, the possibility of that happening was now slim to none.
She pushed the thought away. Made herself look at Draco, assess him as if she were the artist composing a picture. What droll. She'd never felt so silly. But Draco's gaze was heated—it was working.
"Seated," she said at last. "As if he were on his throne."
Draco's brows raised slightly.
"Then it will be so," he said.
"A wonderful idea, my Lady," Martin said. "Will the chaise do, my Lord?"
"Don't bother," Draco said, and with a snap of his fingers, his throne appeared behind him, massive and shining in the daylight. He sat down on it gracefully, placing each arm on its corresponding armrest, spreading his feet on the floor.
So arrogant. So dominant. Hermione wanted to roll her eyes.
Of course you would get the more comfortable pose, she thought to him. I'd dearly like to see you in the one you set for me.
She felt his chuckle rather than heard it.
Anything to please my Lady, he responded.
"Excellent. If you keep as still as you can, my Lord, I can get a sketch done quickly and if it meets your approval I may even get to painting today," Martin said. "Unless you would rather hold the painting off for tomorrow."
"The sooner the better," Draco said.
I want to go check on Lucio, Hermione said.
Go to him, then, Draco said. But I want you back when you're free again. I think I'll die of boredom otherwise.
I wonder what that feels like, she said, and left the room.
Outside, the sun was blazing and there was a strong breeze blowing whenever it felt like it. She was sweating within seconds of stepping outside.
Her gown fluttered in the wind. Her dress was white. Draco had picked it out for her that morning.
The sight of her flapping skirts and the feel of the wind on her body brought back a memory half-repressed—her first suicide attempt, up on the balcony of their first house.
Disoriented, she shook her head, but the image remained. There had been spots of blood on the skirt of that other dress from the remnants of Draco's brutal assault the night before. She remembered the overwhelming fear that had almost paralyzed her at every step up to that balcony, the fear that her plan would break at any second and he would catch her.
Hermione reached down, bunched the excess material in her hands, and set to walking, sweat rolling down her back and scalp, squinting fiercely in the light. She could barely make out Lucio and Pansy over by the pond, seated at the base of a large oak tree.
She almost tripped three times on her way there. She got an idea.
If you won't let me Apparate, she thought, you could at least give me one bloody pair of jeans.
His reply was instant.
You are a Lady, not a common Muggle. Besides, why would I get rid of your dresses and the easy access they give me to you?
She sent back a viciously worded reply that went unanswered but she felt his mirth again. Did this mean he could sense her emotions now, too?
She was a fair distance from the Manor now. Hermione stopped, turned back to face it, sick curiosity coiling inside her.
Was there a distance limit to this connection? If she were a mile away, could he still hear her? What about in another province, country?
I'll find out soon enough.
By then she had almost reached Lucio and Pansy, who had noticed her. Lucio ran to greet her.
"Hello mummy!" He said, wrapping his arms around her legs in a hug.
"Hello, my love," she said, her heart softening.
"We've got ice-water," Pansy said. "Will you join us?"
"Gladly," Hermione said, and sank down to the floor in a manner that would beg for Draco's reprimand. She took the glass of water Pansy offered her and took a grateful drink. "Thank you."
"I caught a frog, mummy!" Lucio said proudly.
"You did! Where is it?"
"It jumped away," Lucio said, frowning. "They're so quick."
"You can try again," Pansy reminded him.
"No, I'm tired," he said, and sat back down.
"Where is my Lord?" Pansy asked.
"With Martin, having his portrait taken."
"I see. Yours came out beautifully," Pansy said.
"I don't know why he's bothering with paintings," Hermione said. "He's got a camera, why not stick with it? Take a picture once and you're finished! No need to sit about in a chair for ages."
I hate when he takes photographs of me, but I'd sooner endure that again than posing for what feels like another lifetime.
"It did look rather boring," Pansy said sympathetically. "But it's a tradition in Pureblood families—especially one as prestigious and old as the Malfoys. My parents had their portraits done when I was little. My mum couldn't sit still for the life of her so it's no wonder her portrait didn't look like her at all."
Hermione smiled.
"Maybe if I'd moved around more, Martin would have gotten impatient and quit."
Not that Draco allows anyone to quit on him.
Pansy had the same thought, judging by her expression.
"I wonder if he'll have them animated," Hermione said. "I've been thinking about that a lot."
"I don't see why he wouldn't," Pansy replied slowly. "It's rather unusual to leave a portrait unanimated."
"Do you know how it's done?" Hermione asked, turning to her suddenly, slightly afraid.
"There is a spell cast by the maker, and I think the subject has to participate in order for their essence to translate through and fully animate the painting. Somebody told me once blood is involved."
Hermione frowned.
Blood, blood, blood. It keeps crawling up. I'll drown in it.
He probably would have them animated. Probably not even because he cared that much about tradition—but she sensed it was another form of control over her, that he'd have her double laid out on canvas in his office for his pleasure to watch and gloat over. She wouldn't put it past him to have the other portraits placed around the manor so they could watch over her.
She shook the thought away.
"How are you feeling?" Pansy asked.
"Better."
In the days since her wakening, Draco had tended to her very carefully, making sure she was eating all her meals and getting exercise. Under other circumstances, any wife would have been pleased by the attentions and care. Hermione knew it was partly to make sure the physical effects of her coma would not be everlasting.
He's got to make sure his brood mare is healthy before she's ready to go again.
She felt like smashing something.
She agreed that she did feel weaker physically since she had awoken, and wanted to get back to the state she had been in previously, but every time he bid her take a vitamin supplement potion, summoned Healer Erik for another checkup, or took her for a walk around the garden, she felt he was inwardly calculating the day he could deem her sufficiently recovered enough to begin trying to impregnate her again, and it left a sour taste on her tongue.
And what can I do to stop it? He won't accept any more excuses.
The topic of another child was by no means new to her—he had been pressing it for the better part of a year and she had fought him every time, making excuses, demanding to have control over her body, and it had all bought her some time, but Draco's will was always inevitable.
What good does having my magic back do me if I still can't protect myself from him?
Hopelessness settled like a weighted blanket around her, heavy, stiff, almost smothering.
Pansy had picked up a twig from the ground and snapped it in two. She had recognized Hermione's pained and distant stare and had thought it best to keep quiet until she reemerged. It took a minute, but when Hermione's eyes finally cleared, Pansy reached over and rubbed her back gently. Hermione twitched but didn't jump—she turned to Pansy as if she had forgotten she was even there.
"Are you hungry?" Pansy asked quietly.
Hermione shook her head.
"How are you lately?" She asked Pansy, wanting desperately to turn the conversation away from herself. "We haven't spoken much in the past week."
"Same as always," was Pansy's reply. "Nothing to complain about."
Nothing that can be complained about, more likely.
She looked off in the direction Lucio stood, poking at something in the ground with a stick, and smiled affectionately.
"Would you be able to say if you are unhappy if you were?" Hermione asked carefully.
"Yes, I think so," Pansy replied, too-casually glancing around the area. "But I speak with care so that my words may not be misconstrued as complaints." She shrugged. "My family is all gone and I had the barest semblance of a career before I came to work here. I'm glad to have friends, at the very least."
Hermione touched her hand and smiled.
"I am, too. I was extremely lonely until you and Lucio came along. I know we're all trapped, but it helps not being alone."
Pansy gave a short laugh. "A sad consolation, isn't it? We're all miserable together."
They embraced.
"Did Draco do or say anything to Lucio when I wasn't there?" Hermione asked when they pulled apart. "He seems different, now. Slightly on edge. Almost resentful, but only toward Draco."
Pansy sighed. "I didn't hear all of it because there's only so much I can make out through the door, but over dinner one night, Draco told Lucio everything you had told him was true, and that he's forbidden from meddling. Lucio wanted to protect you, you see. He told Draco to leave you alone."
Hermione's lips pressed together, her eyes suddenly wet.
"He's frightened of him, now."
I thought I would have felt happy to know Lucio knew the truth.
"He likely feels powerless," Pansy said. "Now that he knows you are unhappy and that my Lord hurts you, and that he can do nothing. Draco isn't bothered by it. He doesn't have to pretend anymore. That was his main issue. When he came out of that room after they had that talk, he seemed very satisfied."
"Was he ever a good father?" Hermione asked bitterly. "Or was he only playing at one when the deception was still ongoing?"
"I believe he cares for Lucio as much as someone in his state can," Pansy said, picking her words very carefully. "He's his son. His resemblance to the both of you is very strong. I couldn't ever see him hurting or abandoning him."
Hermione looked at the sky. "I'm not sure I agree."
Pansy wanted to ask, but Hermione looked away, and they sat in silence for a while. Pansy yawned and rubbed at her back.
"Take a nap," Hermione said. "I know you're tired."
Pansy looked troubled. She had kept her uniform on though the heat was sweltering—Hermione supposed Draco would get very cross if he came across them and found her with her robe off.
"I'm not tired, my Lady," she said quickly, "I wouldn't dare sleep while on duty."
"It's okay," Hermione said. "I'll watch Lucio."
"And if my Lord comes?"
Hermione shook her head. "Then I'll tell him I gave you a well-deserved break. Really, don't fret. "
"Thank you, my Lady."
Still slightly apprehensive, Pansy laid down beside her and closed her eyes. Hermione's troubled thoughts continued to brew.
He may want more children badly, but if my life was on the line and he had to pick between our offspring and I, he wouldn't think twice.
Which is why we've got to get out. He may care for Lucio, but he doesn't love him.
She thought of Lucius suddenly. She had barely known him. Draco never spoke fondly of him, and he'd said very little of his mother after she had passed. What little he had divulged of his childhood to her, it seemed dark and sterile of much emotion except for the love his mother had showered on him. And how often had that been? If what Draco had said was true, his father hadn't much approved of Narcissa doting on Draco, that he had made sure that Draco had been indoctrinated into Voldemort and the Death Eater's culture from a young age to harden him. Judging by the way Draco insisted that Lucio not be over-coddled, that he be stripped of his innocence by pulling back the curtain on their grotesque relationship, it seemed he was intent on following his father's rules of raising a son.
Was this really how their relationship was with him? Was that why he turned so foul?
Lucius had been needlessly kind to her in the very few times they had spoken since her captivity. She had been grateful for it, for the secret sympathy of a man whose legend and cruelty had oft been spoken of within the Order.
Was he an abuser, too? Is that where you learned your love language from, husband?
She startled, almost clapping her hand to her mouth, her heart skipping a beat.
She had been thinking to herself, but with that last question directed at Draco, had it actually sent?
I hate this, I hate this, why would he do this to me? Can I…unsend it?
What a ridiculous thought. She felt silly for even thinking it.
Hermione waited tensely for a reply but after a moment, nothing came. She left herself calm down slowly, but still felt on edge. Had he heard it, then? Had she angered him?
Pansy, woken by Hermione's movement, stirred.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Hermione said quickly. She didn't know if she had the energy to explain Draco's latest cruel innovation.
Pansy folded her hands under her head. Hermione could see Lucio flying his broom around the perimeter of the pond, occasionally reaching down to sweep his hand through some tall grass. She watched anxiously, fearing he might lose grip and tumble down, but he was a sure flier and never wavered. Pride slowly began to overtake her worry.
"I had a dream the other night," Pansy said after a moment. "I saw my mum again. She was alive and visiting me at Hogwarts."
"What happened?" Hermione asked.
"Nothing much, really. I told her everything that's happened since I last saw her. I was just a kid when she died—it felt like we spoke for days. She barely said anything, though."
"Why do you think?"
Pansy stared up at the sky, her hands folded on her sternum. Hermione kept a watchful eye on Lucio, who had flown over to a flowerbed, staring at a bee that hovered over a rose.
"I don't know," Pansy said with a sigh. "Maybe I just wanted to get all that stuff off my chest and needed someone to listen."
"If you ever need a break or a vacation, of some sort," Hermione said, frowning, "I could try to arrange it. You've been faithful and of great help here. I don't see why it can't be a possibility."
Pansy shook her head. "You are too kind, my Lady, but I'm wanted here too often to leave for even a short period of time, even if my Lord allows it." She looked away. "Time off wasn't really mentioned in my contract when I signed on, you see. I didn't expect it, either. Despite my work here, I still have time for myself, and that's enough."
Hermione wasn't sure she was convinced.
"As much as I love your friendship, I hate that you've been involved in all this," Hermione replied softly. She reached up to wipe sweat from her neck.
"It was my own choice to work here," Pansy reminded her. "Even if I didn't know. The thought of taking a break is nice, but I honestly think I would be more anxious outside of the manor. I would worry about you and Lucio. When I saw your body on the bed, I thought he'd finally killed you. He kept me from helping you, again." She shook her head. "I need to be here. Even if I can't help you, I have to be here. Maybe I can calm him down next time."
"Pansy," Hermione pleaded, her face pained. "You can't protect me. Please don't take that burden on yourself. Everyone who's tried has failed and died. He didn't so much as blink when I killed Blaise. He'd kill you, and find another to take your place here."
"Then what good am I?" Pansy asked, looking lost. Perspiration trickled down her temples. "I'm to look after you every day, to heal and dress and watch you but I can't so much as interfere when he hurts you or almost kills you. What use is my role here if I can't save you?"
A strong gust of wind swept through them. Hermione leaned into it gratefully, gripped Pansy's arm.
"Nobody can save me."
It took so long for that to finally stick in my head. I was vain enough to hope he was wrong, but I was the mistaken one.
"He doesn't mean to kill me."
What a thing to say out loud.
"Then what was last time?" Pansy asked bitterly.
"An accident. Neither of us knew what would happen with the return of my magic. I saw how frightened he was as I was going under. There was regret on his face. Do you know how rarely I get to see that from him?"
Probably never. Pansy shook her head.
"Of course, it was still his fault. Tampering with someone else's magic for nearly a decade is bound to cause some sort of problem. And because he thought I was at risk of dying, he made sure I can't anymore."
Pansy sighed, looking bleak.
"He made your Horcrux, then." She bit her lip. "I knew he was up to something. I felt it all over the manor. That was also why I tried to keep him away from you. When he finally let me tend to you I saw the punctures… He went from being so angry and so agitated to being so calm after a few days…I knew he knew something I didn't."
"He's always one step ahead." Hermione looked down at her hands and thought of her talons, sharp and deadly. "So you needn't worry about me now. The only one you should truly be worried about is Lucio. Draco is only concerned with me, so for the next instances, stay with Lucio. Make sure he doesn't see or hear and that he's okay. I'll try to take care of myself in the meanwhile."
Pansy's eyes were troubled.
"If you wish it, my Lady."
They lapsed into another silence. The wind began to strengthen. Clouds stretched over the sky, muddling the day's brightness.
"What would you do if you could get out?" Hermione asked, staring at the rippling pond. She could hear Lucio humming to himself cheerfully as he dipped his toes in the water. His face was flushed from the heat.
"I'd go back to my studies in Germany," Pansy said wistfully. "I miss it. The traveling, the food. I didn't have friends at the time but I enjoyed my time there, learning about medieval architecture. The Muggle alcohol there was quite good, too."
Hermione laughed softly.
"Now you. What would you do if you were free?" Pansy asked.
Hermione hesitated.
"I try not to think about it too much. It hurts when I do. It's nigh impossible, at this point."
"I understand," Pansy said. "But hypothetically? If a genie granted your wish?"
Hermione sighed.
"I'd track down my parents. I'd introduce them to Lucio. I would go about seeing if there's any way I could get a divorce. I would finish my studies and move somewhere no-one could find me. Except you," she said. "You would always be welcome wherever I go."
"I'm honored."
Lucio, bored now, came back to them and sat down on the grass heavily.
"I'm hungry," he said.
Pansy looked at her watch. "Well, we have twenty minutes until dinner. Do you think you can wait?"
Lucio made a face. "Maybe. Could I have a snack?"
Pansy looked at Hermione.
"Yes," she said, smiling. "A small one, though."
"Okay!" Lucio said and sprang up to his feet again. He went to Pansy, who was already standing, and tugged on her sleeve to hurry her.
"You're staying outside?" Pansy asked.
"Just for a little bit," Hermione replied. "I"ll see you both at dinner. Lucio, don't forget to wash up."
"Yes, mummy," Lucio said.
She watched them go, and when she was finally alone she let herself sink a little deeper into the earth, let her breath come out long and slow.
The wind had died down again by now. Sweat crawled down her skin. Hermione shifted slightly to make herself more comfortable and closed her eyes, put her hands on her stomach.
She had a Horcrux now. What had it done to her? What could it do? How did it manifest? All at once or slowly over time? Was it a malevolent energy that lived inside her now? Or a physical mass, like a tumor or some other sort of sickness that was now bound to her?
Harry had been an unwitting Horcrux for most of his short life. What signs had there been that they had overlooked despite the Parseltongue and the connected dream/visions, the transfer of extreme emotions? What else might he have told her that could help her now? The problem was that she was not a Horcrux, but that she had one.
Could she expect that from her bond to Draco, now?
And I don't even know what or where it is.
Despair choked her throat. She covered her eyes.
Is it reversible?
There was a longing in her to run to the library and look for answers but she knew she would find none. The existence of a book detailing everything one needed to know about making a Horcrux and suffering its effects was at zero, if Draco could be believed. He was a manipulator and a liar, but she believed him when he'd said he'd had to figure it out himself from the scant information Voldemort had given him. Even Harry and Dumbledore had had very limited information, and the Hogwarts library had proven itself obdurate in aiding her search for answers as well.
She would have to find out on her own.
She pictured it like a black mass inside of her somewhere in her body. Lodged inside her ribs, a sickly film around her heart, perhaps—in her bloodstream, even, multiplying rapidly. Fear spiked within her. Draco had been right—she had attacked him so easily and viciously the previous day and had not for one second balked as she'd gutted him. Years ago it absolutely would have affected her and despite her hatred of him, she was not sure she would have actually exacted some modicum of her revenge in that particular manner.
Pain changes people, I guess.
And she'd had it doled out to her in spades.
A memory resurfaced.
She was back in the Hogwarts library. It was evening and her dress was wrinkled and torn, her skin crawling from the assault she had just barely managed to escape from. She was panting with fear, her skin crawling from his touch, the things he'd said to her. The Yule Ball continued merrily on downstairs in the Great Hall, Cormac McLaggen was in McGonagall's office getting the scolding of his life, and she was there trapped with the last person in the world she wanted to be alone with.
Draco, staring at her with hooded eyes, clear and glazed with lust.
And resentment.
That was when the true nature of his obsession came to light. Every jagged piece, every hint and suspicion from the past months had come together into a dangerous mosaic. The truth that she had scarcely allowed herself to think about, much less believe.
"By the second kiss, you'd already infected me," he'd told her bitterly.
As if she had been the one with the aim to ensnare him all along. As if he'd had no choice but to follow his hideous obsession, rather than let her be. As if it were some force beyond his control.
She hadn't understood then. Now, it was different.
Tit for tat, she thought. I 'infected' him, albeit unknowingly, and he corrupts me in turn. Will that satisfy him at last?
No. That was a certainty.
A bird sang somewhere from deeper in the garden. She listened to it, picturing with sorrow all the lives her husband had extinguished at the expense of his sadistic hunting trips. He had gone on many hunting trips over the past years, but whether he had called them such on forty-seven separate occasions eluded her. He did not like to leave the Manor too frequently for long periods of time—this had to mean he sometimes hunted more than one at once.
How had he done it? How had he preferred to kill them? Quickly, or slowly? With or without magic? She remembered that long slash on his thigh from a while ago—sometimes he would have minor bruises here and there—she had always supposed he had gotten those through his training sessions—and now realized he might have considered that a form of training.
Her stomach turned.
And Martin—had he known he was slated to be Draco's forty-eighth hunting victim? Hadn't he ever wondered how odd it was the suddenly this cruel, mysterious Lord appeared from nowhere into his life?
Sweetheart, came Draco's seductive drawl suddenly into her head. Still unused to it, Hermione jumped violently, flinching into the ground. I'm extremely bored. Come warm my lap and brighten my day, won't you?
Her eyes opened. The sun was well into its descent. The air had grown mercifully cooler.
Entertain yourself, she thought, annoyed, her heart still pounding.
But despite their casual tone, his words held the authority of a command behind them that she could not ignore. She rose unhappily, brushed off her skirts, and set back for the Manor. Lucio and Pansy must be washing up by now for dinner. That meant Martin's session with Draco was almost over.
That I have, he answered, and she could picture his wicked smile. I've thought in explicit detail how I'm going to have you later, once Martin is gone… Remember the first time you said that to me, back at school? You probably don't. But if you knew how many times I came to the thought of you during that year, you'd see how well I interpreted your words.
He was right, she didn't remember. How long ago had that been?
Will Martin have included your erection in the portrait when it's finished? She wondered.
He laughed. I can control myself, sweetling. If that fails, a simple charm helps hide it. Though you sitting on it would hide it best.
She snorted. Is sex all you ever think about?
Well, when I've got the smartest, strongest, most beautiful wife in the world, it can't be helped, can it? I've told you as much, Hermione. When you came along, I turned into a beast. Everything about you drives me wild.
By now she was inside, coming along the corridor, reluctantly approaching the library. She stopped at the door.
Would you ever let Pansy take a holiday?
No, he said. Well, perhaps. She's proved immensely valuable here, but I can't spare her when there's you and Lucio to look after. Has she said she wants a holiday?
No, Hermione replied. I was just wondering. She's been loyal enough that I'm sure you can trust her to take some time off. Did you not think serving you doesn't take a toll on one's health?
Don't give her any ideas, Draco said. I pay her very well for her time and troubles.
Well I think she's earned it, Hermione replied. And I can take care of myself and Lucio, you know.
There was no reply.
She entered the library and found Draco still on his throne, imperially cold and staring intently at Martin, who was sweating as he drew on the life-size canvas.
"Ah, what a pleasant surprise, my love," Draco said, not even turning to face her, acting as if he had not summoned her. He gave her a dazzling smile. "Have you come to claim me for dinner?"
"It's almost time," she said, stopping beside the throne. His hand, still on the armrest, rolled over to expose his palm. She put her hand in it and he held it gently. "Martin, you are welcome to stay and join us."
Martin's face peered out at them from behind the canvas.
"I'm afraid I cannot, my Lady, but I thank you for the invitation."
I don't blame you, she thought.
"Then that concludes today's session," Draco said. His eyes were heated as he glanced at Hermione. "I'm starved."
"As you wish, my Lord," Martin said. "Would you like to take a look?"
Draco rose from the throne, adjusted his robes.
"By now I have enough faith in your ability," he said, but still strode to peruse the face of the canvas, pulling Hermione with him, still joined by the hand.
Again, Hermione was struck by the drawing. It was only a preliminary sketch but the level of the detail and skill in it still blew her away. Draco's form in the throne was languidly arrogant and commanding, his stare affixed and challenging the viewer.
It was on the same scale as her own portrait so they matched if Draco decided he wanted them placed together, and he, like her, had been placed in the same central composition, but whereas Hermione had been at an angle, he faced it point-blank.
The effect was unnervingly impressive. Hermione had no doubt that whichever room this portrait would be placed, she would feel its eyes on her wherever she went in the room. No doubt it was the effect Draco wanted.
"Well done," Draco said. "It seems almost a shame to paint over it despite it being half-rendered."
"If you would like drawings I may do those as well," Martin said, bowing. "I am at your service, my Lord."
"Tempting," Draco said, and his eyes flickered to Hermione. She felt the slither of his thought as it entered her mind and fought the instinct to cringe.
How do you feel about posing in the nude, sweetling? Something tells me you would hate it, but those drawings would be masterpieces with such a beautiful subject.
She didn't answer him.
"Tomorrow, you'll come back at the same time," Draco said to Martin.
"Yes, my Lord. I will begin painting a study of your face and form to capture it as a reference so you need not sit for me for longer than necessary."
"Good," Draco said. "Pansy will see you out. We'll expect you tomorrow."
"Have a good evening, my Lord and Lady," Martin said, bowing, and they took their leave.
Draco's arm snaked around her waist as they walked to the dining room.
"I can see why you were so impatient to get your portrait over with as quickly as possible," he remarked. "My patience was tried for every second of it."
"Where are you going to put these when they're done?" Hermione asked..
"I haven't decided yet," Draco said. "I'll make up my mind once the last one is finished."
"I suppose I don't have any say in where mine goes," she said stiffly.
"I knew from the start where that one belongs," he said, grinning. "That one's for my eyes only. It'll be in the adjunct room to my study."
She wouldn't argue with that.
Better there than out in the open for everyone to gawk at.
"Longbottom's been dancing circles around Diagon Alley," he said suddenly. "Taunting my men, barely slipping capture each time. Any idea what that's about?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "When I saw him at the Burrow, I asked him to draw your attention somewhere else to keep you busy."
He held her gaze for a moment, expressionless.
"Yes, I thought as much."
Traitor, the voice inside her whispered.
You saw it already in my memories, she wanted to accuse. You knew, why throw it in my face again?
"He always comes in disguise but takes it off just long enough to be recognized and targeted, then slips another on and flees," Draco continued. "If you both wanted my attention, sweetheart, you've got it. But you're coming with me when we'll draw him out for good this time."
Hermione looked up at him, frowning.
"My men will inform me the second he next appears in Diagon Alley," he said. "We've got a little trap set up. Should he fall for it, you will be coming with me to have a little talk with him. Did you want me far away so you could try to find a way out? I think not. You wouldn't have any luck anyhow. No, I think it's time Longbottom sees just how much more you've become involved in my court."
"It won't surprise him, if that's what you're aiming for," Hermione said resentfully. "I already told him what I'd done."
"I know that, too, sweetheart. But seeing it in action is entirely different, isn't it? He might have convinced himself that I'd Imperiused you to drive that dagger into that woman's heart. But that was all you, lovely murderess."
"You knew I would do it," Hermione hissed. "You love giving me the illusion of choice. You knew I'd rather kill her than condemn her to be Crabbe's sex slave. You did that on purpose to get what you wanted."
"I did," he said, his eyes boring into hers. "But regardless of whether I had given you that choice or not, you would have killed her, because you are mine and you will do what I demand."
She looked away. He stopped, forcing her to stop as well, and reached out to turn her face back to him.
"Are you still fighting me?" He breathed against her cheek, his voice deceivingly gentle.
"No, my Lord." Her voice was slightly hoarse.
He assessed her, hardly blinking.
"I understand, actually," he said at last. "It's been your first response, your instinct for all these years. It must not be easy to forget that. So I'll play along if you do your part, firebird. When I order you to burn them, you'll do it."
"He was my friend," she said, her voice breaking.
"Blaise was my friend," his voice was emotionless. "My closest friend for many years until he betrayed me. Did you see me cry when you killed him?"
"Neville never betrayed me," she hissed, fists clenching. "And Blaise was only trying to make sure I was safe. He knew you were mental. He at least felt sorry for his role in what happened to me. He was doing the right thing!"
"And in doing so he broke my trust, Hermione," Draco said. "So he had to die. As for Longbottom, don't be so sure."
"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked, suspicion needling at her. She felt cold suddenly.
Draco sighed, stepped closer to brush her cheek with one cold hand.
"Let Longbottom go," he said simply. "It's high time you did. How can you be with me and fight for my side when you still cling to him?"
She hesitated, torn. He forced her to look into his eyes.
"Let him go," he repeated. "Let them all go. You've been reborn with the Horcrux, sweetling. Take the gift it's offering you. Can't you feel it?"
Hermione closed her eyes. He shook her gently, and she opened them again. His eyes were intent, like fire trapped in ice.
"You pinned your last hopes on Longbottom—do you really think he can save you, at this point?"
"I don't care if he can't save me," she replied, agitated. "I just wanted him to save Lucio."
"So you thought they would protect the spawn of the very wizard they've been working to destroy for years?" He chuckled. "Sweetheart, they'd gut him as soon as they'd get their hands on him."
She flared. "They'd never."
"And how do you know that? Longbottom's morals have loosened considerably since you last really knew him. His loyalty was to you, not the son you created with the Dark Lord."
"Show me proof. How do I know you're not manipulating me?"
"You can ask him yourself when you see him next. Our friend George isn't the only one who's been changed by the war," Draco said. "Has he told you exactly what he's done in service to me?"
"No," Hermione said. "He just said he was a spy."
Draco's expression was almost one of pity.
"You'll have to wait to hear it until he comes back, then."
She stared at him distrustfully.
He kissed her, his lips pushing urgently on hers, backing her into the wall. Hermione could only cling to his lapels as he ravaged her mouth.
Let him go, he was saying again. His tongue invaded her mouth. His hands were everywhere. You can't be who you were meant to be if you keep clinging to ghosts.
What am I meant to be? She asked scornfully.
His teeth clamped down on her bottom lip.
Hellfire.
She twisted in pain, blood smearing between their mouths.
When he pulled back, they were both panting. His eyes were clear and fevered, his lips red and wet. She felt her own blood dripping from her chin. Her lip smarted and ached badly, but she felt almost disconnected from it after the initial pain.
Draco reached out again, his index and middle fingers caressing her lower lip, healing it. The blood vanished. The pain receded.
When he spoke, his voice was ragged with want.
"What does the past matter when you've got so much future to work with?"
Please him now. Destroy him later.
"You're right," she said.
She felt his minute surprise in the way he cocked his head slightly as if he had expected her to argue.
"Sometimes I hate you for it."
He instantly recognized his own words from her mouth and smiled. He took her hand and they resumed walking.
She thought of Neville the last time she had seen him. How tightly he had hugged her. His tears of relief. His promise.
Did she want to hear whatever he'd done that Draco had alluded to? No. Yes. Would it ultimately change the decision she had just made?
No.
She had picked a side. There were no blurred lines here. She could not toast Draco and his followers and claim herself a victim, could not murder an innocent prisoner of war and pretend there was still a chance for salvation. That meter had run out long ago, and she had been naive to hold on to nothing but fumes.
Pain changed people. War changed people. She had seen it in George. She had seen it in herself.
It had inevitably changed Neville, too. The extent to which she was yet to hear, as with George, but she knew already it would change her view of them permanently. And now came the determination to steel herself to whatever it would be, because it would surely dismay and shock her.
She envied Draco for his lack of empathy, his ability to feel nothing.
His face above hers, pale and worried, flashed across her mind's eye.
Well, almost nothing.
What peace that must be. No wonder he was so good at being a monster.
She thought of Neville, pored over some of her favorite memories from when they had worked together at Hogwarts as Head Boy and Girl.
Once she would have felt an acute pain from the memories, and it was still there now, but dulled.
Curious, she grasped for the pain. Tried to wrench it back open.
It resisted.
So this was it. The transformation was well underway.
She should have felt terrified.
Instead, she felt along its jagged edge, wondering how much else it might take.
Everything, a new voice whispered.
She frowned, actually alarmed. The voice was not of her active consciousness. Terrifyingly, it sounded almost like her own, but distorted. Was Draco behind this? Or was this the voice of her Horcrux?
I'll take everything, delicious one, and I'll make you anew.
They had reached the dining room. Draco had paused with his hand on the doorknob, watching her closely.
Did he know what was happening? Something told her he did.
Had he gone through the same thing? Had he heard a voice, too? Had it also sounded like himself?
She felt unsteady. Displaced.
Sensing her distress, Draco kept her stare and inclined his head as if reassuring her.
Then came his voice in her head.
It's alright, he said. I'll guide you through this.
She took a step forward, afraid and curious as to if the voice would come forward again.
Let it burn you, sweetling, Draco was saying. Let it burn your past away. Take these last steps to take your first.
Conflicted, she breached the gap between them and he pressed his forehead to hers briefly, closing his eyes, his lips parted—not seeking a kiss but savoring the moment, as if he had waited for this for a very long time.
They pulled apart after a moment and entered the dining room together.
Lucio had his back to them but Pansy was standing on the opposite side of the table facing the door, and as they approached them Pansy's eyes locked with Hermione's, and she knew she had seen everything.
Pansy gave a minute raise of her brows as if inquiring she were ok.
Hermione made herself nod. Draco had pulled out her chair for her and she sat, then he did.
She had no appetite but made herself eat under Draco's close watch.
She wondered if that fire was still burning away at her now, why she couldn't feel it actively as it changed her.
At least let me be aware of my ruin so I may mourn it.
But she had been mourning all this time, before the construction of her Horcrux. What was there left to grieve? She had cried over her past self, over her past life, her taken innocence, too many times to count.
Would you spend the rest of your life in mourning, delicious one? Or would you seize the power I offer, and this time be the one who takes?
The voice made her freeze—it sped her heart, and yet its allure had to be acknowledged.
I have always been powerful, Hermione said to it. She kept her eyes on her plate, on the meal she had only half-finished. Her knife was cold in her hand.
Oh yes, the voice agreed silkily. Until trauma in the form of your husband took it from you. Now you have it back. What would you do with it?
How many more turns could her life take? She had started the day with her own voice being the sole occupant of her thoughts. Then came the addition of Draco's. Now she was speaking to another.
This is how madness starts, she thought to herself distantly.
By then the voice had faded. She let out a silent, shaky sigh and took a drink. Draco was distracted, asking Lucio about what he had done while he had played outside. Lucio engaged, but his interaction with his father was much less animated and affectionate than it had been previously.
Hermione pushed away her plate, the voice's question still rising in her head.
After dinner Draco escorted her to the bedroom, his hand on the small of her back. They walked in silence but when the door had closed behind them, his voice emerged in her head, rising above her train of thought.
Take that dress off for me, sweetheart.
She closed her eyes and did it—he circled her, his eyes ravenous.
She opened her eyes and found him in front of her, only a whisper away, his fingers trailing over the delicate lace of her lingerie. Her breaths were shallow.
This too, he said, but his hand at her bra tapped at the joining between the cups and it split, fell apart—her breasts spilled out.
Take off the rest.
She obeyed, bending down to undo her garter belt and slip out of it, then carefully pulled her underwear down and off.
He stared.
She straightened, met his eye.
He turned, went to the armchair by the fireplace and sat down, his legs spread.
Her stomach sank.
His eyes glowed from their proximity to the fire's light.
Come to me, wife.
She did so, raging internally, her face blank. When she had reached the chair she anticipated his next order and before he could utter it, knelt down before him.
Don't worry, sweetling, he reassured her. You'll get your turn, and I'll take my time, but this was all I could think about this morning.
She reached up, brushed his robe aside, undid his trousers and freed his erection from it. She scooted closer to the chair and his hands wove into her hair as she closed her mouth around him.
Draco moaned. His hands pushed her head gently down on as much of him as she could manage until she braced her hands on his thighs and squeezed. He stopped, let her tongue roam. He held most of her hair in his fist, keeping it from her face.
"What do you think Martin's reaction would be if I had you like this at our next session?" He asked, chuckling, then cut off with a moan.
Don't you dare, she replied.
He made a gesture with his fingers and she jolted in surprise as an invisible hand rubbed at her intimately.
Don't be afraid, he said. That's for you to help you warm up, sweetling. I want you soaking and ready when it's your turn.
She was clearly uncomfortable with it—Draco paid it no mind. She would change her mind soon enough. And if she didn't, it didn't matter.
She lowered her mouth to him again. That silky wetness, the heat of that mouth—his eyes fluttered shut as she pulled back to breathe, let her lips tease at his head. She shifted anxiously as the invisible hand at her vulva continued to tease and rub, gently stroking her. Anything he pictured it doing, it followed. He sent it to her clit, and she gasped as the invisible hand began to coax it. Lust pulled taut inside him like a bowstring. His hand tightened in her hair and hips pushed up—she gagged.
You're a wonder, Hermione, he said, his voice laced with pleasure. You perfect witch.
She paused.
Would you still think that if I bit down right now? Her tone was casual but menacing. It only made him harder. The tip of her tongue traced him slowly—Draco pushed up again and she suppressed her gag, withdrew from him to take in a breath.
His lids were lowered and his clear eyes glazed. His cock was glistening from her mouth. Hermione took him back in, her hand pumping him as she bobbed her head up and down on it, fighting the urge to press her bum backwards more firmly into the touch of the invisible hand, which by now had her successfully wet. She felt herself throb with need.
I think I would, he said. His moan filled her head. I've bitten you enough—it's only fair. But mind, sweetheart, I'd rather you do it somewhere else. You said you'd never miss any part of me, but I don't think Potter could ever fuck you half as well as I can, nor could anyone else. If this is the only part of our demented marriage you eventually came to not entirely hate, why get rid of it?
The finger at her clit applied more pressure—she bucked and barely managed to quiet her moan but Draco felt its brief vibration against his cock and hissed. He made the hand increase its speed at her clit, and suddenly there was another at her entrance, impatiently sliding inside her. Hermione arched her back, and this time couldn't hold back her moan as the fingers slowly began to fuck her.
That's right, he crowed. Let me fill you. You're so deliciously wet, Hermione. I should have tried this sooner—I didn't know my wonderful wife liked being filled from both ends. How you continue to surprise me, wife.
If she felt any shame she masked it well, choosing not to reply.
Do you like my fingers inside you? He asked. Or would you rather have my cock between your legs?
Her answer came in a choked moan, quivering briefly as he paid attention to a spot that he knew she liked best. He stroked it so slowly.
Shut up, she sent back, her voice warped with hate, frustrated at the need that burned at her. Shut up and fuck me.
He almost came at that. He sucked in breath through grit teeth and his cock twitched inside her mouth. His hands tightened their hold on her hair—his hips jerked. She felt him twitch in her mouth again and continued, fighting her gag reflex. It was almost over.
The fingers inside her had increased their pace as the one at her clit stayed steady. She felt herself clench twice. Her body was growing taut—she tried to relax.
His voice was strained.
"Fuck—"
Using her hair for leverage, Draco guided her head up and down, moaning as she worked at him. Gradually he urged her to go faster, his pains to be gentle fallen to the wayside as he fucked her throat. He let her break for air a few times, but very briefly before he pulled her back down again. She was gagging, squeezing his thighs again to say she was at her limit but release was so near he ignored it. Saliva dripped down. Her eyes watered and leaked. She pounded her fist on his thigh, her eyes shut tightly as she climaxed suddenly, her body shaking.
Let me breathe—!
Just a moment, sweetheart, he hissed in equal parts pleasure and agony.
He felt his balls draw tight. He felt rather than saw her draw in her magic to either attack him or push herself away—Draco lashed out with a magic dampener (a lighter, modified version of the one he'd put on her ring) and sensed her power gutter just as he came with a groan. He dragged her to the base of his cock and kept her there as he spurted inside her. Hermione's eyes rolled back briefly as her orgasm continued—the hands at her lower body had not stopped and drew it out for longer until it bordered on painful and her body jerked, overwhelmed. She let out an exasperated, pleading sound from around his cock, her face turning dark.
Drained, he let her go, and at once she slid down and retched onto the ground before he could order her to swallow then began to cough and gasp for air. His semen gleamed in the light. She wiped at her face, breathing hard. Her body still shook sporadically from her climax.
Still rolling off his orgasm, Draco rose from the armchair and went to her, rubbed her back soothingly.
"That was cruel of me," he said out loud.
Not an apology. Just an acknowledgment.
She wiped at her eyes.
"Are you alright?" He asked.
She wouldn't look at him.
"Do I look alright?"
Draco vanished the sick from the floor with a motion of his hand, tidied her up with another. He bent down, grabbed her. She tried to pull away.
"No," he said harshly, pulling her to her feet and toward the bed. "You aren't going anywhere. It's your turn, now."
"I already came, that's enough," she said, but he was pushing her down over the edge of the bed onto her front so that she remained standing, her ass in the air, her hips in his grip. His fingers were at her vulva, playing with the wetness coating her there.
"You ordered me to fuck you, and I intend to obey my wife," he said, groping her ass.
"Then get it over with," she said, gritting her teeth.
He smirked. "With pleasure." And he pushed inside roughly.
He began to move immediately, pounding into her.
"How could I leave my wife unfulfilled?" He asked, leaning down close to pant in her ear.
"You do this for your own selfish gain more than for me," she snapped, wincing as his hands dug deep into her hips. Her legs threatened to buckle but her walls were clenching him, her need flared back up quickly. The bed shook underneath them from the force of Draco's thrusts—Hermione already felt raw.
He slowed, then stopped.
"Not entirely selfish," he said. "I think I've proven to be rather generous in certain regards, don't you think?"
His cock sank back inside her slowly, and Hermione felt every inch as it filled her. She clenched around him again and he hissed. He kissed her shoulder, worrying her skin between his teeth gently, throbbing inside her. He groaned loudly and gave sharp thrusts. Hermione gripped the sheets tightly, a flush creeping up her throat.
"You do it to show you can," she said, her voice hoarse. "Because you always need to prove you have control."
"If you really think that's true I'll let you tie me down next time," he promised, his head falling back in pleasure.
"I'll hold you to that," she said, gasping when he slapped her ass quite hard.
He chuckled. "Please do."
Hermione bit her lip, and unable to help herself, bucked against him. Draco grinned.
"Come for me," he said, reaching underneath her to palm her breasts in his hands. His fingers teased her nipples as he pounded at her, their bodies pressed together.
"I hate you," she hissed.
"Come, sweetheart."
He pushed in deeper, his hips driving into her with such force her face was pressed into the mattress, her mouth open and gasping.
"Come."
She did, her eyes screwing shut and her body quivering underneath him as he continued to thrust. Their bodies were slick with sweat. She gripped him so sweetly he came within moments, moaning her name. An idea struck him, and he brushed her hair from her back and over one shoulder. She was still in the midst of her orgasm, and barely noticed.
He waited a moment for her to come down, then reached underneath her and began to stroke between her legs. Hermione, panting, stirred and tried to turn over. He pinned her down.
"Please—"
He was still hard inside her. He began to thrust again.
Within minutes she was writhing again, begging for release. He was fucking her slowly, a hand still occupied at her clitoris, his fingers gleaming and slick with her arousal and his cum. She was pushing her hips back into him, meeting him thrust for thrust, her moans filling his ears, fueling his movements.
At her climax, she cried out his name.
Acting quickly, he drove his bite into her shoulder and began to feed.