Notes: Thank you all. I wanted to take the time to mention why I've given Draco a curse that can't be helped and can't be healed. I've been wanting to incorporate chronic pain into a story for some time and this seemed a good opportunity. It fits with the magnitude of suffering his character has endured (more to come on that in later chapters) and it allows me to share my experiences with pain. I have a chronic, incurable illness that in a lot of ways seems to me like a curse. I didn't do anything wrong to get it. There was no accident. My body just slowly, but surely started failing me. Much like Draco, I am perfectly healthy on paper. What I have won't kill me, but at this point in modern medicine, there is no treatment beyond diet modification and a handful of medications. I have tried them all and none work except diet. So I have good days and bad days. I don't know what tomorrow will hold, but I know it's likely I'll be in pain. But will it be low enough to ignore and live or will it be so much I wish I could be anywhere else, anyone else? It's a struggle with the fear of the pain and the acceptance of it. But if I don't accept it, then it rules my life and that's no good either. Anyway, likely more than you ever wanted to know about me. But when Draco talks about pain in this story, he speaks for me.

Warnings: Sexual content

~*~ Eighteen ~*~

Weeks passed, the bite of winter lingering in the stones of the castle walls. The rest of her housemates returned and Malfoy disappeared with Tom and his disciples often, the boys melting into darkness and not reappearing for hours on end. Hermione wasn't even curious about what twisted activities they might engage in when no one was looking. She'd seen enough of the duels between Tom and Malfoy over the holiday to know it was nothing good—all dark magic and pain. She knew Malfoy could hold his own, perhaps better than anyone she'd ever known, and to worry about Tom would be pointless. The entire charade was his construction and none of the other boys would dare move against their charismatic leader, not when they knew the depths of agony he could incur should they step out of line.

She supposed she was no longer in denial about that, at least. Tom may have only killed Myrtle accidently, but he was hardly innocent. The spells he commanded, the ruthless abandon he'd shown while unleashing them upon Malfoy; she knew he was rotten, charming smiles hiding deadly power. Somewhere, deep within the tatters of her soul, she'd begun to suspect he was beyond redemption. But while she might acknowledge the dangerous power that hung like a shroud about him, she couldn't bring herself to quit him. She'd been right when she'd labeled it as a drug, a need so deep and beyond reason. The way he made her feel, the ecstasy that erased the agony, was impossible to let slip away.

So she stayed with him, let his hands roam her curves at all the wrong times and lost herself in the feel of him filling her, hijacking her every sense until there was nothing left. Which is why she didn't flinch away as Tom's hand brushed just above the waistband of her skirt, fingers trailing fiery lust, his eyes locked on Malfoy's over a game of wizarding chess. She didn't look at the man seated across from them; he'd seen this before. Tom tended to be possessive with the other Slytherins, but it was only with Malfoy that he touched her so deliberately.

The game continued and so did his caresses. Hermione let her head fall back against Tom's shoulder, hazy stare directed at the fireplace beyond the chess board. She could feel Tom's burgeoning desire as he shifted her in his lap, subtly grinding her down on him. She swallowed, yearning for the promise that gesture held. Aside from that night in the Great Hall, he hadn't pushed too far in public, hadn't even reached beyond the protective layers of her clothing. Instead he trailed innocent, but tantalizing caresses across what skin was exposed, teasing until she was squirming with heady desire. She'd learned to go with it, that the sex afterward was well worth the minutes of teasing and the discomfort of such public, possessive touches. Malfoy never actually watched anyway, his focus steadfastly on Tom or whatever game lay between them. Perhaps that's why Tom persisted, intent on at last drawing a reaction from his stoic companion.

She relaxed into Tom, melting into the languid stroke of his hand against her feverish skin. They hadn't talked about the night in the great hall, and Tom had given no indication of his plans for them. But neither had he walked back his words. The whole of Slytherin now gave her almost as wide a berth as their king, a tacit acknowledgement of her advancement through their ranks. If her position bothered some of the more ambitious boys, Tom was… persuasive enough for them to hold their tongues. It was odd to suddenly be alone, even her time with Malfoy and Aurelia restricted by the altered perception. She belonged with Tom and all of Slytherin was there to remind her. She shook her head, catching a glimpse of stormy eyes boring through her. She held Malfoy's charged stare for only a second before letting her lids slip shut, her head settling against Tom's firm shoulder, ebony curls silken against her cheek as she inhaled the comforting scent of cloves. She was so very tired and at least Tom never judged her decisions.

The game was over. She frowned, not remembering it, not remembering what conversation had passed between them, barely able to sense anything but the pleasure simmering beneath the surface of her skin. She was lifted to her feet and then she was following Tom, letting him lead her to the prefects' bath.

He swung her toward one of the sinks, leading her hands to grip the porcelain edges, the chill chasing up her arms. His lips were hot against her neck as his hands hiked her skirt, all propriety long forgotten now that they were alone. He nudged her legs gently apart, a hand stroking down her spine in a gesture that had her trembling. His lithe fingers dug into her hips to a moment before skating beneath her knickers. Hermione moaned, head falling back against his broad chest. She caught his eyes in the mirror, dark and languorous as they bored into her. Her breath caught in her chest, the magnitude of his stare supplanting even the tantalizing brush of his fingers. He was usually so controlled, even when they surrendered to their passion, but now he was raw, emotion drowning his sapphire eyes. She tumbled over the edge before she realized she was on the brink, the sight of him so unfettered too much.

She could feel the rattle of Tom's chest and the frantic beat of his heart as he withdrew his hand. Luminous eyes locked with hers, he shifted, the clank of his belt hitting the floor echoing in the empty bath. Hermione trembled as he sank into her, her hips pushing against the cool edge of the porcelain. He pulled her tenderly back against him, removing the pressure of the sink. Only once she was steady did he continue, a claiming thrust that had her keening and pushing back against him.

"Merlin, Hermione," he moaned, voice dulcet velvet. A hand snaked through her hair, softly tugging her head back to stare at the mirror. "Now I want you to watch me. Can you do that for me, precious? Not a single blink until I'm coming inside you."

The pleasure was at a fever pitch already and his words simply set her further aflame. She stared into those liquid sapphire eyes as everything else evaporated into a haze of ecstasy and spiced clove. Time was gone again, but this time at Tom's behest, and she welcomed the blur which held nothing but carnal satisfaction and swirls of sapphire.

Sometime later awareness crashed back into her. The chill of the ledge by the bath through her disheveled skirt, the crusting drip of spent pleasure against her thighs, the realization that she was utterly alone in the bath. She was seated at the edge of the giant tub, the taps turned to hot, but Tom was gone. She turned the water off, frowning. Her breathing was oddly labored as she moved to clean the mess between her legs with her wand before drenching her face in violently cold water from the sink. She felt exhausted, as if she'd just taken all her OWLs and NEWTs in the same day. Shaking the water from her face, she moved carefully toward the door, mindful that certain parts of her anatomy were decidedly sore. It wasn't unpleasant, but it told her just how much she didn't remember.

The hall was clear outside the bath and she took a tentative step forward, praying to Merlin and Godric and whoever else might listen, that she could make it back to her room unnoticed. Her luck ran out almost immediately as a hand shot out from the nearest doorway and she was propelled into the adjacent room.

Hermione stumbled, her legs still wobbly, nearly collapsing on the bed. Malfoy stood across the room, eyes dark and chaotic in the dim light of his room. His lips curled as he took full stock of her appearance, of the scents she was sure still clung to her skin. He closed the door with a flick of his wand and then recited several complex locking and silencing incantations. When the last of the spells settled into the wood of the door, he turned back to her, dark tempests behind frozen eyes.

"I can't do this anymore, Granger."

She frowned at him, unable to read anything beyond his clear distain. "Do what?"

"Watch you throw it all away." A hand raked through the midnight strands that now rakishly kissed the slope of his shoulders. "You came here with a purpose, a way to prevent everything and now you're… nothing but a bloody whore."

The insult slid into her like a blade between the ribs. But she was used to such abuse from him, was perhaps even glad of the reminder of just how barbed his tongue could be. She pursed her lips together, ignoring the slight as she replied, "If I recall correctly you weren't interested in my mission at all. You thought killing him was a fool's errand and you wanted nothing to do with it."

"I didn't," he admitted. "I didn't want to be stuck in yet another universe where Voldemort ruined bloody everything. But we're not where we were in September, are we? I've tried to support you, to figure this out with you, but it isn't working. The situation has gotten out of hand and you bloody well know it. You reek of him and stale sex, Granger. It's disgusting."

Her teeth ground. "I could stop."

"No," he shook his head, a hint of emotion crossing his angled features. "No, I'm not sure you could. This is how you cope."

If he'd said the words with any amount of anger or spite, she might have been able to argue. But Malfoy didn't. He stated them as fact, devoid of any judgement or inflection. Tremors cascaded down her spine, her skin suddenly too hot. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, nearly incapable of forming her next words. "I lose time."

He blinked down at her from his post across the room. "Time?"

"It started during the war, after Ginny died, but before we lost Ron. It was just a moment or two, then it became a few minutes…" She sighed, collapsing onto Malfoy's bed, strength sapped and inadequacies laid bare.

He took a slow step forward, as if she might startle like cornered prey. He needn't have worried; she hardly had the energy to meet his weighty stare. "How long now?"

"Hours."

It was horrible. It was the truth. The truth she had never told Harry, the truth Tom knew only the barest hint of. The truth she had not admitted to herself until it had happened mid-battle and she'd nearly died in a pool of Neville Longbottom's blood. She assumed only her deathlike appearance had prevented her from joining him that rainy spring day.

"Do you remember what you did afterward?" It was a bizarrely practical question, but that was Malfoy, all hard edges and cold pragmatism.

"No."

She could see the tension in his jaw, the flash of danger behind those stormy eyes. "You mean to tell me, not only have you been letting Tom Riddle shag the life out of you, but you have also been doing so while not being fully conscious of your actions, without having full memory of your actions?"

It sounded a lot worse when he said it aloud, with all the pieces properly connected. Her throat was dry, syllables catching on each other as she sputtered, "I… I would know. I would remember—"

"No, you wouldn't. That's the whole bloody point of what you just told me." He gripped his temples, slender fingers digging into alabaster flesh. "What was the point of teaching you Occlumency if you weren't going to be aware for half the time you spent with him anyway? Why didn't you say something?" Now the chill of his stare was melting into burning accusation. "Despite what you seem to think, you are not in this alone. I keep bloody telling you this. I may not like you most of the time, Granger, but I'm bloody here for you. I deserve to know something like this. I deserve to know that Tom sodding Riddle likely knows everything about me thanks to your bloody blackouts."

"I don't know anything about you." Hermione knew that was hardly the point, but she wasn't wrong. She knew about rumors, about whispers of death and pain and his curse, but little else.

His full lips slipped into a mockery of a smile. "Yes. But I suppose this explains why he's so bloody intent on making me into the torture aficionado of his rag-tag death squad. Thank you, Granger. I truly live to inflict pain." Malfoy spat the last statement, pure venom dripping from every word.

Hermione did her best not to cower, not to flinch as he stalked closer, suddenly kneeling before her. It could have been a submissive gesture, but there was nothing but ire in the taut lines of his lithe frame, in the hard sneer of his lips. "Oh, Hermione. You stupid, useless moron. You came here to kill the man, but now you've given him a glimpse of all his mistakes. Now you have created a monster far more insidious than the one we fled. And it is all your fault."

"You don't know he's seen everything or even anything." She ignored the rage, the just condemnation.

"No," Malfoy admitted, "but I find it best to overestimate rather than underestimate my enemies."

"I can change him." They were desperate words, born of a hope she no longer could justify.

His smile was all bitter rancor. "You already have." When all she did was blink at him, Malfoy continued, each word coated in acid. "You made him fall in bloody love with you, or the closest thing a deranged boy like him gets to love. Whatever we knew about him, it's different now. He's not letting you or your secrets go. Think of what he did to his most prized possessions. Now think of what he will do with you." He shifted closer, breath hot against her cheek, midnight strands grazing her skin. "What he already does with you. Why do you think he's all over you in front of me, Granger?"

She chewed her lip for a long moment. Malfoy withdrew only enough to capture her stare, daring her to answer him. She swallowed numbly, genuinely unsure. "He's looking for a reaction? You never seem to react to anything he does… so he's trying to push your buttons."

"Perhaps, but why go through the bother of making me watch him with you like that? There are plenty of other ways he could get to me, especially during the meetings of his circle, but he never treats me any different than the rest of those sorry sods."

Her heart skipped a beat, then another. She blinked, shaking her head, but unable to think of another logical conclusion. Swallowing heavily, she replied, "Tom thinks you want me and he's proving that you can't have me, that I belong to him. Just like the bloody locket and anything else he… desires. He always seemed to think you and I were involved, but he knows we never were, especially if he's seen inside my head."

Malfoy's expression was inscrutable as he stared back at her, his breath ghosting across her lips. "Exactly."

"But why does he think that? He can't be right." His unfathomable eyes continued to gaze though her every defense. Her voice was barely a whisper now. "Can he? He's just being paranoid. You hate me."

His tongue trailed lazily across his lips as he shifted into her space, his silken skin dragging across her cheek on the way to her ear. His voice was hard, edges and wrath and bitter truth. "I don't have to like you to find you attractive, Granger. But unlike you, I do have some self-restraint when it comes to my dick."

His confession, if it could be called that, left a metallic taste in her mouth. She flung herself away from him, sliding back on the bed. He let her go, eyes dark, at once devoid of and suffused with emotion.

Malfoy's lips twisted. "Oh, no need to run. I'm not blind. I saw how you looked at me the minute we washed the dye out. It wasn't like a woman should look at the man who supposedly tortured so many of her friends to death. It was like a wanton hussy."

Hermione growled, low and primal. "I hate you."

"Good. At least you remember that about me. A pity you didn't remember that about Riddle before you let him spread your legs." His grin was cruel as he stood, looming over the bed.

She was tired, tired of Tom and his nefarious agenda and now tired of Malfoy and his unprovoked attack on her character. She closed a fist around his pillow—the first object she could find—and flung it at him. The green clad object thwacked him in the head. She smiled in grim pleasure at the expression of shock that crossed his severe features.

"I'm done listening to you berate me like I'm some sort of child," Hermione hissed. "I admit I have made mistakes, Malfoy. Not telling you about my lost time is probably the worst of them. But you're giving me whiplash. One moment you're the most understanding person I've ever met, infinitely patient, helping me figure out how to protect myself, checking that I'm okay. But then I wait five minutes and you're in my face, pointing out every flaw I have. Taunting me with knowledge given to you in confidence. Bloody decide whose side you're on, Malfoy, because I'm done playing this game."

He stared silently back at her, barely blinking. She could hear the throb of her pulse at her temples, feel the uneven rise of her chest as her anger abated. Still he was silent, indecipherable storm clouds within wide eyes. Hermione shifted, drawing closer to the edge of the bed. It was only when her hand grazed the side of his chest, there and gone, that he moved. He sank to the floor beside the bed, head rocking back onto the mattress, hair a midnight halo against the emerald sheets. Malfoy's lips moved silently for several long moments before he finally cut into the heavy silence.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Any of it. And I know there's no excuse for saying what I did, but I hate what he's doing to you. I hate that you let him do it. That you beg him to do it. That no matter what I say, you go back to him. I want to figure this out with the girl who punched me in the face, not…"

He trailed off and it didn't take any stretch of her imagination to know what he might have said. His previous taunts still lanced through her, their cruelty impossible to forget, but she could understand they were born of frustration, not ire. For whatever reason, Draco Malfoy truly did not seem to harbor any ill will toward her. She couldn't forgive him the outburst that had reminded her all too well of the pale boy she'd known, but she wouldn't dwell on it either.

"I hate that I want him to do it too. I hate that the only thing I've ever found to make the ache subside is lust." Her fingers ran through his dark locks, spreading them further across the sheet. "Not even love. For me, sex has never been about love, at least, not since Ron died. I don't even remember how it felt to sleep with him. Godric, I don't even remember how it felt to kiss him."

"It should be." His throat bobbed as he spoke, eyes tracing lost patterns across the ceiling. "About love, that is. Lust doesn't hold a candle to love."

She frowned, wondering just what memories hid behind that troubled visage. She continued to weave her hand absently through his hair. "But love is only pain. Everyone I have ever loved was stolen from me, Malfoy."

"Life is pain." Her focus drifted to the leg held stiffly away from his body, the other easily folded to his chest. "You can't hide from pain, Hermione. You don't need to embrace it or celebrate it, but you have to accept it, to not let it or fear of it rule your life."

"I'm not as strong as you are," she whispered, hand tightening in his hair. "I can't let myself feel it. I have to forget it."

"You are stronger than you think, but there are less destructive ways of forgetting than allowing a madman to ravish you." The statement held none of the heat of his earlier condemnations, but all of the truth.

"I wish I'd chosen you." To confide in. To sate her lust. To trust.

He stilled her hand, drawing it away from his hair. "I would have turned you down and you would have found your way into his arms anyway. Regardless, the reality we face cannot be changed. A maniac, who likely has sensitive information about his own future, is in love with you and you are incapable of doing anything but yielding to his every desire."

Hermione groaned, eyes squeezing shut. "You told me this was going to happen."

"I'm not particularly interested in gloating about this one," was his wry reply.

"Merlin, I'm in way too deep, aren't I?"

"No, Hermione, we. We are in too deep."