Thirty-Seven
Day: 1512; Hour: 22
There aren't any lines in the world. There is rarely something that is starkly this and that. The world is full of colors, and on either end is white and black. But it isn't pure white and absolute black. There is nothing that is so good it's never done anything bad, and even the evilest of people have experienced something good – even if it's only love for their own self, it's still love, and Hermione has never been the sort of person to spell it backwards.
Between all these colors, this kaleidoscope of humanity and lives, there are still no lines. There are just spaces were the two colors blend, forming shades and other colors entirely. A person can go their whole lives roaming back and forth across the spectrum, or maybe staying in one spot, but nothing is easily defined. It's about principles, and the things we are taught, and the things we learn. It's about dropping off a cliff, trying to fly, and never knowing what color you land in.
Because it's about perception too. Hermione sees herself in shades of red, after pink, after white, because she has done bad things, but she is a good person. Some people see her in white. Death Eaters see her in black, or brown, in mud and dirt, dirty blood. She sees them in the almost-black too, just as clearly as they see themselves in the off-white, and she wonders at that. She thinks about it a lot. Perception. And she wonders how they all got here, in their color fields.
Maybe it was a circle. A long, arching circle, where the first Muggle-born hated some pure-blood because he looked at her weird. Maybe she spit on his shoe, and so he went and told his friends, and they all hated her. They watched her in their world, watched her have to learn the things they were born knowing, and they called her stupid. Then maybe she got top marks, or learned those things very quickly, and maybe took someone's job, and people got scared. So they told their children, watch out for those Muggle bloods. Their blood isn't pure, they're dirty. Then more came, and more became scared, and they thought, why are these people stealing our jobs? Handling our money? Making laws in our government? Why are these dirty bloods, these Mudbloods, why are they even here? They shouldn't even be here.
Then it spread. It spread and spread for generations, until the lies got thick, and the misconceptions were brutal, the perceptions became principles, and people really hated. People decided they wanted them gone, and they would kill them to do it, because it was the only sort of sense they've known since birth. Because eight generations ago, their great-grandfather had his shoe spit on. So then the colors expand, and there is a war, and people die, and then there is another war. Then a lot of crazy things happen, because people have to prove the worth of their life by taking other people's, and now everyone is scared.
It comes around the circle, and all of them are dirty now. Nothing is definable, because Death Eaters were formed by a half-blood, and in the heart that sometimes beats under her dirty-blooded ear is pure, pure blood. It comes around the circle because Blaise Zabini's pure blood is mixed with his saliva on the top of her shoe, and when she looks up, it is the one whose great-grandfather might have started it all. He's lowering his wand, and his shoulders are shaking, and all around them the colors stream.
He grabs her arm, yelling something about the meet-up point, and tugs her behind him as they run. She tugs back, and when he turns, she kisses him. Quickly, because it's not the time, but she thinks it might be the exact time he needs for her to do it. He just killed one of his old best friends, months after he had killed another, and sometimes she forgets how much harder this can be for him. Sometimes she remembers the horror-shock burning his face when he doesn't think anyone is watching.
His lips taste like sweat, and his hand is dirty when he drops her arm and presses his palm into hers. His fingers wrap tight, squeezing her hand, and then they are running again, out across the color field.
Day: 1513; Hour: 10
Ernie's fingers dance into some melody or painting in the air, and he sways to the hum and shuffle of feet around him. His lips are moving so quickly she can't tell if they are trembling or if he's ranting. His skin is pale, purple smudges under his eyes and around his wrists, and he looks frail.
"We thought he was a deserter," Harry muttered, scratching at three days of a beard on his face.
"Why?"
"His belongings left when he did."
"What happened to him?"
Harry pauses for a moment, and gestures toward the door. "I think it's kind of obvious."
"I mean, how did he become insane, Harry?" Hermione sounds snippy, but she can't help it.
"I dunno. Do I look like I carry a fact sheet for everyone?" Harry is snippy as well, and he runs his fingers through his ruffled hair with a sigh.
Their session hadn't gone as well as he hoped. The first twenty minutes went far better than Hermione could have thought, but then the accusation laced questions came. Have you ever thought that your obsession to fight alongside Harry, to possibly die alongside him, stems from an obsession with Harry? And maybe that's what it looked like, maybe it was good to ask in case it might be truth, but it never had been. You follow a man to his house when you're obsessed. Love, you follow them to war. Hermione thought there had to be a difference in there, even if it didn't always look like it. Obsession implied something other, when she was desperately clinging onto what was real.
"Come on. We have to get to Headquarters."
"Can we Floo to the Burrow first? I don't want to deal with..." she trails off, waving her hand, but he knows what she means. The lines of press, the obnoxious yelling, the flashes, the shouted questions.
"I don't know if Molly or Arthur ever cleared me to enter their Floo." He takes his glasses off, rubbing them clean on the edge of his shirt. "You can go, though. I'll meet up with you at Headquarters."
"No, we'll just Apparate." If Harry had to deal with the press, she would deal with them as well. She also didn't know if she could escape Molly's disapproving look-over of her body and the food she would shove her way. Professor McGonagall has never been understanding of lateness.
With one last long look at Ernie and a nudge from Harry, she grabs the handle of her heavy trunk and drags it after her.
Day: 1514; Hour: 0
She finishes knotting Draco's old Slytherin tie around her neck, and stares at her reflection. She stares really hard, until the back of her eyes hurt and they water, and she stares some more.
Day: 1515; Hour: 12
Hermione blinks slowly at the shelves in front of her, and then turns toward the Healer. "Is this the only supply room?"
The Healer's smile is a little sad and a lot bitter. "Indeed."
"The Ministry is going to hate this list," Hermione mutters, looking at the flaps of labels and writing down every potion name.
"They aren't going to supply us everything. You need to put everything in order of importance. Forget everything that isn't an absolute necessity. We need healing balms for internal injuries, pain-relief potions, sleeping draughts—"
"Sleeping draughts are necessary?"
"We've taken to using them for...peaceful transitions. It takes too much of the pain-relief potions to use that option."
"Peace- Oh," she whispers, getting it now. "I see."
"The Ministry, Mungo's, and the Order have been stripped down to what is absolutely necessary the past several months. Stock ingredients have dwindled, the rarer stuff is nearly impossible to find. Public suppliers are under law to give a certain portion to the Ministry, but most shops have closed down, and there aren't many people growing or harvesting what we need. Private suppliers, and what the Ministry can't rightfully take from the shops, have inflated prices due to demand and a lack of everything. We can hardly afford it."
Hermione understands this. It has been something like this since months into the war. She had seen an increase in supplies after Draco and Pansy turned themselves in, again when the Ministry passed that law, and once in a while when the Ministry seized a Death Eater's vault. Mostly, they were always low or running low. There was hardly ever enough of anything: potions, battle equipment, food, hospital beds, mission team members. Hermione has learned to deal with it. Fighting raw, Neville used to say.
She takes a breath, and crossed out what she wrote down instead of using a new sheet, because parchment is getting harder to come by as well. "Tell me what you want."
Day: 1518; Hour: 18
Harry blushes down at his birthday cake, lowering his eyes as they continue to sing and Molly dabs at her tears. There is a long silence when they finish the song, and Harry inhales deeply, making his wish as he blows out his candles. His eyes dance and he grins madly at them through the smoke, and promptly sends a piece of cake flying into Hermione's face.
War had made them agile, quick, and inventive, with exceptional aim. The cake never stood a chance.
Day: 1520; Hour: 13
It happens as she's about to turn the corner. She had been thinking of the safe Draco was hoisting back into his slipping grip, annoyed because she had been sent with him to help carry it and he was still refusing. She had been thinking about the rain soaking through to her bones and blurring her vision. She had been thinking about the wretched purple color of the fabric over the safe, hiding what it was from the Muggle passersby. She had been thinking of the plastic bag in her hands, with shingles and plaster, and other things Harry hadn't told her the reason for.
Then she had seen the black blob out of the corner of her eye, the pointed hood, and she reacts before all her thoughts are even out of her head. Her feet slosh in the puddles, kicking water up at herself and the woman next to her, and she's yelling a spell the second her vision meets the figure over the line of her wand. The woman next to her and the two business men down the street freeze, and then there is a large bang and splash behind her.
Hermione releases her breath and Obliviates the woman as she trips over the pavement in her bid to escape, and then the business man who had began to run away. Draco is oddly silent behind her as she aims her wand at the other man, still frozen in surprise, and calmly tells them all the fallen man had tripped and that they all had a very important errand in the other direction.
She looks over her shoulder as the witnesses start walking away from them, dazed, and finds him staring back at her. She opens her mouth to ask him what's wrong, but the intensity of his gaze has rain water hitting her silent tongue. She had expected him to start roaming the area for other Death Eaters, but instead he is standing completely still, looking at her as if he's trying to name the correct hue to every speck of color in her eyes.
He moves, finally, once all her bones are locked up too, and reaches forward. He pushes her wand down slowly, his eyes still trained on hers, and she looks to her lowering hand and then at the...man. The man, with no mask, wearing jeans under his coat, and his bag of groceries spilled out over the pavement. She blinks slowly at him, three times, and her breath comes in short little puffs. She had thought for sure that he had been a Death Eater. She had seen the hood, and the glint of a mask, and she had known.
She doesn't realize that Draco has moved until he's in front of her, looking at her for another long moment as if to make sure she isn't about to break down or Stupefy someone else. He turns his back, moving forward to the man, and crouching down to Ennervate him. Hermione stares, still in shock, as Draco starts talking to him and helps to collect his groceries.
It's because of the rain, that's all. The rain, and her annoyance, and her busy thoughts. She can't see properly through all this rain. He had been wearing a long, dark, hooded jacket. It was hardly her fault for reacting- Thank God, she had only Stunned him. Thank God, thank God, thank God she had only done that.
Draco is taking her wand out of her hand and she blinks away the haze over her eyes to see him fully. She curls her hands into fists that tremble, and her breath is catching in her throat, and there's a winding of tension in her chest. He pulls her rain jacket open and slides her wand into the holster, and then he starts to button her up. He buttons it to block her wand inside, to keep her from pulling it out, she thinks. Normally, he wouldn't ever do that, because none of them did. They needed to have access to their wand as quickly as possible. Normally, she would have asked him what the hell he was doing. But now... It was just the rain. It was just because of the rain.
"I...I just thought..."
"It's normal, Granger," he says lowly, his voice almost lost within the beating of raindrops.
"Normal?" she whispers back, and he may not have heard her, staring down at his fingers pushing the buttons through the slots. His fingers are probably numb – hers are.
"There was a bloke in Diagon the other day...started hexing and Stunning everyone on the street. He said all he saw were Death Eaters. This happens." He glances up at her, all grey and white, and she thinks he should disappear into everything around them, but he doesn't. "No one will know."
"Not to me. This doesn't happen to me."
He pauses for awhile, eyeing the top button, the only one left undone. She hates that one, because it makes the fabric scratch her neck and it feels like it's about to choke her. She doesn't protest when he reaches forward to poke it through the slot though, his cold knuckles brushing her throat, and she doesn't know why.
"To everyone."
Day: 1520; Hour: 17
"Sitting here, just wasting time, waiting for the war to die..." Hermione must have heard this being sung from the living room for over a half hour. She is stuck between throwing her soup at them or begging for them to give up.
There were five of them, all young and fresh-faced, and she has no idea how they managed to get alcohol. They were lucky no older wizards, or more inclined witches, were in the house, or they would have been without it after the first sound of a cap popping off. Alcohol had become a rarity, along with everything else, and if given the opportunity, a lot of people would have called seniority or proven war-earned intimidation to take it for themselves.
"Your ugly toes sure are gross...but they're the ones that I love most," a girl sings to the clumsy strum of the boy's guitar.
"What? We're writing a war song!" And laughter fills the house. Hermione doesn't mind the sound of it, but when they start singing again, she's anxious for Draco to get back from dropping off the safe. He has a habit of walking into a room and making younger people scurry.
Day: 1520; Hour: 19
She catches sight of him in the dark of the hallway as she makes her way to the loo and she jumps, rainwater splashing out of the cup and down the leg of her pajamas. "Do you have to be such a creeper?"
"I was walking down a hallway. It's not my fault your eyesight is shit, Granger. You probably damage your eyes, reading all that small text so often." He sounds amused with her snappy tone, or maybe because she's squeezing the water out of her pants and back into the cup.
"Or by looking at your face."
"It's hard not to want to take in all the details." He's smirking, she knows.
"Of horridness, then promptly burn it from my memory forever."
"Granger, with how often you stare at me, you could probably paint my portrait with your eyes closed." Still smirking then, and she glances over to see him unbuttoning his coat. She rolls her eyes when he looks up at her.
"I could say the same for you, Malfoy."
He grins as he shrugs off his coat, because he knows she usually only says his surname when she's aggravated. "I would hope so. It would be a problem if I didn't know what I looked like by now."
"That's not what I meant."
"Really?" He knew it wasn't.
"Prat," she mutters, entering the bathroom, flicking on the light, and emptying the water into the sink. Sometimes the dark scares her, when she thinks about it too much.
"When did you get the Muggle beer?" He's in the doorway now, his shoulder perched against the frame, his coat and shirt balled up under his arm. The rain and wind is cold outside, but the house still remembers that it's summer, the heat trapped from the afternoon.
It's really completely unfair that he's standing there half-naked and dripping wet. His skin gleams in the yellow light of the bathroom, water dripping from his hair and onto his shoulders, curving with the lines of his chest. She eyes a drop as it rims around his bellybutton, his soaked trousers hanging low on his hips. His nipples are pebbled from the cold, and his hair is a mess from removing his t-shirt.
"It's not mine." She clears her throat, turning her attention back to the sink, and watches the water drain. The pipes are screwed up in the entire house, and she found the tub unplugged but full ten minutes into her shower. "Some new recruits are here. When it started raining, they set them up."
They had set the beer bottles up under the leaks in the living room, and used any other sort of container they could find for the rest. The whole house is a mess, really. She can't remember if she had been here before, but if she had, she didn't think it was this bad. When the rain had kicked back in a few hours after her arrival, she had thought the ceiling was going to collapse. There were at least forty leaks coming through. Added with the hard creaking from the wind, and the pounding of rain that dulled all inside noise, she glanced at the ceiling in trepidation every few minutes.
Everything was water stained, and mold spots were scattered across the walls, interrupted by long, black streaks of water damage, peeling paint, and tearing wallpaper. The floorboards squeaked in protest with every step, and some spots were rather bouncy or completely rotted. There was a prevailing scent of mold and basement, the air damp and heavy. She understood why Harry had shoved some notes in her hand at Headquarters when he found out where she was going, and the shopping list that followed.
"I'm guessing there isn't a washer and dryer here?"
"Not that I found. I didn't go in the basement, though." She looks up at the ceiling and then at the floor, and he seems to know her fear of the house collapsing on her because he laughs.
He's in a good mood. It had actually taken her this long to realize it. Her day had been trying at best: arguing with a man over the proper paint, stunning a Muggle in the middle of the street because she had been sure it was a Death Eater, dragging herself through the rain, the annoying drunk people with their annoying guitar and annoying song, and then being stuck in a house bound to fall apart if they moved too much. It is a bad day. Not the worst day – so far removed from the worst day, that she feels stupid for even considering it a bad one. But it isn't exactly the best one, either, and she wonders why his has been different. She wants to know the reasons why he's smiling, and she wonders if it's for her. If she's the one he likes to share this with.
He's in a good mood though. Half naked, dripping wet, and laughing, and maybe her day isn't going to be so bad after all. There's a drop of water on his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, his stomach. More are trailing down his left nipple, the dip in the middle of his chest, into the hair below his bellybutton, along the line of his pelvis and into the low band of his trousers. But it's the one on the bridge of his nose that she touches, feeling it wet the pad of her finger as she follows the curve to the tip.
She watches him smile, the corner at the left coming up just a little higher than the right, and it's just for her. Only just for her. She brings her finger down, and his smile falls away as his lips part under her tracing finger. She follows down to his chin, over his throat, and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.
"You know, I watched some of that channel." His voice comes out low and deep, and it momentarily distracts her from processing what he said.
"What channel?" She's too fascinated by the journey of her finger to wonder why he's not touching her back yet.
"The music one. For dancing."
She huffs a laugh, swirling a path to his left nipple. "What did you think?"
He's silent as she circles, and then rubs, and she wonders if they're playing that game again where she has to make him break. It hardly seems fair, since she has yet to make him do it to her. She's excited by the prospect, but she's already started touching and she doesn't really have a plan to stop. Later, soon.
She's at the other nipple when he speaks again, and his voice is a rough whisper more than anything. "I figured out why you thought it was so hilarious."
She laughs, her finger pausing in its descent toward his bellybutton as she looks up at him, remembering. He kisses her then, his cold fingers curling around her nape, and his other hand skimming up from hers on his chest and to the top of her arm. His clothes fall on top of their feet, but she barely notices. He pulls her forward and steps toward her at the same time, and his lips are a lot softer than she thought they would be.
He kisses her slowly, not opening his mouth to her when she flicks her tongue against his lip. His hand drops to her hip as she slides both of hers up, wrapping her arms around his neck. His fingers are freezing against the warm skin of her back, and she pulls her mouth away and presses closer to him on instinct with the shiver that passes through her.
His fingers slide up her back slowly, mimicking her finger earlier, and then curve back down to feel the goosebumps he left. She meets his eyes for two quick heartbeats before kissing him, sucking his bottom lip between her own, and she almost smiles, though it's sort of a ridiculous thing to do. His hand leaves her nape for the large clip in her hair, squeezing it, and dropping it into the sink somewhere beside them. Half her hair falls down, surrounding them with the scent of her shampoo as he reaches up for the second clip.
She threads her fingers in his hair, feeling droplets form and slide along her wrist as he drops the second clip in the sink. When his hand disappears into her hair, he finally opens his mouth, and she delves inside to taste the cold and him. She scrapes her nails across his neck, gently, and he pulls her tighter, his arm dropping to wrap around her waist. He holds her hip, her shirt bunching in his fingers, and his other hand still exploring the warmth of her back.
She opens her eyes, just for a moment, curious, and finds his own closed. She's about to study him when he slips into her mouth, curling his tongue around hers, and her eyes close automatically as she hums. She can feel his smile in response, and she smiles back, because she doesn't know what else to do with the emotion. Their position, the exploratory slowness with which he is kissing and touching her, the intimacy, and the odd sweetness to such a snog reminds her of when she gave him her virginity.
Draco likes a lot of foreplay with sex, but it's all very touch, kiss, lick, tug, pull, grabsuckbite. Not that this is the first time he kissed her like this before sex. Before usually meant that she was in need of more comfort than losing her mind at that moment; or, more likely, because he was starting an absurdly slow burn that usually left her shaking, half-delusional, and with her throat raw by the end of it. Maybe it was from her previously sour mood, or what she had done today, or just because he felt like it. Whatever it is, she needs it, but she always needs it. Needs…
"Where's your room?"
She hardly cares about that at the moment, so she kisses him again and he lets her. His kiss is edged out with more demand now, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. She swirls her own around it, sliding her palm over his shoulder and down his chest. By the way his fingertips just edge into her pajamas, she knows he's about to take her on a journey, and it isn't one fit for the bathroom wall.
She pulls away from him reluctantly, almost changes her mind at the half-hooded look he gives her, and grabs his hand. She trips over his clothes as she moves around him toward the door, and thrusts an elbow back when he laughs at her. It meets air and then he is pressed against her back, his wet hair clinging to the side of her face, and his breath on her skin. His fingers skim under her breast, and he keeps his hand in hers as his mouth, warmed by her own, greet all the places on her neck that missed him.
"Shit," he breathes, and she's strangely happy it took him a good twenty seconds to draw his attention away from her enough to notice.
There are eighteen leaks in the ceiling of her claimed bedroom. One of them is a hole big enough to claim the rubbish bin for. The floor is littered with bowls, cups, pots, and the tin can her dinner had come in. It forms a symphony of rain, between the beating of it on the ceiling and the different echoes it made in her rain catchers.
"The, mm..." Draco is apparently done with surveying the room, and has returned his mouth to her neck. "The new recruits were here bef-"
She purrs when he sucks on the spot behind her ear, pressing back into him as his fingers stretch under the band of her pants and draw circles on the bottom of her stomach. He releases her skin to grin, she knows, like he always does when he manages to get that reaction from her. The first few times she had had no idea why that suddenly became a sound she could make, why she couldn't stop doing it despite how embarrassing it was, or why he always grinned when she did it. She figured she sounded like an idiot to him too, until one time she caught him muttering Gryffindor and something, something little kitten between his grin and her thigh, and she knew.
When his fingers make no movement downward, she turns in his arms, and he kisses her before she can even see him fully. She runs her hands down to his trousers, nudging him back to reach the button, and glares when he steps away completely. He smirks at her surprised look when he turns to shut the door she hadn't noticed was still open. He always closed it behind him when he entered the room last, so she didn't even think of him not doing so. He likes it when he distracts her enough to forget the simple things, or everything but him. He had been like that when they were kids – always wanting the attention, so long as it was positive.
When he pulls his palm back from the wood, it sways back open, and he pushes it shut again, his other hand pausing in the air when he sees the lack of a doorknob. She had forgotten about that too. He looks around quickly, because the war had made them resourceful no matter how little of resources they had. He grabs her trunk, yanking it in front of the door far easier and smoother than she had done earlier. He pulls his socks off next, one blue and one green, and she sees the empty space for the first time. He always wore socks unless they were doing this, and it isn't like she stared at his feet then. He even wore them just to sleep, though she always found it annoying to sleep in socks, like her feet were being suffocated. It was probably because of living in the dungeons at Hogwarts, or just because he is weird like that.
She looks up from the strange empty spot between his toes, and he's glowering at her. The socks were stuffed into the hole where the doorknob should have been, and he had probably been staring at her while she stared at his...nub. "It's cute," she tries, and rushes on when he scowls, "in a very...sexy, soldier sort of way."
His eyebrow hikes, and the left side of his mouth goes up, down, up, like he's trying to suppress a laugh. "What?" She can hear the laughter pulling at the back of his vocal chords.
She digs for some sort of vocabulary, wishing she hadn't even said anything. He likes to push the conversation or make her explain herself when she says something that embarrasses her and he finds funny or arousing. She shuts her mouth and glares at him, and he breaks, laughing. "Oh, shut up."
He steps forward and reaches for her hand, which she pulls back in annoyance, so he grabs her hips instead and pulls her toward him. She has to drop her glare to his shoulder but it doesn't stop the laughter bubbling up, and then she's joining in with him, because his happiness has become contagious to her.
"Prat," she mutters as he laughs between the kisses he presses to her neck. His fingers clench on her hips before grabbing her shirt and lifting it over her head.
"A prat with sexy toes, apparently."
She blushes again, rolling her eyes. She pushes at his shoulders but it doesn't mean anything because he hardly moves, and she's grabbing them a second later. She lifts herself to her toes, bringing her mouth to his jaw, determined to make him forget her comment. He hums, and she can feel it in his chest when he presses against her and in his throat, under her lips. His chest is dry from her shirt, but still cold against her skin, and she shivers with the feel of it. As soon as she moves her lips to his shoulder, he bends his head, his tongue gliding over the goosebumps as his fingers run the length of her spine.
He's unsnapping her bra as she licks the rain drops from his collarbone, and then it is completely black around them. Both their heads jerk up, and she makes for the bedside table and her wand, but Draco's arm has turned into a vice around her. He moves against her, and she can feel him pulling his wand from his pocket. He always kept it there once he removed his holster, and every night he would take it from his pocket and shove it under his pillow.
His arm moves wildly between the sounds of the rain catchers, and then they are completely still, both of them holding their breath. There is no wind against her and the outside sound is still muffled, which means the windows are shut. The trunk hasn't scraped against the floor, so the door is shut, and there are no voices outside of the room.
"That beer made me blind!" a male voice yells, distant, and then laughter.
"The electric went out from the storm, you idiot!"
"Oh, shit." A third voice.
"Do we have candles?" A fourth.
"Everyone remember that we're not supposed to use mag-" the second voice starts.
"Hello, Captain Obvious!"
"Shut up! I'm not the one who thought I was going blind!" Laughter again.
"Just go to bed!" A fifth.
No spells being yelled out, no screaming or creaking wood. She sucks in a breath and Draco follows, though both of them are still for several more seconds, making sure. "I used the last of my candles a few months ago. Do you have any?"
She doesn't know why she whispers it. Maybe it's because it's the dark, and there have been years where that meant to keep quiet. Maybe it was just something in humans – people always tended to talk a little lower when it was dark around them. Something about the softness of the night, or the way it hid away faces.
"No," Draco whispers back, and his arm lets up the death hold.
Thunder tears its way through the room, and she jumps when his fingers slide across her back. He gives a start when she touches the back of his shoulder, and sways them forward when she kisses his jaw instead of his mouth. She searches for it, trailing kisses across his skin until she meets his nose. She hovers for a moment, and it's him that moves forward, his lips soft and lax as they meet the corner of her mouth. He uses them to feel the way, just brushing them across hers as he reaches for her bra again.
His wand is still in his hand, poking her in the back as he unhooks, and she presses her lips more firmly to his, too impatient for almost-kissing. There's a pause as more laughter echoes down the hall, and then he slides a finger under one strap and his wand under the other, pulling them down her arms. She flicks her tongue against his, kissing him hard, and it distracts him enough for his hands to pause, his body rocking into hers. It pushes them back, and she gasps in surprise at the icy drizzle of water sliding down her back.
"What?" Draco asks gruffly, and she pulls her nails back from his arms.
"The water. It's freezing." It's still as dark in the room as it was when she closed her eyes. There is no fraction of light for her eyes to adjust to the shadows, to even make out shapes. Outside of sleep, she's only ever known that sort of darkness during missions.
It makes her heart start thudding harder than Draco already had it, though she knows the enemies aren't here, and she can feel the polished smoothness of his wand down her ribs. Her bra drops somewhere over her shoulder and she presses herself against him, escaping the water and her thoughts. She focuses on the way his skin feels against hers, and the quick thumping of his heart under her mouth.
His hands are skimming up her sides as hers slide down his chest, wondering at how well her hands know him. The scar that runs on until...here, the one that curves in just another inch...here, the ridge of the muscle in...this spot, the way his muscles contract if she scratches her nails just...there, the freckle right...here, that spot he likes for her to bite right... He moans, cupping her bum and pressing her tighter against him. She grins, having never really noticed before just how well she knows his body.
He is one of her favorite subjects though, and she's always studied hard, and oh, God, how well he's taught her. Her mouth leaves his nipple as her hands meet the button on his pants, and she lowers herself down with the journey of her lips. He makes an annoyed sound when her bum is too low for him to fondle, settling for her back and then her shoulders. His stomach stops moving with breath for three seconds when her lips follow memory and press kisses along a scar near the bottom of his stomach. She unzips his pants, yanking them to his ankles.
She reaches for his underwear, her fingers curling into skin instead, and there's a short, breathy laugh above her. She pinches his thigh and he jumps a little, either at the little jolt of pain or the fact that he couldn't see it coming. She kisses the spot next and he jumps again, his hand reaching down for her hair.
"Cheater," she mutters, having been curious of just how jumpy she could make him when he could only know what she was doing once she already did it.
"Hm?" He gives a tug to her hair, and grabs her arm with his other hand, pulling her up by her arm so quickly she's almost dizzy.
She forgets what her reply was going to be when she's pressed into him again, the bit of hardness she had felt earlier now long and rock hard against her stomach. He uses his grip on her hair to angle her lips properly, and kisses her fiercely. His tongue is demanding, like he's claiming ownership of her mouth, and she's glad. Most times, she loved when Draco took his time about it, no matter how frustrated it made her. Other times she would try to turn him on to the point where he snapped and just did it already, but it usually didn't work. Her relationship with his control, intact or gone completely, was one of love and hate, depending on her mood – and that counted for outside the bedroom, as well.
Sadly, within the two minutes it takes for his hands to roam the length of her body, her pajamas and knickers to be discarded, and her back to hit the floor, he got himself back together. The warmth of his body leaves hers completely until she's on the verge of making sure he didn't faint or something, and then she feels his mouth on her stomach. She pushes up into him, but then he's gone. Seconds pass as she scans the black, and then his kiss again, on her bellybutton.
She holds her breath, waiting, but it's not until she released it that he's back, his mouth hot and wet between her breasts. She reaches up for his head but it's air that greets her grasp, and her hands smack against her skin as she drops them. She can feel his grin a few seconds later, at the bottom of her stomach.
"Draco," she huffs, arching her hips.
Silence, and then, "Hm?" as he hums against her inner thigh.
She pants, trying to reach again when his hair tickles the underside of her breast and his lips meet her ribs. Again he's gone, back into the blackness he's using to his advantage. "You know what, you-" She hisses as his tongue moves up her slit. "Yes, okay."
Gone again, and she whimpers before promptly pressing her lips shut. He kisses right above her knee, then his skin brushes her hip, then his tongue just a little too far right to meet her nipple. He notices and licks his way over, and around, and she manages to grab his hair this time. It stops him from pulling back and he doesn't seem to mind, sucking her nipple into his mouth and rolling it with his teeth, his fingers brushing down her stomach. She moans loudly, her head falling back, and tugs on his hair to bring him up to her. He refuses, nipping and swirling his tongue in a path to her other nipple.
He slides a finger down her slit and prods forward, growling when he must realize just how much she doesn't need for him to be taking his time about it all. He replaces his mouth with his hand and pushes himself downward. She lets go of his hair when she decides that she rather likes his direction and it might be better than kissing him at the moment. She moans, her head thudding against the floor when he pushes a finger inside of her. He pumps it, adds another, gets her fingers curling back into his hair and digging against the floor. He starts to circle his tongue around her clit, and some strange, inhuman gurgle of sound tears from her throat as her hips buck up.
"Dra-" She cuts off on a groan when he pulls away from her completely, and she hears him hum, a suck, and then a smacking sound in the dark.
Something clinks in front of her followed by the sound of water. Draco curses as water starts hitting tin, adding a different sound to the symphony of rain around them. Lightening cracks so close it might have been outside the window, and for a second, the whole room is lit. She can see him kneeling between her legs, half turned toward the knocked over can. The side of his face is red, his mouth gleaming wet, and he's so hard and swollen it might be painful. He's just turning to look at her in the light but then it's dark again, sucking them back into the void of night.
She makes a break for it, deciding she's had enough, but he's moving toward her at the same time. She thinks it's his shoulder that meets her chest, and she grunts, reaching up to grab him. His head clips her jaw, judging by his hair, and her teeth clink together. She lets out an injured noise, and this was supposed to go a lot smoother.
"That's why you should have stayed where I told you to stay," Draco drawls, voice gruff but somehow smooth over her, like something she might want to crawl into. "Are you alright?"
"I'll do whatever I please. And-" She cuts off when his fingers locate her thigh, pinching it.
"All is normal then," he mutters, and his nose slides against her cheek, jaw, and stops on her neck. He's murmuring against her skin, between the kisses and licks, but she can only make out odd words like 'show', 'see', 'do', 'beg', and 'so fucking good'.
She scrapes her nails up his back and then grabs his face, bringing his lips to hers finally. He grabs her face as well, pushing them both back until she's lying on the floor again. She thrusts her tongue into his mouth, the line of his teeth, the softness of his gums. She claims it in much the same way as he had hers earlier, and he moans, thrusting himself against her stomach. She loves it when he's all pressed against her like this, his weight making it a little harder to control the rage of her breathing, but she doesn't care. The heat created between them is scorching and heavy, but it only makes her feel more consumed by him.
Lightening cracks again, gone by the time she opens her eyes, and she's frustrated by that and the fact that he's pulling away again. He pushes up until all she feels is his knee against her leg, and then his wet fingers tracking down her thigh. She gives a jump at the coldness, his hand leaving before both come back, cold and wet on her breasts. She squirms under his touch, exhaling heavily when it's gone.
She knows he's coming back again but she still lets out a shriek when his cold fingers wrap around her legs, and his ice cold mouth presses into her folds. His tongue is just as cold as it licks up the length of her, swirling and sucking until she's a mess of half words and trembling legs.
"So fucking hot," he rasps, and then water hits her stomach. She sucks in hard, feeling her stomach collapse, and then his tongue searching.
He sucks and laps until the puddle is gone around her bellybutton, and then slowly pours more water onto her chest. It runs through the space between her breasts – probably the place he meant to pour it in the first place – and it spans into little rivulets down her stomach. He tries to find each path with his tongue in the dark, and he's halfway through when it becomes too much of not enough.
"Draco, sit up for me?" She almost doesn't recognize her own voice, and she clears her throat, but it still feels heavy.
"What's wrong?"
"I just need you to sit back for a second."
He's silent and still for four crazy beats of her heart before he does as she asked, but she can practically feel the nervous tension in his body. She pushes herself up, her legs trembling, and she wobbles on her knees for a second. She reaches out, touching his chest half an arm's length in front of her, and his hand comes up to wrap around her wrist.
"Gran-" She cuts him off when she pushes him back, hard, both hands.
"I swear, Draco," she speaks over his surprised grunt as his back hits the floor, and the clink of tin again.
She swears, because there are a lot of things she would like to do to him. She wants to tease him with her hands and her mouth until he begs her, but right now she doesn't have the patience. He likes to push her to the edge, he loves to be the one that makes her lose control – he's told her himself. But he's driven her to a point where there's a wild need inside of her that makes her put thought second to action, to demand, and she can be embarrassed about that later. When he's not right here, as exactly as she needs him.
That was the thing about the dark too. There was something about people not seeing your face. There was something that could bring out the animal in people, or confessions on the animal they had once been. Her friends used to tell her secrets in the dark. She had told her own. I'm a witch, she had said. I can do magic. They had laughed. Her neighbor tried kissing her in the dark, on a rock in his backyard, and she had been the one to laugh. She had run for her life in the dark, and killed in the dark, and cried in the dark when she found herself alone. It was as if the night could steal the moments from the morning.
Maybe she would have still done it with the lights on. Right now, she doesn't really care, because she's too focused to be shy about it.
"Swear..." He moans, jerking his hips up when she wraps her hand around him.
She crawls up his body, getting herself in the right spot by feel. She thinks of something witty to say, or sexy, or something fitting at all, but she's lost. She's never really done sexy as far as she knows, and... She glares at black when he starts to sit up, and she positions him where she wants him, sinking down the second his hands meet her ribs.
They both moan, and she looks up toward the ceiling, thanking God – which seems completely inappropriate, but she's pretty sure God knows she acts a bit inappropriate with Draco in general, so it might be okay. Draco's forehead hits her shoulder and his arms wrap around her, hissing curses into her skin as she starts to move. She always forgets just how fantastic this is with him. He filled her all up. Filled her up there, and here, and there, and here. Filled out her skin and ballooned her up and out with all these pretty, beautiful, dirty things.
She shuts her mouth firmly when she hears herself repeating the word 'balloon', latching onto it in a nonsensical mantra. Draco doesn't seem to notice, or care, his own words lost beneath the rain catchers music and the sound of slapping skin. "Beautiful," she can make out between random groans, mumbles, hisses, and curses. She smiles, her stomach rolling, and feeling stupid for it. Stupid and filled up. Yes, beautiful. This pretty, beautiful, dirty thing they made together.