I find pleasure in the pain. – Daphne Greengrass
She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. She could only feel. Her porcelain skin flushed as their combined magic crackled in the air. Her cheeks were damp from the continuous stream of tears, completely overcome with the sensation of his skin against hers.
The hearth was filled with embers long since burnt to dust, yet she wasn't chilled to the bone. She was aware of the rain splashing against the window panes, vaguely; a small reminder of her tenuous grasp on reality. Spots; blood red, plum, murky black, danced beneath her eyelids.
"I can't. I can't," she cried, her bee-stung lips tingling with every nip.
Her thighs ached, the pressure of his weight bearing down on her, rocking her with its mind-numbing hypnotism. Her ankles low on his hips, her fingers slipped and slid down his slick back, desperate to seek purchase.
"This is it, Granger." Draco groaned against the crook of her neck, "you and me at the end of the day, for always."
"It's too fast. It's too much. It's illogical."
Hermione whined as each thrust of his hips set her on fire. When had it happened, she wondered. When had he become more than her partner, more than her friend? How did she make it stop? Did she want it to stop? It was insanity, wasn't it? She couldn't…love him, could she?
"Stop fighting it. I can feel it, fuck it hurts. Must you always be so bloody stubborn? Accept it already, woman."
"Have you?" Hermione tossed her head from side to side, her body begging for release.
"Marked you. Married you. Currently making love to you. What else do you need?"
He watched her shudder, felt the ripples as she clenched around him. Her wanton moans were music to his ears. He shivered, the electricity of their magic, of his impending orgasm, crashed together with his erratic thrusts. His teeth sought purchase against her mark as he spilt into her, finally, finally sated.
He felt his teeth retract and licked his lips, content for the first time in ages. He liked the way she held him still, her thin arms locked around his neck. He liked hearing the exertion in her breaths, her cheek pressed to his, her eyes closed.
"Love me," she whispered finally, unsure. "I need you to love me."
"What is happening? What the fuck is happening?!"
It wasn't often the Minister for Magic lost his temper, but under the current circumstances, it was understandable. His assistant was on her knees shouting during a Floo Call, his secretary was dodging Howlers, the Wizengamot was clamouring for immediate investigatory sessions, and it felt like the end of the fucking world. He wasn't prepared for the sort of mayhem that accompanied Muggle terrorists and Wizard accomplices.
"The Apothecary in Diagon Alley has been engulfed in Fiendfyre, the On-Duty Aurors are on scene. The Head of the Children's Charity Fund—"
"Minister! The Muggle Minister demands an audience immediately! The Muggles have uncovered a series of explosive devices, the likes of which they've never seen!" Percy Weasley's chest heaved, his frizzy red hair larger than life as he delivered the message.
Kingsley's teacup shattered in his meaty fist, the vein in his forehead pulsated. The insistent chatter blended together until he couldn't make sense of it. He was in over his head. The Wizarding World was at risk and while it wasn't the threatened annihilation that came with Voldemort, it was ominous, to say the least.
"Helga, remain in contact with Robards and Williams. They are authorized to recall all Aurors and Hit Wizards to duty to contain the threat. Percy, inform the Muggle Minister I will be arriving shortly. I will require a compiled list of reasonable suspects and at this point, unreasonable as well."
Madness and mayhem. It was absolute chaos, the likes of which he'd never seen and he'd seen plenty. He'd seen the Ministry fall for Merlin's sake and yet the influx of catastrophe combined with Muggle hysteria was overwhelming, to say the least. Kingsley practically ran through the corridors, focused on his tasks, unmindful of what lay within the shadows.
"Minister? Have you considered sending a team to retrieve Lucius Malfoy?" Zacharias Smith intercepted the Minister on the way to the lift, anxious to seem important.
"Why on earth would I do that? The Investigation cleared Malfoy of involvement and numerous eyewitness accounts—" Kingsley snarled and refused to continue his train of thought. He was overwhelmed, for obvious reasons, and it was a fucking disaster.
"Yes, sir, however, even you must admit it's a bit curious the Apothecary would be consumed with Fiendfyre after his son entered negotiations with the proprietor to purchase it. We all know Malfoy and Granger are involved and—"
"Fine, yes, if you caught sight of him, bring him directly to interrogation. I haven't the time to discuss this further." Kingsley nodded curtly and wiped the sweat from his brow, desperate to escape the suddenly stifling Ministry.
He was there. He was always there, not that they noticed. He smirked as the Minister for Magic raced past him and nodded in polite salutation. He was disregarded as he often was but it no longer caused the fires of rage to burn within him.
It was his brother's fault. He wouldn't have gone off the rails if his brother hadn't strangled the Weasley bint to death. He had plans, perfect plans. He wasn't supposed to implement them all at once, but gods, he had been utterly furious.
He had to move quickly. He had to hide that fucking body. He was so close he could taste it and he wouldn't allow anything or anyone derail his plans.
It was easier than expected to Disillusion her blue-tinged body and stuff her in the Apothecary's storage room. The Fiendfyre would destroy all the evidence if he was lucky, but luck hadn't been on his side lately. The Minister wasn't nearly as frazzled as he would have preferred and as he watched Shacklebolt in action it almost made him think the Minister was a formidable opponent, almost.
He liked the way the Ministry workers scurried out of his way. He was important, for the moment, and it exuded a certain amount of respect laced with power. He did like to feel powerful.
The explosives were his brother's idea but it was quite brilliant. He hadn't an honest distaste for Muggles but his brother did. He supposed it was years of resentment wrapped in a pretty bow of vicious insanity, not that he cared. His brother was easily malleable and he often wondered what would have happened if they had been raised together.
He resented his parents for their decisions. He harboured animosity toward them despite their death but even so, he would avenge them. It was the least he could do. They hadn't given him away and while he had missed his brother when he was small, he understood. They had been meticulous in their rearing and seen to his every need.
It wasn't his fault his brother was tossed into the proverbial bin and yet, he felt responsible to a certain extent. He had been born with magic and his parents had lavished him in love; albeit their ideas of affection were nonexistent, but they tried. He found them quite smothering when he was small, but now, as an adult, he understood.
They were Pureblood after all and birthing a Squib was quite the scandal, quite the shame, and they couldn't bear it. The new world would have been aghast at their behaviours but even the bloody Weasleys had a Squib in their ranks. They hid him away in the Muggle world and he was barely a footnote in their history.
Bitter tears pricked his eyes as he sought to find the Minister in the crowded Atrium. They were innocent, his parents. They were never Death Eaters, never dabbled in the Dark Arts. They taught him to be proud of his heritage and to remain above reproach. He knew he was conceited as well he should be. His parents chose to keep him, which made him special.
He knew they shouldn't have absconded during the War. The Order wasn't the least bit interested in them until they left. They were afraid, he knew they were afraid, and he understood it. He was terrified as well and he fucking remained. He did the best he could and it wasn't good enough.
He stifled an angry sob as he recalled the contrite Minister for Magic extending his condolences. Kingsley had the nerve to inform him his parents went peacefully, as if that would aid his grief. Apparently, his father had been eating in the garden and his mother plucking flowers when the Death Eaters barged through the mediocre wards. Shouts were heard. Threats were made. Hexes were thrown. The Aurors arrived and rather than analyze the situation, they entered the fray without regard for anyone at all.
The Minister informed him that the Auror that cast the Killing Curse against his mother had been dismissed, but it didn't bring her back. It didn't heal the gaping wound within his chest. It merely fueled the simmering rage and was the very day his plan was born.
It was only later, much later, that he discovered the meticulous records that detailed his brother's existence. They had cared for him, loved him even, but still, they gave him away. They were ashamed and allowed their shame to shroud their love.
It was unforgivable to some, but not to him. It was simply what was done with an embarrassment. It worked to his advantage. He doubted he could have hoodwinked his brother otherwise. Unforgivables were still frowned upon, prosecuted even, if one was unlucky enough to get caught. He wasn't, not yet and he planned to keep it that way.
"Wolpert, you're supposed to be shadowing Dawlish, what the fuck are you doing here?"
He lost sight of the Minister in his efforts to avoid the influx of Aurors, Hit Wizards, and Investigators. He was so close, he couldn't be discovered, not yet. He stood slightly behind a portly wizard and eavesdropped in order to garner information. It was merely one of his many talents and it had served him well thus far.
"Peasegood said—"
"Peasegood? Arnie Peasegood? Why on earth would he be directing you anywhere? You're an Auror Wolpert, Peasegood is a Hit Wizard, I'm your bloody superior, now what did I tell you?" Theo Nott spoke to poor Nigel Wolpert as though he were an imbecile and it was well deserved.
"Zabini and I were assigned to Dawlish and Weasley, but Potter snagged Zabini on account of his experience with Fiendfyre and they were sent out to Diagon Alley. Dawlish said he hadn't the time to deal with me and sent me to Peasegood," Nigel rattled off the information quickly. "Peasegood said to monitor the Atrium and left me here."
Nigel maintained his stance, carefully scrutinizing every passerby, just as he was taught. He felt important when left to his own devices. He knew he was merely a Junior Auror but responsibility aided his self-esteem. Of course, shagging a beautiful witch didn't hurt either and he was a bit anxious to return to her.
"Fine, remain here. There's been a report Lucius Malfoy is in the building. He might have been cleared of the Borgin and Burkes explosion but him being here now is suspicious considering Diagon Alley is under evacuation. If you happen to see Smith—"
"I'm right fucking here, Nott. Dawlish was bobbing and weaving through the crowd trying to avoid me for whatever reason. What the fuck is happening?" Zacharias Smith rubbed his forehead, dark eyes scouring the increasing crowd.
"The world is ending you fucking ponce, come on then!"
Theo snarled and yanked on the collar of Smith's robes, anxious to herald into the fray. He ignored Smith's eye roll and mutterings beneath his breath. He hadn't the time nor the inclination to reprimand the wanker. He was an impressive Investigator but he would have done nearly anything to be an Auror. His application was denied due to his father and he was grateful to have employment at all.
He wouldn't stand idly by while terror weaved its tangled web through his world, not again.
He was hot, incredibly hot and fairly certain he was sticky as well. His face was covered in damp curls and he carefully extracted them from between his lips.
The warm body beside him groaned in slumber and the last thing he wanted to do was wake her. His entire body was sore, places ached that he hadn't known even existed. His new wife was fucking insatiable and it would have pricked his manly pride to admit he absolutely could not shag her again.
He slipped from the bed slowly, carefully, and held his breath as her brows pinched into a sleepy frown. The position was awkward to maintain, one leg precariously on the bed, the other on the floor, but he managed until she sighed and rolled to her side.
Food. He definitely required food. Visions of hotcakes danced in his eyes and he nearly whistled a jaunty tune, nearly. He escaped quietly, practically utilising his tiptoes in order to maintain the quiet.
He set the kettle on the cooktop, slightly disgruntled he'd have to settle for a mere cup of tea when he wanted to eat the world. He had unleashed a monster and it was glorious as much as it was terrifying.
He stretched his arms over his head and shuddered in relief as his bones cracked and popped into place. He blinked and bit back a sleepy yawn as a pretty little barn owl fluttered into their suite. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the glaringly red envelope clasped within its beak.
He leapt for it, stumbled over an armchair, and cursed as he missed. The ruddy owl dropped the envelope onto the bed and had the audacity to nudge it until the seal broke. It was his mother. He knew it was his interfering, infuriating mother.
"How could you! You have ruined everything! What am I supposed to do now? Do you have any idea how much time, money, and planning has gone into the perfect wedding? Did you think I wouldn't find out? Selfish, Draco, utterly selfish! I demand your presence within the hour!"
"We knew she'd be angry but a Howler is just rude," Hermione moaned beneath the safety of her pillow.
"At least you don't have to go and put up with her. I don't want to go! I'm hungry! I'm fucking exhausted!" Draco shouted.
"You're whinging."
"Yes, yes I am! I'm not the least bit sorry either. I only managed an hour of sleep for Merlin's sake. Why is she doing this to me?"
Draco crawled into bed, the kettle long forgot. He snuggled into his wife's bare back and his traitorous cock twitched once it was nestled against her bum. Hermione, minx that she was, pushed back and he nearly cried.
"I can't. I really can't. I need food. I need rest. I didn't know my bollocks could ache from overuse. If you're not pregnant it'll be a miracle."
Hermione refused to have the same conversation again. She didn't feel ready to be a mother, she really didn't. She also didn't want to have a brood like the Weasleys either. She loved her job, less than she once had, but the idea of being nothing more than an incubator left a bad taste in her mouth.
"Don't fall asleep now, your mother will send another Howler, or worse she'll send an elf to retrieve you."
"Don't think I didn't notice the way you avoided that, Granger," Draco grumbled and vacated the bed again. "I know you think my mother wants to turn you into some perfect little society wife or whatnot, but that's not what I want."
"What do you want then?" Hermione snapped. "You're obviously anxious for an heir and—"
"I never said heir," he interrupted. "I said child. I don't care if we have all girls. The Veela bits don't care either. It's a drive, a need, to procreate but I want it. I also want to purchase that Apothecary in Diagon Alley and I'm toying with the idea of some sort of Potions company. I'm tired of the Ministry. I'm tired of chasing after dangerous criminals. I'm good at it but I don't enjoy it. I think it would be sort of nice if we worked together outside the Ministry."
Draco spooned some tea leaves into two chipped china teacups and poured water over them while he avoided her probing gaze. It was his secret and it felt strange sharing it with anyone, even if she was his wife. He carried the teacups to the bed and held his breath, bracing himself for her rejection.
"I'd need to hear your business plan. I can't make a decision without being properly informed. I'm assuming you have some sort of business model and investors or at least an idea of—"
Draco smiled as he offered her the cream and sugar. He had her and he knew it. She would put up a fuss, perhaps she'd sigh and moan a bit. She'd get after him for his laziness and claim he should have included her from the beginning, but in the end, he had her.
"There's an entire file in my office at home, er at my flat. We need a home, Granger."
"One with space for a Potions lab and perhaps a small greenhouse as well. I'm sure Neville could help us with seedlings and care, especially for the herbs that are difficult to import. There's no sense in paying astronomical prices if we can grow and harvest them ourselves." She nodded thoughtfully and he could see her fingers twitching from the desire for a quill and some parchment.
Hermione winced at the temperature of her tea as she swallowed. She hadn't the time to lazily enjoy her morning cup of tea and bit of toast. There was much to do and even more to plan. She could barely contain herself.
"Alright well, I suppose I've got to deal with my mother. How on earth did we wind up back at the Leaky?" Draco glanced around the space, obviously confused.
He sneered at his wrinkled clothes, thankful his shirt still had buttons. He frowned until he saw the little smirk on her lips. Obviously, she'd repaired the mess she'd made and he was thankful for it as he yanked on his trousers and buttoned his shirt.
"Our friends decided to surprise us and well, you said something along the lines of fuck all of this, and Apparated us here." Hermione smiled and offered her cheek for the press of his lips.
"Sounds about right. I'm off, love you."
Hermione froze as his words permeated her thoughts. She gasped, swallowing hard, her heart thudding furiously beneath her breast. She searched for him with wild eyes but he was gone.
Draco landed just outside the wards of Malfoy Cottage and felt a bit ill. His head throbbed, his stomach reeled, and it wasn't long before he had decorated his mother's topiaries with rancid bile. It had been ages since Apparition had affected him in that manner and then it struck him.
"I told her I loved her. Oh, my gods, I told her I loved her and then I left. Bollocks."
Draco groaned, cursing his loose lips as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. In retrospect, he was glad he wasn't there to witness her reactions. She was probably stunned silent, which would have been nice to see, but he didn't wish to see the light fade from her eyes. He didn't want to hear her stammering and logical explanations as to why she couldn't return his sentiments.
He didn't wish to visit with his mother either and he couldn't decide which was worse. He'd made a bit of a mess of things and he wasn't certain his mother would forgive him for this blunder. He wasn't sorry. He couldn't be sorry, not when he'd finally acquired Granger. She was his and there was nothing anyone could do about it, not even his parents. It was perfect, almost.
"I sent your mother to Rosa Lee Teabag." Lucius perused his son with obvious disdain as he doted on his beloved white peacocks. "She is less likely to hex you when surrounded by those chattering old biddies she calls friends. You may thank me later."
"I'm not going alone. You're coming with me. There are times in one's life when a son must admit he needs his father and this is one of those times." Draco avoided the ruddy peacocks and managed to maintain a scowl.
Lucius glared at his son, his upper lip twitched and yet, in the end, he nodded. He supposed it was the least he could do. He hadn't meant to snicker at the Evening Prophet as his son's hands roved the Muggleborn's arse. The photograph amused him, especially after imbibing entire too much firewhiskey. It certainly didn't help matters with his wife and he was nearly hexed. The least he could do was aid his son, but he'd be damned if he was drinking fucking tea.
He offered his arm and for a moment, a slight moment, he was transported to when Draco was small. The grey eyes that mirrored his own gazed up at him, entrusting him completely. It made him feel rather sentimental and suddenly, the prospect of half-blood grandchildren wasn't nearly as bleak.
"Is that Longbottom?" Draco blinked once, twice, three times, and rubbed the exhaustion from his bloodshot eyes.
He eyed his father's tumbler of firewhiskey enviously and forlornly sipped his tea. He didn't want tea. He didn't want to be stuck in a bloody teahouse with his mother and her cronies either. He wanted to be safely tucked betwixt his wife's thighs, but his mother's Howler had destroyed that notion.
"Oh, I do believe so. The witch beside him looks quite enamoured considering the blush on her cheeks. It's lovely to see such innocence, especially these days." Narcissa pursed her lips and gripped her teacup, obviously still perturbed.
"This is pointless," Draco groaned. "Why am I here?"
He hissed from the force of his father's elbow and glared. He was good at glaring these days, especially where his parents were concerned.
"Is that, is his hand on her knee? My, that's quite forward of him, isn't it?" The wrinkled blue-haired witch tittered quietly and Draco wished her dead.
Draco closed his eyes and refrained from asking Mrs Shriveled Bint the last time anyone had touched her anywhere. His father snorted and Draco realised he wasn't alone in his disgruntled thoughts; he was merely alone in the tea drinking.
"She doesn't seem to be objecting and if my eyes don't deceive me, her hand just covered his."
"Ah, the joys of young love, nearly makes me wish I was young again." Narcissa clasped her hands together and sighed the sigh of a woman reliving her youth.
Draco scoffed with a roll of his eyes and leaned toward his mother. "You do realise they shagged last night, yes?"
"Don't ruin it, Draco." Narcissa sneered at him over the top of her teacup, "you've ruined enough lately, haven't you?"
Lucius harrumphed and thumped his cane on the floor in warning. It would never do to have a row concerning their personal affairs in public. He had discussed it at length with his wife, however, when her temper flared, it seemed her Pureblood sensibilities did as well.
"We aren't discussing me! I don't have to take this. I'm going home to my wife." Draco's chair scraped across the worn floor and he didn't offer his mother or her friends a backward glance.
"Such a petulant boy, even after all this time. He would benefit from Longbottom's influences."
Lucius sniffed with affected disdain and returned his attention to his tumbler of dwindling firewhiskey. In an uncustomary show of affection, he grasped his wife's hand and squeezed lightly. It would placate her for now but if Draco and his new wife did not submit to Narcissa's demands of grandeur, there would be hell to pay.