Hunting Hermione

by sssugarplummm

"Forgive me, Omega." What should have been nothing more than an isolated incident of primal urges hours after the Battle of Hogwarts soon becomes a sinister game of predator and prey as the Death Eater grows dangerously obsessed with the young muggleborn witch. No matter how far she runs, he will have her, no matter what, or who, stands in his way. A dark LM/HG. EWE. Eventual HEA.

10. Villa Olimpo - Pt II

A/N: Many many thanks to Elle Morgan-Black and suliswrites for their beta brilliance.

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"Lie down, little one," Lucius murmured against the top of her head. "I'll take care of you, sweet girl."

Hermione immediately obeyed with hopeful eyes, gracefully unfolding onto her back with a prolonged, tantalising roll in her spine like a charmed cobra, revealing the full expanse of her vulnerable torso.

Her slightly parted lips curved into a shy smile, and even with her tear-stained skin, Hermione's face incapacitated him with the power of an unforgivable curse, she was so preternaturally lovely. Her gentle features–from her adorable sloping nose to her pouting pink mouth to her youthfully plump cheeks–all formed a balanced, idealised, almost artistic expression of femininity beyond even magical reality that rendered him stupefied in wonder. Somehow, he'd failed to perceive the all-encompassing magnitude of just how intensely gorgeous Hermione was–far exceeding the night she'd presented.

The girl had just admitted to struggling to look at him.

…Lucius struggled to look away from her.

Lucius had spent the majority of his adult life believing his wife to be the pinnacle of a woman's potential beauty, which was largely why he'd begrudgingly agreed to the match with the otherwise intolerable youngest Black daughter in the first place. He'd known well before they'd married that he'd never grow to love Narcissa, so he'd settled on simply being physically attracted to her, for there was no denying that the willowy blonde was traditionally beautiful. She was tall, gracile, fair, and flaxen, with striking glacial eyes oft used as a weapon deadlier than a goblin-made sword to manipulate others to her will. Lucius had believed Narcissa to be the only aesthetic incomparable worthy of him when they'd bonded–for only the best was appropriate for a Malfoy.

But as Lucius gazed upon Hermione, he realised that it was in fact this little omega who evoked the true corporeal perfection powerful enough to bring him to his knees in veneration–for the first time in his life. And it wasn't because she was perfect, necessarily, for she was quite removed from the icily flawless way Narcissa presented herself. Rather, Hermione's form of perfection was far more personal–warmly intimate, magnetically inviting, and breathtakingly captivating. It was as if the girl had been specifically created for him, his deepest fantasy made manifest in flesh, satisfying and whetting rapacious appetites he hadn't even realised he'd possessed before her.

His lifelong preference for impeccable straight-haired blondes had been eradicated by fearless golden-brown waves. His fondness for cool cyanic eyes was but a distant memory, for two pools of warm, sweet dark honey stared up at him with an almost childlike affection that made him feel like a god. Narcissa's obsessive thinness–a discipline he'd once celebrated–was now a cadaverous, arid wasteland in comparison to the lush, succulent garden of fertile femininity Hermione's body represented. Every creamy, fleshy swell and dramatic, swooping curve on the little witch's soft, petite frame seemed to command his erections with the violent vigour of the Imperius, every impulse in his body compelling him to fuck her so full of his seed she'd burst.

Or perhaps…round…

Had Merlin himself asked him to conjure an image of the most beautiful woman ever to exist, Lucius couldn't think of a single aspect of Hermione Jean Granger that he wouldn't use–exactly as she was.

"What do I do now, Mr Malfoy?" Hermione asked.

She was so open to him, so docile and helpless, eager and pregnable, his and only his to touch and taste and kiss and smell and bite and lick and fuck and–

No.

He would not terrorise the girl tonight. He would not physically hurt her.

Hermione wanted to know how he made love–curious little minx–so Lucius would be a gentlewizard, take his time, and educate her thoroughly.

His omega had asked so sweetly, after all.

Maintaining eye contact, Lucius pulled the robe fully off of her body. "Open your legs."

A murmur of hesitation flickered in her eyes, blush rising across her cheeks, but still the brave girl was determined, shuffling her bent knees apart hip-width for his lecherous scrutiny.

Chuckling, Lucius shook his head, slowly ghosting his hands up and down the outer lengths of her shapely calf muscles, from her dainty ankles to just above her knees.

"Wider, sweetheart," Lucius encouraged gently. "Open yourself nice and wide for me–no secrets. I want to see everything."

The irresistible perfume of her arousal wafted up to his nose with a vertiginous potency as he planted his palms on her soft inner thighs, pushing her legs as far apart as her ample flexibility allowed. A thunderous shiver ran through him as his olfactory receptors were assaulted by her feminine musk, his cock bulging painfully as he greedily inhaled her hypnotic incensation, taking her essence deep into his lungs, absorbing her into his bloodstream like opium.

Poison me, Omega.

He growled low, a tone of pure bestial hunger, his mouth flooding with desperate saliva at the mere thought of tasting her.

He trailed his eyes down her naked body, past her abundant breasts and the faint shadows of muscle lines in her stomach, until his gaze finally locked upon the slick ribbons of puffy pinkness sparsely concealed by downy curls.

Sweet fucking Nimue…

Lucius's vision tunnelled.

Hell itself could have risen, burning the world and everything within it, but nothing could tear his eyes away from this girl's divine cunt.

Hermione timidly cleared her throat. "Umm…Mr Malfoy?"

He worried that she was becoming afraid–perhaps Hermione was finally lucid–but then a fresh dewdrop of wetness trickled out of her tiny hole, further glistening her already glossy labia.

"Mmm…ahh, yes, sweet girl?"

"I was just wondering…umm…why you want to look?" Hermione queried bashfully. "Of all I've read about sexual intercourse, I don't quite understand the appeal, or I suppose, the utility…"

Inquisitive little swot.

Lucius chuckled as he moved his hands higher up her thighs as he surveyed her, pausing right on the juncture of her pubis, as if to frame her pussy within his fingers.

Her breath hitched as he brought his thumbs to her inner labia, carefully peeling apart her private lips with meticulous concentration to expose her swollen, unprotected clit.

"Because looking at you brings me pleasure, little one," Lucius murmured, transfixed. "You have the prettiest little cunt, sweetheart. So pink and delicate and wet. Would you deny me the pleasure of looking at something so perfect?"

Through his blurred peripherals, he could tell that Hermione was shaking her head.

That wouldn't do.

"Use your words, Hermione."

"N-no," Hermione replied. "No, sir."

His gaze flicked back up to her expressive face at the deferential address, surprised she'd thought to use that word again without his prompting.

Her continued use of Mr Malfoy was one thing.

Sir was something else entirely…

Hermione didn't just want to be made love to. The girl wanted to be dominated. She was firmly out of heat, believing herself to be in a fantasy of her own making…and still what she desired most was his control. This brilliant, powerful girl wanted Lucius to guide her, to be her indulgent, patient teacher in the delights of the flesh.

Little Miss Granger was far kinkier than even she realised, and Lucius was fully inclined to meet her unspoken requests.

"That's my good girl," Lucius praised, and his ego and lusts expanded with equal pride as the girl blushed gratefully at his approval.

"What…umm…what would you like me to do next, sir?" she asked, as if this were a classroom and he were her professor.

That would be an intriguing form of play to remember, assuming Hermione ever thought to let him come anywhere near her after this night.

Lucius feigned consideration, frowning sternly for several moments as he allowed the girl's anticipation to rise under his brazen study of her intimate flesh.

It excited him, seeing her so unnerved, yet still so eager to please.

She was exquisite.

"Umm…s-sir–"

"There are a million things I'd like to do to you, Hermione. Things that can pleasure your body in more ways than you've ever dreamt possible." Lucius deliberately shifted down her body, and lowered his head between her thighs. "But right now, little one…the scent of your pussy is drugging me–and all I can think about is fucking you with my tongue."

Lucius sealed himself on her cunt before she could react, growling against her sensitive flesh in carnal satisfaction as her warm nectarean juices poured over his tongue. Her sweet, tangy flavour sent jolts of electricity from the overloaded nerve endings in his mouth to the deepest recesses of his brain, down his spine and to his excruciating erection, the primaeval penetralia of beastly male urges compelling him to lick, suck, savour, and plunder the honeyed secretions of this young, fertile female who looked and smelled and tasted so appealing. Hermione squealed above him, her small hips shivering, twitching, and hopping as he hungrily devoured her slick folds for absolutely everything she had to offer.

His strong fingers remained fixed on her outer lips, keeping her cunt spread wide open to increase the surface reach for each stroke of his tongue. He avoided her clit, but teased everything around it, causing the little witch to mindlessly chase after his mouth with sensual rocking motions.

Good girl.

He wanted her desperate for his touch.

He wanted her to beg.

Stiffening his tongue, he thrust the insatiable muscle directly inside of her vaginal canal, fucking her with it, and Hermione shrieked in pleasure, surrendering to his invasion and welcoming him inside of her body.

He drank from her flooding source with abandon, coaxing her silky cunt open with his starved mouth until there was no part of herself she could possibly hide. There wasn't a single area of her private, tender flesh that Lucius left unexplored.

He was an alpha. A Death Eater.

A violent predator.

He would devour this girl whole.

Lucius was vaguely aware of a sting against his scalp as he plunged his tongue in and out of her fluttering, rapidly moistening hole, but soon realised that Hermione had fisted his hair in her small hands, and was now thrusting herself against his face to meet his strokes.

There was a brief impulse to trap her in a biting Incarcerous, to punish her–violently–for attempting to rush him as he savoured her dripping little peach to his own satisfaction.

But something about the way she desperately clung to him, the way she trembled beneath him, the way she cried please, sir, please Mr Malfoy in her bell-like, breathy voice subdued that soupçon of darkness.

He glanced up at her pleasure-strained face, allowing the bridge of his nose to indirectly stimulate her clit with gentle pressure as he urged his tongue even deeper inside of her. Hermione sobbed the sweet-scented tears of excessive, desperate pleasure, irises nearly disappearing as her eyes rolled back into her head, and Lucius gripped her hips in renewed determination to make the girl come hard for him.

"F-fuck….oh gods…I'm begging you, please," Hermione sobbed. "Oh gods…please, sir, please, Mr Malfoy…please please please…"

Entirely unwilling to dislodge his mouth from her succulence for even a second, Lucius tapped into the connection he'd unwittingly discovered the last time he'd had his face between this witch's thighs, curious to see if this technique would still work beyond the boundaries of their shared three-day fever.

What do you need, sweetheart?

Hermione gasped and shot up so quickly that he nearly lost his hold on her. She looked down at him with wonder in her huge, blown eyes, and Lucius stared right back at her hard and unforgiving as he pummelled her with his tongue.

"Oh gods….did you just–"

What do you need, Hermione? he thought to her again.

"I…I need…umm…"

If you don't tell me precisely what you need, you won't get it, little one. Now use your words.

"I can't…oh, Merlin, I can't say it, I–"

Say it. Now.

"Suckmyclitplease," Hermione squeaked in a frantic rush, and Lucius chuckled against her flesh as he moved to oblige her request.

"Good girl," Lucius praised out loud, before taking her hard little clit between his lips, rolling it with aggressive tenderness with the tip of his tongue.

Hermione collapsed back onto the bed as she flung her legs wide open with a gratified cry, and Lucius avidly followed her movements, moving his head in tight, furious circles to match each volant rise and fall of her hips as he suckled her sweet abundance. Her stomach muscles were contracting hard, her ribs pressing against her damp skin as she arched her back in the exquisite distress of excessive pleasure, her body anguishing to release her orgasm.

Come in my mouth, sweet girl. Give me your honey.

Hermione stilled for several prolonged seconds of absolute silence.

Let it all out. In my mouth. Now!

Finally, she came apart.

Her soaked cunt opened and flushed against his tongue, lips, and chin with rapid pulses as waves of orgasm crashed into her small body. She came like an angel, with a visible intensity so powerful, almost savage in its sheer potency, that he momentarily questioned if Hermione had somehow managed to accomplish the biologically impossible, and enter heat again. Her orgasm was a miraculous occurrence to behold–deafeningly loud, blindingly luminous, and suffocatingly wet–a heavenly vision so pure in both its unguarded beauty and raw severity that he nearly felt remorse for tainting such a sacred experience with his evil.

But that inclination of conscience was promptly superseded by his own dark lusts as he kissed his way back up the trembling girl's body.

He was nowhere near through with her.

Hermione believed herself to be in a dream, and had offered her submission with blind trust and absolute vulnerability, completely unaware of the very real devil she was fondly cradling between her soft thighs.

It took a sick wizard to do what he was about to do, knowingly taking advantage of a young witch like this in her defenceless state, but carnal sickness had existed deep within the most formative layers of Lucius's consciousness well before Hermione was born. He was a true alpha, biologically predisposed to violent and forceful sexual appetites. Diligent occluding and executive function had prevented him from acting upon these basal urges in the past.

But something about this girl decimated him on a fundamental level.

It wasn't enough to make Hermione come apart–he wanted to demolish every shred of self-possession within her body.

Lucius was going to bludgeon her with pleasure–and shatter her beyond repair.

Hovering above her, Lucius seized the opportunity presented by her post-orgasmic stupor to boldly lick her lips. "Taste yourself on my tongue," Lucius groaned as her lips began to part. "Taste how sweet you are, little one."

Hermione looked positively scandalised by the suggestion, but her eagerness to please was stronger, and she kissed him back with a needy, kittenish mewl, her small tongue doing its best to mitigate his exigent ravaging as he swept the girl's own essence into her warm little mouth, bruising her lips with his attentions.

Hermione was delirious and pliable, lost in deep submissive-space without even knowing she was there, completely unresisting as he manually divested himself of his clothing piece by piece as he swallowed her moans and kissed her well beyond senseless, keeping her body trapped beneath his.

He luxuriated in the way her innocent eyes swept over his muscles once he was finally naked, his ego and cock swelling to lethal proportions at the girl's adoring visual worship of his form.

Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart.

Keep your pretty eyes on me as I make love to you…

Lucius positioned himself to thrust hard, rubbing the tip of his erection against her slick heat, but Hermione suddenly stiffened beneath him, gritting her teeth together in an anticipation that was edging into fear.

Even in what she believed to be a fantasy of her own making, the poor girl was still bracing herself for pain.

Taking pity on the tender omega, Lucius rose above her.

"Why are you stopping?" Hermione gulped. "Have I done something wrong, Mr Malfoy?"

Lucius shook his head with a small smile. "No, sweetheart. But I can tell you're becoming afraid. And too much fear will spoil your pleasure. We can't have that now, can we?"

"I'm not afraid–I want this," Hermione corrected with a slight tremor to her voice.

"But?"

"It's nothing."

Lucius didn't respond, but hardened his features enough to make it abundantly clear that he would not ask her again.

Moistening her lips, Hermione finally confessed, "It's just…well…Merlin, you're so big!"

"My cock?"

"Yes!" Hermione gasped. "How do you even walk with such a massive thing between your legs?"

Lucius truly didn't intend to embarrass her, but the girl's sleepy, unfiltered speech struck him as equally charming and hilarious. He laughed hard, but quickly sobered once the cold pinpricks of the girl's humiliation pierced his alpha core.

"Aren't you my fantasy? Why are you laughing at me?" she asked with as much sadness as accusation.

"Forgive me, love," Lucius said between lessening chuckles. "You're such a little vixen it's easy to forget that sex is very new to you."

"You think I'm a vixen?"

"I've never enjoyed the delights of the flesh as much as I've enjoyed them with you, little one," he answered honestly.

Unexpectedly, his flattery seemed to make the girl unhappy, and her pretty features fell. "That's just because I'm an omega, and you're an alpha, and I was in heat. It really has nothing to do with me, does it?"

Her emotional state now reflected suspicion, and Lucius knew that if he didn't proceed with deft caution, she'd yank herself out of this languid humour, and he'd lose her.

"It has everything to do with you, Hermione," Lucius offered smoothly, softening his voice to the practised, dulcet purr reserved exclusively for the purpose of subduing a woman's displeasure. "You're a brilliant, sophisticated, beautiful young witch. You've enraptured me, my dear."

Hermione smiled softly at him, but there was a faint shadow of disturbance behind her eyes.

The clever girl saw right through his blandishments.

"These masculine wiles you wield like blades have pierced me, Mr Malfoy," Hermione mused contemplatively. "I fear what would happen to me if the real you ever thought to use such a dangerous weapon against me."

"And why would that be something to fear?"

"Because…you're disarming. I've wanted your approval ever since I was a little girl–and I know I'll never actually get it." Hermione regarded him with the same intensity he'd witnessed her directing onto books, trapping him in her reverential gaze. "For now, though, you're not really you. Which means I'm safe. So I'm going to pretend, and let myself enjoy my imagination for once."

Lucius realised at that moment that he too could liken her to the sun. Hermione was a benevolent warmth–heavenfire–and he wanted to bask her all-encompassing heat, absorbing her radiance through his pores until he burned.

It was utterly exhilarating to be the focus of this girl's attention, to be her entire world. Her aspiration.

Had anyone ever looked upon him with as much adoration as this tiny teenage witch?

"You've incontrovertibly earned my approval tonight, sweetheart. You've been a very good girl for me." Lucius softly kissed her forehead, and was rewarded with a sweet, breathy moan of pleasure that seemed to tangibly take hold of his aching erection, and squeeze–hard. "Now, the only thing you need you to do is relax, and let me take care of you."

He repositioned himself to fuck her–no, make love to her–for his cock was so full of blood his temples were pulsing from lack of oxygen, but he could still feel nervous apprehension emanating from Hermione's body in frantic ripples.

He needed to change his approach with the girl.

If he was going to make love to her, he'd need to do so in a way that she would find most arousing, to put her needs–those known and unknown to herself–before his own. It wouldn't be enough to stimulate her body.

He'd need to stimulate her mind, too.

She gazed at him curiously as he once more knelt above her, but this time, he reached for a small pillow, positioning it beneath her lower back to elevate her hips.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked nervously. "What is this for? What am I supposed to do–"

"Shh…relax, little one," Lucius soothed. He hooked her knees between his thumbs and forefingers, gently pushing her limber legs back towards the mattress. "Hold onto your knees like this–good girl. Keep yourself wide open for me."

Hermione still looked unsure, but she quickly obeyed, replacing his hands as she pulled her knees towards her shoulders.

Lucius knelt over her, settling his quadriceps just beneath her stretched hamstrings–one hand on her hip, the other around his cock.

"I'm going to enter you now, little one," Lucius said. "I'm going to make love to you fully. But before I do, I need you to relax your muscles. Open this pretty pussy wide for my cock, so that I don't hurt you. Can you do that, sweetheart?"

Hermione moistened her lips, her heated gaze darting between his face and his cock with growing hunger. "Yes, sir."

Lucius nearly expired as he watched the way the girl willfully relaxed her pelvic muscles, her impossibly tiny hole quivering open for him in a shy, yet mouthwatering invitation. He eased forward, unable to restrain his drawn-out, guttural moan of unmitigated pleasure as her tight outer lips stretched to accommodate his brutally swollen bellend. He'd barely inched the tip of his throbbing cock inside of her, yet her prolific slickness, her exquisite tightness, and her overwhelming heat, was enough to nearly incapacitate him with rapture.

There was no denying that he'd taken an abominable pleasure the first time he'd forcefully taken the girl in the Forbidden Forest.

But to be welcomed into her body–willingly, as far as the girl was currently aware…that was an ecstasy unfathomable.

Frowning in determined focus to make their sex last as long as possible, Lucius stilled for several moments to temper his lusts as the girl squirmed beneath him, adjusting to his size. Once she began to relax, he eased himself a bit farther in, carefully angling his hips to target that small, secret, highly sensitive area that would completely debilitate the little witch with just the right amount of stimulation and pressure.

Another millimetre farther, and he finally found it–her internal apex of utter carnal flammability–and the girl screamed beneath him, instinctively instinctively contracting her narrow channel and jerking away from his onslaught.

"Too much!" Hermione wailed. "Oh gods…it's too much, too much–"

"Let it happen, love, you're doing so well–you can handle it. Listen to my voice–remember to breathe." Lucius deliberately agitated that secret spot with a generous, slow roll of his pelvis, and Hermione released a long, highly erotic whine as fresh tears pooled in her glassy, dilated eyes. "Keep your muscles relaxed–keep your pretty little pussy open for me. You're going to like this, sweetheart. I promise."

Before she could think to tauten her stretched intimate muscles–or close herself off from him again–Lucius brought his fingertips to her unsuspecting clit in a secondary attack, firmly chasing the ballooned, tender button as he targeted its twin bundle of nerves inside of her with his shaft. Hermione's sweet slickness was streaming out of her, her legs shivering in her hold as her knuckles turned white with each controlled thrust he made, and when her moans of pleasure became sobs of desperation, Lucius knew now was the time to add one last element to his lovemaking.

Hermione needed the cerebral.

"Look at me, Omega."

Hermione stared hard at him in instant acquiescence to his alpha pitch, crazed and aroused and heartbreakingly stunning in her sweet surrender. She was open to him–body, mind, and magic–and with neither hesitation nor remorse, Lucius violently compelled her omega core with his alpha, gripping her submission by the throat.

But instead of inserting himself into her mind as he had before–he instead pulled her into his.

He ambushed her with his surface thoughts and urges, reflecting back to her just how aroused he was for her, how beautiful he found her, how searingly tight and perfect she felt around his cock. Her delight at his pleasure and unspoken praise was profoundly humbling, blooming within his core with so much overpowering warmth that the last vestiges of control within his body immediately disintegrated.

His desire to make her come had gone far beyond a need, and was now a rabid obsession. He needed to own this girl in a way no wizard should ever have the right to claim a witch.

He wanted to surround himself in her sweetness, to bury himself in it. He wanted to be baptised in her wet heat, to cleanse his soul through her blissful flames of passion he had no right to take, but would steal from her regardless, for she was his prey–and he her devoted predator.

You're never escaping, little one.

He could feel that the girl was overwhelmed–alarmed by his sudden intensity–but his lust for her transcended morality, all semblances of right and wrong. She tried to turn her head, so he gripped her hair, forcing her to stare back at him as he pummelled her sensitive sweet spot with his cock.

You're mine, Hermione.

Dropping his mouth to hers, Lucius kissed her hard, biting her lips, snarling above her as his sac began to rise, fire kindling at the base of his spine in impending orgasm. "When I tell you to, you're going to release everything for me, little one."

The girl was too paralyzed to speak, unable to find her words through her screams, but Lucius could still detect meaning in the frantic, largely wordless thoughts swirling around his core.

She was frightened, absolutely terrified–he could crush me if he wanted to–and yet she loved that she was afraid of him. The fear excited her.

She felt agonising tension along suffering inner walls–it hurts, Mr Malfoy, please be gentle–and yet she craved the ache, she craved the pain, even as she felt like she was about to wet herself from the unfaltering, targeted pressure of his cock on that one spot she had no name for.

Oh yes, little girl…

She felt fury for him, yet stronger fury with herself, for she believed herself to be sick and twisted and perverted to want a much older man, a Death Eater–make it hurt, Mr Malfoy, hurt me harder–to violate her in her dreams.

But she couldn't bear to try and wake herself up.

She wanted this. She wanted him.

"Come for me, Hermione," Lucius grunted, pistoning in and out of her with seismic ferocity, uncaring of the very real possibility that he was about to break another bed fucking this girl. "Come all over my cock, sweet girl, let it all out."

Hermione tightened around him so hard he felt his cock would detach, and finally, finally, the beautiful omega came completely undone.

Lucius roared in smug masculine triumph as he felt Hermione completely lose control over her pelvic muscles. She released herself–she released everything–her potent heady scent suffusing the air between them with the hot, musky humidity of a tropical storm, as an utter monsoon of scorching fluids gushed out of her spasming body, soaking their combined skin and the bedclothes beneath them. The girl was wide-eyed, shrieking and confused as her body convulsed with her devastating orgasm, her emotional core reflecting as much ecstasy as humiliation.

"Fuck…oh fuck, good girl…so fucking good, sweet girl," Lucius praised deliriously, his hips snapping back and forth with the furious cadence of hellish possession, spurred further by the erotic squelching noises their combined, freshly soaked bodies created. He battered her spasming, saturated cunt with his voracious thrusts, eliciting piercing screams from the still-coming girl that impelled him to fuck her even harder, throwing his full weight into each raging plunge. "You're such a good girl, squirting all over my cock. Give me more of these sweet juices, sweetheart…fuck, I need more…more…give me everything…"

Her prolific emissions–whatever they consisted of, he didn't care–were sharp yet sweet and smelling so good burning so hot, provoking him like a whipped racehorse with an agony to ejaculate that felt as if he were fleeing Death itself.

And Hermione was Life.

His balls were distressingly heavy, slapping hard against her arse with each unsparing thrust, his sac strained and overly filled with a searing, titanic load for the beautiful drenched girl beneath him.

Unfamiliar words of indulgence fled his mouth faster than he could capture them–you're so beautiful, my darling, gorgeous girl, your pussy is so fucking perfect, so fucking tiny and tight, I'll take care of you always, Hermione, always, my sweet girl–but something within had snapped in the midst of her tsunami of an orgasm–fractured–and now, Lucius was blindly barreling forward with an insatiable madness, an overpowering compulsion to consume.

The girl's extraordinary wetness eased his foray into depths a better man wouldn't have explored within a woman, and Lucius took full advantage of her heightened sensitivity and acute vulnerability, bluntly shoving his cock against her cervix with the single minded brutality of an assassin, determined to impale her.

To his prurient delight, Hermione met him thrust for thrust, despite her visible hurt, abandoning her hold around her knees to instead wrap her small arms as best as she could around his wide shoulders, urging herself against him.

"Come inside me, sir…please come in me," Hermione pleaded sweetly. Even as she winced in pain, she wrapped her legs around his flanks, pulling him into her body. "I want it–I want you, Lucius Malfoy. Please, please…oh please, sir…"

Beautiful, benevolent girl.

Lucius wasn't just lost.

This was utter oblivion.

The flame that was kindling at the base of his spine erupted like fiendfyre throughout his entire body–white hot, uncontrollable, and destructive–every nerve ending ablaze with a pleasure so intense it was painful as his aggression and salacity reached a volcanic nexus of complete, catastrophic devastation. Lucius detonated, boiling volumes of seed erupting from his twitching cock with a rapidity and magnitude so excruciating his heart stopped, as if the sobbing witch beneath him were draining his very life force.

Lucius was immobilised, unable to even breathe as blazing gales of euphoria destroyed him from the inside out. Wave after wave of roaring, devastating pleasures swept up the entirety of his corporeal and psychical forms in a violent tempest of divine ecstasy that simultaneously mutilated and healed him. He poured himself into her body, her mercilessly tight cunt squeezing his pulsating cock with so much pressure he blacked out, as raging tides of pyretic seed unloaded right against her receptive womb

The omega had baptised him with her sweet sacred waters–literally–and now, he was born again.

It could have been moments or hours later that Lucius finally withdrew, for his orgasm had exceeded the boundaries of time. His muscles were heavy with a spiritual blessedness, his mind fuckdrunk on the electrifying pleasure signals of unalloyed bliss and life-saving satiation that swept through his veins, bestowed entirely by the little witch he still clung to.

He wondered if Hermione had finally come to awareness as a consequence of his extraordinary loss of control, but to his relief, the girl was smiling serenely at him.

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy," she said softly.

And then, she kissed him.

Lucius had never before created a horcrux, but making love to Hermione was tantamount to what he'd always imagined this dark summit of magic to be. Something arcane and ineffable, an agony of pleasure brought forth through exquisite sacrifice, a seduction conjured by crushing intensity, irrevocably changing the very base materials of what made him human. Making love to Hermione was a disruption of reality, challenging all he knew to be right and true. His soul had broken apart in their passions, and was now embedded deep within the omega's empyrean body.

Hermione's exhausted form finally succumbed to true sleep, and Lucius pulled her unconscious body into his chest, entirely unwilling to let her go.

He almost pitied the innocent young girl as she peacefully slept in his arms.

For Hermione Granger had just become the singular obsession of a very dark wizard.

---

It was with profound reluctance that Hermione finally bid farewell to the fantastical bliss of the kingdom of Morpheus, and opened her bleary eyes to greet the waking day of reality. Her nighttime reveries of sensual darkness and gluttonous pleasures had been more detailed–more visceral–than her imagination had ever before conjured. Unlike most dreams that faded like vapour within moments of rising, visions of Lucius's strong body labouring above and within her still danced across her consciousness in vivid clarity, her personal collection of apparitional erotica.

Hermione languidly rose with a sigh that transformed into a pitiful whimper the moment her muscles activated. She was inexplicably, brutally sore, as if she'd somehow managed to complete a dozen decathlons during the midnight hours. Everything hurt, from her scalp to her phalanges, but nothing ached quite as violently as the space between her thighs.

Oh no…

Hermione gulped as she timidly lowered the bedclothes past her hips, hissing sharply upon realising that not only was she naked, but her skin was covered in bruises shaped like hands.

Lucius's large hands.

Please, no…

The doors to the suite suddenly opened and closed, and Hermione shrieked, frantically covering herself with the bedclothes as the Devil himself strode into the bedroom.

"Good morning, darling." Hermione was frozen–petrified with shock, anger, and fear–as Lucius lowered himself onto the bed. He curled his fingers around the side of her throat, and planted a soft, quick kiss upon her lips, as if he were greeting a lover–possessively. "How did you sleep, sweetheart?"

Yes, Alpha…

Touch me, Alpha…

Hermione jerked away from him–and herself–as if her skin had been burned. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"Is that any way to greet me after what we shared last night?"

"No…oh gods, no…you weren't…I mean, that wasn't…"

"Normally you're so eloquent, little one." Lucius chuckled heatedly. "Where's that illustrious erudition of yours today?"

His teasing flamed her ire, and Hermione seized her wrath before her fear–or worse, another instinct she refused to name–could incapacitate her. "You fucking monster!" Hermione shrieked at the top of her lungs. "You foul, degenerate, sick bastard! How could you do this to me?

Lucius rolled his eyes, entirely undisturbed by her accusatory outburst. "Sweetheart, there's no need to be upset–"

"Upset? I'm enraged! I'm disgusted!" Hermione thought she would pass out from her anger, her blood was pumping so harshly. "You took advantage of me! I thought I was asleep, I thought I was dreaming, and you…you…oh gods–"

"I gave you precisely what you asked for, Hermione," Lucius said, his voice slightly harder. "You asked me to make love to you–you begged me–and I think we can both agree that I delivered well on your request."

Hermione rapidly shook her head, too furious to be humiliated by the tears that fell from her eyes. "I would never ask that of you–"

"But that's precisely what you did."

"Because I thought you weren't real!" "Yet you told me yourself that you wished I was," Lucius interrupted calmly. "Your fantasy was fulfilled in reality. You had the real me."

"I would never want the real you," Hermione spat. "I hate you."

Lucius laughed harder. "I'm sure you do, love, but you'll get over that soon enough." He stood from the bed and strolled towards the sitting lounge by the fireplace, and Hermione's gaze was helpless to resist closely following the fluid movements of his tall body, now that Lucius wasn't looking directly at her. He was poshly cloaked in immaculately tailored day robes with crème trousers upon his long, powerful legs, and a crisp stone shirt surrounding his broad torso and muscular arms. A silken champagne waistcoat drew her reluctant attention to the firm cut of his trim waist and flat stomach, but it was the golden cravat around his neck–its fold pierced by a diamond-encrusted, Victorian serpent pin with emerald eyes–that truly completed the dichotomous portrait of regality and ruthlessness Lucius Malfoy exemplified.

His aristocratic dressing was as faultless as his noble grooming, his hair smoothly pouring like liquid platinum across the alpine slopes of his shoulders. His marbled skin was freshly shaven, and Hermione was nearly brought to tears from the breathtaking symmetry of his distressingly attractive face, fully illuminated in the bright morning light.

How could a being this beautiful–this perfect–be so cruel?

Lucius cleared his throat, breaking Hermione out of the dazed hypnosis his mere appearance had thrust her into. Red-faced, Hermione shrank and shivered within the bedclothes, more ashamed than ever of her abject nakedness as Lucius stared at her with a knowing, arrogant smirk upon the curve of his lips.

"Now," Lucius invited, with a cunning arch to his brow, "tell me how you take your tea."

For the first time, Hermione noticed that the tea service she'd shared with Pansy the night before appeared freshly refilled.

Chewing her lip, Hermione refused to respond, but Lucius's attention was momentarily averted nonetheless as he proceeded to pour two cups.

This was her one and only chance of protecting herself.

Moving slowly and silently as adrenalin stormed through her veins and blood rushed through her ears, she reached into the bedside table for her wand.

Lucius was humming to himself–a deep, soothing, dizzyingly sensual tone that sounded much like a cello–as he arranged a small saucer with macarons and fresh berries, his wedding, memento mori, and signet rings gleaming brilliantly in the firelight with each adroit gesture. Hermione tried not to think back to the way he'd hand-fed her those same confections less than a week ago when she'd been too out of her mind to take care of herself, his elegantly strong, ringed fingers flirting with her lips, caressing her cheek, grabbing her throat…

Feed me, Alpha–

Determinedly, Hermione aimed her wand before she completely lost her nerve. "Stupef–"

In less than the blink of an eye, Lucius's incandescent silver gaze flicked in her direction, burning her from across the room, and he doused her whispered spell with a casual wave of his left hand faster than she could wand slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the floor as her wrists and ankles were shackled by invisible tight ropes, binding her to the bed.

The abrupt sensation of being trapped–of utter helplessness–pummelled her anger into inaccessible inertia, and Hermione was left free falling into a desperate, roaring panic like a cornered animal, where all logic was overshadowed by survival instinct.

Her body shook with the raging force of her cascading tears and seismic sobs as she threw her entire weight into futile labours to yank herself out of the bondage Lucius had conjured, the bindings tightening painfully throughout her increasingly violent struggles. She didn't care that her wrists and ankles were beginning to bleed from her movements–she barely even noticed the injuries–for the only thing she could focus on was escaping, even if she ended up slicing through her radial arteries in the process.

She was vaguely aware of an utterance of fucking hell, witch, you're going to hurt yourself, but she soon lost the ability to hear anything beyond the sound of her own heartbeat.

And her own screams.

Even more despairingly, her vision was the next to fade, her lachrymose overflow completely obscuring her ability to perceive the world around her.

Please don't hurt me…

Please, Alpha, I'm scared…

A large, strong hand gripped the side of her flushed, damp face, holding her in place as a glass phial was pressed against her lips.

Drink, Omega.

His voice seemed to manifest directly within her consciousness with the pitch that coerced her biology, and Hermione sobbed in defeat as her mouth automatically opened to welcome whatever poison the Death Eater was about to force down her throat.

To her shock, Hermione was instantly subdued not by a lethal toxin, but by the cool, serene fragrance of lavender and peppermint oil.

"Drink up, little one," Lucius cooed, out loud. "That's it…that's a good girl. Drink it all up. Swallow it all for me, love. It will make you feel better."

The sweet, tingling flavour of calming draught filled her mouth so quickly she had no choice but to yield, her tense muscles slackening beyond her control as her heart palpitations lowered to a slow, relaxed cadence with every antipathetic swallow.

She recognised the empty phial as one of the doses she'd brought for the weekend, decanted from the larger batch Professor Snape had prepared for her.

If she wasn't currently sedated, Hermione would have cursed Lucius to Hell for going through her handbag, violating yet another area of her vanishing privacy.

Hermione glared at Lucius with as much vehemence as the potion would allow. "You're despicable." She blushed at the sound of her own tranquilised voice, a pitifully muted tone in direct conflict with her critical words.

"You were about to send yourself into cardiac arrest."

"You have no right to bind me–"

"You have no right to hex an unarmed wizard. Here I thought you Gryffindor war heroes were the honourable lot."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

A dark, menacing look briefly shadowed Lucius's handsome features, threatening enough to momentarily provoke Hermione's potion-suppressed anxiety.

But then, something shifted in his eyes, and that vision of rage vanished entirely, like a curtain being lowered at the theatre. Now, his eyes revealed distant humour, and Hermione was reminded of the unique skill that Pansy had divulged all alphas were schooled in from childhood.

He's occluding.

"I think it's about time we have a real conversation, don't you?" Lucius suggested, ignoring her query.

"There's nothing I want to say to you," Hermione affirmed. "Besides...bondage doesn't exactly lend itself to candour from a captive."

"Oh, I do believe I should take exception to that," Lucius purred. "Don't you recall all the pretty things that spilled from your even prettier lips the last time I tied you down in bed? Make me your good girl, Mr Malfoy? I'm yours, Mr Malfoy? Fuck me, Mr Malfoy?"

Hermione wished she could assert that she had no recollection of what she'd said to Lucius when he'd tied her up at the Manor, just to pleasure her tirelessly for endless hours, but one of the most troubling things about her heat was the acute sharpness with which she'd perceived the world. She could remember every word uttered during those fevered three days. Every look. Every sensation.

Every primal urge.

Punish me, Alpha…

Never let me go…

"Release me," Hermione said, doing her best to utilise the sedative effects of the calming draught to steady her voice. "Now."

"And what exactly are you planning on doing when I release you?"

"Hexing you," Hermione answered automatically, realising with grave horror only once she'd already spoken that she'd need to remain cautious of this particular side effect of the potion.

Her body was feeling so relaxed that her mind was haplessly beginning to follow.

"Then I suppose I'll just have to leave you like this until these violent impulses of yours settle down," Lucius teased with a wink.

Eyeing him with condemnation, she silently seethed as he whispered a series of healing charms across the broken skin of her wrists, sighing with reluctantly released relief as the aching cuts were closed.

He shifted his attention to her reddened ankles, and shot her a brief glower that was clearly meant to be a warning. "If you try to kick me, I won't hesitate to put you in a full body bind."

He released her ankles from the binding spell, pulled her feet into his lap, and proceeded to heal her.

"You can hardly refer to yourself as unarmed if you're able to perform wandless spells like this," Hermione muttered as he worked.

"Like all forms of magic, wandless casting becomes easier and more powerful with age–for those with the predisposition," he boasted.

Raising an eyebrow, he continued, "I suspect a talent like this would come naturally for a witch as gifted as you are."

Hermione tried not to flush under the compliment, her critical gaze falling contemplative as she watched him begin to massage her aching arches with tender, well-practised ministrations, her small feet nearly disappearing within the grasp of his large palms.

Hermione practically melted under his touch, his strokes were so perfectly balanced between gentle and firm, and in precisely the right places. The calming draught had already tranquilised her, but the feel of Lucius's hands massaging her feet was enough to nearly turn her into a drooling, lolling puddle.

Manipulative, coldhearted bastard.

"You really are quite dangerous, aren't you?" Hermione murmured, almost to herself.

"Not to you…so long as you behave."

"You can't keep me prisoner here forever," Hermione argued. "Harry and Ron will come looking for me any moment now–"

"And I assure you I'll release you momentarily. But first, you and I are going to have a little chat."

"I already told you I have nothing to say to you–"

"Fine. Act like a petulant child if you wish. You can simply stay quiet and listen."

Hermione folded her lips and turned away from him for a few moments, before accepting that she was, in fact, behaving exactly as he'd taunted.

She couldn't be a brave, stubborn Gryffindor if she was going to escape the Villa with her life and dignity intact.

She'd need to behave more like a Slytherin.

Which meant for now, she'd need to play his game.

With a sigh, Hermione looked back at him. "What do you have to say to me, Mr Malfoy?"

"To start…I have a proposition for you, Miss Granger."

"A proposition?"

"Indeed. I've accepted that when it comes to you I simply cannot help myself. And I believe this feeling is mutual."

Hermione bit her tongue, smothering the brash instinct to outright deny his assertion about her feelings–regardless of the veracity–with a litany of colourful vocabulary that would horrify her parents.

After an extended pause, Hermione finally asked, "What exactly are you proposing?"

Lucius smiled that thrice-damned curve of his lips that seemed to tilt the very axis of the earth, it was so disorienting in its power of seduction.

Were all witches as woefully susceptible to the charms of Lucius's lethal smile?

Or was it something pitiful and loathsome…about her?

"It's simple, really. I propose you allow yourself to enjoy what you want." He'd abandoned his massage–to her private disappointment–and was now positioning her legs beneath the bedclothes. He then reached for a cashmere blanket and draped it over her torso, as if he were tucking a child into bed. "And as you imparted quite enthusiastically last night…what you want is me."

"I don't want you."

"You're lying."

Hermione swallowed hard, warring to keep from trembling beneath his stare. "Very well. I acknowledge that being an omega…confuses things, in ways I still don't fully understand." She took a deep breath, moistened her lips, and continued, "But I still have my conscience. I still have my self-worth, despite your best efforts to strip it away from me. I still have my sense of right and wrong. And everything about you, Lord Malfoy, is wrong. If there was any doubt in my mind, any inclination whatsoever that you possess even a modicum of basic human decency, well…I now consider myself fully disabused of such childish fantasies. Last night proved that you will do nothing except terrorise and violate me at every opportunity you have."

Hermione braced herself for whatever fury he'd throw back at her, but to her surprise, he remained composed–pensive–as he allowed her words to settle between them.

After an extended pause of consideration, Lucius asked softly, "Do you truly feel violated by me, Hermione?"

Hermione was about to answer in the resounding affirmative, but then he spoke again.

"I'm not referring to what happened in the Forbidden Forest. My actions were a horrendous act of irrefragable assault, and I know quite well you'll never forgive me for it." His tone was sombre, all semblances of teasing and provocation lost. "I'm referring to last night. I came here to comfort you. I made love to you because you asked. Do you truly feel violated, knowing now that it was not some fevered fantasy? That what we shared was real? Or are you simply telling yourself you feel violated, because that's more…palatable than admitting you desire me?"

Hermione shook her head, her thoughts increasingly muddled as the disquieting verity of his conviction began to take hold. "I don't…I mean–umm–"

"I think, Miss Granger, that beyond this proper, righteous, good little girl façade of yours…there is a part of you deep inside that has an appetite for darkness. For danger. You crave things in the very marrow of your bones that most others can never comprehend…those perverse, deviant, filthy things you instinctively know only I can grant you."

It was positively mortifying, hearing her own words–words whispered in darkness, words she'd believed to be private–repeated back to her in abject daylight.

Lucius added, "You desire me just as much as I desire you, sweetheart. We complement each other. We share an affinity. We're connected beyond our designations. So why fight this?"

The implications of his unanswered questions weighed her down with a crippling metallic tonnage.

Lucius Malfoy had raped her in the Forbidden Forest.

Lucius Malfoy was also the wizard of her darkest fantasies.

Both were uncomfortable truths that should have been mutually exclusive, but somehow, they existed together with equal fidelity.

Make me hurt, Mr Malfoy.

Violate me…Lucius.

Hermione had no idea how to begin reconciling those oppositions.

"I'm not supposed to desire a man like you," Hermione admitted quietly. A gleam of satisfaction flickered in his silver eyes, but he tempered it–seemingly for her benefit–before it blossomed into ridicule.

"Do you intend to spend the rest of your life only doing what you're supposed to do?" He reached forward and gently wiped a stray, lingering tear that had fallen down her cheek. "You've survived a war, sweetheart. You've grown up much faster than any witch your age should have to. I think the time has come for you to do precisely what pleasures you. To take whatever your heart desires. Damn what anyone else thinks–who are they to deny the Brightest Witch of Her Age?"

Hermione recalled an oft-repeated muggle adage: well-behaved women seldom make history. It was one of those ubiquitous sayings with all kinds of fantastical origin stories, attributed to a variety of figures ranging from Anne Boleyn to Marilyn Monroe, but Hermione had learnt that those famous words had actually been coined by an American professor at Harvard University. That simple statement, that assertion of feminine liberation, was in fact authored by Pulitzer Prize-winning academic scholar of women's history–Dr Laurel Thatcher Ulrich.

Hermione had a strong feeling that getting shagged by a Death Eater was not what Dr Ulrich had in mind.

"You're married," Hermione said eventually. It was hardly the strongest argument against…whatever the bloody hell Lucius was proposing, but it was by far the easiest argument to proclaim. He had a wife–a lovely, kind, beautiful wife–whose actions in the Forbidden Forest had helped win the war. Lucius would be a fool to be unfaithful to a witch as gracious as Lady Malfoy.

"I've had many mistresses before, Hermione. Narcissa is well aware of this fact. I know this might seem unusual to you as a muggleborn, but this is the way pureblood marriages work."

"Regardless of your…marital customs, that is not the kind of woman I am," Hermione declared. "I am not–I will not–be a mistress."

"You're absolutely right, my dear. Forgive me. You're indeed far more than a mistress," Lucius seductively purred. "You're my lover. My paramour. My omega–"

"I amnot your anything–"

"And I can just as well be yours," Lucius continued undeterred, pointedly amplifying his charm to lethal registers. "I can indulge you in ways no other wizard can, little one. Wouldn't you like to experience the vast ways I can stimulate a witch like you, body and mind? The ways I can pamper you? Spoil you?"

Before she succumbed to the spell of his heated gaze and hypnotic voice, Hermione blurted impulsively, "Hasn't it occurred to you that you're far too old for me?"

Hermione assumed he'd react just as poorly as he had the evening before when she'd mentioned his age.

This morning, however, Lucius simply laughed.

"More times than I'd care to admit, darling. But we both know you have little patience for boys your own age. You're above them. You're too smart. Too sophisticated–"

"You don't know anything about me–"

"You may have convinced yourself to tolerate the likes of Potter and Weasley as friends, but for matters of pleasure? Of intimacy?" His eyebrows rose suggestively. "You require someone who will challenge you. Someone who will guide you. Someone who will take care of you for a change."

He wasn't utilising his alpha influence, as far as Hermione's subdued nerves and receptors could detect, his invigorating natural scent wafting like fine eau de parfum, instead of a narcotising soporific. But still his plainly spoken words seemed to inspirit those private, elemental depths she'd never dared to acknowledge, much less voice.

Make me yours.

Let me be your good girl…

"It's not just silver eyes you have," Hermione admitted eventually. "You possess quite the silver tongue, as well."

"You accept my proposal?"

"I'll consider your proposal," Hermione corrected. "But first, you need to release me."

"Are you still planning on hexing me?"

Hermione momentarily fumed, but realised she'd have to concede something if she was going to secure her freedom. "No, sir."

The title slipped out on a reflex, but the heated flare in Lucius's eyes confirmed that he understood the full meaning of that subconscious avowal.

Control me, Alpha…

Dominate me, Alpha…

Possess me, Alpha…

"Good girl."

He planted a final kiss upon her lips, slowly and gently slipping his tongue into her mouth in a languid caress, before leaving her with a fond pinch to her chin.

As soon as the doors to the suite closed, Hermione's wrists were freed from the spell.

Ever truthful to her word, Hermione considered his proposal, just as she'd promised.

She considered it for exactly three seconds before she decided, resolutely, that she needed to get the hell out of Italy before Lucius Malfoy could devastate her further.

Hermione leapt from bed, uncaring of the way her aching, wibbly muscles demanded a lie-in. Taking hold of her wand, she summoned all of her clothes back to her weekend bag, quickly covering her nakedness with the first set of undergarments and summer dress she found.

She was slipping into low-heeled sandals when a familiar silver stag manifested in front of her, speaking with Harry's urgent voice.

"Hermione–meet me outside by the lemon trees the instant you get this. Something terrible has happened to Ron."

---

Something terrible had indeed happened to Ronald Weasley.

But by the looks of things, there was a very strong possibility that these demeaning horrors were entirely of the self-inflicted variety.

Still dressed in his torn denims and knitted jumper from the night before, Ron was surrounded by empty firewhisky, isvodka, and vientequila bottles, slumped over a stone bench in the middle of the citrus grove on the outskirts of the maze-like cypress forest. He was covered in his own filth, sick smeared across half of his stubbled face, and his pale skin had taken on a disconcerting blue tint.

If it wasn't for the fact that he was mumbling incoherently to himself, staring blankly at nothing, Hermione would have thought he was dead–decomposing–he looked so ghostly and unwell.

"What do you think this is?" Harry asked Hermione warily. "Do you think he was cursed?"

"I'm not certain, Harry." Hermione held her breath, fighting the impulse to heave as she slowly approached close enough to cast multiple cleansing charms over Ron's soiled body. He wasn't exactly her favourite person at the moment, but they had years of history together that weighed far more than their recent quarrels. He was still one of her best friends. Ron deserved to maintain his dignity–even in this state. "Ron? Can you hear me?"

Ron didn't react to the sound of her voice, and kept muttering a string of words too slurred for her to discern.

Tentatively stepping closer, Hermione clapped her hands in front of his face.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" she said louder.

This finally seemed to grasp his attention, but as soon as his unfocused gaze settled upon hers, his eyes bulged so fiercely he burst multiple vessels.

"S-s-s-s-sp–p-piders!" Ron furiously shook his head back and forth as tears streamed from his bloodied eyes. "No….n-no m-m-m-ore s-s-sp-piders…"

"There are no spiders, Ron." Hermione softened her voice as best as she could. "It's just me. It's Hermione. Harry is here too."

Ron glanced at Harry, and released a shriek so loud that Hermione had to take a step back to prevent her eardrums from rupturing.

"Harry, did he–"

"Hermione, watch out!"

Hermione reacted to Harry's warning a second too late, for as soon as she turned her head, Ron tackled her to the ground hard enough to agitate the ribs that had been twice broken and healed over the past month, sending her wand flying out of her fingertips from the blow. She could hear Harry shouting somewhere above them, demanding that Ron release her, but their friend was possessed in his stupor. He roughly jostled Hermione's privately bruised, considerably smaller body like a rag doll, scowling down at her with so much disgust in his eyes, it was as if she were the single representation of everything he feared and hated in the world.

"I'll kill you….I'll fucking kill you all!" he snarled, and he brought his meaty fist to her throat, and squeezed.

Somewhere deep within, the physical manifestations of fear that had been smothered by the calming draught managed to override the powerful effects of the potion, Hermione was that frightened. Her heart battered her tender rib cage with a bruising rhythm as terror cyclonically stormed through her veins, her skull nearly shattering under the crushing pressure of the unadulterated, highly specific form of panic that could only arise from having a man on top of her–holding her down.

He's going to kill me…

Thrashing beneath him in desperation, Hermione coughed, "Ron…get off…please get off!" She watched in horror as Ron aimed his wand inches away from her face with his other hand.

My best friend is going to kill me…

"Avad–"

"Expelliarmus!"

The force of Harry's signature spell launched Ron several feet into the air, before dropping him unceremoniously onto the ground with a disturbing series of cracks.

Scrambling to her feet, Hermione reached for her wand and cast a powerful Incarcerous, tightly mummifying Ron all the way up to his neckbefore he could attack again.

It was only once she lowered her wand that she realised her grave error.

"Whoa, Hermione, nicely done," Harry mentioned, impressed. "When did you learn how to cast like that?"

Hermione hadn't been thinking of any of her prior Defence training when she'd cast the spell. She'd been reacting, relying on instinct, releasing magic entirely out of feeling, instead of logic.

And her inadvertent teacher for this particular conjuration was none other than Lucius Malfoy.

It was as if his repeated use of the Incarcerous upon her body had somehow suffused knowledge into her magical core, and had released as effortless as a reflex in direct response to the threat against her person.

"I…err…I read about it," Hermione answered noncommittally. She was uncomfortably reminded of the way her magic had spontaneously discharged the last time Ron had attacked her, but she wasn't of the mindset to consider the possibility that it was actually some aspect of Lucius's influence within her body, protecting her from harm.

Regardless of whether that harm was Ron…or perhaps a heat suppressant potion.

That would be something to research…later.

"What should we do?" Harry asked. Ron was wildly swinging back and forth between roaring and sobbing, struggling fruitlessly against the binding spell. "I fear he's going to hurt himself if we let him stay like this too long. Fuck, I think I broke a few bones on him…"

"This is beyond me, I fear," Hermione confessed. She willfully disregarded her emotions with a series of meditative breaths as she deliberately clung to the residual traces of calming draught, keeping her panic at wand's length.

Now was not the time to try and process the fact that her best friend had been about to Avada her.

"He needs a healer," Hermione decided. "Let's take him to–"

The pop of apparition sounded behind her, and Hermione whirred around, worried that Lucius had come to follow her.

Her blood ran so cold her veins nearly iced over when the one person whose presence she dreaded even more was revealed.

"Oh dear!" Narcissa exclaimed, placing a delicate hand on her throat, her slender wrist entirely covered with diamond bracelets of varying cuts, but equally large sizes. She was poshly styled in a flowing day gown of crêpey silk in the same colours Lucius had been wearing, Hermione noticed, and she wondered if that had been a deliberate choice on his part.

Did the beautiful Malfoy couple coordinate their dressing?

"One of the elves alerted me that a guest had imbibed a bit too much and was suffering illness." Narcissa delicately frowned, shaking her head in concern as she surveyed Ron. "I had no idea it was poor Mr Weasley."

"Illness?" Harry pointed accusingly at Ron, glaring at Lady Malfoy. "He's bloody hallucinating! Someone cursed him–he nearly killed Hermione!"

Narcissa stepped forward and offered Harry a small, sympathetic smile, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Mr Potter…I understand you're upset, but I assure you, your friend hasn't been cursed–"

"He must have been! This isn't him, he'd never hurt Hermione–"

Well…

"These are all common side effects of the heightened consumption of multiple opposing wizarding liquors, Mr Potter. Delirium, agitation, paranoia, and in some cases…violence," Narcissa explained patiently.

She turned to Hermione, her gaze softening in a way that made Hermione want to burst into tears of guilt. "Are you quite all right dear?"

Why, why does Lady Malfoy have to be so lovely?

"I'm fine," Hermione answered in a small voice. "He didn't really hurt me."

"A relief, indeed," Narcissa acknowledged. "Now, I understand you both grew up in muggle households, so you might not realise that enchanted alcohols can resemble hallucinogens when they are mixed and consumed to heightened excess. A consequence of conflicting enchantments within an inebriated body. My father, Cygnus…unfortunately this repeated sickness caused irreparable damage to his organs over time, and eventually took his life the summer before Draco's second year. So I know it well."

Poor Narcissa.

Poor Draco….

Was that why Lucius had bought the entire Slytherin quidditch team Nimbus 2001 racing brooms that year? As a way to comfort his grieving son, by distracting him through gifts and sport?

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Lady Malfoy," Hermione offered softly, feeling her self-esteem plummet to impossible depths as shame overtook her.

Clearing his throat, Harry added, "Me too. I'm…sorry. I remember Sirius mentioning he had an uncle who succumbed to alcoholism. I didn't make the connection that it was your father."

Narcissa's eyes moistened for a brief moment, before the elegant woman composed herself to effortless poise. "I'm sorry too, Mr Potter. While my cousin and I were never exactly close, Sirius was still family. The death of your godfather is indeed…deeply felt."

A layer of tension visibly fell away from Harry. "Thank you for saying that."

After sharing a brief look with Harry, Narcissa turned her attention back to Ron. "The good news is, Mr Weasley is young, clearly healthy, and still conscious, which means his condition is critical–but certainly not irreversible. He'll need to be transported to the hospital for supportive care until his symptoms subside."

"St Mungo's?" Hermione asked.

"Too far, dear. There's a fine wizarding hospital just in Florence. Mr Weasley is in no state to apparate or travel with floo powder, but I can certainly have one of our servants–human servants–take your friend via automobile transportation."

"I'll go with him," Harry said resolutely.

"Me too," Hermione added.

"Mixie? Tolly? To me, please," Narcissa called over her shoulder. Seconds later, two house elves wearing pristine white sheets draped like Roman togas appeared directly in front of her.

"Mistress?" The little elves asked in perfect unison, expectantly gazing up at Lady Malfoy with large eyes and wiggling ears.

"Thank you both for coming so quickly. Now listen carefully, this is very important: Mr Ronald Weasley is not feeling well, and he'll need to be taken to hospital," Narcissa instructed calmly.

Merlin, she's even kind to her house elves!

Narcissa continued, "Tolly, you will levitate Mr Weasley–carefully–to the front gates. Mixie, I would like you to run ahead and alert Orazio of the situation, and have him bring an automobile around. He will then need to drive our guests to San Lattanzio's in Florence for Mr Weasley's treatment. Do you both understand these very important tasks?"

"Yes, Mistress! Mixie understands! Mixie must notify Mr Wizard-Servant Orazio!" squeaked the smaller elf.

"Tolly understands, too! Tolly must levitate Mistress's important guest Mr Weasley!" cried the other.

Narcissa smiled warmly. "Very good, you two. Now let's make haste."

---

It had taken the entirety of the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon, but finally, Ron's condition was stable.

He'd been admitted immediately upon the trio's arrival at San Lattanzio's, where a team of emergency mediwizards had proceeded to pour vomiting-inducing potions down Ron's throat, before placing him in a magical coma with an added medi-Stupefy for complex treatment once all alcoholic toxins had been purged.

Evidently, Ron had consumed so many opposing wizarding alcohols during his binge that he'd damaged his liver, and the stunted organ was now functioning with severely diminished capacity that would take months of potions and therapeutics to fully recover from. His heart, kidneys, stomach, and intestines had also also suffered casualties from all that Ron had ingested, a dire form of rapidly deteriorative organ failure the lead healer had advised was comparable to repeated exposure to a very powerful Cruciatus curse.

In addition to several sites of serious internal bleeding, Ron had multiple broken bones–most of which had been sustained prior to Harry's disarming spell–including a fractured skull, a cracked sternum, and a completely shattered kneecap. He was covered in bruises and scratches, blood and tissue caked under his nails, as if he'd been trying to claw his way out of his own skin in the midst of his hallucinatory delirium.

Due to the extensive nature of Ron's injuries, an Ufficiale from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Italian Ministry had interviewed Harry and Hermione while Ron was in triage, and had performed a supplementary assessment of Ron's condition once the mediwizards and mediwitches had completed their first rounds of treatment. He'd interviewed Hermione first, and Hermione had specifically left out the detail pertaining to Ron's near-use of the Avada, silently praying that Harry would follow suit. Their friend didn't need to be investigated for his attempt at an Unforgivable.

To her relief, Harry had adhered to her example, parroting the abbreviated narrative of how they'd found Ron, and after scanning Ron's body for any evidence of active curses or poisons, the Ufficiale had concluded that no foul play was in effect. Ron's condition was a sad consequence of dangerously excessive consumption, just as Narcissa had said. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Now, Ron lay silent and deathly still in his hospital bed in a private room of the Tuscan wizarding medical centre that strongly resembled a Renaissance cathedral. Had she been here under any other circumstances, Hermione would have taken time to admire its classical orders and stained glass windows.

Instead, Hermione sat exhausted with her head against Harry's shoulder, deliberately ignoring the almost tangible pull of the wondrous architectural geometry in favour of watching Ron sleep.

He was lucky to be alive.

"One of us should floo call The Burrow," Hermione mentioned, motioning vaguely to the baroque calacatta fireplace in front of Ron's bed. "Molly and Arthur need to know what's happened."

Harry was silent for several moments, and he ran a hand through his tousled sable hair with a weary sigh. "I don't recognise him, 'Mi."

Solemnly, Hermione agreed. "Nor do I."

"I know he's been drinking a lot, but I didn't know it had gotten this bad." Harry stood from the small settee they'd been sharing and began to pace. "I thought it was normal, you know? After everything we've been through. I thought he was just trying to relax, have some fun. But this…fuck, this is bad."

"The healer said he's going to make a full recovery, with time." Hopefully. "That's what's most important right now."

Harry slowly shook his head as he gazed at Ron, his verdurous eyes vacillating between sorrow and anger. "He tried to kill you."

"I'm fine," Hermione assured, mainly for Harry's benefit.

She doubted she'd soon forget the gut-wrenching terror, betrayal, and heartbreak she'd felt as Ron held her down, choked her, and pointed his wand to Avada her.

Lucius violating her was one thing–but to be physically harmed by a friend? A boy she loved like a brother? Someone she'd trusted? That was a trauma Hermione feared she'd never recover from.

The stress fracture that had formed between them that day at The Burrow was now a perilous fault line. One more shift, and there would be nothing left but devastation.

"You're not fine–and you haven't been for a while," Harry said. "And what Ron did…he just made it worse, didn't he? Whatever it is you're going through in secret?"

Hermione was grateful that Harry was still staring at Ron, and therefore unable to see the growing trepidation on her newly flushed face.

Just how much did Harry know?

"Harry…I–"

"Bugger it. I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me," Harry apologised, still not looking at her. "I promised myself I wouldn't bring it up until you're ready. And I mean that, Hermione. I won't push you."

The words were at the tip of her tongue, nearly spilling over as if she'd been dosed with Veritaserum, but suddenly the arched doorway to the treatment room opened.

The moment of near-confession had passed.

"Signorina Granger?" Ron's nurse asked in her euphonious Romance accent. "There's a Signora Barker-Bonheur asking for you downstairs in the plaza."

Cressida?

"Go ahead," Harry encouraged with a half smile before Hermione could speculate on why the magical communications specialist was there in the first place. "I'll keep watch and call Molly while you're gone."

"Thank you, Harry."

Hermione made her way down to the lowest level of the hospital, and immediately spotted the chic burgundy-haired witch who rushed to her side as soon as their gazes met.

"Miss Granger–lovely to see you. If you'll follow me, please," Cressida said quickly with a bright, red-lipped smile. There was a frostiness in her eyes that confirmed that this wasn't a social call.

Did Lucius send her?

"Actually…Cressida, I–"

Cressida gripped her wrist so hard that Hermione released a pitiful squeak in pain. "This cannot wait, Hermione," Cressida hissed against her ear through gritted teeth. "You've done enough damage already. Now shut up, smile, and follow me."

Cressida practically shoved Hermione into a small lounge intended for families of long term patients, and Hermione watched in apprehension as Cressida slammed the door shut, waving her wand to activate the privacy charms built directly into the hospital's wards.

Spinning on her heel, she turned back to face Hermione. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? My best friend needs me!" Hermione retorted. "Why are you here?"

"I gave you a script–a very specific script so idiot-proof a flobberworm could follow it–and yet here I find you sitting at Ronald Weasley's bedside whilst he recovers from alcohol poisoning, of all disgraceful maladies. This was not part of the plan!"

Hermione panicked. "How do you even know about that? We were assured Ron's privacy would be–"

"Naiveté doesn't suit you, Miss Granger." Cressida rolled her furious hazel eyes. "You are one of the most famous witches in the world–a war hero and an omega–currently attending the birthday celebration of the heir to one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most powerful wizarding families in existence. I told you that your every move would be watched this weekend. This was your opportunity to launch yourself into greatness, beyond speculation of your sex life, and you have ruined my hard work–"

"That's enough, Cressida," Hermione clipped. "You seem to forget–I am the one who hired you."

"My my, is that a backbone I see, Miss Granger? It's a bit late for this weekend to see, don't you think?"

"Merlin, what did you expect me to do? Ron is my friend, he nearly died–"

"And will make a full recovery, according to the mediwitch I paid off handsomely in order to keep this story out of the international wizarding press. I shed no tears for a wizard who brings such a condition upon himself."

"Well unlike you, I'm not heartless–"

"Of course not, pitifully sentimental Gryffindor–"

"He tried to kill me!" Hermione shrieked, and Cressida paled. "Ron was hallucinating his greatest fears, and he attacked me!"

Cressida hesitated. "Miss Granger–Hermione–"

"He held me down, pointed a wand to my face, and nearly uttered the full incantation of the killing curse! If it wasn't for Harry disarming him, I would be dead right now. This is not just alcohol poisoning. This is more than disgrace. Whatever happened to him is quite literally life-threatening–not only to himself, but to others. What kind of person would I be to abandon him at a time like this?"

Cressida's sharp features slightly softened, and she ran a hand through her glossy hair.

After an uncomfortable pause, she asked, "Will you sit down, Hermione?"

Hermione practically collapsed into the nearest chair, the abrupt rise and descent of fury leaving her breathless, dazed, and lightheaded.

Slowly, Cressida sat down next to her, and spoke in a measured tone. "I am…sincerely, very sorry about what has happened to Mr Weasley. But I'm most concerned about what has happened to you. And I don't say this because you are my client."

"What do you mean?"

Cressida slowly inhaled, choosing her words tactfully. "Hermione…you are in a very precarious position right now. The entire wizarding world is watching you. Which means you must take extreme caution with all of your public interactions, associations, and discourse. Being here with Mr Weasley…it's highly unwise for you."

"But Ron's my friend!" Hermione countered. "And he's fighting for his life–"

"Mr Weasley is a pureblood man."

"So?"

Cressida cleared her throat, a hint of natural flush forming on her already darkly rouged cheeks. "And you…you're a female, muggleborn omega. There are certain…allowances our world bestows upon those in Mr Weasley's position–advantages that, unfortunately, do not extend to you, regardless of the fact that you helped bring down Tom Riddle. Prejudices with thousands of years of credence do not disintegrate with the death of one tyrant. Even muggle history would teach you this."

Hermione shook her head, unwilling to accept such blatant injustices. She opened her mouth to argue, but Cressida continued, "The scrutiny you're under is unfair–believe me, I know it is, Hermione. It's sexist and supremacist–but it's reality. This is our world, and it's not enough to simply do the right thing and hope that good, kindness, and equality will always prevail. Witches like us need to maintain constant vigilance, to act with wisdom and cunning instead of pride and emotion in order to maintain our positions of influence. And sometimes, that means making certain sacrifices–painful ones."

Hermione thought back to Skeeter's article, recalling how that wretched beetle had wasted no time accusing Hermione of being a home-wrecking harlot, but hadn't actually offered a single condemnatory word for Lucius's speculative extramarital relations.

The double-standard was baffling.

Moistening her lips, Hermione tentatively asked, "They'd probably find a way to blame me for Ron, wouldn't they? Skeeter, and…others…"

Cressida nodded sadly, but then placed a firm hand over Hermione's. "You have an opportunity right now, while you have the world's attention. To demonstrate your strength and establish your agency–separate from your friends, and independent of your designation. International leaders will be in attendance at the young lord's birthday ball this evening. The most powerful people in our world, whom you will need as allies if you are to realise the true potential I know you're capable of."

Hermione couldn't help it–she flushed under the praise, and felt like a schoolgirl all over again, desperate for top marks and adulations from her professors. "You truly think I have potential?"

"I don't extend my favour lightly, Hermione," Cressida said seriously. "Lucius may have made the introduction, but I chose to work with you because I believe you're destined for great things. As your advisor, it would be remiss of me not to warn you of the dangers of associating with someone who is spiralling. And my dear…Ronald Weasley is spiralling. He will only pull you down with him."

Hermione tightly folded her arms and stared hard at the hospital's stone flooring, contemplating the magnitude of Cressida's words. She loved Ron dearly, but there was no escaping the fact that he had now attacked her twice while intoxicated.

Fool me once…fool me twice…

Hermione was many things, but a fool was certainly not one of them.

I'm sorry, Ron.

But while she could accept that she indeed needed to distance herself from Ron for a period–that did not mean she needed to return to the den of vipers that was the Villa for further torture.

"Fine. I won't stay here at the hospital. But I won't be going back to the celebration, either," Hermione stated.

Cressida's eyes narrowed. "Pardon?"

Hermione crossed and uncrossed her legs, and nervously re-folded her hands. "I cannot be around Lord Malfoy."

Cressida scoffed. "For what reason? Actually no, don't say it–I told you when I met you that I don't need to know whether or not you've actually slept with him. What I need is for you to act like an adult, put on your big girl knickers, and socialise graciously with Lord and Lady Malfoy, as if nothing at all is amiss. And from what I hear, Lucius is presenting quite the united front with Narcissa, following my instructions perfectly. Why can't you do the same?"

"Because it's different for me!" Hermione exclaimed. "You don't know what he's done to me! I'm not…I'm not cut out for this, I can't–"

"For Merlin's sake, don't you dare start crying," Cressida clipped. "Pull yourself together, girl! I explained to you days ago why this is a non-negotiable part of the strategy. If you run, you're providing the perfect vacancy for Rita Skeeter, and any number of journalists, to further speculate on your association with Lucius, and I promise you that first article will look like a fan letter in comparison to what will be written if you don't take full control of this narrative now."

"Cressida, I'm begging you–I can't–"

"You can, and you will, Miss Granger. Your reputation–your future–depends on it. So you need to decide: are you a scared little girl, or are you a grown woman? Because if your instinct is to flee and hide every time Lucius makes you uncomfortable–"

"This is more than mere discomfort!"

"–then you are clearly not the brave witch I thought you were, and I've been wasting my very expensive time on you."

Cressida's words were sharp enough to nearly gut Hermione, but the unsparing witch wasn't done. "The world is filled with snakes like Lucius. Arrogant, entitled wizards who will intimidate as much as you allow them to. So I ask you again: are you a little girl? A simpering, submissive little omega who rolls over like a whipped bitch in heat for every alpha she sees? Or are you a grown witch, a war hero, the Brightest Witch of Her Age?"

Hermione glared through tears at Cressida, infuriated and hurt by her condescension, but the longer she considered Cressida's merciless queries and critiques, the more she realised the assertive witch was right.

Scrubbing her eyes dry, Hermione stated purposefully, "Advise me, then."