Hermione's hands trembled as she stared down at them.
They shook with exhaustion. Tiny scars flecked across her fingers, after-images of the life she had led during the war. A million cuts healed over; a million cuts healed by her.
A fatigue so deep that it felt as if a black hole had settled itself in her chest. The universe was caving in. Everything was collapsing in upon itself, and she was at the centre of it all. The bone-deep weariness swallowed her energy, sucking away any meagre offering she could pour into Occlumency.
She was so tired.
"Again," came Draco's sharp command.
Hermione let out a slow, shaky breath. Her eyes never left her hands.
The images wouldn't leave her mind. They stuttered, on repeat in her brain. She had been lost in her memories for too long. Re-living the deaths of her friends, over and over.
Deep, crimson blood was staining her hands. She was scrambling madly, surging forward with the crowd. Acrid smoke was choking her, burning her throat and eyes. Everyone around her was screaming. She was screaming.
Hermione blinked.
The image flickered.
Her hands were clean and unblemished once more.
"I don't have anything left in me," she said after a long silence. Her voice was flat.
Her fingers twitched of their own accord — ingrained muscle memory, reaching to heal an ally that had died long ago? Or were they simply activated by exhausted, misfiring neurons? She couldn't tell.
Draco was silent for a few moments, before spinning on his heel and stalking out of the room. The door slammed behind him loud enough to echo.
Hermione exhaled slowly.
She lifted her hands and closed her eyes, pressing them to her face.
In the darkness of her mind's eye, the memories seemed to flash stronger, brighter. They were more vivid than life, and she was lost in them once more.
In the dreary solitude of her days, Hermione mused bitterly that her life had become a Greek tragedy. Her work was Sisyphean in nature, and the futility of it did not escape her.
Voldemort's interrogation had brought reality crashing down around her ears. The months she had lost to her despair had seemed to slough on so painfully slow at the time. In retrospect, they had passed in the blink of an eye.
She had nothing to show for herself. Panic had gripped her, sent her fleeing into the library once more.
Hermione pored over books for hours, until her eyes were so dry that blinking felt like an ordeal.
All she had managed in her research was to tease apart the individual components of the Dark Mark.
The curse was a pestilence.
Burning the Dark Mark into flesh wasn't simply a visual indicator of allegiance; it wasn't a tattoo, nor decoration.
It was necrosis of the body, sealed into a brand upon the skin. The moment that Voldemort had touched his wand upon the arm of a Death Eater, a blood curse had been inflicted upon them. His magic contained the curse within the Dark Mark — kept it dormant.
A shiver rolled down Hermione's spine.
If Voldemort activated the curse … if he broke the seal, and opened the floodgates.
From the ground zero of the Dark Mark, the curse would break free of its containment and rapidly spread through the body. Death would set in instantly, at the cellular level; cells dying in a millisecond, tissues necrotizing, septic shock setting in.
All in the blink of an eye.
She couldn't do anything to stop it.
She didn't know how.
"Again."
Draco's voice cracked sharply across the room.
It had been hours.
She had been tending to Narcissa when an elf had stumbled in, whispered desperately that Master Draco needed to see her, and then tugged her along to her bedroom where he sat waiting in a chair.
In the hours that trudged on as smoothly as mud, Hermione found herself envious of Sisyphus: at least he had made progress, however futile and ceaseless.
Sisyphus had rolled a boulder up a hill, had toiled and strained. At the crest, the boulder would roll back down. Hermione could imagine Sisyphus happy in that moment — he had prevailed against the boulder, he would meet it once more at the bottom.
She had no such reprieve.
She was tired. Exhausted in a way that neither sleep nor nourishment could alleviate.
"Again," Draco ground out. "Legilimens!"
Hermione scrambled for her Occlumency. There was a second's warning before she could feel the pressure building in her temple. Draco's presence was like a weight upon her consciousness — alarm bells were shrieking in her head, flashing dangerously. He darted through her mind, perusing and foraging through her memories.
The room around them seemed to be fading into the background, until Hermione was hardly aware of anything but the building pressure in her head. She tugged at memories from the war, bringing them forward easily.
Her in the infirmary. Hands stained red, fingers trembling. Blurred faces all around her, because she couldn't bring herself to look up; too terrified of what, or whom she might find.
The scene flickered.
Acrid smoke was swirling around her, so thick it coated her tongue in ash. She could feel herself being jostled by the crowd around her. Panic was already gripping her chest; she knew what was coming. She always did, each and every time she replayed the scene.
She could do nothing to change it.
The collective horror that rippled across the crowd in a wave. Hermione's own heart being torn asunder as she watched Harry crumple for the last time.
She could feel Draco's disinterest in the scene. He was stepping back from it, sifting through more recent memories.
Hermione found that she couldn't bring herself to care anymore.
Scenes flit across her mind's eye like changing channels on the telly.
She watched mutely as Narcissa's face feverish face loomed, eyes full of tears. "I thought it would've saved him. I thought I had spared him the misery, it would've been necessary after you," Narcissa murmured. She grew quieter as she gazed at Hermione, her face twisted with grief and agony.
The pressure was building in Hermione's head, despite her acquiescence to the Occlumency.
Bellatrix's face, inches from her own. Her hands like a vice, gripping her neck and squeezing the life out of her. Hermione, wheezing, gasping, clawing desperately at her neck to try to free herself. "Cissa, the Mudblood is the crowning jewel of this party, is it not? Of course! You're proud of your son, Draco this, Draco that, Draco the most eligible bachelor, blah blah blah—," Bellatrix's voice trilled and echoed through her mind.
Draco, expression as unblemished as fine marble, turning and pressing a chaste kiss to Daphne's lips. The room exploding in applause and bursts of camera flash, while Hermione reeled in shock and agony.
Quite suddenly, the pressure in Hermione's head lifted. It was like the breath of life. Hermione gasped and pitched bonelessly to the side, taking in deep, shuddering breaths. Her hair formed a veil that covered her face as she lay partly on her side, panting from the exertion and pain of Legilimency. She could feel her own warm breath upon her face, fanning across her skin.
"You're not even trying," Draco said. There was a cold fury in his voice that sharpened every word.
A mirthless laugh bubbled out of Hermione and she rolled slightly, to lay carelessly on her back across the bed. Maybe she was delirious from pain and magical exhaustion; maybe she just didn't give a damn anymore. Hermione could feel her carefully built walls of restraint crumbling.
She could feel herself becoming unhinged.
She stared up into the ceiling of her bedroom and waited. The tension in the room seemed to creak and groan, like an old house settling in the night.
He didn't disappoint.
"What is the fucking point of any of this? Do you even care anymore?" Draco hissed from across the room.
The click of his heels were audible even while muffled by the carpeted floor. He was pacing like a caged animal.
Good.
She stared blankly up at the ceiling, not quite seeing it. After months of avoiding Draco and hiding from him, it felt strangely liberating to be in the same space as him again.
Her heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest.
"Your feckless little friends get themselves killed and that's all fine and dandy with you, but you've just dialed it in now? Given up completely after promising you'll get it together. 'Brightest witch of her age' was a load of fucking bullocks, wasn't it? Can't be bothered to research a way to get the Dark Mark off and escape from this mess?" Draco spat.
Hermione's heart seemed to stutter for a beat.
In the span of a second, in the space between heartbeats, fury bloomed in her chest like no other. Rage gripped her throat much like Bellatrix's fingers had; she could feel it building in her chest, rising up like bile.
She sat up abruptly, head spinning from the sudden rush of blood. Her vine wood wand, still gripped in her hand, was whipped in Draco's direction. It hit the wall with a violent clatter and dropped to the floor. Sparks sprayed across the carpet and an electric crackle filled the air.
Draco jerked to a stop in his pacing and whipped his head around to stare at Hermione. The cold fury in his expression was dulled for a moment by shock.
"'What is the point of any of this?'" Hermione mocked. "What the fuck IS the point anymore? Of- of keeping up my Occlumency, of researching in the library? Why fucking bother with any of it?" Hermione shrieked. She rose to her feet; she couldn't stay still.
She couldn't keep it contained anymore.
Magic seemed to crackle across her skin, raising the hair on her arms. She was on a precipice, on a cliff, about to crash off the edge.
Draco's eyes darkened as he watched. Rage seemed to be rippling beneath the surface for him too; he kept a tighter rein on it than she did, but he was furious with her.
"Why bother figuring out a way to escape the war together when it's worked out so well for you?" Hermione demanded. "What's the point of any of this when you have a little wife now? We were always supposed to escape the war together, run away with each other, but you seem well cozy with Daphne now, don't you?"
Her voice was sharp and shrill, even to her own ears. Hermione stalked forward, hardly aware of her own movements. She was being carried by her own barely restrained anger.
She closed the gap between them in a few strides, until she was inches away from Draco. He stared down at her. His expression was twisted with equal animosity, eyes so dark that the pupil had nearly swallowed the silver of his iris.
"Tell me," Hermione mused loudly, voice taking on a deadly edge. She reached a hand out and shoved Draco in the chest once. "Do you love your new little pureblood wife?"
Shove.
Hermione's voice grew louder, while Draco's face seemed to grow pale.
"Does she fuck you?" she demanded. Every syllable was enunciated harshly. The words were almost violent.
Draco looked like she had reached out and slapped him.
Another shove, this time with both hands.
"Do you love fucking your new little pureblood wife? That's what you enjoy, isn't it? Do you feel good about it? Does it get you off?" Hermione screamed.
Something snapped in Draco.
His hands came up instantly and his long fingers wrapped around Hermione's wrists, with enough pressure to bruise. She jerked her arms but found it impossible to break free.
"You want to know if I fuck my pureblood wife? If I love fucking my pureblood wife?" he snarled.
Draco was trembling with rage.
A sick part of Hermione felt twisted satisfaction at watching the veneer crack.
He was becoming undone.
"I HATED it," Draco yelled. He jerked Hermione's arms again, as if shaking her could emphasize his point. "I hated fucking her. Is that what you want to hear? It was absolutely fucking miserable. I couldn't even consummate the marriage without taking so many aphrodisiacs that I was violently ill the next day. I'm trapped in a marriage with a stranger and you think I love her? You think I love fucking her?"
He yanked Hermione closer and she stumbled at the unexpected physical force, toppling into Draco's chest.
Her heart was hammering so violently that she was certain he could hear it; could feel it, even, because she was pressed against him.
The air seemed to leave her lungs as she stared up at him from so close-up. She couldn't get enough oxygen in, could hardly breathe. It had been a long time since she had been able to see him so closely — to truly see him.
He looked terrible. His expression was tortured, twisted with bitterness. He looked like a man possessed, nearly deranged.
"It's always been you," Draco hissed. His grip on Hermione's wrists tightened until she could feel the creak of her bones. "It's always been you that I wanted," he continued quietly, "and … it kills me inside that you don't want me."
Hermione stilled.
His grip on her arms was relinquished suddenly, and Draco's expression seemed to flicker for a second. Uncertainty flashed across it; it was clear that he had not meant to reveal so much.
Draco stared at Hermione for a moment as the rage seemed to drain out of him.
Her heart was pounding, an insistent kick-drum in her chest, and her brain couldn't seem to keep up. The months of detachment, the lack of affection between him and Daphne, the complete nonchalance … the way he had avoided her so completely.
A humid fog of confusion seemed to be crystallizing into a moment of clarity.
Hermione licked her lips, mouth suddenly very dry.
"You- … you really think I don't want you?" she asked quietly.
Draco froze.
"You're the only one I've ever wanted," Hermione whispered.
The rage inside her, that she had felt for so long, that had burnt so hot that it engulfed her … had shifted.
It had turned sweet and honeyed, deepened into a lower octave.
They were close enough that she could feel Draco's warm breath against her face. He was breathing fast, chest rising and falling with sharp breaths. He stared at her with a molten intensity, eyes darkened, that Hermione knew whatever she was feeling … he was feeling the same.
As if in a dream-like state, in a trance, his hands slowly raised to cup her face. She leaned into it, staring unwaveringly up at him. A ghost of a touch — his thumb brushed across her cheek.
Hermione shivered.
It was like the smouldering fire had been lit into an inferno.
She didn't know if she reached for him, or if he reached for her, but suddenly, her hands were scrambling at his collar. She yanked him down and smashed her lips against his.
She was enveloped in him.
The warmth, the heat, the sheer size of his form against hers. Draco's lips pressed fiercely back into hers and he kissed her with all the emotion he had never been allowed to express, that he had kept bottled up and carefully contained and hidden away.
It was intoxicating and addicting. She felt like she was drowning, she felt like she was burning up. There was an insistent thrum of heat building within her and if she let herself, Hermione could lose herself in it and luxuriate forever. She never wanted to leave, never wanted to be apart from him.
It was dangerous.
They spun in their embrace, too consumed by desire to orient themselves. Hermione stumbled and went crashing into the wall, but felt no pain — Draco's arms had encircled her body like a cage. They went tumbling to the floor, ripping each other's clothes off. She heard the fabric of her shirt tearing from the brute force that he used to rip it off her; she didn't care, they couldn't get their clothes off fast enough.
A trail of kisses were peppered along her neck and jaw, his fingers tangling in the hair at the base of her neck to pull her head back and expose even more flesh. Hermione clawed helplessly at Draco's broad back, flexing and gripping the smooth expanses of muscle. She couldn't get enough of him, she needed more.
"Please," Hermione whispered, voice hoarse. "More, please."
Draco gave a quiet chuckle but did not object, shifting her down onto the floor. Hermione could feel the plush carpet against her back, hyper aware of the sensation against her already stimulated skin.
He nipped along her jaw, trailed kisses to her pulse point while spreading her legs and orienting his body atop hers. Without breaking apart or pausing in his ministrations at her neck, Draco lined himself up and slowly pressed himself into her.
Hermione gave a sharp gasp at the intrusion, hissing slightly in pain. There was a stinging pain, and a foreign sensation.
Draco pressed open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, one hand moving lazily to trail down between them and part her folds. Hermione squirmed, suddenly uncertain, but his fingers found their mark a second later — all apprehension was forgotten with a gasp. An electric impulse of wild pleasure ran through her, and she forgot the pain too.
He moved slowly with a few experimental thrusts, fingers tangled in her hair and hand stroking her clit. The sharp pressure gave way to building pleasure as she found herself acclimating and beginning to move back in unison, their bodies melding together.
The tempo was increasing and Hermione found herself moaning breathlessly, beginning to pant with desire. Draco was thrusting harder and deeper; the neck kisses had been replaced by him moaning lowly in her ear with every thrust, panting as sensation overtook him too.
With some effort, he pulled himself back slightly. His fingers untangled from her hair, and Draco gently gripped Hermione's chin to tilt her head to face him.
Their eyes met. There was an intensity in his eyes she had never seen before; something molten and burning, something deeper than just desire and affection.
Hermione opened her mouth but found she couldn't string words together. Nothing coherent could form in her brain, not while it was experiencing such ecstasy and pleasure. The pressure and heat was building and Hermione gasped brokenly, feeling herself balancing on the cusp.
Draco's lips came crashing down onto hers a moment later, pressing into them all the emotion he could never give words to. He pumped deeper and faster into her, hard strokes that knocked the wind out of her, enough to nudge her across the edge.
Hermione gave a cry as the pleasure crescendoed within her, tightening and unravelling like a universe — like the moment of creation itself. A few final thrusts and Draco gave a sharp hiss, nearly collapsing on her as he shuddered with pleasure and followed her into white-hot pleasure and bliss.