Chapter 15
Firsts were important. That's what Darien had been saying all along. It was the very reason why Hermione was here, to be Draco's first, all because the young wizard hated her, and hate was a strong emotion. And it must have tasted good, too, because Hermione's fingers slid around Draco's bare back, holding his body against her as she took him in, rocking forward with every needed pull against his bloodstream.
Draco sucked at the air, unable to breath for the weight of her against him. But he didn't voice a refusal, unable to think of anything other the dizzying fog over his eyes, leaving him in a dreamlike state. Or the heat rising from him, radiating off of his body and seeming to bounce off of her cool exterior.
Firsts were interesting.
However, Draco wasn't willing to die for the honor, no matter how stimulating the sensation, no matter what foreign feeling flooded his body when she arched into him and he arched back for her. He released a sigh, feeling the rushed game of tug of war within him, her mouth pulling the life out of him, the drought trying to replenish him, fighting against the retreating tide.
He raised a hand, putting it against her injured shoulder. His palm found the skin closed, slick scars where the vampire's eternal bite remained even after all other injuries were healed. He pushed at her arm, but she was solid, moving only closer to him at feeling his resistance.
You're going to kill me, Hermione!
He felt her lips pull away from him. She still held him, as if unable to drop him. Her eyes drifted up, unaware that her tongue had darted out to clean the stains around her mouth. Firsts were, apparently, also messy.
"I'm sorry," she said. Her eyes were glistening and red around the irises. She released him, letting him fall against the wall opposite the tub. But her arms were still handing out, awaiting some sort of embrace. Her brow furrowed in a familiar way, the intelligent witch whom Draco had watched die still trapped inside that small feature.
The rest of her seemed almost to belong to a different person. She was smooth in some unnatural, doll-like way, and her every gesture seemed sharper than before, more apparent, more decisive.
"I still need to feed," she said. Her voice sounded as if she was stating a fact for class. "I'm still hungry," she explained further. She looked down, Draco's blood filling her cheeks in a full blush. "I want t-to finish you," she whispered. She fell back, off of her knees, scooting herself away from him.
"Well," Draco began. He stopped, realizing that the answer in his mind was not going to do him much good. "Well, don't!" he snapped. "Get a hold of yourself, Granger—we've still got work to do."
But Draco really wasn't sure what work was left. Darien lay before the bathroom's door, his eyes closed, the wound on his wrist closed as well. He lay perfectly still and seemed to be in a natural sleep until one looked closely at the muscles of his face. His jaw was taunt, stiff with tension that any sleeping figure did not know unless in the folds of a nightmare. Draco pushed himself against the wall in expectation, unable to shake the feeling that the vampire would, at any moment, awaken in a fit of rage.
"She's coming," Hermione said.
A second later, Hart's figure appeared at the door, her wrinkled face downcast and on the sleeping vampire. Her lower lip pulled down, displaying narrow, yellow teeth.
"Master," she hissed. Her voice caught in her throat, its sickeningly sweet charm gone in an instant. Her eyes, hooded by the sagging flesh of her low brow, shot to Draco. "What," she asked, "have you done to your father?"
She slipped her hand into the skirt pocket hidden behind her apron. A long butcher's knife glittered in the dull bathroom light as it was revealed. Hart's steady hand raised the strong handle.
"This has got to be a joke," Draco sneered. Though he was sure it was all in his swimming head, he couldn't help but feel the sudden urge to laugh at the old woman's threatening stance. Any amusement he felt was swept away by the movement to his side.
Hermione was in front of the ancient muggle before he hand time blink. The newborn vampire reached out to grab hold of the woman's pickled neck, but her hand moved too fast, her nails slicing through the papery flesh as if it were wet clay against the potter's tool. A vermilion spray rained down across the already stained, once-white tiles below.
Knotted fingers dropped the weapon to the floor. Hermione took a slow, human-like step backward, lowering her hand just as cautiously. Madame Hart's body fell to the floor of Draco's quarters, just outside the door frame.
Draco pulled himself to his feet, balancing on legs of jelly. His hands were shaking again, a sputtering, nervous pant sounding between his lips. He felt as if he'd ran a long race from one circle of hell to the next and found himself even deeper in that famous pile of excrement. He stepped over Darien's legs, closer to the muggle woman.
He was fairly certain that she was dead. There didn't appear to be much of her neck . . . left. Draco put a fist in front of his mouth, stopping himself from gagging at the gory sight. He glanced back at the vampire standing behind him.
Hermione's eyes were wide, their natural amber in its proper place. Her mouth was agape and red. Her face, her chest: she was covered in Hart. And she looked as stunned as Draco felt.
"I didn't," she said, shaking her head. "I didn't mean to. . . I only wanted to grab her. She was going to lunge forward, I could see it in her muscles. I only wanted to stop her from moving." Her eyes, their whites pink with unshed tears, found Draco. "What have I done?"
Draco took a calming breath and reached out, snatching up the vampire's wet hand and holding it at the wrist. "We've got to go," he said.
Hermione looked past him suddenly, her head cocked to one side. "Can you hear all of that?"
I can barely hear anything over my heartbeat.
Hermione smiled slightly. "I can barely hear it all over your heartbeat. It is rather loud, I think," she said, softly, as if singing the words. She pulled out of Draco's grasp, grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling him toward her. She lifted him easily, tossing him over her shoulder.
"What the hell!"
Draco suddenly found himself staring at the floor and Hermione's curving backside. He threw a fist against her back, attempting to kick his legs to no avail.
"Hold on," she said.
Draco was used to moving quickly, as was anyone who had every ridden a broom, but he wasn't used to being jostled. His head, already aching, did not take the movement well. He clamped his mouth shut, suddenly glad that he hadn't eaten since breakfast.
"Go to sleep," Hermione said.
He registered their steady movement out of the manor and into the night wood before his eyes decided to obey their new mistress. Mistress? he thought. He slipped away before the question could be answered.
Annalisa stood on the edge of the clearing, watching the fire grasp at the black morning sky, her slender hands folded neatly over the wide, sweeping skirt of her plum gown. The manor blazed, a gray cloud lifting from the flames and catching the moonlight as it flew upward. The warmth of it was exhilarating and frightening.
She had arrived only minutes ago, too late to take part in the raid. And she would soon have to leave again, before the burning sun peeked over the horizon. The small group of wizards and vampires who'd arrived earlier was still littered across the clearing, taking in the raging beauty of the fire. She watched as one of them raised a wand toward the heavens. A green symbol lifted over the clouds, a skull with a snake as its long devil's tongue.
They would have to leave even earlier now.
Sanguini's face was shadowed but the awkward angle of his grin was apparent as he stepped forward, throwing back the hood of his cloak. "I hope this was not too painful for you, Annalisa," Sanguini said, the hint of laughter in his voice. "Watching your son's reputation go to ruin can be rather difficult."
Annalisa glanced away from him, hearing a support beam break as the manor crashed down to the ground, throwing up a shower of glowing embers. "It is in service of my lord," she replied. She her fangs grazed her cheeks as she stopped herself from returning his grin tenfold. "Did you, by chance, look inside the manor before you decided to burn it to the ground?" she asked.
Sanguini stepped closer, his feet crushing the dew damp ground beneath him. "Don't take me for a fool," he hissed. "I knew he was missing from the manor the moment I apparated with the others. And your precious son will have no place to call home when he returns at daybreak." Sanguini stood tall in an attempt to tower over the woman's steady form. He failed, but the pride he felt radiated off of his being, just as well. "I knew he would flee, Annalisa, the predictable coward that he is. I only regret that I did not have the chance to throw his new favorite plaything into the blaze."
Annalisa's eyes narrowed. "Funny, Sanguini, I thought that your only regret would be that the girl was not here. Is that not the reason for your mission? I do believe that is what you told our Lord Voldemort." She pouted her full lips, cocking her head with a look of mock pity on her face. "Or have you forgotten that he's expecting you to have her when you return?"
A low growl left the other vampire's mouth. "I'll find her," he promised.
"Good luck with that, friend." Annalisa rolled her round shoulders, loosening them. "If you don't mind, I believe I'll be returning to my bed before the sun rises and the aurors arrive."
Sanguini reached out, touching her robe with one hand. Annalisa glanced down at his offending hand and he released her without a second thought. "Warn him, if you like," Sanguini said. "Warn him that I'm coming for him—and his dragon."
Annalisa watched the vampire retreat to the small gathering of wizards who were preparing to leave the scene of their crime. Her eyes grinned at his shrinking form. "Will do," she said.
End Notes: I hope I've confused you terribly (in a good way). Don't fear, all will be explained.