A/N: Again I tried to give you guys another super quick update! Your reviews and feedback have been super encouraging and it's great incentive to get updates out. I hope I can keep up this pace. This story is def my priority right now. The dramione heats up a bit in this chapter C:
Beta Love to: Carrington Shaw and RooOJoy
Inspiration: Tag, Your It from the Suicide Squad Soundtrack
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000
Shuffling through pages of parchment, King Riddle scanned the proposal, flipping through the drawings, whilst occasionally stopping to make additions of his own. In the end, he was uncharacteristically pleased with the suggestions put forth by his advisers.
"I suppose that will do," he said graciously, offering the sheaf of papers to his steward. "See that Azkaban is fortified with this exact Runic structure, and that my new wizarding prisons are outfitted just the same. I don't want to hear that any missteps were taken."
"E-excellency," Lord Avery ventured tentatively. "Is that not time-consuming and costly?"
Lord McNair nodded in agreement. "Yes. Would it not be more prudent to invest treasury funds elsewhere, like our fleets or our schools?"
"No, it would not be more prudent," King Riddle sneered. "I swear to Salazar if I hear one more report about a Mudblood whose transfigured themselves into a firefly and flown off from Azkaban, I'll sooner Avada every member of this council. I should say that would be far more prudent." The men visibly recoiled at his words. "With these wards in place and Runes inscribed in the foundation, there won't be anymore Mudbloods discovering an affinity for wandless Transfiguration."
"But Your Highness." Lord Avery's voice came out in a squeak. "Wouldn't it be simpler, not to mention cheaper, to merely…get rid of the Mudbloods for good?"
Cheaper, most assuredly. But beneficial to his purposes, entirely not. Especially when he'd worked painstakingly to build his very own magical siphoning system inside Azkaban.
"Are you of the belief we actually hold these counsel sessions so that you fine Lords may counsel me?" King Riddle asked, mockery laced in his voice. The Lords shifted uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny. "You come here to receive your orders—that is all—make no mistake of that." He paced around the opulent chamber, green robes curling around him. "Speaking of fine Lords, when will the illustrious Lord Malfoy return? Has he had enough fun gallivanting on his hopeless mission yet?"
Avery and McNair exchanged pathetic looks.
"He's only been gone a few days, Excellency," McNair hazarded, carefully.
King Riddle's eyebrows scrunched up in a delicate frown. "Is that all? It seemed longer. I do wish I had declined his request. It will be hard to Owl him on the sea. Speaking of which, I mean to find out exactly how Potter's managing communication aboard his ships."
Potter. Riddle spat the word in his mind. The wretched rebel has caused me more grief than anyone has ever succeeded in doing before, and, regrettably, lived to tell. Not for long. But what's worse, my witch…
He made a valiant effort to shake himself, remembering his present, rather unpleasant company. With a flippant gesture, he dismissed them. "Be off with you."
With as much dignity as they could muster, they straightened, mumbling their goodbyes.
King Riddle withdrew to his private chambers, deep in thought. It was mildly unsettling to have the young Malfoy heir missing. He had thought the lad doomed, until the elder Malfoy had mentioned Draco had yet to be immortalized in a family portrait.
Unsettling indeed.
For if Draco was not resting in a watery grave, then what the bloody hell was he doing? How was he surviving?
Of the haughty Purebloods, he supposed the Malfoys were a favorite of his. Begrudgingly, they had gained his respect, though of course he was wary of them. It was not good for a king to let any family get too powerful, so he contrived hardships to throw at them over the years. But they were trustworthy and they were proved valuable assets.
Truly, King Riddle had hoped to use Draco and his friends for missions in the Americas. He knew the young wizards thirsted for adventure, but what was more exciting than the new world? He could have used their skill in Tikal. Unfortunately, there were not many British wizards on the team. He would have preferred more from his own court be present. Still, he would never presume to force those such as Draco. When the time came, they needed to believe it was their decision. He allowed for these silly trips across the ocean if only because they were profitable and he was benevolent.
His benevolence only spread so far.
Soon, the younger wizards would need to take their father's places and join the folds.
King Riddle hoped, for Draco's sake, that if he was still alive, he would have legitimate reasons for being absent for so long. It would never do to find the young Malfoy had turned against his king.
000
The sounds of brooms whizzing past the bamboo stands reverberated through the air. The rain had let up for a moment, but the threat of it returning still lay heavy in the dark clouds. The island was drenched, and the wetness brought out the inherent fragrances of the island from the smell of the earth to that of the flowers, mingled with the salty ocean scent.
New Godric's Hollow was alive with people, eager to finally leave their homes now that the rain had let up, even if just for a moment. The freshwater river that cut through the village had curls of steam billowing up from it. Harry looked around appreciatively—there was nothing quite like returning to New Godric's.
Tracey draped herself over his lap, snaking one arm around his neck. "It's so good to be home," she said, sighing happily. "Though," she poked him in the chest, "I do wish you'd join the guys. Some Quidditch might be good for you."
His eyes were drawn to the enthusiastic wizards in the sky. "Perhaps next time, pet."
Tracey pressed her lips in a petulant pout.
"I'm happy to be an observer for once."
"There has been a lot of action lately." She adjusted herself on his lap, grinning wickedly as she did so. "I suppose there are other ways to pass the time…."
He shifted her off of his lap. "Not just now. I still need to think on things."
Tracey's eyes flashed dangerously. "You can't still be hung up on that girl, can you? Really, Harry, you need to get over that already." She stood up, dusting off her dress. "It was a successful expedition. You should be happy. We even found another Muggleborn all too happy to join our ranks."
He wished Tracey would let off for a bit. She did like to pester him so. In reality, he knew he should be happy, thankful even. Things could have gone much worse than they had. He was lucky to boast of the best soldiers a man could ask for. His witches and wizards could run circles around Riddle's—he was sure of that. But Riddle had control of the Ministry, and the communication lines. He sat on the throne, and he would always be one step ahead of them so long as he held the position of power. Harry could not allow himself to become complacent or enjoy a moment of triumph so long as Riddle still ruled Britain. Despite their best advances, Riddle was slowly taking over the world—the new and the old. There was nothing to celebrate.
He wished Tracey could understand the burden he carried. So many people relied on him. It was hardly fun and games. Should he make one wrong move, countless lives could pay the price for his misstep. What was more, no one was safe until Riddle was dealt with. The problem was, he was nigh untouchable, locked away in the palace as he was. If I can get to his second in command, I can get to him.
Attempting to store those thoughts for later, he thought it may be best if he did actually loosen his tight hold over the community for the weekend. Their island was hidden. So long as they were here, his people were safe. He could contemplate his next move against Riddle in private when he didn't have to worry about others worrying over him.
He glanced back at Tracey, realizing he still had yet to respond to her. "Good point, Trace." He smiled reassuringly at her. "Speaking of which, where is our newest citizen?"
"Up there, I guess." The blond witch pointed to the adjacent stands.
Focusing on the woman in front of him, his grin grew wider. "Suppose we show our newest addition the ropes? That is, if you're not rusty on a broom…."
"I'm not rusty," she protested, her eyes becoming alight and playful. "I'll show you that on the field."
He chuckled at her eagerness. Perhaps this was just what they needed; a slight break to get their head back in the game. After they've had a week or two of rest, they could go back to planning a way in which to hit Riddle where it hurt—a fatal blow from which he would be unable to bounce back.
000
His breath was like a caress against the skin of her neck; his hands running along her sides and her abdomen caused her breathing to grow erratic. Her lips parted and their tongues met in a frenzied haze. Blood rushed to her core as she moved against the muscular body in front of her. It was as if the floodgates had been opened and all of a sudden, she was helpless to stave off her desire any longer.
She gripped onto strong shoulders, anchoring herself to something stable in a room that was spinning in an indistinguishable blur around her. She relished in the feel of their bodies pressed so decadently close to each other and she had the innate desire to explore every inch of him with her hands…and her mouth.
He latched onto a pulse point by her neck, sensitive and charged, tearing a ragged moan from her mouth. She didn't care; she didn't even try to muffle it. So in tune was she to her lover, she was past the point of caring for propriety. She was being ruled by something far more primitive and primal than what society dictated.
His right hand wandered down to her breast and she instinctively arched off of the bed, all too eager to feel that part of her finally get the attention she desired. Small sounds were escaping her throat, inaudible whimpers that should have mortified her, but she was hard-pressed to care.
When his head bent down to take the place of his hand, she encouraged it, lightly stroking the back of his neck with her fingertips. When he settled between her legs, she accommodated him by shifting her legs wider, to make it easier, oh gods, she wanted to make it easier. When his left hand curled around her calf, before edging around her thigh towards the part of her that was nearly aching with need of his touch, she made impatient demands, threats, finally resorting to begging, despite the dark chuckle that left his lips.
The man did seem to love to torture her so.
She would not let him have the last laugh. In a wicked gesture, she reached for him, the part of him that throbbed for her, the heated flesh that had caused the fabric of his trousers to grow taut. Her fingers found him and she gave him a gentle squeeze. All mirth fled the molten silver eyes that instantly darkened with lust. The sound he made was heavenly to her ears—heady and full of need. It called to her, beckoning her to him in the most basic and ancient of ways.
To her delight—his restraint snapped. The feel of his fingers inside her sent sweet joy coursing through her on a rampant wave of bliss. She reached for the fabric of his shirt—ripping and tearing at it—determined to free him of his constraints. Her dress was quite suddenly bunched up at her hips, and then it was heated flesh against heated flesh.
But it was divine.
Heavenly, really, because he was almost there, right where she needed him most, and in a few seconds he would finally assuage her raw, all-consuming need.
The thought brought Hermione such joy, it caused her to bolt upright with a gasp.
That is, she would have sat upright, if something weren't anchoring her down, like a bloody vice. Her eyes flew open, for the first time, and she realized, to her absolute horror, she'd been dreaming.
Good Merlin, what the bloody hell is wrong with me? Her chest rose and fell in short pants as she tried in vain to calm her shallow breathing. To behave so wantonly, and have that sort of dream. It's just mad!
She glanced down to see what exactly it was—a tree limb, perhaps?—that was restraining her so. The offending confinement happened to be a well-toned arm that caused her to blush red when she remembered just who the arm belonged to. Her eyelids fluttered shut as visions from her dream assaulted her. To her chagrin, the pit of her abdomen still ached, deliciously, and just the reminder of what she'd conjured in her head intensified the feeling tenfold.
Sweet Morgana, this is mad! And what in Merlin's name am I doing in Malfoy's bed? Did I perhaps,vacate my senses completely last night? Memories of the night came flooding back to her in a rum-filled haze. Why, oh, why did I think it was a good idea to join Malfoy in his bed, of all things? It's not like I don't know what sort of message that sends.
She focused all her attention on lifting his arm from its possessive position around her abdomen, trying desperately to not think about the hot body pressed against her—the body that had kept her surprisingly warm the night before. With tremendous effort, she managed to lift it, but her victory was short-lived as the problematic-wizard-in-question then proceeded to pull her even closer still, this time going as far as to throw his leg over hers. She was now completely and effectively trapped.
She let out several shallow gasps, her mind working frantically on how just to finagle getting out of this awkward position. This was much worse than before. Not only was she in a death grip in the bed of a man she had no business being, but there was something long and hard poking her bum, on the verge of impaling her, if Hermione had any sort of guess.
Attempting to shift her position, she squirmed in the little amount of space available to her. An audible moan left Malfoy's mouth and her eyes flew open. Even though he was still sleeping, his breathing had sped up considerably. Good Merlin, that couldn't possibly be…it's not his…oh gods—it's his erection! Her mouth went suddenly dry. Her senses became instantly heightened and she was painstakingly aware of every move he made.
His breath ghosted along her neck in short, raspy breaths and it was all she could do not to arch her head back. The hand securing her to him began wandering, and Hermione knew she should try to escape again, but she was frozen in place, even when he began to move himself behind her. Get a grip, you slag! He is the one asleep, he has an excuse. But no matter, what she told herself, she was helpless to move an inch. Her body was stuck somewhere between paralyzed fear and delicious anticipation.
Her breathing had sped up rapidly and blood rushed to her neck and face. Her head whirled with a burning desire she was helpless to ignore. Malfoy moved against her once more, his erection twitching, and Hermione knew it was imperative that she stop this. But his hands, they were so distracting; though clumsy and sleep-addled as they were, they left a fiery trail wherever they touched through the flimsy and worn fabric of her dress.
She was growing quite suddenly hot, and the desire to move was almost instinctive. Before she knew it, she moved with him, relishing in the friction that sent tingles to her core. She instantly regretted the wicked action, but the sound Malfoy made in his sleep was almost beautiful, quite like in her dream, and when she screwed her eyes shut, all she could see were intense gray ones that had the uncanny ability to cut right through her. It hardly staved off the fire of her desire, but rather, fanned it.
Yet, they were friends, despite everything, all the feelings and prejudices, they had formed a tentative friendship built on trust and respect. She was confusing gratitude and affection for longing. She needed to step back from the situation before she did something she couldn't take back. His right hand had found its way to her hip and she was surprised by the strength in which he gripped it, even in his sleep.
Squeezing her eyes shut against another heady wave of desire, she exhaled a shaky breath. "Malfoy," she hissed, and renewed her wriggling efforts, marveling at the way Malfoy seemed to sleep right through it. Just breathe, you idiot. "Malfoy," she tried again. He shifted slightly, and she stilled when she sensed his breathing had changed. She dared not even breathe as she waited for him to make the first move.
He sat up quickly, distancing himself from her, her body instantly mourning the loss of his contact. She curled towards the edge of the bed, away from his warmth, as she tried to calm her breathing and her body's ill-advised plea to fling herself back into his arms. Resisting the urge, she was surprised when he actually addressed her.
"I'll be right back," he said, his voice coming out like a croak. "Going to break water."
Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Good Merlin, how was she ever supposed to look him in the eye again? This was humiliating. What did he think when he awoke—in that state? What did he think of her? Did he remember anything that had happened while he'd been asleep? She hoped not, but then, from a small part of her she'd rather deprive, a voice hoped she did, that small singular part that had been free and uninhibited for a moment.
When he returned, nearly a half an hour later, Hermione was already dressed and making breakfast.
"You know," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably, "we probably shouldn't."
"Yes, I know," she said, looking down quickly. "It was just the rum."
"Yeah." He nodded in agreement. "The rum."
Were things really going to be awkward between them?
"Looks like the rain let up," he said offhandedly.
Resorted to talking about the weather, she thought. Oh, bugger.
000
Draco could hex himself for waking up like that next to her. What was more, he was still uncomfortably hard. He hadn't been able to rid himself of his little problem the entire morning. He longed for his wand, so he could at least attempt to conceal it; instead he just hid it the old-fashioned way inside his trousers. Whose great idea was it to share a bed the prior evening, anyhow? Mine, you bloody fool. What a great idea.
The morning was moving along terribly. The insufferable girl would avert her eyes anytime he glanced her way. It was bloody off-putting. There was no doubt in his mind that she had noticed. He hadn't behaved gentlemanly. His intentions on sharing a bed had even been coming from a good place; now she would never trust him again. It's her sodding fault; she's the one who was in my bed, all soft, pliant curves. He mentally jerked the thought from his mind. That was exactly the sort of thing he ought to not think about.
It wouldn't be so terrible a notion—if she weren't a Muggle.
Draco was well aware of the predicaments some Muggles were subjected to; it wasn't as if he were sheltered. He knew that some wizards took on Muggle mistresses. But this was a practice he had always looked down on. Of course, he'd never had any issues getting a witch, so he'd never entertained the notion, but he'd always frowned upon it. Horrible business, he had thought. His father and his grandfather before him never partook in such activities. And here he was fantasizing about one.
For he couldn't deny that, at the very release, he had definitely fantasized about her. Even if it had been in a dream, she had been the object of his affections; there was no point denying it. He could debate as to why or how his subconscious could select her for him to dream about, but there was no point, really. He'd been studying her for weeks, and the fact was, he'd come to crave her company.
Even now, as he scraped and scrubbed the shells and stones, he watched her wade through the water, her white dress floating gracefully around her in the turquoise blue of the Caribbean sea. He snuck glances when he could—surreptitiously, of course, lest he give her more cause to be wary of him-and noticed the way she bent her back, dipping the linen into the water and wringing it out. He saw the way the fabric clung to her figure and his eyes roved over backside unchecked, admiring her from afar. She probably felt the intensity of his gaze, but when she turned to look, he was quick to busy himself at the task at hand.
There was no doubt he was attracted to her. That wasn't the issue. The issue was her impure blood status. He did not wish to become the monster that would force a powerless Muggle girl to his will. What was more, it was beneath him. You could always woo her, a small voice suggested, lure her with sweet nothings. You could tell her whatever she needed to hear, so long as she let you. Let him. It was beneath him, he was compelled to remind himself. He was a Pureblood of noble birth. She was a lowly Muggle. It was the sodding island that forced him to even consider such a thing. He would never think this way in his right mind.
He pushed the thoughts aside, trying hard not to focus on the face that so constantly plagued his thoughts. That wild mane of hair, a combination of golds, copper, and browns. The floral, freesia scent that seemed to be intrinsically her, no artifice needed. The dark fringe of eyelashes encasing the most inquisitive honey-brown eyes he'd ever seen. The splattering of freckles gracing her nose that Draco had to peer to see. She consumed him, and now more than ever. His efforts to put thoughts of her aside were futile. He was perfectly torn in his desire.
He was startled out of his musings when the girl in question caught his attention. She was fighting the tide to climb back up the beach, an armful of linens in her arms. He instinctively moved to help her, dropping the stone on the sand as he jogged over to the water.
"You move with the rip tide, Hermione," he called out over the splash of the waves.
"Have you finally found some area you're more knowledgeable about than I?" she asked saucily.
He ignored the jibe, offering his hand to steady her. She hesitated for a moment, eyeing it with trepidation, before finally taking it. She'd waited a second too long, and soon, another wave sent her propelling into him, tumbling them both to the sandy floor. He rolled away from the crashing waves, finding himself poised just above her, and staring into fiery eyes that had avoided his gaze for most of the day.
His stare was inexplicably drawn to her lips, slightly parted. Blood thundered in his ears as he watched the rise and fall of her chest, moving faster than usual. He reached out tentatively, entranced, to brush her cheek with his thumb. Pulse galloping, he shifted closer, unsure of what possessed him to do so.
The feel of her hands pushing softly against his chest halted him.
"The linens," she breathed. "They're floating away."
His head cleared and he quickly stood to his feet. "I'll get them," he said reassuringly.
He waded back into the water, chasing after the sheets the surf pulled and pushed. When he'd collected it all, he headed back to the beach. Bugger, I scared her off again. Twice in one day, bloody brilliant. Hermione did not seem to be visibly affected, busy as she was. Still, he needed to tread carefully. He wasn't even sure what he wanted; he couldn't begin to imagine what it was that she desired.
"Fish and mango salad sound good to you?" She packed the rest of the shells and stones in a sheet and slung it over her shoulder, walking off for the fringe of trees. He followed after her.
"I'm craving steak, actually. Hot vegetables, too. Got any of that?"
She shot him a sardonic grin. "Wouldn't we all like that. At least you've gotten to try steak before."
He frowned, in a look that could only be described as bewildered. "You haven't had steak?"
"Oh, yes, Master Malfoy," she laughed derisively. "Twice daily, actually. Once after I polish the floors and again after I scrub the kitchen."
"That's just another thing you'll have to try, one of these days."
She nodded but fell silent, as she often did when he spoke of home.
When they reached their camp, they fell into routine, moving quickly to set up their lunch. Draco passed Hermione the flat stones that served as plates, hissing when she brushed against his old cut.
"Malfoy!" She dropped what she was doing and grabbed ahold of his wrist. "The cut is still festering. Why didn't you tell me?"
"It's fine." He tried to pull it away, but her grip was relentless.
"No, it isn't fine," she muttered distractedly, dragging him by the arm towards their pool. "You're far too proud for your own good, not to mention quite stupid."
"Anything else?" He rolled his eyes.
"I'll think of something."
She bent down by the pool and he was forced to follow suit. Still holding his hand, she dipped it into the water, shaking it a few times for good measure. When she withdrew it, she looked up at him quickly—too quickly—before biting her lip. He did not miss the concern tinged with alarm that passed through her gaze and was unsure if he should be touched by her distress over his harmless cut, or annoyed.
He almost chuckled, when he felt it, something unmistakable. It coursed through her hand and to his in a cool, soothing ball of energy. It was gone in an instant, but he recognized it for what it was.
Even though he was out in in the open, he abruptly felt like the space was closing in on him. His vision was starting to blur and his pulse pounded rapidly at his temples.
"Hermione," he rasped, eyes scrunched in disbelief.
"W-what?"
"You think I didn't feel that?" His hand fell to her wrist and suddenly, it was he that was holding her captive. "That I wouldn't recognize that which I was made to wield?"
"I don't know what you mean," she snapped, trying to break away from him but failing miserably. "You've spent too much time in the sun, is what I think."
"Is that so?" His tone was dangerously quiet. "Because what I think is…you're a Mudblood."
Caramel eyes collided with stormy gray ones.
"Don't be silly." She tried to push him away again, but he didn't release her. "We've been on this island for weeks, surely you'd have noticed such a thing by now."
"Do not try to turn this around on me, Mudblood." Alarm, fear, anger, and finally determination flickered through her eyes. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was correct. "I know what you are. You couldn't possibly think you'd hide it from me forever."
For a brief moment, she looked like a vulnerable girl, frightened and searching for a way out. The moment passed so quickly, he had to wonder if he'd even seen it to begin with. She ducked her head away.
When she looked up again, the fight had left her face, giving way to cruel indifference so unfamiliar on her face. "So you've ousted me." She shrugged carelessly. "Took you long enough."
Enraged, he moved to grab her with his other arm, to do what, he wasn't sure, but he didn't get the chance, as a red light erupted between them, sending him catapulting back into the air until he landed flat on his back.
His whole body ached and his back throbbed as he lay stunned, staring up at the cloudy sky.
She stepped forward until she was close enough to peer over him. "I told you I was quite familiar with Stupefies."
000
