Seventeen
Lupin calls Hermione through to his office in the evening, the day after she asked him about getting a new wand, while what feels like half the house is in the sitting room, listening to the radio. Even Shacklebolt, whom Draco eyes darkly. He resents the wizard for not finding a way to get Hermione out earlier during her captivity. Shit, he hates himself for following Shacklebolt's orders – if he hadn't had it fixed in his head that he had to stay undercover, he would've run with Hermione as soon as he'd first discovered her in the dungeons. Although if he had, would they be together now? That's a terrible thought, and one that leads him down mental pathways that result in uneasy guilt as he gets up as Hermione does, shooting her a questioning look.
Draco follows at her beckoning gesture, a battered wizarding novel in one hand. And then he watches with a hint of envy from the doorway as the werewolf unpacks a box of wands wrapped carefully in cloth, laying them all out on the newly cleared table top. Hermione spent part of her afternoon yesterday and today organising the mess in Lupin's office. He was fairly certain the job – which would bore the daylights out of the average person – had made her gleefully happy. Draco had tried to help here and there because it was more entertaining than just sitting there watching her arrange files. But he'd been able to see her getting irritated at the way he didn't understand her system and in the end, this afternoon, she'd banished him from the office with a laugh.
It was the first time in too long that Draco had seen Hermione react and behave so normally – like the overly organised swot that she was at heart. That she'd been at Hogwarts, years ago. Absorbed in doing something that occupied her mind, she'd been happy, for a little while. It makes him hopeful. He'd silently worried that helping Lupin out would be too much for her to take on and handle, but perhaps it would help, giving her something to do every day that keeps her mind busy.
Hermione's new wand had belonged to an Order member who'd died during a raid; not anyone Draco knew. Willow, with a dragon heartstring core, 11 inches, and flexible. An uncommon wood, with healing properties, if he recalls correctly. It seems appropriate for her right now. The wand chooses the wizard, or witch, in this case.
"It feels friendly," Hermione says as she flourishes it, hovering a paperweight in the air. "Like it wants to please."
Draco watches as Lupin packs away his wand carefully with the others – the one he'd received from Voldemort to replace the wand Potter had taken from him over two years ago, which he knows Potter still uses. His new one is yew with a phoenix feather core, 10 1⁄2 inches, flexible. Ironically, Potter had disarmed him of this one too, when Draco had tried to defect. Of course, he'd given it back so Draco could be sent back in as a double agent. He holds in a sigh as Lupin wraps it in cloth and tucks it back in the box. It's a good wand and performs better for him now than his hawthorn wand ever had.
He misses the security of having it in his hand.
"Good. Now, I'd rather you didn't let him use it, Hermione," Lupin says, with a nod to Draco, who arches a brow, trying to look innocent. The older wizard frowns at him censoriously. "I imagine I won't be able to stop you, though."
"I only want the wand for basic, everyday things, Remus," Hermione says as she practices a lumos, dodging a straight answer. "And I doubt it'd work for Malfoy anyway. His wand never worked well for me."
"Hm, well. Just remember that you owe Siobhan an appointment. She's busy the next few days at another safe house – a raid went badly – but as soon as she's free, I expect you to have a session with her. And cooperate. Unlike him." Lupin jabs a finger in Draco's direction and he offers a faint, unapologetic smile.
"I agreed to see your Healer, and I did," he says blandly, irritation simmering under his skin. He had bared his soul enough during his veritaserum sessions with Lupin. The idea of exposing himself willingly to a Healer on the Order's payroll is laughable. They made him feel the way he does; how can they help him? Anything he tells them is just as likely to be used against him in the end if they believe it'll be useful. They made him a useful monster, and they aren't sorry for that. Draco trusts the Order to keep Hermione safe so long as she's not fighting, but he otherwise doesn't trust them at all. "I don't owe you anything."
He holds Lupin's gaze unblinkingly, and the older wizard looks away first, with a tired sigh, as though Draco has disappointed him.
"Fine," Lupin says wearily, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "Fine." He locks the box of wands and hefts it up, cradled in both arms. "I'm heading out to see Tonks and Teddy at Andromeda and Ted's tonight –" Draco knows the toddler lives with his grandparents, but Nymphadora and Lupin seem to visit him every chance they get "– so if you have any issues with the wand, Hermione, it'll have to wait until tomorrow."
"Thanks, Remus." Hermione seems subtly different as she holds the new willow wand in her hand, wordlessly casting another wingardium leviosa, this time on a stack of files atop a filing cabinet, arranging them neatly in mid-air and then settling them back down. She's gained some of her power back, literally and symbolically, and Draco can see the change in her. It's beautiful. She's beautiful. She smiles at him as Lupin strides out into the corridor, off to see his family.
"Do you want to go outside?" she asks. "We don't have a hedge maze, but we do have a small back garden, and only a small chance of being interrupted." Her smile broadens into a grin and it's infectious; a flash of white teeth, her eyes bright, and he wants to kiss her. He keeps his face schooled to neutrality, except for the little lopsided hint of a smile he knows she loves.
"Lead the way, Granger." He's automatically affectionate but flippant, covering the thoughts whirring through his mind.
Merlin, she really is beautiful. Creamy skin and dark eyes with those amber starbursts around the pupils, the faintest hint of freckling across her straight nose, and a determined jut of jaw and chin. She's sharp and soft at once, a grin still shaping her lips. He thinks she might be giddy with excitement, and he loves it. Hermione takes his hand with her free one, her own so much smaller, and he remembers the way she tended to his injuries with those hands. While he cried silently with the pain, she did the brutal work that needed to be done: cleaning and debriding wounds, peeling stuck bandaging off weeping burns as he bit into his belt, wiping away the sweat and blood. Never flinching from what needed to be done. She tugs him along and he goes; she's stronger than she thinks.
Mrs Weasley smiles at them as they go past the kitchen; Hermione doesn't notice, but Draco sees the fondness in the witch's eyes as she looks at the two of them, and inclines his head in acknowledgement. The woman's been nice to him, and she's not responsible for anything that happened to him, or Hermione. There's no need to be rude.
The coat racks by the back door have a variety of parkas and coats that are mostly communal; people take whatever fits. There's also a basket of hats, scarves, and gloves. The shoes aren't communal though, thank Merlin for small mercies. Draco wedges his feet into his boots – finally returned to him – as he shrugs on a black coat. He'll forgo sharing hats with half the Order; it's not cold enough for the indignity, and he doesn't bother lacing his boots, just shoving the laces under the tongue. Hermione, however, pulls on a blue parka, and a grey knitted cap, slinging a multi-coloured knit scarf around her neck. She looks very sweet all bundled up, and Draco finds he wants to kiss her quite badly. Their eyes meet and a frisson buzzes in the air, and Draco's heartbeat feels both sluggish, and too hard, a slow drum against his ribs. His hand drifts up, fingers grazing over her cheek, and Hermione looks up at him expectantly, pink tongue wetting her lips.
Mrs Weasley pops her head into the corridor. "Would you two like some cocoa?"
Draco bites his tongue and likes Mrs Weasley rather less.
"No, thank you," Hermione says politely and Mrs Weasley vanishes, but the moment is gone. Draco sighs.
"Come on then, Granger," he says and opens the door.
They watch the stars come out, sitting on the lawn, on a patch of ground Hemione's dried and warmed with a few charms. He sprawls out on his side, propping his head up on his hand, and she sits with legs folded under her, very close.
As she clearly means it to, it makes Draco think of the small clearing in the middle of the hedge maze at the mansion. Of a brief freedom, as night wrapped them in a veiling blanket, the air bitterly cold and Hermione all bundled up in gloves, cloak, and hat, pressing close against him. It makes him remember daisy chains, stolen kisses, and improbable laughter – just the two of them in a solitary bubble, the world reduced down to her, and he'd have been happy if it had frozen like that forever. If they had been the only two humans left on the face of the planet. Damn the rest of the world. Everyone else could go hang for all he cared.
She tells him that he can use her wand and never mind what Lupin said, but he tries a lumos while they sit there in the darkening twilight, and it sputters and flickers. He shrugs, passing it back to her. "I wouldn't trust my life to it."
It's a nice wand. It suits her somehow, looking right in her hand. Pale honey, stripped wood for most of the length, save the handle which is darker, as though it retains more of the outer colouration, though it is all polished and softly gleaming in the moonlight, Celtic markings engraved down the length. She practices charms – a flurry of colourful sparks, a stream of water, a blossoming flower, and he watches, bathing in her happiness, wishing every day could be like today. But he's a realist. He knows that while this may be a step forward in her recovery, it's not a fix.
They will go to bed tonight, and she'll have nightmares and wake up sobbing, perhaps afraid of him, and she'll remember terrible things, and she'll scrub herself raw in the shower – he's seen some of the marks she leaves, at times – and she won't magically be better. But Draco will enjoy now. This moment. Her smile.
The moon is high in the sky when Hermione finally tires of practising charms. She looks apologetic as she slides the wand into the arm holster Lupin had given her. "Sorry."
"What? Why?" Draco genuinely doesn't understand, and she shrugs, looking awkward.
"I feel a little like I'm rubbing it in," she says, and he gives her a quizzical look, still not understanding. He's just been enjoying the transitory peace of watching her.
"Because I got a wand, and you don't have yours back yet," she explains, fiddling with the snaps on her parka, and he grins a little.
"Don't be stupid, Granger. I'm just happy you have a wand." He lies back, staring up at the sky, and Hermione joins him, lying propped up on one elbow so that their faces are very close together. She kisses his jaw and a delicious shiver runs through him. Her pupils blot out her irises, probably from the dark just as much as arousal, but her breath is shallow and she's pressing very close against him, her left hand splayed on his chest, right over his heart.
"Why is that, Malfoy?" she asks as expected. He swallows hard, hoping she'll take this the right way as she peppers kisses along his jawline.
"It'll make binding my hands easier when you sit on my face," he says, filled with intention, voice a little rough as his hand settles at her waist, the padded parka getting in the way of feeling her soft, warm curves. His fingers press hard, the material rustling under his grip. He wants to see his fingers dent into her flesh, and it burns him that he can't. She inhales sharply against his jaw and freezes for a second, and then he feels her breathing begin again.
"God, Malfoy. That – I mean –" She sounds breathless and shaky. Unsure. She pulls back a little, meeting his eyes as she bites her lip.
Draco turns his head a little, hand coming up to fit to her cheek. He thinks of the things he'd rather forget, and of what he wants to fill his head with instead. What he wants her to think of; all the things he wants to do to her. Obscene, filthy, and worshipful. He wants to drink from her, to pay tribute to her on his knees, to push her onto the bed and slide his cock into the slick tightness of her in a way that would make her groan at the pleasure of it. He wants to be both a supplicant and a besieger. To take her apart in every good way, rather than the bad. Merlin forgive him, Draco wants his cum sliding down her thighs, but mingled with her juices rather than blood, her lips swollen from kisses instead of blows, her expression dazed from orgasm rather than shock.
Guilt churns in his gut. Wanting her and hurting her are so intimately entwined in his subconscious. I only raped her once, Draco thinks with a brief, bitter numbness – an awful sentence to be capable of thinking – and yet it has imprinted on his mind. Burned into it indelibly. It doesn't seem fair to either of them.
"I want to make you come," he says simply, keeping the rest of his messy, awful feelings locked inside. His thumb drags over her lips as she hovers there just above him, her eyes pools in the moonlight, nervousness radiating off her. "I want to make you feel good instead of hurting you."
"You do make me feel good." Hermione closes the gap between their mouths and kisses him, soft and lingering. He returns the kiss in kind, but an undeniable frustration seethes in him no matter how much he tries to tamp it down. She's cautious yet needy, a little whimper escaping her, and Merlin, it's not enough. It's never enough; Draco wants things that he can't have from her. Not yet, at least. He's a bastard for wanting what he does, and he knows that – he hates himself for it – but it doesn't stop him from wanting. He wants her upstairs on the bed, stripped naked in the lamplight, hair loose and legs parted. Exposed.
She's delicious – intoxicating, as she leans over him, the tail of her braid tickling his throat, her fingers digging into his hair. Her smell, the little sips of breath she takes, the way she presses against him. And he hates her parka. He wants it off. Gone. It hides all her curves, a barrier between them. Fuck. He wants his mouth on her bare breasts, sucking on her dusky pink nipples, making her shiver and moan and arch into him. He wants to slide his hand between her legs and feel the slick wetness of arousal, to press his mouth to her sweet cunt and lick until she comes, gasping and moaning on his tongue. But most of all, he just wants to fuck her.
Instead, Draco kisses her very softly, matching her intensity, and his desire spikes even more, that selfish frustration a background hum he does his best to ignore. He's hard already, and when she wriggles her hand under his layers and flattens it against his abdomen, his breath stutters.
Salazar's sake, this is going to kill him. He traces his fingers down her hairline from forehead to jaw before sliding his hand around the back of her neck, holding her close and subtly controlling the kiss, and she allows it. His tongue darts into her mouth, and she moans. Presses closer. He clasps his teeth over her lower lip and sucks, and she shudders and makes a small, animal sound, her fingers wrenching tightly in his hair. "Ouch," he mumbles, still sucking on her lip, and she whimpers involuntarily and eases her grip off, her tongue slicking into his mouth and making him want to shudder this time.
It's a delicate interplay, and Draco's so painfully, exquisitely aware of everything. The chill breeze and the warm ground, the heavy, insistent press of her body, the needy little noises she keeps making as she palms her hand over his torso, the throbbing of his hopeful erection trapped in his boxers, the infuriating way nearly every part of her is covered in heavy clothing. The closest he can get to touching Hermione's skin is from the neck up and her bare hands. It's fucking awful. If they were in their room, at least she'd be in fewer layers, even if he couldn't do much more. Without thought, Draco tries to steer things in that direction.
"We don't have to do anything if you don't want to," he says softly into the hollow of her throat, pausing the light, wet kisses he's placing there. Her pulse is rapid, her chest heaving with her ragged breaths. "You're in control. You're always in control, Granger. But we could do more than just kiss if we go inside..."
She draws back and looks at him, nervous again. Uncertain, although he can see the desire in the blown width of her pupils, the way she breathes, and how she bites her lip before she speaks. "Okay," she says then, breathless and excited and nearly as soon as the word leaves her lips, he's shoving himself to his feet and pulling her up with him, his back twinging painfully as scars yank tight. "Just – just, no promises," she says as he loops his arms around her waist and kisses her nose, her cheek, her eyebrow; her puffy parka keeping his dick from pressing into her pelvis and making her uncomfortable. At least it's useful for something.
"Whatever you want, Granger," he manages to say, and he feels like he's not thinking as much as he should be, all the blood rushing from his head, redirecting. "You're the one with the wand." He feels stupid with desire. "You're the one in control."
She eyes him, and he can see the trust and want on her face. "I am," she says, almost like a question, and a small pain sparks to life in his chest at that. The way she can still want and trust him after everything, the way she's so uncertain. He ushers her through the doorway into the house first, taking that extra second to adjust his dick so his erection is less blatant – the quickest adjustment ever made because then he's following her into the house and shedding his coat while she strips off her warm things.
They pass Johnson on the stairs, and she smirks at them outright as she takes in the state of them, and Draco sees Hermione's cheeks blaze up red and curses Johnson in his head. She keeps hold of his hand though, and that has to be a good sign.
And then their door closes behind him and he stands there against it, a weight hanging in the air as she turns. Her wand is in her hand. " Muffliato," she says with a flick, and then she slides her wand into her arm holster. He makes to step forward and she holds up a finger. "Wait." He freezes. Her eyes are dark and unreadable, but her cheeks are flushed and her fingers are unsteady as she begins to unbutton her shirt. "I don't want to do – that, tonight," she says softly, and he knows what she means. He nods understandingly, although disappointment is hot in his veins. He keeps picturing her kneeling over him. Even though she's still too thin, she has curves – the flare of her hips and dip of her waist, her breasts still full enough to make a good handful, and he can imagine looking up at her as she braces her hands on the wall, back arched, thrusting those breasts out, as he feasts on her cunt.
"Today has been a good day," she says as she unbuttons her shirt and then shrugs it off, leaving her in just a thin white vest. He can see the shadows of her nipples through the fabric. Fuck. His hands clench for a moment, his breath catching; in front of Voldemort, that kind of obvious tell would see him being questioned, brutally. She's made him sloppy. "I don't want to risk... I don't want to push it." Hermione looks down at her hands, fingers twisting in the hem of her vest. "I don't want to ruin a good day. But I want you." The last comes out on a shuddering, strangled breath as she looks up at him, and he sways forward, wanting to do what the tone of her voice says she's aching for, even if the words don't.
Draco swallows hard and stays still, rooted to the floorboards at the edge of the rug. "So what do I do?" He tries to be calm and cool, but it comes out a little ragged. "What would you ask of me?" He watches as Hermione shoves her leggings down, trying desperately to stay composed and being foiled by his damned erection. That's quite the tell as well, he thinks grimly. Her legs are smooth and slim, and he wants to bite and lick his way up her inner thighs. "I'll do whatever you want," he tells her, and she shoots him a smile that's nearly wicked, if a little wobbly around the edges.
"Yes, you will." She's standing there in nothing but a vest, knickers, and arm holster, and from her stance and expression, he can tell she feels like she has the power. She's nervous but not afraid. Draco feels like going to his knees. "Take off your shirt," she says, and he swallows and does as he's told, undoing his buttons quickly. "Trousers next," she says, eyeing his crotch, and he obeys again, his cheeks heating slightly as he pops his button through and slides the zipper down, and his dick springs free in his boxers. Shit.
A look of absorbed concentration slides over Hermione's face, and she gnaws on the edge of her lower lip, pupils swamping her eyes as she locks them onto his erection. "It's very obvious, isn't it," she observes breathily as he steps out of his trousers and kicks them to the side, feeling weirdly exposed in nothing but his boxers. He huffs a laugh despite himself, looking down again at the way it tents out his black shorts, resisting the ridiculous urge to cover his dick with both hands. She asked him to undress, after all. She must want to see.
"I guess it is," he agrees mildly – wryly, wondering what exactly is going on in that head of hers. "I feel like I should apologise, for some reason." And oh fuck, as soon as the words enter his head and leave his mouth, he thinks of why exactly he should apologise for it. And he knows from her flinch and the way the colour drains from her face that she does too. "Fuck. Now I am sorry," he says helplessly, but Hermione shakes her head.
"Shut up," she says tightly. She's still pale and her jaw is set, but she's determined. Merlin, she has steel in her spine. Draco shuts up. She chews on her lip again and then crosses the few steps to him, their eyes locked. Her hand presses over his dick as she looks up at him, pushing it flat against his abdomen, and he sucks in a breath. Fuck, her hand is warm and firm, and even just that feels amazing; he's wound so tightly, like a spring.
He kisses her. Maybe he should wait for her to make the first move, but he can't. Draco doesn't touch her – keeps his hands at his sides, fingers tense with restraint – but Hermione's lips part under his, willing and pliable as he licks into her mouth in mimicry of penetration, and he feels his dick twitch against her hand. She makes a muffled sound of surprise that turns into a moan as he slicks his tongue over hers. Arousal thuds through him like a heartbeat, and he feels like the temperature in the room rises five degrees; he can feel his pulse in his fingertips.
Draco's hands come up unbidden, sliding to find Hermione's waist and cup the back of her head and she lets him, leaning into him instead of pulling away, making small, soft sounds that drive him wild. The hand not pressed against his dick is wrapped around the back of his neck, her fingers sliding into his hair, holding him down to her. Draco wants to pick her up, carry her to the bed, slide her knickers down her legs, and push his dick into her. He feels dizzy with how badly he wants to fuck her. To bury himself in her body, to lose himself inside her; all thought blotted out by the insistent, animal need to come. But he keeps himself reined in, and for a few long moments they just kiss as she holds his dick and his hair, his hands petting over her, tangling in her hair and smoothing down her back, fingertips just barely gliding beneath the band of her knickers and over her arse.
He works her. Fleeting touches, soft and non-threatening, working Hermione up and up carefully and tactically, until she's forgetting the last vestiges of her fear in the midst of her pleasure, her fingers curled hard around his cock as she leans heavy into him, her mouth open hungrily like a baby bird desperate for what he gives her. And he kisses, licks, and nips, his dick hard enough to ache, her moans making his blood liquid fire. She's shivering when he finally drags his mouth from her swollen lips, trembling as if from a hex, her breathing unsteady and whimpering, her fingers flexing and clutching.
"As fun as this is, it isn't going to make you come," he says low and throaty, feeling wrecked himself, brain starved for oxygen because all the blood feels like it's in his dick. Fuck. It's actually hard to think. "And I want you to come."
"I –" she looks at him helplessly, and she clearly wants it too, her eyes heavy-lidded, pupils swamping the amber in her irises, a flush over her from cheeks to her chest. But perhaps sitting on his face is too much, too soon.
"Why don't you touch yourself?" Draco ventures after a second's frantic thought, dipping his head to murmur the next part in her ear. "Why don't you lie down on the bed, slide your hand down your pants, and take care of yourself while I kiss you? Hold you. Nothing too intense. Just your hand, and me holding you." He slides his hand up Hermione's back as he says the last, and she makes a hum of contentment at the touch that makes his mouth dry and his dick twitch again. She's radiating uncertainty, but she nods and slides from his grip, backing across the room. And then they're settling on the bed, and she's dragging the covers up over her hips, shy as she reclines back on the pillows.
"I feel like I'm on show."
"It's just you and me," he says, his heart thundering, forcing a faint smile. "And I promise I won't look if you don't want me to, Granger." She grins at that and nods, biting her lip again, all nerves and eagerness muddled together. He props himself up on an elbow and kisses the edge of her jaw, and she turns her head, letting out a moan as she catches his mouth with hers. A sloppy, wet clash, and he groans despite himself. He's aware, although he doesn't look, that her right hand is slipping beneath the blanket. Moving. Fuck, he wishes he could see. Wishes it was his hand. Wishes it was his mouth.
He kisses her as she rubs, little movements prompting little moans, and he catches them all with his mouth. After a few minutes though, her kisses lose all cohesion, and Draco draws back to watch her for a moment. She's obviously lost in the feeling, unselfconscious now, her lower lip catched between her teeth and her eyes screwed shut, a faint sheen of perspiration glowing on her flushed skin as her hand moves quickly in small circles. Her breasts shift with her movements, firm but soft, and Draco bends his head, closing his mouth gently over her left nipple, a dusky shadow beneath the thin cotton, and she whimpers, a little mmph escaping her, her back arching up.
"Oh," she says very softly, wonder in her tone as he lets his saliva wet the cotton and sucks gently. Enclosing her nipple in the heat and wet suction of his mouth and swirling his tongue over the firm bud as it tightens. Sucking, licking; sensation bursting through her. "Oh god," she murmurs, the Muggle epithet a strangled gasp as she lays her free hand on the back of his head, fingers digging into his hair. "Oh god." He grins, teeth grazing her nipple and making her squeak, and her hand quickens beneath the cover of the blanket. "Other – other one," she gasps, dragging at his hair, and he pushes himself up further and sinks his mouth to her right nipple. Her breast is pushed up by her arm as she reaches down her body, rubbing herself.
"Are you wet?" he asks her in a strangled voice, suddenly desperate to know, as her vest leaves his mouth dry, her nipples stark beneath the wet patches of cloth. He blows across her nipple, and she shudders and makes an inarticulate moan. His dick is so fucking hard, and he wants to jerk it. To come all over her leg. Fuck. "Tell me how wet you are right now, Hermione." It's nearly an order, a dark need running under the words and he cringes, but it doesn't seem to remind her of anything because she just shifts her arm, and he imagines her fingers sliding between her slick, wet folds and bites his lip hard.
"V-very wet," she pants, eyes shut, sweat on her forehead, cheeks red. "Draco. Oh god..."
"Are you going to come for me?" he asks against her breast and then sucks hard on her nipple, and a low wail escapes her throat before she replies. She sounds as though a weight is crushing her chest, dragging for air desperately.
"Y-yes –" Hermione gets out, and he moves his mouth back to her left breast, drawing her nipple into his mouth as he very gently pinches and rolls her right nipple between his finger and thumb, and she gasps in, in, in – three juddering, ragged wrenches for air as tension rips through her body, bowing her – and then she comes, with a discordant, moaning wail, her hips and legs tensing rhythmically, a release. An avalanche. Draco draws back a little, forgetting to breathe as he watches her, and Merlin, she's beautiful; brows all crinkled and mouth half open, tension in every line of her body, muscles in her abdomen drawing tight, her right arm trembling, her knees twitching. It's as though she's breaking apart, the orgasm rolling through her hard like waves crashing – and then she goes limp.
He wonders how long it's been since she came. Nearly half a year?
Hermione pulls her hand free after a second and he catches her wrist. She looks at him – starry, shining, firewhisky eyes above flushed cheeks – and he looks at her hand. At her fingers, shining slick and wet. Fuck. She really was very wet. And before she can think to pull away, Draco shoves her fingers in his mouth and sucks. "Mmph, oh my god – Malfoy!" she protests as he hollows out his cheeks, sucking on her two fingers, slicking his tongue between them, and she makes a snorting, laughing sound but lets him. She tastes tangy and sweet at once, and so fucking delicious. It's a crime that he can't bury his face in her cunt and lap up every last drop of her juices before slowly working her back up to orgasm. Another time, he thinks dizzily as he sets her fingers free with a pop, and then grins at her.
"Fuck, you're so delicious, Granger," he says without thinking, and Hermione gives him a watery giggle, looking giddy and a little embarrassed. She doesn't answer, though. Instead, her breath hitches, and her chin wobbles, and she rolls onto her side and buries her face against Draco's chest, their legs tangled together in the blankets, her arm flinging over his waist and hooking around his back. Clinging on for dear life.
Shit. Oh shit. He'd known something like this might happen, but he'd hoped it wouldn't. Draco smoothes his hand down her back and makes soothing sounds and inarticulate, meaningless assurances as Hermione cries as though her heart is breaking. Sobs ripped from her throat, shoulders shaking, tears wetting his chest as she wails her grief and her anger, and Merlin only knows what else, into his skin, her fingers clutching painfully deep at his scars.
I'm here.
Shhh.
It's okay, Hermione.
I love you.
You're safe.
I've got you.
He doesn't know if it helps.
