Draco bent over the sink, gripping the porcelain so hard his knuckles matched the faded white. The cave's stone in front of, above, below him bore down, increasingly oppressive - reminding him constantly that there was no way out. That he had failed, spell after spell, these last five days. Failed to end this nightmare.
Dread overwhelmed. And panic. At what he had to do.
"She gave him those moments of pleasure which unite them. In this way he was restored." That was their only clue for a cure, what Pansy had read from the book. A clue that Potter had tested and confirmed. Now, it was his command. "You'll have to do it."
Lifting his head, he stared at himself for long moments in the mirror. The stress was visible on his face. And felt in his body, which quivered with rage and tension.
"This is going to ruin everything, you piece of shit."
A new low, talking to himself.
"You should have known she'd come running. The minute it worked - you should have known. You knew what she did for a living, her position. Who she is. You should have been prepared for her and Potter to stroll in, playing hero. Isn't that what they've always done? You should have treated it like the eventuality it was. And now - because you're fucking stupid - all of the plans are going to be fucked."
He shook his head. Loathing ricocheted.
"If you find a way out of here, you know what they're going to do, right? What they'll say? You'll be arrested. Attempted murder of Hermione Fucking Granger. Potter's Princess. War Heroine. Then, not only did you nearly kill her -" Draco swallowed. "They'll say that you're a rapist. That you touched her against her will when she was nearly dead. That you're some fucking nympho, holding her hostage. The story writes itself."
He examined his reflection. His mother's eyes. What would Narcissa think - her only child, labeled a sadist? Her only child, a failure in every way? His fingers found his hair, twisting it harshly. His father's hair, disheveled and light. Too light. It looked ridiculous against the black stone.
"You need insurance."
It took him a minute for the idea to percolate.
Of course.
Insurance.
"What you need to protect for now is your reputation. To show her, if she can't remember. Or Potter . . . if she dies." He closed his eyes for a moment, quelling the nausea. "That you didn't touch her unless you had to. Unless she wanted you to. That - despite your many crimes, you didn't do that."
And not just his reputation - Granger's too. She surely had a boyfriend waiting somewhere, some thick-thighed bloke with broad shoulders and dark hair. Someone with a job and a purpose, someone who would understandably demand answers about where his witch had been and with whom. Draco didn't want to be the cause of accusations of adultery. He owed her the option, at least, to see this as he had. To defend herself. To witness his-
Memories.
Could an Occlumens even extract a memory? Draco had never tried. He was better - much - at concealment. Of his past, his thoughts. His feelings, especially.
But this was too important. He simply had to make it work.
He held his wand, fingers trembling, to his temple.
It didn't work, not the first time. He earned a bruise on the side of his head and a throbbing headache.
Calm. Draco forced himself to be still. To focus on Granger, out there on her bed in the alcove, listless and sick and dehydrated to the point of real danger.
Resolve renewed - "You'll keep a record, for accuracy. Only the memories she needs." - he lifted his wand again. He wouldn't give her everything. The goal was self-preservation, not self-incrimination.
Violating every Occlumency instinct he had, he whispered the extraction spell.
And summoned silver strands - a complete collection of the last several days.
It hurt like a fucking steam engine running through his mind.
How precious, the four of them. On their little cots, tucked around the firepit. Laying on his back, watching sparks disappear into the deepest black above, Draco rolled his eyes. And quickly closed them, because he felt the Ginger looking over.
His suspicions that Weasley was in love with Potter had been confirmed approximately thirty seconds after Granger fell asleep. Granger, in repose. He could tell she was out from her even breathing and the slight part of her lips. The light of the flames played over them, putting on a show.
"Harry," Weasley whispered. "Are you still awake?"
No answer.
"Harry!" If he hadn't been, he was now.
Weasley's cot creaked. Draco sighed. Now he definitely wouldn't get any rest.
"Harry, wake up."
"What is it, Gin?" Potter sounded as tired as Draco felt.
"Can we call a truce?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter find his glasses. "We're not in a fight. What is it you want?"
The cot creaked again. "Can I sleep with you?"
Potter cleared his throat - the sound of a man who very much wanted the witch in his life to be quiet. "You're three feet away. And Malfoy and Hermione are right there."
"I'm scared."
Even Draco had to admit that her voice, wavering and sweet, was compelling. A better actress than Granger, for sure.
"You're safe, Ginny. We need to rest."
More creaking - and stomping. Weasley had put her shoes on and marched off. Draco nearly lifted his head to tell her to stop, to come back - but he assumed she wouldn't go far. And Potter had her in hand. He was already chasing after her.
Come, boy.
They argued for a bit, but Draco tuned it out.
He had something more interesting to distract him. Granger was awake. Draco watched with fascination as her lashes fluttered. As she looked around, searching through sleepy confusion for Potter. Did she love him too? She checked his empty cot quick enough. How close had Draco's aim been, with his comment about Potter's wet dreams? Were they embroiled in some twisted love triangle?
Granger finally looked at him, as if remembering that he was there. "They've been fighting for awhile. Surprised you slept through it for this long. The Ginger's moaning could wake the dead."
She sat up immediately, peering pointlessly into the dark for her friends.
Potter returned a moment later, apparently content to let his witch wander off.
Fine. If they wanted to forget why they were here, what they were hunting, Draco wouldn't stop them. The chances of them encountering the monster were slim - he hadn't been lying when he said the Malfoy's caverns were sprawling.
But Draco had grossly underestimated the Gryffindor bravado. Granger didn't wait a beat before she put her boots on and charged after Weasley. He contemplated urging caution . . . but he didn't want to tip his hand. Didn't want to let them know what he knew. They'd be out of there in less than a day and he didn't want her digging into what it was or how he knew about it.
He wasn't concerned. Granger would be back. She was a competent witch. And hopefully meandering around in the dark for a bit would inspire her to pack up and evacuate promptly.
Draco turned his thoughts to everything he needed to accomplish once he'd cleared out these intensely irritating intruders. The letters to which he needed to respond. The plans he needed to finalize. The promises he needed to keep. The pressure was as crushing as the darkness above.
Fucking Potter was under no apparent pressure. He was flat on his back, an arm flung over his face. The man was rather relaxed for someone who should be worried about his two favorite witches venturing into a monster's territory. Draco reminded himself that it was hard enough to find the damned thing when he wanted to - Granger wasn't going to find it now.
But - the women had been gone for rather a long time. That was bad. If they were actually lost, tracking them down in the web of passages would be no easy task. Draco resisted a shudder. He hated this place. He'd much rather be in his feather bed at the Man-
a scream.
Two screams.
He and Potter were already on their feet. But Draco could have sworn he was faster.
Then they were moving, casting Lumos, casting Revelio, casting Amplify, sprinting deep into the caverns in the direction from which the screams had come. They moved without words except for an occasional "this way" and "no! turn right." Potter beat him there, he had to admit - he had raced ahead.
How long had it been since the first scream? No more than five minutes. Draco's heart pounded painfully. Damn the sudden exertion.
They found them silent and crumpled on the ground beside a large rock. Potter called to both - "Ginny! Hermione!" - but Draco watched as he knelt only at Weasley's side, his hand on her cheek and at her neck, checking her pulse. If Draco had feelings, he'd have pitied Granger.
All those years, all that sacrifice, and still Potter's second best.
Draco bent in a slow half bow to look more closely at her. He ignored Potter, who was frantic and jabbering about whether she was alive. If she's not alive, rushing around won't bring her back. But he knew she was - just like those wizards at Hutton-le-Hole. They were still alive and being treated at St. Mungos.
He'd been wrong, clearly. The monster was here. His eyes darted for it, listening as carefully as he could over Potter's shrieking.
But now - what to do about Granger? Who'd run off and gotten herself attacked, damn the gods. Draco half expected her to jump up and sneer at him. "I know you did this, Malfoy," she'd argue, finger pointing and curls waving.
Let her argue. Please let her argue.
Potter was patting Weasley's cheeks, shaking her shoulders, trying desperately to rouse her. "How is Hermione?"
Draco glanced down again. "Breathing," he said after a pause. Granger's eyes were open. "They're just stunned," he said dryly. "There's no need to panic."
"Who would have stunned them?" Potter demanded. "There's no one here."
"Whatever you were so foolishly chasing."
"Creatures can't stun, Malfoy. They can poison or maim or shock but they can't stun."
Draco pushed into her thigh with the toe of his polished boot. "Granger. Wake up. Potter wants you to tell him what happened to Weasley." He said it loud and pointedly.
"Shut up, Malfoy. Hermione, that's not true. But can you tell us what it was? What it did?" Potter was so obsessed with the Ginger he didn't even glance over to see if she could respond. Instead he directed the light at the end of his wand against the walls. "I want to put them on the cots - back by the fire."
"There are better beds in the side rooms. Have at." It would be safe there.
"You bring Hermione."
That presented a conundrum. "I am not touching . . . her." Do not touch me, Malfoy, she'd said. Never. He moved his boots back from her body. Granger's unblinking stare into the darkness past his wandlight was unnerving. "You do it."
Potter was slipping Weasley's wand into his pocket, bending over her, tucking her arm around his neck. "I'm not leaving Hermione alone with you, Malfoy. Bring her."
Draco doubted Potter could do it - not because Weasley was heavy, but because lifting a limp body was very difficult. Nevertheless, Potter persisted, and Draco watched with the mildest interest as he struggled to his feet, red hair spilling over his arm, Weasley's head lolling.
Potter waited, looking at Draco expectantly. Fine. "Wingardium Leviosa," he muttered. Granger rose into the air, arms and legs dangling.
"And her wand," bossed Potter, turning to stagger through the cave the way they'd come. Draco saw Granger's wand on the stone and contemplated leaving it. Let her return for it and perhaps learn a lesson. But he also looked forward to the moment that she'd have to ask him for it back. He bent over to pick it up. As he stood he saw her watch on her wrist. Without thinking, before Potter could see, he slipped it off and tucked it into his pocket. Why, he could not guess.
Draco levitated a motionless Granger alongside. If he hadn't seen the subtle rise of her chest he would have thought she was dead. He tripped then, but when he looked down there was no crack or loose stone. Potter led, murmuring to Weasley. She did not answer.
They had chased the witches farther than he had guessed. But they made it, and as Potter stumbled into their campsite, Draco flicked his wand to reignite the fire. They'd flipped the cots in their rush.
"I'm going to put Ginny over here." Potter moved toward one of the side rooms. He turned his head to watch Draco over his shoulder. "Put Hermione close by so we can watch them both." And with that, Potter carried Ginny Weasley through a darkened archway and out of sight.
Draco levitated Granger toward the largest room, following only so he could make sure she landed on a surface instead of the floor.
A shimmering wave of magic that served as a door rippled in front of him. He reached for it with his fingers. He'd been through it just hours ago, to use the loo. And many times, in the prior months, when working on his project.
But now it seemed different. The magic was practically tangible. It felt older. It felt . . . heavy. Yet in a way it welcomed him, pulled at him. So he stepped through, letting it trickle over him like a waterfall. His heart did a double beat and then he was fine.
Granger was still dangling in the middle of the small, dark space. He moved her with a swish of his wand toward the bed, if one could call it that. It was just a lumpy-looking utility mattress resting in an alcove carved into the wall. Draco decided he would arrange Granger and leave her in peace. Return to the fire and get a few hours of sleep. He had so much to do and not enough time in which to do it. In the morning Potter could figure out how to get her out of here. Take her to St. Mungo's. They'd Heal her - as they were healing the others.
She landed in a tangle of limbs and hair. "You can rest here." Draco grabbed a wrist that looked uncomfortably bent and moved it to a more natural position. Her hand was very small compared to his. He stepped backward abruptly. Time for his nap.
But something had changed. The noises of the cave - the drips, the echoes, the crackling of the fire - were muffled. So too the sounds of Potter. "I can't hear you," Draco said irritably.
"I can't get out," Potter shouted. "What's the exit spell?"
Draco ignored him. He reached for the barrier and encountered - resistance. A solid wall. His neck prickled as he pushed and retreated. It was as though he'd been ordered to touch a hot stove. His body simply could not do it.
"Alohomora," he muttered, waving his wand at the magic. It did not so much as quiver.
He heard Potter casting Evanesco, trying to vanish it - apparently he was dealing with the same problem.
Draco tried, firmly and clearly, Diffindo, to cut the magic. No. Duro, a hardening charm, in combination with Confrigo, to explode it. Nothing. The magic wall did not repel his spells - it absorbed them, immutable. He cast a shield charm over himself and tried to pass through it, but succeeded only in earning a headache when the two magics bounced violently off of each other.
Potter called again, a higher pitch to his voice.
"What do you want?" Draco asked.
"Are you trapped as well?"
"It appears so."
"Are you with Hermione?" Potter was shouting.
"Unfortunately."
"What is this magic? Nothing is working - but I can still hear you."
Draco didn't answer. He turned away from the barrier to survey the little room in which he found himself. Eight paces by eight. Carved alcove and ledge with a mattress. Decades-old sofa and low tea table. A simple wardrobe in a corner. He lit the torches on the wall and went to see if there was a secret escape hatch in the bathing chamber. All he found was the same old tub and sink he'd seen before.
Draco resumed his efforts at the archway. When he tried to walk through or touch the barrier he was forced back as before, pain lancing through his bones, his spine, his head. He cast and recast every spell he could think of in different combinations.
The magic accepted it all, rippling calmly.
Potter continued to pester. "Malfoy, what's the password?"
Frustrated, Draco began to pace. He tried to remember exactly what his father had told him about this place. Go to the north lands if you ever face a threat. You'll be safe until the danger passes. The magic will know you're a Malfoy.
His mother had explained only slightly more - though in hindsight she had been light on specifics.
It had been months ago, when he needed a place to begin his . . . experiments. The Manor wouldn't work, for obvious reasons. Namely, Narcissa.
But - he'd been vaguely aware of the family land on the moors. Lucius had told him that in "times of trouble" there was a place to hide. Draco had never expected to need it so he'd never asked for details. It had irritated his father.
"Mother. I've been thinking." They were at the long dining table, she at his right hand. "I should learn more about the Malfoy holdings."
Narcissa hid behind her wine, failing to shield her surprised delight. "I haven't been to the Provence villa in ages. That would be lovely."
France. Gods no.
"Actually, I'd prefer to start closer to home. What can you tell me about the lands in Yorkshire?" Draco stuffed himself with the roast.
She looked up from pushing food around her plate. "Why do you want to know about those?"
"Curious. I can't recall going there."
"I don't like them," she said flatly. "They're only for emergency use."
"Shouldn't I know more . . . in case of emergency?"
"That's all there is to know. I send a few elves once a year to inspect and clean and do an inventory. In case the Muggles do something crazy like try to end the world. But otherwise, there's nothing to do."
"So - is it a house?" He was picturing a castle. He knew the Carrows had their family seat up there - and the Greengrasses too. Astoria had invited him, once, to visit. He'd declined.
"No," his mother said primly. "Vastly inferior to a house."
"What then?" Now he was truly curious.
She set her utensils down. "It's a set of caverns, Draco."
"Caves?"
She nodded, sipping her wine. "I don't recommend them. But I suppose, if you must know - they have supplies enough for us, and guests we deem worthy, to subsist for an extended period of time. Not fresh, mind you." She made a face. "It would be like camping."
"Like, a foxhole?"
"Bigger. They were carved many, many centuries ago, when the family was much larger. Before the Malfoys . . . dwindled. But we haven't been back in decades."
"Has Father explored them?"
"They really aren't interesting, Draco. They're underground. Wet and dark and full of . . . dirt."
He'd gone, of course, the next day. Hiked all over the moors - he'd gotten a map from Lucius's office - until he found the entrance. Descending, his heart pounding as a natural response to the darkness and solitude, had been quite the test. Did he want this badly enough to come here? Into this place? Alone? He'd nearly turned back about every ten steps.
But something had driven him forward. He couldn't fail because he was too afraid to explore what was rightfully his. Besides. He might have a family someday. Might need this place, to protect them.
Eventually he'd found the fire pit, and the white sheets, and the rooms. As if waiting for him. Anything perishable was under powerful Stasis spells, and he'd laughed and had a snack and some wine he found, straight from the bottle. Used the loo and poked around. You're a Malfoy, said the wards. They recognized him. Welcomed him. There was power in it.
Looking around the big empty cavern, Draco had nodded, smiling.
It was the place.
But his mother hadn't said a fucking thing about the cave locking him in and refusing to let him out. Potter's sniping distracted him from his thoughts. "What's your family motto?"
Not a bad idea, actually. Malfoy muttered it to himself, aiming his wand at the magical door. "Sanctimonia Vincet Semper." He grimaced at the words. Purity Forever Conquers. He'd never really been ashamed of them before, but it felt uncomfortable to say them front of a . . . person like Granger.
The magic was indifferent.
"That wasn't it."
"How is Hermione?"
Draco looked back at her over his shoulder. "The same. Still stunned."
"Don't you touch her!'
He rolled his eyes. "I'll try to resist."
"I mean it, Malfoy! I'll kill you if you touch her!" Followed by some banging.
"How is Weasley?"
A silence. "Not responsive." Potter tried to assure himself. "They probably need a few hours to sleep it off. We'll figure it out when they wake up."
Draco flopped down on the sofa and tried to think. He or Potter had clearly triggered something when they walked through. But what? The obvious options had all failed.
He fiddled with his wand, spinning it in his fingers. His magic was just weaker than normal from weeks of exertion and exhaustion. He'd sleep, and so would she, and they'd get out in the morning.
"Granger, can you hear me?" Her eyes were unfocused, staring past him. As if he wasn't there. A tear trickled out of her eye. His lip curled and he turned away. "Whenever you're ready to wake up and be useful, I welcome it."
He couldn't help but look forward to when she snapped out of it. Ooh she was going to be mad. And he had to admit - Granger mad, good and truly mad, would be delightful. Hopefully she'd be able to calm down long enough to remember some incantation that would get them out. In her capabilities, he was confident.
She did not improve overnight. Nor by mid-day. The Ginger, per Potter's reports, was similarly still.
Draco stood at the room's archway and experimented for many hours. He had quickly learned he could summon things through it - which meant he at least got a sad breakfast of water biscuits and pâté from some of the crates. And Granger's lumpy old knapsack, which he set aside for her. He could light and douse the fire in the middle of the cavern, levitate things, shoot hexes and jinxes. He could also send things out - he just couldn't leave himself.
Potter was, of course, immediately intent on help. Getting help. Finding help. Calling, sending, for help. Help help help. Must be nice, Draco thought bitterly. But it was too far for a Patronus and there were no owls. Thank Merlin they had what they needed. Facilities, bad snacks, and water.
When Draco had reached peak frustration, he killed some time exploring every inch of the room. It was solid rock - walls, ceiling, floor. Some Malfoy ancestor had dedicated quite a bit of time and many resources to chiseling it. The torches burned with endless reserves of magic, but they were unmovable - revealing no hidden doors. The bathing room was the same. Built for function in an emergency, not luxury or escape.
He'd thought this was a place of refuge, not a prison. He'd thought wrong.
Draco came to the conclusion, over an insufficient dinner of tinned fruit and hard cheese, that there must be some password and he simply had never been told it. His mother was an option. The trick would be getting it from her without igniting suspicion.
He briefly wished he could send a message to Theodore Nott. Perhaps he could flirt it out of Narcissa. She liked Nott. She called him provocative. That was her euphemism for men who sometimes liked cock. Which - Draco didn't care. He certainly liked his own cock, so he could understand the appeal.
Speaking of cock.
He normally played with it to start or end his day, but he found he had no desire when Hermione Granger was nearby and looking nearly dead.
Granger. She had finally closed her eyes sometime in the night, but they opened again when he was pacing back and forth brainstorming more spells. Draco went and looked at her, but she did not see him. She was gone, away, elsewhere. He began to doubt that she had been stunned, as the counter-spells he tried did not reverse her condition.
You - he formed a half thought. Pushed it aside.
In the afternoon, Potter shouted that he was going to try to make Weasley more comfortable. Draco watched through the archway, bored, as items were magically flung about the large cavern - sheets and chairs and cots and crates and barrels - and Potter summoned what he wanted. There were rather a lot of supplies - wine, books, blankets, chess sets - everything a Malfoy might need in seclusion. Draco did get a moment of pleasure from messing with him, Accioing things he wanted before they reached the other room. He reveled in the frustrated curses.
The result was that the small space was more comfortable. He had a pillow, some blankets. And books.
He spent most of the evening flipping through them looking for anything that might be useful. Alas, the Malfoy in-case-of-emergency collection consisted more of pretentious family histories and high-brow wizarding literature than treatises on cures for cave monsters and escaping trapping enchantments. He was surprised to find a set of Shakespeare's Classics. A note on the inside cover insisted The Bard had been a wizard. A likely excuse from whichever great-great-grandfather had commissioned them to be bound.
All that day, Granger didn't move. Not a muscle. Draco found himself cracking into a wheel of cheese for supper, looking across at her while he ate. "Don't you need to piss?"
He went to her side. Lifted her wrist again - her skin against his fingers cool and pale. He checked over her, more carefully, for a physical injury. Found none. Which meant this condition of hers was mental.
You did-
"Food? Water?" She stayed unfocused, unblinking.
"Can you answer me?" Another solitary tear slid down her cheek.
She did not respond. Just stared with those awful faraway eyes.
"This is the worst fucking joke you've ever made, Granger. Of course, you've never been funny, but this just confirms your complete ineptitude at anything resembling humor." She did not move.
Draco went back to his sofa. It was late, nearly a full day since Granger was attacked. Perhaps there would be some magic to the timing of it - and soon she would arise and play the swot.
He lay back, twisting and turning on the uncomfortable cushions. Might as well try to rest.
But sleep was elusive, Draco's head ringing with the repercussions of this delay. How he would have to cover it up with them. He could not let any of the compatriots with whom he had been dealing discover that he'd got himself stuck with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger of all people. "Lay low for now," they'd all agreed.
He had to get out of here. He had to get Granger well, and convince her and Potter to keep this quiet. He had to finish his list. He had to-
Potter couldn't sleep either. "Malfoy?"
"I'm listening."
He heard Potter moving, pacing. "How long can they go, do you think? Without eating or drinking?"
"Four days without drinking."
"That's what I thought." He sounded panicked.
Draco barely slept. It seemed as though the moment he closed his eyes he dreamt - dreams from which it was better to wake.
But waking meant seeing Granger again, looking at him from across their tiny cell. He disliked seeing her - the glazed eyes and sallow cheeks. He turned his back and tried to sleep again.
You did -
It must have been morning - his stomach was rumbling for breakfast foods, and his head throbbed from a day without tea or coffee. Potter yelped - had he gotten free?
Draco leapt to his feet.
No.
Someone was here. "Ginny? Harry?" Someone useless. "Hermione?" Another fucking Weasley. Ron.
But some help was better than none, he supposed. Draco checked Granger. Surely, she'd get out of bed for her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, judging from her comments by the fire. But she was unmoved.
"Nice of you to show up," snarled Draco. "How the fuck did you find us?"
"Tracer in Ginny's bag. My dad had it in with the camping supplies."
"That shouldn't work here." This far underground. With these wards.
Weasley laughed. "My brother invented it for his shop. He's very good."
Then he went to talk to Potter. Draco struggled to hear them whispering, debating next steps. "Whenever you come to the conclusion that including me in your plans might accomplish more, faster - I'm ready." He tried to sound bored.
There was a lengthy silence.
"We think it's some kind of curse," said Potter.
Weasley argued. "Shut up and let him sweat, mate."
Draco looked at Granger over his shoulder. Cursed.
You did-
"What makes you think so?" How much did they know?
"Ginny - I was able to kind of rouse her last night to get up and use the loo. But she needed a lot of help, couldn't walk by herself or - do anything really. It's not physical, though, I'm sure of it. I've checked her all over, run the diagnostics I know. She's fine. So -"
"It's mental," said Weasley. Slow on the uptake as always. "How is Hermione?"
"The same," Draco mused, almost to himself.
"Has she had anything to drink?"
"No." Although - he hadn't offered. Should he have?
"Where could we find the password?" Weasley asked. "Or the exit spell?" He moved toward Draco's room, so they were face to face, separated only by invisible magic. Definitely taller than you remembered. Draco frowned. Slightly better looking too.
"I don't know." It was the truth - he'd thought about hiding it, but the sooner he brought in fresh resources the sooner they'd get the answer.
"Who would?"
"Maybe my parents."
"As I'm wanting to avoid Azkaban this time of year, I think I'll go and ask your mother for it," said Weasley. Sneered.
That way led to disaster. "I'd rather you didn't. Not until we have to." Draco did not need Narcissa knowing that he'd been spending so much time here, these past few months. "There's - another idea."
"What's that?"
"The Library, in my Manor. I'll - find someone to accompany you. Surely the password or whatever counter-spell releases us - it'll be there. And you can work together to keep things honest."
Weasley frowned. "Who?"
Draco thought for a moment. Theo? No, he wasn't the best at . . . books. His idea of research was probably trying to figure out where Ron landed on the sexuality spectrum. Draco needed someone intelligent. Someone who would keep Weasley on task. Someone trustworthy. Blaise was a candidate. But he was busy with . . . other things. Like having an actual life.
"Pansy."
"Parkinson?!" Potter and Weasley exploded at the same time. Potter started laughing, which felt inappropriate, given the circumstances. Weasley looked genuinely horrified.
"The same." Draco smirked. "I trust her . . . dominant side can keep you in line."
Weasley blushed. Red on red. Hideous.
"Send her an owl and tell her I'm calling in that favor from sixth year. The boathouse." He grinned, remembering. "She'll know what I mean."
That had been Pansy's third test. After he'd achieved, with great effort and lots of trial and error, Outstandings on fingers and use of his mouth.He'd lost his virginity in that boathouse, only after making Pans very, very - very - happy. When he finally sank into her, he'd immediately forgotten everything she'd taught him. The sex had been terrible, rough and way too fast. She'd told him so, scowling. Made him work his way back up to it - to trying again. "A little better," she'd said the second time, eyes rolling into the back of her head from the orgasm he'd given her.
Potter made a gagging sound. Weasley just looked scared.
"Once you're in, and she's made appropriate excuses to keep my mother out of the way, locate the section on my family's history." He waved his hand nonchalantly. "Look until you figure it out."
"Anything more specific for him to go on?" Potter was annoyed. Perhaps the only satisfying side effect of this ordeal.
"No."
Truthfully, Draco didn't know. He'd skimmed through the history his father forced upon him, of course. But it had been years since he'd focused on the family tree. There had been bigger dragons to slay. Death Eating to do.
Now, his father was . . . unavailable. And his mother didn't talk much - certainly not about the traditions of her in-laws. For it was those traditions that had cost her a husband, social status, a life.
Having conferred more with Potter, Weasley was turning to go. "Oh, and Weasley? I need Theodore Nott. Send for him straightaway. Tell him to bring food from my elves. I can't handle moldy old cheese any longer."
That was the most - only - interesting thing to happen that day. Round about what must have been dinnertime - Draco was fucking famished after two days without real food - Potter got it in his head that Granger really did need to get up.
"Maybe if you help her to the loo? It might rouse her a bit."
Draco shivered faintly. Granger? In the loo? Helping her? It was a violation - she'd kill him when she woke. He simply couldn't.
"She'll get up when she's ready," he offered in rebuttal.
"You can't just leave her there!"
Draco approached her again. "She's resting."
"It's on your head, Malfoy - if she dies."
"She's not going to die." She couldn't. She wouldn't.
Then Potter yelled for awhile about giving her water. Draco filtered out his words - but acknowledged that it was a good idea. He filled a glass bottle from one of the crates. Surveying her, he realized. You'll have to touch.
Resigned, he stepped forward and slid a hand beneath her neck. It was slender - he could wrap his fingers around it if he wanted. Instead he brushed the vein beneath her ear with his thumb. Her pulse was weak.
Slid his fingers, too, into her hair. It was soft - far softer than he'd have guessed, all those years at school when she just let it waft about, unashamed by its natural state. He tipped her head back and held the bottle to her mouth. Water dribbled down her cheek. "Drink, Granger."
Nothing. Her eyes were lidded.
Draco's heart began to thud. Was he too late?
He tugged, entwined in her curls. "Open up."
Her lips parted slightly, water sloshing. Draco pressed the bottle to them, willing it. She coughed, gurgling. But she drank.
When she'd taken a few sips he stepped back, away, dropping his hand from her like she was a hot coal.
"It's done, Potter. Only because you said I had to."
But touching her hair had transported him, unwillingly. Through memories - desires - he didn't want to revisit.
When he'd met her, as a First Year. As a child. He'd been a little boy. "Draco. Malfoy." How that mane of hers had been wild and untamed.
Times he'd watched her in the library, editing her already-perfect essays.
Her accusation that he'd bought his way onto the Quidditch team - the first thing he'd ever been truly proud of. That one - that had stung. Her speculation had fanned the flames of his own niggling doubt. That they'd only let him on because of his father's name, his family's fortunes. Draco was grateful, though, in hindsight - without Granger's motivation he might not have practiced as hard, spent as many hours in the air, might not have drilled over, and over, and over, until his fingers blistered on the broom and his eyes swam from searching for the Snitch.
How she'd hit him, in Third Year. The blood, in the back of his throat. It was the first time he wondered - would hers taste any different?
Potions class with Slughorn. Her voice, steady and confident. "The most powerful love potion in the world. Rumored to smell differently to each person according to what attracts them. I smell freshly mown glass, parchment, spearmint." He'd had a mint in his mouth at that very moment. Swallowed it immediately. Crumpled his parchment and shoved it into his bag. Which he'd just hauled up from the Quidditch pitch - Hagrid had been mowing. Thankfully, her attention had been on Weasley. Fucking prick.
Mudblood, carved in her arm on his family's dining room floor. He'd had nightmares about it for months. It was then he started locking his bedroom door to his parents' potential intrusion. They probably assumed he'd discovered his cock - and they were preoccupied anyway with the coming war. In truth he'd been restless at night, horrified at the memory of the way the blood dripped on her skin. Dark red - same as his. He got over it by convincing himself, as he had while working on the cabinet in the Room of Requirement, that he was doing what anyone would do. He was fighting for his family.
As he was fighting now.
The boredom - that was the worst. Actually, the hunger. No, it was the boredom. But then his stomach would rumble and he'd change his mind again. The hunger.
On the third day Granger did more of what she'd become best at - laying on her pallet in the alcove, looking like a corpse. He forced himself not to think too much about her.
You did-
Thankfully, there were things to distract.
Namely, a resolution to one of his primary problems: food.
From an expected source. "Hullo," Draco heard. He was laying on his back, levitating a candle stub with wandless magic.
He jumped.
"Nott?" Potter had beaten him to it - bastard. "You actually came?"
"Nice to see you too." He swung round, a picnic basket in each hand, to speak to Draco. "Pansy's orders - elves can't apparate in or out of here. They tried. One of them nearly got Splinched. So, I'm on your payroll for now, bringing you a delivery a day. My hourly rate is exorbitant, and I demand regular raises." He grinned.
Draco bit back his own smile. "Delivery of?"
Theo hefted them in his hands. "Judging from the weight it's your entire fucking house stuffed in here. They used a bunch of expansion charms to fit it all. Clothes, three meals."
"Wine?" asked Draco hopefully.
"Three bottles, mate. I can't leave you high and dry when you're trapped with her." Theo's tone conveyed his disgust and pity. Draco stifled a retort.
"Watch it," said Potter.
Nott nodded patronizingly. "Yes there's a basket for you too. I think Weasley went and got you some of your things. Here." He set it down in front of Potter's room and Potter Accio'd it through the barrier.
"How goes it for real, Draco?" Nott was hovering at his archway, trying to be quiet. "Can't imagine being in your spot, stuck down here and in that cage with . . ." He trailed off, apparently unable to think of an appropriately degrading way to refer to Granger.
"She's still out of it," Draco said neutrally.
Nott nodded, skeptical. "Right, well - eat up. I'll come by same time tomorrow. I think there's a quill and scroll to make a list. If I'm feeling generous I'll honor requests." He cast a sideways glance at Potter's room. Potter, who must be listening intently. "A quill. And parchment." Draco met his eyes. "You write what you need to write, and I'll get it where it needs to go."
"My elves, of course." To the Carrows, and his solicitor, and the others. He'd already lost three days.
"I'd like to add to the list," Potter whined.
"Potter gets whatever's leftover, so be sure and choose stuff he hates," laughed Nott loudly.
After he left, Draco tore into the basket. Bless those elves. When his mother wasn't paying attention, he'd have to give them a reward. They'd made some of his favorites - enough for two. Halfway through his first sandwich, he saw Granger looking blankly past him.
"Hungry?"
Nothing.
"Can I have yours?"
No sense letting it go to waste.
Under the sandwiches were a dinner and breakfast for the morning. And the wine, clothes, some of his toiletries. A treat.
Draco took his time having a bath - he had nothing but time, for now - washing his hair, scrubbing every inch of himself, brushing his teeth. He contemplated having a wank - it had been awhile - but still wasn't in the mood.
Dressed in fresh clothes, belly full of a meal from the Malfoy family elves - unparalleled in the wizarding world, all their guests used to say it - and clean, he reclined that night, reading Shakespeare. And intermittently staring at Granger.
At some point he heard Potter and Weasley. It sounded like the Ginger might be crying. Draco shot a charm to block the noise. It made him uncomfortable. Was Granger going to cry like that, when she woke up? Merlin, please no.
Though - she didn't seem the weepy type. She'd withstood his aunt's torture, hadn't she? Screamed, sure, but he'd never seen tears.
Draco shivered. It was chilly. Granger must be cold too. She was also still wearing those hideous boots. He stood and approached her, confident thanks to an abundance of drink. If she sat up and yelled at him - he'd take it. Multiple problems solved.
But she didn't wake as he eased her shoes off. As he laid one of the extra blankets over her body and tucked it around. She was probably going to be mad that he let her lay there, dirty. He Scourgified her. That should help, at least a little.
He wanted an excuse to touch her hair again, so he poured more water in her mouth. One of the curls sprang under his fingers. He fiddled with it for a moment before he remembered he was one eye opening from getting caught.
Draco went back to the couch.
Returned to his book. He remembered, suddenly, being ill as a boy. His mother sat with him in a chair at his bedside. Wiped his face with a cool cloth, and stroked his hair, and read aloud. It had been - so soothing.
Found himself, reading aloud. To Granger. He was glad she couldn't correct his pronunciations or cadence. She actually listened, more than she ever had or ever would.
"I much prefer you as a captive audience," he told her. And read some more.
After breakfast Draco made a more concerted effort to rouse her. He shook her shoulder, limp and bony. "What would you eat? I'll - We'll have them bring it, whatever it is. The Malfoy elves can make anything." Surely she'd leap at that, arguing with him about elf rights?
Irritated, he poked at her further. "I would prefer that the Golden Girl War Hero not starve to death on my watch. It might make me look bad." He shook her again to drive the point home. Yell at me not to touch you.
She did not.
That afternoon's amusement featured Ron Weasley again. What a flop. But, light footsteps accompanied him. Familiar footsteps. The steps of the only witch he'd ever fucked more than once. Pansy.
They were arguing loud enough to wake - a monster.
"Shut the fuck up," Draco called. "Last thing we need is you lot getting attacked. Nott can't save us all."
Pansy sneered. "Hear that, Ronald? You're too loud. Let me do the talking." She turned to Draco - dressed fabulously, as always. She was wearing an outfit reminiscent of Granger's safari getup, albeit more expensive and better tailored. She'd tied a bandana around her neck. Her wand dangled in red-painted nails. Look out, Weaselby. She'll get you when you least expect it.
"Good news, Draco. We found something right away."
"About the exit?"
"Better," said Weasley. "To help Ginny and Hermione."
Uh oh. Draco flushed with surprise. Hadn't Kirby collected and hidden everything? He'd expected them to have nothing related to the monster for days. "Wouldn't it be better to get out of here first, take them to Healers?"
"We found what we found," said Ron crossly. "Be grateful you won't have Hermione's life on your conscience if it works."
Draco waited for Pans to smack him upside his head, to tell him to shut it - but she didn't. Instead, she launched into an enthusiastic retelling of their past twenty four hours.
"So first, we went to your Manor, as you asked. Had no trouble, except trying to get your elves to leave us alone. They're so eager, Draco - what in Merlin's name have you done to them?" Overpaid, he thought bitterly. Never should have started down that path. Now they felt they had to earn everything, it was obnoxious. "We've discovered your library is shockingly sparse when it comes to cave creatures that role-play as dementors."
"It's not a-" he started to correct.
"Thankfully, Ronald found a book under one of the study tables."
Weasley was sweating. "See, what happened was I - I dropped my quill. People drop quills! And Pansy made me look for it. Her- my quill, I mean. It had rolled away, so I got down on the ground to search-"
"He was being a very diligent boy," Pansy grinned. "Anyway, the book was all about rare creatures. Some so rare they were just theoretical. And listen to this."
She held out her hand expectantly. Weasley conjured their notes and set the scroll in her palm.
"There was a story that 'a wizard from the time before surnames' - you would have hated that, Draco Malfoy - 'encountered a creature with the power to cause permanent despair.'"
Permanent. It rang through his head. Granger - like this forever?
You did-
But Pansy was still reading. "'The wizard wasted, incapable of speech, until found by his wife.' Listen to this, Draco, this is the important part. 'Understanding that his soul had been cleaved from his body, she gave him those moments of pleasure which unite them. In this way he was restored.'"
Silence.
Moments of . . .
Drago sagged against the wall, trusting the stone to hold him up.
Potter went mental. "You have to be fucking kidding me."
Weasley looked green. "I don't like it any better than you do mate. It's my sister we're talking about."
Pansy was gleeful. "Orgasms. It means orgasms."
Draco reeled. His soul had been cleaved from his body. Granger - her soul, separated from the form behind him. Honestly - it made sense. She wasn't . . . there.
Those moments of pleasure which unite them.
He thought of sex. Specifically, the sex he'd had previously. Had it united his soul and body? He'd never thought of it that way. He just - wanted to come, and it felt the best when his cock was buried in another person. Specifically, a warm wet witch who was moaning in his ear. He looked at Pansy. She'd done that moaning, many a time. She was smiling viciously back, brows raised.
"Just because you don't know how to connect emotionally while you're fucking, Draco, doesn't mean it's not possible for others."
He didn't think that was quite fair.
He minded his manners of course. Ladies first. His mother had instilled it for chairs, doors, service at meals. But it was Pansy who drilled him - in the Slytherin common room, in the boathouse, and later - in bed. Her rule had been that he wasn't allowed to so much as unbutton his trousers until she'd come at least twice. When she had, finally, he'd been so worked up . . . it was true - it wasn't ever emotional. If his soul and body connected Draco certainly hadn't noticed.
She could read his mind. "Some people call it 'making love' for a reason." She glanced sideways at Weasley. "Tell him, Ronald. Your ex is in there. Give him some advice."
Weasley's face transitioned rapidly from green to red. "I'm not saying anything - except that Hermione deserves better."
On that they agreed.
"I don't care what it says. Don't you fucking touch her, Malfoy," Potter was screaming. "Ron, stop him!"
The ringing in Draco's ears drowned him out. Drowned them all out as they quibbled about what the book meant, if the creature was even the same, how were they going to get Hermione away from him.
Indeed. Come and get her, he wanted to concede. Save us both.
"Go back to the Manor and keep looking," Draco ordered. None of them seemed to be listening. "You can even talk to my parents - see if they know." Desperation, thy name is asking for help.
Pansy was holding court, arguing with Potter about Ginny. "It's just an orgasm, arsehole. Haven't you given her one before? I'm starting to feel sorry for her."
"Should we call in a Healer? A real one?" asked Weasley.
"Why bother? We can't get out, and they can't get in," Potter said.
It was Ron who calmed Potter down, Pans hovering at his side. "We don't want to lose them, Harry," he said softly. "We don't have much of a choice. At least we know where to find him," he deadpanned, looking pointedly at Draco. Pansy laughed.
She was the only one.
It was fucking rich that Potter had been so resistant. Mere hours after Pans and Weaselby marched off, a suspiciously small distance between them, Draco heard something.
A noise from Potter's room. He knew that sound - it was a witch in the throes of an orgasm. He frowned. The Ginger.
Not even ten minutes later Potter was encouraging her to eat. The relief in his voice - it was palpable. She was even able to respond, murmuring softly. She was talking. Merlin - that was fast.
After awhile Potter called out, muted, trying not to wake her.
"Malfoy."
Draco sat on the sofa, hands folded between his legs.
"I'm listening."
"So it's some kind of depression curse. But . . . that . . . treatment. From the book. It worked for Ginny, a little."
Draco's mind raced. There must be another way. He never meant for this to happen. If Granger ever found out the cause of it all . . . she'd never-
"Can I get her to do it to herself?" He'd give her privacy. Convince her to masturbate. But even as he offered it up - fighting the filthy pictures in his mind, shame on him - it sounded ridiculous. Granger couldn't do anything. Even opening her eyes appeared to require nearly insurmountable effort. She hadn't so much as turned over in bed.
"You can try," Potter said stiltedly. "But - if she's as bad off as you say she is, I don't see it working. You'll - I think you'll have to do it."
Was he supposed to fuck her? He didn't think he could even if her life depended on it, not with her laying like a dead thing. Not with those brown eyes unfocused and dull. Not with her unable to speak, to tell him yes.
"Malfoy? We could try sending in Ron?"
The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. Fuck no. The only thing worse than healing her himself would be watching Weasleby fumble at it. If he could even get in.
"And lose what little assistance Weasley provides on the outside, finding the way to get us out of here? Trap three of us in a room meant for one? Let some ex-boyfriend get his jollies off when she's like this?"
"He wouldn't-"
Draco cut him off. "Let's ask her, Potter."
Tomorrow. Perhaps there'd be a miracle overnight.
There wasn't. The next day was no better. Granger was wasting away before his very eyes. Nott brought a basket, in the morning, and asked about it. "Any progress with the Mudblood?"
"Don't call her that," Draco snapped. He hadn't slept. He was cranky.
Nott looked confused. "Uh, okay. There's extra parchment in the basket. If you need it. So, look through everything."
He was learning Nott's code already. That meant Draco had a letter. Confirmed, when he ripped it open - from the Carrow cousins. Arguing, again.
Malfoy, We're less than a month out and yet plans remain tenuous. Is the weapon ready? Where will our expected guest stay? We recommend he shelter with a mutual friend in lieu of returning home. Perhaps the Equinox could serve as your reunion. Regarding the celebrations, we have yet to receive an invitation. Please advise. A&A
He burned the letter before he got to the signature. There was nothing he could do about any of it, not at the moment. But it was a reminder that the Autumn Equinox loomed. The last week of September.
The plans - plans which he'd instigated - were in progress. The result of months of work and careful maneuvering.
He dragged over a crate and sat at the edge of her bed. Stared down at her for a few minutes. At the arch of her cheeks and the line of her nose. Her eyelashes had a lovely natural curl. All of it sickeningly still.
You did . . . this.
You did this to her.
And if Draco was being investigated for murder, for killing her . . . there was no way he could be there to see those plans to fruition. To fulfill his promises.
No way he could live with himself.
"Granger." He felt impossibly uncomfortable. But it couldn't be put off any longer. "I'm going to help you to the loo. Potter's orders. It's been five days. Then we need to talk."
Nothing. He knew there wouldn't be. Even if she'd been Imperius'd, she was too weak. He stiffly slid his arms around and beneath her legs and shoulders. Draco expected to struggle, as Potter had when he picked the Ginger off the cave floor, but Granger fit in his arms. She wasn't hard to lift at all.
He set her on the lavatory - she could do this herself, surely? - and stepped outside. Please, he prayed. Don't make me undress her. The silence stretched on - but he heard it. The flush of the loo. Thank Merlin. He'd never been so grateful for anything in his life. He waited another moment before he knocked.
No answer.
Draco opened the door - and rushed to slip an arm around her waist before she toppled. Her face was dirty and tear stained. Acting on a whim - this had not been part of the plan - he dampened a towel and wiped away the streaks. At least her cheeks were cleaner. It seemed like something he should do for someone in his . . . care. His responsibility.
Once she was settled back in bed, he gave her the speech he'd prepared. That they were trapped. That she needn't worry because Potter was near. That she'd been sick for a long time. That there was a potential treatment. That ideally she'd heal herself.
Granger stared at him. His heart pounded erratically as he struggled over the words. He sounded so fucking stupid.
"An orgasm, Granger."
Her eyes gave the first hint of reaction - they widened ever so slightly. Draco flinched away. Her head barely shook. No.
Permanent despair, the book had called it, and Draco could see that was true. It was on her face.
He rubbed at his chest and tried to soften his tone. "If you don't eat or drink something you could die."
At that her lips twisted. She looked - hopeful.
Well, fuck that. She wasn't going to die, not even if she wanted to. Absolutely bloody not.
"Will you handle this?" Nothing. "You won't? Or you can't?" Granger closed her eyes. Was that a signal? Or was she simply exhausted?
Draco had never been so frustrated in his life.
He tried to walk it off, but as usual Potter fucking ruined it. It sounded like was helping Weasley to a bath. A bath - he'd give just about anything for Granger to get up and ask for a bath. Granger, who was laying perfectly still, eyes closed and mouth in a tight line. Five days without movement or speaking. Five days without a meal, with only a few sips of water. Feed the fever, his mother used to say when he was sick. He wasn't good at caring for - anything or anyone, clearly - but he knew that Granger could not recover if she did not eat.
It was just medicine. Like any other spell. You're casting a charm. Mending a cut. Setting a broken arm. Healing a soul.
He'd made his decision. Thankfully, she looked at him while he asked her. "I assume you will need assistance. There's no one else here. So - I have to ask. Do you want my help?"
She gazed at the torches behind him.
"Can you speak?" Acting on instinct, Draco picked up her hand. "Granger. Squeeze once." He waited, heart pounding and lungs frozen. After several moments, he felt it. A tremble of her fingers against his. He released the breath he was holding. "Right. Fine. Good." He tried to project confidence. "We're going to use once for no, twice for yes. So I'm - so we're both - on the same page. I'm going to ask you a few questions."
Draco swallowed.
You did this.
"Do you want me to help you?"
He looked down at their hands, her fingers in his, and watched as they moved, almost imperceptibly. Again.
"Okay. I - give me a minute."
He fled to the bathing room.
Standing before the mirror, his hands braced on the sink, Draco Malfoy looked at himself - really looked at himself. He contemplated the unforgivable shit he'd done with his life. He'd taken the Mark. Aided Voldemort. Tried to kill Dumbledore. And soon, he'd help his father escape from Azkaban.
But assaulting an unconscious Hermione Granger had not been on that list. What did that make him? A monster, for sure - but already he'd been that, hadn't he? You are what you put into the world. A rapist? He certainly felt like one. He recalled again how she'd snarled at him when she'd been in her right mind. Her brown eyes had flashed passionately, even in the dim. "Do not touch me, Malfoy. Never." If that was her reaction to him preventing her from breaking her nose, he knew how she'd react to his hand between her legs after she fully recovered. Draco had never so much as kissed a girl who hadn't been puckering her lips and batting her eyelashes. There was no better feeling than slipping his hands up a skirt, between a witch's legs, and feeling that she wanted him, how he affected her. No - he had never been one for force.
And yet, if the research was accurate, he had to touch Granger - or she very likely could die.
It was as he bent over the sink, struggling not to be sick, that he realized he could show her. Leave no room for interpretation. She would see it, if need be, in his memories. Touch her only as necessary. That would be the rule. Hopefully it would be a simple matter - give her an orgasm and cure her.
They would gratefully separate and never see each other again.
So Draco extracted the silver strands, deceptively soft looking, from his mind. The room was spinning a bit as he recovered from the skull-splitting agony. In hindsight though, reliving the past five days, he was ashamed of himself.
Sure - he'd kept his hands to himself. And dedicated hours to getting them out. But he hadn't taken very good care of Granger. He'd thrown a blanket over her and dumped some water in her mouth.
Do better, he resolved. You did this.
Now he had to fix it.
Imbued with fresh determination and a fucking headache, Draco went out to face the consequences.
"Granger, are you sure?" Her fingers were courage. They told him yes.
So. This was it. He had no more preparations to make. She was on her back. Her legs were spread and relaxed. One of his hands held hers so he could squeeze if she wanted him to stop. It was the only communication he could expect - Granger was absent.
Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached, he ran his fingertips over the low mound at the top of her thighs.
He was touching Hermione Granger.
Which - of course he'd imagined. Any Hogwarts student who liked women had. Once or twice. But his fantasies had featured her wanting him to touch her - begging for it, in fact. He'd often pictured her in the library, pressed between him and the shelves, her voice begging for more, lips hot at his ear. Those busy little hands of hers roving his chest and back and under his trousers. Or, his hair - a vision of Hermione Granger pulling his hair, forcing his head back and biting his neck, had resulted in more than one spurt against the shower tiles.
Not - not this. This clinical, awful, invasive touch. He tamped down the nausea. Keep going.
Applying pressure, he set a slow rhythm. He could feel the outline of the secret place between her legs, the gentle shape invisible to his eyes but lovely beneath the tips of his fingers.
He checked her face constantly for a reaction - any reaction.
But Granger was, for obvious reasons, giving him nothing. "Shall I stop?" One squeeze for no. Her eyes stayed closed.
He told himself he was just giving her a massage. Rubbing out a sore muscle. Easing the strain of a regrowing bone.
Except it went on for a long time. Agonizingly slow minutes. He attempted some encouragement. "That's it. You can do this." He tried two fingers. But Draco began to wonder if this was ever going to work. He was about to say he needed to take a break, to reassess, when he felt . . . it.
Granger's hips had lifted. Seeking friction. He bit the inside of his cheek and redoubled his efforts. He pressed down more firmly, and - yes - they met his hand. Ever so slightly. A reaction. He looked up at her face and saw that her mouth had parted - just a bit. Draco's heart was a drumbeat, so loud he was sure she could hear it.
He tipped his head to the side, watching her. The signs were there, if he looked very carefully. Her breathing - just a bit faster. Her lips - twitching slightly. Her free hand - clenched in the blanket. She was going to come. The promise of it calmed him immensely.
Then - he felt her tighten beneath his fingertips. The faintest throbbing. Her legs shook delicately. He continued to rub, his movements unrelenting, until her fingers released his.
They were both breathing heavily. He stretched to flex his tight muscles. "Granger?"
Her eyes were rimmed with unshed tears. Her lips parted to speak. He was desperate to hear.
A whisper. "May I please have something to drink?"
His blood thrummed. Success.
Determined that he should not look overly pleased with himself, Draco fetched the water. She moved like a wounded animal in a trap.
"Lean forward." He adjusted her pillow to keep her upright as long as possible and supervised as she drank. Relief. She wouldn't die if she could drink. "Finally. I'd started to worry that it would fall to me to tell Potter you'd perished due to dehydration."
"Me too."
Her voice - it was so weak and un-Granger like.
Draco hated it.
Listening to her, he couldn't help but recall the hundreds of hours he'd spent with her in a classroom. How confidently and clearly she'd spoken then. How many times had he watched her hand shoot up, nose in the air? Made all the worse by her intelligent answers. She'd been so mouthy-
Not anymore.
"Are you better now?" Please. Please be better, so that he never had to touch her again.
Granger looked almost guilty. "If I may be honest . . . no. I think something has changed, in me."
Changed.
The contrast between this woman and the girl of his memories was so stark - there weren't really words.
Furious at himself for being so fucking stupid, for setting in motion something that he couldn't control, for not gripping her by her pretty neck and throwing her back onto the moors the minute she appeared, he moved about. He could feel the restless rage under his skin, the impotent anger.
Do not take it out on her, he tried to remember. She was fragile. It wouldn't help anyone for him to snap.
He woke from a dream - he'd been walking on the moors, looking for something - to distress. It took him a moment, bleary with sleep, to realize-
Granger was trapped in her own bad dream.
He waited a moment, watching her twitch. She'd stop, surely. It couldn't last that long.
But then she cried - a mewling sound - and he couldn't stand it. Draco was up and moving toward her before he allowed himself conscious thought. He reached for her hesitantly, fingers flexing. Stop being such a knob. You've frigged her already. You can touch her fucking arm. She yelped again and he jostled her. "You're having a nightmare."
Her cries stopped but he couldn't see her face. He cast a wandless spell to light the torches. The shadows of the glow danced across her cheekbones.
If she were his, he would have stroked them with his thumb. Banish the thought.
Granger woke in stages. "I'm still tired," she said, staring past him. She seemed relatively docile. Would she eat?
But when he asked her she flatly declined. "It's the middle of the night."
He returned to the couch, regretting that he'd bothered her at all. Now she was up and staring at him again. That interminable stare that made him feel - feel.
He was contemplating how to break the tension - perhaps he could read to her again? - when they heard The Ginger have what must have been a solid fucking orgasm. Merlin. Potter must be right proud, judging from the sound of it. But the real salt in the wound - Weasley laughed. Meaning that Potter was both better at frigging than Draco - bollocks, he couldn't believe it - and funnier. A bitter blow. Granger still looked like an Inferius.
"Glad to know things are improving, Potter," he said, so they would shut the fuck up and learn to use a muffling charm.
He stewed on Granger's refusal to speak while they got their proof of life. "She's had some water," he confirmed.
Potter had the gall to question. "Is that all?" Draco wished he could hit him. With his fists. And a hex, for good measure. Something painful.
Weasley begged his continued assistance - "I'll do anything!" - which was irritating. He was going to do what he was going to do, regardless of her promises. Thankfully, Granger appeared completely unmoved.
Hearing from them must have motivated her, though. "We have to do it again," she said suddenly, finding her words.
"You seem improved. Do it yourself." Her face crumpled in the low light. You're a right prick. He'd nearly forgotten his promises in the mirror. Touch her as he had to. Touch her if she wanted him to. "Nevermind. We can try," he agreed.
But he did not want to set a pattern where he sat at her bedside, leering down at her like some fucking lech. Instead, he ripped the awkwardness away and climbed into the alcove.
It was still incredibly odd to touch her. Confidence, Malfoy. Not because he felt confident, but because it wasn't fair to her if he bumbled about. If Granger needed anything right now it was strength. Someone to facilitate her healing, someone to be a bulwark against bad dreams. Someone to make sure she ate - which meant she needed to come.
She said she was ready. And she'd said he could touch her how he thought best. Which meant - closer. The way he knew how. Under her clothes. So Draco moved her. It was like moving a doll. He'd thought about it a bit - it would be easiest if she faced away. As if they were spooning - but of course he wouldn't get too close. "You won't have to see me," he promised.
When her head was resting on his arm - he only flexed a bit, a man had his pride - he began to pet her body. Her hips, her belly. He sought the feeling of her relaxation.
In the meantime, Draco unwittingly received the answer to a question he'd always carried in the back of his mind. Yes, her skin is very soft.
His fingertips brushed the waistband of her pajamas.
The weight of his duty washed over him in a sucking tide. Do not fuck this up.
Draco had sometimes wondered how it might feel for a witch to dip her fingers beneath the waistband of his trousers. Not hard and rushed; he'd had that. No, he wanted a set of fingers slowly, sweetly seeking their way down to his cock. Caressing gently. Wrapping him warmly - like it was a thing to be treasured.
So - he did that.
And found, as he brushed her skin, he didn't need to overthink. In fact, he didn't have to think at all. He forgot about thinking entirely as his fingers traced her. He pet the fine line of her cunt, teasing carefully. He couldn't see it, but he could tell - she was delicate. Smooth. And even softer.
Granger didn't respond. Ah - perhaps she liked it rough?
Then - those hips of hers lifted.
He pressed a fingertip more intentionally - and felt that she liked it after all.
Her body had been hiding it from him. But it couldn't hide, not when he explored her hidden places. Her body wanted his hands on it. "It doesn't mean anything," he assured her.
He should probably have started to play with her clit, to hurry the process along. This was medicine, treatment.
But in that moment he could no more have made her come quickly than he could have hacked off his own arm. They were alone, it was quiet, and the torches were low. He'd woken her from nightmares and now he was trying to stave them off a little longer, to give her a little peace.
Granger didn't seem to mind. She didn't tell him to hurry up or snap at his incompetence. His distraction. She lay mostly still beneath his hand, save the occasional tremble or twitch.
Finally he thought he'd test her - did she like to have her clit stroked? - and brushed near it lightly.
Hermione Granger shuddered in his arms.
Long, uncontrolled shudders. Like she didn't care what he thought. She tossed her head back into his shoulder. It was wedged below his neck. He could have bent down and -
smelled her.
Granger smelled like her natural smell, uncovered by soaps or perfumes. The smell was -
Draco couldn't explain it.
Deep and authentic. An unwashed body, but not a dirty one. He wanted to press his nose in, against her temple, or into her hair, and inhale. More.
And she made - the best fucking sound he'd ever heard in his life. A little coo. A raspy high pitched sigh from the back of her throat - an exhale of pure pleasure.
He should have known she wouldn't be a screamer. That wasn't her at all. He'd never thought overmuch about what sounds he wanted from a witch - but now he realized a new thing about himself. He preferred the quiet authenticity of a garbled gasp to any theatrics.
Yes, it was the sound of her that did it. His cock came alive.
Gods damn it. You fucking perv.
Which was what she was going to call him if she noticed it.
She is sick. And so was he, lusting after it.
His mind raced as she came down, as the last vestiges of her orgasm faded. It was imperative that he slip away without her noticing. Draco turned over, got out of bed and faced the bathing chamber. Hiding the evidence of his grossly inappropriate reaction.
"How do you feel, Granger?" He had to know. Had to gauge whether he'd misjudged.
"I'm ready for a bath," she said, stretching calmly.
He'd barely got the door shut before he had himself out of his trousers. Stroking with his right hand - he lifted his left to his face.
Smelled her on his fingers. Tangy and sweet. That's what she smelled like all that time - in those little skirts - at sch-
He came so hard he had to clean the mirror.