Draco moved as if through muck and mire, through peat, as if kelpies clasped at his ankles. His efforts and plans battled his desires and reality. Lucius expected to be free in six weeks. And if he was sending messages like "without my son's help," he knew full well what Draco was doing.
A spy must have tipped him off. Maybe the same one who told him about Granger back in August. He knows whom you've captured. He relays that all is forgiven. Keep her close. It could be anyone, any of them. Draco had met with the heirs of Azkaban's most elite set, after all. Dropped hints that were increasingly unsubtle as he'd grown more desperate. The week before, in a fit of frustration, he'd practically begged Marcus Gibbon to tell Carrow to fuck off. Gibbon could have written to any of his late father's friends. A single line would be all it took. Young Malfoy's changed —
Paranoid, he pulled his cloak tighter and slipped into a side alley. Turned another direction. A longer way, but he didn't want to risk leading someone to her building.
He had to trust that Potter would do his job. Perhaps Draco could plant a seed with Kennilson — the importance of the Ministry's strength and success. But otherwise, the solicitor was right. Lucius didn't do anything in half measures. If he said he was getting out, he was getting out. Draco had delayed it, when they were still in the cave. But the time he'd bought himself was up.
He needed to prepare.
So he was distracted when he walked in, his mind festering on the world six weeks away. A world in which newspapers would be splashed with his father's angry face and the disgraced family name. Lucius Malfoy, On the Loose. A world in which Draco would be restored to his rightful place as Granger's worst enemy.
Granger — whose wand rested on her mantle. He glanced at it as he locked the door behind him and stepped from his shoes. Granger, whose magic had not yet returned. Granger — who waited for him in her kitchen? He turned to see her and got hit with crossed legs, red toes, smoky eyes.
Granger —
The rest of it, the other details, slowly signified. Wine poured. Cheeks rouged, lips dusty pink. Hair shiny and coiled, pinned like she'd taken some care. A lot of care.
— that body in fucking lingerie. Shorts and cleavage and bits of lace.
Gods.
"Dinner's keeping warm." She said it like dinner wasn't the only thing she planned on keeping warm. And Draco was warm, looking at her. Warm all over. Warm from his lips to his cock, confused and staring. "I waited."
He moved through her kitchen mechanically, all-a-jumble, to serve.
Granger wanted something. Whatever it was, she wanted it badly enough to put on a show.
Draco knew what he wanted, looking at her. He wanted to touch. But when he did, when his hand moved of its own volition to feel, and stroke, and maybe tug, she jerked her face away.
What did she want?
If it was to thoroughly distract him she'd succeeded already. Who was Lucius? Never heard of him. When was Christmas? Every winter. What was Azkaban? A debtor's prison for malcontents and wastrels. Draco could think of nothing, wanted nothing, but answers. She was flustered beneath the lipstain and the silk and the indignation. He tried not to smile at it, lest she interpret an insult.
"I need to speak to you," she admitted. "After dinner."
But for someone who wanted to talk to him, she stalled effectively. Teasing her was as frustrating as it was enjoyable. Draco watched those brown eyes — from distracting to striking, when made up — for signs.
"Do you want to bring your drink?" she asked, when he was herding her toward the sofa.
"I want you to go sit down and tell me why you're acting so strangely."
Even the way she settled herself into her usual corner was different. Instead of collapsing into herself, she perched on bent legs. Her fingers brushing absentmindedly at her ankles drew his eye. Her tits filled the low top, hanging just there beneath thin fabric. And straps — over her collarbones.
Looking at her efforts, Draco considered the possibilities. She'd seen Ginny. Was all this really just putting 'more effort into her appearance'? Or was it insidious? She'd flinched to avoid his touch. A sort of game? A wager with the Ginger, and he the witless pawn? Or was she acting as a Ministry spy, sent to draw out his confession?
When she was looking like that he'd do it — for a reward. Draco would bet it all, would lose, would spill his secrets. All you have to do is ask. And, perhaps, let him touch. Only for a moment.
"I've been thinking about last night." She blinked those lashes and chewed that lip. "Just wanted to check in. Are you still?"
Still alright with their arrangement, still willingly her healer, still committed to the return of her magic and her energy and herself.
Still — the other things. The private feelings he buried.
Still?
"I'm still." I'm always.
But she was a witch on a mission, and as they talked, as she batted gentle implications at him and searched his face for a reaction, Draco slowly, thickly, came to understand what she actually wanted. "I'm trying to respect the lines we've drawn," he explained.
"That's just it. You said last night that we could let our boundaries dissolve. But I don't know what those are. And I haven't drawn anything." The accusation was in her tone. "You have."
"I —" Had he? He supposed he had, but also it didn't feel like there'd been any other options. Hermione the Heroine, paragon of brilliance and bravery, Potter's Princess, had been untouchable from the start. He was Malfoy, the captor, Malfoy, the monster, Malfoy, the lustful assaulter. Malfoy, the Death Eater, the Bearer of an unremovable Mark.
Probably never thought a man sporting one of these would have his hands between Hermione Granger's legs.
I suppose not, she'd conceded.
"I've done what needs to be done," he faltered. "And tried to prevent it from being something it's not."
"And what is that?" Granger tipped her head, compelling and sincere.
What were the words for their situation? For the gravity of his wrongs in contrast to her suffering? For what lurked in his heart?
Six weeks until the end of his life. This half-life, lying to you.
Healing her under false pretenses. Doing his best to leash the lust.
Watching you suffer, hiding how he suffered.
Six weeks until the end, the end of the most important thing Draco had ever done.
"I don't know."
She pursed her lips, hot and superior. She'd asserted herself at dinner. She was "ready to be better. To leave this flat. To go a day without napping and laying around. To work again." She was finished with Draco's bullshit lines and fits and starts progress. "I would like to escalate things as discussed."
Escalate. Expand. Intensify.
Touch.
"Fine. Why didn't you just ask?"
"I would like you to lead," she explained, her natural blush showing through. His head buzzed heavily, remembering the night before her birthday.
Do what you want.
Don't tempt me.
"I'm not good at that kind of thing." She swigged more of her wine.
"Initiating?"
"I've never been good at it."
That never was doing a lot of work, Draco thought. Never. Another painful implication. An image flashed of Granger tentatively placing her hand on Weasley's thigh, horny and hoping, and receiving rejection. Hot anger flared — until he remembered that he was no better. Don't you ever fucking touch me, he'd spat, and shoved her away. Well, he'd not do that again. It was a travesty, to let her suffer any further shame. To make her feel unworthy of seeking what she wanted. What she deserved.
"How will I know when to stop?" he asked.
"I'll tell you."
She fidgeted terribly, nervous and scanning him for an answer. If she was some kind of spy, some kind of torturer, they needed to work on her game face. The longer they talked, the way she worried her lip bordered on pained instead of sultry.
She was so open, so hopeful. Tendrils of her hair danced, oblivious to the severity of the situation. And — wanting. He saw it, the reflection of his own desires, in her eyes.
She'd put on that lacy ensemble to snare him and — it worked.
Effective, at testing his resolve.
The resolve which crumbled. He was so tired. Six weeks.
Six weeks.
Would she be well enough by then?
He had to make it so.
"Come here, Granger."
He took her wrist. Brought her into him. And she climbed, wide-eyed and willing, their faces mere inches apart, into his lap.
Had Hermione done it any other night, things might have been different. He might have stayed strong and teased her cunt and made her come and tucked her into bed and left like always.
But on that night, with the solicitor's news ringing in his ears and the hair on the back of his head still conscious of how her fingers felt, with her collarbones bridged by those little shiny straps —
Draco's scruples gave way.
Just a little, he thought.
Just a taste of that vein beneath her ear. She was so lovely, so fucking hot. And she'd gone to so much effort, it would be cruel to turn her down.
Cruel to them both.
He wanted her so badly —
And wanted to acknowledge, to reward, her agency in her own healing. His desire was a pleasant and agonizing side effect, a punishment to be borne. Penance. But Hermione was his captain and she wanted escalation.
Penance was touching her thighs, straddling his, and covered in fabric meant to draw a man's eye. She'd meant it to draw his eye, which thrilled and satisfied.
"What's under this?"
"Nothing."
He'd dreamed of her like that — in his lap, her cunt pressed to his cock — ever since the cave, when she'd sat facing away and he'd massaged her back. But what he'd imagined could not compare to the actual weight and feel and sight.
Draco was entranced. The moment was a fantasy, pulled from his mind and given form.
Hermione doing the bravest of things — putting herself out there.
Asking for what she wanted.
Trying.
It moved him, that she'd spent hours on herself. He noticed each detail — she must have sat on her loo and moisturized her legs, smeared creams on her arms, polished her toes. Stood before her mirror and applied the makeup and fussed with the hair. She must have thought of him as she did it. Surely.
But she was serious about progress. She gave him hardly any time to savor, to enjoy, to touch every part of her unbelievable body with his hands. "You're doing the same thing you always do," she pouted. "Putting me first."
Putting her first. Draco didn't know quite what to say to that. Was there any other way?
"You assume. I always put a woman first. That is not an indication of continued limitations."
He'd be generous. If she wanted to pull his hair some more, that was fine.
"You assume I touch you only for you."
If she had any idea how it felt to hold her hips and press her onto his cock . . . . What his mind did with her in the dark of night and the privacy of his room . . . .
"You also assume that I derive no pleasure from yours."
She assumed that he was deserving of her reciprocation, deserving of her mouth at his ear and her tongue on his neck. Jolts of magic down his back.
"You assume I have not wanted to feel —" your lips — "these curls."
She assumed his cock got hard because he was a Man, and not because She was Her. That cock that she touched through his trousers. When she looked down at him for a reaction, he saw that she truly did not understand. None of it.
"Until yesterday, you assumed I have not struggled?"
"Yes."
She assumed he was innocent.
"Your assumptions are wrong, Granger."
For the first time he held her not as a thing to be healed, not as a thing to be fixed. But as a witch. A woman. And judging from the look in her eye, she was one who might want him.
The power between them felt like a live thing batted back and forth. Draco had held it since they left the cave. Since he slung her into his arms and got her away from that bus. But last night Granger had taken it back, had wrested it from him on her kitchen counter with nary a complaint nor a tussle. Take it. Now they lobbed that power between them. He'd told her she was attractive. She'd asked him to initiate. He had, he put her in his lap. Now she was in charge.
"Follow me."
Hermione got to her feet, emboldened by their progress. The shift was apparent. Letting her run her hands over his body and put her mouth to his jaw had inspired her in a way he hadn't expected. The set of her shoulders, the lift of her chin, the toss of her head, the tilt of her hips. Confident and commanding.
He followed.
Stood in her bedroom doorway and watched her prowl anxiously. "You derive pleasure from mine?"
"What's this about?"
"Answer the question," she insisted.
What was pleasure? Did Draco experience it? Not if her pleasure was the standard, not if orgasms shared was the goal. But the contentment he felt at making her come, the gift she gave him every time she trusted him enough to let him touch? Yes that was pleasure. Pleasure was being in her presence, pleasure was knowing her sounds and her slickness and the weight of her head on his arm. Pleasure was being a man in her flat. Pleasure was making her laugh.
But Draco was a coward. So he dodged. Hinted. "I hoped an increase in our connection would look more like you shoving my head between your legs." She dared speak of pleasure. Pleasure would be learning the answer to the question — how did she taste?
Watching her pace and fuss, wring her hands and try to decide how to proceed, entertained him. Until he realized —
He'd seen it in the flash of her eyes. What he'd pondered since he left that little house in Hutton-le-Hole. Since he walked and walked and walked until it was pitch black on the moors with only the stars left to mock him. I wanted him well. It was a proper lay. The final step in her healing. Those moments of pleasure which unite them. In this way he was — she might be — restored.
"— if we're more equal I would feel more comfortable, truly seeking what I want." There it was again. What did she want?
"Are we going to fuck?"
He would, if she asked. But if it was up to Draco — he wasn't ready.
"I don't know. I haven't planned that far ahead." Apparently, neither was she.
Which was fine. He needed more time to adjust to this new Granger. To wrap his mind around what more touching might mean. To realign his paths and rules with the curves of her body. "I'll do whatever it takes to help you recover. If that's what you need, and want, I'm not opposed."
"For now there's something else I'd like to do," she whispered. Looked into his face as she approached. The light shone down on hers, highlighting the tidy bow of her mouth and the curve of her cheeks.
Fool that he was, he understood only at the last moment what she intended.
"Hermione —"
— you should know.
What I've done. What I'm yet to do. What is coming.
But it was too late —
When Draco was a little boy — really little, years before school — he'd been romping in the gardens. It must have been after his birthday because he'd been playing with a new set of quidditch figures in the blistering summer heat, forcing them to battle one another.
He jumped a hedge, frantically trying to switch teams, to maneuver both — seeing as he had no partner — when he tripped. Fell. Hit the ground hard and split his lip.
He must have been supervised — he'd always been — but in his memory he was alone. As his mouth swelled and bled he recalled struggling to stand, stumbling toward the Manor. Red covered his hands and chin while he shouted, scared, for help.
His mother had been out, so it was an elf who found him and fetched his father. Lucius, who rushed into view and picked him up. Who carried him to the nursery.
Who drew the curtains and cast the room in a comforting dark.
Who administered a potion for the pain and a salve for the skin.
Who brushed his brow with his fingers.
Who gave him a glass of water and a biscuit.
Who tucked him into bed — clean sheets — and left him to rest.
Just before he fell asleep Draco had touched his lip, relieved that the pain had gone. In its place was a wonderful tingling feeling. He'd tingled all over really, as his skin cooled from the hot sun and his body embraced soft blankets and a full belly in the late afternoon.
It was complete contentment.
That was how it felt when Granger kissed him.
The first time, anyway.
She pressed herself to him and Draco fell.
It was shocking, actually, when he opened his eyes and discovered he was still standing. The doorframe with the assist.
Her eyes were a question. He answered it with his mouth.
The second kiss was confirmation. Yes. This. Lips that matched and mouths that aligned and their bodies too, yes, they fit together as well like this as they did in bed or baths or on sofas. His hands found her lower back and her hair and drew her in. She made a noise — of protest?
"What?"
"I didn't think," she started. Kissed him again. Draco understood. He hadn't thought either.
As he stretched above her and explored, he wondered a little how he'd not spent more time anticipating the moment. He'd thought about kissing her, of course. In unclear and unfocused ways kissing her had been a backdrop to the other things he'd like to do.
But he hadn't dwelled on her lips in his fantasies.
Why?
It didn't matter. His mind had gone quiet. Nothing mattered the moment Hermione kissed him — and he kissed her back.
By the time he'd got his arms around her, got her head tilted in the perfect angle, got her across the room — Draco's life had irrevocably, irreversibly changed.
Their lips aligned so neatly, so satisfyingly. Hers soft and his firm but also then hers were firm on his in an endless and delightful series of shifting pressures.
Her taste — Hermione tasted of courage and wine. She'd poured glasses of swill in that kitchen but on her lips it was the finest vintage Draco had ever tried.
Her tongue was deft and funny, inviting him to join, welcoming him sweetly, and shoving him back out for her own foray. His hands clutched her body close, determined that nothing escape.
She fell back onto her four poster and pulled him with her, her arms around his shoulders and neck. "Malfoy?"
He lifted. Her lips were just barely swollen from his. Yes. Kissed them again.
Laying atop her, mouth on hers, arms and hands caging her in, Draco had never felt more a man.
Thanks to her — to her hips bucking and those fingers in his hair. That sweet mouth, that incomparable fit.
They fucking fit.
A full body tingle.
Satisfying more than sexual, at least at first.
Until he had her beneath him on the bed. That's when his cock reminded him, late but aggressive, of its existence. And she was squirming under her top. I don't like it when fabric bunches, she'd said once.
Take her clothes off, you dolt.
He did, but then he paused.
Draco had Hermione Granger before him, topless. Girls keep those locked up in bras. So they must be special.
You can touch them, you know. If you want.
Wait and see, he'd told her. If you really mean it.
Judging from the look on her face — she really meant it.
He stared down at them, seeing them with fresh eyes, those maddeningly beautiful parts of her. Gazed at them, yes, but at the rest too. At the lines that he would have sketched for preservation, for later reference, had he any artistic ability. At the way her neck curved into her chest, how the sharp lines of her hipbones were balanced by the softness of her waist and belly.
His cock wanted skin on skin. "I suppose we are still unbalanced."
Granger accepted the hint. Her fingers brushed his stomach while she started to push his shirt up. Draco drew it off, flexing firmly as it went, and threw it aside. Stood before her and waited to see what she'd do.
Her hand lifted as if to explore — so too those dark eyes, lashes low and cheeks dark, in another question —
"Go ahead."
She touched.
Touched him.
Her face fascinated him as she watched her fingers skate across his stomach, following the lines of his muscles. He searched for any sign, any hint. Was she being polite? Because she knew many men suffered when things were not reciprocated? Male bodies weren't particularly interesting, but he appreciated the effort. He did not let himself think too much about it. This is not about you.
Then she leaned forward and brushed her lips across Potter's scars. Draco didn't even see them anymore. He mostly forgot he carried them.
But Hermione didn't forget. She found each one as if he was worthy of being charted.
He didn't know what to think.
Don't you ever fucking touch me.
Don't you ever fucking stop.
When he couldn't take it anymore he interrupted. "Find what you're seeking?"
"Not yet."
Granger woke him as she left the bed, her arse scrumptious in the morning light.
She'd be back shortly. He sensed her plan as it formed. I can hear you thinking. The lavatory flushed and the sink ran. He dared not move. He wanted another minute of her body against his.
Sure enough — when she returned, lithe and warm, she draped herself across him and that little hand of hers stole down his chest.
Gods, the urge to let her. His cock fairly screamed with the hope, as it had screamed and jerked in his hand the night before. But Draco dashed those hopes — he pulled away.
"Good morning."
He cleaned his teeth with the brush she'd politely left and dressed mechanically in his clothes from the night before. Draco hated to put on dirty things. Especially over damp skin, right out of the shower. And today would be a bad day. He had plans to see Kennilson, he probably owed Narcissa some attention — and he was going to have to sort out how to proceed with Granger. Let's talk tomorrow, he'd promised, in a last ditch effort to avoid more pillow conversation about her stagnated healing and the connection she needed to fix it.
She'd insisted on dissolving lines — which he felt himself clinging to with the desperateness of a drowning man. Those lines were the last bit of protection he had.
So he was a bit chafed, a little cross, when he emerged.
"I'm off," he told her. A nymph tangled in the sheets that smelled of her, one of her legs and her hair catching dawn's first kiss. "How do you feel?"
"Really good." Her lips curved. "I think I'll push myself today. An actual book, perhaps."
"Glad to hear it." Draco knew she had lots of books — thousands, burdening her shelves. But none from him. He'd like to change that. There was a shop not far away, just inside Diagon Alley. If he hurried — "I'll plan to see you tomorrow night."
"Oh. You mentioned we would talk today."
"I suppose I can come by, late. For a few minutes" — no more sleepovers, he couldn't take it — "to talk" — no more cocks out — "if you'd like." He lifted the towel. "Where shall I put this?"
"Just leave it on the floor."
He rolled his eyes. As if he'd be that bastard who made more work for her. Hermione would never bend, would never lower herself, because of him. Draco respected her far too much to have her crawling after his fucking towel.
Her closet, perhaps —
"No! Don't!"
— full of laundry and something else. "What have we here?"
The back of her door, covered in photos. His eyes raced, to take them all in before she could close it.
Beaches of white sand and crystal seas — Tuscan countryside — a library with overstuffed chairs and a generous hearth — a Muggle couple, heads bent and hands clasped — a thatched cottage — the formal gardens of a stately manor — wildflowers —
— a white dress against a sunset, in the shade of green leaves.
All of it with Ron Weasley.
And Hermione on his periphery, forcing the door shut. Naked save the watch, which glinted on her wrist. Ron — Wherever he went, always on her mind. What was between us, it ended a very long time ago, she'd said.
"When did you make that?" He had to know.
Three years ago. Was that long enough, to be a very long time ago? Three years ago he'd been drunk more often than not, aimless and frustrated, and fucking Pansy when she'd let him. He was a different person now. Was Hermione?
"I need to go." Think, and cool off. "Since I'm here, do you want me to make you come first?"
"You're mad." She held her robe together, upset and embarrassed at being caught.
"My emotions are firmly off limits. Lie down." Not just anger, Granger. Something far more complicated.
"I don't want you to touch me if you can't be honest."
Honest. A slap in the face. Honesty would be —
I did this to you.
That Mark on my forearm isn't all in the past.
In six weeks you'll never speak to me again.
A reminder that every time he touched her — every kiss — was a lie.
"Then I'll go."
She wrinkled her nose at him, disgusted. "I'll see you whenever."
Liar. She wanted to see him again. He knew she did. He knew she liked what he did to her. "Now who's not being honest?" Draco shoved the honesty away. He'd not be the reason she missed a meal. Not when he had so little time to get her healthy. "Get in that bed or I'll put you into it."
"You wouldn't. You never touch me if I don't want you to."
Staring at him, she slid away. A gap at the top of the robe —
The night before, done up and nervous, Granger had said she'd "never been good" at initiating. In light of the hours that followed, Draco thought it was perhaps the most incorrect thing she'd ever said. He'd never have guessed. From where he stood, she seemed pretty fucking good.
She'd ordered him to follow.
She'd kissed him.
She'd pulled him down onto her bed.
She'd pushed his head down her body, and gripped his hair firmly while he used his mouth.
She'd asked him to stay.
And now she reeled him in again — revealing her body in peeks and glimpses like a burlesque show — and giving him a look like he could fuck her if he was so inclined.
He slid his fingers between hers. She squeezed them twice.
Right. Fuck honesty. Fuck guilt. Fuck those lines. Fuck any dreams that she harbored of Weasley and their life together. Fuck his name on her wrist. Draco punished her, pinching her nipples and forcing pleasure from her cunt. It is my hands that heal you, he thought. Mine and no one else's.
He bit her ear and she gasped.
"You like that?"
She shuddered the yes.
He'd never forget. "Can I leave you a present?"
"What kind?"
The kind that reminded her that he was Draco fucking Malfoy.
He wanted her marked. Wanted her covered — in him, and his name, and his scent. He wanted people to know, wizards everywhere to understand, that She was His. Not theirs. Never theirs. He was the shield that protected. He alone held the privilege of her healing.
It was Primal.
And shameful. Draco was no better than an animal marking its territory. That's mine the blossoming bruise said, a remnant of his mouth. Childish, really — they weren't teenagers. No one was going to see it. Not even, unfortunately, Ron. But it soothed his wounded pride to feel how wet she got while he sucked at her. To make her orgasm on his fingers.
"Don't forget how you got it."
He met a thirsty Kennilson at the usual pub. A prearranged check in, but it had a new agenda in light of recent developments.
Draco had had to get creative, sneaking into the Manor without a watchful elf spotting him. Then he'd run through his list of morning to dos. Saved his memories and suffered the headache that followed — he was grateful that at least he'd slept well. Issued strict instructions to Kirby regarding Granger's laundry. Wrote her a note. Finished his next vial of Polyjuice. Made stilted conversation with Narcissa, who caught him over his cauldron.
"What are you brewing?" she asked, hovering in the doorway and swathed in a shawl to ward off the dungeon damp.
"Something naughty for a night out with Nott. Don't ask."
She sniffed. "You shouldn't be doling out illicit substances, son. It's beneath you. In my day we were content to indulge in the occasional root."
Draco nodded contritely. "Of course. Last time. It was my turn to provide and you wouldn't want me to beg off, would you?"
"I suppose not," she agreed. Your reputation is everything. "Will we have dinner?"
"Not tonight." He fiddled with the flames to avoid her face. "But let's have a long lunch tomorrow. I promise."
"Alright. I'd love your thoughts on the garden plans. I want to make some changes before the spring."
"Let the gardens alone," he ordered harshly. "I like them the way they are. If you want to move things about, do it in the conservatory."
She was silent for a whole minute. "It's your house, I suppose. I'm just a guest here . . . until I die."
Draco watched the potion bubble. "Speaking of things that are beneath us — drop the sarcasm, Mother. Please, can we just — leave things as they are, for now? It's a busy time."
"I'd love to know why."
"Investments."
She hummed, disbelieving, pulling her shawl tight in the corner of his eye. "It's hard to —"
"If you'll excuse me," he snapped. Sighed with relief when she left.
Several hours, and one solicitor's skin later, Draco pushed another drink into a waiting hand. "How goes it at the Ministry?"
Kennilson prattled on for long minutes about the gossip — people fucking, department politics, only the undeserving receiving raises while "the competent blokes" like him did all the work —
"What of Potter's hunt for the Azkaban tunnels?"
"Oh. Those." He tilted his glass for another round.
"Yes those. Has he gotten useful information? Does he . . . have any suspects?"
What was the delay? Was Potter close?
Six weeks. Could you plug a leaking ship, seal a sponge, in six weeks? Draco felt that a noose was tightening. That the strings of a trap were slowly drawing in.
But with the promise of a return to Hermione's flat that night . . . to talk . . . he couldn't help but fish for information. Couldn't help but hope, perhaps, for some success. Some good news. Something that would prove the solicitor wrong.
Something that would prevent the inevitable — the Ministry showing up at his Manor one morning, handcuffs at the ready. "You're under arrest for the . . ."
Attempted murder of seven? The anticipated, attempted escape of one of Azkaban's most notorious prisoners? Draco had looked up the laws one night after he left Hermione, skimming them as he stood over a desk in his Library until the wee hours. Asked the solicitor, offhand — exactly what crimes have I committed?
The old man had shrugged. "You've committed whatever crimes Kingsley or Harry Potter tell the Wizengamot you've committed. Politics is just bluster and persuasion." Helpful. No wonder Lucius had employed him. But it hadn't provided any consolation that Draco might avoid a cell.
"— Potter's a prick as usual," Kennilson was saying. "Uses that Azkaban project as an excuse, I tells ya. Who knows what he does when he's out of the office. Probably gallivanting about and sellin' autographs for a knut a piece. Or visiting that friend of his, Granger. She's still skivin' off, don't get me started on 'er —"
"How are the Ministry's defenses?" Draco interrupted. "If I told you there might be . . . an infiltration. Do you think it could withstand an assault?"
Kennilson shrank back. "What kind of assault? What do you know?"
Draco slid him a fresh bag of galleons. "Look into it for me. I want to know how many guards, when they work. All the exits, all the weak points."
"You thinkin' of breakin' in?" He looked Draco up and down, lip curled and obviously unimpressed. "Sure, I'll check it for ya. Give me a few weeks."
"That'll be fine." He had six.
When the bill was paid and Kennilson had offered to finish Draco's untouched drink — "Have at" — he walked through Muggle London in the solicitor's skin until the polyjuice wore off.
He had some thinking to do.
The cooling November winds whistled past, a punctuation for his thoughts.
You must end it, he told himself.
Kissing had been a terrible idea.
He never should have let her.
He'd been powerless against it.
Those lips of hers were more addictive than any potion he'd ever knocked back. Any whisky he'd ever summoned from the cellars. Any game he'd ever played.
She wasn't good at initiating, she'd said. Probably because she'd never needed to. What wizard could wait for her to come to him? They'd surely all leapt upon her before she had a chance to practice.
But initiated she had — broken that fragile barrier between them — and crashed his whole fucking world around his feet.
No more cocks out, that was the thing. If he ever pulled it out with her around again, he was going to fuck her. Draco decided: he'd wait until she asked, or when his deadline was up — whichever came first. He hoped that she would ask.
And when she did, and her magic returned, she'd figure it out on her own, brilliant as she was.
I did this to you.
I'm a Death Eater.
You'll hate me forever —
especially if he let her kiss him
— and I can't fucking stand it.
He had to reset the boundaries. "Tonight was more than I expected," he'd warned. Hopefully she'd not be surprised. Surely he could make her understand.
He'd still heal her, he'd still visit.
But they really mustn't kiss. Keep your cock covered.
Draco trudged up to her flat slowly, ready to talk. To be firm. "Here's the way of it, Granger," he planned to start. "I mentioned false hopes —"Except he wasn't even through the door before she was off the sofa, skipping toward him.
"Hi!"
"Uh. Hullo." Her hair teased around her shoulders, shiny and flowing every which way. Begging for his hands. He took his cloak and shoes off while she intruded on his personal space.
"This present of yours meant I couldn't show my face outside today." She tossed those curls to show him. His mark. A proper dark one. He stroked it with his forefinger, proud and ashamed.
"I could heal it?"
"Leave it. But you owe me." Draco in her debt — in debt to a cheerful, bright-eyed witch in matching pajamas with pink in her cheeks and energy in her steps.
"I see."
"I think I shall have to punish you."
Yes, mistress. If she knew how he deserved it. "About time."
She leaned into his chest or he pulled her closer, he couldn't tell which.
"You're going to taste me again," she ordered, voice low.
"Done." He leaned down to brush her ear with his lips and earn himself a shiver. "I was going to do that anyway."
Hermione laid her hand to his jaw and moved him — her mouth on his.
What was it he intended to tell her?
He searched for it in her kiss.
This Granger was so different. Unsettling.
Delightfully so.
She was — so fucking cute. Darling.
When she crawled up his body, leveraged the wall to hold him still, and kissed him, Draco forgot everything.
Everything but male instinct —
get her on the sofa
pull the knickers off
spread those thighs
expose that glorious, elusive part
At the first taste he nearly laughed at himself. You thought you could keep her at arm's length? You fucking fool. You can't last five minutes without burying your mouth in her.
He tested a few of his unproven theories from the night before — while Granger made the most incredible noises and yanked at his hair. What she preferred, how to make it last, how to ease her close to the edge and then yank her back, until her legs closed on his ears and she begged him — "Malfoy, please" — to end it.
When she'd come twice, groaning from deep in her chest, she collapsed on her side. He pulled a blanket over her and got her a glass of water. Fetched himself some leftovers and stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her while he ate.
She smirked up at him, looking satisfied. "Did you have a nice day?"
"It was fine." Damn he was hungry. "I ran a few errands around the city."
"The bookseller?"
"Yes. What did you think of Sludge?"
"I liked him. Thanks for sending it. And for Kirby taking the laundry. I can do it next ti—"
"Don't mention it."
When he was finished he cleaned his plate and put it away. Washed his hands. He wasn't sure what came next. Starting a conversation about rules when his lips still tingled from her cunt didn't seem right.
Granger was sure. She lifted the edge of the blanket. "Don't go yet." She comically scooted to make room. He lay down and she draped her body atop his. Her hair made a curtain.
"Aren't you tired?" he asked.
"No," she said firmly, and fit her mouth to his again. They kissed like that for a long, long time — pecks and deep snogs and many in the middle — until she was gasping and so was he. Then they took a break and she put her head on his chest. "Have you read Sludge?"
"Yes." He stroked the back of her neck and waited for his erection to subside. It was very cozy, cocooned together beneath her blanket. "He's a good writer."
"I'm glad you introduced me." Her fingers found his collar and traced the skin at the edges. "Perhaps I'll have to borrow some of his others from your collection."
"Anytime."
She asked him which he owned and made him talk — and Draco did talk, telling her his favorites and when he'd read them. Talked with her ear against the rumble of his chest, like she was his.
Eventually she must have had enough rest, because she adjusted herself and kissed him some more. Kissed him intensely, her arms sneaking behind his head and her body writhing. He held her arse in one hand while the other gripped her hair.
Everything Draco had meant to say before he'd arrived, everything he'd meant to stop — when Hermione's lips met his he forgot his own fucking name.
Forgot that he was a Malfoy, forgot that he was his parents' child, forgot the motto and the history and the vaults and the blood.
He was there for her pleasure. In giving it he found his own, found himself. Found that his tongue had all the power he ever wanted to wield, that his fingers and arms earned him the only reward he'd ever crave. They kissed until it was very late, and he really did have to go.
She smiled when he left, standing in her bedroom doorway and watching him step into his shoes. "Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
Draco spent his morning in the library and his father's office, flipping through dusty old records and making a list. Then he did his duty and had lunch with his mother, who filled the silence with reminiscences of days gone by. "I so miss when you were a little boy. You said the cheekiest things." But that little boy was distracted by his afternoon plans — a date with the monster.
When he'd excused himself and kissed Narcissa's hand, he strode swiftly down the drive and apparated to the moors. A cold day but a bright one — he missed the sun the moment he was marching down into the dark.
It was good news, though. He confirmed that it was still trapped. He moved some stones and made a hole — saw it lurking, whirling, snarling in the tunnel in which he'd contained it. He rebuilt the wall, one stone at a time, fortifying its rocky prison.
Could it starve to death? Perhaps if he left it indefinitely, it would simply fade away.
A man could hope.
A man did hope, returning to Granger that night.
"How was your day?"
"Nice," she smiled, and accepted a bite from his fork. "I walked with Ginny, all the way to the park."
He sipped his water and felt her foot on his calf. "It did you good. Your cheeks are pink."
They grew more pink as she ducked her head and tucked a lucky curl behind her ear. "Hurry up and eat." That foot moved in a rhythm. Intentional.
"Are you in a rush?" His cock was, that was certain. It was an obnoxious fan of her toes against his trousers.
"Maybe," she whined.
Draco abandoned his dinner and followed her to the sofa.
Spent the evening there, her arse tucked into his erection. She'd worn a delightfully loose jumper, which meant his hands had plenty of room to roam, to fondle her tits between orgasms and during kisses. He found a spot that made her laugh when he tickled it.
Six weeks.
On his way out he locked the door carefully and summoned the list he'd made that morning. Wards. A proper list from the Manor records. He only cast a few.
He had time for others.
He'd leave more each visit. Leave her properly protected.
He gave up on the Death Eaters. He was sure they were mingling with Carrow, but he didn't want to see any of them. Didn't want the awkward conversations or the repeated failures. Didn't want to deal with Dolohov's dramatics or the Rookwood widow's overtures. Fuck them all and the dragons they rode in on.
Lucius was the head of that dragon — he'd deal directly with him when it was time.
Besides, he needed his evenings free.
He had plans.
Hermione jumped into his arms — happier to see him than anyone, anytime, anywhere had ever been. The relief when he held her. When she chattered about her day and her time with Kirby and what she'd read and her plans for her flat and her return to work and her friends. When he led her to bed and indulged himself with her body.
"What do you want?" he offered, as her eyes shone and she fought a grin.
"What's on the menu?"
He wiggled his fingers and licked her lower lip and bumped his erection into her suggestively. Her options. Frigging, cunnilingus, frottage.
"Which do you like best?" Granger asked shyly.
He kissed her and moved one of her legs over his hip to open her wide. Slid a hand beneath her knickers, down her arse to her cunt. The other cupped the back of her head and held her close, his cock trapped between them. He teased her with his fingertips and enjoyed how she sighed. "Like this," he said into her mouth.
"It's not much fun for you."
"Yes it is."
Draco had a theory to try — fire. No living thing could survive it, save a phoenix. And he knew he hadn't made one of those. But it required the long trip down into the cave to where he'd contained his monstrous child behind its wall of rocks.
As he moved the boulders and stones to reveal it, he pondered the list of possibilities for Granger. It had expanded greatly, in length and breadth and detail, since she kissed him.
The stones sounded off one another.
He hadn't licked her cunt in her kitchen or shower. Those were possible. Probable. Must do.
The monster was there, through the hole. It skulked, gnashing and clicking.
And the things he'd never do. Never let her do.
Hold his dick in her hands. He wondered how she might grip him. Confident and firm? Or slow and shy, teasingly light? Would she talk or stay quiet? Probably doe eyed but directive, the deadliest combination. He imagined that she'd spit in her hand. Hold him lightly and then tightly and twist those fingers. Look up at him and part her lips to receive his. That she timed the motion of her movements with their kiss.
Draco recalled how it had avoided the flames on its way out of the cave that first day, onto the moors. He fired every conceivable fire charm or hex or curse through the hole.
Watch as she kneeled before him. As she unbuckled his belt and pulled his trousers down, eyes never leaving his face. As she licked — no.
He shoved his hair from his eyes and adjusted the grip on his wand.
Never that.
His monster didn't like fire, to be sure. Shied away from it and retreated from his punishments. Darted, frantic, trying to avoid his cruelty. But when it became apparent that it would not burn, he gave up. Sealed the tunnel back as it had been and left it alone.
That night, Granger left him sitting for a moment in her kitchen. Eyes bright with mischief.
And reappeared in the doorway — like she knew his darkest secrets. His most private desires. All the things he'd like to do.
A sheer camisole that showed off her nipples.
And plain white knickers.
Draco was hard before he stood up. He'd have liked to take her to bed in that — but if he got her within throwing distance of the mattress it would all be over.
"Couch."
"Things are so good," he stood in the mirror of his bathroom, preparing himself for the pain of lifting his wand to his temple. "So good." His lips twisted. "You're really going to hate me. I have to remind myself, sometimes, out of your flat, how we got here. Good thing I have these." He gestured at the line of neat bottles, the silver strands he'd collected for months. Strung together in frantic bits, the parts he wanted to hold on to.
"One of these days, maybe I'll look at them again. Properly relive when I was still your worst enemy." He shrugged. "I suppose I'll have plenty of time when I've got that title back."
He stared at his own face, wondering what she thought of it. What she would have thought of it, had they met again under different circumstances. What she'd have wanted from him in a world where he would never have to question if her interest was genuine or a regrettable side effect.
"I'm not your worst enemy anymore. But I should be. If you knew what you were kissing, you'd get your magic back to kill me quick enough."
He spent a day at Gringotts, doing a careful accounting with the goblins. And paying them a ridiculously handsome sum for increased security. Decoy vaults, blood entry, new passwords, on and on. Every option they offered, he accepted — and the galleons piled up.
It always came back to money with Lucius. But money was power, and Draco didn't want him getting a knut. If his father couldn't access their accounts he'd be hamstrung, greatly, in what he could accomplish. The keeper of the vaults held the keys to the Malfoy kingdom.
"Speaking of the vaults," a goblin asked, his quill scratching over his parchment. "We need to update our succession records."
"Succession?" Draco had been about to cut his hand with his wand — the more things change the more they stay the same — to give them a sample of his blood. A painful, but effective, method of restricting access.
"When you die," the goblin muttered, distracted. "Name your heir."
Heir.
A child.
A child with grey eyes and brown hair and an enviable intelligence.
"I haven't got a son."
The quill froze. "Surely soon?"
"No."
"Ah. Well, until you do — everyone has an heir. In the unlikely event of your demise, the magic will find him. Or her, if your family abandons the old ways. But I can't imagine the Malfoys would."
"It doesn't matter. I don't have a daughter either." Round-cheeked with bitty teeth and her hair in ribbons.
The goblin's narrowed eyes examined him. "Then it will be the closest living blood. Some far-flung cousin, I suppose."
Pitiable sod. Draco slashed his hand.
The hand that brushed over her throat hours later, holding her still while she giggled and he kissed her ear. The hand that drew her knickers off. That pressed her belly down, the hand that clasped her fingers while he licked her. The hand that brushed her hand aside when she reached for the ridge in his briefs.
It would have been easy — so fucking easy — to give in.
His ability to resist grew weaker by the day.
When Granger touched him he evaded, to be sure, but it was harder each time. But even as he avoided her attentions, she improved. With every kiss, she improved.
He saw, and heard, and felt it. She'd been eating more — whatever Kirby put in front of her, per his reports — and walking — her face had lost a bit of its pallor. She tore through the books in her flat, re-reading old favorites and telling him about them when he held her in the after.
Yet she wasn't completely healed.
So Draco made her come and he left. She seemed, increasingly, frustrated with his goodbye.
She's not a mindreader, he told himself more than once. And yet — could she not see it on his face? Could she not feel it in his body? Could she not sense it — his constant headache, the ache of his strain? Did she not wonder why he kept himself from her?
Leaving hurt more than the slicing of his hand. He felt almost irritated, sometimes, that she didn't understand. But —
This is your penance, he told himself.
This is your punishment.
This is what you deserve.
Her body so close to his, and nothing for himself — the least Draco could sacrifice. The least he could do, so that when she was healed she might remember. How he tried not to take advantage.
And selfishly, the sooner she was healed, the sooner it would end.
Five weeks.
Glancing at the clock, he wiped his mouth. "Mother, please pardon me." Stood and set his napkin aside. "I have an . . . engagement."
Narcissa eyed him over her wine. "Another one? You've been gone every night."
Draco was already halfway to the dining room doors. "You go to bed early."
"A mother knows, son." She chuckled. "A mother knows. Speaking of which — is there something else I should know?"
"Such as?"
She smiled kindly, trying to connect. "I won't judge you, darling. I know you're not going out to that club. You look well, and you get up early. Which means . . . you're seeing someone. Someone special, from the look of you."
She paused, hoping he'd say it.
He didn't.
"Who is it, Draco? I'd love for you to tell me."
Her voice — the kindness in it nearly broke him. The understanding. She probably thought her son was provocative. That he was fucking Nott, he thought wryly. Well, let her think it. Better that than the truth. Better that than exposing Hermione.
"It's no one I'll ever get to keep," he said curtly, turning to go. "Please don't ask me again."
He climbed the stairs to her flat three at a time.
And was rewarded when she walked out of her kitchen at the click of the door. She had her hands under his shirt and on his stomach and up his sides before he even got his shoes off.
He opened his mouth to ask — Eager? — but she silenced him with her own.
Aggressive, demanding. Or was that him? It was difficult to tell which of them controlled as they bumbled down the hall. They both knew it was a straight-to-bed night. No need for the sofa.
Hermione knocked him into her door frame, her dresser, the bed posts, before he landed properly on the mattress. She suffered matching bruises because he took her with him wherever he went.
She tore at his clothes, his hair, his skin. Left him only his briefs. When he turned his head to let her bite his ear — Ouch. Do it again. — he saw the scatter of his trousers and socks and shirt.
Draco Malfoy's clothes making a map on Hermione Granger's floor. Imagine telling him a year ago this is where he'd be, where he'd want to be all the time —
— she dragged him from his rumination with her sharp teeth.
Kissed his neck his throat his cheeks his brow.
He lifted his head, again to ask — What has gotten into you? — but she used it as an excuse to trap his lips again.
He smiled into them and so did she and the world slipped away. She ran her fingers over him — his arms, his shoulders — and Draco relaxed.
Don't you ever fucking stop.
She wrapped her arms tight around his back and invaded his mouth. His chest.
He shivered against her.
Took her clothes off himself — with magic, so they needn't part, and touched every part of the skin he could reach.
When their battle of lips and tongues and teeth had reached its zenith, he nibbled a goodbye and made his way down her body. Stopped, to be polite, at her breasts — which had been very patient, all things considered.
He kissed them each hello and once for him and then goodbye. She wanted to come and he wanted to make her.
And settled between Hermione's legs. She'd grown so delightfully comfortable she didn't shy or blush or cover. She simply looked a little amused and a lot aroused as he moved a foot and a knee and made himself his usual nest.
Draco liked to get her propped up on the pillows at the headboard. It gave him room to stretch on his stomach, one of her thighs over his shoulder. His cock got so very hard and it felt nice to press it into her bed while he took his time.
When she cried out — his favorite sound — he simply rested his tongue on her clit, held it firm and insistent, and watched her throw her head back. Her whole body shook. You will come for me, Granger. It will last and last, all because I did this.
I did this to you.
He was shoveling in his breakfast, scanning the headlines before running off to the library. He had some research to do into ending mystical creatures, which required, of course, different sources. And he had an appointment with the solicitor in the afternoon —
When a story caught his eye.
Exclusive Interview with Attack Victim, Lamentable Lack of Ministry Attention read the headline. A photo accompanied, of Kate — and her husband. "Hutton-le-Hole was visited, weeks delayed, by an unknown Ministry representative, whose identity cannot be confirmed. 'He was a tall bloke,'" Kate was quoted. "'Blond but polite. Bloody handsome, very striking. Someone somewhere definitely knows who he is. He asked very intrusive questions.'"
Draco read it, heart pounding. If Granger saw it she'd know what he'd done. She'd know that he was following up, that he'd found the victims. That he was impersonating Ministry officers. Add it to the list of crimes.
He'd go to her flat as soon as he could. Get that newspaper away from her.
Four weeks.
He needed every one.
Except he couldn't distract her like he usually did, because she was having her witch times. "I'm out of commission for a few days," she explained. But she had no intention of wasting their time together, even if she wouldn't let him touch her. It seemed she wanted to get personal. "How is your mother doing?" she pried.
Next topic.
Hermione was undeterred. She curled up against him and tried some more. "Does she expect you to get married or something?"
"Of course." Tomorrow, ideally. Draco could hear how happy Narcissa would be if he told her he was affianced. Mercifully, he'd be excused. They didn't perform weddings in prison.
Prison — she mentioned that too. His father, did they hear from him?
Draco was bothered, anxious to get away from her questions and the stress of revealing too much. Or not revealing enough, or making her suspicious.
"We could do other things," she'd offered.
Never.
Not unless he had to.
Not until she asked.
If the invitation had come any sooner, he'd have declined it. But his desperation to avoid the inevitable increased exponentially any time he was out of Granger's arms. And an overture from Carrow — well, Draco was willing to try anything.
He should have known that it was a fucking trap. It felt pretty obvious, in hindsight.
The card awaited him when he woke, groggy. An elf had left it on his bedside table. He'd dragged himself away from Granger's flat the night before — lips swollen from her attentions, cock desperate for release — and collapsed into bed. Most nights he had to seek relief, had to slide his hand into his briefs and relieve the pressure. But he'd tried last night and — nothing.
His dick was a recalcitrant teenager, performing only when it felt like it. Granger or bust.
But the sun was up and another night had gone. Malfoy scrawled across the envelope in primitive black print. He reached for it and tore it open, bleary-eyed.
Another tedious dinner at the Carrows' — Join Us to Celebrate An Impending Homecoming
Draco contemplated, for a moment, not attending. He simply didn't want to. Seeing Alonso again, spending more time in that godsawful castle — and it would mean a night away. One less night to talk to, to kiss, to heal Hermione.
But some fatherly wisdom before he left for Sixth Year rang through his head. "Keep your friends close, son —"
"And your enemies closer," Draco had finished.
"That's right. Don't forget it. Even when it's hard."
Draco groaned and crumpled the invitation in his fist. "Kirby!"
The elf appeared immediately. "Coffee, Master?"
"Yes please. And for my suit and dress robes to be pressed. I have to attend a dinner in a few days." He covered his face with his hand.
"I've a hangover potion for you," offered Kirby cheerily.
Draco lifted his head, slightly indignant. "I haven't got a hangover." Unless — could snogging Granger for hours without letting her touch his aching cock cause a hangover? "Actually, yeah, I'll take it." Maybe it would help.
Draco dutifully dined that evening with his mother — fending off her pleas about helping her decorate for the holidays, he did not see the point — before he went to prepare for another night of testing the limits of frustration.
He showered, brushed his hair, dressed carefully. His father's admonitions were forever a part of him. You're a Malfoy. They expect you to look the part.
On his way out the door he found Kirby. "How was Granger today?"
"Miss Granger," Kirby sniffed judgmentally, "was well. She had a decent lunch and let me take her laundry. Her friend Mr. Weasley came by. They had a long walk."
Draco rolled his jaw to try to avoid gritting his teeth. "Did she seem excited?"
"Oh aye," the elf nodded. "She was fairly grinning when he picked her up. And still gone when I left a bit later."
The jealousy was a living thing, twisting under his skin. He saw the collage again, as clear as that first time. Weasley in her dreams, on her mantle. On her wrist.
"Are you alright, sir?" Kirby eyed him suspiciously. "You look —"
"Fucking fantastic. Don't wait up," he snapped. And stormed out the Manor's front door. Striding quickly down the driveway, he tamped down the irritation. It's good for her to get out, said his rational brain. She'll need friends when you're over.
But his irrational brain moved his feet a little faster. The crack of his apparition was a little louder.
He burst through her door with a bang.
He was going to make her come so hard she'd forget all about that useless fucking redhead.
Granger grinned when she saw him. She was in her minuscule kitchen, stirring something on the stove. Beans. Beans and toast. "Hungry?"
He took her mouth, pressing her into the icebox. She dropped the spoon and let him.
Draco snaked his arms around her back and under the curve of her arse, squeezing her body to his. She moaned — and he swallowed it. Normally he let her lead, but not when she needed Weasleby driven from her mind.
Take her tonight. He knew she'd let him. He could feel it. If he asked she'd say yes.
She'd say yes.
Granger yanked her lips from his when they were both in dire need of a breath. "Gods, Malfoy. You're in a mood."
He nodded, sneaking a nip. "I want to play with you."
She smiled up at him, guileless, her fingers curled into his chest. Like she thought he was safe. "Make my bed your chessboard and we'll see whether my wits have returned."
Well, that did it. He lifted her into his arms, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, and carried her to it, stopping in the hallway for a thorough snog against the wall.
When she started to remove her clothes he chastised her and did it himself, drawing off each item and kissing the skin beneath. He was extra lucky — she'd worn a bra and knickers, which gave him extra opportunity to take his time, to savor. To kiss the tops of her tits as they spilled out of the silky fabric, to trace the bones of her hips when he unveiled them.
He lingered over the parts of her he didn't normally lavish — her shoulders, and the inside of her elbows, and the skin just above her cunt. He kissed them all while she maneuvered her arms around his head and tried to tug him to her mouth.
Greedy little thing — but he liked when she knew what she wanted.
He got himself so worked up, smelling and licking and teasing, that he clambered off her.
"What are you doing?" Her voice had the deep husk of someone who knows they're about to feel very, very good.
"Taking my trousers off."
Her eyes lit in the dark. "About time."
He knew she'd say yes.
He laid down atop her, his briefs the only thing between them. Granger wrapped her arms around his back, hugging him close. Her fingers fit between the bones of his spine. Gods he fucking lo—
— loved being touched.
"Let go of me," he ordered softly. "I want to lay a path from those glorious tits to your cunt." Wanted to measure the distance, a distance unique unto him — how many of his kisses did it take?
She obeyed him. He took his time getting there, enjoying the trip.
She'd say yes.
But as he parted her wide and licked her senseless, as he traced the private pieces of her with his mouth in the place he'd once known only with his fingers . . . he knew it wasn't yes.
It was a yes based on the information available to her.
Incomplete information.
The war within him.
Once you heal her she will know.
Once she knows, she won't let you heal her at all.
When his neck was cricking and his tongue had tired, he knew she was ready. He licked her how he knew she liked, the way that made her legs shake madly and her hips lift and dip. As she came he absorbed it all, the pleasure and sound of it, the way her cunt moved. You did this.
He crawled up her body and pulled her close before she could speak. She chuckled as he draped her leg and arms over himself, amenable and loose-limbed in the aftermath.
Draco watched the window as they relaxed into each other, his mind working on how to handle Carrow —
"I need a favor."
"What is it?"
She was sweet, smiling innocently as she asked for his books, his support, for research into the monster. He knew she'd grown bored. She wanted something to distract, a project to work the stretching muscle of her mind. But he turned jealous and nasty, imagining how she'd chattered about it first with Weasleby. And Draco was not ready for her realizations.
Beneath Granger's words he heard something else she really wanted. To come to his home. To enter his life. To obliterate the last rules he maintained for himself and his conscience. The impossible.
"I'll still have time for us to meet," she said gently. When she returned to work. When the year and everything changed.
No you won't.
"Can I go to your Manor myself?"
It rankled him — he grew hot under his skin, anxious to leave. "No," he told her. I need some distance. Every place you go will be forever ruined.
And Granger picked up on it immediately, abandoning him in her bed. "So that's it, is it? You hide me away. You'll deign to come to me, but you don't want a filthy Mudblood traipsing through your home."
Looking at her, hands on her hips, swathed in green, hair tumbling over her shoulders and brown eyes furious — he nearly caved. Nearly confessed it all. In some ways he knew it would feel good to tell her. "I'm the reason you nearly died. I'm the reason you can't eat meat. I'm the reason you lost your magic. I did this to you." But Draco was selfish. He could not say goodbye. Not yet.
"It's not like that." I want you more than anything —
She might as well have shot sparks from her eyes. So he'd done one thing right — kindled her old fire again. "You know what? Nevermind. I'll try to get what I need from the Ministry. I wouldn't want these hands," she showed him, the hands that he treasured, "these hands that aren't good enough for your cock, to sully what's in your famous library."
His heart snapped beneath his skin. She wanted him gone, that was apparent. Not that he could blame her, as he gathered his things. "I'll see you tomorrow," he assured her. Or was it himself?
"Make it day after next," her voice raised. She slammed her bedroom door.
He was running out of time, he thought, as he locked up. As he cast more wards at her door. As he stumbled his way to the street, slow down her stairs. As he apparated home. As he wandered the Manor, portraits sensing his mood and staying quiet. As he wandered out to one of the paths in the garden, the cold of winter's night seeping into his bones.
Staring up at the stars, Draco worked to accept it. What was to come. This is the happiest you'll ever be again. Even if Lucius didn't get out, Granger would learn the truth eventually. As soon as she was back at work she'd figure out the monster. She was too smart not to. Probably the minute he handed her one of his books she'd realize it. He had three weeks, if he was lucky — days if he was not. Luck, lately, had not been on his side.
The stars twinkled hatefully, taunting him. They had no need for luck — and nothing but time. What Draco wouldn't give for a little more of it.
The Carrows' ugly old castle loomed over the moors, a foreboding and dreary shadow. Draco resisted the urge to sneer at it. They probably had surveillance charms. Nott, at his side, was uncharacteristically quiet.
"Thanks for coming."
"Good thing I did. Vibes are off, mate," Nott whispered, adjusting his tie. "Where is everyone?"
Draco shrugged. "Invitation said ten. It's ten."
They were greeted at the door by the pitiful elf, who said nothing but pointed toward the dining room. They followed some voices, subdued and serious.
Alonso stood when they entered — the only one. Alyssa remained seated in her place at his side. Only two chairs were open. Nott was right. The mood was definitely off. Celebration it was not.
"Malfoy," boomed Alonso. "About time. We were starting to wonder if you'd join us." He looked around at the rest of the guests — vampires and a few of the heirs and children of Death Eaters, all of whom Draco had met over the past many months. They exchanged frowns among themselves and at him.
"I'm right on time," he said smoothly, taking his seat. "Always humbling to be the guest of honor."
Alonso frowned at that. "Our guest of honor is not yet at liberty to join us. He's been delayed since the Equinox."
Draco accepted wine from a passing elf's tray. "Too true. But it won't be long. Only a few weeks." He raised his glass and made sure everyone saw it. "Now that I'm here, I'd like to make the toast." He met Carrow's eye. "To Alonso. I look forward to an enchanting evening."
Conversation slowly resumed as the meal appeared. The vampires sat stiffly, nostrils flaring. Trocar was there, and bowed his head briefly at Draco. Then he turned back to his — apparently riveting — discussion with the Yaxley bastard.
Only Alyssa did not mingle with those around her. She stared at Draco boldly, eyes alight and knife in hand. "We want to make sure we're appropriately prepared for your father's homecoming, Malfoy. I'm surprised that you seem the least invested."
He smiled at her indulgently. "Hello, Alyssa. You look . . . well." She rolled her eyes. "I'm not worried about my father's arrival because I imagine he'll have a lot of his own ideas. If it even happens, I might add. Azkaban is a formidable obstacle. Perhaps we'd all be better served waiting to expend our energy — and risk charges of conspiracy — until he's actually out."
Alonso frowned, gesturing at the crowd. "We're all here because of you, Draco. Finally ready to take what's ours — and all I get from you is a muzzle?"
Several eavesdropping vampires murmured in agreement. Draco took the opportunity to look around. Rowles was chewing bitterly. Tony Dolohov, relegated to a spot on the end, stared at Nott. Crabbe nodded along to everything Carrow said.
It was the vampires, food- and drink-less, who seemed most eager. "We're anxious for change," one hissed. "We've given Trocar a lot of ideas for how we can help. If someone can invite us into the Ministry after hours —"
" — just watch us work," smiled another. Fangs sharp.
His blood chilled. Potter. Ginny Weasley. Granger.
"Apparently Harry Potter works late," someone said. "Imagine how we could kick off this thing — hand him to your father as a present, even!"
Draco unhesitatingly conveyed his disgust. "We're not doing anything until Lucius is free and standing before us. What if his plans leave Potter for later, eh? Then you've angered your leader — for what?"
"Exactly right," agreed Alonso. "But we want to show your father our strength. Our willingness. To give him the fanfare he deserves."
"Imagine it," Alyssa interrupted, eyes shining. "All of us, greeting him together."
Ah. Draco saw where it was going. And needed the control back in his hands. "My father loves a good party."
Alonso leaned forward eagerly. "I'll host."
"I'll host. New Year's Eve. Lucius should be free by then."
There was another murmur. "Draco, you're brilliant. The Dark Lord's birthday. How apropos."
He hadn't remembered. But he leaned into it. "Of course. We'll gather together — to begin a fateful year, welcome home my hero, and honor the memory of the fallen."
Nott, out of the corner of his eye, tossed his whisky back. Poured another — three fingers worth. He looked like he couldn't believe what Draco was saying.
Draco tried to catch his eye, to give him a slow-the-fuck-down look, but missed. Alonso was busy prattling. "Your father is going to be delighted, Malfoy. Our joint efforts have laid the path. The best days are ahead."
Draco could have laughed. The best days were nights — nights in the present, at Granger's flat. The future was bleak. "Don't you think you're counting dragons before they're hatched, Lonso? Lucius isn't even free."
"Yet," yelled Carrow. Belligerent. "And we have the perfect plan. You'll lure Potter and knock the Ministry's future out from under it in one fell swoop."
"How will I do that?" Draco indulged him. "Potter hates me."
Carrow guffawed. "Hermione Granger, of course!" Every conversation died and every head turned to listen.
Draco's blood wasn't chilled. It was frozen. As was his glass, halfway to his lips. Nott splashed his whisky.
"Her?" A single syllable — and yet his voice shook on it.
Alonso's sister smiled. "Don't pretend, Draco. We all know you're hoarding her. You mean to present her to your father, to use her for your plans. But we deserve a share of the credit. You wouldn't have gotten this far without us."
He finished his wine to hide his face. Think, think. He willed his heart to beat, his breathing to even. "Granger is far too valuable to throw around. She stays in reserves until Lucius can tell us what he wants to do."
Alonso's eyes narrowed. "Didn't I tell you, Alyssa?"
"You did. We knew he'd resist leveraging her."
His host nodded. "You can't keep her a secret. You've been seen going into her flat. More than once, I'll have you know — so don't bother embarrassing yourself with lies or excuses."
Draco nodded sagely. Calm. "I see how it is. I provide and you claim credit. I make weapons. Capture them. Offer them up to be useful. I forge connections to valuable resources like Potter's —"
His throat caught on the word.
"Mudblood." Carrow supplied. Suspicious.
"And you want to dictate how and when they get deployed." Draco grinned. "My father will see right through your weakness."
The wrong thing to say. Alonso turned red. And stood, knocking his chair backwards.
"Your father will know that you'd have given up months ago if it wasn't for me."
Draco stood too. An elf appeared as if summoned, offering up a tray of more drinks. A whisky and a wine.
Nott reached for the whisky, listing slightly to the side. Draco took it instead. Eyes on Alonso, he swallowed it down. "It appears we're going to hash things out, Carrow." There was a murmur in the crowd, excitement. The closest vampire licked his fangs.
Red on Alonso became purple. "I'm fucking sick of your reluctance and delay. I'm about to cut you out of the whole thing and do it myself."
Draco nodded sagely. "Let's make a wager. We settle this the old way — a friendly duel. If you win, I'll be the first to tell my father that you deserve the top spot in his dream regime. I won't stand in your way."
Carrow's eyes glittered. "And if you win?"
Draco pulled his wand from his pocket. "If I win —"
His head swam suddenly. He couldn't remember his words.
"If you win?" Prodded Alyssa, teeth glinting evilly.
"If I win."
He couldn't recall. He'd had something to say.
Something important.
Something about Granger.
"If I win, Granger doesn't."
"Doesn't what, Malfoy?" Alonso strode slowly, confidently, around the long table, to the room's open space — so that there were paces between them.
Perfect for dueling.
Draco couldn't speak. His mouth wasn't working. His thoughts were sluggish. Nott stood too, stumbling drunkenly.
"If Malfoy wins he keeps Hermione for himself," he offered. "To use as he sees fit."
No, that wasn't it. That wasn't right. He didn't want to use her —
"Done." Alonso raised his wand. "Nothing lethal."
And cast a slicing hex.
It hit him over his head.
Alonso laughed. "A scar on that pretty face to remind you which side you're on." He cast another hex, that sent Draco stumbling.
Something wrong with his legs. Blood in his eyes.
He couldn't speak magic. Couldn't form spells. Carrow advanced, looking disgusted. "What's wrong with you? I didn't hit that hard. Get up."
Nott yanked him to his feet. "I didn't take you for a purveyor of poison, Alonso. Low blow."
That was the word. Poison. He could sense it, climbing through his veins, seeping through his skin. It itched and burned and addled. "Though poison is a witch's weapon." Nott spoke from far away.
His arm moved, tugged. He looked down at it. Oh. Not so far after all. "Draco, we have to go."
Alonso was coming at him again. "I thought you'd fight. Everyone says she's decent to look at. I assumed you'd at least try to keep her cunt for yourself."
Draco surged forward. What he lacked in magic and coherence he'd make up in brute strength — he had the dogged determination of his monster —
But his target sidestepped, laughing.
"Didn't your mummy pay for dance lessons, boy?"
Not dancing. Call it swaying.
He swayed in a circle — saw the vampires lining the walls. No Trocar. Just a lot of interested parties, salivating at the prospect of seeing Young Malfoy brought down.
A stunning spell meant to knock him, but Draco blocked it. Leaned against a chair, gasping.
And thinking. Through the haze, the fog. The poison's sharp cut.
An idea.
"It's only a duel if you fire a spell!"
It was a sacrifice.
"What the fuck did you give him, Alyssa?" Nott, hastily sobering up. "I knew I hated —"
It would definitely land him in Azkaban.
"Fucking fight, Malfoy." Another hex to his face. Blood flowed.
But — it was a better plan.
Draco bent his head and waited until Alonso's feet appeared in his red-washed vision.
A plan that provided surety — Granger safe and Lucius neutered.
He rose in slow motion, swinging. His fist connected hard with a cheek. The other on a temple. A mouth.
Somewhere someone screamed.
It was distracting. Which gave Carrow a chance. He landed a few blows of his own, hard on Draco's body. "All in good fun," he grunted. "After this we can finally be friends."
Friends. They'd never be friends.
Draco put the last of his power into the hit. His knuckles aligned with Alonso's lower right jaw.
Piggish eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fell.
There was a lot of noise and movement but he ignored it. Them. Instead, Draco considered the best place to collapse. He wanted to accept, to greet and honor, the pain coursing through him.
Nott had him off the body. He'd tripped over Alonso.
"This way," Theo grunted, pulling him from the dining room, through the castle, out the doors.
Draco was seeing things. Vampires everywhere. They hissed, clamoring for the blood Alonso had promised. Muddy blood, he thought. He'd touched it. Superior. Her blood, the blood of life.
Granger.
She needed him.
Don't forget the plan. He had to keep it at the forefront, through the haze of pain.
"Where do you want to go?" Nott shook him violently. "We have to leave. Trocar has gone." He slapped Draco's face. "His coven is thirsty."
"My blood is poison." Let them have it.
Nott ignored him. "I'll apparate you."
"Leave me."
Night had begun to fog up, to obscure all the rest. Stars and castle torches blinked out. Darkness all around.
"Should I take you home? But your mother —"
"Hermione," he said. The only word he remembered.