The day was cold. It had snowed during the night. Light snowflakes still dusted the grass even this morning. The sky was obscured by clouds, but the Forbidden Forest wasn't as cold as Hermione thought it would be. Most of the trees were spruces, so they shaded the ground, blocking out the sky. The soil was littered with thorns and dead leaves that the thin layer of snow had failed to conceal.
Trainer Malfoy was back in his duties. His navy uniform was clean and without a wrinkle. He was wrapped in a thick winter cloak and wearing his leather gloves. Hermione's eyes couldn't detach from him, from the sharpness of his angles, the smoothness of his pale skin.
Remembering how less than twelve hours ago, she was bouncing on top of him on the couch, in the Room of Requirement. As soon as he had entered and the door had shut with a click, he was already removing his cloak. The rest of the clothes were discarded quickly as they hungrily devoured each other.
The spot between her legs was still sore today.
Keela was sniffing around the Forest ground, staying in a close perimeter.
They were now a band of six. Numbers 41, 47 and 50. And numbers 3, 6 and 10, which were previously in Rathmore's band.
Hermione noticed how number 6's eyes were burning into her. She convinced herself it was because she'd killed number 7. Maybe they had been close. Probably.
She also thought it was an insanely bad idea to merge two bands together after four months apart. The others were practically strangers.
Draco cleared his throat. His gaze swept over each of the six players in front of him. "This morning, we're climbing." He gestured to the tree closest to him. "I'm sure you don't need a lesson about how to climb a tree. However, I want you to work on your speed while you do it."
Number 10, a tall and thin man, raised his hand tentatively. He looked greenish.
"Yes, number 10?"
"What if… we have vertigo?"
Draco didn't answer just yet, but then he sneered. "That's not my problem. Work on it."
"How do we get down?" That was number 3, a red-haired woman with freckles all over her face.
"The same way you got up." He clicked his tongue. "Pick a tree, one for each, and start climbing."
Automatically, numbers 3, 6 and 10 walked in the same general direction, away from them. Hermione and Reine exchanged a glance and walked in the other direction. Arthur followed them closely.
A split in the middle. The players were in the same situation, doing the same thing and going in the same direction—most likely, death—, but there was a canyon between them. Two bands. Two cliffs of a canyon. The six of them didn't form a band.
Number 6 had killed Oliver. Hermione had killed number 7.
She chose a high spruce tree. The lowest branches were large and sturdy, a foot above her head. Looking around, she noticed the other players starting their ascend. Arthur and number 10 hadn't managed to reach the lower branches yet.
She wondered what children's game required tree-climbing. Tree-climbing was pretty much an activity that most children did. But a game?
She jumped to catch the first branch, hoping it wouldn't break under her weight. As her feet dangled in the air, she gave herself a boost to throw her weight towards the trunk of the tree. Her soles flattened against the trunk, providing her with traction. She hooked one leg onto the branch, just behind her knee, then the second. Slowly, she straightened up, grabbing the next branch.
The climb was slow and perilous. Halfway through, she made the mistake of looking down and her entire body tensed, muscles asphyxiating. Her head started to spin, so she remained standing in her position, forehead pressed against the trunk, until the nausea passed. She couldn't be faster than this.
She thought of last night to change her mind.
Of her straddling Draco on the couch, legs on each side of him as she rocked against him, panting. The moans and groans ushered out of him, his fingers leaving bruises on her hips.
By the end of the training, she was sweating profusely and her muscles were shaking with strain. She had only managed to climb up and down the tree four times in three hours. It wasn't an excellent ratio, but number 6 had managed seven, and Reine eight.
The players were streaming out of the Forest now and she held out her breath as she walked away, ignoring Draco behind her. Shehadto ignore him. Because if she lingered, her heartbeat would flutter and her palms would clam up. Because if she lingered, the players would notice.
She wondered if he was watching her as she followed the rest of the players out of the Forest.
At lunch, Hermione was in line right in front of Reine, waiting for the food. Arthur had gone to the shower right away. The meal today was chicken breast with mashed potatoes and green beans. It smelled good. She hadn't eaten a lot in the past couple days.
When the houlse-elf gave her her portion and passed her the plate, she thanked the elf. She knew she wouldn't eat all of this.
She weaved her way to their usual table, followed by Reine.
"You did not climb so fast," Reine commented behind. "In the Forest."
Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but instead, she sighed deeply. "I know." They sat at their table. The Great Hall wasn't crowded, with only thirteen players left. Most of them were scattered about the tables, eating alone or in pairs. Two Gamemasters were posted at the doors.
Crane was eating alone at a table, an empty perimeter around him.
"When you climb," Reine continued, "you can not look down. It will slow you down."
"I think you're much more graceful than me." Hermione took the first bite of her chicken. It didn't have a lot of taste, and she chewed mindlessly.
"I was a swimmer. My mother wanted me to enter the Olympics. I trained every day for the summer Olympics in 2000."
She could now understand why Reine's physique was built this way, why she was so agile, never too winded. She had never stopped being an athlete.
"Did you like it?" she asked, taking a gulp out of her water bottle.
Reine thought for a second, frowning. Her eyes were riveted on a spot right in front of her plate. "I am not sure. It is the only thing I was good at."
A hand slammed hard against the table, startling them both. The arm was right beside Hermione, and she swivelled around.
Number 6 stood at the table, glaring down at her with hate. "If you touch even one of them again, I'll fucking kill you."
Her heart lurched in her throat with both adrenaline and shock. "I didn't touch anybody," she said coolly. Around them, the Great Hall's chatter had quieted.
Number 6 leaned towards her face, his hostile brown eyes drilling her on her seat. "You killed Matthew."
Her mind swam with thoughts and memories, colliding in one painful mess. She didn't want to know number 7's name—she guessed that's who number 6 was referring to. Guilt threatened to rise above her control level again, and she tried to shove it down. But he had just jabbed his finger in an open wound and twisted it. Wrenching the emotions, the pain, the blame out of her.
Reine stood up abruptly on the other side of the table. "You killed Oliver. So why don't you kindly fuck off, Foster?"
She briefly wondered how Reine had come to know number 6's name.
He looked back at Reine, assessing her. His nostrils flared with anger, and he lowered his voice even more. "You're an animal," he whispered viciously on Hermione's face. He left unceremoniously.
She was trembling with anger and shame on her seat, not able to pick up her fork again. The eyes of the other players bore into her, and she simply wanted to scream at them to eat their food. Every last one of them had killed someone else.
"Hey, hey," Reine ushered softly to her, sitting back on the bench. "Hermione. Do not listen to him."
"You've talked to him?" Her words were strained, widening her windpipe as they came out.
"We have sparred together. His name is Wade Foster."
"I sparred with him too."
"He is a ratbag." Reine scowled. "And dangerous."
Shoulders hunched, Hermione tried to finish her food. She couldn't spark the conversation with Reine again. Danger was lurking at every corner of the Empire, and now it felt like she had to watch her back.
She couldn't—no, refused to count on Draco to save the day.
Maybe she had to answer to what she had done.
The concept wasn't foreign to her.
A life for a life. An eye for an eye.
You kill someone, you lose your life.
Distractedly, her fingers stroked the fork handle laid flat on the side of her cold plate. Its four prongs reflecting the light, daring her to be painted red.
There were two things that Draco couldn't get out of his mind. The first one was the Ember. A magical object of some kind that kept a cauldron lit. He had never heard of such a thing, and he didn't know who to ask. He figured he couldn't ask around the Empire—people would raise their brows at him and quickly become suspicious. The same way he couldn't ask about the 'arrows to God'. Also, he suspected that just an elite handful of people knew about it.
The second thing was Hermione.
He spent every waking moment thinking about her, about how she walked, how she blinked fast when she was organising her thoughts, how her speech rate quickened when she was animated, how her wild curls had grown and were now cascading between her shoulder blades. How the sliver of a smile Keela had coaxed out of her had brightened up the entire dusky sky and made it look like dawn. How she rocked against him, how her eyes gleamed with pleasure and deliverance in his arms, how she surrendered herself completely to him.
How she had taken the decision to trust him and was owning it—showing him.
He was obsessed with her. And he was done pretending he wasn't. There were more important things at stake than trying to conceal the whirlwind of things she made him feel.
Now, it was lunchtime, and he was striding towards Cindermore with Keela, book in hand. She had told him about it, of course. The Chronicles of Narnia. He was supposed to get the book back to his mother sooner, but he hadn't.
Hermione had told him that when she was alone for three days in the Room of Requirement after the second game, that she wrote. Hoping the quill would help materialise a solution. She was grasping at straws, just like he was, trying to find a shard of something helpful. Something that would help them bring down the Dark Lord and get out of Numberland with the others.
He entered Cindermore's gates. Malfoy House was empty. He guessed his mother must be busy somewhere in the Empire with a task of some sort.
Snowflake greeted him at the door, brushing his bosom against his leg.
"Hey, there," he said.
He didn't remove his boots. Leaving the book in the living room, he went to his father's study. Nothing had changed.
A musty, leathery scent was hanging in the air, clinging to the mahogany furniture. The farthest wall was a deep shade of green, encased with bookshelves filled with old and new hardcover volumes. A tall leather chair was pushed against a massive desk, covered with his office belongings.
A crystal, round paperweight. Stacks of parchments all lined up. An elegant wooden quill-holder, with two sheathed long and black quills. The third quill was flat on a piece of parchment on the desk.
Keela sat at the entrance, right where the Persian rug started, and followed his movements. He went straight for the books, swallowing the lump in his throat, and started scanning.
"What do you think we'll find?" he asked, his back to his dog.
He wondered if his father had any books on Horcruxes.
He wondered if his father knew at all.
The afternoon training session started in two hours. They were back to doing muscle strengthening exercises, as well as an hour of wrestling.
He wished he didn't have the three other stupid players in his band. There was a sinister vibe to number 6 and he didn't want him close to his players.
He pulled out volumes from the shelves, inspecting them, skimming through them. Decided to keep them in a pile on the desk or to place them back.
After 40 minutes, he had an interesting collection of various topics, including magical artefacts, dark arts, spells and cruelty, autocracy, and wartime wards. He brought them back to the living room and set the pile with a thud on the table.
He pulled his wand out and shrunk the books, one by one, until they were the size of his thumb nail. He shoved the handful of miniature books in his coat pocket and called for Keela.
Her tail was wagging happily, tongue hanging out of her mouth.
Draco smiled tenderly and kneeled on one knee to pet her. "I think you need a bath soon, girl." He sniffed her fur. "Did you play by the pond again?"
Her mouth closed with a secret and she turned slightly away from him, evading his eyes. She hid her nose behind her front paw and peeked at him with mischief.
"Oh, so you did go there," he scolded with a stupid, goofy voice.
For a few minutes, he petted her and wrestled playfully with her. She panted with joyful little barks, back squirming against the floor, belly up. When the moment passed, Keela obediently sat down in front of him to watch him, heaving with short little breaths.
"Do you ever think that I should have let you live your life?" he asked, looking at his own reflection in her admiring eyes. "Let you roam free and not take you with me?"
Her mouth closed and her head tilted on one side. He scoffed, because she always did that when she was confused or intrigued with something.
"Do you feel trapped here?" he added. "With me?"
She licked his face, and he made an audible blech although he didn't mind. Never once had he felt stupid for talking to an animal, even if they couldn't understand him like another human would.
An undesirable thought crossed his mind at once and his stomach coiled with dread.
What if, one day, Keela chose her freedom over him? He never kept her on a leash, for the matter.
His mood changed. Darkened. He patted Keela's head one last time and stood up. He left the house with her on his heels and his pocket filled with minuscule books. He walked back to the dorms, and his thoughts were grim, hanging above his head like a stormy cloud.
He entered the building and made his way down the corridor to his bedroom. On the floor in front of his door was a brown paper bag with its edge rolled up on itself. A small rectangular piece of parchment tacked to it.
Draco took the package—it wasn't particularly heavy—and closed his bedroom door behind him. Keela jumped on the bed right away.
He tore off the note. Not registered. Manitoba, CAN.
Sankros was back, then, and Draco wanted to rip his guts out for leaving an unattended Portkey in front of his room like that. It wasn't there this morning, so maybe he had come during the morning training. There weren't any Trainers and Scavengers in the dorms at this moment. But still.
He carefully opened the paper bag to peek inside. A candle.
He closed the bag and shoved it in his desk drawer, along with the handful of books he was carrying. They clattered like tiny pebbles. He'd resize them later.
A whole week went by. The funeral was long and boring. The days flowed by in a succession of cold dawns and dusks, blending into one another. He made his band climb trees and number 3 broke her arm with a bad fall. He kept a close watch on number 6, noticing how his dark stare always slid towards Hermione with a murderous expression.
So he did his best to stay close to Hermione during his free time. Hovering nearby, keeping watch on her. There were times when he allowed himself to have short interactions with her, bottling the need to kiss her lips every time he saw them move.
But after dinner was their time.
She spent every evening and night in his room, in the dorms. He permanently cloaked his bedroom with a silence spell. He didn't trust what would happen if he left her unattended in her own room, alone all night. Players always found a way to kill each other, and locked doors didn't stop them.
Sure, he could drop by anytime he wanted. But the only way she was truly safe was if she was with him.
He also didn't want her to sleep on that awful sheet of cardboard they called a cot.
Their evenings were all the same, but neither he nor she complained. They spent their evenings reading his father's books. Settled on his bed, he with his back against the wall and her head in his lap. She lying on her back, the book above her, and he sitting against the bed, his long legs on the floor. Sometimes he would sit at his desk and when he found an interesting section, he would pull her onto his lap and show her the page.
They argued. They discussed interpretations. They rambled about old school lessons they remembered differently. They talked about Basilisk venom and what had happened to the Chamber of Secrets—demolished and sealed shut. He had told her about the Portkey candle.
Draco was convinced that she had found a piece of herself back. She was reading and arguing, stating her mind and frowning when she didn't agree with him. He admired the crease on her forehead when she was focused on a book, her eyes hopping along the lines of the words. He watched her little feet dangle in the air when she was reading on her stomach, and he detailed her dexterous fingers when she weaved strands of her hair to braid them.
Tonight, it was Thursday and she was halfway through a book called Ward Architectures through Time. She was sitting at the end of his bed, her back against the bedframe and her knees propped up, book against her thighs. Draco was on the opposite end, touching her ankle with his feet.
She closed the book shut and hummed, looking at the ceiling. "Did you know that wards can be geometrical?"
"Huh?" He focused on her, but all he could see was how gorgeous she looked, how relaxed she was on his bed.
"Geometrical shapes," she said slowly, watching him like he was five years old. "For instance, if you want to put a ward around the dorms, you could create a triangular shape around it. Or square."
"I don't see the purpose of that."
"Well—" she sighed, "me neither. But I thought it was interesting to know. Can I tell you something?" Her words were sudden, rushed out.
He held her eyes.
"I think I'd like to speak to a champion."
Something swelled inside of him, hot and itchy, and he shifted on the bed. "Why?"
Her eyes were serious. "I think it would be good for me to speak to someone who went through it." He frowned, but she added quickly, "As a player. And look, I'm telling you to be honest, but I wasn't asking for permission. I can ask Theo to arrange something, so I won't have to go out, and—"
His entire body was cold now. "Wait. Are you—did you think you had to ask for my permission?"
She wrung her fingers together. "That's what I'm saying, I don't need your perm—"
"But that's the word you chose." He peeled himself off the bedframe and scuttled closer to her. "Do you think I'm making decisions for you, Granger?"
She looked away, uncomfortable, and his heart panged painfully with disbelief.
"No," she said. "That's not what I meant. At all."
He watched her closely, eyes flitting between both of hers. He placed his hand against her calf. "Look at me, Hermione, please."
She did.
He stroked her leg with his thumb. "I told you already. Whatever you say, we'll do. If you want to take the Portkey right now, we'll go. If you want to talk to a champion, we'll try to make it happen, although I don't particularly want it to happen."
She nodded and smiled sheepishly. "Thank you. But why?"
He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Do you really want me to say it?"
She kept silent, expecting. He sighed deeper. "I'm pretty sure you want to talk to Krum." No response. "Don't you?"
"It would be nice to talk to him, but it doesn't have to be him."
"And I'm very much aware of how he looked at you in fourth year."
The corner of her lips stretched up. "That was more than ten years ago, Draco."
"Yeah, and he'll remember what he missed the moment he sees you." He was exaggerating—he didn't care that much. Everyone had moved on. He just needed a topic to tease her about.
She sat back on her knees and brought her face close to him. "Sounds like you're jealous. This isn't you."
His hands curved around her waist. "It's the most real me you'll have." He tugged her closer until she was sitting on his lap, straddling his hips. "I don't trust any men in your presence."
She scoffed and grabbed his face to kiss him. Their tongues twirled together, slowly and teasingly, and his veins caught fire. Her scent was spellbound, filling the most remote corners of his mind.
He peeled himself off her lips for a second. "I'm kind of serious, though," he huffed, gazing directly in her eyes. "I'll always be… possessive when it comes to you. I don't share what's mine."
She trembled in his arms, breath catching in her throat, as her mouth found his again. However, her mouth was now claiming, demanding. Hungry. After this point, there were less thoughts and more actions. More sensations. His hand clenched in her hair to draw her even closer.
Her name moaned out of his throat, and she sighed deliciously against his mouth. They had done this very same thing a lot during the last week. Lots of time, they simply threw the books away and kissed each other for hours on end. Sometimes in the middle of an argument, sometimes in the middle of a sentence. They found countless ways to occupy their hands and their mouths.
But right now, he needed her to know that she was his. When she moaned in his mouth, liquefying under him, and tugged at her own zipper, his instincts took over. He knew her requests before she even articulated them into words.
They shed their uniforms with urgency, threw their forgotten boots and socks on the floor. He was buried inside her before they even returned to the bed, and there was nothing delicate or soft about it. The hurricane under his skin just grew louder. Incoherent, strong and powerful.
"I want more," she rasped, voice tight. He admired the sheen of sweat on her forehead.
He pulled out of her and turned her body so she faced the bed. "Like this?" Her back was flushed against him.
"Yes."
His cock twitched, and he pushed her forward. She fell on her forearms, her backside spread in front of him, and she moved, settling on her hands and knees on his bed.
Placing himself behind her, he took his erected member and guided himself to her entrance. He slid inside of her fully, cursing again at her tightness.
"Fuck," he growled. She was so wet already, making this soeasyfor them.
It seemed like he could thrust deeper in this angle, and all his nerve endings ignited. She moaned his name when he gripped both of her hips and steered them back and forth. He set the pace, slamming into her to the hilt, and retreating in a slick motion.
She encouraged him with shallow moans, meeting each of his thrust with a push of her hips. Her voice mewled louder as she crouched on her forearms, head buried in his sheets, fisting the fabric. She was clenching around him, and the fire within him roared with might.
When she reached her climax, she shouted with release and he rode her through it, never slowing down. She bucked and straightened, pressing her back against his chest, and clutched his head with her hands. His own arms curled around her and found her breasts, pinching and tweaking her nipples as he sucked her neck.
"You're doing so good," she moaned.
"Yeah?" He was short of breath. Her praise was like a beam of fire through his soul. His mind was about to fracture with the ecstasy he found buried inside her, touching her like this.
"I-I don't want—oh god."
He let out a throaty growl as he spilled inside her and his head spun. He collapsed on her back, panting, and they both heaved in silence. His hand caressed her flank, travelling to the smooth plane of her back, and he kissed a spot on her spine.
He pulled out, watching his cum drip out of her. He had cleaned his sheets every night for a week anyway.
Hermione was rosy-cheeked, her hair sticking to her temples. She wrapped his blanket around herself and turned around to face him. The sight of her face and the glow emanating from her, wild mane framing her head, took his breath away.
He opened his arm and she nestled against him as they fell back against his pillows, wrapped around him.
He stroked her hair, looking at his ceiling.
Disbelieving.
Feeling absolutely unworthy of somebody like her. Undeserving of her touch, her time, her attention.
"I was gonna say—" She propped herself on one elbow, looking at him. Her voice was soft like a petal. "I don't want to leave here without you."
His hand stilled in her hair. He blinked down at her. "You mean it?"
"I have decided." Her hazelnut eyes were serene, melting the hardest, coldest parts of him. "No matter what we end up doing, no matter the plan, I will not leave Numberland without you."
Emotion seized in his throat, clamping it shut. Sunlight spread in his chest, sizzling in his core and making uncharted feelings bloom wide. Oxygen hissed through his teeth as he tightened his embrace against her.
"Really?" he murmured in her hair.
"And Keela, of course," she smiled, and her voice was filled with tears. "Not leaving without you or Keela."
He rearranged his position to lay on his flank, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Inhaling and exhaling through the waves of Things unfurling inside him, cresting and bending.
When was the last time he had felt wanted? Needed?