The Shattered Dragon

Chapter 27: White Wrapping, Silver Ribbon

Draco, however, was no fool. He'd been with enough women to know a real orgasm from a fake one, and he'd made Hermione come enough to feel the difference. He heard her cry out, heard her call his name. Indeed he felt her muscles clench, her fingernails dug deep into his back, but there was something missing. They'd been together long enough that he knew her body, the way she shook, the way her chest flushed pink just before she would come, the nonsensical words that stuttered from her lips. But he said nothing, assuming she was doing it to placate him, to give him what he wanted and be done with it. When they were finished, laying beneath her heavy down duvet, she snuggled into his chest, sighing in what he assumed was false contentment. But he was already late and had no time to confront her on the façade.

"When will you be back?" She asked, pushing up onto one elbow. He was taken aback by the earnest look in her eye.

"Soon. Hopefully when I get back I'll have some progress to report to you all. To save time I could whisper it to Sarah and then the whole South of England would know by the following Tuesday."

She laughed and he was nearly lightheaded at how good it felt to hear it, to see her eyes twinkle in the low light of her bedroom. He was reminded of watching her with Harry and Ron in Hogsmeade, watching her stumble out of The Three Broomsticks after too many butterbeers, laughing, hiccupping...innocent. He ran a hand through her hair and pulled her down into a kiss.

"I'm sorry Hermione. I'm sorry for all the names I called you, for the way my friends treated you, the torture you endured. I'm so sorry for the family you lost. I'm sorry that you were born into this amazing, unparalleled magical universe only to have it turn its back on you completely. I can't even imagine how lonely it must have felt, being away at school..."

"What brought all this on?" She asked, moving to lie across his chest, her hair fanned out over his arm.

"Hearing you laugh," he said, running is fingers through her hair. "It's one of my favorite things. I don't think I ever heard you laugh when were at school. Maybe when I was a ferret, but I've blocked that all out."

She laughed again and he sighed, holding her tight to ribs, as if he could absorb her into his soul.

In the weeks following their bath, their night on the sofa staring at nothing, she'd discovered how much she enjoyed his company. What started as nothing but a sexual release, a distraction from the hell that her life had become had turned into...something more...something Draco had promised her he wasn't capable of. And yet even on the nights that she told him she'd rather not have sex, rather not be touched at all, he was all too eager to sit and play chess, or simply share a joint and watch the fire, giggling over stories about the girls and their favorite customers. Sometimes he would surprise her with her favorite dessert and they would sit on the floor, picnicking in his suite, or he would invite her to the solarium where he attempted to teach her how to play Russian card games. When they were alone he was happy to talk about the past, his childhood, his early years at Hogwarts, before everything went sideways. Hermione was careful not to mention sixth year, not to mention how her heart had broken when she saw the mark on his arm. Those were the things he didn't want to talk about. Instead she learned that his original ambition was to be a Potions professor at Durmstrang; that he wrote and drew a secret underground Slytherin Comic book circulated amongst the dorms (except for Gryffindor). The summer before second year his father had hired a private Quidditch coach to teach him to play Seeker, a position he wanted only because Harry already held it. But then I actually learned to love the game, he said.

Hermione gave him the physical touch he wanted as often as she could, happy to see the ecstasy on his face when she made him come with her mouth or rode him on the couch, his hands tight on her hips, groaning her name as he emptied inside her. And every time he touched her she prayed that it would be different, that something would click and she would be able to climax like she used to, shuddering and crying out, every nerve in her body alive with pleasure. But no matter how hard she rocked against him while imagining him pulling her hair, slapping her ass, growling debauched filth in her ear, she was never able to tumble over the edge. Of course it felt good to be connected to him, to feel his hot skin rubbing over hers, his breath on her neck. His kisses were still dizzying and electric, making her weak in the knees, and she still felt that throb of arousal every time he called her his Sparrow, still ached when his tongue dipped between her legs. She still wanted him, just as badly, if not moreso, than before. Only now she found that she wanted his heart as well.