Manacled by Senlinyu

Chapter 56: Flashback 31

Other times, he'd arrive drenched in Dark Magic. It would cling to his clothes and skin. When he was like that, he was always more desperate. Harder. Faster. Trying to lose himself in something he could feel.

Against a wall. Or just on the floor of the hotel room where they landed.

His kisses tasted like ice and sin, and Hermione drank them in until she was gasping.

"You're mine. You're mine." He'd repeat the words over and over like a mantra. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours, Draco," she'd promise against his lips, or staring into his eyes.

He'd entwine his fingers with hers and press their foreheads together, and sometimes his whole body would shake. She'd wrap her arms around him and press kisses into his hair.

"I promise, Draco. I'm always going to be yours."

There was a possessive terror in his eyes when he stared at her—in the way he touched her—as though he always expected it to be the last time he ever saw her.

On the days he didn't summon her, she'd walk through Grimmauld Place feeling as though she couldn't breathe until she felt her ring burn.

Then she was the one who would desperately demand to know if he was alright.

"Don't die, Draco."

It was always the last thing she said to him.

The moment before he apparated away, as he stood in his Death Eater robes, she'd say it rather than goodbye. She'd catch his chin in her hand and stare up into his eyes. "Be careful. Don't die."

He'd dip his head forward and kiss her palm as his cool, grey eyes locked onto hers. "You're mine. I'll always come for you."

He always did.

Each day felt as though the odds were being pushed higher. Steeper. She wasn't sure how far the runes and his own determination could take him before it reached a point of utter improbability and everything came crashing down.

She could feel it.

He was walking a razor's edge.

When he slept, she stared at his face and willed him to survive the war.

They'd run away when it was over. Far away. So far no one would ever find them. She promised herself she'd find a way. She promised it to him: that there would be an after.

There were moments when they almost forgot the war around them. Eating breakfasts ordered by room service. Arguing whether food from a greasy spoon constituted as actual food. Taking advantage of the unreasonably large bathtubs that his hotel suites always had. Kissing him.

She could spend a decade kissing him; feeling the burning reverence in the way he touched her.

The moment their lips touched, he'd crush her body against his. His hands would slide along her throat and back to the nape of her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair as he deepened the kiss. He'd cradle her cheek in the palm of his hand and then slip it down along her body.

Then, when she was gasping for breath, he'd pull his mouth away and start kissing along her throat. Sucking on her pulse point while he pulled at her clothes. She'd barely notice her clothing sliding off and falling to the floor as he stripped her and explored her bared skin. As she unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hands along his body.

He'd twist the clasp of her bra, and then jerk it off before his hands would dart up to palm her breasts and tease her until she was whimpering. His mouth would glide along the juncture of her neck and shoulder as he kissed and nipped his way across her skin.