TW; mentions of self-harm,
15th May
It started as a tingle between her brows. Just a few sparks of magic where Voldemort was pressing his wand into her skin. It was uncomfortable, painful, but nothing she couldn't grit her teeth through. But then the pain got worse, grew until Hermione could recognise it as dark magic. The evilest kind. The type that raised the hairs on the back of her arms.
And it just kept getting stronger and stronger, lashing across her temples like being whipped with metal chains. Short, sharp bursts of pain while Voldemort threaded his influence over her mind, and allowed her access into his.
You should be taking notes, said a voice in the back of her mind. You should be focusing on his mind instead of yours.
To be granted access into Voldemort's mind. To see what he has seen, to know his plans for the future. It was a pivotal moment. A chance that Harry would have leapt at if he were given the opportunity.
After his 'death', his connection to Voldemort's mind had been almost completely tethered, and the Order had suffered because of it. They'd lost their advantage. Harry couldn't predict Voldemort's next move anymore, couldn't get a sense of what scared the Dark Lord and where the weaknesses in his armour were.
Don't look at what he's showing you, think about what he isn't showing you, what he doesn't want you to see, the voice went on, urging her to listen, to ignore the obvious, and pay attention to the shadows. You're in his mind. He's let you into his mind. Take this opportunity. Learn from it. Study it. There has to be something here. Something that could help Harry and the Order.
But she didn't need to focus on his mind, because she could already feel it in her own. His magic had already glided over her, connecting her to him, threading his influence so tightly over her it felt like she was him, and he was her.
He wasn't just merely showing her his mind, he was her mind, and she was his.
The realisation struck her too late. She froze with fear. She couldn't move. She wanted to be sick.
His mind was a dark place. Cold and repugnant, and he wanted her to see more of it. He wanted to show her more of it. Show her what the Seer's had foretold. His future. His victory. The Order's defeat.
To begin with, none of the images he showed her made any sense.
Buildings exploding.
Thick smoke rising into the air.
Violent flashes of green light.
An ordinary black handgun with a gold handle.
A church on fire.
A bridge collapsing into a frozen lake.
A stone bell tower crumbling.
Blue lightning over a dark silhouette - perhaps a castle, but it vanished before Hermione could be sure.
And the number four. Hermione saw it everywhere. It kept flashing in between each image, a plip, like a cigarette burn on a piece of film.
As the doors of a church she didn't recognise were burning, the number four would suddenly flash in front of her eyes before the vision snapped into the next. And it kept happening.
The support beams on a bridge broke, allowing the structure to fall into an icy lake below.
Four.
The handgun was reloaded with a single round of ammunition.
Four.
Bricks cracked and splintered, a high tower fell and shattered on the ground.
Four.
Another crack of blue against a black sky.
Four.
The church again
Four.
The gun.
Four.
The bridge.
Four.
The bell tower.
Four.
Dark blue lightning.
Four.
Four.
Four.
She tried to look away, tried to take the advice of the voice and search for what Voldemort wasn't showing her, but again, for what felt like the hundredth time since she'd been captured, Hermione had no control. She was powerless.
It was a thousand times worse than being under the Demon Hex. She couldn't move, not unless he told her she could. She always compared the Demon Hex to being tied up by marionette strings, controlled by a monster breathing down her neck, guiding her to act on her worst impulses and feed its appetite, but this was different.
This felt like the monster was inside her. Like the monster was her. Like they were the same person. Like she and Voldemort were the same person. And he wanted to watch the prophecy be retold. So she had no choice but to watch it as well.
As Voldemort's magic shifted, the visions changed. It all happened very quickly. The landscapes and burning churches were gone, and the visions twisted into battles. Dozens of battles in different locations, each warzone snapping into the next. A blur of violent images, countless deaths, and screams that seemed to roll into one.
And somehow, Hermione could feel them. She felt it all, experienced each death as though she were there herself, as though she were the victim.
Death.
That was the only way Hermione could describe it.
Voldemort was showing her what death must be like. What death must feel like.
Every new vision brought a new wave of pain, a new experience, a new possible way to endure death. She must have died a hundred times over while he showed her image after image of her apparent future.
When he showed her famous muggle statues being torn from their posts and shattering against the ground, Hermione felt the earth shake violently beneath her own boots.
When he showed her Zacharias Smith being engulfed in flames from Black Shadow's mouth, Hermione felt them licking across her skin, too. She felt her blood boil in her own veins, felt the skin on her arm melt as her entire body was eclipsed in searing heat.
When the same beast mauling a team of muggle soldiers in a ruined city, she felt its fangs cutting through her skin. Could feel her bones crushing under the strength of the dragon's jaws, could feel her flesh slicing open, being torn apart as though the dragon were devouring her.
When Avada's were thrown across battlefields and hit witches she knew - Angelina Johnson, Sarah Chamberlain, and even ones she didn't know - Hermione felt it. Felt the killing curse collide with her chest and stop her own heart.
And the executions were no different. When he showed her the gallows that stretched high in the sky, and the lines of slaves with robe necklaces, Hermione felt a noose around her own neck. And when the trap door vanished beneath the slave's feet, a sharp pain shot around Hermione's neck.
She couldn't breathe. Something was cutting off her air.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. Couldn't shout for help.
She fell to her knees, hands flying to her neck to try and unhook the noose and let her breathe. But there was no rope. Just a solid pressure that was biting down harder and harder into her throat -
And then it all just vanished.
All the images. All the screams. They all just vanished, as though it was nothing more than a dream, and Hermione was left in total darkness. Alone.
The air around her wasn't cold anymore. It was hot and stuffy.
She tried to raise her hand, intending to blindly feel her way through the darkness, but she couldn't. Her hands were bound tightly behind her back. Coarse ropes were wrapped around her wrists and stomach, binding her to a tall wooden pole behind her.
The air around her was getting hotter. Each tick of the clock raising the temperature another few degrees. She jerked against her restraints, testing for weaknesses -
And then she heard it. A deep rumbling in the darkness. A growl, like rolls of tumbling thunder. Her head snapped up, and although she couldn't see anything, she immediately knew what was near her. What was closing in on her.
Despite the way the temperature spiked as the beast drew closer, Hermione's blood ran cold. Only a dragon's growl could have that unique effect on the body, and as far as she knew, there was only one dragon that Voldemort had on a leash.
Narcissa was behind her, then she was in front of her, then behind her again, walking in tight circles and getting closer each time. Hermione could feel the ground shudder with each step she took, shaking under her colossal weight. She could hear her wings and tail scrape across the ground. Could feel stifling heat radiate from her black scales.
But she still couldn't see! She couldn't see and she couldn't move!
There was just darkness around her. Darkness and a growl. And the temperature just kept rising. It was like being locked in a sauna. She could breathe, a little, but the air was sticky and dry, it burned her throat when she inhaled. Sweat trickled down the side of her temple, gathering on her exposed collarbone and neck.
Her heart was beating violently in her chest. Blood roared in her ears.
It's just a vision, she tried to tell herself, willing her body to calm down. It's not real. It's not real. Nothing that happens to you here is real. This isn't your death. This won't happen to you. It will be over soon. Just calm down -
"I would say that I'm sorry, that I didn't see this coming," another voice said in the darkness. A cold voice. A voice she recognised. "But I think we both always knew that this is how it was going to end for us. Didn't we, Granger?"
No.
A blazing fire was suddenly hurtling towards her. It lit up the room, and Hermione could see Malfoy's grey eyes, caught his vacant expression as he stood beside Narcissa, before she was engulfed in the flames.
The light only lasted a second, only a heartbeat, before she was thrown into the darkness again.
She screamed as the dragons' fire licked across her skin. The pain was excruciating. Indescribable. Worse than anything she could have imagined. Acid, fire curses, nothing came close. Her blood boiled and bubbled in her veins instantly. Her skin cracked and blistered, peeling back from the bone like it was trying to escape the impossible heat that was inside her veins.
Despite the flames around her, on her, Hermione still couldn't see. She was in total darkness. Alone. Alone and on fire. No one was coming to save her. No matter how loud she screamed, no one was coming to help her.
And the burning just went on. On and on, never-ending, like she was frozen in this fire.
Is this what death was really like? Is this what death really felt like? Was it just ... this? Trapped in the moment your life ended? No escape? Just darkness and fire and pain and loneliness? Just never-ending suffering? Forced to relive the moment of your death? Relive the pain over and over, and over again.
And Hermione just kept screaming, praying that when Voldemort finally left from her mind, she'd never have to experience this kind of dark magic again. Hoped that when he finally decided that she'd had enough, he'd take this pain, this darkness, with him.
But he didn't.
When he finally let her go, the pain didn't fade. He may have released her from whatever spell he'd used to show her the visions, but he didn't release her from the fire.
She pulled in a sharp breath as she felt the room reform around her.
She knew she was in the Cathedral. She knew that. There was solid ground underneath her feet. Someone had their hand pressed against the small of her back, holding her up straight. But why could she still feel the flames?
She looked down at her hands - the only patch of skin she could see in her Death Eater uniform. But she found unblemished skin where she'd expected to see scorched flesh.
It didn't make sense. Voldemort's magic was gone, so why could she still feel the fire burning her? Why could she still feel the ropes cutting into her ribcage, binding her to the stake?
He wasn't in her mind anymore, so why could she still feel his magic inside her? Crawling underneath her skin like an insect.
"Now you know what awaits your friends in the future, Mudblood." Voldemort pressed his wand under her chin and forced her head up to look at him. His red eyes were glowing, triumphant. "So tell me, after seeing all that death, after feeling all the suffering that awaits you and your friends, is it me who should fear death? Or is it you?"
When Malfoy apparated them back to his estate, Hermione felt nothing like herself.
She thought the awful feeling in her stomach would loosen the further away she got from Voldemort. She thought that the flames would let her go, that death would let her go as soon as there was some distance between her and the one who'd caused it.
It didn't. Just another thing she was wrong about.
As the air whirled around her and damp earth materialised underneath her feet, she jerked out of Malfoy's hold and stormed towards the manor.
He probably thought that she'd lost the plot from the way she was sprinting across the grounds like a madwoman. She could hear him calling her, shouting for her to come back, demanding to know what had gotten into her.
Or at least she thought she could hear him calling her. She didn't know anymore. She was so confused. She didn't know which of her feelings were real, and which were just remnants of Voldemort's magic.
Dark magic that was still inside her. Festering, crackling underneath the surface, igniting the flames that were still bathing her and making her want to wretch.
If that was what death really felt like, there was no wonder Voldemort never wanted to die.
The feeling wouldn't go away. She couldn't shake it off, like a bad dream she couldn't wake up from. She still felt hot, swore she could still feel the ropes around her wrists and flames licking across her skin. Fuck - even her skin didn't feel like her own anymore! It was itchy and uncomfortable, like something was crawling beneath the surface. Like he was crawling inside her, burrowing his magic deep.
And the flames wouldn't go away! She still felt like she was dying, a burning corpse just clinging to life.
She wanted it gone. She wanted this feeling gone. She'd do anything to be rid of it. She'd cut her arm off if that's what it took, if that would make the fire just stop.
Hermione swung the doors to the large drawing room open and stormed inside.
The room was exactly as she'd left it weeks ago. Three targets still lined the East Wall, all wearing Black Masks and dark robes shrouding their bodies. The table was still there, rows of guns and firearms still spread evenly across the surface.
She marched to the table and picked up the first gun she saw. She pressed the barrel against her right hip and drew a deep breath.
There were no essential arteries in that area. Shooting herself there would hurt like hell, but the thought that she'd be able to bleed Voldemort's dark magic out of her herself was too appealing to not at least try it.
Malfoy had charmed the guns so she couldn't take them out of the room, and the ones preventing her from shooting herself were unbreakable. She couldn't use them to kill herself, nor could she use them to aid her escape. Hermione was sure that he'd left the guns inside this room on purpose, teasing her, torturing her with the near possibility of escape.
But that was weeks ago, and now she clung to the hope that the charms had somehow weakened through neglect, because she was desperate.
The gun shook in her hands, the barrel trembling against her. She pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. She tried again. The gun clicked, the handle grew warm in her hand, but it didn't fire. She pulled the trigger again. And again and again.
Each time the barrel failed to empty, a new wave of helplessness washed over her. Tears started to prick at her eyes.
The gun suddenly vanished from her hand, evaporated as though it were made of smoke. Was it ever there to begin with? Or had she just imagined it? Had Voldemort really broken her mind that severely in just a few short minutes?
Without letting herself dwell on that possibility, she dashed towards the table of firearms. She reached down, intending to snatch a small rifle, but the table and all its contents vanished. However, a sharp snap of fingers had already altered her that she wasn't alone in this room.
She hadn't lost her mind. Not yet, anyway.
"Bring the guns back Malfoy."
"Why? So you can fail to shoot yourself again?" he sneered coldly from the doorway. "No. I don't think I will. Although, I've got to say, I thought your aim would be better."
Hermione kept her back to him. She couldn't bare to face him, not when she was so close to tears. "There's nothing wrong with my aim! It's those stupid charms you've put on the guns! Take them off and I'll show you!"
"Oh, so your hearing isn't impaired after all then? You're not deaf, just an ignorant little shit when others are calling your name. Good to know."
"I'm not in the mood for games Malfoy. Not now. Not after what Voldemort -" She cut herself off, and began grinding her teeth together to distract her from the way her eyes were stinging. Tears so close to breaking free. "Just bring back the guns. Now."
"They won't do you any good. I'm not taking the charms off them. Even if I do give them back to you, you won't be able to hurt yourself with them."
Hermione snorted and pinched her eyes closed. She wouldn't cry in front of Malfoy. She wouldn't. "Well then maybe I'll just shoot you instead," she laughed bitterly. "That ought to cheer me up."
He was quiet for a few moments, mulling over her words. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, lacking the venom it was usually dripping in whenever he spoke to her. "Why do you want to shoot yourself?"
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. The fire was still on her skin. Getting hotter and hotter. She pulled the gauntlets off her arm and started scratching her forearm, trying to relieve the burning, the maddening itch that just wouldn't fuck off.
She thought about telling him, considered telling him for a brief moment, before she squished the thought entirely. He wouldn't understand. She didn't want him to understand. Didn't want to show this weakness.
She whirled around to face him. "Why do you care?"
"Like it or not, you're my responsibility. My problem. My burden to bear." She heard him take a step closer behind her. "Whilst you're in my care, I can't have you blowing holes in yourself now, can I? I'm not a patient man, you already know that. So I'll only ask you one more time, why do you want to shoot yourself?"
"Leave me alone."
He took another step towards her. "Granger, what's wrong?"
The fire felt like it was spreading upwards. Her head buzzed and ached, like someone had replaced her blood with acid. It was burning. "Leave me alone, Malfoy."
He took another step closer, and Hermione's hands slid into her hair. The fire in her head was getting hotter. She raked her nails across her scalp. She was on fire. Her head was on fire. It wouldn't go away.
"What's the matter with you?"
She was on fire. She was still on fire. Her breath started to leave her in sharp pants. She couldn't breathe. The fire was in her skin. The dark magic was still in her skin -
"Granger, why do you want to shoot yourself?!"
"Because I need to do something to make me feel alive again!"
Malfoy froze. "What?"
There. She'd said it. The thing she didn't want to say out loud. The Achilles heel she didn't want to admit she had. The confession undid something, obliterated the little control she'd had on her emotions, and the tears she'd been so desperate to hold back streamed down her face without permission.
"When Voldemort went into my mind, he didn't just show me the future. He made me live it!" she said quickly, tearing off the band-aid. "He showed me what his victory would look like! What it would mean for the rest of us! He showed me Order members getting slaughtered! He showed me slaves getting hanged and your dragon burning and mauling everyone, and I felt everything he showed me!"
Tears were blurring her vision, but she thought she caught a blue crack appear in Malfoy's cold eyes.
"I felt her teeth in me! I felt her tearing me apart, and then it all vanished, and I was tied to a post, and I couldn't see anything!" she choked, struggling to gulp down air as she sobbed. "I couldn't move, and then your dragon, she - she crawled up to me - and then she opened her mouth and set me on fire! Your dragon burned me, and I could feel it! I can still feel it! I thought that if I shot myself, I could bleed some of his magic out of me, and I wouldn't have to feel like this anymore! I thought it would get his magic out of me, and this feeling would stop!"
Hermione hadn't imagined it. There was a crack in his grey eyes, a few blue splinters in his occlumency walls.
"And you were with her!" she screamed, feeling her whole body start to tremble. "I only saw her for a second. The only time I saw anything was when she set me on fire, and you were there! You - you were stood right next to her! You were watching - your eyes were dead and - and cold, and you just stood there, and you did nothing! You just let me burn!"
"Granger, you need to calm down," Malfoy said calmly, an emotion Hermione couldn't quite place colouring his tone. He outstretched a hand towards her. "It was just a vision, it wasn't real-"
"But it felt real! You said my name! You said my name and then your dragon set me on fire! I think he showed me how I'm going to die, I think - he showed me how you're going to kill me."
Even as she said the words, a part of her didn't believe them. Thought they were just panicked ramblings, a way to ease the fear she felt weighing on her chest and reorganise her frenzied mind.
It wasn't until she saw Malfoy's reaction that she realised it might actually be true. It wasn't until she heard his breath hitch, it wasn't until she saw his eyes widen a fraction, she realised that there might be some weight to her ridiculous theory.
"Oh my god. He did show me how I'm going to die, didn't he?" Her hand covered her mouth just as a fresh sob wrecked its way up her throat. Terror swept through her, and she pinched her eyes closed, as if that might be able to hide her from it. "After Voldemort is done with me, he's going to order you to execute me, isn't he?"
"It wasn't real," he repeated calmly. "You're being ridiculous. It was just a vision, something the seers came up with while they were bored. None of it was real-"
"Then why do I still feel dead?! I can still feel the fire on my skin and the ropes around my neck and I - and I d-don't know what to do - I don't know how to fix it. I can still feel his magic inside me! I can't get rid of it! And the fire won't go away! I feel - f-feel like Voldemort killed me in those visions. I feel like he killed me, and I'm still dying now, like he trapped me in death! Like I'm just this broken little thing. This dead thing that's burning and in pain and I can't - I don't-"
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her left knee. Her eyes snapped back open. Malfoy was glaring at her. The tip of his wand was smoking, freshly used.
"Finished with your little pity party?"
Hermione stared at him in disbelief. "Did ... Did you just ... hex me?"
"Yes, I did. I would have done anything to get you to just stop fucking crying," Malfoy sneered, unsympathetic to the tears still slowly slipping down Hermione's cheeks. "Pull yourself together! Pity doesn't suit you, Granger. Weakness doesn't suit you."
"You really are an arsehole." She wiped the back of her hand roughly across her cheeks, trying to banish the evidence of her weakness. "You have no idea what it was like to experience-"
"For fuck sake, listen to yourself! You're a mess! Did the Dark Lord take your back-bone when he entered your mind?! Did he snatch that away along with your courage?!" His voice was cruel, cold, but his eyes were burning. "Have some fucking pride, Granger! Don't stand there and feel sorry for yourself! You're better than that! You're stronger than that! Or at least I thought you were."
Hermione's spine straightened like he'd struck her across the back. She raised her chin, feeling her nostrils flare indignantly at his words.
"The other Death Eaters used to tell stories about you. Did you know that?" He smiled cruelly at her. "They used to say that you couldn't possibly be a Mudblood, because you were too powerful! Too good at killing. So fucking talented at murdering our soldiers it was like you were born to do it!"
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Anger flared in her chest, even if a few extra tears did slip down her face.
"So what if you saw a vision of me killing you? Does that mean you have to stop fighting? Does that mean you have to stop trying to kill me first?"
With a snap of his fingers, a gun appeared at his side. He didn't touch it. It levitated in the air, hovering close to his shoulder. He wove his wand over the barrel, and a soft blue light eclipsed the firearm before it floated into Hermione's hand. "You want to feel alive again Granger? Then shoot me."
She searched his face, looking for a sign that he wasn't being serious. That this was a sick joke she didn't understand the punchline to.
There weren't any.
"I've taken some of the charms out of the gun," he explained, tilting his head to the side and playing with his wand. "Don't get any ideas, you still can't hurt yourself with it. The gun won't fire if you try and shoot yourself, but you can shoot me with it instead."
Hermione tested the weight of it in her hand. It did feel different, lighter, colder.
"The gun won't reload itself, so you've only got one round. Twelve bullets. Is that enough for you to do some real damage?"
"You're forgetting that if I kill you, I die too. Won't that put a kink in your masters' plan?"
"Only if you actually hit me." He smiled and ran his tongue across his top teeth, taunting her. "Think you're up to the challenge?"
"If this is your idea of a joke," she said quietly, "then you're just as sick Theo."
"This isn't a joke." He took a step back and held his arms out wide on either side of him, giving her a clear shot. "Go on, shoot me."
Her eyes flickered down at the gun. She thought about shooting him, she honestly did. Merlin knew she'd been thinking about it for months. Fantasized about it.
A week ago, she'd have pointed the barrel at his head and pulled the trigger without hesitation. Would have killed him and herself without a second thought. Without regret.
A week ago, she'd have welcomed death with a smile on her face.
But a week ago Voldemort hadn't been in her mind.
A week ago, she wasn't scared of death.
She met Malfoy's eyes again. "No."
He sucked his teeth, growing more irritated. "Go on, shoot me."
"No."
"You've wanted me dead for months, haven't you?"
He took a step closer. Hermione backed away.
"Spent hours plotting how you'd do it if you could?"
"I'm not going to shoot you, Malfoy." She tried to keep her voice even, but it shook, even to her own ears. Trembled as much as the gun in her hand did.
"You know you want to."
"No."
"Come on, Granger. Do it."
"No!"
"No? Perhaps I'm going about this the wrong way. Maybe you need some motivation. I could go and see which of your friends the Dark Lord has chained up in his basement? Maybe if one of their lives were threatened, you'd feel differently about shooting me."
Hermione's breath hitched. "You wouldn't dare."
"I think we both know I would." He wore a hunter's expression as he stalked towards her. Cruel and excited. She imagined it was the one he wore under his Demon Mask, when he was massacring dozens. "Let's see, who do we have imprisoned at the moment "
"Stop it!"
"There's a lovely boy called Thomas. Quite young though, I think he was a few years younger than us at school."
"Stop it! Just stop it!"
"Or there's Millicent Bulstrode. I know you two weren't the best of friends, but she pissed the Dark Lord off so she's currently having her fingers chopped off one by one in his dungeon. I'm sure I could sneak her out."
For each step Malfoy took towards her, Hermione took one back.
"Or maybe we've got a Weasley or two chained up?"
Her back connected with one of the stone pillars. She was trapped, herded into a corner like a sheep to slaughter.
"I hear they're a dying breed these days. Maybe you'd feel differently about shooting me if I had my wand at one of their throats?"
Her fingers flexed around the gun.
"Or maybe I could just go after Ron."
Her heart pounded in her chest. Red began to tint the edges of her vision.
"I hear he's been looking for you for months. He's furious that he hasn't found you yet."
He just kept advancing, getting closer and closer.
"Shut up Malfoy," she hissed through gritted teeth. The firearm trembled in her hands.
"He's almost blind with rage. He'll be so easy to catch."
"Shut up!" Hermione screamed, raising the gun and pointing it at his chest. "Shut up!"
"Shut me up then! Don't give me the chance to kill him! Shoot me first!"
Hermione pulled the trigger.
As the bullet left the chamber, he flicked his wand to the left. The bullet zipped past him, exploding a large chunk of the wall behind him.
"Again!" He stepped forward, and another red curse exploded from the tip of his wand. "You only have eleven bullets left. Better make them count. Aim to kill. Shoot me like you hate me!"
She stepped back to avoid the curse and pulled the trigger again.
Malfoy swept it away with a flick of his wand, before he shot another curse at her.
Ten bullets left.
"Aim like that won't save the Weasel. It's like you're not even trying!"
Nine.
"It's like you don't want to save him! Like you want me to kill him!"
Eight.
"He'd be so easy to kill. You know he would."
Every time she fired a bullet, Malfoy swept it aside, easily, like it was nothing.
Six.
"It'll be so much fun. Theo and I will have a ball. I bet his skin will slice off the bone like butter."
Five.
"We'll rip his fingers off and scalp him, slowly, and he'll die because you let him. Because you were too scared to help him."
Four.
"Poor little broken Golden Girl. Too scared of death to help her friends."
Three.
"Too broken by a vision to save the people she cares about."
She pulled the trigger again, but Malfoy wasn't as quick this time. The sharp wave of his wand was just a fraction too slow, and the bullet went straight into his left shoulder. He hissed in pain and stared as thick blood started to pool from the wound she'd just created.
She'd shot him.
She'd actually fucking shot him.
Hermione gasped and stepped towards him. But she didn't lower the gun.
Suddenly, he grabbed her chin and pushed her back against the stone pillar. He squeezed her face, nails digging into her skin like he was trying to hurt her. Like he wanted to hurt her.
Their noses were touching. She could feel his breath on her face -
Like it was second nature, a reflex, she placed the barrel of the gun underneath Malfoy's chin and pulled the trigger.
She swore her heart stopped when she heard the click of the chamber. She closed her eyes, waiting for her life to end when his did.
But she'd miscounted.
She was out of bullets. The chamber was already empty when she'd pulled the trigger.
For a few moments, neither of them said anything.
She opened her eyes and found Malfoy staring at her. He pressed his cold forehead against hers. He was breathing as heavily as she was, blasting the smell of smoke and spearmint against her face. It made her mouth water.
"You were really going to kill me, weren't you?"
"Yes," she panted, their breaths mixing in the small space between them. "I told you I would never stop trying. And I meant it, I just - forgot for a moment. I forgot ... myself, and my promise to kill you-"
His mouth was on hers before she'd finished her sentence. His lips were colder than she remembered. For the briefest of moments, she froze in place, still as a statue.
And then she dropped the gun and clung to him. She took his face in her hands and swirled her tongue against his, desperately chasing the feel of his mouth as though she'd been starved for touch. Because those flames? That fire that was on her skin and in her blood? They seem to dull a fraction, drop a few degrees as his lips pressed against hers and his hands roamed across her body.
And she wanted more.
"This doesn't change a thing," she sighed against his mouth, even as her hands fumbled with his belt buckle and tossed it aside. "I still hate you."
"I know."
He cast a slicing hex down the length of her body. It stung and the shock of it made her gasp, but it left a clean rip down the centre of her uniform. Easy for him to rip apart.
"I'm still going to kill you."
He was still bleeding. The bullet wound on his shoulder still fresh, but forgotten. His blood pooled around her fingers as she dragged her hands across his chest, over his scars, along his collarbone.
"Don't forget that. I'm still going to try and kill you again tomorrow."
"I know." He grabbed the edges of her clothes and a hard yank had them falling apart, taking her bra and underwear with it. He attacked her mouth again as he threw the shredded fabric aside. Harder than before, biting, sucking. "I know." He kicked off the rest of his clothes and then hooked his arms under her thighs. He picked her up and pressed his body against hers, pinning her against the stone support beam behind her.
She shook and gasped against him. His skin was ice cold. It was working. The fire was dwindling. It was working but she needed more. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and her nails bit into his shoulders as he lined himself up.
But he didn't move, not immediately, the way she wanted. Not until she'd ground her hips against his, searching for friction. Not until she coated him with herself, not until she'd showed him that she wanted him. Needed him.
"I don't hate you," he growled, spilling malice into her mouth. "I fucking loathe you."
She felt him smirk into the kiss, and then he surged forward.
There was nothing gentle about it. Nothing tender about the way he thrust in, bottoming out in one sharp motion.
She bit down on his lip to keep from screaming. She was over-stretched. A sharp pain of the most delicious sort shot up her spine, making her toes curl.
"Fuck," he hissed into her mouth, swallowing her whine as he started to move. Hard. Fast. Deep.
She could practically feel the malice in each thrust. Each angry snap of his hips expelling the hatred, the anger, the disgust he felt for her. The elastic band sprang back to life in her stomach. Already taunt, pulling tighter and tighter -
And he was still kissing her. Still biting across her lip. Abusing the overheated flesh as he thrust up again and again and again.
The stone cut into her back. The chain and rings he wore around his neck scratched her chest raw. Her head smacked against the pillar with each furious snap.
But the fresh pain meant she was alive. Each snap chased away the heat on her skin. Like fighting fire with ice. Ice to make the fire go away. Pain to quiet the dark magic in her veins. Those were the ingredients, the antidote to the black magic Voldemort had used to enter her mind.
He released her mouth, only to fasten it against her neck. Like he couldn't bear the distance, like he still had to be connected to her, like the feel of him inside her body wasn't enough. He scraped his teeth against her pulse point. She shuddered, the band in her stomach tightening.
It wasn't awkward, the way it had always been with Ron. It wasn't slow and passionate, the way it had been with Viktor. Or even rushed, the way it had been that one time with Cormac.
This - this was fucking. Carnal. Ruthless.
Their kisses bruised the other. Their bites and scratches drew the blood of the other.
And God how she loved it. Was almost ashamed of the way she loved it. Ashamed of the way his insults zipped across her skin like a second touch. Ashamed of the way she wanted to hurt him, even though he was inside her, dragging his cock across her walls in a way that had her panting, writhing, legs shaking. Ashamed of how she thrilled when she pressed her fingers against the bullet wound on a particularly hard thrust, making him hiss. A mixture of pleasure and pain. Tit for tat. He hurt her, so she hurt him back.
But most of all, she was ashamed of the way it made her feel alive. In control. More like herself than she'd ever felt.
"Salazar, I fucking loathe you mudblood," his hips snapped up harder on the word, extenuating the insult, and it punched the air in her lungs. "You have no fucking idea," he sucked on her neck, and he bit down on her collar bone as his thrusts grew faster, more frantic, "how much I hate you."
"So you - so you keep saying." Her hands wound themselves into his hair, fisting, pulling the roots just as harshly as he was grinding into her. The fire on her skin now a dull ember. The dark magic in her veins almost forgotten. "So make me believe it-" she leaned her head down, and he shivered when her lips grazed his ear, "- fuck me like you hate me."
The sound he made against her neck- the groan, caught somewhere between torture and ecstasy - made her squeeze around him.
There was a hiccup in his pace. A brief pause he used to seal her more firmly against the wall, pressing his chest against hers and smearing his blood on her like he was trying to sign her to him. His hands skated higher and squeezed into her hip bones, anchoring her to him.
And then he really started to fuck her.
"I hate that you're in my head," he hissed, babbling hatred against her neck as his thrusts grew angrier, hurtful, stretching the band tighter and tighter, "-all the fucking time."
Hermione dragged her nails down his back, cutting them against his spine as he snarled insult after insult.
"You're always there- like a fucking ghost. Won't leave me alone - haunting - everywhere I look."
"Fuck - Malfoy - that's it. Just like that," she moaned, screwing her eyes shut and tilting her head towards the ceiling. "That's it. Don't stop. Don't you fucking dare stop."
Fuck - nothing should feel this good. Nothing this wrong should feel this good.
"Pluck your eyes out if they weren't so pretty-" he bit into her skin. "Fucking tear you apart if you didn't feel so good."
It was all too much. The feel of him inside her. The words. The kisses. The bites. It was all too much. It was stretching the band too tight. Her thighs started to shake. Her muscles started to spasm -
"I'm - I'm going to-"
"Open your eyes," he groaned hoarsely. His hair tickled her chin as he looked up at her. "Look at me."
"No."
"Look at me," he commanded, thrusting faster, desperate, as his release drew closer. "Don't you fucking dare come without looking at me."
She opened her eyes, but kept her head tilted towards the ceiling. Her own little act of defiance. Her middle finger to his dominance.
She'd looked up at this ceiling once before. Stared at it while she'd been tortured, traced the contours of the paintwork as she'd clung to life all those years ago. And she'd rather stare at it now than look at him when her orgasm came crashing through her.
She didn't look at him, refused to. Not when her mouth dropped open in a silent scream. Not when her muscles seized around him, or even when she felt him growl and twitch inside her.
They slid down the podium together. Utterly spent. A tangle of limbs sprawled on the floor. The malice between them doused for now. Another exorcism completed.
As soon as they were on the floor, Malfoy dragged her underneath his body. He held her tight against him, one hand digging into her spine while the other splayed across her chest. He stared down at her, his eyes flickering from the bruises forming on her lips, the harsh rise and fall of her chest, and then the blood - his blood - smeared on her sternum, her breasts, her stomach.
His breath was cold and heavy, but it hitched slightly when her fingers wove themselves into his hair. Kneading. Massaging the roots she'd abused minutes ago.
"The next time I fuck you," he breathed, voice gravelly as his hands slid up her neck, and his thumb swiped more of his blood across her bottom lip, "you're going to listen to me. You're going to look into my eyes when you come."
"And the next time I try and kill you," she whispered back, "the gun I use won't be out of bullets."