Trigger Warnings: borderline attempted non-con by Draco. Don't worry—he doesn't do it. It's another one of his stupid demonstrations because he always has to follow up being nice with being an ass napkin.
Buckle up.
Chapter Fourteen
Narcissa Malfoy is dead.
That knowledge drifts to the forefront of Hermione's mind when she wakes. From what she remembers of her, Narcissa was a put-together woman with an air of regality about her that only she could have. Every time Hermione had seen her, she walked with her head held high, black-and-white hair slicked back into a severe chignon. Lucius may be an awful man, and their son a prat with an inability to have an emotion without short-circuiting, but Narcissa never inspired negative feelings in Hermione. If she thinks back to the last time she saw the woman, when they were all in the Malfoy Manor drawing room, she remembers that Narcissa flinched every time Hermione screamed.
So did Malfoy.
Malfoy hadn't shown any emotion other than anger when his father told him about his mother's death. Maybe it was because he'd been focused on Hermione. Or maybe it was because he's seen so much death that he's now desensitized to it—even in family. But it doesn't fit her idea of Draco Malfoy. Malfoy was never someone who hated his parents. From what Harry said, the reason he let the Death Eaters into the castle was because he wanted to save his parents.
That must have changed. Because the amount of vitriol she heard in his voice when he spoke to Lucius yesterday was...Intense. He talked to him like he hated him for more than just who he was as a father. Like he blamed him for anything and everything bad that had ever gone wrong in his life.
Maybe it's Occlumency. It was easier for Malfoy to Occlude as much as possible, letting only enough out to fuel his anger. Whatever he can do to keep from falling apart. She wonders what a broken Draco Malfoy would look like.
She wonders if she'll be the one to see it when he collapses.
Hermione turns her head to the right, seeing the now-familiar décor of his room. It's surreal, what her life has become. She's gone from lying prisoner at the bottom of a filthy pit, wasting away, to being purchased by Draco Malfoy. To being taken to Malfoy Manor and told she's going to be a food source for someone whose blood is just as filthy as hers now. Coming up with plans to manipulate him to get her only friends back. Eating like a queen. Dressing like a Pureblood witch of stature. Lying in Draco Malfoy's bed after his father nearly killed her. Healing bite marks and trying to brew a potion that will keep herself from becoming aroused by them.
Being told she's a good girl by the one person she never thought would want to say something like that to her.
She can't think about that. If she does, the guilt will consume her and frankly, she doesn't think that's fair. Harry is dead. Ron is dead. The life she knew is dead. The war is over, and they lost. There's nothing she can do to go back, to change time and make something different happen. There's no Time-Turner powerful enough to fix this. To allow the guilt to eclipse her would be the end of her. Hermione always wanted to do the right thing. She wanted to be at Harry's side and fight when the time came. She did what she had to do, Obliviating her parents so she could sacrifice for the cause.
But she's no martyr. She doesn't want to die. She wants to survive, even if that means opening herself up to look at Draco Malfoy in a different light. That's why she's clinging to this new life. It's alien, but it's not isolated. There's one fragment of her old life remaining, even if it's one of the worst fragments.
That alone is something shameful. Knowing how many people he's killed for the very demon who took everything from her.
Her compassion and her logic have always been problematic, and this situation is no different. She knows Malfoy isn't a good man, or an honorable man. He's not even a decent one. But she can see how he's become who he is now. The puppet strings his father moved him by have been clipped and given to him to hold, to control himself. And now, he survives not for his family, but for himself. Those strings have been removed and woven into something he uses to shield himself from...Whatever it is he's running from. Fear. Guilt. Shame. Sadness. She isn't sure.
Malfoy was a bully when they were kids, but right now, he's the only thing standing between her and martyrdom she doesn't want. He's the one she must look to for protection. She may not like it much, but what choice does she have? He's familiar. He's powerful. He knows what's going on when she knows nothing. They have a mutual agreement where she gives him her blood willingly, the way that's best for him, and she gets her friends back.
She just wishes she knew why he always ceased biting to watch her. It's like he's surprised to see her while also being determined to keep her there. Like he's hovering around the Quidditch pitch when he accidentally catches the Snitch. Almost like he's committing her face to memory.
Why?
Hermione sits up, feeling infinitely better today than she did yesterday. There's a bit of soreness but Pinky's potions throughout the night helped immensely. She's able to walk to her room and bathe by herself. There are parts of her head that still ache but she finds that when she tries to focus on them, all she can feel is that same icy cold that she felt when Malfoy used Legilimency on her last night. She wonders if he left the feeling there on purpose, almost like a barrier, and she's grateful for it.
Grateful, and intimidated. Anyone who has the power to use Legilimency to place a mental blanket over the aftereffects of the Cruciatus is someone to be intimidated by. Someone dangerous. She's not surprised that all it had taken to get Lucius to leave were his words.
Malfoy isn't the boy he once was. Much had hardened him over the past year. Now, he's someone dangerous. Someone his father created.
She takes it easy that day, moving slowly through the corridors. She eats her food carefully and slowly, and she curls up in a chair in the library to read and nap off and on throughout the day. When she goes to bed, she sleeps heavy and peaceful.
Two days pass, and if Hermione's calculations are correct, All Hallow's Eve is this week. It's never been a favorite holiday for her, but she wonders if Malfoy likes it. She can recall how smug he was each year when his parents sent him enough sweets for a small army. Now, she can't imagine him enjoying a sweet without complaining that she's testing him, or something. Gods, he's so bizarre.
Malfoy returns in the afternoon of that second day, and he looks tired. Like the exhaustion clings to his bones and his organs and his mind. Fatigued. She's in the potions room, alternating between looking into a small cauldron and jotting things down on parchment with a quill that Pinky brought her. When she hears the faint sound of the Floo, echoing into the entryway, she can't help the leap of her heart. She springs to her feet.
It's not that she's happy he's home. She's just glad she won't be alone anymore.
He's sitting in one of the armchairs, the glow of the Floo still fading behind him. As Hermione comes toward the doorway, she peeks inside and sees him. He's leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head hung between his hands. He's not moving or saying anything, and she can see that he's wearing his robes open over black trousers and a black shirt with a high collar.
"Malfoy?" she says.
He doesn't lift his head. His voice is muffled. "What?"
"Erm—well, you're back."
"Yeah. I'm back."
She takes a step into the room, fidgeting with her fingers in front of her waist. She has a strange, fleeting urge to embrace him.
"If you try, you lose your hands, witch."
Well, that answered that question.
She takes ginger steps over to the small couch that sits opposite him. Sinking down onto it, she studies him. He looks like if he were to sink to the floor and never wake up again, he'd be fine with it. Tired is an understatement.
"Will you be staying for good this time?"
"Yeah." He inhales deeply, like he's waking up from having dozed off. He straightens his back, rubbing his hands over a weary face. "The Dark Lord isn't happy that I left Greece the way I did and he was going to send me back, but then he realized he needed me here."
"Oh. What for?"
He lays back in his chair, resting his head on top of it and letting his eyelids flutter shut. His eyelashes are pale where they dust over his sharp cheekbones. He really is hauntingly beautiful.
"When word of Greece's attack broke out, other countries started getting antsy. Countries who've been looking the other way. But the Dark Lord is paranoid—he trusts no one save for his snake. He knew there was someone watching him from within. He wanted me to find him."
"Did you find him?"
"Yeah." His voice is scratchy. He yawns. "Apparently Denmark isn't as nondescript as previously perceived. It's a small country, but it's in France's pocket."
"And Voldemort wants France."
"He's always wanted France. But he signed accords with them months ago, saying that he promised to leave them be provided they stay out of the United Kingdom. Turns out they don't feel like looking the other way anymore."
Hermione pulls her feet up onto the couch with her, wrapping her arms around her legs. She's wearing a modest dress that only stretches to her calves today. "What's going to happen?"
"I don't know. Denmark's got spies everywhere, all for France. But they're trying to act like it's not for France. But spies aren't made of smoke. They can still be caught. And when they're caught, I'm the one who questions them."
"Which is why you get to stay?"
"Yes."
Hermione tries to hide a smile. That's good. She doesn't want to be alone anymore. Even though she spends most days alone, she's realized that she rather enjoys their dinners together. Even if they spend every one of them arguing.
Malfoy lifts his head and her heart drops. There's an expression of disgust on his face.
"This isn't a good thing, Granger," he snaps. "There'll be more chances for failure."
"More chances for death," she says, swallowing. Hard. She wants to avert her eyes out of embarrassment for being so blasé, but she doesn't want to show any weakness around him.
"Yes." His head falls back again.
"And more chances to be crucioed."
"Yes."
Hermione's gaze darts over him. Over his exhaustion and his tiredness and his fatigue. It zeroes in on his hands, which are slung lazily onto the chair arms.
His fingers are trembling.
"I'm guessing you had a failure today," she says.
"Not the kind you think."
"Then..."
"How many times do I have to tell you? I left in the middle of battle. It looks like I was fleeing. I had to come up with a lie to explain. Fortunately, my father kept his mouth shut, but much of that is probably because my mother..." He trails off, and she sees a muscle twitch in his jaw. "I was cursed as punishment for leaving. Only this time, the Dark Lord did it himself."
"Does—does it hurt worse when he does it?"
"Hell yes it does."
They sit there in tense silence, the only sounds coming from the portraits in the room, who clear their throats and cough at random intervals. She wishes there was something she could do to help the situation, since it's her fault he was cursed. Especially since he did everything he could to tend to her wounds afterward. She chews on her lower lip, staring at the floor with unfocused vision.
"Stop."
She looks up at him, teeth still pressed into her lower lip. He's looking right at her. The look in his eyes isn't the same as the one she saw yesterday. He's Occluding now, so all she sees is stone and ice. Darkness.
"Stop what?"
"Thinking I care."
Something lances through her—something that hurts. "Oh. Sorry."
"If you think I care about you, then you're sorely mistaken. You're here to serve a purpose. Nothing else."
The longer he sits there, staring at her, the more concerned she gets. His eyes are just...Dead. Lifeless. More so than when she first got here. There isn't even anger.
It's disturbing.
It's also a lie.
"No, I don't think so," she says. "I think you care. And I think it makes you angry because you don't want to care about anything."
"There you go again, thinking you're special."
Hermione doesn't say anything. They've gone through that part before. She doesn't believe him.
"You think I've forgotten," he says with a short, condescending laugh.
"Forgotten what?"
"Zabini's estate." Her smugness falters. "Making deals with my money. What makes you think you get to have a say in how I spend it?"
"Because you told me we could get my friends."
"I didn't say we. I said I will get them. I will work on it."
"Well, you're taking too long."
"It's my money. My house. I'll take as long as I want."
"Fine, then it's my blood. Maybe I'll stop letting you have it."
"I told you when you got here that you didn't have a choice. Your blood is mine, whether you like it or not."
She sits there for a moment, fuming. Thinking of what to say next. She knows she's making him angrier by the second, but she's angry, too. She doesn't like these games he's playing, telling her horrible things then treating her like a precious artifact when he feeds from her. He's a liar, and she's tired of it.
"I'll just stop giving it willingly. You'll have to take it."
"That won't be a problem. You think I've let anyone else have the choice I gave you?"
"Oh, the cup-or-vein non-choice?" she snarls back at him. Indignation threads its way through her veins, making them thrum with energy. She wants to hit him in his stupid face with a pillow, or with her hand, or—or something. "You say I'm not special, yet you just said it yourself. You gave me a choice you haven't given anyone else. Why am I different?"
She almost smirks. She's got him on a hook. Because she's always right.
"I know what you're doing," she continues matter-of-factly. "You're using Occlumency. You rely on it to survive. That's why you're so empty and why you say such awful things."
"Empty?" He sneers at her. "The only thing that's empty is your head for forgetting who you are, and who I am. I don't give a flying fuck about you. You mean nothing to me."
She doesn't believe him. She won't. Not after hearing him murmuring those things to her, holding her while she slept. Not after the way he took care of her, after he came to stop his father from killing her. He has thoughts about her, she just doesn't know what they are or why they're present.
"It's dangerous, you know," she says.
"What is?"
"To rely on Occlumency. If you push your emotions down for too long, one day, you might not be able to feel anything ever again. Or worse—you might break."
"And what, pray," he hisses through clenched teeth, "am I relying on it for?"
"Hiding. Running. Being a coward. Like you always have been."
She hears a tearing sound. His claws are out, and he's torn the upholstery on his chair.
"I don't hide. I don't run."
Hermione lets her feet fall to the floor, adjusting her skirt. Her tone is flippant.
"Oh, that's not what I mean. I mean from before."
"Before? Before what?"
"The war. Don't you remember? You ran at the first sign of danger. Always sniveling and whimpering. I still remember the way you cried when I punched you in the nose Third Year. Remember?"
She contemplates the idea of looking down at her nails, for effect, but decides against it. She doesn't want to push it. She just wants him to admit he's doing more harm to himself than he should.
And maybe she's a little hurt.
"You're on thin ice, Granger." His voice is the same low, dangerous tone she heard him use with Lucius. "Thin. Ice."
"Did I hit a nerve?"
Malfoy's glaring across the distance at her, the deadness in his eyes starting to catch fire. Flaring to life with fury. He looks like he wants to murder her. It frightens her, but not as much as before he left for Greece. She knows now he won't kill her. He won't hurt her.
Something shifts, flickering across his face.
"You think I won't hurt you? That I won't kill you?"
Hermione stands up, too, not wanting him to think he can intimidate her the way he always does. He can only choke her so many times before she starts to think he's bluffing.
"You promised you wouldn't. But if you can't keep your promise, you might as well turn me in to the Dark Lord. If he doesn't kill me for you, he can send me to some other Death Eater. At least they won't drink my blood and pretend to care about me while they do it."
An ice storm blasts through the fire in his eyes.
He's on her in seconds, faster than a blink. Her back hits the couch so hard it steals her breath. She catches it as he straddles her hips and hooks his fingers in the neckline of her dress. His fangs are bared and his eyes are a bright, vibrant violet. The weight of his body is immense. Immovable. His knuckles are cold where they touch her sternum.
"You think another Death Eater would be better, huh? That it?"
Hermione's eyes nearly fall out of her head, terror gripping her heart in its tight, cold fist. She grabs his wrist. Her anger has dissipated as fast as shadow in the sunlight.
"Malfoy," she says carefully. "I believe you. You don't have to—"
He places his other hand on the neckline of her dress. They stare at one another, both panting heavily for breath, waiting for the house of cards to collapse.
"You want me to show you what the others are like? What life could be like, if you were with one of them?"
"No," she says, trying to keep her voice from quivering. She hesitates before placing one hand on his chest, hoping it will wake him from this cloud of wrath. "Malfoy, I don't want that. I believe you."
"I don't think you do. So I'll show you."
The tendons on his arms stand out when he pulls with all his might, tearing the front of her dress as though it's made of paper. It exposes her chest, and the faint remnants of the bruises Lucius gave her. She feels exposed, not at all the way she feels when he's feeding from her.
This isn't the same Malfoy.
She doesn't know if it's because he was crucioed, if it's because his mother just passed, or if he's lost himself, but this isn't the same Malfoy.
Hermione fights. She kicks her legs and twists, turning and writhing to try and get out from under him. The past seven years rush to meet her at once when his fingers tangle in the braids at the back of her head and yank her head back so far that it's difficult to breathe. Her hands pushing against his chest are nothing. Twigs in the wind to him.
Malfoy slants his face over her own, his fingers reaching for the clasp of her bra.
"Is this running?"
She whimpers, trembling. She can't move. Can't even speak. Not in this position.
His claw slices the clasp. She's quick to try to hug her arms over her chest before he can see anything. It means nothing to Malfoy, because he grabs her wrists and starts pulling, forcing them open. She tries to resist, as hard as she can. So hard that she starts sweating from the exertion and the futility.
He's not even using his full strength.
"Malfoy, stop!" she screams. "Please! I believe you, okay? I believe you!"
He wrenches her arms away and slams her hands down on the couch beside her head. His eyes are hot on hers, and not the way they are when he's hungry. Cool air touches her bare chest, where she knows her breasts are exposed. She doesn't want him to see her like this.
This isn't what she wanted. This isn't how she wants him.
"Is this hiding?" he snarls. "Do I seem like a coward to you?"
"No," she whispers, her hands twisting in the grip of his. "No, you don't."
"You're fucking lucky, Granger. Why don't you understand that? Had Blaise sold you to anyone else...?"
"Okay, just—please, please don't look," she whispers, trying to will him not to tear his gaze away from hers. "If you care about me at all, you won't look. Not like this."
Malfoy narrows his eyes, but something inside of him mut have heard her because he doesn't look down. What he does do, however, is let go of one of her hands so he can trail it down the side of her ribcage. It's still tender and the combination of pain and sensitivity causes her to gasp and jolt.
She feels his fingers plucking at the waistband of her knickers and she tries not to scream. She reaches down to wrap her fingers over his. To stop him. They continue to hold each other's gazes and the fact that there's no vampire saliva involved in this makes her skin flush with heat. Her mind is too clear. She doesn't want it to be this clear.
"But you don't want to be here, with me. You want to go to some other Death Eater. Someone who'll take what he wants from you. Force it out of you."
His hand moves, but she holds it tighter, digging her fingernails into his skin as hard as she can. They continue to stare at one another. He's still got her other hand pinned. She speaks in a calm voice.
"You do not have to force me, Malfoy. You do not have to do it like this."
"Maybe I should give you to someone else myself."
"No."
"Yes. Maybe I should wash my hands of you, drop you off at Yaxley's. Maybe Warrington's. You remember Cassius Warrington, don't you? He likes it when girls scream. There's also Dolohov. I'm sure he would love to get his hands on you."
She squeezes her eyes shut, trying not to think about the fact that she has a scar from Dolohov's wand spanning her torso from waist to opposite hip. "Why are you doing this? I believe you."
He's so angry. The veins of hunger have started to appear underneath his eyes. His fangs almost glint, they're that sharp. He's lost to it.
"You know how easy it would be for me to sink my fangs into you, to force you to want it?" he says, tilting his head to the side. "How easy it would be to fuck you with my fingers? To make you come all over them? Huh? All it would take is one bite."
Something about seeing him say those things in the daylight, seeing his lips form around the words, watching his hair fall into his eyes, hearing the huskiness of his voice...She wants him to do it. She wants him to bite her, sink his fangs in, his fingers in. To touch her breasts and run his tongue over them. Her head is clear, and she wants him.
What's wrong with her?
"You'd hate yourself," he continues, bringing his lips close to her ear. "You'd hate me more than you already do."
"I don't hate you," she whines. "I don't hate you, Malfoy. I don't."
"Want me to show you what another Death Eater would do to you?"
His hand pushes past hers like it's a feather, sliding down her mons and between her thighs, where it pauses. She's trembling, confusing feelings rippling throughout her body. She doesn't want another Death Eater. She wants to stay here, with Malfoy. She does want to feel his hand down there.
Just not like this.
It rises up within her, like a tsunami. She crumbles into tears, sobbing beneath him with one hand trapped and the other wrapped in his shirt. It's humiliating, but she can't help it. Her heart hurts. She's afraid. She doesn't like being afraid.
"Please, please, please. Don't do it like this. You don't have to do it this way. But if you do—if you do...I'll never forgive you. Never."
"Are you afraid, Gryffindor?"
"Yes," she splutters, tears rolling unchecked down her cheeks. "Yes, I'm afraid. I don't want it to be like this. This isn't how I—What I meant. I already want you that way."
"What?"
She exhales the words.
"I said I want you."
He blinks. In a dreamlike state, he brushes his knuckles over her cheek, like he's somewhere else in his mind entirely. Something shifts in his eyes at her admission. Pages peeling back, a book opening for the briefest moment. It's an emotion, she just can't read it. Then, like candle flame, it's gone.
He places one foot on the floor and gets off of her. Then, standing beside the couch, he reaches down to grab her by the throat. He drags her torso up, off the couch, and holds her tearful gaze with his own.
"You think someone else could take care of you better?" he growls. "Fuck you, Granger. Fuck you. You could die, and I wouldn't give a shit."
Unceremoniously, he drops her onto the couch. He walks away, toward the door, leaving her with her tears and a ripped dress. She's hurt. She's scared. She's mortified.
Most of all, she's furious.
She gets to her feet, stepping out of her dress and chasing after him in her knickers, with one arm over her chest. He's already halfway down the corridor.
"Next time," she shouts angrily, "don't Apparate across countries and oceans to get to me when I'm in trouble. Don't treat my wounds. Don't hold me. Don't fucking whisper soothing things to me. Just let me die."
He stops, doesn't turn around. She sees his pale hair from behind. It looks almost translucent. It takes him a second more, and then instead of continuing to walk, he Apparates to somewhere unknown. When he's gone, Hermione crumples to the floor on her knees. She looks down at her hands. They're trembling.
She's in over her head.