All right, this is all the chapters I have so far! When I return from my trip, I will resume writing. Hopefully this chapter makes up for the small hiatus.
Trigger Warnings: dub-con on Hermione's part because Draco is drunk.
Chapter Fifteen
Hermione has a difficult time sleeping that night.
He's somewhere in the house, she knows that. She can feel it. She skips dinner, not knowing if she can face him after what happened. It's not like he'd apologize, even though he should.
She sits at her vanity and stares at herself in the mirror. At her smooth brown skin and full lips. Her braids, organized in neat boxes on her scalp. The curves of her shoulders and breasts.
Wonders who she is.
She doesn't want to believe that Malfoy would have gone through with it. That he would bite her and use the biological response to force her. He's not like that. She can't believe he's like that. Because if she does, then she has to change her views on what her life will be like at the manor. Her friends living here won't matter. She'll be nothing but a blood slave.
Is that what he wants? Did he enjoy her being on the couch, trapped beneath him, pinned and at his mercy? Did he like the smell of her fear, the sight of her tears?
Would he truly not care if she died?
She supposes she should feel more traumatized. She should hate him.
But she doesn't. All she feels is sadness. Why did everything have to be like this? Why couldn't it just be like she wanted? Living here with Malfoy, Tillian, and Faye. Spending the days with her friends and evenings with Malfoy fulfilling her part of the agreement. And he'd been decent to her before, in a way that made her feel like giving him her blood was something to look forward to, not dread.
Now what's she supposed to feel?
The next day, she decides to throw herself into her potion making with Pinky. At some point, Pinky leaves to work on lunch. Hermione stays behind, taking notes on what she'd learned so far. The potion's coming along well enough. She's only got one more step to nail down, and then she'll be able to start the trials stage. Maybe this potion is the answer to her problems.
Maybe she shouldn't enjoy it.
The hair on Hermione's body prickles and she looks up, stumbling backward away from the table.
Malfoy's standing in the doorway dressed in black slack trousers and a dark green button-up. He's chewing on the inside of his mouth, watching her with a tentative expression. They gaze at one another across the room, him leaning his shoulder against the door frame and her holding her quill. Ink drips down to the floor, leaving spots of black to fade into the dark stone. The silence is thick, so thick.
She wants to ask him for the truth: would her death mean nothing to him?
He takes a step forward, into the room.
Hermione moves back quickly, hitting the wall beneath some shelves of potion ingredients.
Malfoy stops. He runs his fingers through his messy hair, averting his gaze. It sweeps over her work, over the cauldron and parchment and ingredients.
"What are you working on?" His voice sounds as quiet as it is when he's feeding.
"A potion," she replies, nearly snapping her quill from how hard she's holding it.
"Oh, has Pinky been helping you?"
"Yes, she performs anything that needs to be done with magic and a wand." Hermione bites her lower lip, trying to think of what to say. How to talk to him. Not that she knew how to talk to him before. Not without bickering. "She's very helpful."
"She is." Malfoy moves toward the other side of the heavy wooden table. He picks up one of the parchments and glances down at it. "This combination of ingredients are...New. I've never heard of a potion that uses them like this."
Guilt that Hermione doesn't want to feel starts to spiral in her stomach. "It's something I'm making from scratch."
"Hm." He arches one eyebrow and gives the table another sweeping look. He picks up another parchment. "Sichuan peppercorns? Urtica dioica leaf? Selkie scales? Clear quartz fragments? This is a bizarre combination. And the quartz counteracts with the Selkie scales. Just...What?"
"Yeah," she says with a small, halting laugh. "Just trying some new things to see what works."
Then, he asks the question she doesn't want him to ask.
"What does it do?"
The guilt is heavy, and she's mad at it. She shouldn't have to feel guilty after what he did to her yesterday, but...She does.
"To block the effects of certain things."
"Effects of what?" He sets the parchment down.
Her heart slams in her chest. She winces.
"Vampire saliva."
The tranquility in his eyes explodes. In a great show of ire, he sweeps his arm over the entire table, destroying everything. Her cauldron spills hot liquid out onto the tabletop and floor, nearly burning her feet through her slippers. It spills all over her parchment, ruining each one. The ingredients have scattered into various places. There's glass and clay earthen pots that have crashed to the floor and shattered.
"Why did you do that?!" Hermione cries in anger. "I've been working on that for two weeks! What the Hell is wrong with you?!"
"I don't give a fuck. You're not finishing that potion."
"Why not?!"
"Because I said so."
Hermione wants to throw her quill down but she knows watching it slowly float to the ground would be embarrassing for all parties involved.
"Why don't you get it?!" she shouted. "I don't want to feel what you do to me anymore! I don't want you to have power over me!"
"Oh, please." He lets out a mirthless laugh. "If you think a potion is going to keep you from feeling anything with me, you've lost all the brains you touted around at Hogwarts."
"Don't be so cocky," she spits, hands in fists. The quill has snapped and finally fluttered down to the ground. "You're the one who said it. I'd hate myself. That the only way I'd let you fuck me is with your fangs in my throat and my blood in your mouth. Right? That's what you said, isn't it?"
"Don't test me."
"Or else what?!" she screeches, the fury in her eyes for once matching his. "You'll throw me down on the couch and teach me a lesson?!"
He's silent.
"I'm going to make this potion, Malfoy, whether you like it or not."
"You won't."
"I will."
Malfoy rounds the table toward her. She backs up as far as she can, connecting with the wall with a squeak. His fingers span her jaw, tilting her chin up. His body presses into her, holding her in place. She can't breathe in without him breathing out. Her hand is covered in ink.
"You're not taking this away from me, Granger."
"Taking what away?" she whispers, torn between fear and thrill and confusion.
His gaze dips to her lips, so intense that Hermione feels her skin tingle. He's never looked at her like that before, and she doesn't know what it means. His breath rolls over her, hot and smelling faintly of spearmint toothpaste.
"The chance to see you come whenever I want," he breathes, eyes dark. "Wherever I want. However I want."
Heat rises to her cheeks. "Malfoy—"
"You're not taking this. I won't let you."
"Why not?"
He closes his eyes and for a moment, looks like he's in pain.
"Because I need it."
He leaves her there, storming out of the room without so much as another word. Hermione stands there in shock with her research in pieces at her feet, her fingers touching her lips. She can almost imagine him kissing her just now. What if he had?
Would she have kissed him back?
-
Right after a dinner spent alone, Hermione finds herself reading a book in her bed with the lamps down low. She's mentally exhausted from all this drama with Malfoy, and she doesn't have the capacity to think about the things he'd said and done. It would take her full mental strength to try to figure out why he felt like he needed something from her.
It's laughable.
"The chance to see you come whenever I want. Wherever I want. However I want."
The memory makes her body feel overheated, even though she's wearing nothing but her undergarments and a dark red satin bathrobe. If he doesn't let her make the potion, she'll just have to keep trying to ignore the effects of the saliva through sheer will and determination.
Knock. Knock.
Startled out of her reverie by the sound of a knock at her door, she holds a hand to her wildly-beating heart. She glances over at the wood, with the ornate carvings laid into it, and knows who it is. Who it must be.
She hesitates, reaching up to pat the bonnet she's got pulled on to protect her braids.
And gets out of bed.
Hermione pads barefoot over her soft carpet, clutching her robe tight and cracking her door open the slightest of amounts. Malfoy's standing there wearing pyjamas. Actual pyjamas. They're black and made of the same satin as her bathrobe. She feels a tiny bit embarrassed, and more than a little nervous. He's not exactly predictable.
"What?" she says quietly.
"Can I come in?"
She hesitates again. "Why?"
He raises his hand and Hermione sees that he's holding a bottle of Firewhiskey. She takes a second look at him. At his glassy eyes, crooked grin that belongs on the Seeker who caught the Snitch, and hair falling into his eyes and sticking up in several directions. His pyjama shirt is unbuttoned, left completely open, tattoos on full display. His trousers are slung low—a bit too low. She can see the gentle v-lines arching up across each hip.
Oh, Gods.
She quickly brings her gaze back up.
"Are you drunk?"
"Trying to be. Wanna join?"
"I don't like alcohol. But..." She taps the door with her fingers. His mother just passed away. The least she can do is give him some company. "But you shouldn't drink alone. Come in."
She steps aside and he walks in. As she closes the door, he turns to face her, walking backward toward her hearth. There's an almost boyish charm to him that she's never seen. It reminds her of Hogwarts. Even though they were anything but friends, it makes her heart clench, yearning for the past.
"You're trouble, you know," he drawls, gesturing to her by lifting the Firewhiskey bottle. He sinks down into the chair by her hearth.
She comes to join him, sitting down in the other chair, immediately regretting it. The hem of her bathrobe is a little shorter than she's like it to be.
"How am I trouble?" she asks.
"The Dark Lord is this," he holds up two fingers, pinching them almost together, "close to finding out about you."
Her stomach churns. "What?"
"It's complicated." He takes a swig of alcohol, relaxing in the chair. Hermione stares at his abdomen for a solid five seconds before yanking her gaze back up. Again. "Remember how my father said people were whispering? Yeah, well, the whispering is starting to get a little louder. No doubt my father had a hand in it these past few days."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, there's always been soirees. Every week, or month, the Death Eaters get together. I told you about that. I never go. The Dark Lord doesn't like that—he doesn't like his Death Eaters to isolate themselves. If you're isolated, you can't be watched."
"Why didn't you go?" There's no fire in the hearth tonight, so she's starting to feel a bit chilly. "If it's that big of a deal?"
"Because unlike the rest of them, I don't have a little slave thing to do my bidding." He takes another draught of the Firewhiskey. "I don't have a prisoner to suck my cock in front of a room full of people. Tch. Not that I'd ever willingly take part in that. They'd have to drag me by the ears."
As he speaks, Hermione's imagination starts to run nightmarishly wild. She knows she's going to have to go to one of those parties. Lucius made it sound inevitable. Is that what happens at them?
Is she going to be made to...To do things like that in front of people?
Sure, she and Malfoy had engaged in some...Activity...But it wasn't anything serious. The closest he'd come to touching her bare skin between her legs was when he held her knickers aside. The only time she ever felt anything on him was during a fight, right before he left for Greece, when he was trying to scare her.
Why is he always trying to scare her?
"People are getting suspicious. I've been doing what I can, lying here and there. Keeping them complacent. Letting the Dark Lord think I have a toy I don't like to share. But that won't work forever."
"Oh," she says, her voice cracking on a whisper. "What should we do?"
"I haven't the slightest clue," he says with an exaggerated shrug. "Pass away?"
She can't help but to roll her eyes. "Malfoy."
"I'm just saying." He takes another drink. "It's an option."
Hermione crosses her arms over her chest. "Well, I mean, what are the chances if you tell the truth? Instead of him finding out from someone else. What if you went to him and told him yourself?"
He bursts out laughing, holding the back of his hand over his mouth to hide the most brilliant smile she's ever seen. It thieves her breath right from her lungs.
"Tell the Dark Lord I've been harboring Undesirable Number One in my house for nearly a month? Do you want me to keep my head?"
"You're valuable to him, though, aren't you? You've been loyal? Maybe he'll let you...Keep me?" She winces, hating the conversation topic.
What even is her life now?
"You have a point there. I have been loyal."
"What's the most likely outcome if you tell him yourself?"
He lifts his hand and counts off on his fingers, as though there's several answers.
"We die."
"I doubt that, Malfoy."
"You don't know the Dark Lord like I do. I'm barely holding it together. He probably already knows whoever I'm hiding is going to make him angry. He's just waiting."
"For what?"
"That's what I don't know." He pauses before taking another drink, then sets the bottle down on the carpet beside the chair. "He's very unhappy with me for leaving Greece the way I did."
"Exactly how worried should we be?" she asks. Her fear grows.
"Ninety-two percent. No, wait...Ninety-five percent."
Hermione just stares at him. Drunk Malfoy is a strange Malfoy.
"If it's that bad, shouldn't we have a plan?" she asks.
"I told you our plan. Death."
"Plan B, then."
"Passing away."
"Plan C."
"Our lives. Ending."
"Damn it, Malfoy. Be serious. Shouldn't we discuss this?"
"Discuss what?" He runs his fingers through his already-messy hair, glaring at the floor like she isn't there. "I'll do what I can, but if they want you, they're gonna have to pry you out of my cold, dead hands."
Hermione opens her mouth, but she can't think of anything to say. He'd told her he didn't care if she died. But then he'd told her that he needed one of the most vulnerable parts of her. Which was it?
Does he care or not?
"This is very intense," she whispers aloud, more to herself than to him.
"Oh, it gets worse."
"How?"
"Let's say the Dark Lord finds out about you and things go smoothly—he lets you stay here, I keep my head, and we all live happily ever after..." Malfoy's gaze cuts across the dim lighting to greet hers. "We're going to be expected to show up."
"To the parties. Right. Why is that worse?"
"You think they'd let me parade you around and leave? Let you stand there and look pretty?" He scoffs. "They'll have their eyes on us. They'll be wanting to see how we behave together. If it looks like you're anything other than my toy, that's going to give the Dark Lord concerns. A concerned Dark Lord equals you going to another Death Eater."
"No," she says quickly, her chest seizing at the memory of what Malfoy had done and said to her on the couch. "You can't let that happen."
"I don't plan on it."
Somehow, Hermione doesn't think he can keep that promise.
"How is..." She speaks haltingly, carefully. "How have you been...Well, since..."
"Since what?"
"I—your mother...She—"
"Fine." Gone is the chipper tone. Back is the flat, dead, cold one.
"Are you sure?"
"I said I'm fine."
Malfoy is definitely not fine.
"Okay," she says. "Will there be a funeral?"
"Yes. Tomorrow."
"All right."
They sit in silence for a couple of minutes. Malfoy doesn't seem to be nearly as fidgety and uncomfortable as she is, preoccupied with his own thoughts. Hermione wonders if she should tell him she wants to go to sleep, or if he wants to talk about something else. She can't bear the awkward quiet any longer.
"Do you know how much I hate myself?" Malfoy's dark tone draws Hermione's gaze. He's still staring at the ceiling. "More than anything."
"I—I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry to me. For anything. You have never once done a single thing wrong."
Her heart beats faster. "You've made it seem different lately."
He lifts his head up. She feels trapped in his line of sight, pinned in her chair by a combination of ice and fire. She's hyper-aware of the bonnet on her head and wishes he would stop looking at her because now she's more self-conscious.
"Did I fuck up?" he whispers.
"Fuck up? Fuck what up?" she asks. Her hands tremble, so she slides them beneath her thighs to try to hide it.
"This."
She doesn't know what he means by that. Her chest won't stop clenching tight. Her stomach curls and curls, so tight she wants to hide from him.
"Is there...Anything to fuck up?" she replies.
"Yes."
His answer is so sure, so devoid of question, that she feels dizzy. What does he mean? Why does he keep confusing her like this? What is she supposed to feel?
The room feels too small.
She rises to her feet. "Maybe we should go to bed."
He stands, too, towering over her. "Maybe we should."
The longer they stand there, doing nothing but staring at one another, the less air she takes in. He's so close that if she reaches out, she'll be touching the hard plane of his stomach. That abdomen, those tattoos...The raw power of a vampire, running through his muscles like a river bisecting a forest.
Something's definitely wrong with her.
"Granger?" he says.
"Yes?" She tears her eyes away from his torso. For the third time that night.
"I hate myself for what I did to you on that couch."
Too much. Too intense. She turns her face away.
"It's okay. We were—"
"No." His hand brushes her jaw, turning her face toward his again. His knuckles push her chin up. "It's not okay."
Why is he looking at her like that?
"You're the only thing I have left from before." His voice is strong. Solid. Not breaking. "The only thing that isn't tainted by darkness."
She can't breathe.
He's drunk. He's drunk. He's drunk.
"You are special. You're different than the rest of them. I couldn't hurt you if I tried."
"You're drunk," she whispers, digging her fingernails into her palms to try to distract herself from the shaking in her thighs. She wants to close her eyes, to pretend she's not in this room.
"I'm hungry." Now, his voice finally cracks. "So hungry."
Her throat feels dry. "Did you want to...? Right now?"
He reaches for the elastic edge of her bonnet and tugs it off, sending her braids cascading to the small of her back. He smooths his hand over them, fingers scraping the bare parts of her scalp between them. It makes her eyelids flutter.
"I wish I could sink my fingers into those curls," he says, sounding almost dejected. "All I ever thought about at school...Just wanted to put my hands in them and hold tight."
"Now, I know you're drunk," she says, an incredulous laugh bubbling out of her chest.
"Am I?" He's placed his hand on the crook between her neck and shoulder and is now walking her backward toward her bed.
"Very, very drunk."
As he studies every part of her face, he hums, low in his chest. "Hm...Maybe."
The backs of her knees hit the side of her bed, and they stop. She shivers when his hands sweep her braids back, slow and intentional. He takes the arm of her robe and tugs, exposing her shoulder. With yet another hard gulp, she tilts her head to the side, offering him her neck.
"Go ahead," she says.
He descends upon her, laving his tongue against her pulse for a moment. It sends jolts of something electric to her core, and he has yet to bite her. He does it again, his lips brushing her skin, moving up and down the side of her neck.
Wait...
Is he kissing her neck?
He's never kissed any part of her before—it's always looks and bites. But right now, he's kissing her neck, the hinge of her jaw, her earlobe.
His tongue curves around the shell of her ear and she sees white. Her knees go weak and she falls against him, her hands flat on his bare chest. His skin is soft, hot to the touch. She can feel his heart beating another tattoo into it, rapid and fluttering.
She's never felt that before.
"Wh-What are you doing?" she asks, breathless.
"Whatever I want."
Whenever. Wherever. However.
Oh, Gods. Oh, Gods.
She might get lost in this.
She doesn't want to feel these things when he hasn't bitten her. Because if she does...If she does, then that means...
The potion is useless if he turns her on without the need for it in the first place.
Perhaps he knows that. Perhaps that's why he's drunk now, kissing scorching hot lines up and down the side of her neck and over the curve of her shoulder. She feels his hands dragging down her sides and around her lower back.
He sinks his fangs into her neck right as his fingers grip the flesh of her bottom, squeezing and kneading as though it's all he's thought about doing for years. Her head falls back with an escaped sigh as he massages her, pulls her up onto the tips of her toes, drags her firmer against him. The hem of her robe moves higher and higher, until she feels the tips of his fingers on her knickers and bare skin.
Those hands slide down toward her thighs and pick her up. She yelps as she's hoisted into the air and deposited on the bed, all without Malfoy's fangs ever leaving her flesh. She can feel the heat of arousal starting to increase, but she tries to fight against it. She doesn't need the potion. She won't. She can do this on her own.
Malfoy surprises her by alternating between consuming the blood from her wounds and kissing her neck. His body settles on top of hers, cradled between her quivering thighs. The heat in her body starts to swell and intensify, like it always does, and she curls her toes to keep herself from moving her hips.
She keeps her eyes closed, trying and failing to ignore the feeling of his tongue and his lips. The sound of his heavy breathing. Resisting her urge to relax into it and feel. She can't. They have to stay disconnected. They have to.
His lips find their way down her shoulder again, nips of teeth and tongue following. She tries counting Hippogriffs in her head. Tries imagining that the arousal is trapped behind a wall. Tries everything she can not to let herself be taken under. Reminds herself of all the times he said she didn't matter when he was sober. How he said he didn't care if she died.
Even if it contradicts everything he's said to her tonight, she has to fight it.
She doesn't want to get hurt.
"Fuck," she hears him groan after taking another bite, this time from the fleshy part of the top of her shoulder. He's holding himself up with one forearm, his other hand trailing down the back of her thigh. "You're so soft. And you taste so good."
Hermione does mental jumping jacks. Cartwheels. Shoots arrows. Swims through the sea. Anything to keep her mind off what he's saying.
"Always looked at your legs in school, Granger. When you wore your skirt." He pants the words out, licking blood that has dripped down toward her chest. He runs his tongue slowly from the skin above her breast up to the bite marks. As he does this, his body grinds against hers. "In Potions, when you'd sit on the stool, I could see your thighs. Thought about bending you over Snape's desk, fucking you there."
What.
What.
What.
Her mental images of her doing complicated Arithmancy problems are destroyed, replaced by a very graphic image of Malfoy bending her over Professor Snape's desk.
She starts reciting lines from Muggle poetry in her head. This is not how she expected the night to go. Drunk Draco Malfoy was a much more talkative Draco Malfoy, and sober Draco Malfoy was already talkative enough. Drunk Draco Malfoy was...Well, he was a shy witch's worst nightmare. He was Hogwarts' era Hermione Granger's worst nightmare.
"Imagined sitting next to you in History of Magic, fucking you with my fingers while Professor Binn droned on and on."
His tongue is in her ear. She clenches her teeth, squeezing his sides with her thighs as she fights against it with everything she has.
"Wanted to grab those fucking curls while I fucked you from behind in the library. You would have liked that, wouldn't you? Coming on me in front of all those books."
Well. She's going to pass away. Muggle Heaven will need to prepare for her imminent arrival.
"I'm gonna feel you now."
Wait—What?
Her body jerks in surprise when his hand slips between their bodies, and down into the front of her knickers. She's torn, dancing between nervousness and excitement. When his fingers pass through the embarrassing amount of wetness that has gathered there, touching her sensitive clit with gentle precision, she nearly faints in her attempts to hold her sounds back.
Down there. He's touching her.
Draco Malfoy is touching her down there.
He bites her again, groaning into a third set of wounds. Her blood is soaking into her coverlet. His long fingers slide slowly into her cunt, moving with the practiced movements of an experienced man.
"There's a good girl. You can take it, can't you?"
Why, oh why, must he call her that?
There's a scream trapped in her chest. This is nothing like her own fingers. It's better. More than better. She can feel every inch of his fingers, and she wants nothing more than to feel them move within her. She opens her eyes for a second, trying to gather her bearings.
He's watching her, blood dripping from his face and eyes violet.
Why is he always watching her?
"I'm gonna fuck you with them now, Granger. Okay?"
He says it like he's warning her.
She nods.
Hermione turns her head to the side, and Malfoy's lips find her throat. He bites her a fourth time and spills blood from tender flesh. The moment his fangs sink in, he pulls his fingers out of her and pushes them back in. He does it again. And again. And again.
She wants to scream.
It feels so good.
Malfoy drinks her blood like it's the nectar of the gods, seeming more focused on that than on his fingers. He's moving them so fast, slamming them back inside of her in a way that makes it feel impossible for her to stay still. He's hitting a spot inside of her that she didn't know existed.
Her legs start to tremble with violence. She's going to come in five seconds if he doesn't slow down, and then she'll fail. She cannot fail.
"S-Slow down," she squeaks out, her teeth chattering. She runs her hands along his chest, eyes closed again as she feels him. As she tries to distract herself.
He does, and she feels the tidal wave pulling away from the shore. Thank Merlin. She gets her bearings again.
"Fuck," he hisses, his thumb swiping over her swollen clit while his fingers curl inside. Her eyes roll up into her head. "If I could have done this at school, I swear to Salazar."
"Malfoy," she pushes out through clenched teeth. "You have to slow down."
He doesn't say anything, but he pulls his soaking wet fingers out of her body and touches her clit. Massages it like he wants it to know how special it is. It sends her body into a black hole.
"You gonna come on them?" he asks right before he smooths his tongue over the wounds he created. A particularly soft stroke of his fingertips dangles her off the precipice. Her eyes open wide and meet his.
Oh, Gods. Oh, Gods. She's trying so hard to hold it back. Sweat's sliding down various parts of her body. Her fingernails are practically tearing the skin on his shoulders. She's right there. Right—
"Slow down, please!" she gasps out, before he can get her there. "Please, please."
He stops and lifts his head from her neck a fraction, looking up into her eyes through his disheveled hair and his long lashes.
"What's wrong?"
She chokes on air, her legs shaking. "Nothing."
He places his hands on the bed beside her shoulders, lifting himself up onto his hands and knees. He licks the blood off of his lips, tilting his head to the side.
"This is my fault, isn't it?"
"What? Nothing's your—your fault."
"It's because of what I did," he whispers, his brow furrowing. "You're scared of me."
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes forth. Because she is scared of him. She's scared of him and the things he makes her feel. The things he does to her. The hot and cold of him. How cruel he can be out there, when in here, he practically worships her.
He places his hand against the curve of her cheek, something she knows he would likely not do if he weren't drinking. His thumb strokes her cheekbone, tender. Gentle. "I'm not going to hurt you, Granger. I promise."
"I wish..." There's a sudden lump in her throat. "I wish I could believe you."
He frowns for a moment, still touching her cheek, before a hardened determination enters his eyes. Like he's trying to prove himself at Quidditch.
"I'll show you."
He pulls her closer by the hips, hovering over her on his forearm again. It causes her thighs to widen further. Her entire body feels hot, with arousal and embarrassment. The embarrassment fades when he slips past her knickers and, without taking his eyes off her face, thrusts three fingers into her cunt.
This would not be happening if he were sober, she tells herself. This wouldn't be happening.
Because his fangs are nowhere near her throat.
He starts fucking her with his fingers again, setting up and keeping a brutal pace, guiding her to her undoing. Trying to coax her orgasm from her. Turning her into someone she doesn't recognize. She feels it moving through her body like a freight train. It starts at the tips of her curling toes and ends at the top of her head. Her back arches and her hands curl into fists by her head.
Why, why, why must he look at her face?
"Don't fight it, Granger," he whispers, and then he dips his head close to hers, nuzzling his nose against hers. "Let go."
She's still holding back. Sweating from the effort.
"It's okay." His breath pushes into her mouth, their lips only centimeters apart. "You can come."
She shakes her head frantically. She wanted to prove him wrong, but...There's nothing inside her head. No counting. No recitations. Nothing.
Just him.
"Let me take care of you." His fingers slip out of her and rub gentle circles over her clit. "Let me make you come."
Hermione tries. She tries very hard.
But she moans.
It's a small one. Barely audible. But it seems to do something to Malfoy because suddenly, he's leaning over her with his hand on her chin, forcing her head to stay in place.
"Look at me," he says, his voice still barely louder than a breath. His fingers keep circling. It's too much and it's not enough.
She keeps her eyes shut. If she looks at him, he'll see it. He'll see that he's right.
"Come on. Look at me."
"I don't want to."
"Let me see your eyes when you come."
"No. I don't want you to."
He growls in frustration, fingers digging into her jaw.
"Be a good girl for me and open your fucking eyes."
She can't take it anymore.
Hermione opens her eyes.
His are on fire.
The moment their gazes lock, he slips his fingers back into her cunt and for lack of a better word, rails her with them. It makes her entire body shake. It's so intense that her back lifts from the bed and she rakes her fingernails down his arm. Feeling the tendons and the taut muscles as he takes and takes and takes. He's groaning into her mouth, a hair's-breadth from kissing her.
"I—Gods." She doesn't want to talk but the words spring unbidden to her lips. Her hips jump to meet his movements. She can't close her eyes—she's lost in his. "Please, Malfoy. Please, please."
"That's it. Just like that. Such a good job."
"I'm so close. Please. I need—I want—"
"Ask me nicely."
"Please make me come." She says it in the smallest of voices. Her cheeks burn.
"There's a good fucking girl. I want you to come on them. I want you to come on my fucking fingers."
She comes, the supernova swelling and growing. The flames burn through every inch of her body. She pants for air, breathing heavily and trying not to cry out. He fucks her still-convulsing body with those same fingers, on and on and on. She's never felt anything like it. It's so intense her vision blacks out, darker than midnight.
He pulls his fingers out of her and slides his arm under her back. Raising himself up on his other hand, his mouth returns to her neck, attacking her open wounds with ferocity. Relieving her of all the blood she can afford to give him. Taking what he wants. Hermione lies limp in his hold, her fingernails absentmindedly scraping through his hair, letting the softness of the strands help her come back down to earth.
When he's full, he pulls his head back to look at her. With his chest heaving and her blood painting his chin, he looks her dead in the eyes.
"I didn't mean what I said. I would care if you died. I would care more than I've cared about anything in my life. The last thing I want is to lose you. Not now that I've got you."
Promptly collapsing on her bed beside her, he closes his eyes and starts snoring.
What just happened?