Trigger warnings: extreme EXTREME dubcon. Like I said in the previous chapter, some may consider this noncon. And I mean it when I say EXTREME. There's also an orgasm that happens when she doesn't want it to, but only because they're in front of the Death Eaters. Hermione is NOT raped, however if she didn't consent to him doing whatever he had to do including this beforehand, what he does would be considered sexual harassment. If rape and sexual assault are a trigger for you, this chapter has a massive warning.
This chapter is tough to get through. But remember the situation they are in, and know that it won't break them.
I am VERY nervous to post this chapter, but I know it must be done.
I would consider this chapter to have a toe dipped into dead dove territory. Just a toe, since Draco and Hermione are both victims in this, in different ways.
Chapter Twenty
Carrow's eyes openly follow her as she limps into a small room with marble floors and stone walls. There's floor-to-ceiling windows, through which a starry sky and full moon shines through, illuminating a long rectangular table. Chairs with extremely tall backs line each side of the table, each one filled by a Death Eater. Some she recognizes, like Dolohov, both Carrows, Bellatrix, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, Lucius, and a faint recognition of the black hair and ice-blue eyes of Cassius Warrington. The others blur together. The largest chair rests at the far end, and the Dark Lord is seated upon it.
Malfoy chooses the first chair they encounter–the furthest one on the side of the table that faces them. Hermione casts a quick glance to the wall, where there are several scantily-clad women in various states of wounded teetering on high heels. She only recognizes one. A Slytherin girl from her year that had fought on their side, Tracey Davis. Hermione can see in the girl's brown eyes that she recognizes her, too.
These women are slaves.
Malfoy seats himself, leaving Hermione standing beside him.
The table is set with silver dishware, plates and utensils and chalices. There are wine bottles peppered along its length. Right as Hermione registers they're there, Carrow stands from his seat halfway down the table, facing Malfoy's side of it.
"My Lord, some of your younger followers are eager to earn your favor. They have sent their slaves to serve us in any way necessary."
"How kind," Voldemort says, and he snaps his fingers. House Elves appear to fill the plates with food that looks more gourmet than even the food at Malfoy Manor. "You may tell them I am pleased."
"Anything for you, my Lord." Carrow bows his head and sits down. He then gestures to the women and beckons them. "Serve us wine."
They begin to do so.
Hermione's knees tremble. Her heels are too high, standing nearly four inches. Her wounds are too great, too overwhelming. She pitches forward, a hand on the table.
Several sharp glares turn to her. Malfoy wraps his hand around her forearm and digs his nails in until she's gasping in pain.
"Keep your filthy, dirty hands off of the Dark Lord's table," he growls up at her.
"I can't stand," she protests in spite of the fact that she's not supposed to speak without being asked a question.
"If you fall, I will beat you until you cannot see. Remain standing."
Hermione has no choice.
The dinner progresses, several conversations taking place as the food is consumed. She catches random fragments. Things about France and Greece. Muggle London being nearly completely destroyed. Sexual preferences and repulsions. Remarks about the food. Showering Voldemort with over-the-top compliments. Complaints about the lack of progress on something in the Ministry.
As time goes on, Hermione can't stand for a second more. She's in too much pain. Her legs are like jelly and her ankles feel like they've been snapped even though they haven't.
She collapses onto the floor.
The dinner conversation lapses for a moment. Malfoy's glaring down at her with his fork halfway to his mouth.
I'm sorry, she thinks, hoping he's listening to her thoughts. I tried but I'm too weak. I'm so sorry.
"Draco, what are you doing?" One of the Death Eaters Hermione doesn't recognize says. He's right across the table, and one seat over. "Beat the Mudblood bitch. I wanna see her bleed again."
Malfoy stands up from his chair, his glare still fixed on her.
Hermione starts to scramble backward, holding one hand up in defense over her head. It's no use. She's dragged up onto her aching feet and before she can blink, he's striking her across the face. He does it again. He backhands her. He slams her against the wall and ignores her scream as he continues to hit her. Again and again and again. Until blood comes from her nose and fills her mouth.
There's a barren wasteland in his eyes.
When Hermione's dazed and at her limit, she pushes at his chest with feeble hands. She can't speak. She's in too much pain.
Malfoy lets her go, and she drops to her knees again, her hands on the floor between them.
"Do not disobey me again," he says, and then he returns to his meal.
Hermione holds onto his whispered words from the door, grips them tight and close to her heart. He's doing what he has to. After this, the Dark Lord will believe the false memories. She'll get to stay at the manor with Pinky and the library and her dresses and her big bed. She'll get to have her friends.
She'll get to stay with him.
She has to stay strong and make it through this.
Gathering up her strength, what little is left, she gets to her feet and takes her place at Malfoy's side.
After some more conversation and eating, Bellatrix makes a loud, annoyed sound.
"We were promised a show. I want a show."
Several Death Eaters speak up their agreement, including Lucius. Hermione's skin crawls and she wills her heart to slow down. She has to breathe.
This is it.
Malfoy finishes his bite, chewing slowly before reaching for his wine. "What would you like me to do, Aunt Bella?"
"I want to see what the Dark Lord saw."
"Yes," Carrow says. His gaze is intent upon her, watching her with a greed that she doesn't want to understand. "You made it very clear that you've broken her. We'd like to see what that looks like."
"Oh, I did," Malfoy says, taking another leisurely bite.
"Then let's see it." Cassius Warrington says this. "Fuck her like the Mudblood animal she is, bent over the table like a whore."
Disgusting.
Malfoy takes another bite, and it feels like every movement of his jaw stretches her dread. The pit in her stomach is as deep as the pit he bought her from. She can't tell if he's taking his time because he wants her anxiety to increase, or because he's taking extra time to strengthen his Occlusion.
When he stands up and faces her, she can see it's the latter.
He wraps his hand around the back of her neck, bruised from his beating, and slams her facedown on the table. Immediately, she starts to fight, trying to push herself back up, trying to move backward, fingernails clawing at the wood. Her struggles causes the nearby wine bottle to spill dark red liquid that reminds her of blood.
The false memories push forward, and she can't differentiate. She tries harder to fight, but shrieks in pain when he presses his left hand flat on her back and pins her down. Her hands are crushed against her chest, elbows bent and tucked into her sides. Her face is turned toward the wall, where she sees Tracey watching her with wide, tear-filled eyes, her long black hair hanging limply about her face.
She doesn't know why, but that's what makes her forget that it's not real.
"Please stop," she whispers, because she doesn't know how he's going to figure out a way to keep her safe from this. "Please."
"Louder," he growls, and then his other hand sinks into her hair. He wraps her braids twice around his hand, pulling them taut so she couldn't move her head even if she wanted to. She feels his hips at her backside and she feels her muscles tense in fright of what's coming.
He can't protect her from this. There isn't a way. He has to do it, and she has to lay there and let it happen. Nothing matters anymore.
"I said louder, Mudblood." Malfoy grinds her face hard into the wood and pulls her hair even tighter. It's then that she feels his hips rolling, as if to warn her of what's to come.
"Please stop!" She raises her whisper to a cracked wail. "I don't want–"
"I don't care what you want." His voice is hard as diamond, words growled out like a vicious beast.
Her tears start to fall, sliding sideways over the bridge of her nose and onto the few braids that are stuck beneath her cheek.
This isn't happening.
This can't be happening.
Oh, Gods, she thinks in horror. I'm begging you not to do this. I can't bear it.
All the people watching. Thank Merlin her face is turned to the wall. She doesn't want to see their leering, hideous faces. To see Voldemort sitting there, watching for whatever his purposes are.
"What's the matter, Malfoy?" Dolohov's tone is snide. "Can't get it up with an audience? You're taking too long."
Hermione squeezes her eyes shut when Malfoy takes his hand out of her braids and slips it under dress through the slit in the leg. He pulls the crotch of her knickers aside. Her body quakes with fear, knowing he has to hurt her. Knowing that if this isn't believable enough, she might die.
This isn't going to be anything like it is when they're alone.
"No. I just don't like when she's this quiet. I need her screams." Malfoy presses harder on her wounded back, shoves his fingers inside her dry cunt. "Now scream."
She does, because that's what she has to do. She does, because it hurts. She does, because she's scared.
How is he going to make this work without him putting it inside?
It's so hard to trust him.
"Filthy little Mudblood," he says, his voice a dangerous hiss, and memories of Hogwarts flash quickly across her mind. "I'm gonna fuck you in front of all these people. All these people who despise your existence."
Her teeth clench. He's being rough, but she knows there's no other option.
"You'll scream and scream, and there won't be anything you can do to make it stop."
She looks at the wall, at Tracey Davis. Feels guilty at how sympathetic her expression is. Tracey thinks this is what really happens at Malfoy Manor.
He would never do this to me, Hermione thinks, wishing she could tell Tracey that. He would never hurt me like this.
Malfoy yanks his fingers out of her core and grabs the edge of the fabric at the back portion of the dress, he tugs it up, and the slit widens so one leg is bare. He pulls it only to the swell of her rear and then leans forward with his left hand on the table. She sees the family heirloom ring on his finger, staring at the silver dragon. When she feels the fabric of his robe against both of her thighs, she realizes.
Nobody at the table can see anything.
The fabric and positioning of the dress and his robes makes it impossible. Relief floods her body, almost allowing her to relax, but then he makes a show of kicking her legs open. She nearly twists her ankles as her heels slide across the stone with a screech.
"Open those whore legs, Mudblood."
She feels his knuckles against her rear as he lowers his zipper. Feels him taking himself out. Smooth, warm skin against her rear. He moves back just enough for the watchers to see that he's holding himself, then leaning forward again so the robes coincidentally cover where their hips join.
Hermione takes a deep breath in and exhales slowly, trying to trust him.
He won't hurt me. He won't hurt me. He won't hurt me.
He lets go of himself so he can grab the waistband of her knickers. She yelps when he tears them, the fabric ripping with ease.
"Who wants them?" he says.
"I do."
A dark chill shoots through her heart.
Carrow.
She wants to throw up.
Malfoy must have tossed them to him because his hand returns to where it was before, where his cock is. It takes a few slow strokes and then he's hard. She feels the head of him brushing her skin again.
The room is silent, but she feels their gazes on her like a loud, demented laugh.
"You're worthless, you and your muddy blood," Malfoy hisses. "You deserve this."
She focuses on anything else. On his black ring and long fingers, pressed to the table right next to her. On the smell of his cologne, which she hadn't noticed before. On the gothic facades carved into the bottom of the wall behind the women standing against it. Every second that goes by is one more second that she has to wonder if he's going to do it–if he's going to put it inside.
He's not going to enter her. He's not. He wouldn't.
She hates that this is the first time she's feeling him.
He thrusts his hips against her, hard enough for her hips to slam against the sharp edge of the table. It hurts enough to make her cry out in pain. She feels the length of him beneath her, settled against her core. She steels herself when he pulls his hips back and thrusts them forward again, harder than before. His cock slides back and forth. The table rattles every time.
He didn't put it inside.
He figured out a way.
He's just going to slide it. But to the Death Eaters watching, with the strength of his thrusts, it looks real. It looks like he's inside her. They can't see that he's not.
He didn't go inside.
Though the emotion comes from relief, she allows herself to cry. Audibly. Lets them think its because he's raping her.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
He figured it out. He made it work. Found a way to take the chains that Voldemort has wrapped around them and maneuver a way out.
She could kiss him for this.
His words are horrible, coming from what sounds like a hateful, revolted person with thorns adorning his skin. She doesn't let herself hear them, directing her mind to other things that she can feel.
The cold castle air raising pebbles on her bruised and bloody skin. The stinging of the cuts on her breasts. The burning of the whip marks on her back. The bruising that's forming on her face and head. How tightly her hands are crushed between her, how some of her fingers have gone numb. The sharp edge of the table, digging in. His hand on her hip, punishing in its strength.
The slide of him as he hits her clit with every thrust.
Shame fills her to the brim, until she can't breathe. She shouldn't be enjoying this. This was something he was doing to help them survive. This wasn't a night in his bedroom with his fangs piercing her flesh.
But she can't help it.
The next thrust he makes glides with ease, causing his rhythm to staccato at the realization that she's wet. He pulls himself together before it's noticed, intensifying the pressure of his movements. Hermione is dust in the wind against the loud, strangled noise that comes out of her throat.
No. She's going to ruin everything. Everything he's done to her–everything she's endured–will be all for naught if suspicions arise. Voldemort will kill her. He'll kill Malfoy. She doesn't know how to fix it when her toes are tingling and her womb is clenching around nothing.
She doesn't know how to fix it, but he does.
"Look." He lets out a breathy laugh, the sound doing nothing to help her sudden arousal. "The filthy whore's decided to wake up and join us, hasn't she?"
"She's enjoying this, isn't she?" Warrington's voice seems as loud as a trumpet. It cracks with desire that he couldn't possibly hide. "Mudbloods...Animals."
"Disgusting," came Rabastan's reedy voice. "She should be punished."
"What do you think about that, Mudblood?" Malfoy says. His hand is wrapped around the back of her neck. "Shall I punish you right here, in front of everyone?"
She doesn't say anything, trying not to lose herself in the way her body feels. To the blazing heat that's starting to inch its way from her head to her waiting core. Heat that has nothing to do with a vampire's bite.
"I asked you a question."
Pain, blinding and severe as he rakes his nails across the wounds on her back, just above the back of her dress' bodice.
"No," she says, as audible as a mouse. "I don't."
"Well, that's too bad." He thrusts harder, and the table vibrates with it. "Because I find myself inclined to agree with Rabastan over there. You...Deserve...To be...Punished."
The thrusts come fast, punctuating his words. She feels his hands on her bottom, fingers scrunching the fabric of her dress as he kneads and squeezes like he's trying to bruise that part of her, too. Her thoughts are a minefield.
"If you come," he snarls, "I'll make sure it hurts."
Hermione feels tears springing to her eyes again, gathering like pools of rainwater. She doesn't have a choice in that. Every move he makes is torment, and her core's on fire. He uses his right hand to pin her down hard again, fingers spanning the torn skin between her shoulderblades. It makes it difficult to take in a full breath.
It's racing toward her like a comet, ice surrounded by flame.
"P-Please," she stammers, her eyes closed as tight as she can get them. "I d-dont want–"
"Don't want to what? To come?"
There's nothing coherent inside of her head. She just knows she doesn't want to come if he's going to hurt her.
But it's too late.
All it's going to take is a few more thrusts.
Slowly, she uses whatever strength she has left and inches her left hand out from under her chest, sliding it the few centimeters' distance between her body and his hand. It's where the Death Eaters can't see—her only bastion to seek reassurance from him. She slides it further, twining some of her fingers with his.
She feels his thumb stroke the back of her hand, the way someone might do the same to show affection to a lover. The tenderness soothes her, shows her that he's still in there somewhere. That none of this is real. Their fingers, tightly laced as he tempts fate.
She's going to come.
"Careful, Mudblood," he says, and in the words she hears a dark promise. "Think about what I'll do to you if you disobey."
Hermione curls her toes, scrunching them to try and keep herself from coming. Her core pulses from the effort, and the fact that he's not slowing his pace. Her imagination shifts, moves shadowy desires into place. Moving her along a path that leads to the night he was compelled, and she couldn't stop herself then, either.
She wonders what it would feel like to have him inside her.
"You're trying so hard to hold back, aren't you?" He sounds like he's enjoying torturing a small animal but to Hermione, she hears the voice he uses with her when he feeds. "Trying to keep yourself from being punished."
Hermione's breath is thieved from her. She doesn't have the mental strength to distract herself and hold back. It's going to happen, and she won't be able to stop the waves from crashing down. The stars that always die when he makes her feel this way have begun their telltale burning.
It's too good. It's too good.
Her thoughts are fraught with want. She needs him to understand.
She can't stop it.
It feels too good, Malfoy, she thinks. I'm sorry.
"Such a needy whore." He says it like he's observing something curious. "I knew I'd break you."
Gods above.
It hits her.
She can feel every ridge, every vein, every soft spot on his cock as he slides against her. The very next moment her clit is touched, she feels the comet crash into her world and destroy it. She breaks, coming with a violent jerking of her hips as twisting, rapturous vines constrict her. She turns her face, trying to hide it against the table as every synapse fires off at once, convulsing. As the pleasure that Malfoy continually gives her, again and again, leaves her reeling. Shame as heavy as morning fog sets into her psyche.
She wasn't supposed to enjoy that—not in front of these demons. Not in front of the Dark Lord.
"What a bad, bad girl," Malfoy says, and it comes out husky. Like he's on the verge of forgetting where they are. "I told you not to come. Now I have to hurt you."
Fear dawns within her and she slides her hand further under Malfoy's. He shifts his fingers so he covers the majority of them, lacing some of their fingers together with his hand on top of the back of hers. Hermione stares at their joined hands, focusing on them. The only thing that offers her comfort.
His other hand leaves her shoulderblades. The tip of his wand presses to the back of her head, sifting through braids to touch her scalp.
"Crucio."
Her shock is eclipsed by the blinding pain of the Cruciatus coursing through her veins. It spreads to every inch of her body, dipping her in flame. It doesn't feel as strong as the one he'd cast in the throne room, but it's painful enough that she's screaming and gasping for air. She has only the wherewithal to keep her body as still as she can, not wanting these awful people to get the full satisfaction they want by seeing her face. Her knuckles are white from how tightly she's holding his hand, out of their prying sight.
All except Tracey.
When Hermione's eyelids flutter open, she sees Tracey still standing against the wall. She's staring. Staring where no one who can hurt them can see.
Staring at Draco Malfoy, holding Hermione Granger's hand.
He lifts the wand and she hears several of the Death Eaters exclaiming their pleasure at seeing such a thing. At Malfoy's depravity, to crucio her when he's fucking her so deep and rough. But she knows he's not doing that–they just can't see it.
He has to make it more believable.
You have to come while you curse me, she thinks when she's still coming down from her high.
Her fingers are numb beneath his.
You have to. If they think you're doing it while you're...Hurting me, then it'll be more believable.
It seems like forever that he hesitates. Ages where Hermione struggles not to whimper as his cock continues to stroke over her sensitive core.
Do it. You have to–
"Crucio."
Screams of agony rip from her throat, torn out violently from its hoarse depths. It hurts. It hurts badly, but she stays strong. They have to get through this. Hermione's briefly aware of the fact that his thrusts have sped up. As the throes of the curse ripple through her, she pulls her legs close together, narrowing the space until she feels him sliding against the skin of her inner thighs. She can hardly believe she's in this situation, let alone feeling the length of Draco Malfoy gliding between her thighs.
It sends him somewhere else.
He holds the curse for as long as it takes him to come, and drops his wand as he's still shaking and twitching. She feels it hitting the inside of her dress. He makes a jerking movement, pretending to be pulling out of her body, and then zips himself back up. He pulls her dress back down. She feels the absence of his hand on her own, lamenting the loss of connection. The sounds of him panting for breath behind her rival the sound of her shriek when he slaps his hand against her arse. And then he's sitting in his chair and pulling her down to sit on his lap.
"Now that," Dolohov says with a wicked grin, "was a show."
"And I," Malfoy says, still catching his breath, "would like to finish my meal. Mudblood, let everyone see your pretty make-up smeared across that filthy face."
Hermione's forced to sit there while Malfoy eats his food, once again taking his time with his bites. She's dissociating, staring at the tabletop until it blurs into a dark shadow. She can feel his come, sticky and cold on her thighs where the dress touches her legs . Can feel the heat of several gazes upon her at once. Hears the clicking of heels as girls from the wall are ordered to join the men who ask for it.
By the time Malfoy takes his last bite, there are girls being violated all around her, and she feels sick with guilt knowing that she's going home to someone who cares about her enough to completely risk their lives so he could keep her safe. And when she glances down the table and sees Tracey being bent over the table by Rowle just like Hermione had been, that guilt turns viscous. It clings.
Why did the Dark Lord have to win?
"Draco, my loyal executioner," Voldemort says. "I'm very pleased with your actions here this evening. I believe you've earned the right to keep your toy to yourself for a little longer. But make no mistake–if you disappoint me, I'll send her to someone else. In fact, Amycus Carrow has already offered to accept her, if need be."
Malfoy goes rigid beneath Hermione.
Water rushes past her ears. She starts to shake.
Not Carrow.
Anything but him.
"I won't disappoint you, my Lord," Malfoy says, tone light and careful. "My loyalty runs deep and my only wish is to please you."
"We shall see. Now, run along and play. Your Mudblood soils my air."
"Yes, my Lord."
Malfoy's movements are calm and controlled. He pushes her off of his lap, and she stands on quivering legs in heels she never wants to see again. He makes her wait while he adjusts his blazer and smooths his hand through his hair.
She sneaks a quick glance up at him, wondering what she'll see in his eyes.
Stone.
He grabs her elbow none-too-roughly and pulls her toward the door.
"Oh, and Malfoy?" It's Carrow.
Malfoy stops and glances behind him. His voice sounds strained to Hermione. "What?"
"I trust you'll be coming to my estate for All Hallow's Eve? The younger Death Eaters will be very interested to see what your Mudblood looks like when you harm her."
Hermione nearly widens her eyes. The parties were held at Carrow's estate?
She doesn't want to step foot anywhere near it.
Malfoy seems to consider it before he very confidently says, "No. I have business to attend to that day. I'll attend the next one."
"That's two weeks from now."
"And you'll just have to wait patiently, Carrow. The chance to see her break tonight was a gift. A courtesy. Do not make the mistake of thinking you can order me when to show her again."
A chill runs through Hermione at the menacing tone.
Carrow makes a sound of dissent, but Voldemort cuts off anything he might have intended to say.
"You may attend the next one, Draco. You've proven your loyalty to me again and again, and tonight was no different. Take that day to yourself, and return to work the following day."
"Thank you, my Lord."
Carrow is silent, but Hermione can feel his gaze, hot as a star on her back as Malfoy pulls her out of the room.
Once out in the throne room, Hermione can feel relief planting a seed inside of her. She'll have to figure out a way to forget the awful things Malfoy had been forced to say to her all evening, but she's got things to hold on to.
Him threatening to kill his aunt to stop her Cruciatus.
Standing up to Carrow, if only to give her a little more time.
Holding her hand and stroking the back of it with his thumb, giving her the smallest jewel of security to cherish through the storm and pain.
They made it. They endured, and now they were going to be okay.
She limps along, what little adrenaline she has beginning to fade and leaving her bone-tired. With time, she knows she'll be mindless with the pain if she doesn't have some healing magic and potions. Her heels echo up to the vaulted ceilings, the empty room seeming gargantuan due to its architecture. It really is a beautiful castle, in spite of who had it built and who lives in it.
"Malfoy, do you think–"
"Hush," he hisses, jaw tight as he keeps hold of her by the upper arm. His footsteps are loud on the stone, too. "Now."
The sharpness of his voice feels like another lash against her back.
The walk back down the corridors drags for what feels like years. The pit in her stomach hasn't left her yet and she yearns for it to dissipate. She wants to go home, heal, and take her time doing so. She wants this night to be over.
He's been cruel enough. Why can't he be kind for once?
When they get to the Floo room, where the area is as empty as the throne room and corridors, she wrenches herself out of his grasp.
"Get your hands off me," she says, hoping he can see her hurt and anger in her eyes. "Don't act like we didn't discuss this before we left."
"Will you shut your mouth?" he says, and his hand shoots out, wrapping around the back of her neck. He's looking over the top of her head, back out into the corridor. "Do not talk to me until we're back home."
She does as she's told, feeling a little foolish, and allows him to guide her into the Floo. He takes some of the Floo powder that's on a Grecian pedestal nearby, and takes them home.
They exit the Floo, in the safety of the manor. The room is dark save for lamps lit low on the walls, and the fading green glow of the Floo. Hermione can see the couch and the chairs and forces her way through one of the false memories attempting to consume her. She imagines herself taking those memories and the memories she has of this night, and tucking them away into the same box to wait for Malfoy to help her hide them. She doesn't want to remember what he had to do–what they had to do.
"We're so fucked," he says from behind her with an incredulous laugh. "He's going to watch me every second, of every fucking day, waiting for me to slip up."
Hermione turns to face him, surprised to see that he's pacing back and forth. He's talking to himself and to her at the same time, running his hands through his hair repeatedly with frenetic movements.
"I'm gonna fuck up because that's what he'll want me to do. I'll fuck up, and then he'll take you. I won't be able to help you. I'll have to just fucking sit there while they drag you off to fucking Carrow."
"Malfoy, stop," she says. She's in a lot of pain, and she just wants him to perform some healing spells on her. "It worked. He's not going to take me away, and you're not going to slip up."
Another laugh escapes him, dark and almost baleful.
"If you think he's letting this go, you're delusional. If you think Carrow's not going to do whatever he can to get his hands on you, you're delusional. If you think there aren't going to be other Death Eaters trying to sabotage me, you're delusional. This isn't over, Granger. And we are fucked."
Hermione sways on her feet, her knees close to buckling. "Can you just...Stop? I can't take anymore insults tonight."
He stops pacing, his gaze softening.
She heaves a sigh, wishing she understood more about Voldemort's world so she could understand Malfoy's pessimism. Wishing she understood why he felt so worried to lose her in the first place. She was starting to feel like a songbird trapped in a cage at the center of a room filled with wildcats.
"Thank you," she says after a moment of them staring at one another.
"For what?" He appears bewildered. Angry.
"For not letting them see," she says, lacking the energy to give him the fight he seems to want. "For not taking the one thing I have left to give that's mine. For holding my hand."
He turns away from her, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his jaw. He laughs, like he's marveling at something in disbelief. And then, without warning, he loses it. Just like the day in the potions room, he sweeps everything off of the Floo mantle with an enraged snarl. It sends pottery, porcelain, and Floo powder scattering and tumbling to the carpet. The sudden movement startles her and she forgets this is the real him, and that it's not the one who's just spent the entire evening saving them by torturing her.
"FUCK!" he yells, and then he tangles his fingers in his hair. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!"
"Malfoy, please." Her voice hitches on a whine. Her back hurts. Her breasts hurt. Her legs hurt. "You're scaring me."
He puts his hand on the mantle, lowering his head and panting for breath.
"We planned for this," Hermione goes on. "We discussed it as thoroughly as we could. I knew what I was agreeing to let you do."
"At what fucking cost, Granger?" Hand still on the mantle, he turns his head to look at her. His eyes flash with disgust, flicking down to the various visible areas on her body that are covered in dried blood. "I fucking crucioed you until you bled. I beat you, I cut you, I burned you. I...Fuck, I almost killed you."
"You didn't have a choice." She leans her hip against the back of the couch, her vision swimming.
"You weren't ready for what I did." His chest heaves like he's in pain, and he places one hand against his stomach. "I took the choice away from you."
Hermione knows he's at least partially correct–she wasn't ready to have that intimate of contact with him yet. She still isn't. She's been embracing the feelings he's caused in her when he feeds, exploring new things about herself and her sexuality. Trying to find her footing in this new life.
Tonight was an exception. It had to be.
"What was the alternative?" she says with a meek shrug. "It was that, or you would have had to r–"
"What? Rape you?" he cuts in, and when he makes a pained sound of revulsion, she realizes why this level of anger seems so frightening to her.
He's not Occluding.
"Yes," she says, her voice breaking. "And I was scared you wouldn't find a way. But you did. You found a way to protect me, and I..."
Her words trail off when a wave of pain assails her. It's like there's individual thorns raking across her back and breasts. She clutches a hand to her chest with a meek cry.
There's horror in his eyes. He's breathing as fast as she does when she panics.
"I've ruined you. I've fucking destroyed you. I've–fuck!"
With a snarl that reveals his fangs, Malfoy whirls suddenly, slamming his fist against the wall beside the Floo with all the strength he possesses. There's a loud boom noise and the stone cracks along makeshift paths, away from the depression where his fist had just struck.
Hermione's never seen him like this. She moves toward him, her heels quietly clicking on the floor as she places a tentative hand on his back.
He's shaking.
"You haven't destroyed me or ruined me," she says softly, and then she puts her other hand on his cheek, trying to get him to look at her. "You did what you had to do to keep us safe."
"No, don't..." He tries to brush her hands off. "Don't."
"Malfoy, look at me," she says, tone desperate.
"Stop, just..." His eyes are full of anguish that runs so deep she feels her skin crawl. "Don't fucking touch me...Don't you fucking touch me."
Hermione's not very strong right now, but her fingers brush his other cheek. His skin is flushed and hot as she holds his face between her palms and makes him look into her eyes.
"You shouldn't want to touch me," he says through clenched teeth, and she can see him trying to build his walls back up. To hide. To cover the fact that he's dangerously close to breaking. It's the first time she's seen something so human in him.
"Do not Occlude, Malfoy. Do not."
His hands close around her wrists. He squeezes his eyes shut and his brows twitch together.
"I should die," he breathes out. "I should fucking die. I should fucking die."
"Don't Occlude. Please don't. Stay here."
"Why don't you understand? I liked it, Granger. I liked what it felt like to feel myself against you. I almost fucking lost myself. I almost...Inside you...I just...Don't deserve you. Don't deserve anything. Fuck..."
It feels like she's seeing down into a truth that he's been hiding from even himself. Seeing a burden that he's carried for years, that makes his heavy reliance on Occlumency make sense.
When he lets himself feel, he drowns.
"Malfoy, stop punishing yourself," she says, holding his gaze as intently as she can. She strokes his cheeks with her thumbs. "I did, too."
He stops breathing–she can feel it in the way his body stills. The anger shifts in his eyes. He stops building the walls. Stars are beginning to form between them, heat expanding and growing. He lets out his breath and she feels it brushing over her lips, morbidly comforting.
Then, just as quick as it arrives, it's gone, and he's pushing her hands away again.
"I have to go."
"Please just stay."
He starts to back up, running his hands down his face and then up into his already disarranged hair.
"No, I can't be here. I have to go. I have to–"
"I need you here!" she cries.
Crack.
He disappears from view, leaving her alone to collapse on the floor, her body wounded from the things he had to do. Aching with despair and loneliness. Yearning to be comforted and held after what she just went through.
Why couldn't he just stay?