Enjoy this last bit of sunshine before the rain comes back :D -laughs maniacally and runs away-
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hermione hasn't seen the sunlight since the Battle of Hogwarts.
And that's not to say she hasn't recognized its presence, or that she's only seen rainy days since. But when she lost everything and everyone she ever loved, the sunlight seemed to become dimmer and dimmer. Until she could stand directly under the sun at noon in the middle of August without noticing it's bright outside.
When she wakes, head pillowed on Draco Malfoy's chest, she sees autumn morning sunlight painting the floor, peeking in from between curtains that haven't been closed all the way. It reaches toward the bed where they sleep, almost beckoning her. Teasing her, saying, "Don't you want to be happy?" but not showing her how to do that.
How is she supposed to be happy in a world no one wants her in? A world where men take and take, and relish in watching your violation?
All those eyes, watching her...
She thinks it bothers her more than she thought, and she regrets being more concerned about Malfoy's panic attack that night than her own emotions. If she had chosen herself for once, maybe she wouldn't have jumped.
Hermione's life has been a series of choices made for other people's sake. Her parents, her friends, people in trouble, and even Malfoy. She'd been crucioed by his father because she was so desperate to keep his secret. Because she knows that if anyone finds out that he's a vampire, he will die.
And she doesn't want him to die.
She doesn't know how she feels about Malfoy.
As if on cue, Malfoy shifts beneath her, taking the deep inhale of someone waking. It takes a second before Hermione feels his arms tightening around her, just like they had last night. It confuses her, just like everything else has since her fall. She wants to know how long her healing process was, how well it went, and when he decided to climb into bed and stay awake watching her.
She wants to know why.
"Good morning," she says softly, not lifting her head from his chest. Her braids cascade from her head and down, fanning out over his arm and onto the coverlet. One of her legs is hooked over his, and she's moderately aware of the fact that she's got no knickers on.
"Morning," he mumbles. "How is your head?"
"It's fine today. Do you know what exactly happened to my body?"
One of his arms slides back, until his fingers rest on her forearm, which is already slung across his waist.
"Well, you fell on your right side. That broke your leg in several places. Multiple arm bones broken, as well as your shoulder and collarbone. Almost every rib on that side was either fractured or broken. And..." Malfoy's voice is gravelly, rough from what she assumes by how relaxed he is was a deep sleep. "You hit your head. Cracked it open. And you lost a lot of blood. By the time I found you, I couldn't..."
He's quiet for longer than she wants him to be.
"Couldn't what?"
"I couldn't hear your heartbeat anymore."
Hermione frowns, staring at the beam of sunlight stretching toward the bed. So it would seem that if vampires could hear any sound in their vicinity, that they would be able to hear heart beats, too. Which would come in handy for a Healer, if it weren't for the inconvenience of bloodlust.
"I've broken bones too many times since I got to your house," she says after a while.
To her surprise, he laughs. It's quiet. It's barely there.
But it's a laugh.
Hermione rolls onto her back, his arm moving so she's still cradled between it and his side. She rests her head against the front of his shoulder and edge of his chest, gazing up at the canopy of the four poster.
"I don't remember the last time I could see the sunlight," she says, her voice a murmur. "It's always felt so dreary."
"The manor is dreary."
"Of course it is, but that's besides the point."
"You were in a dark pit for months before it."
"Yes, but that's not what I'm talking about. I mean, I remember on the day of the battle, the sky was grey. The sun never came out from behind the clouds. It stayed that way for days. I haven't noticed it since."
As she speaks, she raises her hand a little above them. Somehow, he knows to do the same. They spread their fingers and press their fingertips together, absentmindedly watching themselves do so.
"I never liked the sun," he replies. "Too bright and I don't like the heat."
"Malfoy, there's never a day where I thought you liked the sun. You are white as Hell."
Another laugh from him, and the hand of the arm she's laying on slides down to her lower back.
"There is that, yes. But I mean, there's just something about being out in the sun, trapped with no escape that always made my skin crawl. Like being a bug caught in a...A jar, or something."
"I once kept a bug in a jar," Hernione says.
"How interesting. What did you do, stare at it?"
"Sometimes. Mostly I just watched it running around in circles, feeling smug."
"...Is this where I'm meant to ask why the smugness?"
"Sure."
"Why the smugness?"
"It was Rita Skeeter."
Malfoy bursts out a laugh, and she feels it shake his entire body. "You trapped Rita Skeeter in a jar?! How the Hell did you manage that?"
Hermione lets her hand fall to his stomach. "She's an Animagus. I just waited for the opportunity and trapped her. She was a nightmare. I hated her so much during the Triwizard Tournament."
"You did that in Fourth Year?"
"Yes."
"Ruthless. You definitely should have been in Slytherin."
She doesn't laugh but a small smirk plays across her lips. "If I had been, would you have hated me any less?"
"I don't know, to be honest. I was such a prat back then. My mind was so poisoned by my parents' opinions and ideals that I think it's safe to say that things would have turned out the same between us."
"Then or now?"
She feels his fingertips begin stroking her forearm, back and forth, wrist to elbow.
"Are you insulting me?" he asks.
"Yes. You're still a prat."
"No, I'm not." She can hear the smile in his voice, and she's tempted again to look. The last time she saw him smile was the night he was drunk, and she's not sure that counts. "I'm worse."
"I won't contest that."
"Hm, the prestigious Gryffindor prefect Hermione Granger isn't going to contest something. I suppose I should be glad Slytherin gets to keep its points this year."
Something in her stomach lurches pleasantly at the sound of her name coming from his lips in that scratchy, quiet voice. She's never heard it before. Now that she thinks of it, she's never called him by his name, either.
"So..." She's hesitant, not wanting to push him just because he's not Occluding right now. "Your mother."
He tenses, but he doesn't stop the soothing strokes along her arm. It seems like he's doing it without really thinking about it.
"What about her?" he replies, and she's relieved to hear no change in his voice. No coldness, flatness, or edge.
"How did she pass? Was it...The Dark Lord?"
"No. She was sick, I guess."
"You guess?"
"My parents and I don't talk. They moved to the palace to be closer to the Dark Lord, and I stayed at the Manor. Sometimes I'd see them in passing, but for the most part, the only time I saw them was at court. I exchanged letters with my mother a few times, and she didn't mention she was sick in any of them."
"Oh...That's awful. Why didn't they tell you she was sick?"
"I have no idea. To punish me?"
"What is there to punish you for?"
"It's not so much a punishment as it is attempting to make sure they have some form of power over me. My father's followed the Dark Lord since before I was born–and now I'm the one he trusts to get information out of anyone and everyone he wants. Now, my father clings to Carrow like he's his familiar. My mother has always done whatever my father said, no matter what. She tried to help me in Sixth Year, when I was...Well, you know. But when that was over and I was still alive, she became more focused on my father than on me. Which is her right, I guess."
"They wanted to hurt you," Hermione says. "I don't know why else your parents would do something so horrible as to hide her illness from you. They robbed you of the chance to say good-bye."
His fingers pause their trailing, like he's surprised at what she's said, before he resumes. She likes the way it feels. She can almost pretend they're just two students who snuck into the dorms together–two students who don't hate each other.
"I didn't know if I was right in thinking the same, but if you're saying it, it must be true," he murmured. "You're always right."
It's Hermione's turn to laugh, and she tries to hide it in his shirt. "Finally. You see reason."
"I've always seen reason. That's why I came after you so much. I was angry that you were smarter than me."
"I am smarter than you."
The hand of his that's one her back moves to her hip. He pinches it, and she yelps. He laughs again, and she wants to see his face. She resists.
"Malfoy..."
He pinches her again. "What?"
"Stop it."
Another pinch. "Stop what?"
"Malfoy!" She's trying not to laugh but it's hard when he keeps pinching her. Moving his pinches up. Pinching her waist and her ribcage.
She wriggles and shrieks, batting his hand away.
"...Are you ticklish?" She can hear his smirk.
"Don't you dare, Malfoy. I will take your wand and hex you."
"Cataloguing for later."
Hermione can feel her face burning. She can't be sure but...Are they flirting?
She needs to change the subject. She also does not want to be tickled.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Yeah."
"Why do you rely so heavily on Occlumency?"
"If I don't, then the Dark Lord will find out about what I am, and other things I haven't wanted him to find out. I'm very adept, but I have to be vigilant. If I let my walls down, then he could slip in."
Hermione taps a random pattern out on his stomach. "What about when you're not around the Dark Lord?"
No words come from him, not for a long time. Hermione remains patient, because this question is one that's been plaguing her. His walls. The emptiness. The hidden anguish. He doesn't realize that if he never allows himself to feel, he could get to a place where he doesn't lower the walls ever, for any reason. It will turn him into the worst possible version of the Malfoy who brought her here to the manor: an angry, heartless man with no connection to anyone.
She doesn't want that for him.
"I don't...like to feel things," he says, his words slow and hesitant. Like he's afraid, or concerned. "It started in Fourth Year, when the Dark Lord returned. I didn't know I was a natural Occlumens at first. It was an accident—me realizing that I didn't feel anything when my favorite Abraxan died, when I should have felt sad. Then it was other things, like being able to hide my annoyance at school, or anger when my parents were overbearing. But when I first met the Dark Lord, it..."
He trails off. Hermione wants to chance a glance up at him, but she's afraid it will shatter this small, rare bubble of honesty they have right now.
"He couldn't get into my head. He thought I was doing it on purpose."
"You were just scared," she supplies.
"Yeah."
"So then what happened?"
"He crucioed me for the first time. My parents watched."
Horror dawns in Hermione's mind like a blood-red sunrise. Her heart stills. "How old were you?"
"It was the Christmas of Fifth Year."
She doesn't know what to say. She's always known Voldemort not to spare children, but it's different when she isn't as...Connected as she is to Malfoy. As mean as he was to her, she can't imagine ever wanting him to be tortured. And to be so young, having to endure the Cruciatus at the end of Voldemort's wand?
"I'm sorry," she says with as much sincerity as she can. "I didn't know. None of us did."
"Would it have changed much? In the end, all that really matters is your choices, right? And I chose my side."
"Your choices matter, but if we had known, maybe we could have extended a hand in friendship, or something. We could have tried to talk to you."
"It wouldn't have changed anything. I could have been best friends with Potter, and I'd still have to go home to the Dark Lord every holiday and summer. I spent all of my energy working on my Occlumency, and ended up working on my Legilimency at the same time. Once I realized I was powerful enough to make the Dark Lord see whatever I wanted him to, that's all I could focus on. Making a different choice would have meant losing focus and sight of my main goal, and that was to protect myself. My parents certainly weren't gonna do it."
"But it wasn't a choice," she says, feeling more angry at Voldemort than before, for everything that monster has taken from everyone she knows and once knew. "Not really. Your parents failed you, Malfoy. They should have been there to–"
"Stop."
It's the first time she's heard him use that tone in what feels like ages. Angry. Dangerous. She can't stop the dejected swooping feeling in her stomach when she remembers how volatile things have always been between them. She doesn't want that. But she can also tell that Malfoy is stuffing things down within himself that are going to poison him if he doesn't let them go. From what she knows, he hasn't shed a tear for his mother since he found out. That's not healthy.
"Granger," he growls, and he stops stroking her arm. "Stop."
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I just–"
"Leave it, or I'm walking out of this room right now."
Hermione feels embarrassed. She's taking too many liberties. He's only being tender with her because she almost died. He was only tender with her at Charon Palace because he was saving his skin, too. The past few weeks have been fraught with hot-and-cold behavior from him, moments of kindness few and far between. She remembers the way he'd held her after the memories, how he'd pushed her braids out of her face. How he'd held her cheek to try and calm her down. The things he says to her when he feeds. It's all so confusing.
The thought of this conversation being disrupted, of this moment in time where he's gentle and open, has her tightening her arm around his waist. It takes a few extra seconds, and then his fingers resume their slow trails along her forearm.
"Enough with the questions, swot," he says, injecting the sunlight back into the air. "Are you trying to single-handedly bring the Inquisitorial Squad back?"
"What?" She laughs. "No. I'm just trying to...Well, I don't know. Talk to you."
"Why?"
"Malfoy, it's not Arithmancy. You've brought me here to be your blood slave, and you say you hate me, but you also don't want me to leave. You're cold to me and look at me like the mere sight of me makes you livid, but you're willing to risk your life by lying to and tricking the Dark Lord for me. The least you can do in return for all this confusion is let me ask you questions."
"If you think me staying up to make sure you don't stop breathing means I hate you, then you've lost all the intelligence you had in that brain of yours." His fingers trail all the way up to her jaw, where he curls them under her chin and pulls her face up. She's forced to look at him. His countenance is dark, but his eyes blaze down at her in a way that has her cheeks hot yet again. "I do not hate you."
Hermione swallows past the sudden wave of affection she feels for him. She doesn't know where it comes from, or when affection for him grew, but she knows that last night alone was enough to solidify that there's something inside of her that needs him.
However volatile things were before it, Charon Palace has changed things between them.
She studies his face, her neck craned at a painful angle. "You thought I was going to stop breathing?"
"Yeah." His voice is still scratchy, almost ragged. He's looking down at her through his lashes.
"And you care about whether or not I breathe?"
"Yeah."
Hermione places her hand on his chest just under his ribcage, moving it up with the intention of putting her arm around his neck. "And you stayed up for–"
She's cut off by him jolting in surprise. Her fingers have accidentally brushed over his nipple through his shirt and he has now trapped her wrist in his hand. She stops mid sentence, looking at him in puzzlement.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." His tone sounds like the tone of someone hiding something. "What were you gonna ask?"
Hermione narrows her eyes. He's lying. She can feel how hard his heart is pounding against his chest. As she searches his face through the tense silence, something starts to dawn on her. Something intriguing that she's surprised she hasn't found out yet.
"Did you like that?"
Malfoy looks like an animal trapped in the face of too-bright lights, with his hair a tousled mess and his eyes slightly widened like he's been caught doing something bad. She tilts her head to the side, trying to see past this new reaction out of him. She's never seen it before. The gears in her brain have started to move again.
"You did," she says. "Didn't you?"
His fingers tighten around her wrist, but he doesn't look away from her face.
He nods.
Something entirely new begins to spread in her body. Something close to curiosity, and far from judgmental. Something familiar.
She needs to know more.
How much affection has he gotten in his life? When was the last time he was embraced? Truly embraced? Has anyone touched him like that? He looks like he's surprised himself, or like he hadn't wanted anyone to know. But now she does know, and she's going to do it again.
She pulls on her wrist. His grip tightens at first, but when she doesn't avert her eyes from his own, he loosens his hold. He watches her as she lowers her hand to his chest again. Her heart is beating fast, but his? It's going fifty kilometers a minute.
She brushes the pad of her thumb against his nipple.
Malfoy sucks in his breath, his body jolting again. His hand lifts, like he's going to grab her wrist and stop her again, but he seems to change his mind. His expression is unreadable, drifting somewhere between curious and wary.
Hermione's brain has turned itself on.
She shifts her body in a way that encourages him to scoot up into a sitting position. His left arm remains wrapped around her, like he doesn't know what else he should do with it. Leaving one leg outstretched, he raises his other knee and slings his right arm over it. She glances at him, then takes a second look. The way he's sitting, so nonchalant, and his messy hair make her think of Hogwarts. Not for the first time, she wishes they were still there.
Hermione settles against his side, her chest pressed into the side of his. She tears her eyes away from his face and brings her gaze to his shirt. Her fingers go to the hem of it, and pull it up to about his waist. He doesn't stop her, so she takes her time being greedy and staring at the tattoos that decorate his abdomen. She places her palm against the flat, hard center where the toned lines of his abs meet. His skin is noticeably soft.
She slides her hand up, inching closer to his chest and taking the shirt with it. When she's nearly where she wants to be, she lifts her eyes to his face again. He's still watching her, the curiosity worn like a mask. She knows it's hiding something else, she just isn't sure what it is. She's never been in a position like this, to explore someone, let alone Malfoy. Malfoy, who does all the touching.
Another tentative brush of her fingers over his nipple, and this time, she hears him let out a shaking breath.
His fingers curl against her waist, pulling her closer. Hermione slides her leg over his, her pelvis pressing to the outside of his thigh. She looks up at him once more, and then lowers her mouth. Her tongue darts out for the lightest, softest of licks, testing out the waters.
His chest twitches, and his exhalation of, "Fuck," tells her that her hypothesis is correct.
Hermione attacks his chest with her lips and tongue on one side and her fingers on the other. It seems to surprise him, but it's only a moment before he's gasping. She hears his head hitting the headboard as it falls back, and his chest muscles seem to spasm.
She puts her hand on his upraised knee, pushing his arm off in the process, and moves closer to him. She likes the way this feels, having him shake beneath her. When she grazes his nipple with her teeth, his entire body jerks, and his hands go to hold her head against him.
"F-Fuck," he stammers out in a breathy voice, his fingers scraping over her scalp. "That's–that's s-so good. So fucking g-good. Fuck."
Hermione's response is to continue her relentless assault, lifting only her eyes to look at him. His head is tilted back, his brows furrowed and eyes closed. His breaths come out in heavy pants, and she finds that she rather likes him like this. She likes him being the one that's stammering.
She laves the flat of her tongue against his nipple, hard.
"Fuck!" His expletives come out through clenched teeth. "Fucking–I c-can't–Granger, I..."
He trails off when she climbs into his lap, forcing his knee down so she can settle on top of him. It's only moments before she has him twitching and shuddering again, his words devolving into quiet whines as she torments him. Malfoy's hands go to her waist, to her hips, to her head. He doesn't seem to know where he wants to put them. His back arches, as though trying to get as close to her mouth as possible.
Hermione's never felt more powerful than she does right now.
She puts her hands on his shoulders and sits up. "Well?"
His eyes are half-closed, and he looks at her without seeming to see her. "What?"
"How was it?"
"Huh?"
"How—was—it?"
"Are you–? Granger, what the Hell do you mean, how was it?!"
"Did you like it, or not?!" Hermione's worrying now. The last thing she wants to feel right now is insecure.
"Was the fucking whining not making any sense to you?" he scowls.
Hermione fixes him with a glare, taking the fingers on both of her hands and bringing them to his nipples. He looks at her in bewilderment, but it's short-lived. She leans forward and brings her lips to his neck. Simultaneously, she pinches them, runs her tongue up the side of his neck, and rolls her hips against his.
"Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." The whining has returned, and it makes perfect sense. His fingers digging into her hips make perfect sense, too, as does the wanton way he's grinding up against her. "You're so f-fucking–fucking good. So fucking g-good."
Hermione likes being called good. Perhaps she should do this more often.
Another gasp is followed by whimpering that Hermione can't help but feel triumphant at hearing. He's murmuring several things about how good she happens to be under his breath, mindless as she scrapes her teeth over his pulse. She doesn't slow down or give him any reprieve. She keeps rolling her hips, again and again, until she fears she might bruise from how hard he's holding her.
Then, she stops.
She sits up on his thighs. He looks dazed, like he's just been thrown from his broom. He's trying to catch his breath, looking at her with a strange glint in his eye. Like he's in terrified awe of her.
"I was right, " she says with a grin.
"Right about what?!"
"You're not always the one in control. In fact, I think it should be rather easy to–"
The glint in his eyes turns feral. He has her on her back in seconds, his hands pinning her wrists to the pillows by her head. They're both panting for breath, studying each other's faces. Hermione's trying her hardest not to laugh, but only because the way he's looking at her is...A bit deranged.
"Do you really want to go down this road, Granger?"
"What road?"
"Don't play coy." He smirks. "We both know who's in control."
Before she can reply, his fingers are like spiders, dancing up and down her sides with just enough pressure.
Tickling her.
She doesn't have the time to be shocked. She's shrieking and laughing, writhing beneath him while trying to twist away. She screams his surname between giggles and laughs, gasping for breath.
Hermione can't remember the last time anyone tickled her. It was likely one of her parents. But that's not important. What's important is that she's laughing. Malfoy's laughing. They both have smiles on their faces. It's a feeling that she thought she might never have again.
After pleading and begging enough for his liking, Malfoy seems fit to let her breathe. His smile fades to a smirk.
"Now, what to do..."
"What do you mean?" Hermione cries in dismay, still panting.
"I don't think you've truly learned your lesson yet. Insinuating that you have control of me is a grievous wrong."
"What?!"
"I have several options to choose from."
"Options?! Options for what?!"
He tilts his head to the side, tapping his chin with one finger. His hair is so messy, so unruly, that if she squints just right, she really can pretend they're still students.
"I'll let you choose." He lifts his hand up and counts them off. "A, I fucking worship those tits. B, I fuck you with my fingers, just the way you like. Or C, I kiss that pretty little cunt until you're crying."
Well. She takes the student thing back. She definitely wasn't doing that at Hogwarts with anyone. Especially not Draco Malfoy.
When she doesn't reply, he shrugs.
"Plan D it is."
"What plan is that?!" she asks, already breathless.
"I do all of them. One...Right after...The other."
The moment his tongue touches her skin, something comes to life within her. Like a rose, it blooms into an intense arousal that has nothing to do with vampire saliva, and everything to do with the fact that Malfoy knows what he's doing. There's no time or space for her to question the fact that they're doing this together purely because they want to. There's only room for her to float along with the tidal waves he creates.
He moves down her body, kissing a path down the front of her sternum while he unbuttons the shirt one-by-one. His kisses aren't simple. They're heavy and as hot as fire, punctuated with brief licks before he moves on to the next one. Each kiss sends a pulse of desire down to her core, where she aches for him.
Hermione trembles when the shirt is fully unbuttoned. This will be the first time she willingly lets him see her chest. So far, the ability to choose has warped or has been taken away from her. The last time he laid eyes on her breasts, it was when he was cutting them in front of the Death Eaters. Now that it's in the forefront of her mind, suddenly she doesn't feel so confident.
Malfoy really is the one in control.
By the way he's stopped moving, his fingers hovering in place over each side of the shirt, she can tell he's read her thoughts.
"Granger, don't think about it, all right?" He murmurs, his voice gentle. "You're not there. You're here, with me. Safe."
Hermione breathes out the precious word.
"Safe."
"That's right," he says. "You're safe."
He doesn't want to hurt her.
"You can...You can look," she whispers.
"Yeah?" he whispers back, his eyebrows rising.
She nods.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he pulls the shirt open. First the left side, then the right. Hermione closes her eyes, more nervous than she thought she would be. It's not that she's concerned about what he'll think.
She's concerned about how exposed she'll be.
First comes Malfoy's hand, covering her left breast and kneading the flesh, stopping only to roll her nipple between two gentle fingers. When she arches her back, gasping at the electric shocks that ripple through her body, he brings his mouth to the other breast. He mimics the things that she did to him, rendering her a shivering, whimpering mess beneath him.
He lifts his head a few inches and looks up at her.
"Good?" he says.
All she can do is nod, frantic up and down jerks of her head.
And so he does what he promised. He worships her breasts, kissing and licking and sucking every bit of skin he can get to on her chest. It's a new feeling, but a good one. Her skin feels sensitive, and anytime he pays attention to her nipples, she feels her stomach flutter with desire. She presses her thighs together in search of any relief she can get, but it's not anywhere near what she needs.
Just when she thinks she might start to plead, his fingers find their way down the front of her body. She only has time to remember that she'd never put her knickers back on last night. She cries out in surprise, trying to widen her legs. They get trapped between his, only providing enough space for his hand to fit. And fit, it does, because he slips not one, not two, but three fingers deep inside her.
She tries to take a breath, but he starts thrusting them at the same time that he sucks at her nipple, and it's like he's cast a spell on her. It's so much more intense than it's ever been—even when he's feeding. She doesn't sigh. She doesn't moan. She doesn't scream.
She pleads.
"Oh, Gods. Oh, Gods." She whimpers the words, gasping between each one. "It's—too much. I c-can't—Malfoy—please, please."
"Please, what?" He asks, tone innocent as he pulls those wicked fingers out enough to rub them over her clit, soft and gentle. Just the way she likes.
"Please—I need—I want l—"
"More?" He rises up on his knees, and places his other hand on her pelvis, pinning her down. The muscles of his toned tattooed arms are corded, flexing from his movements. She can't take her eyes off them.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"I think so...?"
He smirks yet again and then, while pinning her down, he slams his fingers inside of her again. He moves them hard and fast, and the fact that she can't move...Can't escape...
It does something heavenly in her.
She lifts herself up on one elbow, her other hand reaching to wrap around his wrist. It's too intense. She needs him not to pin her down.
He goes harder and faster. She can hear the sounds of it. Every slam of those sinful fingers inside of her makes her legs shake.
"Who's in control?" he asks, his silver eyes burning down into hers. The sunlight has gotten closer to the bed, illuminating his hair from behind like a halo.
Her brows come together and she wets her lips. He won't slow down. She can't take a good enough breath to answer.
"Who's in control, Granger? Hm? Is it you?"
She shakes her head.
His other hand finds her clit, three fingers pressing, circling, massaging, stroking—
Her back arches. It's too much. She can't think, can't open her eyes. She doesn't want him to see her mind drifting into an ethereal plane where stars live and die within astral lifetimes. Lifetimes that last eternity.
"Answer my fucking question, Granger. Who is in control? Is it me, or is it you?"
She sobs. "It's you, it's you. Please—I need—to—"
"You need to come," he purrs. "Isn't that right?"
She nods again and again, whispering a chorus of nonsensical words. She doesn't know what to focus on. She thinks she might be passing away.
"You look so fucking beautiful like this in the light. You know that, Granger?"
She has no room for shyness. No room to blush at the fact that he just called her beautiful for the second time. Her back arches further and she moans. Her fingers curl into the coverlet as though they can keep her from drowning. Her thighs are shaking so violently that it almost aches.
"Open your legs."
Delirious, she does as she's told.
He gets off the bed, and he kneels on the floor beside it. She squeaks when he grabs her legs and yanks her to face him. Another squeak escapes her when he drags her body down until it meets his waiting tongue. He runs it up the length of her core again and again, avoiding her clit entirely as he devours her.
Hermione lets out a sob.
"It's—I—Please—" Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. She doesn't even know where she's at. "M-Malfoy...Please—I'm—"
"I don't know what you're saying," he murmurs between licks, sounding sympathetic. "Poor thing."
Hermione's head turns to the side, trying to find air when it feels like there isn't any. She keeps saying things, whatever comes to mind about the way she feels. How good it is. Pleading with him to go faster. Begging, begging, begging.
"You're doing so, so well, Granger," she hears an infuriatingly amused Malfoy say. His breath is hot against her. "Do you know what happens to good girls like you?"
"No," she whines. "No, I don't know. I don't know. I'm sorry."
"They get to come. Do you want to come?"
"Yes," she moans. Her feet are on the mattress, and she's using them to help her drive her hips to meet his tongue.
"Have you been good?"
"Yes. Yes, I have." She swallows before the whimpers start again. "I've been so good."
"How good?"
"So good. I promise, I promise." Her body's trembling. It feels like there's fire surrounding her, fire that she yearns to burn in, but it won't come any closer. And she wants it to burn her so badly.
"You certainly taste good." He kisses her core before he sweeps his tongue inside of it. She can feel him groaning against her and it only makes her skin more sensitive, her stomach coil tighter.
"Gods, please. Please. Please..."
"Please what?"
She feels tears springing to her eyes. He's torturing her. He's torturing her, and he's in complete control of everything.
"Please help me," she gasps. "Please."
"So much pleading." Malfoy hums appreciatively before he curls his arms underneath her thighs and uses his hands to pull her open wide. "What do you need help with?"
"Malfoy, please!" Tears are welling up in her eyes, her frustration quickly becoming hatred for him. "I don't—know how t-to answer y-you."
"But I thought you were in control?"
She starts to cry. Really cry. Tears streaming down her face and sobs wracking her body. She covers her face with her hands, her hips still rolling.
"I'm sorry," she weeps. "I'm sorry, Malfoy. I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Granger. You're still my good girl. Come here."
Finally—finally—he runs the flat of his tongue over her swollen, desperate clit. She screams. She absolutely screams. He lavishes it with more attention than she can handle, winging her into the center of a blinding supernova.
"Please," she gasps out, her eyes squeezed shut. "Can I come? Can I?"
He pulls away. "Oh, I want you to, Granger. I want you to come on my fucking tongue so I can taste it. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes. Anything. Anything."
He kisses her clit and sucks on it, gentle then firm, hard then soft. He alternates, never allowing her to get used to his ministrations. The supernova she's burning in gets hotter, bigger. It grows to fill every inch of available space in her body. Dripping in sweat and shameless in her desire, she sits up so she can lean back on one hand and grab his hair in the other. The ends of her braids brush her lower back as her head falls back.
She's never done this before, and she's not sure if that's what she's supposed to do. All she knows is that she's close.
Malfoy once again uses the flat of his tongue, but this time, he leaves it out so she can quite literally fuck herself on it. It doesn't take much longer after that.
She comes. The supernova engulfs her, sending her reeling. She collapses on the bed, convulsing as he licks her through the orgasm, humming his approval in a way that she can feel against her cunt. She feels like she has a fever, or like she's walking through the fog that had plagued her while she was healing. Her body continues to twitch, and all she can do to get him to stop is to push at his head.
Malfoy leans over her, wrapping his arm around her waist so he can lift her and push her onto the bed with him. Her head lolls for a moment, dizzy while she pants for breath. He's kissing her body softly, her stomach and breasts and chest and shoulders. When he makes it to her face, he stops and looks into her eyes.
"Granger?"
Hermione blinks slowly, her vision slightly blurred. "Hm?"
He props himself up on his elbow, and his other hand pushes her braids back on one side, tucking them behind her ear. He touches her cheek, and she leans into it, floating above the stars in her lightheaded state. Her body feels like it's made of stardust.
"Are you all right?" His voice is soft, soothing.
"I think so..."
"Does your head hurt?"
"Nothing hurts." Another slow blink. "Did I do good?"
"You did very good."
Her lips curl into a dreamy smile. She looks up at him again, and her heart flutters. "You're not Occluding."
"No," he says, "I'm not."
Hermione's arms slide up between their bodies and she holds his face with both of her hands. She realizes with aching clarity that this was the first time they were intimate without him biting her.
What does it mean?
As he studies her face, his silver eyes free of the emptiness she's so used to seeing there, she sees something shift. Going from general curiosity to concern to something deeper. Fear. Angst. Sadness that has yet to fully materialize. He speaks, his voice so quiet that only she would ever be able to hear.
"I thought I'd lost you."
She feels the heat rushing up to greet her face. Her thumbs brush across his cheekbones, feeling skin softer than she thought his would be, and she gives him a small smile.
He's looking at her lips.
She's looking at his.
Hermione's heart collides with her chest as it beats faster. She's nervous, but not because it's the possibility of a kiss. She's nervous because this is Draco Malfoy. This is someone that she never thought she would ever have a decent conversation with, let alone have his head between her thighs and his fangs in her throat. This is someone that she's been through Hell with in such a short period of time, that looks at her like she's someone he's always wanted.
She's nervous because she knows where this is going, and it scares her.
She's ready for this, for whatever's going to happen. She can spend all day marveling and wondering and fretting about who he is and what he is and who she is and what they would be...But none of that would be enough for her to push him away right now.
Malfoy dips his head down, and Hermione lets her eyes fall shut.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He freezes, mere centimeters from Hermione's lips. Hermione's brows knit together. There's no one here in the manor who would need to knock on Malfoy's door. Pinky or the other House Elves would just pop in on their own.
She feels a panicked flame ignite inside her gut.
What if it's Lucius or Carrow? What if they've come to take her away? What if—
"Granger. Look at me."
His hand moves back on her head, until his fingers are on her braids and his thumb is in front of her ear. She stares up at him with wide, worried eyes.
"It's not them," he murmurs. "I made sure that no one can get in through the Floo or estate wards without my permission. You're safe here."
She takes a deep breath and nods. "Then who could it be?"
"I don't know."
"Well, this is your room! Go answer it."
"Nah." He rolls off of her. "You do it."
Hermione fixes him with an irritated glare, but at the sounds of more knocks, there's no time for her to admonish him. With a noise of annoyance, she pushes him off of her. Then, she climbs naked out of the bed and takes a second to regain her footing on shaky legs. She sees him smirking at her as she snatches his shirt off of the floor.
She shoots him a nasty sneer, which only deepens his amusement.
After she buttons the shirt, she casts a frantic glance around his otherwise pristine floor. He laughs and snaps his fingers. A pair of satin pyjama pants fly into her waiting hands. They're absolutely way too big, but she doesn't have time to worry.
Damn arsehole.
She storms to the door. Wrapping her hands around the doorknob, she casts him one last withering glare. He's still smirking. Just what a damn arsehole would do. She turns the knob, pulling the door open.
Standing there in the hallway with the biggest smiles she's ever seen, are Tillian and Faye.