TRIGGER WARNINGS: Another chapter where they have to create and place memories that include references to rape and torture - not very descriptive, but I'd still consider them graphic (particularly one involving strangling). These memories are not real, they're created to trick Carrow.
Dub-con
Chapter Thirty-Four
The beginning is always the easiest.
Malfoy wanders about, scooping up anything that needs to be hidden from prying eyes. He seals them into their box and sends them to the deep. It's almost unnoticeable when Hermione comes back into her consciousness.
"How long did that one take?" she asks.
He's smirking. "Ten minutes."
"Hm. You went from an hour to twenty minutes and now to ten." She doesn't want to smile under the circumstances, but it's hard. She feels like she did in school, watching her friends master a difficult spell in Charms. "Let's get to the next one."
He places his wand against her temple, and she sinks into the ice.
Another easy one. He pulls the false memories he's already created out and puts them where they need to go, fitting them in like puzzle pieces. They fill her with the familiar fear of him, but she thinks they're manageable. She's more concerned about what's to come.
When he slides out of her mind, she feels slightly tired, but not so much as to fall asleep or pass out.
"I want to warn you again," Malfoy says. "The new ones have to be worse than the old."
"I know."
His gaze lingers. "Take a break if you need it. I mean it."
"I know, Malfoy. Just do it."
Wand against her skin. Ice. Cold spreading to all corners of her mind, freezing her in place.
He creates a memory to replace the one that took place right after the party they'd gone to. He erases their entire conversation and replaces it with him "punishing her for her insolence," like he'd told Carrow and Dolohov that he was going to do. The punishment starts off the same as the other memories—him shoving her over the arm of the couch while she screams and pleads. Only this time, he adds something extra. A knife.
The blade slices into the flesh of her back as he violates her, and her blood runs red over her sides and down her arms. It soaks into the light green fabric of the couch, staining it dark with her pain. The false Hermione passes out several times, being rennervated each time so she can't escape it.
And into the cell false Hermione goes without being healed until the next day.
Malfoy slides out of her mind and stares at her. Watches for her reaction like he always does. She doesn't say anything, though. She feels uncomfortable, but her mind is still aware. It's just hanging on by a thread with the dread of whatever he comes up with next.
"Keep going," she says, holding onto the arms of her chair as if it will keep her from tumbling into the emptiness of her head.
Malfoy's wand touches her skin, and he's in again.
The time he left for Dover. He leaves that memory mostly intact, including the part where she slapped him, but he changes the location and what happened after. False Malfoy follows through on his threat, raping her on the drawing room floor.
And then he makes it worse.
False Malfoy conjures some sort of rope and wraps it around false Hermione's neck while he violates her, pulling and pulling and pulling. It cuts into the skin on her throat, spilling blood. Her eyes bulge as capillaries burst and her mouth hangs open, her body desperate for air.
Hermione wants to look away from the false memory but something about its awfulness freezes her in place, watching in horror as the web is woven.
When Malfoy leaves her mind this time, Hermione lets out a gasp and clutches her throat. It feels like it really happened—like she can still feel the rope around her neck, the pain between her legs. Like she can smell her blood and feel it on her skin. His body weighing hers down, thighs pinning her arms to her sides.
"Granger..."
She coughs. "It's like I...Like I can feel it. Feels real."
"Do you need a break?"
She closes her eyes, squeezing them shut as she tries to get a hold of herself. As she tries to separate reality from fiction. It's difficult, like pulling apart book pages that have been stuck together by something thick and viscous.
"I think I'm okay. Let's do the next one."
He takes the day he Apparated into the tearoom and makes it something awful. Something from a nightmare. He removes her friends from the memory, making it appear as though Hermione had snuck into the tearoom after a House Elf let her out of her cell. Making it appear as though he had stumbled across her and flew into a rage. The false Malfoy rapes her over the tearoom table and when he's done, Apparates her into the nearest en suite so he can drag her over to the bathtub. He makes the fake Hermione watch him fill it, her blood leaking from between her legs onto the marble floor of the loo. When the tub is full, he bends her over it, rapes her again, and repeatedly holds her head under the water until she nearly drowns. She pleads, she sobs, she begs for her mother.
It's awful.
When he pulls out of her mind, reality crashes into her like a bombarda, and she realizes she's leaning forward in her chair. One of her hands is on his knee, fingers curved and digging in as much as they can. She's gasping for air, her stomach roiling and churning. The memory is so vivid that she feels like she can see it with her eyes open. Like the water is filling her lungs. It's so much worse than the last ones.
As much as she and Malfoy don't get along, the person in the false memories doesn't align with the real Malfoy at all. The cognitive dissonance claws at her.
"Granger?"
"I'm gonna be sick," is all she manages before she tumbles out of the chair, leans over, and expels her breakfast onto the library floor.
Malfoy leans down and gathers her curls in his hand. His other hand goes to the center of her upper back as she heaves and heaves and heaves. It feels neverending. Each heave makes her entire body shudder.
"You need a break," Malfoy says, removing his hand from her back so he can pick up his wand. He vanishes her sick and casts a tergeo on her. "Open your mouth, love."
She opens her mouth and tips her head back, her eyes watery and vision blurry. He holds his wand above her mouth and casts aguamenti, gifting her with sweet, cool water. It soothes her burning throat.
"Better?" he asks.
She nods, catching her breath. On shaky legs, she uses the chair to pull herself up. She falls into her seat and lets out a sigh.
"I can do this," she says, looking at him with determination. "I don't need a break."
"Don't be a Gryffindor right now," he says, and he sounds frustrated. "You need a—"
"No," she interrupts. "I'm ready. Next one.
"You—"
"Next one, Malfoy. "
He does as she says and lifts his wand to her temple again.
The night where he discovered the necklace. It shifts to Malfoy giving her conflicting instructions on purpose, raping her while allowing the necklace to burn and burn, nearly severing her trachea. It seems so real that Hermione can almost smell the burning flesh. The boiling blood.
And above her, a malicious and enraged false Malfoy enjoys the punishment he's giving her. He doesn't heal her until the next day, leaving her struggling for air on her cell floor, trying not to move.
The real Hermione vomits again, this time simply leaning forward and throwing up bile on the floor between their chairs and legs. She feels the real Malfoy's hands holding her curls back again, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and his other hand drags his nails up and down her spine in soothing lines. She can feel the top of her head brushing against his body due to the way he's leaning over her. Each heave wracks her body, her stomach and esophagus burning. Her heart skips several beats before fluttering to catch up with itself. Her head pounds like a hammer against anvil, reverberating through an already aching skull.
Stomach empty, she lets out a whimper as she tries to keep herself from crying. They're not real, yet her body is reacting negatively to his hands being in her hair and on her back. Her skin crawls.
Malfoy cleans her and the floor up with a wave of his wand, and then he places his hands on her shoulders. She sways slightly in her chair as she looks up at him, her hands clutching her stomach.
"It's not real, Granger. Remember that, and hold onto it." His voice is no more than a murmur. "Tell yourself that as many times as you need to—it's not real. Go on. Say it."
"It's...Not real," she says, and her voice is hoarse. She wants his hands off of her and she wants to fall into his arms at the same time.
"Perfect. Say it again."
"It's not real."
"Again."
She lets her eyelids fall shut. "It's not real."
"Good girl." He takes a hand off of her shoulder and uses it to cup the back of her head. "You're doing perfectly. Ready for the next?"
"No," She keeps her eyes shut against her tears, her chin trembling. Her voice is small, like a child's. "But we have to."
He knows they have to do this. There's no other option. They have more than just the two of them to worry about now.
Malfoy works on creating memories for the past three weeks. He starts with one week, interspersing violations with abuse and torture. Blood spilled on the floor. Screams that taper off onto agonized wheezes. Limbs cut and chopped and healed over and over. Hermione feels nauseous afterward, but tells him to keep going.
After he creates a second week of horror and nightmares, her mind feels like it's fracturing. Pieces of her are falling into nothingness, like dying stars on their way to the other side of eternity. She shoves his wand away before he can do the third week, her vision blurred from panic. Her fingers clutch her chest as she gasps and chokes on air, desperate to feel her lungs expand and contract. She can't see anything other than the false version of him. Can't feel anything other than the pain he caused. Can't hear anything but the cruel things he said.
It's too much for her to handle.
"Breathe, Granger." His hands are on her cheeks, silver eyes looking at her from beneath a lowered brow. "You've got to breathe. You'll pass out."
"I can't," she wails, tears streaming down her face. "I can't breathe. I can't, I can't, I can't, I—"
"Okay, okay," he says, raising his voice as his fingers slide into her curls. She feels his fingertips pressing circles into her scalp in an attempt to ease her storm. It works but only marginally so. "We'll take a break."
She doesn't reject it, allowing her head to hang down so his fingers can soothe the back of her skull. She weeps softly, trying her best to stop crying so he can finish. They have to complete this. They can't leave a single stone unturned. One unturned stone is all it would take for everything to come crashing down.
"It's more difficult," she whispers, her eyes fixed on the floor, on his shoes and her slipper-clad feet. He's massaging the back of her neck now. "To separate the two of you."
"I know," he says.
"I feel like it really happened."
"It didn't."
"I know that." She closes her eyes as his fingers slide back up into her curls. "I know that."
He holds tight to her hair and uses it to pull her head back up. His eyes search hers, a seriousness lingering in them that reminds her the brevity of the situation.
"We have to do the last week, okay?" he says. "All right?"
"No," she replies, her voice weak. She curls her hands around his forearms, parts of his tattoos disappearing behind her russet skin. "Please."
"We have to keep going."
She shudders and squeezes her eyes shut. "Okay."
"It's the last one." His hands leave her head and he picks his wand back up from where he'd set it on the table beside the chairs. "Just one more."
She's trembling. It's almost like the anticipation of it feels worse than the aftermath. She covers her face with her hands, feeling the heat of her breath in the enclosed space between her mouth and palms.
"Hey," he says gently, and he slips his hand in-between hers. He pulls one of her hands away and twines their fingers together in her lap. "I know you can do this. Make me proud, all right?"
She holds onto his hand with both of hers, tight enough to make her knuckles go pale. She nods quickly, silently telling him to go ahead. Taking in a breath and holding it, she embraces the feeling of ice.
He moves as quickly as he can without skimping on details or creating any inconsistencies. He also adds the special touch of showing a progression of obedience. A truly broken Hermione—one that won't "cause problems like she did at Carrow's last party." It shows her that she'll have to be extra careful when they go tomorrow, and he's going to have to be a little more heavy-handed than he has been. As he nears the end, Hermione can feel her anxiety rising, fearing the horrible way her stomach will sink when he's done. Can feel her heart screaming at her, pleading for a reprieve.
He slides out of her mind and she's already weeping. She hears his wand clattering on the table and then he grabs her elbows and hauls her across the tiny space between the chairs. Her knees slot between his thighs and the chair arms, and she settles upon his lap with her chest to his.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "There we go. I've got you. You're all right."
She keeps her arms folded close to her chest and buries her face in his neck, ensconced by the scent of sandalwood as he holds her. One arm encircles her waist, the other folds up to enable his hand to cup the back of her head and hold it close. It feels like sinking into warm selfishness, knowing everything that's happened between them. Like pretending things are the way she wanted them to be.
"You did so, so well." His voice vibrates through his chest. She can feel it against the sides of her hands. "I'm so fucking proud, Granger."
Hermione isn't totally sure, but she thinks she might be delirious. She doesn't think she's ever cried this hard, this forcefully. Her entire body shakes with it, so much so that she fears her bones are scraping against one another.
She's never been held this tightly, either.
Nothing matters right now. Not the hurtful things he said, or the broken pieces of her heart. Nothing. All she wants is to stay right here, in his strong arms, drifting away from the shadows of the stars that seek to destroy her.
His arms tighten around her and he lets out a breath that quivers. It shakes his body, and she's reminded of the fact that he's involved in this, too. He's creating these horrible memories, over and over, and if Faye is right—if he fancies her—then they must take a toll on him, too.
She cries for a long time. Until her head is pounding and her face is swollen. Until she's nearly falling asleep with her head on his shoulder and her hands going numb between their chests. Until he's lazily painting designs on her back with his fingers.
Until she's suddenly aware of the fact that her dress is rucked up and their hips are slotted together, the heat coming from their bodies warming her insides.
Wiggling her hands until they're on his chest between them, she pushes back enough to look at him. He's relaxed in the chair, his head tipped against the back of it, watching her from beneath half-closed eyes and long blonde lashes. It's odd, looking down at him instead of up. She takes the opportunity to study his face in the silence—to inspect his dark, straight eyebrows. The slope of his pointed nose. The angles of his high cheekbones and sharpness of his jawline. The light smattering of blond stubble she can see connected on his chin, jaw, and above his mouth. His lips, which look softer than she thought they would up this close in the light. The slight shadows beneath his eyes, which are so silver they're like molten mercury.
She raises one finger to trace it all, like painting her own rendition of him and committing it to memory.
"You're a very beautiful man," she says in a matter-of-fact tone, her voice hoarse from crying for so long. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
His breathing is even. She can feel her torso lifting and falling in response to the expansion of his chest. He looks exhausted and tired and sleepy. But his eyes are alert, focused on her.
"No." His own voice is scratchy, like he's already been sleeping and she just woke him. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Yes." Her fingers linger on his lower lip before falling to his chest again. "You."
"I'm the only one?"
She nods. "I'm used to being told I'm intelligent, or studious."
Malfoy's brows twitch together as he looks down, his gaze falling to her neck. His fingers trail down her spine yet again.
"Then allow me to tell you a third time. You're a very beautiful woman, Granger."
He says it so flippantly. Like she's some other witch. Not someone he spent years mercilessly teasing.
Heat floods her body anyway.
"Thank you," she says, attempting to sound just as flippant. Then, she studies his eyes, her gaze dancing back and forth between each one as though they each have a different story to tell. "You know, you don't have to be the strong one all the time. I am a Gryffindor."
He breathes a laugh through a lazy half-smile. She sees a flash of one fang.
"Come off it," he says in that same scratchy tenor. His hands make their way up her spine. It feels nice. "I'll be whoever I want to be."
"You look exhausted," she counters.
"I'm hungry."
She bites her lower lip, painfully aware of the way she's sitting on top of him. "How have you been feeding?"
"House Elves," he mumbles, and he closes his eyes, like he's seconds away from slumber. "Wanted to give you space."
Her heart jumps at that. She knew she'd wanted space and she hadn't told him she did, but he registered it and gave her space anyway.
"I suppose it would be okay for you to have a nice lunch," she says, a small smile playing about her lips.
His eyes crack open and he raises one dark brow. "Yeah?"
She nods.
Malfoy looks down at her neck, a greedy flash dancing through his eyes. One hand stays on her lower back while the other moves to her hair. He takes his time pushing it over her shoulder, curl by curl until one side of her neck is bared for him. She tilts her head to give him easier access and then makes the unilateral decision to relax further into him, so he doesn't have to lift his head too much from the back of the chair.
She hears him hum at that, and then his lips brush against her neck. The slight touch of skin to skin makes her shiver, which in turn makes his hand press harder against her back.
He pierces her neck with his fangs so slowly that she's forced to feel the initial pain more acutely. Right as she winces from it, his tongue swipes through the blood and the arousal settles over her like a thick, heady blanket. As he feeds with leisure, she closes her eyes and allows herself to embrace the desire that thrums through her veins. To bask in it as a way to remind herself the difference between the real Malfoy and the false memory Malfoy. The false one causes pain.
The real one doesn't.
Her hips start to rock of their own accord, grinding against him the way she knows she likes. With naught but her knickers and his trousers between her core and his cock, she can feel every drag. She can hear everything, too. His quiet groans. The fabric of their clothes rustling. The beating of her own heart. Every movement is intense— too intense.
She lets out a quiet, gasping moan.
His hands go to her hips and begin to pull her more firmly against him. She can feel that he's hard, and it enhances the feelings of electricity that jolt through her thighs.
She becomes mindless, allowing him to guide her hips along like they're the rolling waves of the sea. She pushes her chest closer to him, angling her hips so that each forward pull makes her clit rub against him. She gasps again, one of her hands going to his shoulder and the other tangling in the hair at the back of his head.
"So soft," she whispers, not realizing she's just spoken the words out loud.
He sucks on the wound, drawing more blood out, and she nearly comes from the sheer potency of his mouth. She starts moving her hips herself, heedless of his hands upon them, chasing her own climb to the stars. His fingers flex against her skin once before one hand slides up to her waist. The other goes to her thigh, pulling her lower body as close to his as it can go.
She increases her speed, strengthens the force of her grind, nearing the edge of desperation. His teeth and tongue, the hardness of his cock—the combination is too much. Feels too good.
Suddenly, he grabs her hips and stills her.
"What?" She's breathless. Confused. "What's wrong?"
"Wait," he whispers, and she can feel his chest heaving faster, her untouched blood now dripping down her neck and over her collarbone. "Just...Wait."
Hermione tries to pull back, to look at him, but his hands squeeze her hips and she stops, staring at the ridiculously way-too-big Christmas tree behind the chair. Her fingers freeze in his hair as she looks down at a mental list of what could possibly be wrong. Is he in danger of drinking too much blood? She shifts on his lap.
"Malfoy—"
"Fuck," he groans and his entire body shakes. Her hips feel like they're going to bruise. "Fuck. Don't move."
And it clicks.
She knows exactly what the problem is.
Her own need to chase desire diminishes in the face of this new realm—the realm she stepped a toe into that autumn morning, when she had her fingers and lips on his chest and he was the one pleading with her. She had enjoyed that level of power, especially in a world where she has none, and now here she is with it in her hold again.
A tiny burst of glee goes off in her mind.
"Don't you fucking dare," he says, and he sounds like he's holding back a laugh. "Don't you...D-Don't."
She's moving her hips again, purposeful rolls that have her own mouth falling open in pleasure. She drags them back and forth, back and forth. Harder. Faster. His head falls back and his hands loosen their grip on her, his gaze falling down to her chest where she knows her breasts are bouncing gently.
"Ooo, fuck." The sound edges on a growl that he pushes through clenched teeth. "Fuck. So fucking good. Why the fuck—" His breath hitches at a particularly hard roll of her hips, and his brow furrows like he's deeply troubled. "Why are you fucking doing this to me?"
It only serves to spur her on. He looks as needy as he sounds, and it intrigues her so much that she's abandoned her pursuit of her own orgasm completely. She quickly figures out the angle, pressure, and speed that makes him the most responsive. She does the unthinkable.
She pinches his nipples through his shirt.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He writhes beneath her, his back arching and his eyes rolling up into his head. "Fucking—ah, Gods. Fuck."
Hermione's stomach twists deliciously at his near-delirious whines, his nonsensical rambling. It makes her blood sing and her core pulse with something hot and fierce. She continues to move her hips, rubbing the tips of her pointer fingers in circles over his nipples.
"Okay! Stop. Please—fuck—please," he whimpers. "Please. You'll make me fucking come."
"I know," she says simply, watching him like an experiment. A potion she's brewing for the first time. "I want you to."
"Salazar, fuck. You'll be my downfall, Granger."
His entire body is trembling. Almost violently so. She resumes the rolling of her hips and he twitches beneath her, on the verge of grinding up to meet her movements. He takes heavy breaths and throws his arm across his eyes.
"Please stop, or I'm gonna come," he moans, the fingers of his other hand hurting her thigh as he clutches it. "I'm fucking begging you."
Hermione's hips halt, guilt starting to creep its way into her stomach.
She shouldn't be doing this. He's pleading with her and she isn't stopping. He looks like he's on the verge of tears. How is this any better than if he were to do it to her? It doesn't matter if it feels good for him—he said no.
Malfoy takes advantage of her pause and grabs both of her hips. Gently, he pushes her back until she's on his thighs and not his pelvis. He leans forward, his forehead touching her shoulder.
"I'm...I'm sorry," Hermione says, whispering it in shame. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"Granger, hush. It's all right. Trust me—my Herculean strength was for your sake. Not mine."
"Huh?"
He places a kiss to her throat, right over the bite wound he created. "Can't do that to you. I don't deserve it."
"What?"
"I need a cooling charm," he pants. "Get my wand."
Hermione reaches over and picks up his wand, her heart aching at the familiar flare of magic that responds within her. When he doesn't immediately take it from her, she gives him a hopeful look, even though she tries not to.
"You can cast it," he says, still trying to catch his breath. His hands are on the arms of the chair and his hair seems damp with sweat.
Hermione can't stop the smile from spreading across her face. She casts the strongest cooling charm she remembers from school, enjoying the way it feels to cast a spell again. The last time she'd gotten to use his wand, the situation was dire, so she didn't exactly get to enjoy it.
"Fuck. Thank you." His head drops back. "I needed that."
"You're welcome." She hands him his wand back. "I'm really sorry."
"Don't be." He lets out a short laugh. "Seriously. "
"Did you..." She can't help biting her lower lip again, feeling suddenly and infuriatingly nervous. "Did you at least like it?"
"Granger." His gaze flicks down to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Are you in the habit of asking stupid questions? I'm a guy. Of course I did."
Hermione starts to give him an indignant retort, but his hands on her waist lifting her up silence her. She places her feet on the ground and he stands up, causing her to crane her neck. He gazes down at her intently, his eyes burning like fire.
"I think I'll go take a nap," Hermione says. She feels more than a little embarrassed at what she's done.
"All right."
She steps back. "Will you be at supper?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Erm...Bye."
She turns, gathers her skirt out of the way of her feet and all but runs to the doors.
Malfoy has other plans.
She feels the breeze one millisecond before he has her pressed up against a bookshelf, his arm wrapped around her midriff and her skirt at her hips. His fangs descend upon her neck at the same time that he slips his fingers between her legs. He moves past the gusset of her knickers and slides his fingers through the mortifying amount of wetness that's still lingering in her cunt.
The moan that exits her mouth is basically a scream.
The stroke of his tongue against her wounds. The sting of the new bite. Her blood all but pouring into his eager, waiting mouth. The height difference is everything. Every slam of his fingers hits the soft spot inside of her that seems to evade every other man in the universe because this man— this man.
The back of her head hits the shelf, her hair touching the spines of valuable books older than time. His fangs leave her neck.
"I don't like when you close your eyes, Granger," he growls. "You know that. You know what I like."
Hermione's body quivers and flares with heat more intense than the sun. She forces her eyes open as much as she can and finds him watching her through the hair that shrouds his eyes. The wall his Occlumency builds is still there, as always, but the crack in it is wide enough to allow something raw to show through. It intensifies the twisting and curling beast within her lower abdomen.
His palm hits her clit with every thrust of his hand. Still keyed up from what they'd been doing before, her cunt is already starting to clench. She gasps when his head dips down and his nose brushes against hers.
"You gonna come for me, sweet girl?" he murmurs, pulling his fingers out so he can give her clit the gentle circles that always send her hurtling through space.
Her brows come together and she nods frantically.
"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes." She's saying it over and over. Sobbing it.
Just as her body crests the wave and her eyes roll up, he bites her again. It makes her cry out as she comes against his fingers, her body convulsing and shuddering between his and the bookshelf. She goes limp as he wraps both of his arms around her and holds her close, drinking her blood without care.
She feels very tired.
A twisting behind her belly button brings them to the outside of her bedroom door. She leans back against it, eyes half-closed as he casts an episkey.
"Why did—" she starts to say, but his smirk stops her.
"Couldn't let you leave without your reward for being such a good girl, now could I?"
He Apparates away before she can reply, leaving her standing there in a blissful daze.
-
After a rather pleasant supper where Tillian and Faye tell them all about the snow sculptures they made that day, Hermione is the first to get up.
"Where are you off to, Hermione?" Tillian asks. "Did you not want to play Exploding Snap with us?"
"Oh, I've got to sing again tomorrow," Hermione says, stopping a few seats past Malfoy's chair. "I was going to get some last minute practice done."
"Damn," he says, pouting. "It's more fun with multiple people."
"I would, but you know." Hermione tucks a curl behind her ear. It pops out again anyway. "Did you want to watch?"
"I'll watch," Malfoy says, taking the last bite of food on his plate.
Hermione's stomach spins. She's performed in front of a whole room of the worst people she'd ever seen, and she's got nerves at the thought of Malfoy watching her? Some Gryffindor.
"Sure," Tillian says. "Faye and I will come."
Faye grabs his forearm, practically clawing it. "I think we should let Malfoy hear by himself this time, Tillian. He's never gotten to hear her practice."
"He's seen her sing before," Tillian says, his head pulling back on his shoulders in confusion.
"Not in the tearoom," Faye says.
"Why does it matter—"
Faye slams her hands over his mouth and the back of his head, giving Hermione a sweet smile. Tillian's muffled words are not intelligible. It makes Hermione laugh.
"Go on," Faye insists. "Till and I will be fine. You two kids have fun."
Hermione knows what Faye is doing. Sly, but pointless. Nothing romantic will happen between them—it's just a song.
Malfoy gets up from the table and approaches, his expression blank. It's neither a glare nor a smile. It simply is.
"Lead the way," he says.
"Right."
They leave the dining hall and walk to the tea room. It's a comfortable silence that exists between them, hovering around them like a gentle cloud. Hermione is careful to not think about that afternoon too much. She still feels ashamed of how she acted, how she disregarded his pleas. He'd said it was all right and that he liked it, but did that matter?
"Granger, stop," he says, laughing out the words. "I told you it was all right."
She wrings her hands. "I feel awful, Malfoy."
They're passing the stairs, his shoes snapping against the marble floor and her slippers shuffling along. He looks thoughtful, like he's choosing his words carefully.
"I wasn't asking you to stop in a serious way. I was warning you. If you had kept going, I wouldn't have been angry with you or blamed you."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't," he says, and she feels his hand patting the top of her head, then running down the back of her curls once. "Just know you did nothing wrong."
Hermione chews her lower lip. She doesn't understand what he means. Stop means stop and no means no, right? He'd told her to stop. Begged her to.
"Granger. Come here, dammit." He stops walking, grabbing her wrist and spinning her back to face him. He cups her cheeks with his hands, bending down to look into her eyes. "You did nothing wrong. I promise you."
"I sexually assaulted you," she says, frowning. "It's not okay."
He laughs again, standing up straight. Hermione lets out a soft cry of surprise when he pulls her to his chest for a one-armed hug.
"You did not sexually assault me, you silly bint."
"Yes, I did! You said no!" Her voice is muffled by his shirt. "I don't understand why you aren't upset."
"Listen." He pushes her back and holds her by the shoulders. "Sometimes, when things are overwhelming, people say stop but they don't mean stop in a negative way. Does that make sense?"
She looks down in thought and then confidently says, "Not at all."
He hangs his head for a second before he gives her a smirk. "You were about to make me come in my trousers, Granger, a magical feat in and of itself. I was out of my fuckin' mind. The foundational part of my brain realized that it was a bad idea—not that I didn't want to do it at all."
Hermione stares at him.
"Think of it this way," he continues. "Imagine you're looking at a really, really good-looking piece of cake. It looks and smells delicious. But you don't have any cutlery. You know if you eat it, you're going to get frosting all over your hands. You might still eat it and deal with the mess, but if you don't, then it's only a loss as important as how much you wanted that cake. And even then, you'll survive. You've also been told you can't have cake until after dinner, but you refused to eat the dinner. You decide to start eating the cake anyway, knowing you're breaking rules while doing it, and you're telling yourself to stop with every bite. It's hard, though, because it's some really fucking good cake. Make sense?"
A flush steadily spreads up her neck and into her cheeks. "Oh."
"Oh is right." He drops his hands from her body and gives her a very small, almost sad smile. "I don't deserve you, Granger. I don't deserve anything from you. It would have been selfish of me. Now, let's go. I want to hear this song."
He pushes forward, and it takes Hermione a second to follow. She processes what he's said and it sinks in. He was saying stop because he had set a rule for himself not to gain enjoyment from her for whatever self-flagellating reason he had. He was saying stop even though he didn't want to, because he would hate himself afterward. He thought he was taking advantage of her.
She wishes he would've been selfish.
In the tearoom, the lighting is low and warm, coming from a small chandelier above them. Outside the windows, the grounds are covered in white snow that looks almost blue beneath the starry night sky. The piano plays something softly when they enter. Hermione takes a seat at the bench, preparing to tell him to take a seat in one of the table's chairs, but Malfoy surprises her once again. He straddles the bench beside her, drumming his hands on the wood. With his hair falling into his eyes like that and the eager look on his face, she's reminded of Hogwarts with a painful note of nostalgia. She's seen him sit at the tables in the Great Hall this exact way.
"Let's hear it, then," he says.
"All right," she replies, forcing her voice to stay even. The piano starts to play the song she's been practicing for a couple weeks now.
"Frog Choir, here we come."
She can't stop herself from laughing as she rolls her eyes. "Stop, Malfoy. It's another Muggle song. Not the Frog Choir."
"Get on with it. The peanut gallery's getting impatient."
"Stop. You're making this harder."
"I'm only say—"
She plays cheeky, cutting him off by starting the song. Her opening is powerful, and her clear soprano echoes around the room. It works.
His mouth snaps shut. As it should.
Hermione sings as close to how she plans to do it tomorrow as she can, hoping that the better she sings, the less likely they'll be bothered by people like Warrington and Flint. Carrow and Dolohov are unavoidable, unfortunately, but there's always the chance the song will help with the little guys.
As she reaches the chorus, she lets her eyes flutter open for a moment and catches sight of him. He's watching her without moving or blinking. It looks like he isn't breathing, either. The reverence is there again, and a little hint of Hogwarts Malfoy. She imagines this might be how he would have looked at her if she had sang in the Frog Choir. Would he have tried to be her friend? Would he have swallowed his pride and complimented her? Would he have stared at her in awe in the corridors and in classes? Would he watch her in the Great Hall?
Merlin, she could imagine it now. Her, seated at the Gryffindor table at breakfast, reading. Malfoy strolling up and very definitively claiming he'd leave her alone if she opened her trap a little more. She'd blush and drop her fork. Harry's glasses would fall off. Ron's face would turn bright red with rage. The students around them would stare in open-mouthed shock. The school would be up in arms for weeks.
So childish, yet so pleasant to imagine.
Malfoy seems especially motionless when she swells to a crescendo, or when she sings a successful run. All the while, the enchanted piano pulls everything together. Hermione makes only a couple mistakes but they aren't caught by him—they're only noticeable to her. By the time she's done, he's so silent that she feels like she can hear her own blood running through her veins.
He's also moved very close to her.
Hermione swallows, glancing down. His hands are flat on the bench in front of him and he's leaning forward. The action has his tattooed arms tensed, and the veins that surround his muscles appearing more prominent, stretching down to the backs of his hands. He's so close, in fact, that he's only a half-yard away. She can smell his sandalwood cologne as strong as if she were wearing it herself.
When she raises her eyes from his hands—hands that have been inside of her several times—she gets trapped in his gaze. It's hot. It's starved. It's bright. It's molten. It's every descriptor she's ever thought of for them in her head, and more intense still.
He leans closer, until she can feel his breath against her lips. Her heart runs a marathon in her chest. Her stomach plays gymnastics. Her hands are clammy and she feels like she can't breathe.
It's so quiet in the room.
Malfoy is waiting. Patient, making eye contact with her that's almost sinful. Hermione wants to lean forward. She wants to close the distance between them. To finally feel his lips against hers, his tongue in her mouth.
But she can't.
She can't give him access to her—this was why she wanted space from him in the first place. He can't function without Occluding, and if he can't let the walls down around her, then she won't allow him past her own.
With much difficulty, she slides away. It feels like trying to pull two large magnets apart.
"Where are you going, sweet girl?" he whispers, the corners of his lips twitching upward, the ghost of a smile. "Come back here."
She feels his arm curving around the front of her, his fingers pressing against her left side. He pulls her against him with inhuman speed, her right side to his front, and she puts her right hand upon his chest on pure instinct.
Air is nearly impossible for her to take in.
He tilts his head to the side slightly, leaning in again. Hermione's shoulders hunch, her body starting to huddle away from him. He follows. He inhales what she exhales, following even as she lets her head tip back. The tension suffocates her.
She's going to do it. She's going to throw it all to the side and kiss him. She wants it so, so badly.
"Then take it," he breathes, and she inhales the words. His hand spans the back of her neck, hooked beneath her ear with his thumb pressed to her cheekbone. "Please, Granger."
Gods. His pleas do something to her.
Hermione closes her eyes, her hand trembling against his chest. She starts to lean forward, to throw her own boundaries aside, and she can almost taste it. Their lips brush.
And she pushes him away, panting for breath as though she's been running. She lowers her head.
"I can't," she whispers, turning away from him. "I'm so sorry."
He lets out his breath and drops his head into his hands. Pieces of his hair hang down.
"Fuck, Granger," he says. "Just...Fuck."
She looks at him as he stands up. She watches him walk toward the door, but something wrenches her heart in her chest. She can't just let him walk away.
Not without giving him a chance.
"Malfoy, wait."
He stops and turns to look over his shoulder at her.
"I know what you've been doing," she says quietly, standing up and crossing her arms over her chest. "You've been hiding. Too much happened with me in too short of a time, and it overwhelmed you. So, you turned it off."
He sighs and his head falls back for a second. "I'm not hiding from anything."
"Yes, you are," she says, her mouth dropping into a frown. "And that's okay. I was so angry with you when you told me I meant less than my blood. It broke me. But now, I realize." She looks up at him. "It's your loss. Not mine. I was here. I was already giving you so much of myself, because I wanted to hang onto the one thing I had from before, even if you hurt me when we were kids."
His facial expression mirrors hers, and his hands are on his hips. "Granger—"
"I didn't want to run," she says, interrupting him. "I embraced it, embraced you. But you ran. And it broke my heart. Though, I should have expected as much, given you're a Slytherin. Self preservation above all."
In the wake of her sad laugh, he comes to stand in front of her. She looks up into his eyes, hopeful, but is disappointed.
His walls are high, completely filled in and solid. Even now, he can't let her in.
"I never wanted to hurt you," he says. "It's the last thing I wanted to do. But I—"
"Stop Occluding." She says the words with as much finality as she can, holding his gaze with all of her Gryffindor bravery. "Stop Occluding, and then talk to me. Because it's not real unless the real you is saying it."
He curses under his breath and turns away from her again, running a hand through his hair in agitation.
"I can't," he pushes out through gritted teeth. "I'll–"
"Drown. Yes. Like the rest of us." Her sadness turns to anger mingled with envy. If she could Occlude, she would have done it weeks ago. "Stop Occluding around me, or turn around and walk away."
He stares at the piano for a long time before he turns around again, pacing away from her. She watches as he paces back and forth for a solid thirty seconds before he stops a ways away from her. She sees him close his eyes and ball his hands into fists at his sides. His body trembles visibly, and he takes an audibly shaky breath.
He's trying.
Malfoy opens his eyes and turns to look at her. Her heart leaps. She can see the walls coming down, brick-by-brick. The light gradually returning as he breaks them apart. His fists tremble at his sides.
But she can see when it fails.
She sees when he gets overwhelmed. When his chest starts to rise and fall too fast. She sees the tears springing to his eyes as the emotion starts to crash down upon him.
"Fuck!" he shouts, sinking down into a crouch with the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes. He sounds broken. "I can't. I fucking can't."
"Malfoy..."
He stands up suddenly, and the bricks of his walls come flying back. The pain in his eyes is blockaded, hidden by his Occlumency until he calms down and breathes again.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, and then he leaves.
Hermione sinks down onto the piano bench and stares at the floor.