Fic: The Lions of December (2/2) *NC17* D/Hr
Title: The Lions of December
By Gravidy
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter and co. but I do own a cat that can beat the living hell out of your cat any day of the week.
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: NC-17, my very first “official” D/Hr sex bomb.
A/N: At least partly inspired by war talks with my awesome beta, bk.
Summary: She calls me Goliath and I wear the David mask. I'd like to believe we could reconcile the past. Resurrect those bridges with an ancient glance. But my old stone face can't seem to break her down. She remembers bridges and burns them to the ground.--Excerpts from 7Mary3 “Cumbersome”
It’s only a light kiss, very soft and chaste. It lessens the drag of panic, quiets the voice of memory. It always has. When he pulls back, his eyes have darkened, and his face is almost harsh. I focus on that instead, on the color of his eyes and the many shades of gold and cream and silver and white gleaming off his hair in the candlelight. He switches to a spoon for the ice-cream and shares it with me, but, by now, I’m more focused on him than the frozen dessert. More champagne, and I’m feeling a bit lightheaded. When he kisses me again, his lips are cold and taste like cinnamon.
He sets the silver spoon down. “Dance with me now.”
There is light music filtering in from somewhere in the background. I don’t remember when it started, but now that I’m listening, the notes are distantly familiar though I can’t place the song. He takes my hand and helps me to my feet. Whatever spell had held me down falls away easily.
He wraps my arms around his neck until I’m flush against him and runs his hands up and down my sides before settling them low on my back. I don’t resist, and I half expect him to gloat about it or something, but he doesn’t, proving that he has grown smarter with age. We just kind of sway to the music, silent but not lost in thought. Thought is dangerous right now. Thought is what will come later, along with guilt, recriminations and hatred and rage. I close my eyes and stop thinking. Eventually my head rests against his breast, tucked under his chin. He hums to the music softly. I can feel his breath in my hair.
It’s safe here. And quiet.
I tilt my face up and let him kiss me, this time not so nice or sweet, just hard and hungry, just a little bit of everything that had been denied. Another kiss, the brush of his tongue against mine, the press of memories, taste and scent and touch but they drown under another kiss, softer now but deeper. Time seems to skip out on me and the next thing I know, I’m backed up against the wall, Draco’s mouth dragging hot, wet kisses up the line of my throat, my head spinning in a drugged haze. I’m not drunk, not even a little, but that’s what it feels like.
“Stay with me, Hermione,” he begs thickly in my ear. “Please, stay with me tonight.”
And just like that, my pretty little illusion is shattered. He knows it too. I feel him go rigid even before I do. The instant the words left his mouth in that impassioned plea, he knew he’d botched it.
I shove him away hard, suddenly cold, my eyes like hard glass and everything I’ve buried so deep rampaging through my brain. It’s like the veil has been dropped from before my eyes, like a switch in my brain has been flipped. I’m suddenly thinking clearly, seeing everything I’ve done over the past week in a new light. I’m seeing every mistake I made, every single stupid thing I did wrong.
I should have had the apartment warded against Apparation and teleportation. It’s illegal to do it in an apartment complex, but I could have done it in such a way that no one would have ever known. It was stupid to leave my home wide open to anyone who wished to enter or send things. It could very easily have been a Ministry official and not Draco who took advantage of my laxity.
I should have put up a ward around the gift box the moment it appeared. I should have dissected the outer layer of spells. I should have made damn sure it could, in no way, touch, enchant, or harm Blaise. If it had been from someone else, that little bit of carelessness could have killed us both. I should have destroyed it, plain and simple. If I had wanted to, I could have, Draco’s powerful protection spells notwithstanding. It would have taken powerful dark magic, but I could have done it.
Worst of all, I never should have come here so blindly. Draco owns this place, I’d bet anything on it. I should have prepared Dean, Blaise and Lavender with suitable defenses. I should have checked all of Draco’s movements over the past month. I should have known who was coming, who he had talked to. And I should definitely have swept the room for enchantments before sitting down.
Just because the war was over, didn’t mean I was safe.
“Hermione!” Draco’s voice is calling me. I realize I’m clutching at my head.
I hear the swish of cloth as he moves, and I counter instinctively, driving my shoulder into his sternum hard. The next instant, he’s on the floor and I have both our wands in my hand. “Touch me again, you die.” My voice is soft, glacial.
He laughs, coughing slightly, grinning and breathless, clutching at his chest. “There’s my girl,” he says with relish. “I was beginning to fear that bullshit act of yours was real.”
“Shut up. Just shut up! You’ve had your fun. Now tell me where you stand on the War Crimes issue.” I have to hear him say it before I leave. I have to bind him to his answer. A good soldier always completes the mission. The mission comes first, even over one’s own life.
I back away as he sits up, hand still rubbing his chest. “No, not yet. You haven’t opened your gift.”
“I’m not playing, Malfoy.” All allies are potential enemies. Enemies are dealt with swiftly.
He shakes his head, smiling with self-deprecation. “I can tell. You look like you’re done pretending to be a brainless little fop.”
“Shut the fuck up,” and I should have stopped there but I can’t help blurting, “I don’t like this person.” She’s cold, and she’s ruthless, and she hates so passionately and she wants him.
He looks at me calmly. “I know, but I like her and she likes me. I think you should give her a chance.”
“Listen you son of a bitch. . . .”
“Speaking of which, you know, my mother asks about you, sometimes. She wonders why you never come see her. I don’t have the heart to tell her you’d rather pretend she was dead.”
“Fuck you.”
The grin turns feral. “You seemed happy enough about the idea a few minutes ago. If I hadn’t pissed you off, I could have had your panties down around your ankles and been fucking you from behind, in short order. You’d have loved it.”
I tilt my head slightly, no expression on my face. “You’re being obvious, Malfoy. Stop trying to make me angry and--”
“You’re just mad because that’s what you wanted. You wanted me to fuck you while you could pretend it was coerced. We can still do it, you know. Potter will never know. No one will ever know.” He says fiercely, then spits. “Hell, it shouldn’t matter if they do! Why do you insist on this misplaced loyalty? Why do you have to punish yourself just to please the Golden Boy? You fawn on him like a dog.”
“Maligio!” I’m screaming the word before I even realize I’ve pointed my wand at him.
I’ve completely snapped.
Draco is catapulted off the floor and slammed into the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He’s lucky his ribs didn’t crack. He sticks there, unable to move. I’m pissed, and I’m doing things I never wanted to do again. “Invalesco!” My wand flares red and begins humming. “Iuguolo!”
I can feel the painful buzz, the bitter taste of copper in the back of my throat, the dull roar in my bones as I unleash a wave of extreme Dark Magic. It’s a familiar pain, and it’s almost sweet.
The pillowcase and velvet present inside explodes with a screaming squeal and melts into an oozing black, bubbling puddle like toxic waste. The table catches the tail end of the spell and half of it collapses, folding in like a crumpled soda can.
Draco has gone very still, his expression calm but his eyes excited. He’s even still smiling a little. I stride over, grab him and Apparate, smashing right through the Apparation shield around the restaurant.
It’s oddly windy outside Ottery St. Catchpole.
I shove Draco to the ground in the middle of a grassy field, clumps of snow scattered in some places, under the only tree--a white asphodel--in the vicinity. I’m still shaking with fury and hurt, bleeding a little inside that he would tear open so many old wounds just to get a rise out of me. He knew what he was saying.
He laughs a little from his position on hands and knees, on the ground. “I haven’t seen you like this since the Cantarain mission. It’s invigorating!”
“I told you to shut up! You want to talk about loyalty, asshole? This is where my loyalty lies. Not with Harry, not with Ron, not with you. Here, with Ginny!”
He sits up on his knees. “Then kill me, if it will make you feel better. I can lie here with her. Poetic justice.” He makes an expansive gesture, and I flinch hard, raising my wand.
“Don’t you dare touch her grave.” My voice is thick, and I say it again like I still can’t believe it. “You killed her.”
Draco’s sneer suddenly melts. That cruel, mocking grin fades into tired, even bitter, lines. He stands slowly, and I let him because he’s not looking at me. He’s looking down at the headstone. “I never meant for it to happen. If I could have . . . if there was another way, Hermione, I would have done something, anything, I swear.”
I have to scrunch my eyes shut tight and look away from him. “I know.” A pause and then the truth, something he’s deserved to know for a long time. “I never blamed you. When Harry told me, I believed you did it, and I hated you for it, but I also knew. . .with every fiber of my being. . .that if you could have taken her place, you would have. I knew it was unavoidable however it happened. I never doubted you.”
There’s a strange expression on his face as he absorbs that and I refuse to look too closely. “But Harry did. And Ron. And you thought she did too.” He whispers mutely.
“And that was enough for me,” I finish without a single ounce of remorse, but oceans of regret. “I was loyal to her.”
We’ve never talked about this. We’ve never. . . not once. I’ve never even thought about how it must be for him but I find myself wondering now what he must think, what me must believe that I think. I’m half tempted to ask him, but only half tempted. It’s still too painful.
“You were loyal to me, too.” His eyes on me, softer now. “There was never anyone but me, was there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Denial is my best weapon. My rage has worn off to exhaustion, and I can feel the raw sting of all my old scars like fresh wounds. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
“See, there it is again, right there. Malfoy. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy. Not Draco, not anymore. So determined to pretend you’re two different people, that you lived two different lives. It doesn’t work like that, Hermione. It won’t change who you are, and it certainly won’t erase the past.” He reaches for his wand and I let him take it. “Advenio.” And a box appears in his hands, a gift box identical to the one I blasted into black goo at the restaurant. “Good thing I have a spare, huh? Merry Christmas.”
I take it from him hesitantly with a frown, feeling the soft velvet under my fingers.
“Bury it here, baby. I think she’ll understand.” He turns and walks away, Apparating out a few feet away, leaving me alone with the silver moon and a million uncaring stars.
I stare at the box, wondering whether or not I want to open it, wondering whether I can go back to pretending. I can feel my safe, solid world trembling, ready to come crashing down anyway. Maybe it’s inevitable now.
I sit down on the cold earth, under the tree next to Ginny Weasley’s gravestone, with my legs tucked under me. I could give half a damn about the dress. I take the loose ends of the bow between my fingers and pull, watching the knot slip apart like it never was, aware of the symbolism in doing so. I untie the gold thread and slip my fingers over the velvet to find the seams, carefully prying the corners loose and unfolding it. The box underneath is glossy white and unmarked.
Carefully, I lift the lid.
Inside, on top of artistically folded white tissue paper, is a large clear crystal, diamond shaped. It’s a communication recorder for relaying messages.
Cautiously, I set it on its little stand, moving the wrappings out of the way and tapping the top of it with my wand.
The crystal immediately flares, the edges glittering prism-like. And an image of Harry appears. I go still, so horrified I’m nauseous, because that means Harry knows.
“Oh Hermione,” the Harry image says so heavily that I want to shrink in on myself and disappear. He must hate me. He’s got to hate me. I hate myself so much. . .
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I had no idea.”
What?
I blink and look up at the image.
“When Malfoy came to me, I didn’t believe him. I mean, I never believe Malfoy. It’s just a rule somewhere, you know, I . . . and you . . . I didn’t know Hermione. You never told me. You never seemed interested in anyone, not anyone. I never realized there was someone that you . . . loved. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t realize what I was doing. You have to understand, Ginny’s death . . . it nearly killed me. There were nights when I just didn’t want to wake up in the morning. I was just too selfish to realize that there were nights like that for you too. Hermione, if I’m completely honest with myself, and you, I never blamed Malfoy for Ginny’s death. He was a scapegoat, a convenient target. He was someone to hate for what had happened. There was no way in hell he could have predicted the mission going wrong and even if he had, he probably would have died trying to save her, and I’m glad he didn’t. I’m so glad because I never want you to feel what I felt when they told me Ginny was gone. Hermione, I’m not coming down to see you this Christmas. I want you to go out and do whatever it is you need to do, and I want you to know that you have my blessing . . . and I love you.” his voice cracks and it spears through my heart.
Harry’s image fades and Ron appears. He smiles a little shakily.
“You absolute nutter, Hermione, falling for a Malfoy. I thought I taught you better. Well, I’m not like Harry. I do blame Malfoy, I blame him for a lot of things, and I think I’ll hate him for the rest of my life. But I also know it could have been anyone else, any one of us, in charge of that mission. I know he did what he thought was best. I know he didn’t do it on purpose. I know he didn’t, and I’m sorry I said those things. I don’t care that he took it to heart, but I’m sorry you did too. Hermione, he told us about . . . about you two . . . during the war, and I realized. . . I realized how it must have been for you. And then I realized why you came out of it okay. That’s what. . .that’s what he was to you, what he did for you, and none of us knew. I didn’t know. Look, I know Ginny doesn’t blame Malfoy. I know she loves you. I know she will always love you. I know she wants you to be happy, and I want you to be happy too. Merlin, Hermione, more than anything I want you to be happy. Please . . . be happy.” He takes a shuddering breath, “ I’m taking Luna up for a little retreat this Christmas. I want you to get this whole mess straightened out while I’m gone. And I love you.”
The crystal flickers, and the light dies, and it’s like all the strength just drains from my body. I literally collapse onto the ground and curl up on my side, for a long time not making a sound. I’m numb, shaking and just. . .numb.
The War was a bad time for all of us, for Harry and our friends, especially once we realized that we could not count on the adults. That we couldn’t count on anyone but ourselves. Towards the end, we weren’t just Voldemort’s enemy. We were seen as vigilantes by the Ministry, and as dangerous loose cannons by the public.
We had to go into hiding in the first few months of our seventh year. We would have been kicked out or arrested or assassinated in our beds if we had stayed.
Half of the kids had either been pulled out of Hogwarts or left of their own accord by then anyway. Many of them came to Harry to fight. I ended up in charge of furthering their education. I taught them everything I could. I taught them the Dark Arts. I taught them how to fight, how to kill, how to survive.
That’s who I really am, not the bumbling Ministry intern who studies experimental magick and goes home everyday to her dingy apartment in a college neighborhood. I’m a war veteran, a master of the Dark Arts, and I sold out on all of my ideals and dreams a long time ago. And it’s so hard to just pretend to be normal, to pretend I don’t still have nightmares, to pretend I haven’t killed people, to pretend I’ve never cast Dark Magic, to pretend I don’t wake up in the middle of the night aching for the man who killed my best friend.
Back then, I lived every day expecting to die. There was no thought of what life in the future would be like. There was no thought of a ‘better tomorrow.’ There was only ‘today’ and finding enough food, staying warm, finding clothes and shelter, providing for those under our care and burying the ones who had died. I never believed that I’d live through the war. I never once dared to imagine that my life now, living in a comfy home with a steady job, was possible. I never believed there was more in store for me then blood and death and darkness.
That was my lot in life and I accepted it. I had to.
We had all dealt with the stress and horror in our own ways. Harry became a chain-smoker. Ginny got pregnant early on. She had the baby, Lillian Jean, who is now five-and-a-half, before she died, making Harry a single father. Ron fought or fucked anything that moved. I’m fairly certain he even slept with Blaise once. Blaise was never a part of the war. He was a civilian, but he hinted once that he might have slept with Ron. I think he wanted to know if I felt weird about that. I flat out told him that I don’t.
The boys did their thing. They just never knew that I was doing my own. I was fucking Draco Malfoy.
It wasn’t a relationship, or, to call it a relationship would be greatly misleading. We hardly ever even spoke to each other really, except for that first time, afterwards when he’d held me pinned up against the wall, face hidden against my throat, pants around his ankles, still inside me, my body throbbing and I still wasn’t sure what the hell had just happened. He had said, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
But I didn’t care, and he never apologized again.
After missions, always after missions, other times I’d just go walking until I met him. We never had an appointed time or place. Hard, fast, somewhere no one would ever catch us, sometimes up against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist, teeth clenched, head back while he took mouthfuls of my throat, sometimes shoved face-down on the floor with him on top of me, his breath harsh in his throat, sweat dripping down on my back, his fingers biting into my hips, pounding me into the ground. A few times, memorably, like lovers in my bed, completely naked and slower than usual but still no words, no feelings, nothing but release before we both got up and walked away.
That makes it sound cold and meaningless. That makes it sound like it was all about sex.
It wasn’t.
It was ours.
It was something good that was just ours, something that we could count on and look forward to, something that wasn’t about hate or pain. Best of all, it was something that made us both feel needed, that let us feel important to someone else, while at the same time giving us someone to need, to cling to when things became unbearable. It wasn’t a relationship, it wasn’t anything, it defied categorization, but it was more meaningful to me then most of the relationships I’ve had in my entire life.
I said there were no words, but there were no words because none were needed, he comforted me with his body, there were no feelings because we both knew we were going to die and I didn’t want to cry for him anymore than I wanted him to cry for me, there was nothing but release because we were both so young, I don’t think either of us knew how to deal with it beyond that.
But we needed it. Merlin, we needed it.
Ron and Harry never knew, not because I was trying to hide it-I wasn’t-it just wasn’t important enough to be mentioned.
Then the war had ended, and so had we. I had no idea what to do with myself those first few months of peace. I think we were all a little lost. And he and I just never looked back. I don’t think I wanted to. It was like it had never happened, and I think in this reality, this place where I’m just a fresh-faced intern, it didn’t.
We didn’t see each other until two years later, and that was an accident. A lunch date. I had been there to see Mandy Brocklehurst, now Mandy Corner, and Michael Corner. Draco showed up with Millicent and Terry Boot. Neither of us had acknowledged the other. It had really been as though nothing had ever happened, as if we were complete strangers meeting for the first time. I enjoyed the lunch date, had a good time talking with everyone and when I rose to leave early for an appointment, bidding them all goodbye. He had slipped me a folded napkin with a note written in blue ink.
I want to see you again.
Somehow, I knew he didn’t mean for a quick fuck up against a wall.
We met the next day at the same park bench and we just . . . we just spent the day together and did things like hold hands as we walked. And we talked about things no one else understood, and I sat wrapped in his arms when the sun set, and then we dressed up for no reason, and went to an expensive restaurant for dinner, and had salmon and truffles and Gorgonzola stuffed dates and when he dropped me off at my apartment afterwards . . . he kissed me goodbye, chastely. The kind of sweet, first-date kiss I’d never had from him, and it was better than perfect, sweet and warm and chocolaty from the dessert we shared at the restaurant. And I swear, my legs turned to jello and my heart did a little flip. He tried to flash me his most devastating smile as he left but it deteriorated into a ridiculous lop-sided grin, and I floated up the stairs with his promise to see me again the next day still ringing in my ears.
I was so high up there on Cloud Nine that when Harry called, I told him that I’d spent the day with Draco and giggled about it like a stupid smitten schoolgirl.
Harry had been pissed. Beyond pissed. He’d said things to me that I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him for, even knowing they came out of grief. And then he told me the truth about Ginny, something only Ron, Harry, and Draco knew and had kept to themselves to avoid dissension in the ranks. He told me how Ginny had died because of Malfoy, how it was his fault. He hadn’t done his job as Squad Leader, and she’d paid the price. He even implied that if I had been around at the time, it might not have happened.
“If he’s a traitor, Harry, why isn’t he dead?” I had cried.
“We needed him.” Was the simple, clipped reply.
“Do you want me to kill him?” I asked, completely serious. It didn’t matter that I thought I was completely in love with him already. It didn’t matter that I wanted to see him again so bad I ached.
“No, he’s holding an important office.”
“I won’t ever see him again, Harry. I promise.”
If that wasn’t bad enough, only fifteen minutes later, Ron floo’d to my place in full battle mode, screaming at me for my stupidity. I ended up begging his forgiveness, begging Ginny’s forgiveness. Ron ended by saying that if he ever caught me with Malfoy, then I was the traitor.
And that was it.
I never told them about my time with Draco during the war, and I never told them that he’d kept me sane, that he’d held me on the worst nights. I was ashamed of that. I knew they’d hate me if they ever found out, but that wasn’t what stopped me. It was the thought that Ginny would hate me, that I was betraying Ginny--that stopped me.
I think that was the worst moment. The moment when I realized I still loved him. He’d murdered Ginny and I still loved him. I haven’t been able to look Mrs. Weasley in the face since. On bad days, I can’t even look myself in the face.
The next day, when Draco arrived with a dozen roses in hand and a smile on his face, I calmly told him that it was his fault that Ginny was dead and that I’d gladly fuck him up and kill him if Harry or Ron ever gave the word.
Draco hadn’t taken it well, but at least he hadn’t screamed at me. He just never let me forget, which was really all I wanted to do. I wanted to forget it all.
It was so ironic. I had saved Ginny’s life twice. I had fought for her, cheated death to keep her alive and won. Afterwards she laughed and called me her guardian angel. Then two months later she was dead at the hands of one of our own. Why had I been able to save her if she was only meant to die? Was that meant to be? Was that fate saving her because she was destined to be killed by Draco?
My best friend and my lover both ripped from me in a single, nasty trick of fate.
And now to have it all forgiven. . . .
I don’t think I can face Draco. I can’t. Not after everything I did to him, how I treated him. That was a betrayal in and of itself. I’m not sure I can live with it, but I know I can’t forget.
Maybe Draco is right. Maybe it is time to bury it.
Hollow-eyed, I slowly and meticulously pack the crystal back into the box, fold the velvet back around it and tie it closed. My fingers are cold but steady. I use my bare hands to dig a hole in the hard grave soil, tearing my fingernails and caking my skin with grave dirt. And I bury the box there. I bury my past. I bury all my stupid pretenses and the coward I seem to have become. I bury it all, and I say a prayer for Ginny. Afterwards, I clean myself off with a flick of my wand and Apparate home. A part of me is just kind of quietly glad that the whole ordeal is over.
It’s over. It’s finally over.
I appear in the entryway of my apartment and instantly take a jerky step backwards in wide-eyed surprise. For a moment, I think I’ve misjudged and ended up somewhere other than my apartment.
But no, it’s my place.
It’s been transformed. Blinking, glittering, stuffed with Christmas decorations. The walls are hung with Christmas tapestries and wreaths. Poinsettias plants and little Christmas place mats sit on the counter. Candles and snowflake dishtowels decorated my kitchen. Christmas figurines and snowmen and reindeer cover every flat surface in the living room. There is a huge Christmas tree in the far corner of the living room, decorated with a myriad array of ornaments and gold and silver tinsel, a bright star on top and blinking lights, stacks of presents beneath it. The house smells of pine and cinnamon. A little miniature train chugs along a set of tiny tracks that loop around the room, and a fire burns cheerily in the hearth.
I take it all in wonderingly, circling the room slowly to examine every last detail until I realize I’m not alone.
I just about jump right out of my skin, giving an undignified squeal.
Draco is sitting in the armchair. I really should have expected him to be here, but I didn’t, so I only stare at him, probably looking like a complete idiot. He just cocks an eyebrow at me coolly, lounging in the chair, completely relaxed, even in a place he’s never been before, wearing dark cotton slacks, a green knit sweater, that looks a hell of a lot like a Weasley sweater, with a Christmas tree on the front, a new candy cane poking out of his mouth, and wire-rim glasses perched on his nose.
What in the hell?
“Hey sweetie,” he says, really gently, probably because I look like I’m about to fall apart. My insides have just crumbled into weepy bits. “Home for the day?”
For a minute, I think I’m dreaming. I think I’m seeing what life would have been like if the war had never happened. Because this . . . this was never in the cards for me. I was supposed to die in the war. I was supposed to be a bookish intern and grow old alone. I was never supposed to get to keep Draco Malfoy.
But this is real.
I feel myself wobble as the blood drains from my face, and he rises in alarm to grab hold of me before I collapse.
“Whoa! Hey, Hermione, baby, are you okay?”
I haven’t cried in years, not since Ginny’s death, which is funny because I was such a crybaby as a little girl, but I just can’t help it now. I curl into him and hold on for dear life and just sob. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” into his shoulder.
The only words I manage to choke out and they’re meaningless. They don’t come anywhere close to expressing what I really want to say, what I really feel. My throat is clogged with confessions, so many that they fill my chest and squeeze around my heart till I can’t breath, and the same stupid words just keep pouring out of my mouth.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I am sorry. I’m sorry for trying to forget him. I’m sorry for telling him he was nothing to me. I’m sorry for abandoning him, for making him depend on me and then deserting him. I’m sorry for taking him in when we needed him and then kicking him out when we were through using him. I’m sorry he couldn’t trust me enough to tell me about Ginny. I’m sorry that he was right not to tell me.
He’s not the traitor. I am.
There’s so much there and so much more and I want to tell him so badly but I’m crying too hard.
He holds me, sitting down in the armchair with me in his arms, and for the longest time, just strokes my hair, murmuring that everything is fine, everything is going to be okay. And it’s so good because he feels and smells and sounds exactly the same and I never imagined I would ever have this again.
When I can control myself and not act like a stupid, hysterical female, I take several deep breaths and raise my head. He’s looking at me so tenderly with those blue-gray eyes, dips forward to kiss the tip of my nose, my forehead. You wouldn’t know that bully, braggart, egotistical fucked-up peacock Malfoy could be so gentle.
It’s been two years since he’s looked at me like that. I nearly break down again, force my shaking shoulders steady on a deep breath and touch his face. “I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore. I . . . what I did . . . I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
But I had to. I want to add, but don’t because that’s a lie. I didn’t have to do it. I did it because I was afraid.
I’m absolutely ashamed of the way I treated him. For two years I acted like he was some kind of sick, stalker freak. I flaunted my relationship with Blaise in his face, led him to believe Blaise and I were lovers. I cursed him and myself and wished I’d never met him and, worst of all, I forgot him. I did it because I would have gone crazy otherwise. Looking at him, wanting him, it would have driven me mad. So I hated him instead.
He smirks a little. “You wouldn’t be my ‘Mione if you weren’t incurably stubborn. I mean, look what I had to go through today just to get you to open a little box.”
I laugh, watery, weak, and then my smile fades as the reality of what he had to do to get those crystals sinks in and if I wasn’t already sitting, I think I would have fallen.
“You went and saw Harry and Ron!” I gasp softly, my eyes huge with wonder and shaken with fear. “You told them everything.”
He nods, face sober.
He went to Harry and Ron. He went, literally and figuratively, into the lion’s den and told two men who would much rather murder him then speak to him that he’d been fucking me during the war, before and after he’d killed Ginny, and that he wanted to fuck me again.
I can’t even begin to comprehend the courage it must have taken for him to do that. I certainly didn’t have that courage. I lied to everyone, including myself, saying I wasn’t hiding our relationship when all I did was treat him like a dirty secret, like our relationship wasn’t as important to me as Harry and Ron’s.
And this is the second time. This is the second time he’s gone to them with a confession and put his life in their hands.
What had that first time been like for him? Coming back from the mission and having to tell Harry that he’d killed Ginny. Ginny who was Ron’s sister, the mother of Harry’s child and his own lover’s best friend. And yet, that’s exactly what he did. He didn’t mince words. He’d gone in there and taken full responsibility.
He was lucky to come out alive that first time, and yet he’d gone back again. . .for me.
“They could have killed you! Merlin, Draco, how. . . how did you convince them to let you go? How did you convince them to let us. . .” I trail off, tracing his features with my fingers, savoring it because I could have very well lost him to their rage.
How did he convince them? I can imagine him tricking them into promising not to kill him beforehand, I can imagine him spinning fairy tales-telling elaborate lies. But I don’t think he did. Not with this.
He rests his forehead against mine. “I just convinced them that if they killed me, you’d never forgive them.”
I shudder because it’s true and it’s something I don’t like to look at too closely, that in losing one I could have lost them all. I pull back slightly. “How can you forgive me so easily?”
He sighs softly. “I understand, Hermione. I understand why you did it. I even agreed with you a little. Didn’t like it, but I agreed.” And there’s another flash of deep remorse. He regrets what happened to Ginny so badly but he had no one to help him or comfort him or forgive him. He fought beside us for years. But he was never really one of us, we never let him in. And then when we didn’t need him anymore, we ditched him.
“I missed you.” I hug him so tightly, just greedy for the feel of him.
“Yeah, I missed you too, real bad.” He hugs me back. “Did you bury it?”
I rub my face against his shoulder. “I buried it all.”
“Good . . . good.”
I lean up to kiss him but pause because he pops the candy cane back in his mouth and smirks at me wickedly from behind his glasses, like the little piece of candy is going to deter me. I love that sweater-and-glasses look on him. It’s boyish and harmless and perfectly at odds with the bastard he truly is.
I steal the candy cane from him, slipping it wetly from his lips to slide it between my own. It’s warm from his mouth. It’s one of the really sweet candy canes, not the regular flavor. I like these best, and I wonder if he knows that. I take a last lick and toss it onto the coffee table, not wanting to get candy cane in my carpet, and when I turn back around he wrenches me forward.
His lips are sticky, and his mouth is sweet. I suck the flavoring away, wanting to taste what’s underneath, and it’s better than chocolate, better than candy cane. He touches my face, undoes the tie in my hair so that it falls down around my shoulders, tangles his fingers in it. He has a thing for my hair. It’s so bad it could be termed a fetish. I always thought he picked on my hair because he knew I was self-conscious about it. It took me a long time to realize he was just a sicko who liked running his hands through my hair while we did it.
He kisses me hard and aggressively and holds me tight, but his hands aren’t moving, just clenching and unclenching in my dress and I know him--he’s holding back. He’s not going to push me any further than I want to go. It’s sweet but I don’t want him to be careful right now.
I turn in his arms, sliding my knee over his legs so that I’m straddling him, making my dress ride up. I’m probably wrinkling the hell out of it, but I don’t care. I deliberately press my hips down against his groin, grinding into him until he growls against my mouth and tightens his grip on me. I think that helped him get the picture. His hands go to my hips, and he pulls me down on him harder.
I wiggle a little just to feel his arousal, and he makes a choked sound against my mouth and groans, “Slow it down.”
“Shut up.” He’s such a blabbermouth. Likes to hear himself speak.
I’m shaking now at the feel of him, heat coiling in my belly, the ache that wakes me in the middle of the night from dreams of him. He grunts and thrusts upwards against me, slow and strong, a hand sliding up and down over my back, over my bottom to tug my dress up. Then his hands slide over my panty-clad bottom. I have a brief flash of panic wondering what kind of underwear I had put on that morning, but his tongue in my mouth drives the thought away. Likes to be in control too, the bastard.
I bite his bottom lip, wrapping my arms around his neck, nipping kisses down his throat. I remember this taste, salty and sweet, and that warm scent that’s pure Draco. He smells like expensive cologne and pine needles. His hands tighten on my bottom and he grinds upward, slowly dragging his erection across my panties in a move that just about fries every synapse in my brain. I collapse against him with a whimper and suck on his pulse point, eagerly grinding against him.
I remember he stayed with me the whole night the day Ginny died. At the time I didn’t know he was responsible for her death. We didn’t talk about it. I cried a little. He didn’t hold me or try to comfort me in any way, but he laid in my bed, lost in himself, his eyes far away seeing things that I’m glad I never saw, and I didn’t comfort him even though it registered with me that he felt something. Whether it was grief, or responsibility, or sorrow, or just horror at what he’d done. He felt something for Ginny Weasley’s passing.
My hands find their way up his shirt, and I giggle when I feel the button-down collar-shirt underneath the sweater, completing the ‘harmless’ look. I’d even bet that it’s pastel. His skin is warm, winter-warm, the warm of body-heat trapped under a sweater, and I trace over his skin slowly, reverently, as I’ve done a million times before. I know every dip and curve and every place that makes the muscles underneath jump and twitch. I rake my fingernails over his nipples while leaving a bruising mark on his throat with my teeth, and he smacks my ass in retaliation.
I don’t think I will ever know the details of Ginny’s death. We don’t really have details. All we have is Draco’s perspective on what happened. A perception. One flawed perception. And he, more than anyone else, will always wonder at what point he went wrong, just when the mistake that sealed Ginny’s fate was made. He’ll wonder if it could have been avoided. If maybe if he’d slowed down or sped up if he could have missed fate’s head-on collision. He’ll wonder if she suffered, and if she hated him in her last moments.
And he’ll always think ‘It happened so fast’.
I rock my hips against him slowly, but rhythmically, and I’ve got to get his shirt off now or I’m going to go crazy. He lifts his arms and lets me peel the sweater off. The button-down is pale blue and sort of starchy. I glare at him because I know he’ll want me to undo every single button and let him wear the shirt open. He thinks he looks sexy like that, pastel or no, but there’s no way I have the patience right now. I simply grab it and muscle it up over his head, managing to get it off of him with a muffled yowl and minimal struggle, though the glasses are gone now, tangled up in the shirt on the floor
Draco Malfoy by firelight is a beautiful thing, that heavy-lidded smug look on his face says he knows it too. He’s not a big, broad-shouldered He-man, but he’s not one of those really skinny guys either. He’s perfectly proportioned; his skin is soft at the surface, hard underneath, muscles clearly defined. I run my hands over his chest and he just sits there, still being passive, letting me play a little, kissing the top of my head as I lick the flesh over his heart. I trace his collarbone with my tongue, liking the purr that rises in his throat, and kiss my way down to scrape my teeth over his nipples, there are reddening scratch marks from my nails. I soothe them with kisses.
I remember the day his father died. How he fucked me in the shower with the water running down his face so I couldn’t tell if there were tears. How he drove into me so hard that I couldn’t tell whether he was breathing hard from exertion or emotion, whether the agonized look on his face was pain or pleasure. I remember I had kissed his face and tasted salt.
His hands have moved up to my waist, smoothing up under my dress. I start to casually twist out of his grasp, but he’s having none of that. He pulls me upright and jerks my dress over my head. And that’s it. He’s done letting me have my way. My parking meter has officially expired. He kisses me again, distracting me, while he unclasps my bra. Most guys never figure that out, but Draco has it down to an art. Two flicks of his finger and he’s pulling it off my shoulders, down my arms, tossing it across the room. I can’t even do it that easily.
I expect him to touch my breasts, but his hands brush over my ribs, over my belly, and further down. He slides his fingers over the thin damp material of my panties, tracing my slit. I shudder against him, one arm going around his neck to steady myself. He touches me more firmly, sliding his finger back and forth, pressing upward a little until my panties are slick with my own moisture. And when his finger brushes over my clit through the material, I must have made a sound because he whispers against my lips, shushing me. His other hand slides up and down my back soothingly.
He touches my clit again, just enough pressure to tease, and I rock against his hand, trying to get what I want. His other hand settles on my hip. “Be still,” he whispers, cheek resting against mine. “Just let me touch you.” The fingers teasing me press upwards against me again, and I jerk, a mewling sound pulled from my throat. He dips his head, presses a kiss to the side of my breast and flicks his tongue over one stiffened nipple, before slipping his hand into my panties and into me. I almost lose it.
He suckles my breast while slick, wet fingers explore my folds, stroking, teasing, lightly flicking over the small bundle of nerves there, starting a fire curling in my belly. I’m panting, whimpering continuously, struggling against the hold on my hip that keeps me still. His fingers find my entrance and dip into me, pumping slow and steady, one finger, two, and I keen, low and desperate. He flicks his tongue back and forth over my nipple, and his thumb brushes my clit, and I cry out, his name falling from my lips.
“Come on, baby. . . .” His voice is low and soothing. He switches breasts, laving the nipple with his tongue while lightly stroking my swollen nub with his fingers. He closes his lips over my breast and thumbs my clit.
I arch my back and scream, head thrown back, an explosion of heat in my middle, making my toes curl, my body clenching and shuddering hard as he continues to stroke rhythmically, but gently now.
“Good girl.” Damn, mother fucking conceited bastard. He peppers my face, my neck, with kisses, and I slump against him trembling. “Shh, it’s okay.”
He’s lifting me up, still kissing me, carrying me in his arms to lay me down in front of the fire. There’s something soft beneath me--a furry blanket, or rug, or something. He peels my panties off, and quickly divests himself of the rest of his own clothes as well. Then he moves over me, hands on either side of my head, looking down at me.
Realizing I’m still half out of it, he grabs the half-eaten candy cane off of the coffee table to amuse himself with. He sucks on it for a moment, and I start to get pissed that he’d rather lick candy then lick me but then he touches the candy cane to my breast. It’s wet and leaves a sticky trail, glittery in the firelight. He dips his head to flick his tongue over my nipples, circling the aureoles, licking up the candy flavor. I moan softly, murmuring appreciatively, and arch up against his mouth as he starts to suckle, his free hand squeezing and kneading at my flesh.
“This is kind of a cliché isn’t it?” I ask, rubbing at the fur. It’s white.
“Shut up.” He licks up a trail of candy between my breasts. “I could have taken you to the dungeons in the Mansion, you know. This is nicer.”
“Spoiled brat.” I clench one hand in his hair. It’s so silky. I envy him that. “I’d like to . . . ah . . . seeeeee you in . . . in chains.” I groan when he bites, leaving a mark only to soothe it with his tongue an instant later.
He raises his head to give me an impatient look, candy cane back between his lips. “My mansion. My dungeon. I say who gets . . . AHH!”
I snicker. He didn’t see my hands moving south. I curl my fingers around his hard length, squeezing a little, and he thrusts into my grip, apparently liking this turn of events. I gently stroke up and down his velvety, throbbing shaft, watching the play of expressions over his face. Later, I’ll make him come like this. Later I’ll take him into my mouth and suck and taste him, but now I just want to look at him. He’s so beautiful when his face softens like this.
“Can I have you?” I whisper, not sure where that came from. “Can I keep you?”
His eyes open to give me a piercing look, and he gently takes my hands, uncurls them, and slides them up over my head, leaning over me, sliding his body between my thighs. “The world, baby. It’s all yours if you want it, but you gotta come live with me. No more of this shacking up with that asshole Zabini. He’s lucky I don’t kill him.”
I snort. “Oh please, Blaise is--”
He mashes his mouth over mine, cutting off my sentence, candy cane between our lips. I can taste it. “I don’t want to hear about Blaise!” he growls and bucks his hips, driving his cock into me to the hilt. I arch up in shock, wailing in pleasure at the feel of him deep inside of me, where only he’s ever been--filling me, stretching me. He rocks into me with an evil grin on his face, and I’m about to call him a stupid bastard but then he moves and I wrap my legs around his waist instead.
He doesn’t start out slow. He’s rough, almost desperate, thrusting into me at a fast, merciless pace. I love the look on his face, the fierce concentration, the way his brow crinkles or softens as he shudders with pleasure. I love the sounds he makes, the soft gasps, the heavy grunts, the whispers, feather-light against my skin, endearments, encouragements or dirty promises. I love the sheen of sweat on his body, the heat he radiates, and the feel of his ass under my clenching fingers as I try to pull him deeper into me while I jerk my hips up to meet every downward plunge of his body.
My breath is ragged in my throat, high whimpers and sharp cries falling from my lips. It probably won’t last long this time, but it’s so good, throbbing, clenching, winding tighter. He locks his mouth over mine, swallows my cries, candy cane in our mouths. We both suck on it, battle for it, each trying to keep it.
He hooks his arms under my knees and pushes my legs up until they’re nearly touching my shoulders. The change in stroke and angle sends a frission of heat shivering along my spine, I writhe and thrash beneath him while he rides me.
His name is a breathless litany on my lips. “Draco, Draco, Draco. . . .” Coherent thought has long since passed.
And then I shatter, giving a deep-throated scream, suspended at the height for a small eternity as my body is wracked with exquisite shudders. I fall limp, panting, pulling him down on top of me, and he curls into me, not yet finished, his hard pounding rhythm suddenly becoming frantic before he cries out, hoarse and deep, his body straining, spasming. A few more deep, heavy thrusts, and he collapses on top of me, trembling.
I hold him, caressing his sweat-slicked body, running my fingers through his soft hair, feeling his breath against my skin from where his head is cradled against my chest. I cry a little, just a few, silent tears.
I remember the last time, the very last time before the last battle, how tight he held me, face buried in my hair, a Latin hymn of protection whispered there. It was fierce and it was almost tender. He pulled back and looked at me, looked at my face so intensely, fingers tracing over my cheeks. It took me a moment to realize he was saying goodbye.
But maybe it wasn’t a forever goodbye.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was one of those meant to be things after all. Maybe all my roads lead to Draco. I chuckle a little at the thought, and he stirs finally to press his lips to my cheek and whispers in my ear, “You’ll move in with me?”
“Yes.” Though it is unfair of him to ask me that while I’m basking in the afterglow. That could be called manipulation.
A moment of thoughtful silence, another kiss before he rests his cheek against my forehead. “Are you going to fight with me about the House-Elves?”
I’m startled into laughter. “I’ll pick my battles, I promise.”
“Hmm.” Suddenly serious, looking down at me, stroking my face, he says, “I think . . . I think we need to talk about a few things. About the war. About some of the things we did. About some of the things that happened. I think we have some issues we need to work out, and maybe you’ll feel better if we talk about it, all of us, Harry and Ron too. Maybe. . .maybe then it’ll stop eating away at you inside. And. . .” He trails off quietly and I know, with a hushed sort of calm, what he’s going to say next. “And I want to tell you about Ginny.” He says softly, almost hoarsely and those blue-gray eyes have an expression of bleak desolation in them that I’ve never seen before.
I nod slowly but put my fingers to his lips, smiling a little. “Not yet.” I whisper and draw him back down to me. “Not yet.”
He clings to me, and I know he’s more afraid of telling me then he ever was of telling Ron and Harry. But he can’t run anymore. And neither can I.
I rock him in my arms, taking comfort as much as giving it. I’m terrified of what tomorrow will bring. Terrified of everything we will have to face. Our friends, our mistakes, our guilt, our past, our ghosts, ourselves. What if I can’t forgive him when he tells me about that day?
What if I can’t love him like I love him right now?
I lift his face with my fingertips and kiss him desperately, imprinting the feel of his soft, sweet mouth on mine firmly in my brain.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I don’t know what’s meant to be. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring or where I’ll be next week or next month or a year from now.
All I know is that, until then, until fate comes for me, until destiny drags me bodily away, until ‘meant to be’ is meant for someone else, I mean to be right here, with him.
-finis-
Requested by: Lara
Pairing: Draco/Hermione or Blaise/Hermione
Rating: R-NC-17
3-5 things to include:
1. Post-hogwarts
2. Blaise in a Santa suit
3. Draco in wire-rim glasses
4. Something naughty with candy canes
5. Present in a velvet box
Things not to include:
Nothing too depressing.
By Gravidy
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter and co. but I do own a cat that can beat the living hell out of your cat any day of the week.
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: NC-17, my very first “official” D/Hr sex bomb.
A/N: At least partly inspired by war talks with my awesome beta, bk.
Summary: She calls me Goliath and I wear the David mask. I'd like to believe we could reconcile the past. Resurrect those bridges with an ancient glance. But my old stone face can't seem to break her down. She remembers bridges and burns them to the ground.--Excerpts from 7Mary3 “Cumbersome”
It’s only a light kiss, very soft and chaste. It lessens the drag of panic, quiets the voice of memory. It always has. When he pulls back, his eyes have darkened, and his face is almost harsh. I focus on that instead, on the color of his eyes and the many shades of gold and cream and silver and white gleaming off his hair in the candlelight. He switches to a spoon for the ice-cream and shares it with me, but, by now, I’m more focused on him than the frozen dessert. More champagne, and I’m feeling a bit lightheaded. When he kisses me again, his lips are cold and taste like cinnamon.
He sets the silver spoon down. “Dance with me now.”
There is light music filtering in from somewhere in the background. I don’t remember when it started, but now that I’m listening, the notes are distantly familiar though I can’t place the song. He takes my hand and helps me to my feet. Whatever spell had held me down falls away easily.
He wraps my arms around his neck until I’m flush against him and runs his hands up and down my sides before settling them low on my back. I don’t resist, and I half expect him to gloat about it or something, but he doesn’t, proving that he has grown smarter with age. We just kind of sway to the music, silent but not lost in thought. Thought is dangerous right now. Thought is what will come later, along with guilt, recriminations and hatred and rage. I close my eyes and stop thinking. Eventually my head rests against his breast, tucked under his chin. He hums to the music softly. I can feel his breath in my hair.
It’s safe here. And quiet.
I tilt my face up and let him kiss me, this time not so nice or sweet, just hard and hungry, just a little bit of everything that had been denied. Another kiss, the brush of his tongue against mine, the press of memories, taste and scent and touch but they drown under another kiss, softer now but deeper. Time seems to skip out on me and the next thing I know, I’m backed up against the wall, Draco’s mouth dragging hot, wet kisses up the line of my throat, my head spinning in a drugged haze. I’m not drunk, not even a little, but that’s what it feels like.
“Stay with me, Hermione,” he begs thickly in my ear. “Please, stay with me tonight.”
And just like that, my pretty little illusion is shattered. He knows it too. I feel him go rigid even before I do. The instant the words left his mouth in that impassioned plea, he knew he’d botched it.
I shove him away hard, suddenly cold, my eyes like hard glass and everything I’ve buried so deep rampaging through my brain. It’s like the veil has been dropped from before my eyes, like a switch in my brain has been flipped. I’m suddenly thinking clearly, seeing everything I’ve done over the past week in a new light. I’m seeing every mistake I made, every single stupid thing I did wrong.
I should have had the apartment warded against Apparation and teleportation. It’s illegal to do it in an apartment complex, but I could have done it in such a way that no one would have ever known. It was stupid to leave my home wide open to anyone who wished to enter or send things. It could very easily have been a Ministry official and not Draco who took advantage of my laxity.
I should have put up a ward around the gift box the moment it appeared. I should have dissected the outer layer of spells. I should have made damn sure it could, in no way, touch, enchant, or harm Blaise. If it had been from someone else, that little bit of carelessness could have killed us both. I should have destroyed it, plain and simple. If I had wanted to, I could have, Draco’s powerful protection spells notwithstanding. It would have taken powerful dark magic, but I could have done it.
Worst of all, I never should have come here so blindly. Draco owns this place, I’d bet anything on it. I should have prepared Dean, Blaise and Lavender with suitable defenses. I should have checked all of Draco’s movements over the past month. I should have known who was coming, who he had talked to. And I should definitely have swept the room for enchantments before sitting down.
Just because the war was over, didn’t mean I was safe.
“Hermione!” Draco’s voice is calling me. I realize I’m clutching at my head.
I hear the swish of cloth as he moves, and I counter instinctively, driving my shoulder into his sternum hard. The next instant, he’s on the floor and I have both our wands in my hand. “Touch me again, you die.” My voice is soft, glacial.
He laughs, coughing slightly, grinning and breathless, clutching at his chest. “There’s my girl,” he says with relish. “I was beginning to fear that bullshit act of yours was real.”
“Shut up. Just shut up! You’ve had your fun. Now tell me where you stand on the War Crimes issue.” I have to hear him say it before I leave. I have to bind him to his answer. A good soldier always completes the mission. The mission comes first, even over one’s own life.
I back away as he sits up, hand still rubbing his chest. “No, not yet. You haven’t opened your gift.”
“I’m not playing, Malfoy.” All allies are potential enemies. Enemies are dealt with swiftly.
He shakes his head, smiling with self-deprecation. “I can tell. You look like you’re done pretending to be a brainless little fop.”
“Shut the fuck up,” and I should have stopped there but I can’t help blurting, “I don’t like this person.” She’s cold, and she’s ruthless, and she hates so passionately and she wants him.
He looks at me calmly. “I know, but I like her and she likes me. I think you should give her a chance.”
“Listen you son of a bitch. . . .”
“Speaking of which, you know, my mother asks about you, sometimes. She wonders why you never come see her. I don’t have the heart to tell her you’d rather pretend she was dead.”
“Fuck you.”
The grin turns feral. “You seemed happy enough about the idea a few minutes ago. If I hadn’t pissed you off, I could have had your panties down around your ankles and been fucking you from behind, in short order. You’d have loved it.”
I tilt my head slightly, no expression on my face. “You’re being obvious, Malfoy. Stop trying to make me angry and--”
“You’re just mad because that’s what you wanted. You wanted me to fuck you while you could pretend it was coerced. We can still do it, you know. Potter will never know. No one will ever know.” He says fiercely, then spits. “Hell, it shouldn’t matter if they do! Why do you insist on this misplaced loyalty? Why do you have to punish yourself just to please the Golden Boy? You fawn on him like a dog.”
“Maligio!” I’m screaming the word before I even realize I’ve pointed my wand at him.
I’ve completely snapped.
Draco is catapulted off the floor and slammed into the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He’s lucky his ribs didn’t crack. He sticks there, unable to move. I’m pissed, and I’m doing things I never wanted to do again. “Invalesco!” My wand flares red and begins humming. “Iuguolo!”
I can feel the painful buzz, the bitter taste of copper in the back of my throat, the dull roar in my bones as I unleash a wave of extreme Dark Magic. It’s a familiar pain, and it’s almost sweet.
The pillowcase and velvet present inside explodes with a screaming squeal and melts into an oozing black, bubbling puddle like toxic waste. The table catches the tail end of the spell and half of it collapses, folding in like a crumpled soda can.
Draco has gone very still, his expression calm but his eyes excited. He’s even still smiling a little. I stride over, grab him and Apparate, smashing right through the Apparation shield around the restaurant.
It’s oddly windy outside Ottery St. Catchpole.
I shove Draco to the ground in the middle of a grassy field, clumps of snow scattered in some places, under the only tree--a white asphodel--in the vicinity. I’m still shaking with fury and hurt, bleeding a little inside that he would tear open so many old wounds just to get a rise out of me. He knew what he was saying.
He laughs a little from his position on hands and knees, on the ground. “I haven’t seen you like this since the Cantarain mission. It’s invigorating!”
“I told you to shut up! You want to talk about loyalty, asshole? This is where my loyalty lies. Not with Harry, not with Ron, not with you. Here, with Ginny!”
He sits up on his knees. “Then kill me, if it will make you feel better. I can lie here with her. Poetic justice.” He makes an expansive gesture, and I flinch hard, raising my wand.
“Don’t you dare touch her grave.” My voice is thick, and I say it again like I still can’t believe it. “You killed her.”
Draco’s sneer suddenly melts. That cruel, mocking grin fades into tired, even bitter, lines. He stands slowly, and I let him because he’s not looking at me. He’s looking down at the headstone. “I never meant for it to happen. If I could have . . . if there was another way, Hermione, I would have done something, anything, I swear.”
I have to scrunch my eyes shut tight and look away from him. “I know.” A pause and then the truth, something he’s deserved to know for a long time. “I never blamed you. When Harry told me, I believed you did it, and I hated you for it, but I also knew. . .with every fiber of my being. . .that if you could have taken her place, you would have. I knew it was unavoidable however it happened. I never doubted you.”
There’s a strange expression on his face as he absorbs that and I refuse to look too closely. “But Harry did. And Ron. And you thought she did too.” He whispers mutely.
“And that was enough for me,” I finish without a single ounce of remorse, but oceans of regret. “I was loyal to her.”
We’ve never talked about this. We’ve never. . . not once. I’ve never even thought about how it must be for him but I find myself wondering now what he must think, what me must believe that I think. I’m half tempted to ask him, but only half tempted. It’s still too painful.
“You were loyal to me, too.” His eyes on me, softer now. “There was never anyone but me, was there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Denial is my best weapon. My rage has worn off to exhaustion, and I can feel the raw sting of all my old scars like fresh wounds. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
“See, there it is again, right there. Malfoy. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy. Not Draco, not anymore. So determined to pretend you’re two different people, that you lived two different lives. It doesn’t work like that, Hermione. It won’t change who you are, and it certainly won’t erase the past.” He reaches for his wand and I let him take it. “Advenio.” And a box appears in his hands, a gift box identical to the one I blasted into black goo at the restaurant. “Good thing I have a spare, huh? Merry Christmas.”
I take it from him hesitantly with a frown, feeling the soft velvet under my fingers.
“Bury it here, baby. I think she’ll understand.” He turns and walks away, Apparating out a few feet away, leaving me alone with the silver moon and a million uncaring stars.
I stare at the box, wondering whether or not I want to open it, wondering whether I can go back to pretending. I can feel my safe, solid world trembling, ready to come crashing down anyway. Maybe it’s inevitable now.
I sit down on the cold earth, under the tree next to Ginny Weasley’s gravestone, with my legs tucked under me. I could give half a damn about the dress. I take the loose ends of the bow between my fingers and pull, watching the knot slip apart like it never was, aware of the symbolism in doing so. I untie the gold thread and slip my fingers over the velvet to find the seams, carefully prying the corners loose and unfolding it. The box underneath is glossy white and unmarked.
Carefully, I lift the lid.
Inside, on top of artistically folded white tissue paper, is a large clear crystal, diamond shaped. It’s a communication recorder for relaying messages.
Cautiously, I set it on its little stand, moving the wrappings out of the way and tapping the top of it with my wand.
The crystal immediately flares, the edges glittering prism-like. And an image of Harry appears. I go still, so horrified I’m nauseous, because that means Harry knows.
“Oh Hermione,” the Harry image says so heavily that I want to shrink in on myself and disappear. He must hate me. He’s got to hate me. I hate myself so much. . .
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I had no idea.”
What?
I blink and look up at the image.
“When Malfoy came to me, I didn’t believe him. I mean, I never believe Malfoy. It’s just a rule somewhere, you know, I . . . and you . . . I didn’t know Hermione. You never told me. You never seemed interested in anyone, not anyone. I never realized there was someone that you . . . loved. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t realize what I was doing. You have to understand, Ginny’s death . . . it nearly killed me. There were nights when I just didn’t want to wake up in the morning. I was just too selfish to realize that there were nights like that for you too. Hermione, if I’m completely honest with myself, and you, I never blamed Malfoy for Ginny’s death. He was a scapegoat, a convenient target. He was someone to hate for what had happened. There was no way in hell he could have predicted the mission going wrong and even if he had, he probably would have died trying to save her, and I’m glad he didn’t. I’m so glad because I never want you to feel what I felt when they told me Ginny was gone. Hermione, I’m not coming down to see you this Christmas. I want you to go out and do whatever it is you need to do, and I want you to know that you have my blessing . . . and I love you.” his voice cracks and it spears through my heart.
Harry’s image fades and Ron appears. He smiles a little shakily.
“You absolute nutter, Hermione, falling for a Malfoy. I thought I taught you better. Well, I’m not like Harry. I do blame Malfoy, I blame him for a lot of things, and I think I’ll hate him for the rest of my life. But I also know it could have been anyone else, any one of us, in charge of that mission. I know he did what he thought was best. I know he didn’t do it on purpose. I know he didn’t, and I’m sorry I said those things. I don’t care that he took it to heart, but I’m sorry you did too. Hermione, he told us about . . . about you two . . . during the war, and I realized. . . I realized how it must have been for you. And then I realized why you came out of it okay. That’s what. . .that’s what he was to you, what he did for you, and none of us knew. I didn’t know. Look, I know Ginny doesn’t blame Malfoy. I know she loves you. I know she will always love you. I know she wants you to be happy, and I want you to be happy too. Merlin, Hermione, more than anything I want you to be happy. Please . . . be happy.” He takes a shuddering breath, “ I’m taking Luna up for a little retreat this Christmas. I want you to get this whole mess straightened out while I’m gone. And I love you.”
The crystal flickers, and the light dies, and it’s like all the strength just drains from my body. I literally collapse onto the ground and curl up on my side, for a long time not making a sound. I’m numb, shaking and just. . .numb.
The War was a bad time for all of us, for Harry and our friends, especially once we realized that we could not count on the adults. That we couldn’t count on anyone but ourselves. Towards the end, we weren’t just Voldemort’s enemy. We were seen as vigilantes by the Ministry, and as dangerous loose cannons by the public.
We had to go into hiding in the first few months of our seventh year. We would have been kicked out or arrested or assassinated in our beds if we had stayed.
Half of the kids had either been pulled out of Hogwarts or left of their own accord by then anyway. Many of them came to Harry to fight. I ended up in charge of furthering their education. I taught them everything I could. I taught them the Dark Arts. I taught them how to fight, how to kill, how to survive.
That’s who I really am, not the bumbling Ministry intern who studies experimental magick and goes home everyday to her dingy apartment in a college neighborhood. I’m a war veteran, a master of the Dark Arts, and I sold out on all of my ideals and dreams a long time ago. And it’s so hard to just pretend to be normal, to pretend I don’t still have nightmares, to pretend I haven’t killed people, to pretend I’ve never cast Dark Magic, to pretend I don’t wake up in the middle of the night aching for the man who killed my best friend.
Back then, I lived every day expecting to die. There was no thought of what life in the future would be like. There was no thought of a ‘better tomorrow.’ There was only ‘today’ and finding enough food, staying warm, finding clothes and shelter, providing for those under our care and burying the ones who had died. I never believed that I’d live through the war. I never once dared to imagine that my life now, living in a comfy home with a steady job, was possible. I never believed there was more in store for me then blood and death and darkness.
That was my lot in life and I accepted it. I had to.
We had all dealt with the stress and horror in our own ways. Harry became a chain-smoker. Ginny got pregnant early on. She had the baby, Lillian Jean, who is now five-and-a-half, before she died, making Harry a single father. Ron fought or fucked anything that moved. I’m fairly certain he even slept with Blaise once. Blaise was never a part of the war. He was a civilian, but he hinted once that he might have slept with Ron. I think he wanted to know if I felt weird about that. I flat out told him that I don’t.
The boys did their thing. They just never knew that I was doing my own. I was fucking Draco Malfoy.
It wasn’t a relationship, or, to call it a relationship would be greatly misleading. We hardly ever even spoke to each other really, except for that first time, afterwards when he’d held me pinned up against the wall, face hidden against my throat, pants around his ankles, still inside me, my body throbbing and I still wasn’t sure what the hell had just happened. He had said, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
But I didn’t care, and he never apologized again.
After missions, always after missions, other times I’d just go walking until I met him. We never had an appointed time or place. Hard, fast, somewhere no one would ever catch us, sometimes up against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist, teeth clenched, head back while he took mouthfuls of my throat, sometimes shoved face-down on the floor with him on top of me, his breath harsh in his throat, sweat dripping down on my back, his fingers biting into my hips, pounding me into the ground. A few times, memorably, like lovers in my bed, completely naked and slower than usual but still no words, no feelings, nothing but release before we both got up and walked away.
That makes it sound cold and meaningless. That makes it sound like it was all about sex.
It wasn’t.
It was ours.
It was something good that was just ours, something that we could count on and look forward to, something that wasn’t about hate or pain. Best of all, it was something that made us both feel needed, that let us feel important to someone else, while at the same time giving us someone to need, to cling to when things became unbearable. It wasn’t a relationship, it wasn’t anything, it defied categorization, but it was more meaningful to me then most of the relationships I’ve had in my entire life.
I said there were no words, but there were no words because none were needed, he comforted me with his body, there were no feelings because we both knew we were going to die and I didn’t want to cry for him anymore than I wanted him to cry for me, there was nothing but release because we were both so young, I don’t think either of us knew how to deal with it beyond that.
But we needed it. Merlin, we needed it.
Ron and Harry never knew, not because I was trying to hide it-I wasn’t-it just wasn’t important enough to be mentioned.
Then the war had ended, and so had we. I had no idea what to do with myself those first few months of peace. I think we were all a little lost. And he and I just never looked back. I don’t think I wanted to. It was like it had never happened, and I think in this reality, this place where I’m just a fresh-faced intern, it didn’t.
We didn’t see each other until two years later, and that was an accident. A lunch date. I had been there to see Mandy Brocklehurst, now Mandy Corner, and Michael Corner. Draco showed up with Millicent and Terry Boot. Neither of us had acknowledged the other. It had really been as though nothing had ever happened, as if we were complete strangers meeting for the first time. I enjoyed the lunch date, had a good time talking with everyone and when I rose to leave early for an appointment, bidding them all goodbye. He had slipped me a folded napkin with a note written in blue ink.
I want to see you again.
Somehow, I knew he didn’t mean for a quick fuck up against a wall.
We met the next day at the same park bench and we just . . . we just spent the day together and did things like hold hands as we walked. And we talked about things no one else understood, and I sat wrapped in his arms when the sun set, and then we dressed up for no reason, and went to an expensive restaurant for dinner, and had salmon and truffles and Gorgonzola stuffed dates and when he dropped me off at my apartment afterwards . . . he kissed me goodbye, chastely. The kind of sweet, first-date kiss I’d never had from him, and it was better than perfect, sweet and warm and chocolaty from the dessert we shared at the restaurant. And I swear, my legs turned to jello and my heart did a little flip. He tried to flash me his most devastating smile as he left but it deteriorated into a ridiculous lop-sided grin, and I floated up the stairs with his promise to see me again the next day still ringing in my ears.
I was so high up there on Cloud Nine that when Harry called, I told him that I’d spent the day with Draco and giggled about it like a stupid smitten schoolgirl.
Harry had been pissed. Beyond pissed. He’d said things to me that I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him for, even knowing they came out of grief. And then he told me the truth about Ginny, something only Ron, Harry, and Draco knew and had kept to themselves to avoid dissension in the ranks. He told me how Ginny had died because of Malfoy, how it was his fault. He hadn’t done his job as Squad Leader, and she’d paid the price. He even implied that if I had been around at the time, it might not have happened.
“If he’s a traitor, Harry, why isn’t he dead?” I had cried.
“We needed him.” Was the simple, clipped reply.
“Do you want me to kill him?” I asked, completely serious. It didn’t matter that I thought I was completely in love with him already. It didn’t matter that I wanted to see him again so bad I ached.
“No, he’s holding an important office.”
“I won’t ever see him again, Harry. I promise.”
If that wasn’t bad enough, only fifteen minutes later, Ron floo’d to my place in full battle mode, screaming at me for my stupidity. I ended up begging his forgiveness, begging Ginny’s forgiveness. Ron ended by saying that if he ever caught me with Malfoy, then I was the traitor.
And that was it.
I never told them about my time with Draco during the war, and I never told them that he’d kept me sane, that he’d held me on the worst nights. I was ashamed of that. I knew they’d hate me if they ever found out, but that wasn’t what stopped me. It was the thought that Ginny would hate me, that I was betraying Ginny--that stopped me.
I think that was the worst moment. The moment when I realized I still loved him. He’d murdered Ginny and I still loved him. I haven’t been able to look Mrs. Weasley in the face since. On bad days, I can’t even look myself in the face.
The next day, when Draco arrived with a dozen roses in hand and a smile on his face, I calmly told him that it was his fault that Ginny was dead and that I’d gladly fuck him up and kill him if Harry or Ron ever gave the word.
Draco hadn’t taken it well, but at least he hadn’t screamed at me. He just never let me forget, which was really all I wanted to do. I wanted to forget it all.
It was so ironic. I had saved Ginny’s life twice. I had fought for her, cheated death to keep her alive and won. Afterwards she laughed and called me her guardian angel. Then two months later she was dead at the hands of one of our own. Why had I been able to save her if she was only meant to die? Was that meant to be? Was that fate saving her because she was destined to be killed by Draco?
My best friend and my lover both ripped from me in a single, nasty trick of fate.
And now to have it all forgiven. . . .
I don’t think I can face Draco. I can’t. Not after everything I did to him, how I treated him. That was a betrayal in and of itself. I’m not sure I can live with it, but I know I can’t forget.
Maybe Draco is right. Maybe it is time to bury it.
Hollow-eyed, I slowly and meticulously pack the crystal back into the box, fold the velvet back around it and tie it closed. My fingers are cold but steady. I use my bare hands to dig a hole in the hard grave soil, tearing my fingernails and caking my skin with grave dirt. And I bury the box there. I bury my past. I bury all my stupid pretenses and the coward I seem to have become. I bury it all, and I say a prayer for Ginny. Afterwards, I clean myself off with a flick of my wand and Apparate home. A part of me is just kind of quietly glad that the whole ordeal is over.
It’s over. It’s finally over.
I appear in the entryway of my apartment and instantly take a jerky step backwards in wide-eyed surprise. For a moment, I think I’ve misjudged and ended up somewhere other than my apartment.
But no, it’s my place.
It’s been transformed. Blinking, glittering, stuffed with Christmas decorations. The walls are hung with Christmas tapestries and wreaths. Poinsettias plants and little Christmas place mats sit on the counter. Candles and snowflake dishtowels decorated my kitchen. Christmas figurines and snowmen and reindeer cover every flat surface in the living room. There is a huge Christmas tree in the far corner of the living room, decorated with a myriad array of ornaments and gold and silver tinsel, a bright star on top and blinking lights, stacks of presents beneath it. The house smells of pine and cinnamon. A little miniature train chugs along a set of tiny tracks that loop around the room, and a fire burns cheerily in the hearth.
I take it all in wonderingly, circling the room slowly to examine every last detail until I realize I’m not alone.
I just about jump right out of my skin, giving an undignified squeal.
Draco is sitting in the armchair. I really should have expected him to be here, but I didn’t, so I only stare at him, probably looking like a complete idiot. He just cocks an eyebrow at me coolly, lounging in the chair, completely relaxed, even in a place he’s never been before, wearing dark cotton slacks, a green knit sweater, that looks a hell of a lot like a Weasley sweater, with a Christmas tree on the front, a new candy cane poking out of his mouth, and wire-rim glasses perched on his nose.
What in the hell?
“Hey sweetie,” he says, really gently, probably because I look like I’m about to fall apart. My insides have just crumbled into weepy bits. “Home for the day?”
For a minute, I think I’m dreaming. I think I’m seeing what life would have been like if the war had never happened. Because this . . . this was never in the cards for me. I was supposed to die in the war. I was supposed to be a bookish intern and grow old alone. I was never supposed to get to keep Draco Malfoy.
But this is real.
I feel myself wobble as the blood drains from my face, and he rises in alarm to grab hold of me before I collapse.
“Whoa! Hey, Hermione, baby, are you okay?”
I haven’t cried in years, not since Ginny’s death, which is funny because I was such a crybaby as a little girl, but I just can’t help it now. I curl into him and hold on for dear life and just sob. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” into his shoulder.
The only words I manage to choke out and they’re meaningless. They don’t come anywhere close to expressing what I really want to say, what I really feel. My throat is clogged with confessions, so many that they fill my chest and squeeze around my heart till I can’t breath, and the same stupid words just keep pouring out of my mouth.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I am sorry. I’m sorry for trying to forget him. I’m sorry for telling him he was nothing to me. I’m sorry for abandoning him, for making him depend on me and then deserting him. I’m sorry for taking him in when we needed him and then kicking him out when we were through using him. I’m sorry he couldn’t trust me enough to tell me about Ginny. I’m sorry that he was right not to tell me.
He’s not the traitor. I am.
There’s so much there and so much more and I want to tell him so badly but I’m crying too hard.
He holds me, sitting down in the armchair with me in his arms, and for the longest time, just strokes my hair, murmuring that everything is fine, everything is going to be okay. And it’s so good because he feels and smells and sounds exactly the same and I never imagined I would ever have this again.
When I can control myself and not act like a stupid, hysterical female, I take several deep breaths and raise my head. He’s looking at me so tenderly with those blue-gray eyes, dips forward to kiss the tip of my nose, my forehead. You wouldn’t know that bully, braggart, egotistical fucked-up peacock Malfoy could be so gentle.
It’s been two years since he’s looked at me like that. I nearly break down again, force my shaking shoulders steady on a deep breath and touch his face. “I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore. I . . . what I did . . . I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
But I had to. I want to add, but don’t because that’s a lie. I didn’t have to do it. I did it because I was afraid.
I’m absolutely ashamed of the way I treated him. For two years I acted like he was some kind of sick, stalker freak. I flaunted my relationship with Blaise in his face, led him to believe Blaise and I were lovers. I cursed him and myself and wished I’d never met him and, worst of all, I forgot him. I did it because I would have gone crazy otherwise. Looking at him, wanting him, it would have driven me mad. So I hated him instead.
He smirks a little. “You wouldn’t be my ‘Mione if you weren’t incurably stubborn. I mean, look what I had to go through today just to get you to open a little box.”
I laugh, watery, weak, and then my smile fades as the reality of what he had to do to get those crystals sinks in and if I wasn’t already sitting, I think I would have fallen.
“You went and saw Harry and Ron!” I gasp softly, my eyes huge with wonder and shaken with fear. “You told them everything.”
He nods, face sober.
He went to Harry and Ron. He went, literally and figuratively, into the lion’s den and told two men who would much rather murder him then speak to him that he’d been fucking me during the war, before and after he’d killed Ginny, and that he wanted to fuck me again.
I can’t even begin to comprehend the courage it must have taken for him to do that. I certainly didn’t have that courage. I lied to everyone, including myself, saying I wasn’t hiding our relationship when all I did was treat him like a dirty secret, like our relationship wasn’t as important to me as Harry and Ron’s.
And this is the second time. This is the second time he’s gone to them with a confession and put his life in their hands.
What had that first time been like for him? Coming back from the mission and having to tell Harry that he’d killed Ginny. Ginny who was Ron’s sister, the mother of Harry’s child and his own lover’s best friend. And yet, that’s exactly what he did. He didn’t mince words. He’d gone in there and taken full responsibility.
He was lucky to come out alive that first time, and yet he’d gone back again. . .for me.
“They could have killed you! Merlin, Draco, how. . . how did you convince them to let you go? How did you convince them to let us. . .” I trail off, tracing his features with my fingers, savoring it because I could have very well lost him to their rage.
How did he convince them? I can imagine him tricking them into promising not to kill him beforehand, I can imagine him spinning fairy tales-telling elaborate lies. But I don’t think he did. Not with this.
He rests his forehead against mine. “I just convinced them that if they killed me, you’d never forgive them.”
I shudder because it’s true and it’s something I don’t like to look at too closely, that in losing one I could have lost them all. I pull back slightly. “How can you forgive me so easily?”
He sighs softly. “I understand, Hermione. I understand why you did it. I even agreed with you a little. Didn’t like it, but I agreed.” And there’s another flash of deep remorse. He regrets what happened to Ginny so badly but he had no one to help him or comfort him or forgive him. He fought beside us for years. But he was never really one of us, we never let him in. And then when we didn’t need him anymore, we ditched him.
“I missed you.” I hug him so tightly, just greedy for the feel of him.
“Yeah, I missed you too, real bad.” He hugs me back. “Did you bury it?”
I rub my face against his shoulder. “I buried it all.”
“Good . . . good.”
I lean up to kiss him but pause because he pops the candy cane back in his mouth and smirks at me wickedly from behind his glasses, like the little piece of candy is going to deter me. I love that sweater-and-glasses look on him. It’s boyish and harmless and perfectly at odds with the bastard he truly is.
I steal the candy cane from him, slipping it wetly from his lips to slide it between my own. It’s warm from his mouth. It’s one of the really sweet candy canes, not the regular flavor. I like these best, and I wonder if he knows that. I take a last lick and toss it onto the coffee table, not wanting to get candy cane in my carpet, and when I turn back around he wrenches me forward.
His lips are sticky, and his mouth is sweet. I suck the flavoring away, wanting to taste what’s underneath, and it’s better than chocolate, better than candy cane. He touches my face, undoes the tie in my hair so that it falls down around my shoulders, tangles his fingers in it. He has a thing for my hair. It’s so bad it could be termed a fetish. I always thought he picked on my hair because he knew I was self-conscious about it. It took me a long time to realize he was just a sicko who liked running his hands through my hair while we did it.
He kisses me hard and aggressively and holds me tight, but his hands aren’t moving, just clenching and unclenching in my dress and I know him--he’s holding back. He’s not going to push me any further than I want to go. It’s sweet but I don’t want him to be careful right now.
I turn in his arms, sliding my knee over his legs so that I’m straddling him, making my dress ride up. I’m probably wrinkling the hell out of it, but I don’t care. I deliberately press my hips down against his groin, grinding into him until he growls against my mouth and tightens his grip on me. I think that helped him get the picture. His hands go to my hips, and he pulls me down on him harder.
I wiggle a little just to feel his arousal, and he makes a choked sound against my mouth and groans, “Slow it down.”
“Shut up.” He’s such a blabbermouth. Likes to hear himself speak.
I’m shaking now at the feel of him, heat coiling in my belly, the ache that wakes me in the middle of the night from dreams of him. He grunts and thrusts upwards against me, slow and strong, a hand sliding up and down over my back, over my bottom to tug my dress up. Then his hands slide over my panty-clad bottom. I have a brief flash of panic wondering what kind of underwear I had put on that morning, but his tongue in my mouth drives the thought away. Likes to be in control too, the bastard.
I bite his bottom lip, wrapping my arms around his neck, nipping kisses down his throat. I remember this taste, salty and sweet, and that warm scent that’s pure Draco. He smells like expensive cologne and pine needles. His hands tighten on my bottom and he grinds upward, slowly dragging his erection across my panties in a move that just about fries every synapse in my brain. I collapse against him with a whimper and suck on his pulse point, eagerly grinding against him.
I remember he stayed with me the whole night the day Ginny died. At the time I didn’t know he was responsible for her death. We didn’t talk about it. I cried a little. He didn’t hold me or try to comfort me in any way, but he laid in my bed, lost in himself, his eyes far away seeing things that I’m glad I never saw, and I didn’t comfort him even though it registered with me that he felt something. Whether it was grief, or responsibility, or sorrow, or just horror at what he’d done. He felt something for Ginny Weasley’s passing.
My hands find their way up his shirt, and I giggle when I feel the button-down collar-shirt underneath the sweater, completing the ‘harmless’ look. I’d even bet that it’s pastel. His skin is warm, winter-warm, the warm of body-heat trapped under a sweater, and I trace over his skin slowly, reverently, as I’ve done a million times before. I know every dip and curve and every place that makes the muscles underneath jump and twitch. I rake my fingernails over his nipples while leaving a bruising mark on his throat with my teeth, and he smacks my ass in retaliation.
I don’t think I will ever know the details of Ginny’s death. We don’t really have details. All we have is Draco’s perspective on what happened. A perception. One flawed perception. And he, more than anyone else, will always wonder at what point he went wrong, just when the mistake that sealed Ginny’s fate was made. He’ll wonder if it could have been avoided. If maybe if he’d slowed down or sped up if he could have missed fate’s head-on collision. He’ll wonder if she suffered, and if she hated him in her last moments.
And he’ll always think ‘It happened so fast’.
I rock my hips against him slowly, but rhythmically, and I’ve got to get his shirt off now or I’m going to go crazy. He lifts his arms and lets me peel the sweater off. The button-down is pale blue and sort of starchy. I glare at him because I know he’ll want me to undo every single button and let him wear the shirt open. He thinks he looks sexy like that, pastel or no, but there’s no way I have the patience right now. I simply grab it and muscle it up over his head, managing to get it off of him with a muffled yowl and minimal struggle, though the glasses are gone now, tangled up in the shirt on the floor
Draco Malfoy by firelight is a beautiful thing, that heavy-lidded smug look on his face says he knows it too. He’s not a big, broad-shouldered He-man, but he’s not one of those really skinny guys either. He’s perfectly proportioned; his skin is soft at the surface, hard underneath, muscles clearly defined. I run my hands over his chest and he just sits there, still being passive, letting me play a little, kissing the top of my head as I lick the flesh over his heart. I trace his collarbone with my tongue, liking the purr that rises in his throat, and kiss my way down to scrape my teeth over his nipples, there are reddening scratch marks from my nails. I soothe them with kisses.
I remember the day his father died. How he fucked me in the shower with the water running down his face so I couldn’t tell if there were tears. How he drove into me so hard that I couldn’t tell whether he was breathing hard from exertion or emotion, whether the agonized look on his face was pain or pleasure. I remember I had kissed his face and tasted salt.
His hands have moved up to my waist, smoothing up under my dress. I start to casually twist out of his grasp, but he’s having none of that. He pulls me upright and jerks my dress over my head. And that’s it. He’s done letting me have my way. My parking meter has officially expired. He kisses me again, distracting me, while he unclasps my bra. Most guys never figure that out, but Draco has it down to an art. Two flicks of his finger and he’s pulling it off my shoulders, down my arms, tossing it across the room. I can’t even do it that easily.
I expect him to touch my breasts, but his hands brush over my ribs, over my belly, and further down. He slides his fingers over the thin damp material of my panties, tracing my slit. I shudder against him, one arm going around his neck to steady myself. He touches me more firmly, sliding his finger back and forth, pressing upward a little until my panties are slick with my own moisture. And when his finger brushes over my clit through the material, I must have made a sound because he whispers against my lips, shushing me. His other hand slides up and down my back soothingly.
He touches my clit again, just enough pressure to tease, and I rock against his hand, trying to get what I want. His other hand settles on my hip. “Be still,” he whispers, cheek resting against mine. “Just let me touch you.” The fingers teasing me press upwards against me again, and I jerk, a mewling sound pulled from my throat. He dips his head, presses a kiss to the side of my breast and flicks his tongue over one stiffened nipple, before slipping his hand into my panties and into me. I almost lose it.
He suckles my breast while slick, wet fingers explore my folds, stroking, teasing, lightly flicking over the small bundle of nerves there, starting a fire curling in my belly. I’m panting, whimpering continuously, struggling against the hold on my hip that keeps me still. His fingers find my entrance and dip into me, pumping slow and steady, one finger, two, and I keen, low and desperate. He flicks his tongue back and forth over my nipple, and his thumb brushes my clit, and I cry out, his name falling from my lips.
“Come on, baby. . . .” His voice is low and soothing. He switches breasts, laving the nipple with his tongue while lightly stroking my swollen nub with his fingers. He closes his lips over my breast and thumbs my clit.
I arch my back and scream, head thrown back, an explosion of heat in my middle, making my toes curl, my body clenching and shuddering hard as he continues to stroke rhythmically, but gently now.
“Good girl.” Damn, mother fucking conceited bastard. He peppers my face, my neck, with kisses, and I slump against him trembling. “Shh, it’s okay.”
He’s lifting me up, still kissing me, carrying me in his arms to lay me down in front of the fire. There’s something soft beneath me--a furry blanket, or rug, or something. He peels my panties off, and quickly divests himself of the rest of his own clothes as well. Then he moves over me, hands on either side of my head, looking down at me.
Realizing I’m still half out of it, he grabs the half-eaten candy cane off of the coffee table to amuse himself with. He sucks on it for a moment, and I start to get pissed that he’d rather lick candy then lick me but then he touches the candy cane to my breast. It’s wet and leaves a sticky trail, glittery in the firelight. He dips his head to flick his tongue over my nipples, circling the aureoles, licking up the candy flavor. I moan softly, murmuring appreciatively, and arch up against his mouth as he starts to suckle, his free hand squeezing and kneading at my flesh.
“This is kind of a cliché isn’t it?” I ask, rubbing at the fur. It’s white.
“Shut up.” He licks up a trail of candy between my breasts. “I could have taken you to the dungeons in the Mansion, you know. This is nicer.”
“Spoiled brat.” I clench one hand in his hair. It’s so silky. I envy him that. “I’d like to . . . ah . . . seeeeee you in . . . in chains.” I groan when he bites, leaving a mark only to soothe it with his tongue an instant later.
He raises his head to give me an impatient look, candy cane back between his lips. “My mansion. My dungeon. I say who gets . . . AHH!”
I snicker. He didn’t see my hands moving south. I curl my fingers around his hard length, squeezing a little, and he thrusts into my grip, apparently liking this turn of events. I gently stroke up and down his velvety, throbbing shaft, watching the play of expressions over his face. Later, I’ll make him come like this. Later I’ll take him into my mouth and suck and taste him, but now I just want to look at him. He’s so beautiful when his face softens like this.
“Can I have you?” I whisper, not sure where that came from. “Can I keep you?”
His eyes open to give me a piercing look, and he gently takes my hands, uncurls them, and slides them up over my head, leaning over me, sliding his body between my thighs. “The world, baby. It’s all yours if you want it, but you gotta come live with me. No more of this shacking up with that asshole Zabini. He’s lucky I don’t kill him.”
I snort. “Oh please, Blaise is--”
He mashes his mouth over mine, cutting off my sentence, candy cane between our lips. I can taste it. “I don’t want to hear about Blaise!” he growls and bucks his hips, driving his cock into me to the hilt. I arch up in shock, wailing in pleasure at the feel of him deep inside of me, where only he’s ever been--filling me, stretching me. He rocks into me with an evil grin on his face, and I’m about to call him a stupid bastard but then he moves and I wrap my legs around his waist instead.
He doesn’t start out slow. He’s rough, almost desperate, thrusting into me at a fast, merciless pace. I love the look on his face, the fierce concentration, the way his brow crinkles or softens as he shudders with pleasure. I love the sounds he makes, the soft gasps, the heavy grunts, the whispers, feather-light against my skin, endearments, encouragements or dirty promises. I love the sheen of sweat on his body, the heat he radiates, and the feel of his ass under my clenching fingers as I try to pull him deeper into me while I jerk my hips up to meet every downward plunge of his body.
My breath is ragged in my throat, high whimpers and sharp cries falling from my lips. It probably won’t last long this time, but it’s so good, throbbing, clenching, winding tighter. He locks his mouth over mine, swallows my cries, candy cane in our mouths. We both suck on it, battle for it, each trying to keep it.
He hooks his arms under my knees and pushes my legs up until they’re nearly touching my shoulders. The change in stroke and angle sends a frission of heat shivering along my spine, I writhe and thrash beneath him while he rides me.
His name is a breathless litany on my lips. “Draco, Draco, Draco. . . .” Coherent thought has long since passed.
And then I shatter, giving a deep-throated scream, suspended at the height for a small eternity as my body is wracked with exquisite shudders. I fall limp, panting, pulling him down on top of me, and he curls into me, not yet finished, his hard pounding rhythm suddenly becoming frantic before he cries out, hoarse and deep, his body straining, spasming. A few more deep, heavy thrusts, and he collapses on top of me, trembling.
I hold him, caressing his sweat-slicked body, running my fingers through his soft hair, feeling his breath against my skin from where his head is cradled against my chest. I cry a little, just a few, silent tears.
I remember the last time, the very last time before the last battle, how tight he held me, face buried in my hair, a Latin hymn of protection whispered there. It was fierce and it was almost tender. He pulled back and looked at me, looked at my face so intensely, fingers tracing over my cheeks. It took me a moment to realize he was saying goodbye.
But maybe it wasn’t a forever goodbye.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was one of those meant to be things after all. Maybe all my roads lead to Draco. I chuckle a little at the thought, and he stirs finally to press his lips to my cheek and whispers in my ear, “You’ll move in with me?”
“Yes.” Though it is unfair of him to ask me that while I’m basking in the afterglow. That could be called manipulation.
A moment of thoughtful silence, another kiss before he rests his cheek against my forehead. “Are you going to fight with me about the House-Elves?”
I’m startled into laughter. “I’ll pick my battles, I promise.”
“Hmm.” Suddenly serious, looking down at me, stroking my face, he says, “I think . . . I think we need to talk about a few things. About the war. About some of the things we did. About some of the things that happened. I think we have some issues we need to work out, and maybe you’ll feel better if we talk about it, all of us, Harry and Ron too. Maybe. . .maybe then it’ll stop eating away at you inside. And. . .” He trails off quietly and I know, with a hushed sort of calm, what he’s going to say next. “And I want to tell you about Ginny.” He says softly, almost hoarsely and those blue-gray eyes have an expression of bleak desolation in them that I’ve never seen before.
I nod slowly but put my fingers to his lips, smiling a little. “Not yet.” I whisper and draw him back down to me. “Not yet.”
He clings to me, and I know he’s more afraid of telling me then he ever was of telling Ron and Harry. But he can’t run anymore. And neither can I.
I rock him in my arms, taking comfort as much as giving it. I’m terrified of what tomorrow will bring. Terrified of everything we will have to face. Our friends, our mistakes, our guilt, our past, our ghosts, ourselves. What if I can’t forgive him when he tells me about that day?
What if I can’t love him like I love him right now?
I lift his face with my fingertips and kiss him desperately, imprinting the feel of his soft, sweet mouth on mine firmly in my brain.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I don’t know what’s meant to be. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring or where I’ll be next week or next month or a year from now.
All I know is that, until then, until fate comes for me, until destiny drags me bodily away, until ‘meant to be’ is meant for someone else, I mean to be right here, with him.
-finis-
Requested by: Lara
Pairing: Draco/Hermione or Blaise/Hermione
Rating: R-NC-17
3-5 things to include:
1. Post-hogwarts
2. Blaise in a Santa suit
3. Draco in wire-rim glasses
4. Something naughty with candy canes
5. Present in a velvet box
Things not to include:
Nothing too depressing.