Chapter 1: Prologue: The Girl On The Train
Chapter Text
Draco moved through the narrow carriages of the Hogwarts Express as if they belonged to him, shoes polished, chin lifted, every inch arranged with the calculated poise of a boy raised to embody supremacy. Reflections chased him along the glass, a pale figure sculpted by rules, already measuring the train as the first chamber he would command, his name the key to every door. Compartments opened and shut in his wake, each revealing children rehearsing futures they did not yet realize they were building.
A girl pinned a prefect badge to her chest as though fixing a star into orbit. A boy stacked coins for the trolley with arithmetic precision, mouth set in lines of early discipline. Draco absorbed each tableau with a hunter’s stillness, feeding on the glances that cut toward him whenever the name Malfoy ran ahead of his stride.
His father had told him the train would begin the hierarchy Hogwarts would later formalize, and he believed it. He sought out those who already knew who must be deferred to. His domain fractured under a clear voice, bright and earnest.
“Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville has lost one.”
She stood at the far end, hair untamed by static, tie askew from haste, hands full of purpose rather than elegance. A slim book clung to her palm as though it had lived there all summer, its spine softened by use, its pages worn by love rather than display. She met each set of eyes directly, seeking answers, not approval. At the next compartment she asked again, her tone steady, as though the missing toad was truly important. A boy jeered about slime on seats and warts, drawing cheap laughter, but she dismissed them with a brisk nod, already moving on as though she had sworn to see the task through.
Draco watched. She pressed forward without apology, unbowed by stares, her determination stronger than the dismissals it gathered. She asked older students who ignored her, and their refusal slid away as though it had no claim on her. All his life, he had been taught purity meant pedigree, traced in bloodlines and names, yet the word shifted inside him while he studied her.
Purity, he thought, was her unwavering confidence, her softening when kindness was offered, her refusal to bow before mockery and continue forward. Her world was not measured in alliances and Draco couldn’t help the draw of his curiosity.
Words hovered on his tongue and died there. He could have offered assistance with a flourish, announced himself with practiced authority, teased her for stooping to her own search instead of deputizing someone more suitable. None of those responses matched the impulse anchoring inside him. She threaded her way through the crowd, pausing with the trolley witch who steadied trays of sugared goods.
The scent of toffee drifted into the hall, and Hermione, he would later learn her name, thanked the witch for looking under the racks, gratitude offered without hesitation. Draco shifted aside as she drew near, allowing space with the ease of habit, though he had never known for whom he practiced such instinct. Her gaze passed across him, polite, unremarkable, no different from any other. The lack of recognition stung more than derision.
A memory stirred of his father lecturing over polished wood, voice droning of honor in heritage and pride preserved by marrying and allying themselves with those of pure blood. That day, he had nodded where he ought, but had found the sheen of the desk lifeless. Now, he was watching a girl determined to reunite boy and toad, honor bent into a shape his father would never have recognized. At last, a cheer rose near the middle carriages.
Neville Longbottom cradled a lumpy green body, eyes alight with relief. Hermione’s shoulders eased, a smile ghosting across her face as laughter rolled through the doorway. She thanked the boy who coaxed Trevor free with genuine grace, then turned to Neville, accepting his apology with kindness that performed for no one.
Draco leaned against the cool paneling of a window, letting the moment press into him. He admired that she did not wait for praise to justify her efforts. He felt drawn to her, pulled to this girl so opposite of the Purebloods he grew up with. He was curious. He wanted to know her, know more than anyone else. He knew she would not belong to Slytherin and he felt a sting of disappointment followed by an unexpected clarity.
He wanted her to look at him with the same softness she’d shown to the Longbottom boy. He wanted to be measured not by name, but by a standard she had unknowingly set. He wished in that moment her amber eyes would land on him. Later, when Neville stammered about boxes with air holes and she listened with patience, Draco realized he had begun to associate his curiosity of the (he’d come to find later) Muggleborn witch with his definition of pure.
He turned from her before anyone caught his gaze lingering. In his compartment, Crabbe and Goyle argued over cards, noise filling the space. Draco sat alone on the other seat, but a sense of confusion settled upon him. He did not want her to think poorly of him, though he already knew she would, his Slytherin House would demand it.
How could he show the best parts of himself, if he had to protect his reputation? That evening, the Sorting Hat called her to Gryffindor, as he knew it would. He tried not to feel the palpable disappointment as his own tie bore Slytherin green, hers Gryffindor red, and the space between the them felt like a chasm. That one sided moment on the train felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been mere hours.
As the years pressed forward, Hogwarts shaped him in ways both predictable and defiant. He learned to sneer, to wield his surname like a weapon, to bruise with words where curses were forbidden. He played the role his father required, parading arrogance as though it were second nature. Behind that veneer, however, lived the young boy on the train, remembering a girl who had chosen kindness over calculation and deciding he wanted to own her, possess her.
He hurled slurs across classrooms, the syllables biting in ways he could not admit tasted like ash the moment they left his tongue, all while secretly clinging to his silent obsession. He mocked her bloodline because that was the language Slytherin demanded, the performance expected of a Malfoy.
Still, each time her hand rose in class, quill moving quick as if every answer mattered, he felt his determination take root again, steady as the blood flowing through his veins and the beating of his own heart. Her disdain for him carved her further out of reach, yet it never diminished the sanctity of what he deigned to preserve, so that one day he could be worthy of her.
In second year, he watched her freeze beneath the basilisk’s gaze, body turned to stone. The castle whispered that the Mudblood deserved it, but he remembered her voice asking for a toad as if it were the most important thing in the world. He did not celebrate, though he laughed when others did and wished her dead. In the privacy of the dormitory, he thought of how easily fate could tear his little witch away from him, how she’d almost came to her end under the terror of Slytherin’s Heir.
She was to pure, too good for this world that so emphasized blood status. He secretly visited her in the infirmary every night, holding her cold, stiff hand, and imagining doing it for real in the daylight.
By fourth year, when the Yule Ball twinkled with floating lights, fake snow, and garlands, he had already tested his resoluteness against temptation. Pansy draped herself across his arm, cheeks rouged, mouth eager, leaning closer as music swelled.
Draco allowed himself to tilt near, just enough to feel the heat of her lips hovering, his first kiss. Before she could close the distance, however, something in him recoiled with precision. It felt wrong, to let her touch him would fracture the reserve he had guarded.
In his mind, the only witch worthy of such pure blood and prestine pedigree was Hermione Granger. How could he be worthy for Hermione to claim, to atone for his treatment of her, if he had already given parts of himself to another? Pansy pouted at his restraint, mistaking it for coldness, yet he knew it was a deep devotion she could never understand and he could never explain.
When Hermione descended the staircase on Viktor Krum’s arm, hair tamed into unfamiliar elegance, Draco tasted jealousy so potent it burned. He felt his hand twitch, and sorely wished he could Avada Krum on the spot, international Quidditch star be damned. Even as he watched her twirl around the dance floor with Krum, his restraint solidified.
It would mean nothing to indulge Pansy or any of the girls who angled toward him with painted mouths, when the only painted mouth he wanted was currently with another.
He stalked Hermione the rest of the night, ditching Pansy though it was not on purpose. When he noticed the big brute lean down, he sent a slicing hex towards Krum when he tried to kiss her in the corridor before parting at the end of the night. He would never allow anyone to touch her. Only he would get that privilege.
Fifth year buried those truths deeper. Occlumency with Snape was meant to fortify him against the Dark Lord’s gaze, but Draco locked away more than teenage secrets. He hid every memory of Hermione, starting with the way he was drawn to her on the train.
He occluded away every night spent stalking her, observing her, and thinking of her. He even occluded the thoughts of her naked and panting under him as he jerked off in the shower or his four poster bed.
Snape’s voice pierced him in that monotone drawl, warning him to conceal what could damn him, and Draco obeyed, binding his obsession inside the tightest walls of his mind, fortifying her protection so deeply into himself that not even death could unlock the memories.
By sixth year, his obsession had transformed into ritual. He watched her every chance he got, any way he could. He secretly followed her whenever he could slip away and did his best to make sure no one came close to her, especially that blasted Weasley git.
He savored whatever glimpses of her he could, knowing his task to kill Dumbledore would be the beginning of the end. Even still, not even the inevitability of murder cracked the sanctity he preserved of her in his mind.
He would kill if commanded, as long as she remained his Hermione. He would slit throats, curse traitors, and bear the brand of a Death Eater, as long as she remained safe. Everything he was, and is, belonged to her, even though she didn’t know it.
And when the war consumed the school and the Manor became a court of blood, the vow to protect and preserve her purity that he so loved flared like fire through his veins. He murdered his Aunt Bellatrix the night she tried to mar his beloved’s beautiful skin, the first time she’d found herself in his domain.
After that, he fortified himself in the ranks until no one but the Dark Lord stood above him. She was the last untouched thing in a ruined world, and he would guard that purity with his own, even if it meant drenching his hands in every other stain imaginable, bowing only to his own obsession.
Chapter 2: Welcome To Malfoy Manor
Notes:
CW in the end notes. We are going right into it & it's tough. Be warned.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The war had devoured the years with a hunger no one could match. Seasons folded into one another without mercy, fields scarred by fire grew brittle beneath winter frost, and still the fighting pressed on. Hope had been reduced to ashes scattered on the wind when Harry Potter fell at the Battle of Hogwarts three years ago, and with him, the last fragile dream that light might survive the oppressive darkness. Villages bent under the banner of the Dark Lord, and those who had sworn allegiance to him flourished in their cruelty. Among them, none cast a darker shape across the battlefield than Malphas.
Rebels who’d witnessed his lethality in battle first hand whispered the name with hushed reverence befitting a demon such as the figure cloaked in death. He was the one who arrived when a skirmish threatened to turn, his wand precise, his body honed, his cruelty as cold as the iron mask he wore. The empty eyes of his silver mask watched with unfeeling neutrality as his opponents fell to the ground forming death pits in once populated towns. The only living being that commanded his respect was the Dark Lord himself.
Through the never ending darkness, a single glimmer of innocence remained. A memory, fleeting in its reality, but carved into his very soul. The image of a young girl, not yet kissed by womanhood flitting from car to car on a train of blood red that barreled towards Hogwarts. A school that had now fallen in all but memory. She was innocent, pure as a white feather caught in a cool breeze. And yet, she belonged to only him.
True, Hermione Granger didn’t know she had been caught all those years ago, but his little dove’s training had begun all the same. His words, sharp even at a young age, had emboldened her; ensured others knew she had been claimed. As lower Death Eaters cackled and made plans to break already broken prisoners, Malphas remained silent. His Hermione was perfect exactly as she was. She was pure, unbroken, a delicate crystalline figure that was as beautiful as she was deadly.
While blood darkened black robes, staining them obsidian, Hermione would remain perfect and pure. He made sure of it. She was his, and no one was allowed to damage his things. It was a fault of his, true, but it had served her well over the years. An ally cut down here, a misdirected spell there, and his precious pearl was safe.
He had allowed blood to coat his robes, yet never hers. He had steered spells aside with a precision no one understood, cutting down comrades who dared aim too near her. And who could question him? The Dark Lord’s right hand, but Voldemort himself. When others laughed about broken prisoners and what could be done with them, Draco’s expression had emptied into ice until the laughter withered in their throats. She was not to be touched, not to be sullied, and certainly not to be ruined by hands too crude to understand what perfection looked like.
The pureblood society that had raised him had been wrong about their ideals. He recognized that early on. Blood didn’t determine worth. It was a defiant set to a jaw, the refusal to bow before lesser plebians, unwavering ideals that choked common sense. Hermione was the epitome of everything that made up value. He was unworthy of his pearl, who glittered in sweet temptation. Cleansing rituals, abstinence, fasting, they were nothing in comparison to her. And yet, he persevered, for only she could absolve him of the stain tainting his soul.
Demons reveled in the evil filling the air, blood of the enemy had fed the ground, Mudbloods earning their title. Cloaked figures shrieked and cackled in celebration of their victory. Elf made wine flowed into goblets and soaked faces that had discarded their honorable masks. Malphas stood sentinel at the Dark Lord’s side. A shadowy figure that observed those that claimed to be honorable and righteous debase themselves in tomfoolery.
When the doors flung open, a line of captives stumbled forward, bound in iron chains. Finally, the true entertainment of the evening had arrived. The smell of the dungeons clung to the hollow eyed prisoners. They hunched forward, defeat and fear lowering them. All except for one. A single figure stood tall, her posture impeccable despite her shackles. She was a queen, an angel masqueraded as a siren, and Malphas was helpless against her call. It was Hermione. He felt his heart soar with elation and clench in fear all at once.
“Friends!” The Dark Lord hissed, his voice slithering around the room, coiling, preparing to strike. “And others.”
The Death Eaters cackled and jeered at the prisoners being reminded they were less than the dirt beneath their feet.
“Welcome to tonight’s celebration!” The Dark Lord slid from his throne of bone and wands, collected from his fallen enemies. “Today, we acquired a collection of toys.”
He chuckled low in his throat, the sound hushed and raspy as if paper rubbed together.
Death Eaters circled closer, preparing to grab whatever fleshy toy they desired. The captives would be shared. Greyback had a particularly manic gleam in his bloodthirsty gaze that Draco loathed. Any prisoners that survived the night would be sent forth to run on the grounds at the next full moon all for the beast’s pleasure. The ones not torn to shreds would be bitten and brought to heel, their only life is that of a wild beast surviving off scraps in the werewolf’s pack.
“As always, the worthy have a chance to claim rights to the conquered. This young man would make for a good bedwarmer!”
He grabbed a chubby boy that looked barely out of Hogwarts. Green eyes that were already dull and lifeless as he was auctioned to the crowd. The Dark Lord tsked in mock sympathy as he pushed him back into the line.
“Ah! Twins! A specialty of the rebels it seems.” He laughed as he patted the identical girls on their heads. “Come now! Surely one of you wants a new pet!”
Silence fell like death as Malphas billowed forth, his black cloak flowing in an invisible wind that carried the final breath of all those that had fallen under his wand. Voldemort’s smile was wide, yellow cracked teeth too dull to even catch the light.
“Ah, Malphas. The battlefield hasn’t sated your need for torture? Come. Come. Select a prize.”
~~~ SKIP ~~~
The masked figure flowed past the prisoners, careful to not rush to the one he had patiently guarded these many years. He stopped before Hermione, pleased when she didn’t look away or cower. Instead, she spit on his mask. The crowd, unable to see the smile growing on the face behind the mask, all gasped at the offense. One Death Eater, newly marked and too stupid to know his place, kicked the back of the imprisoned woman’s knees. She was forced to the floor with a pained grunt. A flash of emerald from the wand of Malphas, and the fool had repaid the universe for insulting such a perfect pinnacle of virtue.
Malphas looked down at the curly haired woman that knelt upon the dirty floor on all fours. A spell was cast at her chains, separating her from those doomed to their fate. He studied the object of his desire. That kick had hurt her, but she was too proud to ever show it. She deserved a reward, a remedy for the pain. Exhaling as his excitement threatened to overwhelm him, Malphas reached down and flipped his dove’s skirt up.
It was nothing short of a miracle he remembered to breathe when he saw her little white, cotton underwear. He wouldn’t expose her to the room, they didn’t deserve her. He wasn’t even worthy of touching her. And yet…his gloved finger, dark against her pale underwear, brushed down the cotton until he felt the heat of her slit. She cried out in shock and outrage as he shoved his fingers into her, forcing her to bow towards the floor further as he penetrated her. His dirty fingers weren’t permitted to touch her hot, wet walls. They were kept isolated by the thin veil of her underwear and the leather of his gloves.
“Bastard!” Hermione cried as his fingers lifted her ass, taking the weight off her abused knees.
The Death Eaters and Voldemort snickered at her plight. Malphas’ thumb pressed against the little hole above her hot pussy, reassuring her with promises of pleasure and protection. Their stroll to the dais was slow as his fingers guided her like a marionette on a string. Hermione was unaccustomed to crawling and fell forward on her forearms more often than not. Malphas had cast a subtle cushioning charm upon her body, making sure his perfect little lion was not injured further.
All the while, the imprisoned witch fought. She hissed insults and tried to twist away from his hold, but he remained firm. Each time she squeaked from the pressure in her cunt being too much, his thumb rubbed over her little hole in reassurance. He alone knew her worth, and no one would dare to take her from him. She hissed obscenities as he led her to crawl up the stairs of the dais to his place a step before the Dark Lord.
When they reached their step, he stopped moving, but did not pull his fingers from her warm little pocket. She had soaked her underwear with her arousal. Behind the mask, he smiled at discovering a way to worship his lumière des étoiles. With slow, deliberate movements, he dragged his fingertips against the wet cotton, stroking her insides.
“What the fuck!” She hissed, dropping to her forearms before balancing on one arm as she tried unsuccessfully to reach back and smack his hand away from her.
He enjoyed her fight. It spoke of unbroken pride, of knowing her worth and that he was a stain that would spread when he touched her. His fingers found a spot in her sensitive little cunt by accident that had her breath catching and a tiny keen was dragged from her unwilling throat. He found he loved that sound and played with the spot, enjoying how she tried to fight him more ferociously. Her bottom wriggling as she tried to escape.
His thumb was no longer just coaxing her. Instead, it pressed against her unwilling bud, pushing cotton into her ass as he held her in place. She cried out desperately as his thumb breached the ring of muscle, entering her. Despite her underwear protecting her walls from the stain that was his touch, the barrier was so thin his thumb could feel his fingers moving inside her tightening cunt. She was shaking, sweating as she gave a final, half desperate swat at his hand and collapsed forward onto the floor, panting and mewling quietly as she squeezed his fingers, sucking them deeper, trying to milk them as if she were desperate for him to taint her.
He held her through her orgasm, fingers gently coaxing the last of her long denied pleasure from her as he kept her pert bottom in the air. When she breathed out a quiet sob of breath, he removed his hand and ran a gentle palm over the underwear that were still stuffed into her two holes.
Afterwards, she spun with a roar of outrage, throwing herself at him. Malphas was faster however, and wrapped her in glittering magic. It wrapped around her, locking her in a kneeling position, tying her arms behind her back. A line of softly pulsing light ran from the back of her neck to the tip of his wand. She snarled and tried to escape her beautiful bindings as the hall descended into complete chaos. Her fellows screamed and cried as hands grabbed and tore. Only Hermione was spared from the horrors prisoners endured at a revel. The Dark Lord took his throne once more as cloaks were done away with and the sound of skin slapping competed with cries and moans for dominance in the air. He chuckled as he studied the bound woman.
“You’ll have your work cut out for you with this one, Malphas. The Golden Mudblood has given my followers nothing but trouble over the years.”
The cloaked figure studied the debauchery of the revelry a moment before responding.
“She’s suffered under illusions for far too long. I look forward to a new challenge.”
The Dark Lord hummed, leaning back on his throne.
“At least she’s not shrieking like her fellows. They could at least do us the courtesy of being silent while they’re graced by their betters.”
Hermione snarled and continued attempting to escape her bindings. The Dark Lord rolled his eyes to focus on her.
“Do shut her up. The toys are annoying enough. I don’t need your bed slave adding to my headache.”
Turning to his prize, Malphas reached into his pocket and removed a clear breathing cloth. The rebels enjoyed employing muggle means of warfare, but there was almost always a superior magical solution. His dove’s air should not be tainted by the disgusting fools filling the ballroom, and only the worthy deserve to be graced by her lovely coos. Shaking out the small bag, he watched Hermione’s eyes go wide, and her struggles renew. He dragged the clear fabric towards her. Just as she started to scream, the bag covered her head, silencing her, encasing her in a bubble of quiet and clean. Voldemort exhaled in relief at the decrease in noise.
“I admit, Malphas. I was beginning to believe I had found a comrade who understood my disgust for such mortal desires. Lust makes fools of the best men.”
Malphas stood tall, observing the chaos unfolding around him. One slave was being penetrated by a 17th century vase. That one wouldn’t survive the night. At least the house elves would be able to salvage the vase. It was important to preserve art, after all.
“I agree in your assessment that lust is a fault of fools. My interest in her is of a more personal nature.”
Voldemort quirked a brow at the cloaked man.
“Surely you don’t intend her for breeding. If you’re wanting progeny, all you have to do is say so. Any of my followers would gladly give you their daughters, regardless of their age. At least they would provide pure offspring.”
“I have no interest in continuing my line at this time.”
The Dark Lord leaned forward, studying his most favored follower.
“Well, Malphas, what exactly do you intend to do with her then?”
Malphas looked down at the woman that was wrapped in magical bindings by his feet. Crystalline tears flowed freely down her face as she watched her fallen comrades succumb to their fates. Her mouth was open as she sobbed and screamed in silence.
“I desire purity, my lord. To compare the pure to the tainted, and to explore the varying degrees in between. She is the perfect subject for my study.”
Voldemort returned his attention to the revel playing out below his feet.
“A worthy pursuit.”
After some time, Voldemort dismissed the crowd back to their indulgences, his hand curling as if to grant a boon.
“She is yours now, Malphas. Mold her as you promised.”
His voice carried across the hall, sealing the vow before all. Draco inclined his head in measured deference, every line of his posture that of the loyal lieutenant. She was his, not as Voldemort imagined, but in the way he had vowed to himself; untouchable by any but him, and even then, only in worship. He stepped forward, unshackling her with a flick of invisible magic and releasing the bag from her head.
Hermione swayed, her knees weak, yet she refused to falter in front of them. She opened her mouth to rage, yell, scream at Draco, but Draco silenced her as he guided her away with an authority that none dared question, every eye returning to their own pleasures, every man convinced he had seen her broken.
~~~ END ~~~
They reached the staircase, and the noise of the hall softened into a distant roar. The corridors above were hushed, the manor carrying the solemn grandeur of a tomb. Draco led her through the winding passages to a private wing. It opened at his touch, revealing chambers filled with warmth and silence, a sanctuary prepared in advance. Tinky, his house elf, stood waiting, a blanket folded neatly over her arms, eyes wide with anxious devotion.
She scurried forward as Draco guided Hermione toward his bed, her small voice offering comfort as she reached to steady the enraged girl. Draco did not speak, he only watched as Tinky wrapped her in the blanket, pressed a goblet of water into her hands, and whispered assurances that she was safe here. Draco turned away, his jaw tight with the memory of his fingers in her pretty little cunt. He set his mask to lay discarded on the table, its hollow eyes staring back at him with accusation.
“You are safe here. Tinky will help with whatever you need and no one can enter this room but me.”
His eyes lingered on her as she stood up suddenly, a white hot anger scorching through her. He allowed her palm to greet his cheek, slapping him with the same force she’d done back in third year.
“How dare you act noble, you foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach!”
Draco only smiled, a laugh really, chuckling in disbelief as his own gloved hand, still dried with her arousal, came to lightly brush the angry red blemish on his alabaster skin. He relished the feeling. She had allowed him to feel her skin on his, to purify him, and he had felt delighted and aroused at the prospect. He wanted more.
“Is that so, Granger? I seem to recall the way your greedy little cunt clenched around my fingers.”
When she lunged at him this time, straddling him as she knocked him to the floor, choking him, Draco swore he saw stars. The feel of her hips over his were heaven. And when his arousal pushed against her damp underwear, she snarled in disgust, leaping off him.
“You’re a pig, Malfoy.”
She stalked to the bed, throwing herself into it and under the covers. She sank against the pillows, her face angered but still proud, before he returned to the chair next to his bed. He gestured to the vials Tinky placed near the side of the bed on the small end table.
“Drink them.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Poison doesn’t suit you, Malfoy.”
Draco sighed. This witch was so incredibly stubborn. It both annoyed and thrilled him.
“It’s a Calming Draught, a pain potion, and Dreamless Sleep. I brewed it myself.”
Tinky popped in.
“Would Mistress Hermione like a bath now?”
Draco watched as Hermione assessed his little elf. Tinky was a gem. Pristine, clean, and dressed in pretty lavender elf robes and a yellow knit hat. Draco almost chuckled. Even after all this time, his little dove was still so predictable.
“Tinky is a free elf. So is my other elf, Blinky. Don’t worry your swotty little brain, Granger, and just let her help you.”
Hermione begrudgingly stalked towards the bathroom. Draco tried not to imagine her naked, touching herself under the showers as he watched. He needed to return to the revel downstairs. Another time, perhaps.
Notes:
CW/TW
Rape/Non-Con - digital penetration. If you want to skip it, start where the asterisks begin and end.
Degradation
Anal Stuff? Dunno how to categorize that one lol you'll see
Forced Voyeurism
Forced Orgasm
Sexual CoercionIn-Depth CW/TW Spoiler
Draco chooses Hermione out of the lineup of spoils. He knows that he has to secure her at any costs. The Dark Lord wants Draco to prove his ownership over Hermione, so he does his best to minimize what he is about to do. he leaves her panties on, and his hands are gloved, but he still touches her and inserts his digits into her holes and walks her towards the dais that Voldemort is sitting on. Hermione knows that she has to trust Draco in this moment, but she is hurt, and upset, and she's fighting like hell. When it's over, when she is forced to orgasm, Draco immediately gets her to the safety of his room where Tinky takes care of her.
WELL SHIT!! I pulled no punches and we really started off fuckin DARK. Good news is, it's mostly up from here ( I hope)! haha AS ALWAYS PLEASE MIND YOUR MENTAL HEALTH. Take breaks if you need it!! For every dark scene we have, we'll have plenty of after care to look forward too, too because yo girl is delicate of heart xD.
SO WHAT DO WE THINK? I can't wait to make this story come to life!
🚨🚨🚨 MUST READ BEFORE CONTINUING 🚨🚨🚨
This is a story that is dark in nature. I have done my best to write the more difficult subject matter to the best of my abilities, but it's still tough to read at times. Please PLEASE do take care of your mental health and if it becomes to much, take your breaks in between and protect your peace!! Mind the tags and CW/TW's in the end notes. With that said, let's talk about the biggest elephant in the room.
This story DOES contain extreme dub-con and non-con that IS between Dramione. Not a lot of it, but enough to warrant the tag. However, I am in the firm opinion that you must do whatever you can to minimize any triggers, SO, I will try to give you PLENTY of warning beforehand for those who want spoilers. I am also not opposed to giving spoilers in a DM if you want a more in-depth explanation or sneak peak (this only applies to heavy triggers). I myself get anxious pretty easily, so if you want to prepare yourself for anything ahead of time, I will do whatever I can to ease those feelings!! :)
On the flip side, please be advised that both Draco and Hermione have been forced into these situations and circumstances. Hermione may not deal with her trauma the way you might in the real word, or would feel her reactions are realistic or not. It is a difficult and nuanced subject, and for a majority of the first half of this fic, we will only have Draco's POV. We won't know what Hermione is thinking and feeling first hand. So what I'm trying to say is, keep your opinions to yourself, because this fic won't please everyone and it's trauma responses may not be for you.
IMPORTANT!!! If you find, at any time, that my fic is not for you, please just quietly close the tab and DNF it! No hard feelings and you do not have to announce your departure. :) This is a heavy fic, there's no doubt about it. It's not Dead Dove Dark, but it gets heavy, so, please protect your peace if it's not for you.
Now, IF YOU ARE A RETURNING READER: Welcome Back! haha this fic is a BIG depart from my usual content and style, but I hope that it doesn't turn those of you away who follow me for my lighter, more palatable fics. It does still contain everything you love about my signature tropes hahaha just in a dark setting. Rest assured, I am not turning into a dark romance author or changing my identity as an author. I am simply trying my hand at a different side of Dramione! For those of you who saw the tags and were like HOLY HELL, sorry xD I won't sugar coat this one, it's tough. It's a bit tough, so if it's not what you're looking for, check back in on my other WIP Duology that's lighter in tone. I will be updating this WIP and that one simultaneously. <3
OKAY SO PLEASE KEEP THIS ALL IN MIND AS YOU CONTINUE FORWARD. Thank you <3
Chapter 3: Malphas
Chapter Text
Draco had warned Hermione to stay put. It wasn’t a terribly big ask, he’d thought, if she valued her safety, she would. This was the Head Quarters of Voldemort after all. He should have known a spitfire like her would never listen to the words of, in her mind, Voldemort’s right hand. Especially the right hand, who, had hurt Hermione. He was now cleaning up the mess of a mid-level Death Eater, Rookwood, as he disposed of his body and prepared himself for the punishment of killing one of their own.
It had been worth it, however, to save Hermione from once again being assaulted. He felt guilty enough after his own, doing what he’d done. After Tinky had taken the shaken witch back to her room, Draco had wasted no time or effort to get rid of the cretin. How dare he touch what was his. No one would harm Hermione Granger and live to tell the tale so long as Draco Malfoy lived and breathed. It set his blood on fire.
The body still steamed faintly where Draco’s spell had cut through it, a scent of iron mingling with charred cloth as he worked with the cold precision of someone who’d murdered hundreds. He had performed this kind of disposal countless times, but this one carried a satisfaction he rarely allowed himself. Rookwood’s blood was the price of insolence, a payment demanded the moment his filthy hand had dared to reach for his wife. It was not justice, for justice did not exist in this house, but it was possession made law by his wand. He crouched beside the remnants, wand tip brushing the air in a delicate pattern that dissolved flesh into dust.
Each wisp vanished into the floor, erased from record, though Draco kept the memory in deliberate clarity. The image of Hermione’s eyes when Rookwood had cornered her, wide with fear, had seared into him like the mark branded on his arm. She had looked at her would be assailant with a terror he’d never seen on the face of the brave witch. He knew he was the cause of it, and he wondered if her eyes had looked like that when he’d…well…he needed to get that defiance back. That defiance belonged to him, not as something to consume, but as something he would bleed the world to preserve. It’s what made his little lion so enticing.
When the last trace of the body dissolved, Draco rose with a steady grace, adjusting his cuffs as though he had only brushed ash from his sleeves. He knew the price of killing a fellow Death Eater, he’d paid it many times over in the field. The Dark Lord might demand explanation, or worse, demand retribution. Rookwood was somewhat important. Draco, however, had lived too long in this nest of serpents not to learn how to move unseen within their coils.
He would craft the narrative before it reached Voldemort’s ears. He would whisper of Rookwood’s incompetence, his carelessness on the field, his audacity to touch Malphas’ prize. The lie would find roots in familiar soil, and no one would question if Malphas had pruned a rotting limb.
Still, as he strode toward his private chambers where he knew Hermione to be, the mask of composure thinned beneath the pull of thought. He had told her to stay put, had given her sanctuary in his own room, and she had still wandered into danger like the stubborn Gryffindor she was. The fury he carried was not for her disobedience but for the knowledge that others would see her as prey the moment she stepped outside those doors. She did not understand that she belonged to him, and that his possession was the only shield keeping her alive within these walls.
The door to his chambers creaked softly as he entered, the sound carrying into the quiet room. Hermione now sat on the edge of his bed, her body washed and dressed in cotton pajamas as Tinky magically styled and combed her hair. She looked up when he stepped inside, her eyes narrowing with suspicion that was almost enough to cut through his calm. He could still see the tension in her body, the unconscious crossing of her legs, the flinch as he stepped closer, as if he would hurt her again.
He noticed the vial on his dresser and assumed it to be a calming draught. He looked at the woman in front of him, so beautiful even in his ruin. She was the same girl who had once asked strangers on a train if they had seen a toad, demanding the world make room for what mattered to her. He just had to bring it out of her again.
“You killed him, didn’t you?”
Her voice was low, but each word was a test of how much truth he would allow. Draco removed his gloves with deliberate care, placing them on the polished desk beside his mask. His short blonde hair was disheveled, fringe falling over his eyebrows lazily, his piercings caught her eye, and he noticed the begrudging appraisal in her eyes. He tried not to smirk. He did not rush his reply, for rushing implied guilt, and guilt had no place in the mask he wore though he felt it viscerally.
“He laid hands on what is mine. I would not permit that.”
His tone was smooth, yet beneath it lived an anger that bled through each syllable at the thought of what would have happened if he had not saved her in time. Hermione rose, the blanket slipping from her shoulders, revealing the hesitant defiance in her stance.
“I am not yours, Malfoy. No matter what mask you wear, no matter what title Voldemort gives you, you will never own me.”
Her words pierced him, sure, but they only fed the fire that smoldered behind his eyes. He crossed the room with precision, stopping before her with an authority that did not need violence to be felt. His hand did not touch her, though the distance was small enough that the heat of his body brushed hers. He did not miss the way she once again flinched away from him.
“You may deny it with your words, Granger, but the truth is irrefutable. You live because I have chosen it. You stand here because I have made it so. You can’t even begin to imagine what I have saved you from.”
Her throat tightened with the effort to keep her composure, yet she did not look away.
“You think protecting me gives you claim, but it doesn’t. You are still his monster. You are still a Death Eater. And you are still the man who hurt me.”
Draco’s breath moved slow, the kind that burned inward before it released. Hearing the visceral hate from her mouth gutted him, but he couldn’t blame her. He would just have to work harder to be worthy of her love.
“Perhaps I am. Perhaps I became everything my father imagined I should be, everything the Dark Lord desired to mold. Yet even monsters have rules, and mine are written in your blood, Granger. No one touches you again, not until you decide otherwise.”
Hermione rose to her feet, challenging him.
“Even you?”
Draco chuckled ruefully.
“Especially me.”
Draco saw Hermione cataloguing him, puzzling him out. He watched her eyes roam over the littany of scars that adorned him, the piercings in his ear, and the hint of a tattoo peaking out the collar of his robes. He was the contradiction of a man who carried the marks of corruption on his skin and yet spoke as though he held respect for her rather than hunger. Tinky appeared quietly at the bedside, a tray of bread and broth balanced in her trembling hands.
The elf set it gently before Hermione, glancing nervously between her master and the girl he had claimed. Draco did not move as the elf retreated, his gaze never leaving Hermione, his presence filling the room with a pull she could not ignore.
“Eat,” he instructed softly, his voice carrying command and care in equal measure. “You will need your strength if you’re to remain here.”
Draco watched as Hermione’s fingers tightened into fists. She had no reason to trust him, no reason to believe that the man who stood beside Voldemort could also be her shield. He had still violated her after all, still humiliated her in front of all those Death Eaters. Even if he didn’t want to do it, even if he’d tried to spare her the worst of it, he had still done it, still committed the action without her consent. Yet, he knew she could not deny that she was alive, that one more Death Eater was dead, and that something in his words carried the determination of an oath rather than the polish of a lie. He stepped back at last, reclaiming the distance, though his gaze lingered as if tethered to her.
“Stay in this room, Granger, I mean it. I can’t always be around to protect you, and, once you leave these doors, you are opening yourself up to dangers you couldn’t begin to fathom. I’ve been called away on a mission, I’ll be back in three days. Tinky will guard you until then and bring you anything you need. If you leave here again, there may not be enough bodies I can burn to keep them from you and I will not be responsible for the mess you find yourself in. I happen to know Travers loves to stick his dick in anything that breathes, Granger, so, best not tempt fate.”
The warning was not shouted, not even raised. It was delivered with the inevitability of truth, truth that rooted itself and refused to release. He turned from her, retrieving his wand from the mantle and sliding it into place with practiced ease. The Death Eaters downstairs still called, the mask of Malphas still required, but part of him would remain here, bound to her presence like an unbreakable vow.
As the door closed behind him, Hermione drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders, the taste of his words lingering. He could see it in her eyes, still wet with tears. He felt how she despised him, feared him even, yet somewhere deep within the hollow of his chest, he knew she understood that he had drawn an impenetrable line of fire around her, and that for now, no one else would dare cross it.
The door closed with a muted thud, and Draco stood for a moment in the corridor, his hand resting against the carved wood as though anchoring himself to the girl on the other side. Every instinct in him urged him to stay, to guard her from even the imagined touch of the night air, but he forced his hand to fall away. Malphas had duties, and if he did not return to them, suspicion would grow like rot through the ranks. The stairs drew him downward into the noise. Draco moved among them with the grace of a predator, mask restored, posture impeccable.
He poured himself into the role as he had countless times before, a vessel for cruelty, a figure to be both envied and feared. Rookwood’s absence had already been noted, men muttered over their cups, speculation slipping through tongues. Draco let their imaginations paint him darker than the truth.
He had learned long ago that fear was best cultivated in suggestion, that half truths and lingering questions carried further than confessions shouted aloud. Still, he knew he would have to account for it when Voldemort’s attention shifted his way.
Every moment spent here was a moment stolen from her, yet it was necessary, and necessity was a prison he had learned to live in. He reminded himself that she was upstairs, untouched, watched over by the one creature in this house whose loyalty he trusted. He had strengthened his rooms blood wards himself, layering a multitide of enchantments and curses upon each other that even if the Dark Lord demanded entry, it would cost him more than a whim to breach. Still, his mind would not release her.
He remembered the flicker of comprehension in her eyes when his thoughts had brushed hers, the fragile tether of trust that had held during the assault. She hated him, of that he had no doubt, and he knew that he had hurt her in irreparable ways, yet, she had listened when it truly counted, when she realized she would rather have his touch over the others. She had allowed him to save her in the only way he could, while still hating him for having done it.
The knowledge burned through him, a reminder that every time he shielded her, he still hurt her in the same breath. Her purity remained intact, yet it was tainted by the necessity of show, by the cruelty he had been forced to wear and inflict upon the one girl he loved above all else. Inside, he was something else entirely, a man who had guarded himself for years so he might one day be worthy of possessing the girl who despised him.
Three days on foot peeled the softness from a body and left only discipline in its place. The moors bled into heath, heath into scrub, and every field wore the same color of ash where a village had been taught obedience. Dawn arrived in a pale wash that made every ruin look clean, which felt like an insult to the memory of the people who had lived there.
Draco moved through the wake of conquest with measured economy, cloak whispering along the dirt, breath even from long practice behind his menacing silver mask. He kept his mind steady by fixing it on one image that never failed him, the curve of a stubborn mouth stiff with refusal, the light in eyes that refused to dim.
Camps lay scattered like islands across the plain, fires banked low. Reports had placed Weasley near the river road, a knot of survivors trying to spirit away supplies, and the trail had not been difficult to read once you knew where to look. Draco moved through the hedgerows as a hunter who had memorized his quarry, hands loose at his sides, wand waiting to be called rather than clutched. He did not stumble, he did not hurry, he did not think of victory songs drifting from the manor, only of a room guarded by Malfoy Magic so dense that malice could not find its way through.
He saw the red hair before he saw the face. Weasley stood with his back to a stone wall, wand raised, mouth set in the way of a boy pretending not to be tired. Others flanked him with tense shoulders, ready to run if the road opened, ready to waste their lives if it did not. Draco stepped into the open as if he had been expected all along, black boots steady on the rutted track, mask resting against his hip rather than hiding him. Recognition passed between them without ceremony, the simple acknowledgment of two histories knotted together by a girl who chose to be brave when kindness would have been enough.
Spells opened like rain across hard earth, blue cutting to white, red searing through the space where a body had been an instant earlier. Draco drifted through it with the unhurried grace of a duelist who had forgotten how to fear, robes turning on quiet pivots, wand describing arcs that cut the air into clean geometry. He marked distances, counted breaths, let Weasley spend energy in messy bursts that looked valiant to friends and wasteful to anyone who understood endurance.
A twist of the wrist altered the ground under a boot, a small robbery of balance that gave him the space he needed. His next movement closed the distance to arm’s length, wand rising not for a killing stroke, rather for a kind of intimacy that had nothing to do with touch.
Legilimency opened not like a door, rather like a page that already knew the finger that would turn it. The first wash of memory was of familiar stone corridors and wet moss. He rode the current to a chamber where basilisk bones lay in an indifferent sprawl, where water seamed the floor in thin sheets, where two children stood too close because they did not know how to stand apart.
A mouth leaned in greedily, a kiss taken as a prize one thought he had earned through years of bickering, and a girl went still, not with surrender and not with romance, rather with decision. She touched his sleeve like a teacher guiding a careless hand, thanked him with kindness, told him they worked better as friends, and turned away before regret could be demanded.
The page turned again under his will, and he watched Weasley carry a torch for years. He felt the jealousy that soured meals, the daydreams that placed a crown on a girl who did not wish to rule, the hunger for an arrangement that belonged to childhood rather than men who understood devotion. Nowhere did he find the imprint of a night that would stain what Draco worshiped. Nowhere did he find a shared bed, a confession whispered to darkness, a surrender that would have ended a vow preserved through ruin. The relief that answered him arrived like cool water after hours under a punishing sun.
He withdrew with care, leaving the mind as tidy as he had found it, smoothing the thought he had touched so no bruise would be left behind. Weasley staggered, hand braced against the wall, eyes searching for a cause he could not name. Draco could have finished it with one elegant motion, could have erased a rival who still dared stand between him and the future he intended to build. The image rose of a girl hearing the news, a face going still not with grief for a comrade, rather with disgust for the man who would break her for convenience. His wand lowered without fanfare, and the duel turned into a brief exchange that left pride intact on both sides.
“Tell your people to choose another road,” Draco murmured, eyes never leaving the line of Weasley’s throat where a pulse beat too fast for sense. “There are patrols on the western ridge. You will not get through.”
The words tasted like command, though he fed them as if they were charity. Weasley stared, surprised by counsel delivered through a mouth he had vowed to hate, and lifted his chin in mute refusal to obey. Draco shifted his wrist and carved a streak of red into the earth at Weasley’s heel, close enough to singe, far enough to save a life when the story reached the ears of men who needed proof a battle had been fought. They parted with the weary dignity of enemies who had spared one another for reasons neither would admit.
“Wait!”
Draco paused but did not look back.
“Is ‘Mione safe?”
Draco noted the Weasley boy did not ask if she was okay, just that she was safe. He tried not to let the bitterness linger on his tongue.
“I will never let any harm come to Granger, Weaslebee. You see, much like you, I also find myself drawn to the little Mudblood. How lucky for me that she’s come to be in my care.”
He apparated away before the Weasley could reply. His mission didn’t stop just because he happened upon Weasley. He had an Order safehouse to take down and trophies to deliver as proof. Draco moved through it with a precision that made him seem less like a man than a force the battle had summoned to consume itself. He did not rush once he’d descended upon the safe house with his other Death Eater unit.
Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini were his very closest and most trusted friends and the three of them formed the most formidable unit the Dark Lord had ever seen. His wand traced arcs with the elegance of a conductor leading an orchestra, each flick answering with screams, each sweep answered by flame. Those who crossed his path fell swiftly to his green light, sometimes with elegance, sometimes with ruin, always with the inevitability of prey meeting its predator.
The mask of Malphas gleamed pale against the chaos, faceless and unyielding, a symbol meant to terrify more than to disguise. Pierced silver caught the light where the mask did not reach, a subtle rebellion that reminded him he was more than Voldemort’s hand. His dragon stirred beneath his shirt, ink alive with each surge of power, coils flexing as if the magic itself admired the violence it was fed. Malphas, they whispered, the Dark Lord’s right hand, the nightmare whose duels never lasted long enough to hope for survival. He cut through a cluster of resistance fighters, one man’s arm fell limp, nerves seared.
A woman cried as she collapsed, her wand cracking under his boot before she could raise it again. He tortured sparingly, not out of mercy, but out of efficiency. Agony dragged screams into the night, a warning that carried further than death alone, and he wielded it like a herald to announce his presence. He did not need to linger on cruelty, his role was not to savor. His role was to be seen, to remind friend and foe alike that disobedience drew punishment, that Voldemort’s will had a voice and a hand, and they both belonged to Malphas.
His mind remained divided, one part assessing the field, the other fixed on the thought of Hermione. She anchored him, though she did not know it. He offered death because he had preserved life for her, and in that paradox he found clarity. Each life ended here was an offering laid on the altar of her survival, and he killed with the devotion of a zealot. A rebel lunged, reckless, face streaked with mud and rage. Draco caught the blow mid air, twisted, and cast without speaking.
The man crumpled as though his body had been folded from within, limbs bending in directions nature had never intended. A second rebel screamed, charging without thought, and Draco sent him sprawling with a spell that licked across skin in a million cuts. He walked through the cries without pause, eyes pale and merciless above the mask. There was no thrill in it, no joy, there was only necessity, the clean economy of violence, the practiced hand of someone who had long ago stopped being startled by what flesh could endure.
As the fighting thinned, survivors fled into the night, dragging wounds and terror behind them. Draco allowed some to run, it pleased the Dark Lord more to spread stories than to leave corpses. Fear did the work of twenty armies, and Malphas understood fear better than most. Around him lay proof of his efficiency; bodies sprawled in disarray, wands scattered like abandoned toys, the earth itself seared with marks that would not fade for years.
There would be reports to deliver, victories to claim, spoils to distribute, yet none of it mattered to him. His thoughts reached ahead, racing to the manor, to the room that held his most prize possession. He imagined her sleeping still, her body curled into the safety of blankets Tinky had fussed over, her hair spilling across the pillow in unruly defiance.
She would hate him more when she discovered the blood on his hands, but hate was better than indifference, and he would take it gladly if it meant she was still alive to feel anything at all. He pulled the mask away as he walked, tucking it beneath his arm. The air met his face with the bite of cold. His short hair clung to his temples with sweat. To those who had survived long enough to glimpse him, he was Malphas, the executioner, untouchable and merciless.
To himself, stripped of mask and duty, he was Draco Malfoy, a man who had preserved his body for one girl, who killed by day so he could eliminate one less enemy for her by night, who bore ink and scars not as trophies but as shields. He thought of Voldemort’s satisfaction, the approving twist of a mouth that had forgotten warmth, and he thought of Hermione, her purity, and her refusal to bend. One demanded his strength, the other commanded his soul. He would give both, and he would survive it, because he was Malphas on the battlefield, but he was Draco Malfoy in the room where Hermione Granger waited, and that duality was the only truth that mattered.
Night welcomed him, he walked until the ground became familiar underfoot and the smell of old ivy announced the fringe of the manor’s land. He did not enter at once, he stood in the garden walk and touched the place that served as a messenger, murmuring a single instruction that would find the only helper he trusted. Tinky’s reply arrived as a small pressure against his palm, the magic equivalent of a nod, and the message contained everything necessary.
Mistress is sleeping. She ate a small dinner and went straight to bed.
Draco allowed the breath he had been holding since the river road to lengthen, not as relief, rather as preparation for the face he would have to wear when he crossed the threshold. Draco stepped through the fringe of the gathering without slowing, eyes acknowledging allies, glance warning threats, posture broadcasting a refusal to be detained. The mask of Malphas slid over him the way a puzzle piece fits into place, seamlessly.
Voldemort’s absence tonight drew rumor into tight knots that pulsed at the edges of the room. A summons had pulled him elsewhere, which made men giddy with petty cruelties they would not dare attempt under his gaze. Draco offered nothing to their games. He stopped long enough to deliver reports, managed the dispatch of a scouting party for dawn, and threaded warnings about the western ridge so deftly that men believed they had thought of the reroute themselves. The machine of war turned another notch, its teeth grinding older hopes into grit.
He reached his room near midnight, the door answering his touch. The room carried his scent of cedarwood and spearmint, an honest fragrance in a house that trafficked in deceit. The bed lay in soft disarray where Tinky had tucked the black silk coverlets with a thoroughness only a house elf could achieve. Hermione lay unmoving in the sea of black, helped by dreamless sleep.
Once disrobing and handing them off to Tinky, he hopped into a nice, hot bath to scrub the grime and blood from his mission. He couldn’t bare to let Hermione bear witness to it upon waking. When he’d deemed himself presentable in a long sleeved black shirt and soft, black pants, he crossed into their room. Hermione slept with her face half turned toward him, breathing even.
Tinky had informed Draco she had given Mistress Hermione Dreamless Sleep. Draco stood at the threshold and counted the measures of her breathing, steady, steady, steady, like a metronome keeping time for a heart that preferred perseverance to despair. He moved to the chair beside the bed and lowered himself to it. He studied her, every detail wrote a new scripture of restraint and hunger inside him, and he admired and so badly coveted her pure beauty. He knew however, he was not worthy to sleep with her, to touch her. No, not yet.
“Weasley is alive,” he murmured to the room. “I didn’t kill him, Granger, though I’d thought about it.”
The confession did not seek absolution. He had spared the man for her sake, and he would do so again, not from mercy, but rather from strategy. A woman who believed him capable of killing every friend of hers would never forgive him, and forgiveness mattered, even to a monster who had tried to forget the word. If Draco ever wanted her to want him the way he does, then he needed to play the part of a merciful man only when it mattered.
He leaned back and let his eyes close. Protection would not be enough, he would need to carry the stain so completely that she never found any of it on her own skin. A soft sound told him Tinky had returned, the small creature arranging vials beside the bed. Draco did not look up, he knew the rhythm of those little feet better than he knew the stories his mother had muttered at bedtime long ago.
“Thank you,” he offered without ceremony, and the elf’s ears lifted in the way of one who had been seen.
She vanished with a puff. Hermione stirred in her sleep, only a turn of the head. He rose and adjusted the blanket with fingers that knew how to be gentle despite where they’d been at her capture, smoothing the fabric where it had bunched, tucking the edge so it would not admit a draught. He would claim her when claiming no longer resembled theft. He would wait until she could look upon his hands and not see only ruin.
Morning would carry new orders. He would go where he was told so that he could continue to decide what really happened when night fell. He would keep the girl alive in a house that devoured the brave, and he would make certain that when history wrote its ledger, the only man who had ever truly touched Hermione Granger was the one who had deserved her. Himself.
Notes:
CW:
Mentions/implications of attempted sexual assault
Mild blood/violenceWELL, we are starting to see how Draco's angling with Hermione. I'm having so much fun exploring this Draco, and, I am so excited to write him more in action teheeeeeee
Chapter Text
The parlor at Nott Manor was heavy with cigar smoke, saturating the air until even the whiskey seemed denser on the tongue. Theo lounged in a wingback chair, his posture deceptively careless, though the gleam in his eye betrayed how alert he always remained, even in supposed ease.
Blaise had claimed the settee across from him, glass balanced between long fingers, his smile stretched thin with the kind of charm he wore when he wished to hide something bitter. Draco leaned against the mantel, his mask discarded at last, his shirt open at the collar, silver glinting faintly from his ear, the ink along his throat just visible where the fabric had fallen aside.
They had been drinking long enough that the sharp edges of the day had dulled, though none of them ever softened entirely. Higher Death Eaters did not afford themselves the luxury of release, not even in company, but there was a certain ease in familiarity, a bond forged long before the Dark Lord had twisted their names into weapons. Draco swirled the whiskey in his glass, and watched Theo smirk into his drink as though he were far too pleased with himself.
“How's Lovegood these days?” Draco snickered, his tone teasing as he saw Theo staring at the portrait he'd recently had drawn of Luna.
Theo arched a brow, entirely unbothered, his smile deepening.
“I'm wonderful thank you for asking. Luna Lovegood and all her freak is in my bed and at my table, I will gladly play the part of a doting husband.”
Blaise chuckled.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Drake,” Blaise drawled, tilting his glass lazily. “You’re just upset that Theo got his girl after everything and yours hates your guts.”
Draco growled.
“Granger is, well, she’s Granger.”
Theo’s smirk widened as he raised his glass in mock salute.
“And Luna is Luna.”
Blaise’s smile thinned further as he watched them both.
“We all have our poisons,” Blaise murmured, his gaze fixed on the amber in his glass. “Mine, apparently, is Pansy Parkinson.”
Theo chuckled under his breath, though there was no cruelty in it.
“Still mourning your wife, are you? I heard she paraded Longbottom around last week at one of the revels. Said he poured her wine like a perfect little pet.”
Blaise’s jaw tightened despite his effort to appear languid, his glass tipping back with unnecessary force.
“I am not mourning her. I am enduring her stupidity, there is a difference.”
Draco gathered his thoughts before speaking, his tone deceptively calm.
“You still love her, though. Admit it.”
Blaise shot him a glance, cool and cutting.
“And you are one to talk? At least I bedded Pansy before she lost her mind with Longbottom. You still guard your virtue like a nun at a convent. How is that working out for you, by the way?”
Draco’s mouth twitched, though it did not resemble amusement.
“It works well enough. She is with me now, that is all that matters.”
Blaise exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he poured himself another measure.
“We are pathetic, all of us. One chained by Loony Lovegood, one haunted by a woman who toys with him, and one who guards a witch’s virtue and his own as if it were a crown jewel.”
Draco sipped his whiskey with deliberate calm. It was true that Theo’s devotion to Luna bordered on ridiculous (but really, could he talk?), and that Blaise’s longing for Pansy was a wound he refused to cauterize, yet their confessions had given Draco something he had not considered before, a possibility he now turned over with slow precision in his mind, working the pieces into place.
“You know,” Draco began, his tone casual enough to disarm, “Granger has been restless lately. She would never admit it to me, of course, but I see it. She spends her hours in my room, and I am not fool enough to believe that confinement is not its own form of torment. Perhaps it is time she left those four walls.”
Theo raised a brow, intrigued.
“And you think bringing her here will solve that? To my manor, where my Luna presides like a queen?”
“Not for me,” Draco replied, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “For her. Luna is her friend, or at least she was. It might do her good to see someone from her past, someone untouched by this war in the way we are. You claim to adore your lady, perhaps she might share her company with mine.”
Blaise smirked faintly into his glass. Theo raised an eyebrow.
“So you would have Granger entertained here, like a guest? Almost romantic, if one ignores the chains she’ll have to wear doing it.”
Draco rolled his eyes.
“It’ll be good for her, and I’m sure Luna would like some female company.” Draco said evenly, his eyes steady on Theo.
Theo considered this, his smirk fading into something more contemplative.
“Luna would welcome her. She still speaks of her friends, you know, as if the world they shared still exists.”
Draco inclined his head.
“Good, then it is settled. Granger will visit, and perhaps she will remember what it is to be more than a prisoner. It will not soften her toward me, but it may keep her spirit alive.”
Blaise raised his glass in mock salute.
“To women, then. Our ruin, our salvation, and our reason for every damned thing we do.”
Draco allowed himself a thin smile as their glasses touched, the amber liquid smooth in it’s descent. He would bring her here, to this manor where Luna reigned beside Theo, and Hermione would see a fragment of the life she had been robbed of. Perhaps, she would even hate him less for it, though even if she did not, it would be worth the effort. He would give her even this much, even if she never thanked him for it. He would treat her like a queen, like the title Lady of Malfoy Manor deserved. Talk of women faded into the inevitable pull of their reality, for war consumed everything, even the rare evenings meant for reprieve.
“The Dark Lord is getting restless,” Theo remarked at last, his voice smooth and measured. “He has tired of small victories. I imagine he will want the whole board overturned soon. Too many rats still scurry through the cracks, and he does not enjoy the scent of defiance the Order is still clinging to at the Ministry.”
Draco tipped his glass, watching the amber swirl before meeting Theo’s gaze.
“He has been toying with the idea of cutting down the Ministry remnants in one sweep. He will not tolerate the illusion of their resistance much longer. He wants spectacle. Fear spreads further when delivered in grand theater rather than small reprisals.”
Blaise’s smirked.
“So we become the orchestra, and the wizarding world burns for an encore.” He took a slow sip before adding, “You will lead the charge, of course. Malphas, the Dark Lord’s favored executioner. The rest of us will play supporting roles while you draw the world’s eye.”
Draco accepted the words without flinching, as though he had long ago surrendered to the inevitability of his place.
“If he asks, I deliver. That has always been the arrangement Blaise.”
Theo studied him, eyes sharp despite his languid pose.
“And what does he promise you in return? More power, more favor, more empty titles? You already hold more sway than any of us, but even you are not untouchable.”
Draco’s mouth quirked faintly, though the humor in it was bitter.
“I am too useful. That is my power and my prison. But if that prison gives me Granger, I’ll be the best damn prisoner he’s got.”
The room quieted at that, each of them understanding the truth behind his words. Voldemort did not breed loyalty, he bred survival. Each man seated here had clawed his way into favor, and each knew it could be stripped without warning. The whiskey dulled none of the truth, and it sat between them, as thick as the smoke floating toward the ceiling from Theo's cigar. It was Blaise who broke it, his voice carrying an edge of carelessness so thinly veiled it rang false.
“Speaking of prisons, I had a message this morning. News, though not of the sort you will enjoy.” His gaze slid toward Draco, testing, almost wary, before settling fully on him. “It concerns your mother.”
Draco’s hand stilled around his glass, though he did not move otherwise.
“Go on.”
Blaise shifted, his charm slipping, replaced by something almost reluctant.
“She’s alive, that much I can confirm. Dolohov keeps her at his estate. She is not broken, if that is what you fear. She is diminished, yes, but she remains untouched in spirit, even if he drapes her in his chains.”
Draco set his glass down with deliberate care, the sound of crystal on wood precise, controlled.
“Dolohov took her when my father fell. I haven't seen her in years.”
It was not a question, but Blaise inclined his head.
“You were too powerless then to intervene.”
Theo leaned forward, his voice low though steady.
“You are not powerless now, though.”
Draco’s pale eyes fixed on the hearth, as if he could summon fire through will alone.
“It doesn’t matter. My father’s death left her vulnerable, and Dolohov claimed her before I could raise a wand in protest. I had no sway then. Now, I have power, yet even that is not enough to unbind her from that bastard. Dolohov is too entrenched in the Dark Lord's upper echelons.”
His voice did not rise, though the air around him seemed to saturate with restrained fury. Theo tried to offer some solace.
“One day, perhaps. When the Dark Lord grows bored, when Dolohov falls from favor. Patience is its own kind of weapon as you know.”
Draco’s mouth twitched, though it carried no warmth.
“Patience is what they demand of men they wish to keep leashed.”
Blaise leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he studied his friend.
“And yet you remain leashed, Draco, for your Granger. You bleed on battlefields for a man who cages what you love most. Does that not make you wonder who truly owns you?”
Draco turned his gaze on Blaise, pale and cutting, though his voice remained composed.
“I am owned by no one other than the woman currently occupying my bed and that has always remained true. The Dark Lord can think he owns me, but he will never obtain what he wants most. My only loyalty is to the ladies of Malfoy Manor."
Draco set his glass aside, letting thought devour him whole. His mother lived in Dolohov’s shadow, his own witch burned in her disdain, and he himself stood between them, hollowed by choices no one else could bear. When reckoning came, it would not be the Dark Lord who claimed him.
A boy no older than fifteen stood rigid in Snape’s office, the walls lined with jars of preserved horrors, their shapes distorted in viscous liquid. Snape towered over him, his voice a slow hiss, relentless and heavy.
“Occlude, Draco. You will not survive him unless you learn to shut him out. You think you are clever, but your thoughts betray you. He will see the girl if you do not bury her.”
Draco’s younger self stood silent, fists clenched at his sides, his mouth set in a hard line. Snape’s dark eyes bore into him, unrelenting.
“He will see her in your mind, and when he does, she is finished. Do you understand me?”
The boy’s jaw twitched, his pale face unreadable, yet beneath it she felt the frantic layering of walls, a mind shoving something precious into the farthest reaches where even Snape’s gaze could not follow.
He felt her before he awoke, the walls slammed shut. The air snapped taut as he sensed her, a violent force throwing her from the depths of his thoughts and back into the bed where she stayed. Draco was awake now, his eyes were wide open and furious, his breath steady despite the violence in his stare. He rose from the chair in one fluid motion, his body taut with restrained power. He allowed the mattress to dip under his weight, pressing her into it. He was to angry to manage restraint.
“What did you see?”
His voice was low, searing, each syllable bitten off with precision. He kicked himself for allowing his guard down. If Hermione was able to breach his defenses, the Dark Lord also could have. He heard Hermione’s gasp at their close proximity, his body dwarfing hers as it pressed her into the black silk. He did not miss the way her pupils unconsciously widened as his abs flexed, nor did he miss the way she traced his tattoo and piercings that accented his cut physique as his arms trapped either side of her head. Though h watched as she forced her chin up, forced her voice not to tremble despite the fact she was currently underneath him. Draco thought she'd never looked more beautiful through his anger.
“I saw enough.”
His eyes flashed.
“I will not tell you again.” he hissed, his words hot against her ear. “Do not enter my mind.”
Her voice was ragged, but her defiance did not waver.
“Who are you hiding, Malfoy? Snape mentioned a girl. Do you love this girl? How tragic. I bet she'd be real proud of you now, touching another in your bed, killing in the name of Voldemort, and assaulting whoever is unfortunate enough to find themselves in your presence.”
His jaw tightened, his body rigid despite the visceral need to mold it to the girl under him in retaliation. Her defiance was so fucking hot, Draco had a hard time controlling himself. For a long span he said nothing, the sound of their uneven breaths filling the bedroom, the closeness of his body a suffocating pressure. He leaned closer still, his words a whisper scraped from somewhere deep. In a daring move, he allowed the lower half of his body to sink between her legs, not touching her, but ghosting the inside of her thighs.
“You know nothing.” he muttered, his voice ragged. “Go back to sleep, or would you like it better if I took you here instead as punishment? Become the monster you think me to be? Say the word, love, and I will. Right. Now."
She shook her head frantically, as if remembering herself, and curled her body inward, bringing her knee up to hit his torso. He smirked and left the bed, retreating back to his chair. He would never hurt his dove in such a way, but he was just so angry at himself. He couldn't believe he'd allowed his guard to drop so easily. This time she obeyed, though her eyes remained locked on his until the last possible moment. She turned away from him in bed, showing her back to him. Draco let his hand curl into a fist, his nails biting into his palm. The rage and arousal remained, hot and violent, but beneath it pulsed a deep fear.
How much had she seen?
“You never learn,” his voice carried quietly down the corridor, steady as he approached. “You know the dangers, you've encountered them before, yet you still wander as though this place were yours to command.”
Her eyes flashed toward him, quick and defiant, though her body betrayed the tremor of being caught.
“I refuse to rot behind your walls, Malfoy.” she spat, her voice low and urgent. “If you expect me to stay caged, regardless of your reasons for doing so, you will be forever disappointed. If there is any chance to escape, I will take it.”
In three strides he had closed the space between them, his hand capturing both of hers in one unyielding grip. He lifted them easily above her head, pressing them into the cold wall until she was pinned, her body forced to still beneath the weight of his restraint. His other hand braced the wall near her temple, closing her in, his breath steady, his body rigid with control. She flinched beneath his touch, her head snapping back against the wall as if to avoid the nearness of him, and the sight of it was a lash across his chest. Still, he did not release her.
“How many times must I tell you? If another man had found you,” his voice was low, his lips brushing the air near her ear as he spoke, “you would not be standing before me. You would not be permitted your arrogance or your dignity. They would have taken everything from you, and you would have nothing left to guard. Do you understand that? Would you like me to take you to the dungeons and you can see for yourself just how much MacNair likes to stick his dick in the prisoners? Do you want to watch women like you be raped at the hands of monsters? Because if you need a visual, I'm more than happy to show you exactly what my protection means.”
He watched her breathing as it came in quick, short breaths, her glare unwavering even as her body betrayed the edge of fear.
“So you mean to remind me of what you could do then, Malfoy? Of how much restraint you waste on me? You are also a Death Eater, are you not? What makes you so much more noble than the others? Why didn’t you just stick your cock in me when you had the chance? Why not just fuck me up against this wall. Right. Now.”
He studied her, his grey eyes tracing every line of her face, every flicker of rebellion that warred with the memory of her traumas. He watched her chest rise and fall with heaving breaths and he forced himself not to imagine what it would be like to rub his thumb across her pink peaks as her legs wrapped around his waist, thrusting upwards into her. He still had her hands pinned to the wall with his much larger one. He allowed himself one small touch, and leaned his lips to the shell of her ear, purposely angling his pierced ear to face her as he did so.
“Do not bite the hand that protects you, Hermione.”
The way her name left his tongue was deliberate, a claim rather than a courtesy. Her lips pressed together as though she wished to spit the taste of it from her mouth, but she did not speak. She remained trapped beneath him, her wrists caught in his grip, her eyes locked on his with a defiance that thrilled and punished him in equal measure. Feeling his point had been made, his hands fell away, his body drawing back, though his gaze never left her. She lowered her arms slowly, rubbing at her wrists though the hold had not been rough, her breaths unsteady as she turned her head toward the floor. Draco stood just beyond her reach, his chest rising evenly, his control barely intact.
“I could keep you bound to our room,” he murmured, his voice almost thoughtful. “I could cast spells that would make the walls themselves your jailer. Yet I choose not to. I give you freedom within the bounds of safety, and still you test me.”
Her eyes lifted at that, her voice tight.
“Safety in a prison is not safety at all. You dress the walls with opulence, but they are still walls.”
Draco clicked his tongue. Her stubbornness was so hot but he could not let her win this.
“They are walls, yes, but walls that keep predators from devouring you, walls that stand because I place myself between you and every man who would bleed you dry." Draco brought his hand up, ghosting his fingertips along her cheek as he pushed a curl behind her ear, an action the tender opposite of his harsher words. "You have no idea what they are capable of. You haven’t the slightest clue what goes on at these revels besides the mild taste you gleamed.”
She stared at him, her mouth parting as though to argue, yet no words emerged. Her eyes lingered on him, not softening, yet not entirely cruel either, as though some part of her understood the truth in his words even if she could never admit it on principle of her stubbornness. He stepped back once more, his body pulling away with deliberate grace.
“Stay in our room. This is the last time I will warn you.” he said quietly. “Stay where I can protect you, Granger. Do not force me to show you what happens when others find you instead of me.”
Without waiting for her reply, he turned, his boots carrying him down the corridor with steady purpose, making sure no one else wandered this way. He felt her gaze on his back, searing him as surely as any curse, and he allowed himself the faintest trace of satisfaction. He had shaken her, he knew it despite her vibrato. He only hoped it would stick this time.
Notes:
GAH! I reworked this so many times and I'm still not satisfied with it, but we're starting to see just how restricted Hermione is within the manor and how that is effecting our stubborn Gryffindor. Draco is Draco-ing lol and we're going to be seeing a lot more of this vacillations. As always, let me know your thoughts!!! I love receiving your comments, it's my chance to gush with y'all <3
Chapter 5: A trip to Nott Manor
Chapter Text
Draco did not stagger when he entered his bedroom, though the wounds across his back burned as though someone had pressed a hot iron into his flesh. Each step was a stubborn refusal to give pain the dignity of dictating his movements. His shirt hung in tatters, darkened by blood, the fabric clinging to his skin, reluctant to release him. Behind him, the door clicked shut, muffling the echo of his return, and he knew Tinky would already be preparing the salves and bandages kept at the ready for such nights.
Hermione was seated in the armchair near the small bookshelf, her hair gathered in a loose braid, her posture rigid as though she had been listening for him. Her eyes lifted the instant he crossed the threshold, laden with suspicion, then widening as she took in his state.
He watched her rise without thought, the movement swift, as though her body betrayed her disdain with instinctive concern. Tinky hurried forward, her small hands already clutching the basin of warm water and the jar of ointment that smelled faintly of crushed aloe and eucalyptus. She set them on the table and made a distressed sound, ears twitching as she took in the damage. Draco took in Hermione’s gaze as it followed the elf’s, her face blanching at the first glimpse of the blood soaking through.
Draco lowered himself into the chair by the bed with the same precision he gave to every duel. His body screamed as he shrugged out of the ruined shirt, but he refused to let it show. His pale back was revealed in full, marred by lashes that ran deep, the tattooed skin torn open in a dozen places where the Dark Lord’s curses had bitten cruelly. He watched Hermione’s hand lift slightly, as if she might stop Tinky, as if she might offer aid herself, but she caught it and pulled back.
Instead, he watched her lips pressed together, her jaw rigid, though her eyes refused to look away. Tinky dabbed at the wounds with a cloth, her small hands surprisingly deft as she worked through the blood. The sting seared through him, yet Draco did not flinch. Instead, he looked past the elf to Hermione, his gaze steady, his mouth set in a rueful approximation of amusement.
“This is what he does when I disobey him.” he murmured, his voice unhurried, almost conversational. “I was meant to bring you to the revel tonight, meant to present you like a prize for his amusement again. I chose otherwise.”
Hermione’s throat tightened, though her words came firm.
“You mean to say you were punished because of me.”
Draco shrugged as if it was an everyday occurrence.
“Punished because I refused to share you,” he corrected.
The cloth pressed harder, pulling a hiss through his teeth, but he held her gaze. Draco watched as Hermione’s fingers dug into the fabric of her skirt, twisting the material as though to ground herself. It seemed like she wanted to speak, but her mouth remained silent. The words caught, lost beneath the raw image of his torn back and the knowledge that he had accepted this pain for her. Draco watched Hermione sink back into the armchair, her movements stiff, her eyes fixed on the floor though her ears strained for every sound he made.
Tinky’s soft muttering filled the air, the cloth moving steadily over blood and broken skin, yet the silence between Draco and Hermione was louder still. When Tinky finally smeared the ointment across the wounds, Draco exhaled slowly, as though letting the pain pass through him rather than fighting it. He reached for the glass of water at his side, his hand steady despite the tremor threatening his body, and took a measured sip. Hermione lifted her eyes at last, her voice quieter than she intended.
“Why do you tell me this? Why not let me think you came back injured from the battlefield?”
His gaze found hers, unflinching and direct.
“Because I need you to understand, Granger. I allow you every indulgence, every choice to keep you locked in this room instead of paraded like a trophy, and it carries a price. He will take his pound of flesh from me so long as I deny him his pleasure. Tonight it was lashes, tomorrow it may be worse. It would not be the first Cruciatus curse I have suffered at his wand.”
Her chest lurched uncomfortably, though she masked it with an even stare.
“And you expect me to feel gratitude? That I should thank you for…for hurting me the way you did?”
“No,” he replied, his voice quiet, though edged with something that made her shiver. “I expect you to recognize the truth, logical swot that you are. You are safest here, with me. Regardless of what I have or have not done to you, the truth is that only I can help you. The less you fight me, the less he will seek to punish through me. Cooperation spares us both, can’t you see it? Do not waste what I have given you.”
He watched as Hermione turned her head away. She rose slowly, her steps carrying her toward him before she could convince herself otherwise. Tinky had finished her work and scurried away, leaving Draco bare backed and unbowed in his chair. Hermione hesitated, her hand lifting slightly before falling again, her voice catching in her throat before she forced it out.
“You should lie down,” she murmured, the words stiff, uncertain.
Draco’s eyes softened, though his mouth retained its familiar wryness.
“Do you care for me now, Granger? Shall I believe your concern is genuine?”
Her gaze hardened, though her cheeks flushed in spite of herself.
“Do not mistake pity for care. I have no fondness for you, Malfoy.”
His smile deepened, though it was tinged with weariness.
“Pity is more than I deserve.”
She turned from him, unwilling to let him see the way her composure wavered. Draco had the sense a thought took root, quiet but insistent.
Draco had begun to understand what it meant to endure the full weight of Hermione Grangers’ ire. It seemed her stubbornness did, in fact, know no bounds. Truthfully, Draco thought she was fucking with him. She was still adverse to him, still difficult, and still intent on leaving the protection of his room any chance she could despite him knowing she knew it was a danger. Each night he considered how to unravel that memory, how to peel back her distrust without breaking her, ruining her.
Tonight, as she did every night, she sat at the window, her profile lit faintly by the moonlight. She did not rise when he entered, she did not look his way. She merely watched the darkened grounds as if freedom could be found somewhere beyond the hedges. He moved across the room, removing his gloves, undoing the clasp at his collar with a measured grace that betrayed nothing of the battle still clinging to his skin as his long cloak fell to the floor.
He wanted to speak, to demand her attention, to hear her voice even if it cut him, yet he forced the words back. He had learned that silence from him was the only way to draw her eyes, and sure enough, when he took his seat, he felt her glance at him, quick, resentful, unable to help herself.
“You returned.”
Her voice was tired, a statement rather than a greeting.
“Of course.” His tone carried no effort, no attempt at charm, simply the truth. “I always return.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Shame. I was hoping you’d fall.”
Draco studied her quietly, happy for the little scrap of conversation she’d deigned him, even if it was negative.
“How could I ever fall, Granger, when I have you to return to every night?”
Her fingers flexed against the sill, nails scraping faintly at the stone.
“I don’t want you anywhere near me. I hate you.”
Draco ran a hand over his dirt and blood streaked face, then ran his hands through his disheveled hair. He swore he felt like a broken record at this point. He loved the infuriating witch, truly he did, but she fuckin pissed him off in the same vein she turned him on.
“You forget yourself, little lion. Hate is a luxury you can afford only because I have given it to you.”
He watched as her body went still, rigid, yet her eyes burned when they met his. He could see it all over her face. She despised him. She loathed him with a purity that rivaled the purity he worshiped in her. He wanted every piece of her, even the ones that cursed his name and spat hate in his very presence. He wanted to devour her so viscerally, to worship her, to fall to his knees and bring her indescribable pleasure so much it hurt. Every lash against him only drove his devotion deeper.
She was a woman he would gladly kneel for, over and over again, if only she asked it of him. He would wait until the day she’d give him her love, freely and without coercion, he would endure her disdain. He would endure the flinch, the distance, the sharp words meant to wound. He would take them all, and he would keep her safe. She was the purest thing left in his world built on ruin, and he was the only one deserving of her.
Morning drew a renewed step as Draco entered their room. He had finally arranged a day with Theo at Nott Manor and he would not spoil this opportunity. Hermione stood by the window with her arms folded, chin tilted in that way that always felt like a dare or challenge. The navy blue, knee length sundress lined with sparkling silver Tinky had set out did her justice, the Malfoy colors suiting her well. He paused just long enough to catalogue every detail, appreciating how the dress accentuated just the right amount of skin and curves. Draco had always appreciated Grangers’ ass, after all. He slipped into a mask of indifference, then crossed the room with ease. Her gaze tracked him as if he were a predator stalking it’s prey. And, not to be misunderstood, he certainly was.
“Tinky will bring a cloak for you,” he began. “You are leaving today under my escort. I will allow a visit that may interest you, provided you follow three rules.”
He lifted a small, plain silver band from his pocket, a ring of pale metal etched with runes so fine they could barely be read. He slipped the ring onto her left ring finger and smiled when it shrunk into place. Hermione glared at the shackle with disdain, but Draco felt giddy as he slipped it on. The matching band already rested in his own hand, disillusioned, but no less meaningful.
“First, you are to stay within my sight. Just because Nott Manor is not Malfoy Manor does not mean Death Eaters won’t be coming and going. Secondly, no borrowing wands to perform magic without my instruction. Third, speak only to those in your immediate vicinity.”
Draco watched her mouth form in something that wished to be a smile and refused the luxury. She glanced at the silver ring on her finger and grimaced. Draco could hardly be sorry about it. He’d fantasized about putting the heirloom band on her for ages. He had no obligation to disclose their true meaning and purpose. She’d always been his after all.
“A generous list, Malfoy. I shall practice my curtsey.”
He closed the distance and took her hand with care. He funneled a small bit of magic into the ring, it’s runes glowing faintly. He could feel the thread of it brush his own magic, a tether no one else would notice on his own hand, because he had cast a notice-me-not charm and a disillusionment. Hermione didn’t have to know he wore the matching band, she would surely take hers off in that case. She did not pull away, though he saw the instinct gather and settle to recoil.
“What happens if I refuse?” She asked, eyes steady on his.
“You will stay in our room,” He replied, evenly, as if discussing afternoon tea. “I prefer not to waste the day.”
Tinky appeared with the cloak, bustling with efficient devotion, and Hermione accepted the fabric without complaint. He offered his arm, she laid her palm there, and the contact carried heat through the cloth. They travelled without fanfare, the pull of Apparition compressing the world into a narrow corridor before releasing it into breadth again. Nott Manor rose from a field of manicured hedges and white gravel, its windows polished to a mirror. Theo kept his properties like his mind; precise, elegant, and free of anything he could not use. An elf greeted them at the door. Theo waited near the staircase with a glass he had no intention of finishing, his posture casual, his eyes bright with friendly malice.
“So it is Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl herself.” he murmured, gaze sliding to Hermione with interest that did not stray into hunger.
Draco inclined his head, not bothering to wrestle the smirk from his mouth.
“Oh do be serious, Theo.”
Hermione acknowledged Theo with a nod that did not concede anything more.
“I remember you,” she offered, voice even, hands folded at her waist. “You were ranked third in our year.”
Theo’s smile sharpened by a degree, pleased to be read so quickly.
“Mm, quite so. Well, let’s not waste a moment! Today, you will enjoy the gardens. My Lady has arranged something in the east conservatory for us to enjoy.”
He glanced at Draco with the ease of an old friend indulging a new game. Blaise drifted in from a side room with that perfected nonchalance that disguised fatigue. His eyes skimmed Hermione with clinical curiosity and returned to Draco with a shrug that translated as do not ask me to care and I might surprise you with decency. They crossed a gallery where landscapes opened into painted distance, each frame catching a sliver of the day. Hermione’s steps matched his without hesitation, her chin still high, her gaze skimming every exit, every sightline.
“Your third rule,” she said, almost idly, as they passed the base of the staircase. “Speak only to those in my vicinity. Is that because you doubt me, or because you doubt your friends?”
“I doubt the world,” he answered, allowing the truth to show because it cost him nothing. “I accept you.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“You accept only what you can control.”
“Control keeps you alive,” he replied, and did not add that devotion did the same, though he felt it all the same.
A pair of double doors opened onto the east conservatory, glass vaulted over a sweep of various Ivy’s, plants, and the smell of clean soil. Sun poured across a tessellated floor, warming the tile. At the far end, a woman in pale lavender knelt over a tray of seedlings, her radish earrings dangling with each movement she’d made. Her hair was tied back with a pink ribbon. She turned at the whisper of their approach, and a brightness lit her face that had nothing to do with the sun.
“Hello, Hermione,” Luna said, as if greeting a neighbor across a garden gate. “Theo said you would come today. Well it’s quite a good day to scare the Nargles away, isn’t it?.”
Hermione was shocked. She had never been particularly close with Luna, but she couldn’t deny her a sight for sore eyes. Hermione hadn’t seen Luna since the Battle of Hogwarts. She stood very still, her lips parting with disbelief that softened into familiarity. Luna rose and crossed the space without hurry, hands open, eyes clear, expression full of a welcome that did not demand anything in return.
“You look lovely,” Luna observed. “Come, taste the marmalade I made. Theo says I put too much orange peel in, but he never minds being wrong.”
Draco observed his witch with a close eye. He watched Hermione make a sound that wanted to be laughter and settled for the closest thing she would allow. She looked at Draco as if to find the trap and found only his patience. He stepped back enough to give them a lane of privacy, though the ring on his hand still connected him to Hermione.
“You have one hour,” he said to Hermione alone. “I am within call.”
Luna led Hermione toward a small table laid with white porcelain and preserved citrus in jewel colors. Theo drifted to Draco’s side with the innate correctness of a host who knew when to stand close and when to vanish. These were times where Theo was so grateful for his little wife. Draco noticed the relaxed look on Grangers face and felt reassured in his decision.
“It seems this was a good idea,” he murmured, gaze on Hermione. “She needed this.”
“I married a queen,” Theo replied, pleased. “Luna was happy to see an old friend, too. You're not the only one with benefits here.”
Draco watched Luna spread marmalade with a wooden spoon, offering a slice of bread as if it were a talisman. Hermione sniffed, tasted, blinked at the bite, then allowed a second taste without the reflex to refuse. Conversation began to thread between them as Draco split his attention, full of details that had no place in war. Books, Gardening, and even old Hogwarts memories filled their time. Slowly, Draco could see Hermione relaxing into herself, the tension in her shoulders abating as Luna disarmed her further.
Blaise appeared at Draco’s elbow with two glasses of water that sweated lightly in the warmth. Draco turned to Blaise and grimaced, knowing what company he’d had with him today. Ever since Draco had snubbed Pansy at the Yule ball, they’d always been a bit strained and awkward around each other. Pansy sure knew how to hold a grudge.
“Is your wife with you today?”
Blaise sighed.
“Yes, she’s currently with her new…pet.”
Draco did not account for Longbottom being here.
“Keep Pansy out of this wing, then. I don’t want Granger to see Longbottom.”
“Already done,” Blaise murmured. “Though that won’t be an issue, I assure you.”
Time moved quickly, Draco watched the way Hermione smiled without remembering to hide it, and he felt the now healed Dragon on his back stir under his shirt, as if preening because it’s Mistress was happy. Hermione looked up at that instant, as if feeling his attention pass across her skin. Her eyes met his, assessing, and the corner of her mouth moved in the barest hint of acknowledgment. It was the smallest concession from a sovereign who conceded nothing. He inclined his head in return, feeling himself warm. When the hour reached its edge, Luna rose and pressed a small jar into Hermione’s hands.
“For your breakfasts,” she said, voice clear, eyes bright with conspiracies that belonged to gardens rather than campaigns. “I look forward to seeing you again soon, Hermione.”
Draco stepped forward, offering his arm once more. Hermione held the jar closely to her, clinging to the bit of warmth and familiarity it provided. She placed her palm where he wanted it, but she did not relax it in his hold.
“You kept your word,” she said, quiet enough for him alone. “I did not expect that.”
“I always keep my promises, Granger.” he replied, guiding her toward the corridor where the air grew cooler by degrees. “Especially when they involve a little lion.”
Theo parted with a nod that held a friend’s approval and a tactician’s promise of future hospitality. Blaise saluted them with two fingers and a smile that asked for nothing. The elf opened the doors, the gravel sang beneath their steps, and the manor receded behind them. They Apparated without drama back into the corridor outside their room. Tinky apparated in with a pleased sound, already reaching for the jar as if she could carry the treasure and still leave it in Hermione’s hands.
“Follow the rules again, and I will take you back,” he said, voice level, eyes rather than hands doing the holding. “There is more I can give when you make it possible.”
She looked at him, measuring him as she had measured every enemy and ally since childhood.
“I want the library next time,” she said, as if negotiating a treaty. “And I will speak with Luna without an audience.”
Draco did not relent.
“You can have a trip to the library,” he answered, and drew back, not because he wished to, but because control demanded tribute. “The second remains in negotiations. This outing was not as simple as you think. While you may be safe in here, out there you are my good pet, to be used and commanded by me. Everyone has eyes and ears, Granger.”
The door settled into place without sound. Draco stood in the corridor and felt the odd lightness of a battle won without a curse thrown. It was only an hour in a garden. It was only bread, citrus, and a friend who wore lavender with radish earrings, but it was also the first stone laid in a road that would carry her toward him, one measured step at a time, under a sky they would one day claim.
Draco smiled as the blood splattered onto his face. His black Death Eater Regalia was covered in an oxidized red, and the clink of chains rattled in the dungeons. The crazed look in his eyes did little to quell the fear in his captive. He would take great pleasure in this particular torture.
“Please, d-don’t hurt me! I’ll do anything.”
Draco twirled the cursed knife in his hand, steel glinting with fresh blood. His mask hung securely on his hip and his grey eyes had darkened with bloodlust.
“You hurt her.”
It was a statement, not an accusation.
“Her who?” he coughed, spattering blood. “I-I didn’t hurt anyone!”
Draco laughed, dragging and digging the knife into the mans stomach, dragging it downward, cutting open the abdominal skin there. The man screamed in agony, more blood spattering the dirt stone floor.
“Months ago, at Forts Point, of course. You and your merry band of rogue idiots raided an Order Safehouse. You touched my girl, my things. And I don’t take kindly to those who touch what belongs to me.”
The man was barely conscious now, his innards peaking through the cut flesh. Draco smiled and, reaching his hand down, pried his way through, reaching for the nearly limp mans intestines. The screams were music to his ears as he did so. Wrapping the intestines around the mans throat, he squeezed until his heart stopped, strangling the man with his own organs.
“Now, you can never hurt my wife, again."
Satisfied, he called for Blinky, his other house elf.
“Dispose of this meat sack. I’m going to check on Hermione.”
Blinky nodded with a snap of his fingers, turning the body before him to dust. The corridor back to his wing stretched long, his boots left faint smears of red, the blood not yet dried, and made no effort to cleanse himself. He wanted her to see, wanted her to know, if only in fragments, the price others paid for daring to touch what was his. He was her good boy, so pure for her, so protecting. When he reached the door, Tinky was waiting, eyes downcast, ears twitching with nerves.
Draco dismissed the elf with a flick of his hand and entered without warning. Her eyes snapped to him at once, widening at the sight. The dark fabric of his robes was saturated with maroon stains, droplets still trailing from his jawline where the spray had marked him. She did not gasp or cover her face, only tightened her grip on the book until her knuckles whitened.
“You reek of death,” she observed, voice carrying her steady disdain. “Tell me, whose blood are you wearing today?”
Draco shed his gloves with deliberate care, letting them fall onto the table beside her. The leather was slick, still tacky, and the sight made her nostrils flare. He smiled, not in mirth, but with the satisfaction of a man who knew his power unsettled her.
“An enemy who made the mistake of crossing me,” he answered, tone almost conversational. He stripped off his outer robe, the heavy fabric landing in a heap that stained the rug beneath. “Consider it a favor, Granger. He no longer exists.”
Her chin lifted, stubborn as ever.
“You think that makes me grateful? That you wear murder like a trophy and parade it in front of me?”
Draco moved closer, each squelch of his boot staining the clean carpet of the room, each one dragging the scent of iron in its wake. He stopped before her chair and bent slightly, bracing one palm on the armrest beside her, lethal and panther like in his black stained robes. His other hand rose, fingers brushing his own jaw where the crimson streak had begun to dry. He looked into her eyes, a smoldering look as he leaned closer. He noticed her eyes flit to the piercing in his ear, and the dragon tattoo peaking over his collar yet again.
“You may loathe the method, but the result will make you safer.”
She recoiled by inches, the instinct of prey pressed to the wall, though her eyes never dropped from his. He could feel her fear. He could see the disgust in her eyes, the revulsion, the definite disassociation as she was most likely bombarded with flashbacks she’d rather not name.
“Safe is not the word I would use.”
It came out quiet and broken. He studied the set of her mouth, the tension running through her shoulders, and the trembling of her hands at his proximity. The memory of that night when he had hurt her still seared against his heart, staining anything between them. Her distrust was earned, beaten into her with scars he could not undo and, while he did not want to do it, he had still done those things. He would not, however, let himself surrender the truth that every drop of blood on his skin had been shed for her. That only her purity could reign, and only he was deserving of her, for no one had devoted themselves to her like him.
“Perhaps not yet,” he murmured, straightening. “But in time, you will see the difference between the monster in their dungeon and the monster in this room. One is a threat, the other is your salvation.”
She huffed softly, incredulously.
“You call yourself salvation, but you have only ever hurt me.”
Draco dragged his bloodied hand up to her jaw, squeezing her chin to turn her head to face him. He looked every bit a bloody baron, a mesh of pale skin, black robes, and blooded accents.
“I call myself yours,” he corrected, voice smooth, eyes unwavering.
Hermione struggled in his hold, doing everything she could to get away from him. He pulled away then, unwilling to press further, though the temptation itched beneath his skin to press her into that damn chair and release years of restraint. He left her staring after him, her book still unopened, her hands trembling just faintly though she tried to mask it as Tinky quietly apparated back into the room to clean up the mess.
Draco crossed to the bathroom, letting the water run until the bowl filled, submerging his hands in the cool depths, watching the crimson ribbons unravel and vanish into clarity. Hermione’s reflection lingered in the mirror above the basin, her gaze fixed on him still, unreadable yet impossibly alive.
“You could let me go,” she said at last, voice carrying across the room. “It would be easier than claiming me.”
He dried his hands and turned back to her, expression calm, words precise.
“I have never cared for easy.”
The truth of his devotion was already written across his skin, in every stain, every cut, every soul he had extinguished in her name. Draco stepped closer once more, but stopped short of touching her.
“Rest, Granger. Tomorrow, you will need your strength.”
Her brows drew tight.
“For what.”
Draco sighed.
“You will see.”
He left her with that, retreating back into the bathroom, the echo of her hollow eyes following him. He had, unfortunately, been summoned for a mission that night and, as the mark burned his arm, he knew he would be unable to ignore the call.
Draco prowled with lethal precision, the sweep of his cloak trailing over churned mud. His mask gleamed in light, iron wrought into a immobile menace, its hollowness more terrifying than any snarl could be. Where he passed, the battlefield quieted in death, bodies strewn in grotesque tableaux, mouths still parted around curses that had never left them.
Green light spilled from his wand, each strike efficient, each fall of an enemy a punctuation mark in the Dark Lord’s unending conquest and another lash to his soul. He moved with elegance sharpened into cruelty, but every flick of his wrist, every curse delivered with unerring accuracy, was motivated not by loyalty to the cause, but by a need far older, far deeper.
Hermione’s capture had fractured what remained of the Order’s higher ranks. With her fall, resistance had faltered, their strategies dissolving into desperate scrambles rather than coordinated fronts. The Dark Lord reveled in her imprisonment as symbolic victory, but for Draco, it was possession, a long awaited claim that twisted every breath he drew. It had been little more than a month since she was brought to the Manor, yet already he could not remember his bed without her presence.
She slept fitfully, restless under velvet canopies, her body drawn tight as if waiting for a strike. He had grown accustomed to that tension, guarding it as jealously as he guarded her. He fought as if orchestrating a performance, every gesture calculated, every flourish exacting. Even as his body remembered the motions, his mind dragged back to the Manor, to the girl pacing her gilded cage like a lioness with teeth still bared.
She flinched from him more often than not, hatred spilling from her eyes with a venom that made his chest ache in ways he despised. She carried her suffering in taut lines of pride, a refusal to let degradation shape her into something lesser. It was this, above all else, that stoked the fever in his blood. A curse glanced near his shoulder, searing through the edge of his cloak as the slicing hex landed.
Draco pivoted, wand flashing, and the would be attacker fell before they could breathe a second spell. He stepped over the body, disgust in his throat at the mediocrity of it all. They called themselves freedom fighters, yet they scattered like vermin at the first true test.
Hermione would have stood until her last breath. Hermione would have made death a crown rather than a disgrace. The thought both enraged and exalted him, pressing urgency into each strike. He needed to end this skirmish quickly, to return to her, to ensure no one had dared trespass near what was his as he felt his ring heat, signaling something was not right. Mercy was not for them. Mercy was for her alone. The field thinned under his hand, enemies falling in droves as he hurried to finish.
He wiped his wand clean, a habitual flourish that belied the gore still splattered across his sleeves. Around him, masked followers pressed forward to scavenge what was left, eager for trophies, but none approached him. Even Death Eaters knew better than to stand too close to Malphas.
He carried the Dark Lord’s favor, yes, but it was the absence of humanity in his violence that made them cautious. Draco relished that. Their fear was useful, it kept them from asking questions. When the last rebel dropped, Draco stilled, surveying the carnage. He turned from the wreckage and signaled to Rabastian Lestrange. The heat in his ring was alarming. He knew he’d need to get back quickly.
“Finish here.”
His voice carried no inflection, the clipped words of a man whose purpose lay elsewhere. Without waiting for acknowledgement, he apparated, the air folding around him. His ring had called him, Hermione needed him. He could pay the consequences later.
Notes:
CW:
Graphic depictions of Blood and TortureAND WE DIDN'T EVEN GET TO THE PSYCHO PART YET! hahahah
OPE! Did Draco just... >.> | <.<
I am having way to much fun with this fic! What are we thinking, y'all?
We're about to get a little treat next chapter, teheeeee.
Chapter 6: The Order vs. Malphas
Notes:
CW in end notes.
Also addressing some confusion in the last chapter. No, they are not married with those rings. Draco is just absolutely delusional-psychotic and he thinks she's his wife xD BUT the rings are magical and they are not simple bands.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The wards of Malfoy Manor flared against his arrival, a flash of recognition before they allowed him to pass. He stepped through the grand entrance, iron mask still in place, boots tracking dried blood across the floor. He peeled the mask from his face as he ascended the stairs, grey eyes hard, his chest tight with the anticipation of seeing her. Inside, he could sense her. Immediately, he knew something was not right.
“Tinky!” he called quickly.
The small elf apparated in front of Draco, clearly distressed.
“I’s be sorry Master Draco. I’s be listening to Mistress Hermione. Mistress Hermione ordered Tinky to apparate her to the, the Greenhouses sir. Mistress Hermione saws Madam Malfoy. Mister Dolohov was visiting and Mistress Hermione saws Madam Malfoy and asked to talk. Tinky’s be having no choice sir.”
Draco nodded, asking the elf to prepare for the night. He was raving mad. How dare Dolohov parade his mother through her own Manor while he was away and then keep her in the Greenhouse where the most noxious of plants are kept. Especially the lust potion ingredients for revels. Draco was suddenly very bloodthirsty, imagining all the ways he could make Dolohov hurt. He pushed the door open with slow precision, eyes narrowing as he stepped into the room.
She was not pacing the floor as she so often did, nor was she feigning indifference in the chair by the balcony. Instead, the bed was empty, sheets tossed aside in disarray, and the faint imprint of her body still marked the mattress as if she had fought against it. The air carried a sickly sweetness that had no place here, a cloying scent that wrapped around him.
His gaze the room until he caught the faintest sound. A whimper. The low, broken sound of someone caught in a lust potions grip. His pulse surged. He followed it to the open balcony doors. Hermione’s hair fell wild across her shoulders, and her pajamas had one strap sliding low as her body writhed in a rhythm not her own. She whimpered again, her voice caught between plea and protest, and Draco felt his fury ignite into something unholy again.
Draco moved before the thought had fully formed. In three strides he was at her side, dropping low, his arms scooping her up in a hold that left her weightless against his battle worn chest. She struggled weakly, her body arching toward him in ways that cut him deeper than any curse, the potion bending her pride into something foreign. Her eyes, usually so sharp with defiance, were glazed and unfocused, her mouth shaping words she didn’t understand, begging him for release.
“Not like this,” Draco murmured, though he wanted her.
He carried her back through the doorway with deliberate control, every step lined with rage he forced into submission. Punishment would be nothing compared to what he intended for Dolohov. Especially after Draco was able to free his mother. Once inside, he laid her carefully upon the bed, the sheets swallowing her trembling body. He shucked off his cloak and outer robes, his base Death Eater uniform remained. She reached for him, hands fumbling, tugging at his shirt with a desperation that did not belong to her. The sight split him open, he pressed a hand firmly to her shoulder, holding her down without force but with finality. His eyes traced her flushed skin, the sweat glistening at her brow, the thin material of the fabric as it clung to her curves, and whispered in a tone she would not remember when sober.
“This isn’t you, Granger. You don’t want this.”
She whimpered again, arching beneath him, her lips trembling. He reached for his wand, drawing patterns in the air, weaving charms to slow the effects coursing through her. It would not purge it entirely, but it would buy time until he brewed the antidote himself. Her breath evened fractionally, though her body still pulled against his hold, enslaved to urges that were never hers.
Draco brushed a damp strand of hair from her temple with a touch so careful it betrayed him. His chest ached with the contradiction of wanting her and refusing her, of fury at her violation and the promise he had chained himself to. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand, not a kiss of desire, but of devotion, and whispered again into the dark.
“I will always come back for you.”
He settled into the high backed chair beside the bed, a sentinel in the dim light, his eyes never leaving her form. The charms had granted her a fragile peace, but the potion was a stubborn, vicious thing. It clawed its way back to the surface. Her restlessness returned, a low moan escaping her lips as she twisted in the sheets. With a sudden, sinuous grace that was entirely the potion’s doing, she rose from the bed.
Her eyes were still glazed, seeing but not comprehending. She moved toward him not like the warrior he knew, but like a phantom drawn by a single, primal need. Before he could stand to guide her back, she was upon him. She climbed into his lap, straddling his thigh, her heat searing through the base material of his robes. His body went rigid, every muscle locking in a war between instinct and desire.
“Granger,” he growled, his voice strained, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like a vise.
A broken, pleading sound caught in her throat as she began to move, rocking against the hard muscle of his thigh with a frantic, desperate rhythm. The friction was clearly both agony and ecstasy. Her head fell back, her neck a pale, offered arc, and her hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders. The thin silk top of her night dress was damp with sweat, clinging to every curve, and he could feel the frantic hammering of her heart against his chest.
“Please…” she begged, the word a shattered thing. “T-touch… touch me. I need… I can’t…”
His control, so carefully constructed, began to fracture. He was a man, not a saint, and she was his every forbidden fantasy come to life and writhed in torment. A low groan was torn from him as she rutted against his thigh once again. He could end this torment for her, give her the release the potion demanded to ease its grip, but he’d already hurt her once. He didn’t want to do it again. What he wanted to do was mutilate and murder Dolohov. After another pained moan from Hermione, he finally moved, making up his mind. Who was he, ultimately, to deny his little dove? One hand slid to her hip, not to stop her, but to guide her closer, to give her the pressure and rhythm she desperately sought. The other hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her feverish cheek.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough. Her glassy brown eyes fluttered open, seeing him for a fleeting second.
“Touch me,” she implored again, her voice cracking. She fumbled for his free hand, her fingers clumsy and hot as she dragged it down from her face and pressed his palm firmly against her breast.
The gasp she let out was one of pure, unadulterated relief. Through the damp silk, her nipple was a hard peak against his palm. He swallowed hard, his own breath catching. He could refuse her nothing, not like this. His thumb circled the taut bud, once, twice, with an appreciation that felt like sacrilege in the context of the potion’s violation. She cried out, her movements on his thigh becoming more frantic, more focused as she relished the shocks of pleasure from Draco’s actions heightened by the potions ingredients.
He watched, utterly enslaved, as she unraveled in his arms. Her pleas turned into incoherent whispers of his name as he dragged her back and forth across his thigh. He focused every bit of his will on her, on giving her this small measure of peace, on being the hand that steadied her in the storm rather than the one that caused it. She was flushed and panting, her nipples peaked as she thrust them upward into Draco’s chest, her body arching in pleasure. Her body tightened, coiled like a spring, and she begged Draco to give her more. He quickened his pace, dragging her quicker along his thigh. With a final shudder and moan, she shattered.
A sharp, broken cry was torn from her throat as her climax ripped through her, her entire body trembling before going limp against him, her forehead dropping to his shoulder as she gasped for air in the aftermath. There was only the sound of their ragged breathing, Draco absolutely fighting for his life to keep from coming in his pants. Draco gazed upon his goddess, incredibly drunk on the mental images he’d surely get off to at a later time. To his misfortune, however, the terrible fog in her eyes began to clear.
The artificial heat receded, leaving horrifying, dawning clarity in its wake as he watched her register their position. She felt the solid muscle of his thigh between her legs, saw his large hand still cupping her breast, thumb covering her still peaked nipple, her own nails digging into his shoulders. She recoiled as if scalded, scrambling off his lap so violently she nearly fell. The back of her hand connected with his cheek in a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the sudden silence.
“What did you do?” she whispered, her voice hoarse with shame and rage, her body trembling anew, but now with horror.
Draco didn’t flinch, he didn’t raise a hand to his reddening cheek either. He simply looked at her, his grey eyes dark with a possession that was as calm as it was absolute. He had tasted her need, felt her surrender, and it had only cemented what he already knew with absolute clarity. Hermione was it. Hermione was made for him and his body was the only body capable of giving her pleasure. He didn’t care about the slap, he didn’t care about her anger. He was obsessed with her. He loved her more than anything. And he would take all of it in a quiet devotion. Her hatred, her fury, her pain, so long as it was his and his alone.
“You can use me anytime you need, Granger.”
Her look of disgust was worth it, considering how he got to watch her orgasm on him would live in his mind forever. He’d take a hundred slaps for the chance to witness her come apart again. Still, his anger at Dolohov did not abate, and there would be retributions to pay. He was already cooking up his revenge.
“You need to eat. I told you, if you’re to stay here, you need to keep your strength.”
Hermione stubbornly refused, though her stomach growled in protest. Draco was seriously considering just how stubborn the witch could be. It was like ever since the Dolohov incident Hermione had doubled down on her efforts to push him away at every turn. Draco really wasn’t lying to her. He needed her to be in perfect health at all times in the event he’d need to evacuate her from the Manor. Or worse.
She refused to touch the breakfast Tinky had delivered to her. Draco’s time was running thin, having been sent out on an Order task once again for the Dark Lord. It was like he’d intentionally kept sending him away from the Manor, leaving his Hermione open to danger. It was irking him greatly.
“Id rather die, Malfoy.”
Draco rolled his eyes despite himself. She could be the most obstinate person on the planet when she wanted to be. Draco’s gaze lingered on her, stretched out defiantly across the bed with her arms folded as though she could barricade herself with sheer will. The untouched tray on the table beside her steamed faintly, eggs cooling, tea growing darker in its pot, toast stiffening with every passing minute. He had seen her go without before, punishing herself as though denying her body sustenance might deny him control. The sound of her stomach betraying her only made his jaw tighten further, though he schooled his features into the sort of disinterest she despised.
“You are infuriating,” he muttered, not because he needed her to know it, but because he needed to release the coil of tension twisting through him.
He crossed to the window, parting the heavy curtains enough to watch the lawns below. Death Eaters moved in pairs across the grounds, their black robes catching the early light as they circled like carrion birds waiting for flesh to drop. Leaving her here gnawed at him with the persistence of an old wound, yet the Dark Lord’s summons was not one he could ignore. He turned back to her, unwilling to let her win this small battle.
“You think starving yourself will save you from me?” His voice carried no heat, only the low thrum of certainty. “I’ve killed men for less than threatening you, Granger. Do not insult me by thinking I would let something as trivial as hunger weaken you.”
Her chin tilted upward, eyes flashing as though the strength of her disdain might burn through him.
“I’d rather be weak than live fattened on your charity.”
The words cut, but not for the reason she thought. Draco strode forward, every line of him deliberate, until he loomed over the bed. He caught her wrist before she could retreat, threading his fingers through hers with cruel gentleness and pinned her hand against the coverlet. She stiffened beneath him, every nerve alert, but her mouth set into that same stubborn line.
“Charity?” His laugh was low, dangerous in its intimacy. “You think this is about charity?”
His thumb traced the ridges of her knuckles, holding her still with ease.
“I need you alive, Granger. Whole. Strong enough to spit in their faces when they want to see you broken. And if you think I will allow something as petty as your pride to ruin that, you do not understand me at all.”
He watched her breath stutter, just enough to betray the smallest crack in her facade, though she masked it quickly with another glare. She tugged against his grip, but he only pressed her hand higher, pinning it above her head against the headboard, his body leaning close without collapsing the distance. He studied her like a puzzle he had been solving for years, each shift in her expression catalogued, each tremor of resistance treasured.
“Eat,” he ordered softly, the command more dangerous for its lack of volume. “Because if you collapse when I am not here to catch you, you will make yourself prey for the vultures circling this place. And I will never forgive you for that.”
Her eyes sparked with fury, but she did not answer. He released her wrist slowly, watching the way her hand dropped back to the coverlet, fingers flexing as though they could shake him from her skin. He moved to the tray, lifted the spoon, and held it out as though daring her to refuse again.
The defiance on her face trembled against the undeniable pang of hunger in her body. She glared at him one last time before parting her lips just enough to accept the spoon. Draco’s heart clenched with something perilously close to relief, though his face remained composed. He fed her quietly, spoon after spoon, the act deceptively domestic though his mind was ablaze with thoughts of the field, of Dolohov, of the lashes he would take if he returned late.
When the tray was half empty, he set it aside, crouching beside the bed once more. His hand rose almost of its own accord, brushing along her temple, catching a strand of hair that had fallen loose. She flinched, as she always did, but didn’t shy away. He smiled faintly, the curve of his mouth both tender and cruel.
“You see, little lion? Even your stubbornness cannot outlast me.”
Her eyes narrowed, fury still bright, but beneath it he thought he saw the ghost of uncertainty. She would hate him for it, perhaps always, but she had eaten. A knock rattled the outer door, sharp and insistent, the summons unmistakable. Draco straightened slowly, his composure sliding back into place. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, reaching for the mask on his hip. Hermione’s eyes followed him, unreadable in their simmering disdain.
“You’re leaving.” she said flatly, as though accusing him of betrayal.
He slid the mask in place, allowing himself the smallest pause before answering.
“For a time. I will return later.”
Her scoff was bitter. Draco crossed to her in two strides, grasped her chin with careful precision, and tilted her face up until her glare met his unflinchingly.
“Do not mistake me for the fools who stumble into early graves on the field,” he murmured. “The Dark Lord needs Malphas and I need you. Neither of those truths will change.”
Her jaw worked beneath his hold, teeth clenched, but she did not reply. He released her with the same deliberate control, turning toward the door. At the threshold, he glanced back once, his pale eyes catching hers across the room. For all her fury, all her stubborn rebellion, she sat swathed in the blanket he had left for her, the tray of food half finished by her side.
It was enough to anchor him as he strode into the corridor. Punishment waited for his absence on the battlefield, blood already demanded by the Dark Lord, yet he felt the tether of her presence pull at him even as he disappeared into the storm of war once more.
The Ministry’s halls reeked of blood, stone cracked where curses had carved their mark, paper drifting down from shattered offices like snow. The old order clung to this place as if the walls themselves could shield them from what was inevitable. Draco moved through it with the measured stride of one who knew victory was already in his grasp. Malphas, they called him. Voldemort’s hand. The wraith who prowled battlefields in an iron mask and black robes, devouring resistance until no song of hope remained.
Spells tore through the atrium in wild bursts, rebels firing without rhythm, desperation guiding their wands more than skill. Draco answered each streak of light with precision, curses flying from his lips in flawless cadence, each one hitting its mark. Bodies crumpled, mouths open in silent agony, and he passed them without pause. The thrill of conquest ran through him like fire in his veins, but it was not the triumph of the Dark Lord that spurred him on.
A streak of red grazed past his mask, scattering chips of stone from the wall. He pivoted, wand raised, only to find the unmistakable red hair of Ron Weasley. His hair was wild, robes singed, face smeared with dirt and determination. He stood as if the weight of the whole war balanced on his shoulders, as if his wand could still tilt the scale. Draco almost laughed. The sight of him on this field, so desperate, so raw, was nothing short of poetic.
“Well, well, we meet again, Weasley,” Draco drawled, his voice muffled but still distinct behind the iron mask. He advanced, wand steady, eyes fixed on his prey. “Tell me, do you think I’ll let you go again?”
Weasley’s lips curled, fury written in every line of his face.
“You won’t win. Not while I’m standing.”
Draco’s chuckle was low, derisive. He slashed his wand, sending a curse that forced the redhead stumbling back behind a toppled statue. The atrium rang with ricochets of magic, glass raining from above as chandeliers shattered. Draco’s pulse beat steady, not with panic, but with anticipation. This was his moment. He’d already spared Weasley once for Hermione’s sake. But appearing before him again? Well, he wouldn’t be so lenient. Before him stood the boy who once believed himself her protector, now, he would be no more. He moved closer, the hem of his robes skimming through dust and rubble.
“Tell me, Weasley,” his voice dropped, serious enough to cut deep. “Do you still fantasize about Granger? Do you still imagine what it would have been like if she’d chosen you instead of me?”
Weasley’s wand shook, just slightly, though his grip held firm.
“Don’t you dare say her name.”
Draco laughed behind his mask.
“Oh, I’ll say it,” Draco sneered, wand flicking again, a curse shattering the marble inches from Weasley’s head. He advanced until the redhead was forced out into the open, shield charms sputtering as they met Draco’s unrelenting assault.
“Hermione.” He drew out her name like honey dripping from a comb. “Hermione, in my bed. Hermione, with her head pressed back against my pillows, writhing as I take her apart until she forgets her own name. Hermione, my Lady Malfoy. My wife.”
Weasley roared, charging forward with reckless abandon, his spells wild, more fire than control. Draco dodged with ease, parrying with elegant swipes, his laughter echoing in the ruin of the hall.
“That’s it, Weasley. Think of her. Think of the sounds she makes when she comes undone on my cock, of the way her nails dig into my skin as I make her beg for release night after night, filling her with the Malfoy Heirs.”
Draco chuckled darkly as he entered the broken Weasleys’ mind. He planted false images in his head, laughing at the agony on the Weasels face as he watched a blurry image of Hermione bouncing on his lap in their bedroom chair.
“She looks so pretty with my spend dripping down her thighs, don’t you think? And someday, when she’s carrying my Heir? It’ll be even sweeter, knowing I’m the only man whose ever had the absolute pleasure of fucking Hermione Granger.”
His wand slashed, and Weasley’s shield shattered, sparks bursting across the floor. The redhead lunged with a curse half formed, but Draco was already inside his guard. His spell hit with surgical precision, blasting Weasley across the room into a cracked pillar. He crumpled, blood streaking from his temple, wand clattering to the stone. Draco stood over him, the mask hiding the satisfaction curling his lips.
“You could never give her what she needs,” Draco said softly, his wand pressed against the boy’s throat. “You were a child playing at love. I am the man who claims her body and soul. She is mine in ways you couldn’t dream of.”
Weasley spat blood, glaring up with defiance that had lost its power.
“She’ll never love you. She’ll never-”
Draco silenced him with a flick of his wand, binding him against the broken stone. He looked down with cold amusement, letting the words slide off him. Love. What use had he for love when devotion burned hotter? What use had he for affection when obsession ran deeper? Draco’s love was so much more. Draco’s love was endless. The atrium had gone quiet after that. Rebels lay in heaps, the air heavy with death. Draco stepped back, raising his wand high, and the mark of the Dark Lord burned bright across the ceiling. The Ministry was theirs, the last stronghold of the Order had fallen, and with it, the final illusion of resistance. He turned once more to Weasley, eyes narrowing behind the mask.
“She will never be yours,” he said again, the words carrying across the ruined hall. “She will only ever be mine.”
Draco lingered a moment longer, listening to the echo of his own voice, savoring the taste of victory that was not the Dark Lord’s, but his own. As the Death Eaters surged in behind him, cheering, jeering, dragging the last survivors into chains, Draco felt no thrill at their triumph. His mind was already elsewhere, already returning to the quiet room in Malfoy Manor where she lay. He imagined her still curled in the bed, defiant even in her rest, untouched by the ruin he waded through.
She was his tether, his prize, his reason to carve a path through blood, to protect her from the other side of the war. He slipped through the chaos without a glance back, Apparating before the others could call him to linger. Victory meant nothing unless he could return to her side, to prove once more that while the world burned, Hermione Granger remained his.
Notes:
CW:
Blood and Violence
Extremely Dubious Consent under Lust PotionDRACO FUCKING WITH RON NEVER GETS OLD!!! lol god he really spit some HAWT fire this time hahaha
WHEWWWW Draco the man that you are!! Poor Hermione she just cannot catch a break here.
Chapter 7: Sentinel
Chapter Text
The dungeons only light bled from a single, grimy orb of enchanted glass set high in the vaulted stone ceiling, its sickly yellow glow doing little to push back the pressing dark of the underground chamber. In the center of the stone floor, a figure was chained to a heavy iron chair, a broken marionette held upright only by the cruel insistence of its bonds. Ron Weasley’s head lolled against his chest, a matted, sweat soaked curtain of ginger hair obscuring his face. His breathing was a wet, ragged thing, each inhalation a visible struggle that shuddered through his broken frame.
The once bright colors of his robes were now a uniform, grim brown, stiff with dried blood and other, less identifiable fluids. Fresh, vivid crimson welled from a new gash across his cheekbone, a tributary joining the river of older, darker stains on his skin. Draco circled him slowly, the soft, deliberate sound of his dragonhide boots on the damp stone a counterpoint to Weasley’s suffering. He held a narrow, cruel looking blade, its edge honed, and he absently wiped its length clean with a square of black silk.
“You really must try to hold still, Weasley,” he murmured, his voice a low, pleasant hum that seemed utterly disconnected from the horror in the room. “It makes the lines so much cleaner. This is precision work, not butchery.”
A low, guttural sound escaped Weasley’s lips, more animal than human. He forced his head up, the movement clearly costing him a tremendous effort. One eye was swollen shut, a purple, grotesque mass. The other, a sliver of startling blue, burned with a hatred so pure it was almost beautiful.
“She’ll…kill you,” he rasped, each word a scrape of gravel. “For this…Hermione…will eviscerate you.”
Draco stopped his circling, a faint, almost indulgent smile touching his mouth. He tilted his head, considering the man before him.
“Hermione,” he repeated, and the name was a praise on his tongue, a hallowed thing in this profane place. He took a step closer, the tip of his blade coming to rest lightly, almost lovingly, against the pulsing hollow of Weasley’s throat, pressing near his jugular. “You speak her name as if you still have a right to it, as if it belongs in your mouth.” He applied the slightest pressure, and a new bead of blood welled up around the steel, tracing a path down into the collar of Weasley’s robes. “It doesn’t.”
Ron shook his head.
“She loves me,” Weasley choked out, a desperate, defiant fire in his one good eye. “She’ll never…never love a monster like you. She’ll see what you are. She’ll hate you…for eternity.”
The smile on Draco’s face widened, a chilling sight devoid of any warmth or humor. It was the smile of a man who had stared into an abyss and found his reflection staring back, pleased with what it saw. A low, rich laugh escaped him, echoing softly off the wet stone walls.
“Hate me?” he said, the words dripping with amused condescension. “Is that why she rejected you after you kissed her in the Chamber of Secrets?”
Ron bristled.
“How..do you know…that.”
Draco cackled.
“She told me of course. She told me how she only saw you as a friend and after the kiss it became awkward between you both. She doesn’t love you Weasley. On the contrary, she’s rather adverse to you, don’t you think?”
Ron growled but had little energy left to do anything about it.
“Weaslebee, Weaslebee, Weaslebee, you are thinking in such simple, binary terms. Love, hate. As if they are opposites.” He leaned in close, so close his breath ghosted against Weasley’s ear, nicking the skin of his other cheek with the knife. “They are not. They are one in the same, two sides of the same coin. Passion is passion and I will have all of hers. I already have, you see.”
He straightened up, his gaze drifting over the ruined form in the chair with a dispassionate, clinical air.
“Your existence is a smudge on the canvas of her life. A sentimental, childish doodle she should have outgrown years ago. I am merely refining the picture, erasing the error.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I won’t let you die. That would be a mercy, and you deserve none. You have caused her too much pain over the years, too much grief with your small mindedness, your jealousy, your pathetic inadequacy. No, you will live. You will live through every single one of my plans for you. You will be utterly, completely powerless to stop it. And you will understand, in the end, that every cut, every break, every scream is just erasing you and making room for me.”
Weasley spat, a feeble spray of blood and saliva that landed on the pristine toe of Draco’s boot.
“Go to hell, Malfoy.”
Draco looked down at the mess, his expression one of mild distaste. He flicked his wand, and the boot cleaned itself.
“I am already there, Weasley. I took up residence the day I realized she was the only thing that could ever make me feel anything at all. And I have made my peace with the furnaces.” He moved with a sudden, viper quick grace, his free hand fisting in Weasley’s hair, yanking his head back to expose the long, vulnerable line of his throat. “This is my worship, my devotion. Removing you is the highest form of love I can offer her.”
He began to carve, his movements precise, unhurried. The sound was a soft, terrible parting of skin. Weasley’s body arched against the chains, a raw, strangled scream tearing from his lips, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the manor above them. Draco worked with the focused intensity of a sculptor, his eyes alight with a fervent, terrifying light. The blood flowed, hot and liberally, painting new patterns over the old.
When he finally stepped back, breathing slightly more heavily, a new, intricate mark marred the skin over Weasley’s heart. It was not a word, but a symbol, a twisted, elegant ‘M’ that seemed to writhe in the dim light. Weasley sobbed, great, heaving, broken sounds that spoke of a pain too deep for screams. Draco surveyed his work, a faint sheen of sweat on his own brow. He felt a profound sense of rightness, of completion. This was necessary, he told himself.
“She will be the Lady of this Manor,” he said, his voice soft but resonant with absolute conviction. “She will wear the Malfoy family jewels. She will bear my heirs and she will have a life of such beauty and privilege it will make your head spin. And you…you will be down here, a forgotten footnote, a lesson in what happens to those who stand between a Malfoy and what is his.”
He turned and walked toward a stone basin filled with clear water, rinsing the blood from his hands and his blade. The water swirled pink, then red.
“I will love her more than you ever could. I will love her despite her friendship with you. I will love her through her anger. I will love her until the memory of your kiss is a pale, laughable ghost. I will love her until she forgets your name.” He dried his hands on another square of silk, his movements fastidious, calm. “And she will love me in return. It is the only possible ending I will accept.”
He turned to leave, pausing at the heavy iron door. He glanced back at the shuddering, broken form in the chair.
“Blinky!” The elf quietly apparated into existence. Draco gave the elf a respectable nod. “Heal him and make sure he remains alive. Just enough. I have many more plans for the ginger nuisance.”
The door clanged shut, sealing the silence and the scent of blood and despair back inside.
Wands lay stacked in ritual piles, surviving trophies gathered from the Ministry floors where laws had once pretended to matter. Cloaks rustled as followers shifted for a better view, eager for the spectacle that always followed conquest. Draco crossed the marble with measured grace, mask hooked at his hip, red stains drying along the cuffs of his sleeves from the earlier battle and Weasley’s torture.
He paused at the foot of the dais where a seat of bones and skulls rose like a monument to ruin, and lowered to one knee with the poise of a man who knew exactly how far he could bend without breaking. Approval rolled through the hall as a satisfied murmur, the sound of power feeding on itself.
The Dark Lord’s gaze moved lazily over the assembly before lingering on his favored servant. A smile touched that serpent mouth without softening it, an indulgence dispensed like a drop of venom in water. Praise followed in the simple acknowledgment that matters most to a general who just sealed a warfront. Draco bowed his head in acceptance, posture elegant, eyes cool, breathing steady through the control he kept.
“Choose,” came the invitation, mild and dangerous at once. “The spoils are many.”
Draco rose with the calm that masked a thousand calculations. He could have asked for estates or vaults or command of yet another division. He angled his chin just enough to show respect without surrender.
“My Lord grants me much. I ask only for dinner, private and uninterrupted, with my mother.”
The words landed without flourish, movement stirred along the right flank where gossip nested; a few turned their heads as if trying to recall where Narcissa had been sent and why. Interest brightened the dais with a cold amusement. Malphas, master of sieges, asking for an evening at the table rather than a room full of prisoners. The Dark Lord’s pale fingers tapped once on the arm of his seat, an idle rhythm that set nerves prickling along weaker spines.
“Fetch Dolohov,” came the command.
Antonin arrived with a swagger that attempted bravado and landed on vulgarity. His boots rang too loudly, his cologne fought with the sour tang of lust potion he so loved to force on his mother and cultivate in the Malfoy greenhouses out of spite. He bowed with a flourish that drew a smirk from two lesser men, then straightened with eyes already seeking mischief. Draco did not let his expression shift.
He looked at the man who had exposed Hermione to the poplar flowers and traded Narcissa’s dignity for favors, and he pictured thirty seven ways to remove a life without leaving a trace. He tucked each vision away the way he occluded his deepest feelings for Hermione.
“Malphas desires a family supper,” the Dark Lord observed, deceptively mild. “An adorable request.”
Draco inclined his head.
“A loyal soldier who eats with his mother fights the next battle without distraction.” He let the smallest trace of humor brush the edge of the words, calculated to please without groveling. “I ask for her presence in my private dining room for two hours. I ask that no eye intrude while she is within my care.”
Dolohov’s smirk widened, vulgar and gleaming.
“Madam has grown fond of late suppers,” he drawled, eager to be noticed. “I wonder if she will remember which man sits at which end of the table.”
Every instinct in Draco screamed for blood. He lifted his gaze to his master rather than to the insect buzzing at the base of the dais.
“I also ask,” he continued evenly, “that Antonin provide a formal pledge. He will refrain from approaching Narcissa Malfoy for one lunar cycle. He will do this before witnesses and he will bind the promise with his wand.”
Amusement deepened at the throne, pleasure glowing in the simple economy of cruelty redirected. A nod answered him, small and absolute.
“Kneel,” the Dark Lord murmured, not to Draco. Dolohov froze for a heartbeat, the bravado leaking from his eyes in a dull smear, then obeyed, spine creaking as it learned humility. “Speak it.”
The oath came out grudging and thick, syllables gluing themselves to his tongue as magic from his wand bonded at the words. Wand pressed to palm, name pronounced in a voice that could not pretend it cared little. The vow sealed with a bite of heat. Draco watched in cool silence, cataloguing the win with the clinical satisfaction of a strategist watching a bridge collapse under the enemy’s command. Draco lifted his chin a fraction.
“One more accommodation would do for a reward.” His voice was courteous, his eyes unreadable. “Assign Antonin to the northern patrols. Send him to audit potion stores at Cairn Hill. Two weeks will suffice. He longs for distance, and the distance will keep our household orderly.”
The Dark Lord’s mouth curved again. The court enjoyed this, a pet being tapped across the floor by an elegant hand.
“Granted.” The single word carried the weight of a falling gate.
Dolohov’s expression tightened before he could stop it, a flinch he could not swallow, and someone in the crowd laughed under a breath they thought belonged to no one. Draco allowed himself the smallest breath of satisfaction. A gesture dismissed the assembly’s curiosity, and servants materialized at the edges, efficient and pallid.
Narcissa appeared between two guards, hair braided with pearls that did not belong to her, gown cut to display rather than honor. She held herself with the old poise of a woman raised in rooms where power adhered. The moment she saw her son, the performance softened into something that remembered summer outings on terraces that no longer existed. Draco stepped forward and offered his arm. She placed her hand lightly on his sleeve, fingers cool and steady.
A door opened into a chamber he kept reserved for his mother. The table held white China, a slender vase with a single stem clipped from the winter garden, and a service that smelled of herbs rather than oil or game. Blinky and Tinky had arranged everything to perfection. Narcissa stood just inside the threshold, gaze moving over the room with the appetite of someone who knows that privacy is a currency more valuable than gold.
“You should not have wasted your boon on myself, Draco,” she murmured. Her eyes tracked the perimeter the way a patron of the arts might judge a frame around a favorite portrait. “I am fine.”
He poured her tea, one sugar the way memory insisted, and watched her cup travel to her mouth with a delicate steadiness that defied rumor. The line of her throat held a faint bruise that glamours could not quite erase, a shadow written in the language of possession. He folded the image into his fury and set the box in a locked corner of his mind. He would unleash it ten fold on Dolohov someday.
“Mistress Hermione has arrived.” Blinky announced the arrival of Draco’s witch and he smiled as he watched her enter the private dining room.
Draco watched in awe as Hermione walked through the door, dressed in robes befitting a Malfoy Matriarch, even if she didn’t know it yet. The curls of her hair had been tamed, pulled into a high twist and threaded with golden hairpins. Her navy blue and silver Malfoy robes billowed around her, the shimmery fabric catching the chandelier lights. Draco registered the surprise on her face when she caught sight of Narcissa. Narcissa, however, merely smiled knowingly, inclining her head towards Hermione and a smug look to her son.
“Miss Granger, it is so good to see you.”
Hermione took a hesitant seat, glaring at Draco while replying to Narcissa.
“You look well, Mrs. Malfoy.”
Narcissa smiled.
“Please, just Narcissa is fine, Hermione. May I call you Hermione?”
The Muggleborn witch nodded.
“Please.”
They ate in a quiet grown from respect rather than fear, making small talk here and there. It was only when Draco felt the burning on his arm that he let out an audible growl, drawing the attention of the two ladies at the table.
“I’ve been summoned. I’m sorry. Granger, I leave my mother in your care for the rest of our time here. My apologies, Mother, I wished we had more time together. Tinky & Blinky will be here to see to your needs.”
On Draco’s way out, he passed Dolohov in the main hall, seething. Draco stepped close enough that only a fool would pretend not to hear.
“This is just the beginning, you bastard.” he observed mildly. He let the advice simmer. “You will not win against me, Dolohov. Which of us sits on the Dark Lord’s right, hmm?”
Dolohov tried to smile and produced a sickly half curve that showed how much effort it cost not to grimace. The wand oath tugged at his magic again, a reminder that some appetites now carried penalties. Draco catalogued the evening’s gains with the same calm he used to count fallen enemies. Two hours of uninterrupted privacy, a public vow that staggered a predator, and a fortnight of exile for the same and peace for his mother.
He stood a long minute and let himself dissolve into memory. Narcissa hosting fine dinners with his father, his friends all seated around the tables at holidays and Gala’s before the Dark Lord’s return. He pictured a future, too. One with Hermione wearing his family jewels, little blonde haired children running around her, a third on the way as her belly rounded with his heirs. He vowed to himself he would get it back. He would get it all back and take down Dolohov someday. And then, once there was no one left, he would go after Voldemort and that damned snake, killing him once and for all and ending this war.
“We’re going on a little walk today, Granger. Get dressed.”
Draco glanced down at the Witch in question, still dressed in her pajamas as she lounged on their private balcony. Draco noticed she hardly bothered to get dressed these days and Draco felt some small twinge of guilt. He had pretty much held her behind these wards since she arrived and knew it was taking its toll. He resigned to find a way to allow her safe and uninterrupted access to their family library. Today, he would finally get the chance to show her the fruits of his labors .
“Why bother, Malfoy? What could you possibly give me besides hurt and trauma?”
Draco smirked.
“I can give you so much, Granger, you’d need only ask it of me.”
Hermione scoffed.
“I’ll never willingly seek you out, Malfoy. Rest assured.”
Draco sighed. He would just have to change that.
“Just get dressed, little lion. I’ll wait for you in the hall.” He snapped his fingers. “Tinky!”
Tinky apparated in, bright eyed and smiley.
“See that Granger is bathed and ready for today’s excursion.”
Tinky nodded.
“I’s be most happy to, Master Draco.”
Approximately 15 minutes later, Hermione emerged from the room in a fresh pair of soft, cotton pants and an oversized long sleeve shirt. Draco himself was not dressed in his Death Eater regalia for a change, instead opting for his signature black suit. His family may have all but been torn apart, but his parents lessons had never truly left him. A Malfoy must always present their best.
Draco gently held out his arm to Hermione, who begrudgingly slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Draco led her down the halls of their wing, still safe in the confines of his blood wards. He’d had a whole area created just for her. A personal library and potions lab she could stretch her swotty little brain in. It would be a place for her to escape and a place he would feel safe leaving her alone.
He stopped before a carved door and pressed his twin ring against the handle. Beyond, the room opened in a rush of candleless light, glowing orbs floating from the ceiling. Shelves stretched upward toward the vaulting arches, books packed tight on the charmed shelves. He had spent weeks collecting and uncursing these volumes, culling them from the manor library and beyond. Not just the great tomes of magic, though those were here too, but also the works he knew would strike her heart. Authors such as Austen, Brontë, Woolf, battered first editions, etc.
His father would have sneered at the indulgence of Muggle literature sullying Malfoy shelves, but his father was dust, and Draco had long since learned the true meaning of treasure. Hermione stopped short in the doorway, suspicion coiled in every line of her body. She refused to step in, her eyes narrowing at him before they wandered reluctantly over the rows. He could almost see her counting spines, noting editions, recognizing rarities at a glance. That sharp mind catalogued everything, even while pride forced her mouth into a scowl.
“You brought me here to mock me?” she asked, her voice low, laced with caution. “Parade me in front of what I cannot have?”
Draco tilted his head, a smile tugging faintly at his mouth.
“No, Granger. To give you what only I can.”
He watched as her shoulders stiffened, as though the admission burned her more than any insult. He stepped past her, brushing close enough for her sleeve to catch against his arm, and crossed to one of the shelves. He withdrew a slim, leather bound volume, its title etched in faded gild. Pride & Prejudice. He had chosen it deliberately, had fought like a boy with a whip for it at an illicit auction in Knockturn. He extended it toward her, not daring to brush her hand with his.
“It’s yours,” he said simply. “All of it.”
He watched her carefully, gauging her reactions. Hermione’s lips parted in the beginnings of a retort, but she caught herself, pressing them shut. She took the book from his hands slowly, her fingers grazing the cover as though testing its reality. The pages whispered as she opened it, the scent of age and dust rising like memory. For a breath, her expression softened, and he felt the rush of triumph course through him. That fleeting glow in her eyes was worth every ounce of blood he had spilled. She snapped it closed abruptly, as if aware of her slip, and thrust it against her chest.
“This doesn’t change anything.”
Draco let out a low hum, amused.
“Of course not little lion.” He gestured toward the far side of the chamber where another door stood, heavy with locks. “That does.”
Her suspicion rose again, but he did not wait for her. He pressed his ring to the lock, and the door swung open to reveal the potions lab. Cauldrons gleamed in perfect rows, and glass cabinets lined the walls, each filled with rare ingredients preserved in stasis charms. Brass cauldrons shone like jewelry, phials rested in holders. He had crafted it not as a dungeon but as a sanctuary, a place where she might feel power in her hands rather than chains. Draco felt Hermione step past him without asking, her eyes caught by the precision of the set up.
She drifted to the counter, brushing her fingertips over the lip of a cauldron, then to a jar of eye of newt. He watched on bated breath as she studied the labels, tested the balance scale with a nudge, opened a drawer of phials, her sharp eyes cataloguing his efforts. She did not thank him, of course. He had not expected her to. But the way she lingered, the way her shoulders lost the rigid angle of resistance, told him everything he needed to know. It wouldn’t fix much, but it might give her some knowledge pursuits in the meantime, some distractions from their current situation.
“You’ll find everything you require,” he said softly from the doorway, leaning against it, looking rather handsome in the afternoon light. “Every text, every ingredient, it’s all here in your own library. No one can enter here but me. Not even the Dark Lord’s hand can reach you here, so long as you wear that ring on your hand, Granger.”
Her head snapped toward him, disbelief painted across her face.
“Why? Why would you give me this?”
He crossed the room slowly, as if he might spook a wounded animal.
“I am not your enemy. The sooner you understand this, the better off we will be.”
Her eyes flashed with anger at the claim, though she did not throw the book at him as he half expected. Instead, he watched her set it carefully on the counter beside her and folded her arms, her chin lifting with defiance.
“You think locking me in another set of rooms makes me yours? You’re deluded.”
Draco stopped close enough to see the fine tremor in her lashes, the faint line etched between her brows.
“Not deluded,” he murmured, his voice low and enchanting. “Patient. I’ve got nothing but time for you to come to my arms willingly. I can give you the world, Hermione, you need only ask it of me.”
He could see the war raging inside her, the craving for the books, the instinctive pull toward the potions lab, colliding with the stubborn refusal to give him what he wanted. She would rather starve her mind than let him see gratitude. He admired her for it, even as it infuriated him. He leaned in, his breath brushing against her ear though he did not touch her.
“You will use this place. You will read, you will brew, you will let your mind be the brilliant force it was meant to be. And when you do, you will think of me, and all that I have done for you.”
He smirked as Hermione’s jaw set tight, her nails digging faintly into her arms. She turned away, refusing him the satisfaction of a response. Draco smiled to himself, stepping back, the taste of victory lingering like wine on his tongue. He let her have the room then, withdrawing with a sweep of his cloak, but not before he caught the way her hand reached unconsciously for the spine of a book on the nearest shelf.
That single gesture was enough. He allowed himself a rare exhale of contentment. He had given her a prison, yes, but also a kingdom. In time, she would come to understand that no one else in the world would worship her the way he did. No one else would keep her safe the way he could, nor would they treasure and pay worship to her body like he, while still giving her the one thing she craved most. Her mind, unbroken, and her will and fire, alive.
Night time had fallen across the manor. Draco sat where he always chose to sit, in the wide backed chair at the bedside, angled so he could see the rise and fall of her breathing without leaning forward. The ring on his finger rested against the armrest, its warmth quiet, its promise kept. He did not speak, he kept watch. Hermione slept with her face turned toward the open space, one hand near her cheek, the other tucked beneath the pillow. A book lay facedown beside the water glass, the ribbon moved ten pages from where he had left it at dusk.
His hand moved only when the nightmare found her. He traced the inside of her forearm with the back of his knuckles, a path chosen for safety, a touch that asked nothing and claimed even less. When her muscles unstrung, he withdrew and returned to stillness. He cherished these stolen moments, where he could be free to admire and cherish her. It was in these moments he believed in preparation more than action. The library of his fathers had yielded the cartography of pleasure mapped in script as old as conquest. He read them with the discipline he once reserved for Occlumency, taking quill to parchment in study.
He cross referenced the diagrams and personal journals with Muggle texts purchased through channels that would have scandalized earlier Malfoys, discovering a candid clarity he admired at their crudeness. He trained his body with the same rigor.
Breath work until his lungs obeyed command, focus until the itch of distraction wore itself out on the edges of his will. He practiced touches on his own forearms to memorize pressure that soothed rather than startled, learned the names of female anatomy and how to touch them through centuries of trial and error in texts. He read these techniques not to take, but to be used, to be worthy of her, to worship her and give her unimaginable pleasure. Draco waited for the day he would be guided by her voice when she chose to let him near.
He had so much pleasure to give her, if only she’d let him. Despite this, he did not share the bed, not because he could not, but because he had not earned it. The chair had become his confessional and his post, a place where Malphas learned humility by inches and slept always on guard. The dragon inked across his back slept under his shirt, its charmed head at the base of his neck, its tail tucked at his hip, the artistry exquisite. He had told no one that the creature would answer her alone if she called it, scales shifting under skin to follow the line of her touch.
He tuned the perimeter once more, a habit so ingrained it felt like breathing, checking the wards. The house responded with the obedient hush of well trained magic. The chair creaked as he changed his angle by a finger’s width, enough to take pressure off a healing welt that crossed his back diagonally, a souvenir from a master who disliked absence. He thought of the hours he had spent cataloguing what she liked without asking for admission into her private landscapes.
His affection grew when he remembered how easily others reduced her to a symbol. The world wanted to own her story and chew its sweetness until nothing remained. He wanted none of that. He wanted the real Hermione, all her imperfections and quirks. He loved the mind that earned her the title Brightest Witch of Her Age.
If she stirred, if she turned toward him with the earliest ember of awareness, he found his version of composure and offered it to her like water. Near the second hour, she sighed in her sleep and turned, the sheet sliding to reveal a shoulder pale against linen. When the nightmare returned, he rose without sound and crossed to the bedside. He brushed hair from her temple and pressed two fingers just behind her ear, a pressure point from a century old text. Her breath steadied, and the line between her brows smoothed.
He permitted one indulgence only when her sleep deepened again. He traced the curve of her cheek with a feather touch, the sort of touch a curator uses on a porcelain relic of the past. Near midnight, he angled the blanket to cover her shoulder again, careful to avoid contact beyond necessity. The urge to lift the corner and join her warmth felt like a wave meeting rock. He let it break and recede. He returned to the chair and ignored the way his body argued for admitted comfort. He could remain awake here and consider the luxury a discipline rather than a deprivation.
He allowed himself a thought, an indulgence, a pleasure. He wanted to be commanded by the girl sleeping in his bed. He wanted her voice in the space above him telling him where to place his hands, when to stop, how to serve and please. He wanted his body to be the instrument that learned her, measure by measure, until nothing surprised and everything delighted.
Toward the last hour, she stirred and blinked at the ceiling, the furrow between her brows deepening as dreams slid away. He watched as awareness returned and guardedness climbed into place. Her gaze found him without flinching. He kept his posture open, leaning back in his chair, legs planted, shoulders squared, hands resting on his thighs.
“I thought you were called on another assignment,” she murmured, voice scratchy from sleep and stubbornness. She reached for the water, glanced at the book, and set the glass down without drinking. Her eyes flicked to the vials as if calculating whether using them surrendered ground she refused to lose. Her mouth settled into a line that told him she would endure rather than ask.
“I have to leave soon,” he answered, voice even. “Don’t miss me to much, darling.”
He tried on a smile that dared her to call it arrogance, then softened it before it could offend her pride. A sliver of pale morning gathered along the curtain seam, gentle and exact. He let his eyes close for three breaths and opened them again. Work began early in houses ruled by terror. He stood and stretched without noise, rolling his shoulders until the stiffness receded. Tinky would bring tea in thirty minutes with toast and jam and a poached pear sliced thin, a meal that tempted without overwhelming.
He arranged the tray himself when it arrived, replacing the cup twice because the rim had a chip he refused to let touch her mouth. Before he left for his summons, he crossed to the bed and stood at the corner, a supplicant who pretended not to be one.
“I’ll be back.” he said softly, as if speaking to the room spared them both. “Tinky will be here.”
He did not wait for a reply he would not get. At the door, he paused and looked back. The dragon under his shirt warmed as if waking to a master’s whistle. He pressed two fingers to the ring and felt the answering thrum that tied him to her across distance. Malphas belonged to war, Draco belonged to the chair at her bedside and the future he intended to earn, one quiet night at a time.
Notes:
CW:
Blood and TortureWE GOT A GLIMPSE OF THE PSYCHO. Ope. What the heck does Draco have in store for Ron? Teheeee I know what it is. ;)
Hermione is still Hermione, but maybe we'll see some concessions here soon, I hope! Draco my boy, you got your work cut out for you!
Let me know what y'all are thinking! I love your comments and I love interreacting with you guys and hearing your thoughts. <3
Till next time!
Chapter Text
Draco had imagined many ways the day might unfold, but none had involved sitting across a table from Hermione Granger in a lab built with his own funds, his own wards, and his own patience. Cauldrons simmered, each bubbling with the exact rhythm of a careful flame, the air rich with dried herbs, crushed roots, and the chemical reactions of copper. Hermione moved through the lab as though it had been hers all along, fingertips brushing over the racks of ingredients, sleeves rolled to her elbows in that no nonsense way that meant she intended to work.
Draco had thought she would scoff at his presence, that she would send him out or mutter curses under her breath until he grew bored. Instead, she had claimed the largest table with a snap of authority, already sorting jars and aligning ingredients with a quickness that spoke of long habit. Her precision impressed him, though he kept the admission to himself.
He leaned his weight into the bench, dressed without accident in a fitted black shirt and slacks, the cuffs unbuttoned and pushed back just far enough to suggest ease, his forearms flexing with each movement. He was careful with presentation, always. Still, it surprised him when she actually looked at him, eyes sweeping over his form with a measure he could not misinterpret. She did not linger, but the glance at his piercings was enough to put a satisfied knowing into his thoughts. He knew she found him attractive. He’d seen the look in her eyes as they focused on his piercings more than once and he couldn't wait to show her the one on his tongue.
“You measured the aconite incorrectly,” she remarked to him, voice brisk as she adjusted the powder in his bowl with a deft touch. “It’s two pieces less for a proper Draught of Clarity. Otherwise the bitterness will overpower the balance.”
He tilted his head, watching her as she leaned closer to the scales.
“You’re wrong. That's only if you intend to bottle it for a long period of time is that required. Freshly brewed, the added dose sharpens effect. Snape used to brew it my way for the Dark Lord.”
The words were quiet, meant to provoke her, and indeed she looked up sharply, indignation sparking like flint. Instead of snapping, she narrowed her gaze at him and returned to her task, lips pressed into a line of begrudging consideration.
“I’ll humor you,” she replied coolly, pouring the adjusted mixture into the cauldron.
A thin mist spiraled upward, the potion gleamed clearer than expected, the surface smooth and unbroken. Draco watched with a smug satisfaction as Hermione stilled, clearly irked to find his correction had worked.
“Lucky guess,” she muttered.
Draco allowed himself a smirk.
“Not luck, Granger. Skill. You’re not the only one who knows how to read, and, if I recall, you have always ranked second to me in Potions.”
Her scoff was loud, yet when he watched her set the stirring rod into the brew, she shifted to let him observe, almost as though conceding him space at her side. Their shoulders brushed when he leaned in, and he noted the way she stiffened before carrying on as though nothing had happened. He savored that tension. It was proof that despite her resistance, her hatred, she felt him, and realized with great clarity that his body could effect her. He longed for her in that moment to just reach out and use him, to tell him to fuck her right there on the potions table.
They worked like that for an hour, cauldrons brewing, her muttering directions while he corrected and refined them, sometimes baiting her with deliberate errors just to watch her bristle. Each time she called him infuriating, his smile deepened. It was the shared rhythm of two minds sparring, matching, learning the cadence of each other’s intelligence. Draco had no doubt their future children would be highly intelligent.
The real surprise, however, came when the discussion veered away from potion formulas and fell, almost seamlessly, into literature. Hermione had plucked a book from the corner of the bench, one of the Muggle volumes he had quietly arranged there weeks earlier as they waited for the potions to finish so they could stopper them. Her hand hovered on the spine as though she meant to ignore it, yet her curiosity betrayed her, and soon the cover rested against her palm.
“You read this?” she asked, incredulity threading her voice as she turned the pages of Pride & Prejudice.
Draco’s tone was smooth, intentionally casual. He knew that if he wanted to be with Hermione, to be worthy of her, he would have to appeal to all of her.
“Of course I did. Do you think me incapable of appreciating Muggle texts? Elizabeth Bennet reminds me of someone I know. Stubborn, clever, convinced she’s always right. Rather irritating, if you ask me.”
Her eyes lifted to his, and for once, she seemed at a loss. He enjoyed the pause, the falter in her armor.
“You’re mocking me,” she said finally, but the edge of doubt betrayed her.
“Not mocking,” he countered, his voice low, calm, as he leaned against the bench. “Darcy was a fool at the start, but he learned how to be the guy for Elizabeth in the end.”
The flush that rose along her neck was faint but undeniable and he relished it. He watched those pretty lips as they pressed together, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of her shock. Yet the way she lingered on the page, the way her fingers traced the ink as though testing the truth of his claim, told him he had unsettled her. That pleased him more than the successful potions brewing at their side.
They continued like that, conversation weaving between potions and literature, each topic flowing into the next as though they had rehearsed it. Hermione tested him with pointed questions, expecting ignorance, and he countered with nuance that disarmed her again and again. By the time she leaned against the bench with her arms crossed, she was no longer scowling, but studying him with something that might one day soften into respect. Perhaps more, if he were lucky. Draco allowed the quiet to settle before speaking again, his tone cocky.
“Don’t forget, Granger, I was Draco before I became Malphas.” His eyes lingered on her face, on the stubborn line of her jaw. “You may loathe me, but you can’t deny that I have always ranked second in our year. You can’t deny that part of you enjoys it, the thrill of academic discussions only I can provide you. Because only I can be considered your intellectual equal.”
She forced composure back into her frame and leaned away from him, doing her best not to fixate on his ear piercings and the way his corded muscles kept flexing and twitching with each shift of his posture.
“Hmph.” she murmured, but the words lacked conviction.
She turned back to the cauldron, but her fingers lingered too long on the pages of the book beside her. That was enough for Draco. He had unsettled her world, just a fraction, and the smallest fracture in her defenses was all he needed. He leaned back, arms folded, his smile deliberate, satisfied. The potion glowed clear and perfect in its cauldron, a mirror to the unexpected truce that temporarily passed between them.
The hours passed, Draco enjoyed the new rhythm they'd developed, where history seemed to fade in the space he'd built for her. Her hand found the familiar green of a certain Austen novel before her expression shifted into alert wariness again. He had placed a slim Eliot nearby, along with Woolf and a modern edition of a social historian who treated magic as folklore rather than fact, which he meant as provocation and compliment in equal measure. The conversation moved with a pace that belonged to old adversaries who have discovered a mutual craft. She expected him to stumble over references and he refused to grant her the satisfaction.
He ventured a comparison to the way Pureblood ritual satisfies appetite for hierarchy while claiming to preserve culture, and she stilled, caught between annoyance and reluctant agreement. He let her see the pencil marks he had made along certain passages, narrow script that asked questions rather than bounded answers. She touched one with a fingernail, reading without speaking, and he kept his eyes on the middle distance so she could pretend he was not watching her read.
A tray appeared by elf magic with tea and a plate of sugared orange peel because he knew she liked bitter with sweet at midday. She noticed the peel, did not thank him, and took two pieces anyway. When she challenged him on a point of narrative justice, he surprised her by admitting the book in question asked mercy from those who had less reason to grant it, and he disliked how the author absolved herself in the final chapter. Her eyebrows lifted, not in mockery but in inquiry, as if to ask when he had grown capable of that kind of assessment.
He let the questions hang and poured her tea without making a ceremony of it. She drank and kept reading, and he revised plans in his head for what book to leave on her pillow later, perhaps a battered copy of Forster that argued for sincerity over spectacle. When they inevitably parted ways for the evening, Draco told Hermione that he had another assignment, so he would not be back for two days. At the threshold to their room, he stopped and saw her in.
The manor resumed its routines beyond their wing, a hum of activity that kept war fed and followers satiated. He allowed none of it into their space. When he got back, he would drink tea with her. He would invite her to argue until their minds arrived at truce, and he would continue to melt her icy heart one day at a time.
For once, the summons had not come at dawn, no command to stand by the Dark Lord’s side. The reprieve was so rare it almost felt indulgent. He wore no armor of tailored robes, only a fitted black shirt clinging to the lines of his shoulders and loose drawstring sleep pants. His hair was mussed from sleep, his piercings caught the light when he shifted, and the ink that writhed along his back and over his collarbone revealed itself beneath the thin cotton as he reached for the pot of tea.
Hermione sat across from him, hair in a plait that trailed down her back, her spine straight as always, though the stubborn defiance that usually lit her eyes seemed muted this morning. She had a plate of toast and fruit before her, though she pretended to focus more on the copy of Pride & Prejudice balanced against the table than on her meal. Draco allowed himself the smallest smirk, pouring her tea without asking, watching the way her fingers hesitated before accepting the cup.
“You know,” he began, his tone lazy, though he knew how exactly he would rile her up this morning. “I wonder, was it not Elizabeth who also changed at the end? A thousand little steps, one might say.”
He tilted his head, taking a slow sip of his own tea, letting her stew in the bait.
“No,” she countered, voice clipped but steady. “Elizabeth changed nothing. She was herself from the beginning. It was Darcy’s arrogance, his sense of superiority, that blinded him. She forced him to look at her as she truly was when she refused his first proposal. That denial shattered his pride, that is when he began to see her.”
Draco leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, the stretch of his shirt pulling against his frame as he did so. He did not miss the way Hermione unconsciously bit her lips.
“You think it takes humiliation to change a man?” His smirk returned, though his eyes lingered on her with something more intent. “I think it is smaller than that. A man like Darcy doesn’t bend because of one refusal. He bends because, piece by piece, she proves him wrong. One comment, one choice, one look. It becomes undeniable. He doesn’t wake up one day a changed man. He wakes up and realizes she has been changing him all along.”
Draco grinned as he watched Hermione come to passes, though she quickly hid it behind a bite of toast. She refused to meet his gaze, which only deepened his satisfaction. She had always thought herself too clever to be disarmed by conversation with him, but he knew her too well, had studied her so closely since they were eleven years old. He would argue he knew Hermione better than she knew herself.
“And what of Elizabeth’s refusal, then?” she pressed, eyes flashing up at him. “You cannot deny that was a turning point. She told him no. She told him she would not accept a man who insulted her family, who believed himself above her. That is not a little step, that is everything.”
Draco leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs beneath the table until his knee brushed hers. He did not pull away.
“Perhaps,” he allowed, his tone almost thoughtful, though the glint in his eyes betrayed the provocation. “But I would wager that if Darcy had been any other man, her refusal would have meant nothing. What makes her powerful is not only that she said no, but that she had already wormed her way beneath his skin. A refusal means little if the man can walk away. He couldn’t walk away from her.”
Hermione swallowed, too quickly, as if his words landed closer than she wished them to. She folded her hands over her book, fingers tense.
“You make it sound as if Elizabeth planned it, as if she was maneuvering him into loving her. That’s not how love works.”
Draco’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
“Oh? I disagree. We are all maneuvered, Granger. Some with words, some with glances, some with battles of will. You maneuver without even knowing it. Elizabeth did, too.” His gaze swept over her deliberately, the piercing in his brow moving as he raised it. “Darcy never stood a chance. Neither does anyone else when the right woman decides she is worth being seen.”
Tension sat between them. Draco watched as Hermione stared at him longer than she intended, her lips pressing together as if to bite back a retort. Draco reached for an apple from the fruit tray, slicing it with casual precision before pushing half the plate toward her.
“Eat something more substantial than toast, Granger. Even Elizabeth Bennet would’ve needed strength to spar with Darcy.”
His tone was teasing, but there was a genuine edge beneath it. She gave a small huff, exasperated yet amused despite herself, and plucked a piece of apple from the plate. Their fingers brushed briefly, the contact so fleeting it might have been ignored, though Draco savored it, his eyes flicking up to hers with a spark of intent. Hermione quickly turned back to her book, though her ears burned faintly pink.
Draco leaned back once more, crossing his arms with lazy satisfaction, knowing damn well his biceps and forearms would bulge and flex as he did so. He had won this round, though she would never admit it. She could argue all she wanted about Darcy and Elizabeth, about refusals and turning points, but he had seen the hesitation in her eyes, the small surrender of taking fruit from his hand. She was already changing, whether she knew it or not. And Draco Malfoy never walked away from a challenge once it had begun.
The debate had stretched on long past breakfast, words weaving through the air like a duel in miniature. Hermione had defended Elizabeth’s refusal with passionate certainty, while Draco countered with deliberate calm, each remark just enough to pierce her arguments. The book lay abandoned between them now, its spine bent open on the table, as if even Austen herself had surrendered to their stubbornness.
Hermione had retreated to the bed, propping herself up against the pillows with her arms crossed, every inch of her posture defiant. Draco had followed, his gaze never wavered from her face, and though she tried to maintain her composure, her chin tilted slightly higher, betraying how much she registered his nearness.
“You think you know the turning point,” Draco murmured, his voice low, the sort of heat that could only be born of practiced danger.
He braced one hand on the mattress beside her hip, the other settling near her shoulder, bracing on their head board. His body leaned over hers, an elegant trap that allowed no escape without brushing against him. Hermione shifted back instinctively, rising on her elbows, and he followed, closing the gap until she was caged by him, his broad frame swallowing the space around her, petite thing she was.
“It wasn’t the refusal that changed him,” Draco continued, his lips so close that each syllable seemed to ghost over her. “It was that he couldn’t forget her. Every word she threw at him, every look she gave him, whether good or bad, each one dug into him until he had no choice but to want her more. He wanted her enough to change.”
His breath was steady, controlled, though his heart was beating wildly. Hermione swallowed, her eyes flashing up at him, wide but unwavering.
“You’re wrong,” she said softly, though the conviction lacked its earlier bite.
Draco tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting as he let the smallest whisper escape between them.
“Tell me, Granger, why are you leaning back as though you expect me to follow? Why are you still here, arguing with me, when you could have shut me down ages ago?”
Her lips parted on instinct before she snapped them shut again, her jaw set. She tried to glare, but he saw the falter, the ripple of hesitation that betrayed her. His smirk deepened. He shifted closer, deliberately brushing the edge of his shirt against her arm, the fabric warm from his skin.
“You argue because you like the game,” he murmured. “You like that I don’t yield. You like that every word you throw at me is caught and returned. Admit it, Granger, you would be bored to tears with anyone else.”
Her breath stuttered, and she looked away as if the sight of him was too much. He allowed her the pretense for only a heartbeat before lowering his head, his lips close enough to skim the shell of her ear.
“You’re not ready to admit it yet. That’s fine, I can wait.” His voice dropped into something darker, laced with command. “One day, you’ll stop fighting me long enough to realize you crave this more than you fear it.”
Hermione’s hands gripped the sheets beside her, the stubborn witch refusing to push him away even as she should have. He could feel the tremor in her restraint, the war waging inside her, and it sent a rush of triumph through his veins. He drew back just enough to look at her, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that burned.
“That’s how Darcy changed. She unsettled him, bit by bit. He was too far gone to walk away, just as you are now.”
Though she tried to summon her usual cutting retort, the words failed her. For once, Hermione Granger was disarmed. Draco allowed himself a small, victorious smile, though it was softened by the tenderness that slipped through his carefully maintained control. He leaned closer, his mouth hovering just above hers. He didn’t kiss her, he wouldn’t steal that until it was freely given. Instead, he whispered a hairs breath from her lips, lusty and promising.
“How good it will be, Granger, when you finally realize you were made to ruin me and I was made to let you?”
He pulled back before she could move, before she could recover her composure. The dragon tattoo coiled just beneath the collar of his black shirt, peeking at her with the same hunger that glittered in his grey eyes. His piercings only aided his looks, dangerous embellishments that only made his smirk more wolfish.
“You pretend you don’t notice, but I see the way you look at me,” he murmured, his tone smooth, languid. “Do you want me to say it for you, Granger? Do you want me to tell you what you’re really thinking right now?”
Her chin lifted stubbornly.
“You’re absolutely mad.”
Draco chuckled, leaning in.
“On the contrary, little lion, I’m absolutely devoted. So devoted in fact, that I bet after one night with me, you’d never think of another man again.”
Her head whipped toward him, shock in her eyes, but he only smiled wider, his voice husky.
“That’s right. I can make you scream my name in ways you haven’t even imagined yet.” His tongue wet his lower lip, the silver of his piercing moving as he did so. "You only have to want me to, Hermione."
He watched thighs rub together as he said her name, her knuckles dug into the sheets, though she managed a hiss of defiance. He chuckled. Soon, he would have her.
“I’ll never want you to, Malfoy.”
Draco pressed his palm against the mattress just above her hip, lowering himself until his mouth hovered over hers, close enough that she could taste the spearmint on his breath.
“Do you want to test me, Granger? Give me the order to please you and see how fast I obey.”
Hermione’s pulse raced as she braced herself on her elbows, caught between outrage and the magnetic pull of his confession. His tattoo shifted when his muscles flexed, the inked dragon coiling, its head peeking from the edge of his sleeve as he moved his arm. Hermione’s eyes darted there before she could stop herself, and Draco caught it instantly, his smirk deepening with predatory delight.
“Do you like it?” he teased, flexing again so the dragon rippled along his skin. "It's my Dragon, my namesake. Will you call to it? When you moan my name."
She tried to shove at him then, desperate to break the thrall of his words, but he didn’t budge. He caught her wrist with gentle precision and pinned it beside her head, threading his fingers through hers. His grip wasn’t cruel, it was gentle but firm. His mouth hovered above hers, his eyes alight with triumph and devotion all at once.
“I am yours to command, little dove. Tell me to stop, and I will. But we both know you won’t, because despite yourself, that deep, dark part of you wants to fall to ruin. That part of you that set Snape's robes on fire, that trapped Skeeter in a jar, hexed Marietta Edgecombe, and set the centaurs on Umbridge, wants to come undone on my tongue and be fucked by my cock. Because at your most basic, Granger, you're just as vindicative and ambitious as I am.”
Hermione stared at him, defiance burning through her, yet the heat in her chest betrayed her as his hand slid down her body, feathering over her inner thigh. Draco’s lips curved into a dangerous smile, his voice dropping into a purr that dripped with sin and worship. When he looked like this, one would never know of his own inexperience.
“One day, you’re going to beg me for it, and I can’t wait to dive into that pretty little cunt of yours when you do.”
He left her panting and breathless as he went to take a cold shower.
Notes:
AHHHHHH *deep breath* AHHHHHHHHH
I am so fuckin feral for my own Draco is that possible? TT.TT
I wanted to give you guys some light after a lot of dark things that have been happening!
Hermione bsffr and just JUMP your man you know you want to my little Stockholm babe.
I can't stop writing this story like legit my every waking moment is dedicated to writing the chapters. So far I have this written up to chapter 13, which is why my updates have been nearly daily! But once that little head start runs out it'll probably slow down a bit but not too much!
WHAT ARE WE THINKING? teheeee.
Also, my P&P loving ass is such a slut for Elizabeth and Darcy references :P
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