Chapter Text
The glass doors screech in the quiet of the night as Hermione slowly pushes them open and out into the balcony. White curtains billow in the warm wind, like soft, velvet petals floating in the air. They ripple into the room before exhaling back into the darkness.
She lifts her eyes and looks up at the full moon. It’s hanging far tonight, nestled between a constellation of stars, and the midnight sky. She hasn't slept for days, but she's wide awake despite it. Her eyes shut and she tilts her head up to bask in the ghastly moonlight in a rare, momentary reprise, before opening them once again.
She stares at the moon, asking, begging for some guidance.
The moon simply stares back, silent.
Leaves Hermione alone, as always, to figure it out on her own.
She turns around without another glance.
Her gaze sweeps across the shadowed bedroom of the safehouse she’s been staying at for the past two days. It’s not a particularly large room, scant except for a bed pushed against the wall. When she’d first come, the floppy mattress was bare and there was a bloodstain near the door. She was lucky to be carrying a blanket and a pillow in her beaded bag, having learned early in the war to always be prepared, considering safe houses were limited and places to sleep were most often not comfortable.
She slept on a back porch once without a blanket or pillow and that night still hadn’t made her list of top ten worst nights in her mind.
She’s also gotten lucky with this particular safe house, however—the doors still lock and the windows aren’t shattered. There aren't shards of glasses from broken alcohol bottles on the ground and the room isn't freezing. She’s only supposed to stay for three nights, leaving tomorrow morning. Most of the time, she does not care how the safe house looks. But in a restless frenzy, Hermione ended up spending the entire first day cleaning with her wand and then scrubbing the floor and the walls with her sponge and her own hands, not stopping until she was satisfied there was no residue of what took place here.
Not that there was much point to the cleaning since she’s just going to have it bloodied again.
Hermione waves her wand and gets to work.
She doesn’t think as she works.
Her mind is filled with untamed chaos that she's given up trying to fix. Her body is numb, her fingers even colder.
She’s a breathing corpse. Another dead walking amongst the others— ghosting through the graveyard that is her world now. She’s just another soldier, moving through the earth with her eyes open, unblinking and unflinching, and her wand stretched out in front of her.
Casting spells, dodging attacks, breathing in air, breathing out blood.
Killing, killing, killing.
Hermione kills more people than she saves.
Betrays the people she swore loyalty to. Turns to the one who forsakes them.
She lies every day to her friends when she chooses to hide the bond and welcomes the splinter in her soul for it every time. She looks away when they whisper behind their hands and ducks her head when she enters a crowded room. They give her the solitary assignments, the more dangerous tasks without protection or a backup, and she takes them without a complaint and asks for more.
She does not say anything, does not complain about the growing distance between her and the others, because the truth is she did this to herself. Became the ruthless machine for them so that they may live a little longer to turn away from her. Chose to be the messenger between the two sides so that they might have a chance to win.
She sacrifices herself like a lamb at an altar and allows herself to be damned for it.
The war leaves no remains, and so Hermione takes her boulders with her.
There’s a quiver in her fingers right now and a slight tremble in her legs that she ignores. Her pulse is a little too quick and her skin a little too clammy.
She ignores these too.
She takes out the candles from her bag and sets them in a circle in the middle of the room. She carefully steps into the center and gingerly settles down on her knees.
She waves her wand and the candles flare awake.
She pulls her hair out of its braid and runs her fingers through the curls, letting it cascade like a soft waterfall down her shoulders. She’s barefoot, as required, and wearing a thin slip dress, not necessarily required. She tells herself it is to ensure there aren’t any extra layers to get in the way of the magic, to make the summoning easier.
She ignores the fact she specifically chose not to wear any underwear.
Hermione swallows through her parched throat and closes her eyes. Tries to focus on the pillar of magic inside her. The heat of the flickering candles radiates against her bare skin, warming her and the room despite the opened doors. When the heat turns burning, she does not turn away.
Hermione’s pulse slows down as she takes deep breaths in and then out.
Control is the key to summoning, intent the heart of it.
When she finds that anchor in her she raises her hands in front of her. Her hands aren’t nearly as steady as they usually are so she slices her palm with a quick Severing charm before they completely start to falter.
She swallows the hiss at the pain, licks her dry lips, and recalls the incantation in her mind.
The words come easy to her, like reciting an old poem by heart. They drip out of her lips like melted wax, scalding her tongue as she says them out loud.
“I summon you,” she begins. Her voice is clear and stark in the quiet room, despite the slight tremble in her bones. “Come to me.”
She tips her wounded hand down to the side and lets the blood slowly drip down in front of her.
“From one body to another, one soul to its equal. Come to me.”
She feels slightly lightheaded, despite the small amount she’s losing. She should have had some water at least, but it’s too late to interrupt the ritual, too dangerous to not complete the call.
“From my cup, you shall drink. Within me, you will find what you seek. Come to me.”
Her final words echo within the walls. Goosebumps scatter across Hermione’s arms and the hair at the nape of her neck rises. She waits and listens, her eyes still closed.
She’s only ever done this ritual once before, many months ago when the bond first clicked in. She’d done it to see if it would work and he had been there the entire time to confirm. It’s different now because he’s unaware of what she’s doing and she’s not exactly sure if he’ll answer.
Not that he has much of a choice.
The ritual is known to be done in the other’s moment of need, calling forth for help or to soothe an ache.
She feels the power of the ritual slowly start to slither around the circle, gathering the heated air, and across her legs, up her waist, her chest, and around her neck like a serpent. The words she said out loud hiss along the wooden floorboards, between the cracks of the walls, the fissures in the doors. They ricochet against each other, increasing in force and intensity, sounding affronted that she would even dare to say it out loud.
Maybe this is a mistake, a call to something darker and unknown to her. She might have opened herself to something uncontrolled, but Hermione finds herself not caring above the need to call him to her.
Besides, she consoles herself, there’s simply nothing worse than him. Other than Voldemort, she hates no other man. And if she can tolerate him, she can handle anything else she might have called to her.
When the excruciating seconds pass into minutes, Hermione’s hand starts to shake a little more with every blood drop she’s spilling. She knew she was going to fall apart at some point in the night, her vessel too empty and fractured to last much longer. She only hoped it would happen after he came and left. She can’t think of anything more humiliating than breaking down in front of him.
Hermione starts to think that perhaps she made an error somewhere when the minutes drag on. Said a wrong word or didn’t have the right number of candles. She thinks maybe she needs more blood to activate the summon and the thought of slicing another cut makes her head spin. But she’s come too far and needs this too much to give up this so soon.
She moves the wand to the other hand and points at her uninjured palm—
“Granger.”
Hermione freezes.
Her bones lock into themselves, hypnotized by the sound of her name. She’s sure she's misheard because of her dizziness, perhaps mistook the whisper of the wind as her name. She’s about to wave her wand at the hand again, to continue with the Severing charm.
“You called me.”
The air stills and transforms into something preternatural.
No, she hasn’t misheard. The voice is undoubtedly real.
He is here.
The familiar deep sound reverberates in her body and courses through her veins to settle somewhere low in her stomach.
Hermione opens her eyes.
Malfoy stands at the entrance of the balcony.
His head is slightly ducked as to not touch the ceiling. His blond hair is even paler in the moonlight and his shoulders take up the space of the entrance to completely block the night outside. The hollows of his cheekbones and his sharp jaw are shadowed, making him look as though he is made of just rough edges and razored points. He’s wearing his black battle robes and his black leather gloves—as if he was in the middle of a mission or a meeting when she summoned him.
He is both the dark and its silhouette.
He's terrifying, regardless of how many times she's seen him.
When he steps into the room, Hermione sucks in a breath.
She hates how her body reacts to him. Hates the fact that sometimes the reaction is less subconscious and more voluntary and the bond cannot be blamed for it.
The candles cast a warm glow across his pale skin, leaving him looking more haunting than harrowing. Shadows dance across his face, seemingly softening the sharpness and darkening the bruises under his eyes.
“It worked,” Hermione says in awe, for once taken aback by her own abilities.
She slowly untangles herself off the ground and his piercing silver eyes narrow just a fraction as she rises to her feet on unsteady legs. She feels his assessing gaze take in the length of her body, scanning her as he usually does whenever they meet. She flushes when his eyes linger briefly on her breasts.
Hermione’s vision turns hazy and she quickly heals the wound to control some of the blood loss and waves the blood away. She digs her toes into the ground so she doesn’t lurch to the side.
“Why did you call me?” Malfoy asks, his voice dull. His face is unreadable but she’s still able to catch the grim tightness of his eyes, the way exhaustion is pulling at his skin. He hasn't slept either.
Hermione’s throat bobs. “There was an attack two days ago in Edinburgh.”
“Yes, I am aware,” he drawls. “I was the one who told you the meeting was happening there. Are you surprised that your side managed to finally get one thing right? Because I'm in complete shock Potter and his pathetic D.A was able to lead something for once.”
Hermione glares at him, but it’s weak. “No, I know we managed to break into Dolohov’s estate, Malfoy. We were able to take some of his plans for his upcoming attack on a Muggle hospital in London and Lupin is preparing the crew to go out in two days. I just," she falters and tries again. "I just needed to confirm what the casualties were like….and see whether we managed to get everyone in attendance.”
Several moments pass between them where Hermione thinks he might not say anything but then he speaks up, sounding rather incredulous, “You called me in the middle of the night to see if I am alive?”
Hermione blinks and then rolls her eyes to mask her stumble. “I don’t need to call you to know if you’re alive, Malfoy. If you were dead, the bond would have broken and I would have known right away. I would have been free.”
“Free,” Malfoy scoffs, the word foreign and distant to him as the end of the war. “Exactly how free would you have been in a war where your side is losing? There is no freedom until death, Granger.”
“Don’t talk to me as if I don’t know that, Malfoy,” Hermione hisses, anger simmering under her skin at his throwaway tone. “I am well aware of what is going on in this bloody war. I live it every day—I’m out there fighting every day. Stuck there just how I am stuck with you. There is no freedom for me.”
“So then what?” he growls, glaring at her. “Why the hell did you call me here? I’m not just fucking laying around and having grapes fed to me, Granger. I’m fighting every day too—fighting the same people, actually, that you’re sending my way. Fighting the people in the damn places that I told you to attack. You cannot fucking summon me like some slave whenever you wish to.”
Hermione lifts her chin. “There was no other way I could have called you now. I had to use the ritual to bring you.”
“Well, I’m here,” Malfoy snarls. “At your fucking service like a dog. What do you want, Granger?”
Hermione shakes her head, unable to put the words together. “I just needed—”
Malfoy takes a step closer. “Needed what ?”
“Stop asking me—”
He cocks his head, a move so predatory and yet so inherently him. “Just say it, Granger.”
Hermione grits her teeth, hating herself for even giving in to him. “I just needed to see if you were okay.”
Malfoy stops moving.
His eyes flash in the dark as he stares back at her.
She meets them in equal defiance, refusing to take her words back or to explain them further.
“You were going to see me in two days,” he says slowly. “I was going to give you the next location then. Why couldn’t you have waited?”
“That’s too far,” she says quietly and Malfoy’s brows furrow. She adds hastily, in an attempt to gain some control back, “If you were hurt and unable to come, I would need to know so I can tell Lupin. We would need to prepare for a week of uncertainty, especially since we already have limited people available for London.”
Malfoy doesn’t say anything to that, though his face does look unconvinced by her excuse.
“But since you’re fine and able to meet me in two days with the report,” she says as nonchalantly as possible, “you can go back to whatever you were doing before I called you. Go eat grapes or whatever else murderers do in the dark.”
“The same as what murderers do in the light,” he answers, his jaw clenching.
Hermione takes a deep breath, her heart constricting painfully when he shoots her a disgusted look. Her stomach sinks when she realizes he's leaving.
It's fine. Let him leave.
She’s feeling especially shaky now, her vision teetering and blurring at the edges, and she wills herself to hold on until he's gone.
If he leaves then she can collapse in peace.
She counts the seconds, waiting for him to disappear.
But she’s lurching to the side, at the brink of consciousness, when something solid grabs her by her shoulders and pulls her straight.
Hermione blinks rapidly and looks up and into Malfoy’s face. His eyes jump across her face, studying her intently, taking in her languid state.
His forehead creases as understanding finally settles in him. “You need to feed.”
Hermione’s immediately shaking her heavy head. Her voice comes out warped as she says, “No—no. Not that.”
She promised herself she wasn’t going to be the first to cave in.
Anger floods his face. “You used a fucking blood ritual when you needed to feed? Have you finally lost your damn mind, Granger? Do you know how dangerous that is?”
She tries to retort something back but her brain is tripping, stumbling. “I don’t need—”
“You need to fucking feed,” Malfoy says harshly, his hand tightening on her arm when she tries to pull away. “I can see it clearly by the look on your face. You will die if you don’t. Is that what you want, Granger? To die?”
“Sometimes, yes,” she whispers back, her inhibition walls completely broken.
Malfoy stiffens at that. He frowns and lets go as Hermione slowly makes her way to the ground again, unable to keep herself standing. She lowers her head when the energy needed to keep it up becomes too much.
“You can go, Malfoy. I’m fine,” she says through clenched teeth. “I didn’t call you so I could feed from you. I’m not doing it first.”
“Yes, I am well aware of your idiotic fast,” Malfoy says dryly, following her close to the floor. “But whatever reason you have to deprive yourself of this or whatever need you have to prove you’re above this bond does not matter because you have no other choice.”
“You don’t know anything—”
“I will last longer,” Malfoy says firmly, leaning in close to her face. “Or I will, at least, last until dawn. You won’t even last ten minutes.”
Hermione glares at him. Tries to ignore the overwhelming feeling of having him this close to her, the need to pull him even closer and sink into him. He smells like clean soap, something sweet like vanilla or cinnamon.
“You did this to me,” she seethes, hoping he can feel her hatred bleeding through her voice.
He blinks slowly, the only shift in his expression as he stares at her.
“You will win, Granger,” he says, at last. “You will always win and you will win now too—even if you take this from me.”
Hermione inhales a trembling breath, her resolve breaking. “You can’t ever bring it up.”
Malfoy looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “Right, sure, Granger. I won’t stain your reputation by bringing up that you needed to feed.”
Hermione watches through blurry eyes as he stands and unclasps his cloak at the collar. He carefully folds it in half and places it on the floor beside them. His fingers go back to his throat and he opens the first three buttons and pulls the fabric just enough to bare his skin to her.
Hermione’s entire body loops tightly in anticipation—at the stark need raging through her. She digs crescents into her palm to stop herself from jumping across and taking him.
He points his wand at the delicate skin near the middle of his neck and cuts open a small wound in his skin.
Hermione’s mouth fills with saliva and she feels herself pulled into his lap.
Dazed, her legs position themselves to straddle his hip.
“Go on,” he coaxes, angling his head backwards to give her more room. The pale skin, the striking tendon, beckons her forward and she gulps, her mouth opening as she does.
Hermione halts, her lips millimetres away from his skin, and looks up through her lashes.
“Why do you care?” she asks, her voice a mere whisper.
She always ends up asking this question whenever they feed—regardless of who does it first. She asks this herself every time he walks through a door and his eyes sweep across her body, undoubtedly looking for injuries. She looks in the mirror and asks her reflection whenever her body distorts with fear and panic every time there is an attack and she doesn’t see him right after.
She doesn’t understand why he bothers with her when he can give his reports to Lupin—the designated Order member and the only person who knows about their bond. Why he even shows up when he can just discard her to the side like a crumpled-up piece of paper and let her wither away into dust. Whatever he might think of the possibility of freedom for people like them and their chance at it, he cannot deny the truth that if she dies, he is at least free of one thing.
Malfoy doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say anything other than, “Feed, Granger.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice. Hermione lowers her lips to the rubied blood and sucks on Malfoy’s silky skin.
Immediately, her body transforms.
She moans, her eyes shutting close so she can only focus on the taste of him. The first drop of his blood on Hermione’s tongue always tastes like the first sip of water after a hundred years in the desert, no matter how many times she's done this. It is daylight after a never-ending night. It is pure nectar, filling her up like an empty cup, and spilling over so she can drown indefinitely.
Hermione is a sinner, and this—this moment might just be her only taste of heaven.
One hand comes up to grip his hair at the back of his head and the other clutches his collar to pull him closer. Malfoy doesn’t make a single sound but she can feel his breaths getting heavier, his chest rising quickly under her. It’s not necessarily the same experience for the one giving, but she knows it’s something akin to being at the brink of sleep and consciousness. Through her stupor, she can feel a hardness growing under her and Hermione rolls her hips against it subconsciously—and that makes him groan. She knows he can’t help it just as she can’t help licking his skin, digging her teeth in. His arms glide up her waist and come up around her back to cross there, pulling her in even closer. One hand lowers down her spine and edges her forward and onto his hard length. She makes a low sound at the back of her throat as he does, letting the closeness guide her into his neck.
He does not need to stop her, her body is aware of the high tapering off when she’s gotten enough.
So, she drinks and drinks from him, getting drunk as she takes her full and not caring as takes more.
When she pulls away from his skin, Hermione’s mind is infinitely less foggy.
She sighs again and presses her forehead against his shoulder, taking in deep breaths to regain thought. Her vision is clearer, but there’s still something missing. She thinks perhaps she pushed him away for too long because of her demand to not be the first one to cave in. It all ended up against her because she’s only pushed herself deep, deep underwater and feeding only brought her to the surface—not out and into the air.
“It’s not enough, is it?” Malfoy says, his voice muffled by her hair.
He always knows and it makes her want to scream. Always is so damn aware of her body and the little changes.
He doesn’t sound irritated, however, or perhaps even inconvenienced by this truth. And she can’t figure out what’s worse.
Hermione stays silent. Her chest heaves as she tries to control herself.
“You need more,” he continues, his voice lowering into a deeper timber that makes her want to close her eyes and nuzzle into his neck. To finally sleep after so many sleepless nights worrying.
She forces herself to not make a sound when she feels his featherlight touch on her thigh. Her body arches to his touch, heat blooming across her stomach.
Malfoy’s cheek brushes against her curls, as he says into her ear, “I know what you need, Granger.”
Hermione’s eyes flutter lazily and her heart hammers against her ribcage. His gloved hand caresses against her upper leg, pulling her dress up.
“I can help you,” Malfoy says, his voice a soft purr. Hermione thinks she might break down just by the way his voice sounds.
When his leather glove touches her bare skin, she inhales sharply. His hand snakes up, up, up her leg, pulling the fabric along with her.
She shivers when cool air fans across her skin.
“All you have to say is yes and you can get what is yours.”
Hermione tries—she really, really tries to withhold herself. To pretend that the feed was enough and she won’t need this either. To smother the chant roaring in her head and stifle the chorus in veins.
She tries to keep her composure and lift her head to say firmly: No.
But she’s starving again and this time, not for his blood. She simply cannot resist the burning desire, even if she locked herself in a room and threw away the key. She needs this ache to be satisfied just as much.
Hermione caves in.
“Yes,” she breathes.
Malfoy, to his credit, does not stall. Perhaps he can see the torment in her voice, the sheer desperation that is clinging onto her skin. Because the gloved hand leaves her body and she lifts her head to watch him use his teeth to pull the glove off his hand and throw it to the side of the room. His other glove follows just as efficiently.
He doesn’t look away from her once, his silver eyes glowing in the candlelight, as he gingerly lifts Hermione off his lap. One hand goes to her waist and the other behind her head to carefully guide her to the floor.
He follows her to the ground, both of his hands coming up on either side of her head to balance him.
Hermione bites her lips so as to not make a sound, and give him the satisfaction of hearing her need, when his cool fingers come back to her thigh. He slowly drags the slip back up and fists it at her hip. The other hand comes down to her shoulder and the strap there.
With sure fingers, Malfoy picks the strap between his forefinger and thumb and slides it off her shoulder and down her arm. She gasps out loud, unable to stop herself, when his hand pulls back the fabric over her breast and exposes them.
Her nipples are already pebbled, pointed and taut without his touch. She’s sensitive, every nerve ending begging for his touch. She jerks, her head pushing into the ground, when he squeezes his hand over it.
She moans when he delicately rubs the peak with his thumb and Malfoy leans over to kiss her jaw. His other hand at the waist manages to come under her slip and slide up her thigh and to the soft crease where it meets her pelvic bone.
His thumb brushes over the nipple once more and Hermione exhales a shaky breath when his hand lowers and just slightly skims over the skin of her abdomen before lowering down even more to her the bottom part of her stomach.
“Fuck,” he hisses into her neck when he realizes she’s not wearing any underwear. His hand slides down to the curve and he cups her right there —
Hermione inhales sharply and arches, her hips lifting off the floor, when his cool fingers graze across her throbbing core.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, thickly. He kisses her jawline, carving out the path from her ear and down to her chin. His mouth is hot and heavy against her skin, purposely kissing her everywhere but her mouth.
It’s the one rule they have—that if they have to feed and do this, fuck each other, for the bond and for them to survive, then they won’t kiss each other on the lips.
They’ve never explicitly stated the rule out loud and Hermione is pretty sure it was just a simultaneous conclusion for the both of them.
They needed to take the intimacy out of feeding and the lovemaking out of fucking. She’s not sure what Malfoy’s reasons are but all Hermione knows is that she cannot get attached. Cannot add meanings to fleeting moments, to transient but necessary actions. Cannot believe this means more than what it is at the moment, especially since he will always leave.
Malfoy does not love her. He’s simply drawn the bad card and has found himself stuck with an enemy. Whatever aid he is providing the Order is beyond the bond and solely focuses on his own survival if the Order wins. The bond is a mere consequence of his promise to the Order and Hermione is well aware of it.
He tolerates her and so Hermione has to do everything to protect herself from the pain of false expectations. She distances herself, reminds herself she is merely with him because of circumstances, by not kissing him on the mouth.
A kiss on the lips takes it all to another level.
There’s something soft and tender about lips touching, a sealed promise, a beginning of something warm and everlasting.
But for some reason, at this moment, Hermione finds herself wishing they didn’t have the rule.
For just a few minutes, she wishes, things weren’t so restricted. That she could let go and give in without having to think of repercussions and the consequences. That she could finally have something meaningful in a time where things are so temporary and stolen without a glance backwards.
The warmth of the candlelight and the heat in her body contrasts against the coolness radiating from Malfoy. The dancing flames circling them change the ambience of the room into something less detached and cold. He’s overwhelming in the way only Malfoy can be. Most of the time he barely says two words to her when he feeds from her and sometimes he doesn’t even look at her when he leaves when he's done. Once she asked him—in the middle of an argument after a feed—why he chose to take the Mark. Malfoy hadn’t talked to her for an entire month after that. She called him selfish when she fed from him and he didn’t even blink.
She wanted to hurt him for his choices but often she was left thinking maybe he never had any.
He leaves her empty only to then fill her up without a protest.
He’s a walking contradiction and no matter how hard she tries to understand him, she’s always left with a blank slate.
Maybe she is tired of it all—has reached the edge where she just wants to give up. But his face hovering above her doesn’t look like the face of the enemy right now. He looks like just another twenty-three-year-old stuck in a war that he never started or wanted. If he takes off his dark robes, she can almost see him sitting beside her at an Order meeting, or standing in front of her during a battle, protecting her.
Sometimes, she thinks of Malfoy and her for reasons other than the bond or his secret Order work.
When Harry and Ron don’t bother asking her if she would like to join when they leave on a mission, or when Ginny gives her a stiff smile before getting up and walking out of the room, she closes her eyes and thinks of Malfoy smiling at her. Not a bitter smirk or a sneer, but a genuine smile on his soft lips that she used to see him give his friends at Hogwarts—years ago.
She thinks of teaching him how to make tea by hand and then imagines him making it for her every morning without her asking.
After careless, risky nights with Muggle men she meets and then leaves at dreary, dirty bars in the middle of nowhere, Hermione touches herself in the shower and comes with his name on her lips.
When she sleeps alone in broken safehouses under leaking ceilings and creaking floorboards, she thinks of Malfoy’s body next to her, holding her in his arms. Keeping her safe and warm.
She thinks of him and then cries for doing so.
They’re both alone—this she knows. He has to be alone to betray Voldemort every day and not get caught.
They’re both craving for someone to take away the loneliness and Hermione just wishes for once they could give in to the pull. If only for a few hours so she doesn’t have to face the truth of her stone heart and broken soul.
They haven’t done something like this in weeks, relying only on their feeds to get through the days. If she’s starving for this, she knows Malfoy is too.
She reaches over with a hand and rubs the curved part of her palm over the bulge straining against the fabric of Malfoy’s trousers. Malfoy’s hip jerks forward at the sensation, pinning Hermione against the ground. He makes a low sound at the back of his throat when she pushes into his hardness again.
He’s shaking his head and forcing himself off her, away from the reach of her hand.
“I’m doing this for you.”
Malfoy’s long finger gathers the slick wetness of her core and slides slowly up and then down. Hermione moans again, her eyes rolling back.
“Together,” she pants, bringing him back down on her. She rubs her fingers over his cock and feels it swell under her touch. She traces the large outline of it before palming it. She feels him twitch under her, and a bead of pride sprouts in her chest.
He wants her, just as desperately.
It’s the right answer because Malfoy’s lips are back on Hermione’s face, kissing her rough and hard, and a second finger joins to rub against her sensitive folds.
He moves them in tight little swirls and rubs his thumb gently at her swollen clit. Heat is pooling in her core and Hermione’s ache is building—the need to have him in her is increasing. She’s struggling to pull herself together but Malfoy’s hand on her breast keeps her anchored somehow.
She cries out when Malfoy enters both of the fingers ruthlessly into her at once.
She bucks against him when he pushes them all the way to his last knuckles. He kisses her down her throat, the edge of her clavicle, down along the swell of her breast. His lips are punishing and his fingers even more.
“I’m going to make you come,” Malfoy tells her, his breathing rattled. He pulls the fingers out and drags them back in, eliciting another cry from Hermione. “You’re going to come so hard, Granger.”
“P-please,” she begs, eyes screwed shut. She grips onto his body, his muscles tight and tense under her hands.
Malfoy’s lips replace his hand on her breast and he sucks on her nipple, his tongue cleverly swirling against the peak. Her hand comes to clutch the back of his head, holding him down onto her breast, and she arches her hip against his hand inside her. He moves in synchrony, the fingers curving and turning inside her and his tongue working away on her breast.
She's heaving for air, her chest rising and falling with every tortured inhale and exhale. He bites her nipples and she bucks again, riding his hand in the motion.
Hermione sees red.
Her hand moves to grip his wrist tightly, increasing the pressure to make him grind harder inside her. She's practically riding him now, trying whatever she can to ease the need of him.
“Malfoy,” she breathes, feeling the ache coiling and coiling. Her muscles are pulled together in one tight string. Her blood feels as though it's on fire and she needs to come or she’ll shatter completely. “Please, I need—”
“What do you need?” Malfoy growls, his voice rumbling against her chest.
Desperation leaks in every syllable, drawing out every letter and coming out slurred.
“I need you, Malfoy.”
He bites her nipple and then licks it right away. “What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to fuck me,” Hermione whimpers. Malfoy turns his fingers horizontally inside her and drags them down her inner walls and Hermione feels her body spasm. “Please, I need you inside me.”
“In a minute, Granger.” Malfoy kisses her temple, resting his jaw against her chin. “You need to prepare first, remember?”
Hermione nods through the haze. Malfoy keeps his thumb on her clit, circling delicate patterns, and takes his fingers out. The tip of two fingers becomes five and they nudge at her core. Hermione’s legs tremble as she remembers the sensation of five inside her and she thinks she might die from the intense need of him. But, it’s necessary for Malfoy to do this so she can get ready for the full girth of him.
She closes her eyes and waits for him.
“Alright?” Malfoy asks. She thinks maybe she’s hallucinating but his voice is impossibly gentle, like the soft whisper of snowflakes on lashes. It's unlike him, but she's drawn to it like a magnet, not caring if it's all a facade.
“Y-yes."
"Can you take more?"
Hermione nods. "Yes."
“Breathe for me, Granger.”
She inhales a deep breath and then at the exhale, Malfoy slowly, very carefully, pushes his fingers in. She feels every stretch, every tug of her muscles as he eases his hand into her. It’s only slightly uncomfortable, her body clenching at the sudden fullness, and her legs snapping up at the shock. But the more he edges them in, she starts to feel herself give in to the feel. Her body remembers the rightness of him and slowly loses its tension, the growing wetness of her core helping him slide in.
Hermione’s toes curl and she writhes against his hand. Her neck arches, her hands coming up his arm and to his bicep to grasp him there. He’s only taken her to the wider part of his hand but Hermione is feeling too overwhelmed, too uncontained for it to be this slow. She snakes her arms around his neck and lifts her legs to wrap them around him. In one quick, brisk move, she pulls his hip down and onto her.
Immediately, the entirety of Malfoy’s hand sinks into her, all the way to the wrist. She screams, her sound getting swallowed into his shirt and her fingers claw into his skin. She’s full to the brim and her walls instantly clamp around his hand, refusing to let go. Her scream turns to another moan as Malfoy folds his fingers down inside her and his hand into a fist. He knows how to find the spot and he rubs his hand right there and Hermione thinks she's going to faint just by the pleasure filling her heart.
She’s shaking, quivering, barely breathing. Malfoy curses, his own breaths rough, as he slowly takes his hand out, her wetness following out with him. She feels the absence of his hand and it’s maddening to be on the edge and still not find relief. Her eyes grow large as he brings his hand to his mouth. His eyes close, wrapping his lips around his fingers. He sucks on them one by one and then licks them clean.
“Fuck,” he says, letting out a guttural breath in response to her taste. Hermione swallows hard at the sight of him—at the dark, heated look in his eyes that locks on her when he’s done. She feels the wetness, flames burning her skin, nipping at her core. Craving to taste him, to feel him inside her so she too can be satisfied.
“Malfoy,” she pleads, her voice breaking to a sob. Her hand goes down, meeting the heated liquid there. She tries to rub her palm against her to make the throbbing pain go away but it’s no use if it’s not him.
“I know,” he assures her, closing a hand on her wrist and gently pulling it away. He removes her legs off his hips so he can move back to his haunches. “I know, Granger.”
Her dress is shoved to her waist and she hears the unbuckling of a belt and the rustle of fabric. She watches him with glazed eyes as he pulls himself out of his trousers and her mouth falls. Nothing can prepare her for the size of him and she’s always shocked whenever she sees his cock.
He’s hard and fully erect, and by the swollen red tip, she knows that the wait is as painful for him as it is for her. He strokes himself just once and lowers down again, positioning himself at her entrance. Instantly, her hands are holding onto his shirt for support when she feels the tip of his cock nudging at her. She widens her legs and lifts her hip just high enough off the ground so he can meet her. She sucks in a breath and a heartbeat later, Malfoy leans forward and thrusts into her.
They both groan simultaneously when he pushes to the hilt.
Instantly, a wave of light passes inside her body, spreading honeyed warmth down to where his cock meets her, as the bond clicks in.
Malfoy turns rigid, his bond clicking in as well, and his eyes roll back.
Where they meet, here, is truly the center of the universe for them. The world begins and ends with him inside of her. That is what the bond is about, what it requires to be fully sustained.
Hermione feels a fullness she’s never felt with anyone before. Her walls are stretched to the maximum, and his cock takes up every space available. He fits inside of her as if she was made just for him. She doesn’t know if the sensation of him is heightened because of the bond and the raw need it requires to be fulfilled, but it’s unlike anything she’s ever experienced, even before Malfoy.
She hates it just as she hates him because he’s ruined it for her.
Other men, fucking, lovemaking.
Nothing will be able to compare and she doesn’t know how to turn to anyone else and ask them to give what he does. Maybe that is the entire purpose of the bond. To bring two people together in a way so that they will never separate.
He drags himself out and Hermione keens, her lips parting. When he slides in again, Malfoy grunts, his head burying into the hollow of her neck. His hand is back on her breast, the other tangled in her curls, and his lips are sucking onto the skin of her throat with enough pull and suction, it is sure to leave a mark tomorrow.
She doesn’t care. No one will be there tomorrow to see it, anyway.
Hermione kisses his sharp jaw and then down at the space where it meets his neck. Her kisses are sloppy and wet, leaving behind trails. Her hands are moving through his soft blond hair, grazing his scalp. She wraps her legs around him again and it gives him space room for his cock to move in and out at a steady pace. It’s not fast and he knows it does not need to be fast for her to come.
He lifts his face and she takes in his flushed face, the pink in his cheeks, the rogue lock of hair against his forehead. Hermione is tempted to reach over and push it back but she just pulls at his roots instead. His pupils are dilated and his eyes hooded, and she can see his throat bob when he looks at her.
His hand comes to the base of her neck, wrapping lightly around the smooth column. He applies mild pressure and she leans into the hold. They watch each other, their grunts and moans becoming one, as they move together in unison. Their eyes remain captivated by each other, refusing to move an inch away lest they miss something. There's a hurricane in her blood, a torrent ocean in her ears. Her heart is pounding and she’s sure Malfoy can hear it, or perhaps it is his heart that she’s hearing now too.
It’s strange and unnerving to be under him and to look him in his eyes as he fucks her. There’s no triumphant smirk, nor a sense of superiority in the set of his lips. He does not look down at her as if he’s proven something about Hermione and her status. There’s not a single trace of regret. If anything, there is calm resignation, a touch of giving in to a need so great, so consuming—they never stood a chance in the first place to defy it.
They need this and they need each other—that is the truth underneath it all.
You do not resent the poison-tainted air that is keeping you alive for a little bit longer.
He only takes himself out and in once more and she shatters completely. She sees stars explode across her vision, feels her heart skip beats, and her entire body float up in the air. Somewhere in the distance is a faint sound that she realizes is her yelling out.
She’s just brought back to her body when Malfoy pulls out of her, his cock dragging out of her with resistance. He flips her by the shoulder, to her stomach. Her hands dig into the ground, her face turning to the side, as he enters her again. It’s faster, harder this way and Hermione feels herself sliding up and down as he fucks her. He likes it rough and Hermione does not mind.
She takes from him just as he must take from her.
They have no choice but to take and give in turn.
He pants into her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin. His hand on her breast pinches her nipple painfully and her head falls back against his shoulder. His tongue captures the soft curve of her neck, licking and biting the spot that he knows so well.
She's screaming in strangled cries, her eyes falling shut once more, as Malfoy shouts out her name. She concentrates on the feeling of his chest secured behind her, the way his cock is pulsating inside her.
His other hand slides down the side of her breast, her ribcage, the rumpled fabric at her hip. He glides his palm to the front and his thumb rubs her clit in circles.
It’s too much at once and nearly enough. Hermione drops her forehead down to the floor and braces both of her hands on either side of her head to steady her. She looks down where his cock enters her and pushes her hip back to meet him just as frantically.
Malfoy’s hand drops from her breast and goes to her legs. He curves his hand across her thigh and parts her leg to the side.
This— changes everything.
The position opens her wider and further apart for him to dig into her.
“Fuck!” Malfoy shouts, his breaths ragged as he drives back deeper and deeper into her. “Fuck, fuck —Granger!”
The sounds of their grunts and moans mix with the sounds of his skin slapping against hers. He thrusts into her one more time before he groans loudly, his body seizing against hers. She shakes as well, riding a second orgasm right behind him.
He lets go of her leg and she sinks to the floor by sheer exhaustion. His forehead falls against her shoulder and his arm wraps around her waist to pull her close to her in an oddly comforting way. He’s holding her tenderly, something he does not do, and she finds herself wishing for him to not let go.
They pant for breaths, gasping for air as the high slowly eases off.
Hermione hardly has time to bask in the clarity in her mind, her deep ache gone, when the embarrassment sinks in, fury following right after.
It’s always so desperate and quick with them. They stay apart from each other in spite, choosing to suffer just so that the other can eventually suffer in pain as well. But whenever they come together, the need has grown too large, too demanding for them to ever take it slow.
She’s angry now, at herself for caving in and at Malfoy for making her feel this way. It’s humiliating to be so weak in front of him, to rip herself open just so he can come in and take. She turns rigid underneath him and Malfoy must notice because he slowly pushes himself off her and carefully pulls her dress down.
Hermione shivers in the absence of his body.
“I need to go,” he rasps, his voice deep and husky. She hears him buckling his pants, feels him stand.
Hermione turns around, her core just slightly aching, and faces him.
“Is it your Master, you’re going to?” she spits, her lips curling. “Does he need you?”
Malfoy flinches but quickly regains his mask, the moment passing before it can settle on his face. Perhaps he feels embarrassed like her—he had after all come just as hard as she did. She can see him trying to restrain some of the anger threatening to surface and she thinks fast about what she can say next so that it might erupt. She needs something that can make her remember who he is—what he is doing when he's not with her.
“You called me and I came to you too,” he says evenly.
“This is different.”
“Yes, of course,” he says scornfully. “Being forcibly bound to you is entirely different than being bound to Voldemort.”
Unbidden hurt seeps through Hermione. Pressure builds at the back of her eyes and she bites her tongue hard until she tastes blood to stop herself. She will die if she cries in front of him.
She follows him to a stand and steps out of the circle.
“I hate you,” she grounds out, her hands turning into fists by her side.
He doesn’t even look at her as he says, “Good. It will keep you alive.”
It’s his blank, uncaring face he’s able to put on so quickly that she detests the most. It breaks her because Hermione is anything but unemotional. She is too much and often unable to control it all in front of him, no matter how hard she tries. She’s filled with grief and fatigue that knows no bounds. She yearns for something substantial that has meaning and she looks for it in all the wrong places.
She has too many terrifying feelings towards Malfoy that she refuses to accept. Refuses to acknowledge the fear in her heart that made her summon him tonight. The agonizing thoughts in her head for the past two days she’s been in this room, as she paced back and forth, hysterical at the possibility of any of them coming true. She’s stuck between a hard place and a rock and there’s only one way for it to end.
Her wand is up and pointing at him before she even thinks to do it.
It’s immediately pulled out of her hand before she even exhales a breath.
Malfoy has her outstretched hand in a vise grip before she can call her wand back. She gasps as he walks her back, back, back until her legs hit the mattress behind her.
She stumbles and falls backward onto the bed.
He’s furious—his eyes brilliantly vivid in the shadows. “Don’t make this easy for me, Granger.”
Her throat shuts down and she wants to weep.
She wants to spit in his face.
He blinks, eyes widening ever so slightly as he searches the tight set of her lips, the hatred in her eyes. He rolls his jaw, says absently, “One day, Granger, you won’t look at me like that anymore.”
“I doubt it,” she bites back. “I will always hate you, Malfoy.”
He sighs and his grip around her hand slowly lessens as he lets her go.
And that’s his mistake.
Hermione’s arm is instantly out to the side and under her pillow. She grabs the knife she always carries by its hilt and has it up and against his throat in one fluid motion.
Malfoy halts completely, staring at her. The surprise in his eyes is not nearly as satisfactory as she hoped. The knife is shaking and her sweaty hands make the grip difficult but she does not move it away.
“Go on,” he murmurs and leans his head lower. Her eyes fall to the blade digging into his skin before darting back to his face.
Hermione releases an unsteady breath.
Do it, her mind screams. Do it and get rid of him once and for all. Do it so you can be free of at least one set of handcuffs.
He’s not important to the Order, she tells herself. He’s replaceable and they can find another willing to betray Voldemort. Everyone has a weak spot and they can easily manipulate another Death Eater to work for them if she kills him. Of course, no one is like Malfoy and Lupin will hate her for her foolishness but hatred is nothing she isn't already dealing with.
Malfoy’s gaze doesn't stray as he slowly reaches up and wraps his hand around hers. She’s unable to jerk away, to stop him as he takes the knife edged against his throat and guides their joined hands down to his chest, right over his heart.
“Don’t miss,” he whispers.
Her body shudders.
Hermione shuts her eyes, a tear dropping down her cheek.
She cries out in frustration and yanks her hand from him completely, turning her cheek to the side. The knife clatters to the floor.
Malfoy closes his eyes briefly and then draws away from her.
He silently picks up his cloak, his movements robotic and stiff, and walks over to the balcony where the curtains rise and fall in the breeze.
“If you weren’t such a coward, Malfoy,” Hermione says numbly, her cheeks wet, “you’d figure out how to end the bond.”
Footsteps pause at the threshold.
“If I wasn’t such a coward, Granger,” Malfoy says after a moment, stepping into the moonlight, “I’d taste your lips.”
Hermione stills.
Abruptly she sits up, wide eyes searching for him.
But he’s already gone, disappeared into the night.