Chapter 13

Chapter 13

I have returned 😈

CW in endnotes

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Pansy and Theodore left, disappearing up the marble staircase.

Malfoy watched them go through narrowed eyes.

Hermione was seated between his knees on the rug, curled before
his armchair. She, too, was staring up at the staircase. He placed a
soothing hand on her back.

”Sorry about that,” Malfoy said, rubbing his palm lightly over her. The
fabric bunched lightly under his long fingers; her skin was soft and
warm.

He placed the vanilla candle in front of her, on the coffee table.

“What do you think about this one?” he asked.

Hermione tore her eyes from the staircase. She looked down at the
candle, then up at him.

“We don’t really have to go to that party, do we?”

“I'm afraid we do."

“Don’t you think it will be-uncomfortable?”

“Why would it be? We’ll have cocktails. Tiny, fiddly canapés.”

“And when Pansy’s mother tells me I’m unwelcome?” Hermione

asked drily, picking up the pine candle.

“I promise you that Pansy is, at this very moment, having a panicked
Floo call with her mother,” Malfoy snorted. He toyed with a lock of
Hermione’s hair. “Nobody will be telling you you’re unwelcome.”

“I still don’t want to go.”

“Sorry, kitten,” Malfoy said, amused. “I do make some decisions.”

Hermione made a face but didn’t protest further.

She picked up the orange spiced candle and lifted it to the light, so
the amber glass caught the glimmers from the chandelier.

“I really like this one,” she said after a moment.

Malfoy could tell. He knew by the way she held it so tightly, by the
way she brought it close to her chest when she lowered her hand.

“Me too,” he said. “Is it your favorite?”

“I think so. It’ll be good for your room, right? Add some warmth?”

Her voice was oddly uncertain and Malfoy wondered if she was
unaccustomed to making decisions that involved choosing things for
her own enjoyment.

“Such a good idea,” he said. “Why don’t we go find somewhere to

put it.”

Hermione tried the candle in a few different spots before finding one
she liked. Malfoy dropped into an armchair and watched her lazily,
his legs crossed.
He had never been one for decorating. It was really rather pleasant,
watching Hermione bustle around, trying to pick the best place for
her candle.

She put it on the dresser, then her nightstand, then the marble ledge
over the fireplace. Then, finally, on the glossy black table in front of
the wall of windows.

She took a step back and tipped her head to the side.

“There,” Hermione declared, smiling. “Perfect.”

“Yeah? You like it there?”

“Yes.”

Malfoy lifted his hand and the candle’s wick sprung to life,
illuminating the dappled golden-red container. Hermione made a
delighted sound.

“Very beautiful,” Malfoy said.

She stared raptly at the little candle, her smile beaming. The light of
the orange candle danced in her eyes.

Outside the windows, the sun was setting. A cold, wintry evening
was settling over the estate like a black and white cat curling into
place. But inside here it was warm and smelled like cinnamon.
Hermione glowed like an angel in the warm candlelight.

Malfoy wanted her closer; he extended his hand. After a moment,

Hermione stepped forward to his armchair and leaned her cheek into
his palm. It came so naturally to her.

”You’re so sweet,” he said softly, cradling her face. “How did you get
like this?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered. He smoothed a circle on her cheek with

his thumb. “How did you became the way you are?”
Malfoy snorted.

“I took the Dark Mark too young,” he said. “And my father beat me
with a closed fist. So that my scars would be in the shape of the
family crest, on his ring.”

Malfoy didn’t usually talk about such things. The memories didn’t
even really cause him pain; they were just-private. But he was lazily
content right now. His words were slurred with the purring, cat-like
satisfaction of having her so close to him.

Hermione looked at him.

“He hit you with a closed fist?”

“It’s not that unusual.”

“Wait,” she said, touching her throat. “With this ring?”

“Afraid so.”

Hermione had straightened up a little and was looking at him oddly.

But Malfoy clicked his tongue, impatiently waiting for her to relax
again, and she finally acquiesced and rested her cheek back in his
palm.

“An origin story,” she said, watching him.

He smiled.

“Forgive me for being so trite.”

That made her laugh a little. She turned her face into his hand, and
Malfoy’s heart thrummed.

If it had been up to Malfoy, he probably wouldn’t have attended the

Parkinson-Nott engagement fête. He certainly wouldn’t have hosted
it.
But although there were very few people in this world who could give
him a direct order, the number-sadly-wasn’t zero. In this case, the
directive had come from the very top.

The Commander had plans for the engagement ball.

For the most part, the plan was strategic and made sense-it was the
perfect opportunity to get the wizarding world’s most influential
people together. Prominent pureblood families and senior Ministry
officials alike would be rubbing shoulders tonight, and the hope was
that one of them might have the wand that the Commander was so
desperately seeking.

They had been searching for nearly three years. No results yet.

But though the plan was rooted in logical strategy, Malfoy was
increasingly aware that the Dark Regime’s leader seemed to be
losing a grip on reality more and more these days, disappearing
instead into memories and the foggy vistas of the past. Their last
conversation about this party had been an unsettling one.

“Who else will attend? The Prewetts?”

“The Prewetts will be there, yes,” Malfoy said. “And the Zabinis, the
Rosiers. Minister Umbridge will attend, as well as Head Auror
Rognus.”

“Very good. And… the couple. Parkinson and Nott-how are they?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are they happy together?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“Engagements are a beautiful thing…”

“I suppose so.”
“They were in your year at Hogwarts, were they not? Old friends are
important. The past is all we have, sometimes…”

Malfoy couldn’t help but wonder if power would soon be changing

hands once more. But that wasn’t something to worry about tonight.

“Can I choose your dress for the party?” Malfoy asked Hermione.

“Mm. Sure.”

Malfoy stripped her down in his closet, keeping her chest turned
away from him. Her last bit of modesty-he didn’t mind letting her hold
onto it. He held up a few different dresses against the bare skin of
her back, trying to decide which he liked best.

“Do I ever get to choose what you wear?” Hermione asked.

Malfoy smiled, endlessly charmed by her.

“My wardrobe is significantly less fun than yours,” he said. “But

maybe I’ll let you play with it later.”

Malfoy held up a green dress against her back and she twisted to
look at it.

“No Slytherin colors,” she said, swatting it away.

Malfoy snorted but replaced the Slytherin green with a slightly more
tempered olive. Hermione batted it away again, giggling this time.

Malfoy smiled, but caught her wrist firmly in his hand. He took a step
closer and pinned it to her hip.

“Don’t fuss,” he said into Hermione’s ear.

She let him put the dress on her.

It was elegant, girlish-conservative. The skirt was wide and soft.
Malfoy turned her so she could see herself in the closet mirror.

“You look like a princess,” he said, gazing at her reflection.

“What a beautiful dress,” Hermione murmured, looking into the

mirror. She smoothed the skirt with splayed fingers. “It’s so odd to
have different things to wear every day. I only had three shirts back
in the safe house, you know.”

“A crime.”

Malfoy kissed her on the temple then went to select a set of dress
robes for himself.

“I’m not that fussy about clothes,” Hermione said from behind him.
He heard the sounds of her ruffling out the skirt, trying to get it to lie
straight. “Just so you know. I don’t need a lot-it might actually be a bit
easier for me, day to day, not having to choose from too many
options.”

“Princesses need gowns,” Malfoy said, trying to hide the smile from
his voice. She was so sweet. “And anyway, I’ll choose for you.”

“Because you’re the prince?” came her sing-song, teasing voice.

“No. I’m the dragon-remember?”

“Prince, dragon. All different spins on the same anti-feminist

archetype, I’m afraid.”

Malfoy smiled. He took his shirt off, then his trousers. He stood in his
briefs, unclasping his watch to replace it with one more fitting for the
evening. He glanced up at the mirror to find Hermione watching him
curiously in the reflection.

Malfoy winked and she turned pink and looked away.

“I have some shoes for you,” Malfoy asked, shrugging on a new
shirt. “On those shelves over there-yes, right next to the coats. The
black velvet ones on the top shelf.”

She tried them on. The heels were low but the shoes were new and
Malfoy hoped they wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.

“Feel okay?” he asked, zipping up his trousers.

“Yes,” she said, extending her ankle in front of her experimentally.

She rotated her foot, letting the slim gold fastening on the shoe catch
the light. “Pretty.”

“Good. I’ll wear black shoes too-we can match.”

Hermione laughed. Malfoy smiled at her, then peered into the mirror
and ran a hand through his hair. It had gotten mussed as he
changed.

“You seem almost normal right now,” Hermione said. “Getting ready
for a party like this.”

“I’m very normal,” Malfoy said. “I get ready for parties all the time.
There’s some kind of tedious soirée every fortnight or so. You could
have accompanied me to many of them, if we’d been together
sooner.”

Hermione laughed.

”And in what universe, pray tell, would we have been together

sooner?”

”A more pleasurable one, I should think,” Malfoy murmured,

buttoning his collar.

“I regret to inform you that without forcible abduction, you’d have no

shot with me at all,” Hermione sniffed, smoothing her skirt out. “I
would never date a Death Eater.”
“I know. Maybe I’d have waited until the war was over to pursue you.
Hopefully by then you’d have forgotten all about our opposing sides,
and would be more open to my rakish charm.”

“Ha. And how would you charm me, in this very optimistic alternate
reality?”

“I’d orchestrate some chance encounters. Polite conversation,

nothing untoward. I’d probably mention books…”

She smiled.

“Books is smart. And would you bring flowers?”

“Of course. What kind are your favorite?”

“Garden roses.”

“Garden roses it is.”

Hermione laughed.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “And then, I think…”

“Yes?”

“You’d leave me alone and never talk to me again,” Hermione said

quickly, dodging out of his grip and letting out a breathless shriek of
laughter when Malfoy caught her and dragged her back to him.

She giggled uncontrollably as he caught her jaw, holding her face so

she looked at herself in the mirror.

“You’re mine in this universe,” he said, squeezing her cheeks lightly

so that her lips popped into a little kissing pout. “And in every other
universe too. Say it.”

“No,” she giggled, twisting in his grasp and licking his palm so he
would let go of her.
“Spoiled girl. Let’s go to this party.”

The party was in a distant, magically separated wing of the house.

Malfoy was not the kind to take security lightly. There were meters
and meters of defensive wards, of runes carved into marble floors;
the last thing he wanted was for guests to be able to wander from
the party into the main house.

He had important things here. He had Hermione.

The walk to the entertaining hall was long, and Hermione seemed to
grow more nervous as they neared the party.

She was blissfully unaware of the crackling curses carved into the
marble under her feet, the protective Dark Magic so powerful that
Malfoy could see its aura. Blood of failed assassins had whet the
spells in these floors-probably Hermione would be happier not
knowing that fact.

“Do I have to talk to people?” she asked, wrapping her arms around
herself. “Will they try to talk to me?”

“They might. You don’t have to respond unless you want to.”

“Do we have to stay long?”

“No. I just need to show up and talk to some people. Don’t worry.”

“I feel sick,” she said. “Look at me-I’m all dressed up. I look like a
normal guest. What if word gets back to the Order, and they think
I’ve joined the Dark regime?”

Malfoy laughed.

“Somehow I don’t think anybody will think you defected,” he said.

“Just relax, darling. Everyone knows you’re here by force. You’re a
prisoner. Just enjoy yourself.”

Malfoy pulled her hand to him and kissed the center of her palm.

Hermione’s fingers were shaking, so very slightly. Another Dittany

soak needed soon. Malfoy examined her fingers then gave them a
little squeeze.

“Don’t worry so much,” he said, meeting her brown eyes. “It will be
fun.”

“How on earth do you figure fun?” she whispered disbelievingly.

Her voice had gone automatically quieter, as they neared the doors
that led to the party. The sound of the fourteen piece band wafted
through the heavy wooden doors.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy responded in a mock whisper. “We could get

drunk.”

“Don’t you dare get drunk,” Hermione said at once, alarmed. “I’ve no
idea what kind of drunk you are and I am very uninterested in finding
out-”

They stopped in front of the doors.

Malfoy brought a finger to her chin and lifted it up.

“You’ll be fine.”

He waved open the doors.

The party was loud. All the sounds washed over them at once.

Chatter, laughter, violins and clinking glasses-and the room was

dazzlingly bright, especially after the comparatively dim light of the
hallway. Light radiated off the crystal chandeliers, the sconces on the
wall, the gold leaf on the wallpapers. The gleaming marble floors
reflected it all, the smooth surface as sparkling as glass.
Hermione lifted her forearm to her eyes, clearly overwhelmed.
Generally speaking, Malfoy didn’t advise obscuring one’s own vision
upon entering a new room full of people. But Hermione didn’t need to
maintain a soldier’s vigilance-that’s what he was for.

Malfoy cast an eye around the room, keeping one hand at the small
of Hermione’s back. The air was cool and perfumed, the ceiling high-
good conditions for maintaining alertness, for full visibility.

There were over two hundred guests in attendance. The room was
bright with gaiety, with tipsy laughter. The men wore gleaming black-
lapeled dress robes and the women wore glittering brocade Rococo
dresses, a style that had become fashionable again among high-
brow purebloods.

Dotted among them were the Death Eaters.

They wore severe black dress robes, embroidered with a curling

silver snake on the left sleeve, just over where their Marks were
tattooed. The men were serious faced, moving about the room with
cold, calculating eyes-hunting ravens in a swarm of chickadees.
They alone shared Malfoy’s same military awareness for their
surroundings. As Malfoy and Hermione entered the crowd, they
alone turned first.

Aunt Bella had been right. Word of Hermione had spread among the
ranks. None of the Death Eaters looked surprised by her presence,
though their gazes held varying measures of curiosity or disdain.
They looked at Hermione’s dress and slippers, the tentative way she
held Malfoy’s proffered arm. His trophy pet, stolen right from the
heart of the Order.

Some of the Death Eaters looked impressed. Others masked their

disgust. Malfoy determined no immediate threat either way.

One of the Death Eaters-Dolohov-separated from a group of guests,

lifting a hand in greeting.
“General,” he said, striding forward. He took Malfoy’s hand. “There
you are. Nice event, mate-champagne’s the good stuff.”

Dolohov glanced at Hermione, seemed to be trying to decide if he

needed to greet her or not.

“Say hello,” Malfoy said.

“Oh,” Hermione said, looking at Dolohov. “Hello.”

Malfoy couldn’t help but laugh; even Dolohov looked amused.

“Not you, sweetheart,” Malfoy said.

“Good evening, Granger,” Dolohov said.

He turned back to Malfoy.

“The men are looking through the wands now,” he reported.

“Anything yet?”

“No. It’s taking a while, there’s a lot to go through. Probably nearly

three hundred people here.”

Malfoy nodded. He scanned the room.

Theodore and Pansy stood near the center of the hall, laughing
amidst a cheerful crowd of guests. Pansy was in her element,
wrapped in a taffeta gown and decked in jewels. She was probably
wearing every diamond in the Parkinsons’ dwindling Gringotts vault.

Theodore stood next to her, swaying. He looked drunk.

“Parkinson and Nott’s wands are in the mix?” Malfoy asked Dolohov.
“Their parents’?”

“Everyone’s. We told them it was a security measure, nobody made

a fuss. They’ll get them back on their way out at the end of the
night.”

“Good.”

Malfoy noticed that Theodore had started looking their way.

His dark eyes were bleary with drink; they lingered on Hermione.
Bitter amusement danced in his gaze; after a moment, Theodore
smiled at her.

Hermione looked away rapidly, clearly nervous and uncomfortable.

“Nott looks drunk,” Malfoy said to Dolohov, his eyes not leaving
Theodore. “Did something happen?”

“He requested to join the Death Eaters again. We declined. I guess

he was disappointed.”

“He hasn’t got the stomach for it,” Malfoy murmured, still watching
Theodore. “No steel in his spine.”

Theodore had returned to conversation with his fiancée and friends,

but he glanced back at Hermione intermittently.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. But then Hermione tugged on his hand.

Malfoy looked away from Theodore at once, turning his attention to
her.

“Yes, darling?”

“Let’s leave,” she said. “This is so uncomfortable.”

Malfoy took in her discomfited expression. He wanted Hermione to

get used to being around people sooner rather than later, but he also
didn’t like seeing her unhappy.

“Alright,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Five more minutes, okay?

Then we can go.”
Malfoy snagged a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray
and handed it to Hermione,

“Let’s speed this up,” Malfoy said to Dolohov. “Hermione wants to

leave.”

If Dolohov was surprised by Malfoy’s acquiescence to Hermione, he

hid it well.

“You want to go see the wands now?” Dolohov asked, picking at

something in his teeth. “I was just in the room-they said it’ll take
another hour at least to sort through them all…”

“I’ll head over now. You enjoy the party.”

“Cheers.”

Malfoy took hold of Hermione’s hand and crossed through the center
of the ballroom, headed for the formal entrance on the other side, the
entertaining foyer leading in from the formal Floo.

Guests eyed them.

There were more than a few raised eyebrows, more than a few
fluttering hand fans rising to cover titters and snide comments.
These weak, snake eyed aristocrats. All they knew how to do was
judge.

They were irrelevant to Malfoy. But he felt Hermione wilt under the
scrutiny.

He drew her closer and pressed his lips to the top of her head,
comforting her.

The sound of shattering glass exploded all around them; guests

exclaimed in shock. Champagne flutes, cocktail glasses-all of them
exploded, shattering right in people’s hands. Shards of crystal
sprayed onto the fronts of gowns, of robes; a woman cried out in
pain as a large piece cut her foot. One wizard seemed to have
gotten some in his eye.

Malfoy steered Hermione forward even as she froze in alarm at the

mayhem.

“They’re fine,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Broken crystal crunched under Malfoy’s shoes. He vanished the

shards in Hermione’s path. No more dirty glances.

The formal entrance to the entertaining hall was a tall, gilded set of
double doors. Through the doors was the massive Floo that all the
guests had arrived from.

One uniformed Floo attendant standing smartly at attention by the

fireplace. Another stood by the coat closet. Their faces were politely
neutral. Neither looked up when Hermione and Malfoy walked in.

Malfoy approached the coat closet. The attendant’s face went cold at
once. He stepped sharply into their path and seized Malfoy’s arm.

“Dissipadio,” Malfoy said, and the Floo attendant stepped to the side
once more, a polite smile on his face. “As you were.”

Hermione stared at the attendant, who didn’t seem to see her.

“What…?” she asked.

“Soldier golem,” Malfoy said. “It won’t hurt you.”

He pushed open the coat closet door and they entered.

Hermione froze in her tracks.

This room looked nothing like the bejeweled festivities they had just
left. It was large and cold, with stone floors and windowless walls.
Not a place for entertaining-a place of military business. Of war.
Twenty Death Eaters paced the room; they didn’t look up as Malfoy
and Hermione entered. Their focus was on the ground, on their task
at hand.

Neatly laid out on the stone floor were hundreds of wands.

“What?” Hermione whispered, staring.

Elm, cherry, oak-they lay flat like so many discarded hyphens, neatly
spaced in gleaming rows. Death Eaters walked among them, picking
them up one at a time in gloved hands. They murmured spells, then
placed the wands back down.

Once a wand was replaced on the floor, a red X appeared before it,
denoting it as a failed match.

Malfoy knew the sight would alarm Hermione; he would have rather
left her peacefully in the foyer, nibbling on her goat cheese puff. But
he didn’t feel comfortable separating himself from her.

“Only one minute,” he promised her.

He turned to face the Death Eaters.

“Progress?” he called.

The men looked up at the sound of his voice. The higher-rank ones
straightened up and dipped their heads, while the lower level
soldiers knelt.

Malfoy was third in command in the Dark forces-and in this room, he

was the highest ranking man. The second highest was Rookwood,
who stepped forward. He demonstrated no graceful deference; he
was used to being the most important person in the room, Malfoy
knew.

“One hundred and eighty-seven wands checked,” Rookwood said to

Malfoy, spitting on the ground. “A hundred and four left to go.”
“What is this?” Hermione whispered, staring at the wands on the
floor.

“Just something we’re working on,” Malfoy told Hermione. “No need
to be concerned.”

Rookwood let out a low, derisive laugh.

“Eccentric,” he said finally. “Even for you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy ignored him. He checked his wristwatch.

“Two hours until the party ends,” Malfoy called out to the room. “The
golem at the entry will stop anyone from retrieving their wands until
you’re done. If you find it, call me at once.”

Malfoy put his hand on Hermione’s hip and made to steer her away.

“What is this?” Hermione asked again, louder. She looked from

Malfoy to Rookwood, her eyes wide. “Why are you searching all
these wands?”

From behind Malfoy, Rookwood snorted disrespectfully.

“Curious little tart, isn't she?"

“Give me one second,” Malfoy said to Hermione.

He dropped a gentle, shimmering blinding charm on her, covering

her vision and hearing. She lifted her hands in surprise, groping in
the air, but Malfoy just caught her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

Then he took two striding steps forward and grabbed the back of
Rookwood’s head. In one forceful movement Malfoy slammed the
man onto the stone floor.

The sound of his head cracking against the stone was grotesque. An
over-loud, ringing crunch that echoed throughout the room.
None of the other Death Eaters moved. They watched silently. The
room was still but for Rookwood’s wet, choking sounds of pain.

A pool of blood spread below his head. He tried to lift himself up onto
his arms but Malfoy kicked him forcefully in the ribs, turning him over
onto his back.

Rookwood coughed up a spray of blood.

Malfoy crouched down, looking into Rookwood’s eyes.

“Too much,” Malfoy said calmly. “You understand me?”

Rookwood nodded. His mouth was slack and bloody, his eyes shut
with pain. Blood dripped down from his forehead, catching in the
corners of his eyes and trickling down the sides of his face to the
stone floor like inky tears.

“This was always your problem, Augustus.” Malfoy plucked a

handkerchief from Rookwood’s jacket pocket and wiped his hands.
“You think you’re above being respectful. But see where that gets
you? Crushed like an ant on the ground.”

Rookwood whimpered and Malfoy straightened up.

“You’re one man short now,” he said to the other Death Eaters,
tossing the soiled handkerchief onto Rookwood’s heaving chest. “But
the timeline stays the same, understand? Two hours. Let’s find that
wand.”

Malfoy cast a cleaning charm on his hand. Then he slipped his

fingers into Hermione’s and led her away.

Somewhat graphic violence, blood.

Chapter 14
Chapter 14

What were they doing with all those wands?

Hermione was still blind and deaf to the world, but the question hung
in her mind, as clear as though it were painted behind her eyelids.

The sheer number of Death Eaters in the room, the obvious

significance of this carefully orchestrated effort-what were they
doing?

She felt Malfoy return his hand to hers and begin walking away. She
followed blindly for a few steps, holding tight to his hand, and then
the charm around her eyes and ears dissipated.

They were out the door of the room, setting foot into the marble-
floored Floo foyer once more.

Hermione twisted around, trying to see back into the room with all
the Death Eaters and the wands. But the door had already closed,
the soldier golem standing beside it staring blankly ahead, keeping
guard at its post. Hermione hadn’t been aware that the Death Eaters
had begun to employ magical sentries, but she supposed it made
sense. The Death Eaters, evidently, had more important and careful
work to do than stand guard.

Hermione turned back around and looked up at Malfoy.

Unlike the golem, Malfoy’s face was unusually emotive. He looked

irritated, grim. A few strands of his white blond hair had come slightly
disheveled somehow; they hung loose over his forehead. He ran a
distracted hand through them, pushing them back into place.

“Malfoy,” she said quietly, trotting a little to keep up. “What was that?”
Malfoy was taking long strides, evidently distracted enough to be
going at his normal pace. His legs were longer. Did he usually walk
slowly, to let her keep up?

“Just had to talk to Rookwood about something,” Malfoy said.

He looked down and noticed her trotting.

“Sorry.” Malfoy slowed down and took her hand more securely in his.
“What were you saying?”

“The wands,” Hermione said, as Malfoy led her back into the main
ballroom.

It was louder in here than the Floo foyer had been. Three years in
hiding in the Order safe house had hardened Hermione against all
manner of things, but social stress was not one of them. It was
overwhelming. Hermione flinched involuntarily at the noise of the
conversating crowd, then again at a sudden burst of tinkling laughter
from a group of young witches walking past.

“The wands,” Malfoy repeated absently. “They’re nothing for you to

be concerned about.”

“I already know it can’t be the Elder wand,” Hermione insisted

stubbornly. The ballroom was much louder than the Floo foyer and
she clung close to him, committed to being heard. “That was
destroyed. Please-just tell me-?”

Malfoy looked at her out of the corner of his eye, seemingly amused
at her curiosity.

“I said no. Come on-you wanted to leave. Let’s go.”

Malfoy led the way through the ballroom. Hermione tamped down
frustration at his rejection.

She kept her head low, automatically trying to dodge the scrutiny and
judgment of the partygoers. But the guests seemed to be behaving
themselves much better after Malfoy had shattered all those glasses.

Hermione was relieved, but at the same time it was sort of chilling
that nobody seemed jarred by Malfoy’s casual use of violence. A
dozen smashed champagne flutes, a handful of shallow cuts on soft
fingers-apparently this was no unusual occurrence in the rarified and
sharp-toothed world of Dark regime aristocrats. The party went on,
the blood wiped, the crystal shards swept away and forgotten.

Malfoy and Hermione crossed undisturbed through the room,

towards the tall double doors that led to the rest. He took a long step
ahead of her to open the door and took her hand delicately to guide
her over the threshold. And then they were alone again, in the softly
lit, quiet hallway.

Hermione exhaled shakily, suddenly aware of how much even five

minutes at the party had taken out of her.

The door swung shut behind them, taking away the last of the noise
and the gleaming light from the party.

“God,” Hermione whispered in a quivering voice, she wiped her

hands on her dress. “That was a lot.”

Malfoy laughed quietly. He dipped his head to nose at her neck.

“Poor thing,” he hummed into her skin. “You did so well.”

Hermione shook herself, trying to clear her mind. She wanted to

focus on important things-objective, impartial things that she
understood, that weren’t so foreign as a party full of purebloods.

“The Death Eaters,” she finally said, remembering. She turned to

Malfoy, stopping in her tracks, trying to force a conversation. “Whose
wand are you looking for?"

Malfoy tutted.
“We made a deal,” he said. “We don’t talk about Death Eater things,
you don’t worry about the war. You agreed.”

When she was silent, he kissed her cheek and tried to take her hand
in his. But Hermione’s nerves were frayed thin-a surge of rebellious
obstinance rose in her and she snatched her hand out of his grasp.

“Just tell me,” she said, angrily this time.

Instantly she knew she had crossed some line. Malfoy just looked at
her for a moment, his eyes flat and unreadable.

A nervous shiver crawled over her.

“I think you should try that again,” he said quietly. “Politely this time,
like the good girl I know you are.”

“No,” Hermione said, but her voice had gone thin and nervous. “Just
tell me. Why did you even bring me into that room if you’re not going
to answer my questions?”

He took a slow step towards her.

“Why?” Malfoy repeated softly, as though considering the question.

There was the barest trace of mockery in his low, gentle voice. “Why,
indeed. Because I wanted you with me. Because I can bring you
wherever I like, without any other motivation other than wanting your
company. That’s my job, Hermione. Deciding where we go. Deciding
what you do. And your job, sweetheart, is to do as you’re told. That
was the deal we made, or don’t you remember?”

Hermione’s stomach twisted with a combination of anger and nerves.

Malfoy’s expression was cool and even. The sight of him like this-
unamused, stern-was nerve-wracking. She was reminded suddenly
of just how much larger he was than her, how much more collected,
full of barely contained violence. Hermione’s hand spasmed and
Malfoy’s gaze dropped immediately to it.
He clicked his tongue with concern and reached for her fingers,
presumably to examine them. But Hermione snatched her hand
stubbornly away. She misjudged the force of the movement. Her
hand hit the stone wall with a painful crack; her knuckles sang with
the impact.

“Ow,” she hissed, but the noise was abruptly cut off into a sharp
exhale when Malfoy pinned her against the wall.

He moved unbelievably quickly, like a shadow or a hunting animal.

He was in her space in the span of half a breath and Hermione
suddenly realized how much he must contain his speed and strength
around her. How terrifying it must for anyone who had to face him on
the battlefield.

Malfoy grabbed her jaw firmly in one large hand, tipping her head
back so she had to look up at him. His expression was stark and
shadowed in the dim light of the hall. His eyes were cold and stern,
his mouth a hard, grim line.

“You,” he said softly. “Are being very difficult.”

He pinned her against the wall a little more firmly.

“I am a patient man,” Malfoy breathed. He was so close to her, he

didn’t need to speak above a whisper for his words to make
goosebumps erupt on Hermione’s arms and neck. “Maybe not
towards everyone, but certainly towards you. Aren’t I, darling?”

Hermione nodded wordlessly, her eyes wide and fixed on his.

He caught her hand and this time Hermione let him. He lifted it
gently, carefully-as though he knew it was still hurting from the wall-
and held it up between them.

Hermione watched her own hand quiver, was forced to look at the
scraped skin on her knuckles and the worsened shaking.
“So you should know it upsets me very much,” he said, holding her
hand up a little higher. “When you damage something of mine.”

Hermione clamped her jaw tight, moving her gaze silently up to his.
Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm in her chest, the frenetic
heartbeat of a hare cornered by a tiger.

“I’ve told you before what I want from you,” Malfoy said, and all the
amusement had gone from his voice now. “And you told me you
could give it. That was our deal. But you’re under no Vow, Hermione.
So if you’ve had enough, just say so, hm? And I’ll let go of this pretty
little face, and I’ll take one big step back, to give you plenty of room.
And then you can run. I’ll even give you a head start.”

“And what will you do?” she asked, her voice breaking in anger and
misery. “Drag me back? Lock me in the dungeon and find a loophole
so you can abandon the Order?”

His eyes were shadowed in the darkness of the hall. The sharp
angles of his face stark, like he was carved out of stone.

“It really is anyone’s guess, isn’t it?” he asked.

“You’ll die,” Hermione said thickly. “If you break your Vow. You’ll die.”

He smiled without humor.

“Then run.”

Hermione didn’t move.

She just stared up at Malfoy, her breaths coming unsteadier, her

vision wobbling.

“I just wanted to know, okay?” she breathed finally, and her voice
broke pitifully. She was confused, frightened, weary. “I just-I just
wanted to know. I’m frightened for the Order. If your lot is doing
something-bad.”
Malfoy’s expression flickered for a moment. Sympathy, tenderness.

“Then you tell me that,” he said, more softly this time. “Alright? You
tell me you’re scared. You say-I’m frightened, that’s why I’m asking.
Make it better. You don’t jerk your hand away from me. You don’t
misbehave.”

“Even if I said all that, you wouldn’t tell me,” Hermione protested.

“Maybe that’s true,” Malfoy said, his eyes drilling into hers. “Or
maybe I’d be gentle with you. Maybe I’d tell you just enough so your
little heart doesn’t fret so much. I’m a Death Eater, Hermione, I’d say.
And everything I do is something you would consider bad. But you
don’t need to worry, because this wand business has nothing to do
with your Order.”

Hermione sagged against the wall with relief, her whole body
shaking. She nodded.

“I know that you’re still getting accustomed to giving over control,”

Malfoy said quietly. “I understand. But you’re a very clever witch,
aren’t you darling? So I hope you won’t need too many repeat
reminders that this is exactly what you signed up for.”

“It’s hard,” she admitted forcefully, blinking away tears. “To give you
control. I’ve never-“

To her surprise, Malfoy exhaled softly in pleasure at her words.

“I know,” he breathed. He dropped his face slowly to kiss her cheek,

her nose. He was all softness now, melting in response to her words.
“I know, sweetheart. But you’re doing such a good job. You’re
working so hard on it for me, aren’t you?”

Hermione didn’t understand him, didn’t understand the shape of his

desires. She’d never met anyone who wanted what he wanted.
In this moment, in the dim and lushly quiet hall, Malfoy seemed to
her something darker and more complicated than a man.

“Yes,” she whispered finally. It was an honest answer. “I am. I’m

working so hard on it.”

Malfoy let out a soft breath. it was almost a groan.

“My beautiful, clever girl.”

Once they were back in his bedroom, Hermione curled under his
covers at once. She didn’t take off her dress, she didn’t even take off
her shoes.

She wrapped the downy blankets around her and buried her face in
them.

Malfoy stood at the foot of the bed for a while, hands in his pockets,
just watching her.

“Shoes off,” he said finally. “And shower first. Then we can go to

bed.”

It was barely nine at night. Hermione thought about protesting.

But she was tired. The straps of her shoes were cutting into her. And
she felt sticky and uncomfortable.

So she got unsteadily out of bed and kicked the heels off. Malfoy
hummed happily and kissed her cheek. He picked up the heels and
went to the closet to return them to their shelf. Hermione followed
him and turned away from him, waiting for him to unzip her dress.

Malfoy kissed the back of her neck, then her shoulder, then her arm.
He unzipped her dress and let it fall to the ground, pooling around
her ankles in a crumpled heap.
Hermione covered her chest with her arms, but Malfoy didn’t try to
look at her. He carefully brushed her hair to one side, letting his
fingers drag through the curls in delicate, reverent motions.

He dipped his head to kiss her collarbone.

He paused.

“Can I shower with you?” he asked quietly, his breath tickling her
skin.

“Um,” Hermione said. She swallowed. “Maybe next time?”

Malfoy didn’t protest. He kissed her temple and squeezed her hip,
then let her go.

Hermione showered alone, the whole huge marble shower all to

herself; Malfoy sat on the rim of the tub in the bathroom and waited.
The glass walls of the shower were steamy and he was far enough
away that she felt comfortable with her privacy. He seemed content
to just be in her company.

Rose-scented shampoo, creamy pink conditioner. Foaming body

wash that smelled like vanilla and milk. Hermione took her time,
feeling her muscles relax in the fragrant steam.

He dried her with a large, fluffy towel after the shower, then helped
her into a nightgown. Malfoy handed her some Dittany oil with a firm
instruction to rub it into her fingers and palms before undressing for
the shower himself.

She left quickly as he took off his shirt, her eyes averted from his
body.

Hermione clambered into bed, wrapping herself once more in

covers. She dripped some Dittany on her palm and rubbed it into the
skin. She was careful to try not to spill any on the soft bedding,
worried about getting oil stains onto the fabric.
The room was warm and comfortable. Hermione was tired. In the
soft cocoon of the bed, her skin warm and her hair lightly damp from
the shower, she grew drowsy rapidly. The smell of Dittany oil was
comforting, and it made her hands hurt less.

By the time Malfoy finished showering and joined her-shirtless and in

loose pajama trousers, one hand still toweling his blond hair dry-her
fingers had stopped shaking entirely. Malfoy stepped forward and
wordlessly picked up her hand, examining it front and back, before
nodding and turning to finish drying his hair.

She set the bottle of Dittany to the side, watching him.

It occurred to Hermione suddenly that, unlike the previous night -how

was it possible for it to have been only one long day so far?- she
didn’t have the fugue of Calming Draught working in her favor.
Maybe Malfoy was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of
her when she was inebriated, but now she was unmedicated.

What if he wanted to fuck her?

She imagined his hands on her, maneuvering her easily into place,
tossing her into whatever position he liked. Imagined him crawling on
top of her, whispering things to her-

Hermione’s heart lurched. Would he let her ask for more time before
she had to give that to him? Maybe she should ask for Calming
Draught again..?

“I’m not going to do anything,” Malfoy said, as though he’d read her
mind. His back was still turned to her. “I just want to hold you.”

“Okay,” she said, light-headed with relief.

“But I’m going to keep my shirt off,” Malfoy continued, dropping the
towel into a hamper in the corner of the room. He turned to look at
her and Hermione darted a glance over his bare chest, his muscled
stomach. “I sleep like that, usually. And I want you pressed against
my skin.”

“Okay,” Hermione said quietly, trying to avoid looking at the trail of

dark blond hair on his stomach, leading down under his pants. “Do I
have to undress…?”

“Not unless you want to.”

“Okay,” Hermione said again.

She sat in bed, watching him as he flicked off lights and reinforced
the wards on the windows. Malfoy blew out her little candle last,
which Hermione had forgotten was even still burning. She liked the
room more, with her candle in it.

Without the lights and candle off, the room settled comfortably into
darkness. Malfoy left the windows uncurtained, letting in the faintly
moonlit tinted glow of blue-black night.

He came towards the bed and Hermione held very still, still sitting
up, nervous to move at all. One of his hands found her waist; Malfoy
pushed her so she lay flat on her back, then he entered the bed.

The mattress shifted under her, drawing her a little closer to him.

“Pretty girl,” he said softly into her ear. “Did you have a good day?”

Being with him, so close, was overwhelming. Lights off, darkness

covering them both. He could do anything to her-she wouldn’t be
able to see, nobody would be able to see a thing, if he pulled her
clothes off-

“It was long,” Hermione said, distracted.

Malfoy drew her closer, burying his face into her neck and her hair.
She felt each of his breaths against her skin.
He made a low, vibrating noise of satisfaction and gripped her thigh-
he dragged her lower body a little closer to his.

Hermione couldn’t tell if he was hard, and she didn’t know if she’d
rather have that information or not. She shifted slightly, trying to
figure out where along his body she was wedged, and he laughed
knowingly. Hermione’s face heated.

“Go to sleep,” Malfoy said. His voice was slow and drowsy. “Turn
your face against my chest. I want to feel your nose and mouth
against me.”

Hermione did so.

“Like this?” she asked against his skin.

“Yes,” he said. His chest rumbled against her face. “Perfect.”

Her breaths were directly against his skin; so close she worried
about it bothering him. Wouldn’t it be warm, or-moist? But Malfoy
seemed nearly drunk with satisfaction.

He kissed the top of her head, then her temple, then the top of her
head again. He trailed a hand down her hip, then squeezed her
close to him.

Hermione felt his body begin to relax. He was all alert muscles and
strong frame; even when he untensed it felt controlled. Like a tightly
wound machine switching off for the night.

Was he vulnerable like this with anyone else?

“Don’t move,” he instructed in a lazy hum. “Alright? Stay here.”

Hermione closed her eyes, surprised at how easy it was to relax in

such a firm embrace.

“Okay,” she said into his skin. “Goodnight.”

When Hermione woke up, it was early. The sunlight coming through
the windows was weak and cool.

Her cheek was still resting on Malfoy’s chest. She had drooled on
him a little in her sleep; she wiped at his skin quickly, trying to get the
wet off.

He caught her hand and returned it to her side.

“Leave it,” he murmured. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sorry,” she said hoarsely. Her eyelids were still heavy.

They were tangled together, and it was shockingly like waking up

with-a boyfriend. So normal. The sheets had come loose and twisted
at some point in the night. One of Hermione’s legs was on top of the
blanket, resting over Malfoy’s knees. Her nightgown had ridden up a
little in the process and she quickly pulled her leg back under the
covers and tugged down the satin hem, covering herself.

His body was large and warm and steady next to her. He smelled
good. Masculine.

Hermione clenched her thighs together, then instantly hated herself.

She was unaccustomed to sharing a bed with someone, that was all.
Hermione had been lonely for a long time.

She sat up, already feeling the sleepy languor disappear in favor of
tensed, alert muscles. She put some space between them.

“What are you doing?” asked Malfoy. His voice was low and drowsy.

“I thought you usually exercised in the mornings,” she said evasively,

shifting further still away.

“I‘ll skip today. I didn’t want to leave bed.”

“Okay.”
Hermione got out of bed, tugging the hem of her nightgown down to
make sure it covered her. She went to the closet. A moment later,
she heard Malfoy get out of bed and follow her.

Her nightgown was thin and she shivered. Malfoy entered the closet
but she didn’t want to meet his eyes, she stared instead at the
hanging clothing.

“You’re nervous?” Malfoy asked, standing behind her.

Hermione didn’t know how to answer. She shrugged. Malfoy was

silent a moment, but didn’t pry further.

He reached past her and pulled a hanger off the rod.

“Take your pajamas off,” he said. “Let’s get you dressed.”

She took of her nightgown but didn’t have to shed her underwear, for
which she was grateful.

Hermione didn’t know what day of the week it was. And anyway, she
didn’t expect that a Death Eater adhered to anything so
commonplace as weekdays and weekends.

It was Saturday, it turned out. Malfoy told her when she asked.

But there was work for him to do.

They started their day in his office, with Hermione choosing another
book off his shelf and settling onto the ottoman near his desk. She
had two cups of honeyed tea and a chocolate biscotti.

Malfoy had black coffee. He pored silently over documents. They

remained in companionable silence for most of the morning until a
sudden, unexpected tapping on the window.

Hermione dropped the book, startled. She looked up to find a

ghostly, semi-transparent owl at the glass. It rapped impatiently at
the glass, a small envelope clutched in its opalescent beak. Another
magical sentry, in the shape of an owl this time. More secure, more
reliable.

Malfoy looked at it for a moment, then stood.

He waved a hand, releasing a ward of some kind, and the phantom

owl stepped through the glass.

It dropped the envelope into Malfoy’s palm and then flew silently
away, the beating of its wings noiseless as darkness.

Malfoy read the note with hard eyes. He tossed it into the fire and the
flames turned green. Floo powder imbued in the fibers of the
parchment?

“I have to go for a bit,” he said to Hermione. “I’ll be back in an hour or

two.”

“Where are you going?”

“The Commander wants to see me,” he said, his mouth twisting

wryly. “I’m to explain why we’ve failed yet again to find the wand.”

Malfoy examined Hermione, and she wondered if he was deciding

whether to bring her or not.

Finally, he turned away.

“I’ll have the servants prepare lunch for you. I should be back for
dinner.”

Hermione didn’t know who the Commander was. Nobody on the

Order’s side did. She knew better than to ask, but she couldn’t help
but worry that perhaps a visit to the Commander was dangerous in
some way. Voldemort had tortured people when they failed him.
Surely his successor-vicious enough to have taken Voldemort’s spot,
after all-would be no kinder.
“What if something happens?”

Malfoy smiled at her.

“Worried about me?”

“Yes,” she said, refusing to be embarrassed. “And me.”

“If you need me, hold the signet ring in your hand and squeeze. I’ll
come back immediately. And don’t worry about me. I can take care of
the both of us just fine. I have more than enough strength for that.”

“You don’t want me to come?”

Malfoy smiled again and touched her cheek.

“You can stay here,” he asked quietly. “Away from everything out
there. Keeping everything here warm and soft.”

She just looked at him, then nodded.

Malfoy checked his watch, then kissed her cheek.

He stepped into the green flames of the Floo, and in the split second
before he disappeared, Hermione saw his Death Eater robes appear
around him. She saw the edge of his mask flicker into place. And
then he was gone.

Hermione spent only a few more minutes in his office, half-heartedly

reading more of his books. But she grew antsy and soon started to
wander around the house.

Previously, she had been driven by purpose to search every corner,

to try to find possible points of escape, or helpful information for the
Order. But now those concerns were no longer relevant.

She walked slowly through the vast halls instead, trying to divert
herself by looking at the paintings and the sculptures.
The house was hushed and silent. As still as a tomb. Hermione
wondered what it had been like before she arrived. Had Malfoy just
walked around like this, in the dry, unmoving silence? Surrounded by
lifeless furniture and beautiful art. Like a pharaoh’s ghost, she
thought, as she traced her finger over a gold and lapis lazuli vase.

His life, she decided, seemed rather lonely. Perhaps that was why
Pansy and Nott lived here, too.

As though on cue, footsteps broke the silence behind her.

She spun around and backed up a little into the vase, then had to
dart her hand out to keep it steady on its plinth.

“You scared me,” she said to Nott.

He looked hungover.

He was in a rumpled but somehow still elegant-looking brown suit,

and he squinted in the sunlight streaming in from a nearby, velvet-
curtain framed window.

“You left the party early,” he said idly, coming to a stop beside her.

He looked at the vase with an amused smile, as though wondering

why Hermione was being so proletariat as to admire a decorative
item.

“I’m surprised you remember anything,” she said. “Who gets that
drunk at their own engagement party?”

He snorted but didn’t respond.

Hermione pressed her lips together and returned her gaze to the
vase.

“You shouldn’t have stared at me so much,” Hermione said. “It made

me uncomfortable. And I could tell Malfoy didn’t like it.”
“What a well-behaved little pet you are,” Nott said, sounding
shockingly unrepentant. Wasn’t he afraid of Malfoy’s wrath? “So
attentive to your owner’s needs.”

Shame and anger curled in Hermione’s stomach.

“Just leave me alone,” she said, her voice hollow. “I don’t need your
judgment, or your dirty insinuations. You have no idea what it’s like
being in my position.”

“I could talk about positions with you all day,” Nott said easily. “But
we have rather more interesting things to discuss, I think.”

“I’m still not ready to make any deal with you, if that’s what you’re
talking about,” she said, walking away.

The hallway was wide and long and high-ceilinged, and each step of
her slippered feet made an echoing little tap on the marble, muffled
only when she paced over the stretches of carpet lining the stone.

Nott followed her. His shoes were louder.

“Dare I ask if you’re growing comfortable in captivity?” he asked.

“Why are you doing this?” Hermione asked angrily. “Don’t you have a
fiancée to spend time with? Leave me alone.”

“Pansy and I are engaged only in name,” he said coolly. His strides
were long and he kept up with her effortlessly, even as Hermione
sped up. “I’m quite unattached otherwise, you know.”

“Well I have no interest in being your diversion,” Hermione said,

wheeling on him suddenly. “You’re going to get me killed. You might
be a peer and-some sort of friend to Malfoy, but I’m not. Your little
games here have real consequences for me. If Malfoy thought I was-
I was conspiring with you , or something-”

Nott took a slow step closer to her and Hermione stepped back at
once.
“Don’t even think about it,” she hissed shakily. “If you’re bored in
your shitty, fake marriage, find a socialite to pester. I’m not here for
your amusement.”

“No,” Nott said quietly. His black eyes were flat. “Only Draco’s, I
suppose.”

“I could have you killed,” Hermione said without thinking, letting each
word drop with meaningful force. “He would do it for me. You know
he would.”

There was a heavy silence.

Nott raised his eyebrows and Hermione felt her cheeks flood with
color.

“I’m only operating in the world I find myself in,” she said defensively.
“I have no wand, I have no power. But I have Malfoy. Don’t think I
won’t use him to protect myself.”

“How terribly Slytherin of you,” Nott said, and he sounded impressed.

“I must admit being Draco’s pet suits you. You wear that collar like a
crown.”

He took a polite step back and Hermione relaxed by a fraction.

“You’ll be happy to know that I didn’t find you today to chase your
skirt,” Nott said, flicking a piece of dust off his sleeve. “Do you want
to know why I am here?”

Hermione just looked at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of

answering. She waited for him to tell her. He just looked back at her,
eyebrows lifted, challenging her.

Hermione caved.

“Tell me, then.”

“I’m here,” Nott said slowly, seemingly enjoying this very much.
“Because Shacklebolt has a message for you.”

Hermione stopped breathing.

And then cold shock crashed over her, so destabilizing that for a
moment Hermione seemed to float above her body, examining
herself in the vast hallway with Nott.

Shacklebolt? A message for her?

“What?” she whispered, frozen.

“Oh yes,” Nott said calmly. “Do you want to hear it?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Yes-of course.”

Nott took out his wand from his trouser pocket and waved it elegantly
in the air.

A flickering image of Kingsley appeared in the hall. Devoid of color, a

grey and black facsimile of life.

Hermione fought for breath, stepping closer instinctively. That was

him. But it was a pre-recorded message, he stared past her,
unseeing.

“Hermione,” he said, and that was his voice too. It crackled briefly as
though with static, then grew stronger and clearer. “I’m not sure if
Nott will deliver this to you. He says he will, but you know Slytherins.
We’re coming to break you out. We need you back here, the injuries
are-well, we need you back here. I hope you’re alive. If you’re alright,
send word back with Nott, something only you would say. I’ll be
waiting.”

The message ended.

Chapter 15
Chapter 15

Malfoy stepped out of the Floo and into a cold, dark foyer. The green
flames behind him sputtered out at once. Ash settled onto the hearth,
barely noticeable against the thick layer of dust and grime that was
already there.

The Commander’s house was derelict. Crumbling. Those who had

never seen it might have been surprised at its deteriorated condition-
the Dark Regime was more successful than it had ever been, its
coffers full with Ministry money. So why would its leader live like this?

Malfoy knew why. It was because the Commander didn’t care about
the cause, or the wealth, or the power.

The Commander didn’t care about much of anything at all.

This was evident in the flagrant disrepair of everything in the house.

The marble of the floors was completely shattered in places, victim
to misfired spells or simply the ravages of time. Great cracked pieces
crunched under Malfoy’s boots and disintegrated into grainy dust
beneath his feet. He looked down with a grimace and shook his
head.

The smell was terrible too. Rot and decay, moldy curtains and
peeling wallpaper. Malfoy tightened the mask around his face. He
wanted to be home. Where his room smelled like cinnamon candles
and he had a girl whose hair smelled like roses. Malfoy understood
now, the stories of ruthless emperors and generals who worshipped
at the feet of their wives. Hermione brought him comfort and
pleasure he simply could not get anywhere else.

He continued on his way through the dark, shuttered hall and

towards the Commander’s throne room. It was behind a huge set of
wooden doors, in no better condition than the rest of the house. The
wood was molding and splintered. One of the doors hung at an
angle, askew on a broken hinge.

Malfoy laid his palm flat against the non-broken door and entered.

It was brighter in here, though no less dusty. Malfoy removed his

mask and squinted at the morning sunlight, streaming palely in from
a single large, unshuttered window at the head of the room.

In front of that window stood the Commander. She was looking out at
the blackened, dead grounds of the estate.

“Hello, mother,” Malfoy said, taking a seat on the sofa.

Narcissa gave him a vague sort of wave but didn’t look away from
the window.

Malfoy was sitting in what had once been the entertaining center of
the room. Dusty scotch glasses stood on the table, untouched from
the last time social visitors had been here, years ago. There was an
empty liquor bottle on the ground. Malfoy nudged it away with the toe
of his shoe and it rolled unsteadily to the wall before resting there
with a defeated clink.

The noise went unacknowledged by Narcissa, but the owl next to her
shuffled its feathers in reproach. It had been sleeping.

It was the same ghostly, semi-translucent eagle owl that had

delivered the note to Malfoy this morning; it hooted now and flew to
him, settling on the arm of the sofa.

“Hello, Dumbo,” Malfoy said, scratching the owl’s feathered head. “I

see my mother refuses to let you rest in your grave.”

“It’s only a replica,” Narcissa said absently. “Your real old owl is
buried on the grounds, Draco. You know that.”
She touched the glass of the window with her fingertips. She
reminded Malfoy of a woman in a dream.

“Poor Dumbo…” Narcissa sighed. “He brought you so many sweets

from me, all those years you were at school. Do you remember?”

“Come now,” Malfoy said, letting the owl rub its beak against his
index finger. “Let’s remain in the here and now, shall we?”

It was a joke. The here and now held nothing of interest for Narcissa.
Old photographs from ten or more years in the past were
everywhere here in the throne room. Some behind shattered frames,
some whole. Moving images of Lucius and Narcissa, smiling and
laughing, not stiff like the formal portraits hanging in the halls of this
house. Some of the framed photographs included a small, serious-
faced childhood Draco.

This whole room was filled with things that had been untouched
since the early days of the war.

There was only one object here that was new. The shattered, ruby-
hilted sword of Gryffindor, mounted on display above Narcissa’s
throne. It was the sword that had killed Voldemort.

Ex dolore vires, read the iron words beneath it.

From grief comes strength.

Narcissa walked to her throne and settled quietly upon her place
beneath the sword.

“How are you?” she asked Malfoy, finally meeting his eyes.

“Fine,” Malfoy said, withdrawing his hand from Dumbo. “All is well,
for the most part. Pansy and Theodore are still guests in my home,
which nobody is enjoying…”

“I’ve already told you,” Narcissa reprimanded, and there was a faint
hint of the gracious, propriety-minded mother that she had once
been. “It’s only right to help your old friends. The Parkinsons are up
to their throats in debt. You are to host their daughter until the
wedding is over.”

Malfoy exhaled with irritation.

“Certainly,” he said.

Dumbo fluttered its wings, stretching the plumage out, and for a
moment both Malfoy and his mother watched it. He wondered if she,
like him, was thinking about the beautiful sable white color of the real
Dumbo’s feathers. The hue was lost, in this sentry replica.

“You still haven’t found the wand,” Narcissa said finally. Dully.

"No," Malfoy said. "It wasn't among the guests' wands at the
engagement party. I'm continuing the search."

"I need it. You ought to pull all your soldiers off the other projects,
divert all of our resources-"

“You have no hope of finding that wand unless the regime remains in
power,” Malfoy said irritably. “I've told you. We can't just drop
everything to chase ghosts."

Narcissa made a displeased click of her tongue, then looked away.

Malfoy regretted speaking harshly to her.

"We'll find it," he said. "We've ruled out the wands of almost
everyone who was there that night. Sooner or later we'll find it, and I
will deliver it to you."

“I know you think I'm stupid,” Narcissa said absently, letting her
fingers trail over an array of objects on a cluttered table next to her.
Sentimental tokens, old family heirlooms.

Her fingers landed on a gold-framed photo of her and Lucius on their

wedding day.
“I never said that,” Malfoy said softly.

Narcissa ignored him, gazing at the photo. A lifetime of love and loss
flickered over her pale face. She put the photo down, as though
unable to bear looking at it for a moment longer. She picked up a
large hourglass instead, set inside a brass frame. She turned it
upside down and watched the fine sand trickle into the bottom
chamber.

"Mother," Malfoy said, trying to keep her focus here. But Narcissa
just gave him an irritated look.

"This was a gift from Lucius's mother," she said to Malfoy. "She gave
it to me on my birthday, the first year Lucius and I were married. I
think she was hinting that she wanted an heir soon…"

Narcissa smiled at the memory, years of worry lifting from her thin,
pale face.

“Oh, we were thrilled when you were born,” she said, gazing fondly
into the stream of falling sand. “Our sweet little boy. A Malfoy heir.
You were so full of yourself, back in your Hogwarts days. Do you
remember? You and the Parkinson girl. And those Crabbe and Goyle
boys… you all came over the summer holiday to swim in our pool.
The kitchen staff used to make you ice cream.”

Her eyes were soft and happy.

“I do remember,” Malfoy said.

“And your friends were teasing you and teasing you,” she continued
dreamily, as though she hadn’t heard him. “And Lucius asked them
why, and they said: Draco thinks a Gryffindor girl is pretty. A
mudblood.”

Malfoy stilled. His jaw tightened.

“Your father was furious, of course,” she went on quietly. “I never did
forgive him for hitting you in front of your friends like that.”

Malfoy preferred not to relive this memory.

“I thought plenty of girls were pretty,” he said coolly. “I was twelve.”

“Yes,” she laughed. “My romantic of a son.”

“I’m not a schoolboy any longer.”

Narcissa looked at him for a moment. Her smile faded.

“No,” she agreed quietly, resting the hourglass in her lap. “You
certainly aren’t. You stole the Granger girl from the Order, I heard.
Bella told me.”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted. He looked away, then sighed.

“She had guard duty while I was infiltrating the Surrey safe house,”
he said. “I decided I wanted to take her home with me. A little-
company.”

“I understand,” Narcissa said. “Nothing wrong with trying to find

some companionship. And these stupid blood purity delineations…
Pointless. As though that’s what we should be focused on…”

Her voice suddenly cut into silence. Malfoy looked at her and saw
she was staring into the hourglass once more, her eyes haunted and
red-rimmed.

Narcissa dragged one slender finger down the thick walls of the
hourglass. A tear dripped down her cheek. Then another.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in there,” Narcissa whispered.

“Drowning under all that sand. Do you know what I mean, darling?
Like the world ripped in half when your father died, and now I'm a
prisoner in the wrong half. Trapped in the wrong life, watching all the
wrong things happen through the glass…”
Her breath caught and she rested her head on the top of the
hourglass. Her shoulders quaked from silent sobs.

“Lucius…” she whispered, her voice agonized. “I need you here.”

Malfoy watched her for a moment, then stood. He gave Narcissa a

kiss on her tear-streaked cheek, which she didn’t acknowledge, and
then left the room. She didn’t seem to notice or care.

He had tried to comfort his mother in the past, but no longer. He

knew now the best way to help her was to be emotionless enough
for the both of them.

Malfoy didn’t return home right away.

Being back at his family manor was always an unsettling affair, and
after a moment of hesitation Malfy took a dusty bottle of brandy from
a shelf in the parlor and uncorked it.

He drank from the bottle while walking through the barren grounds of
his ancestral home.

This place was a dump. Cracked paved paths, ancient roots

overgrown, twisting through gravel and strangling desiccated roses
bushes. It was like a graveyard. Why did his mother insist on staying
here? When would she give up on this foolish endeavor?

He stopped in front of the Malfoy family graves. Staring at Lucius’s

headstone, Malfoy brought the bottle to his mouth and took another
deep swig.

“You old bastard,” he muttered. “Mother’s lost her mind over you.
God only knows why.”

But he poured out a splash of liquor onto the grave anyway. Lucius
had always been partial to brandy.
Malfoy paced through the tombstones, glancing unseeingly at the
crumbled, illegible names of his ancestors, pulling deep, thoughtless
swigs from the bottle. Not until the bottle was mostly empty did he
realize this brandy had been part of Lucius’s old extra proof stash.
For when getting drunk off normal liquor was just too slow.

“Ah, fuck,” Malfoy muttered, tossing the bottle into a dried up patch
of cracked mud where a pond used to be.

A final joke from his dead father, it seemed like. What might Lucius
have said, if he could see this?

Don’t filch liquor from me unless you can actually hold it, boy.

Malfoy snorted humorlessly, then stumbled ungracefully to a seat on

a stone bench. He rubbed his face and groaned.

His vision swam dangerously, and Malfoy regretted drinking. He had

things to do after this, things he’d planned to do to help the Order.
He owed Hermione progress, after all. The Vow burned in him, a
reminder of all he’d promised.

After a few minutes Malfoy stood, swaying, testing his balance.

He Apparated away.

The mountains outside Hogsmeade were covered in a thin and

growing dusting of snow. It had been an unseasonably warm winter
in most of England, but here at this altitude the winds were cold and
biting.

It was a good thing Malfoy had some liquor in his stomach to keep
him warm.

Somewhere on this mountain were three young Death Eaters,

silently tracking Nymphadora Tonks through the snow. They were
going to kill her today.
Malfoy had trained these very soldiers, actually, a year or so ago
when they’d been recruited. He knew exactly how they would
approach an operation like this, knew that they’d take the longer
road, up the western side of the mountain, to avoid being spotted by
sharp-eyed Order sympathizers in the village. He knew that they
would have planned this mission with severe accuracy, timing their
progress down the second.

So, unfortunately for them, Malfoy knew exactly where and when to
intercept their trajectory.

The first two Death Eaters didn’t even see him coming. They were
hunched behind a large craggy dune of snow, checking a compass.
Malfoy slit their throats quickly and without fanfare, catching their
bodies so they wouldn’t make a sound as they collapsed onto the
snow. No magic-he didn’t want to leave a magical signature behind.

But the third man had been elsewhere, and Malfoy hadn’t expected
that. Soldiers weren’t supposed to go off on their own at rest points
like this, they were supposed to stay and keep watch. How ironic that
the one Death Eater to have caught Malfoy unawares was the least
disciplined one.

The soldier even had time to draw his wand.

Malfoy made short work of him anyway, but it was messier. Plus,
Malfoy was very drunk-his reflexes were a hair too slow and the man
managed to land an injury before he died.

The gash was in Malfoy's bicep, moderately deep and bleeding

heavily.

"Fuck," Malfoy muttered, furious with himself.

The injury wasn't serious, but it indicated a sloppiness that Malfoy

detested. He tied the sleeve of his robe tightly above the wound,
trying to stop the flow of blood. Now he had to be careful not to get
his blood on the snow. Blood was as good as a magical signature.
He wrapped his arm down to the elbow, then cast a glance at the
crimson soaked snow all around. He tried to decide which would be
more damning, his blood on the scene or his magical signature.

Finally, he picked up the third dead soldier’s wand and used it to

burn the snow, until the ice was steam and the blood was burnt
carbon. Then, swaying, Malfoy snapped the wand and tossed it to
the ground.

He started the journey down the mountain, deciding to at least keep

his Healing spell and Apparition for when he was further away.

The trek was drunk and miserable. A kilometer or so away from the
corpses, Malfoy decided it was safe enough to Heal his arm. The
wound was still tender but at least it was scarring now instead of
bleeding openly. Then he cast one more spell-a weather charm,
which thickened the fall of snow all around him. That would cover the
bodies and his tracks, and hopefully it would be days before the
incident was discovered.

Malfoy Apparated back to his bedroom, still cursing his father’s extra
proof brandy.

The first thing he did was change out of his bloody Death Eater
robes. Hermione wouldn't want to see him in those.

She would probably be pleased that he helped the Order though,

wouldn't she? He wanted to make her happy. Just being back in this
house and seeing all the little signs of her living here was enough to
soothe Malfoy's soul. The rumpled, soft sheets of their recently slept
in bed. Hermione’s nightgown from that morning, folded loosely on a
shelf where he'd left it when he undressed her.

Malfoy would have been perfectly happy if the entire universe ended
just at these walls, and the only thing to do into eternity was spend
his days with her. But that seemed like the sort of thing he ought to
keep to himself, at risk of unsettling her.
“Hermione,” Malfoy called, pacing into the living room. "Where are
you, sweetheart?"

Hermione heard Malfoy calling for her and her nerves shattered. She
had hoped to have more time to collect herself before he returned.

She was pacing in a tight circle in one of the many unused parlors of
Malfoy's house. Nott had long gone upstairs, propelled by
Hermione's insistence that she couldn't talk to him right now, that
surely Malfoy would be home any moment ("Oh, yes," Nott had said
with dark amusement. "Don't want to get into trouble with daddy do
we?").

She pressed her hands to her eyes. Easy enough for Nott to be an
arse. She was the one who spent all her time with Malfoy, she was
the one that would have to keep this secret from him.

For a brief, burning moment, Hermione hated Nott. She even hated
Kingsley. Their proposition had brought a new and ugly complication
into her life. She'd been doing fine- she'd cut a deal with Malfoy that
was saving Order lives. And now, against her will, Kingsley and Nott
had come and shoved a new responsibility into her hands. Now she
would have to keep their secret. And how, pray tell, did they expect
her to hide this from Malfoy? Malfoy, who devoted most of his days
paying attention to her?

Hermione hadn't told Nott as much yet, but she was fairly certain that
she would be rejecting Kinsley's offer to break her out. And that
would be its own nightmare. They would think she was a traitor, or at
minimum a stupid girl who had decided to choose comfort over
principles. And she would just have to accept that. She couldn't tell
them about Malfoy's Vow, after all. Neither Nott or Kingsley were
likely to keep that information to themselves.

And Hermione needed the Vow to stay hidden.

Because Hermione didn't want Malfoy to die.

She rubbed her face, her hands trembling.

“Stupid,” she muttered to herself. “That’s not the right way to be

thinking about this-”

“Hermione?” came Malfoy’s voice again. Hermione wiped her cheeks

quickly.

“I’m here,” she called. “I’m coming.”

He was in the living room, and Hermione spent the entire short walk
there steeling herself for his cold, penetrating gaze. That gaze that
seemed to always be able to read every single thing about her.

But it was not a coolly collected, sharp-eyed version of Malfoy that

greeted her in the living room. Hermione stopped in her tracks,
confused.

Malfoy looked-unsteady. He swayed on his feet a little, and given

how tall and broad he was this was an especially alarming sight. He
also appeared to be looking for Hermione under throw blankets on
the sofa, like he was expecting her to be under a decorative pillow.

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked warily.

He looked up instantly at the sound of her voice, then caught his

balance with a hand on the back of the sofa.

"There you are," he said, collapsing into the sofa with a smile.
"C'mere, love. What did you do while I was gone?"

Hermione laughed out loud and Malfoy scrunched his nose in

reprimand at her amusement. His face was much more relaxed than
normal, his emotions more easily read.

"Malfoy," Hermione said, dropping into the seat next to him. "Are you
drunk?"
He squinted an eye and made a comme ci, comme ça sort of hand
gesture.

"A little," he admitted.

“Look at you," she marveled, taking in the show that was an

inebriated Draco Malfoy. "You’re a wreck.”

“A wreck,” he repeated. “Do you like wrecks?"

“What happened? Did you drink with the Commander?"

Malfoy made a face, like he didn't want to talk about it. He took her
hand instead, and though Hermione was usually skittish around
large, drunk men, she somehow knew Malfoy would be gentle with
her.

She was right. Malfoy just brought her hand delicately up to his lips
and kissed her knuckles.

“I missed you,” he said with an uncharacteristically crooked smile.

It was incredibly sweet.

So sweet that, very unexpectedly, a tide of guilt came over

Hermione.

She hadn't considered the possibility of guilt. The feeling that she
was lying to someone who was being very good to her. Nott was a
guest in Malfoy's home, and he was disloyal. Shouldn't Malfoy
know?

But Hermione couldn’t betray an Order spy.

“What’s wrong?” Malfoy asked.

“Nothing,” Hermione said quickly. "You're back earlier than I thought

you would be. Do you want to have lunch together..?"
Malfoy looked unsatisfied by her change of topic. Hermione found
herself hoping, cowardly, that he might just decide to use
Legilimency on her. Then he would know everything, and it wouldn't
be her fault at all. But Malfoy gave no sign of wanting to force his
way into her mind.

“What’s the matter?” Malfoy asked, kissing her cheek. He sounded

more concerned this time. “Talk to me.”

"I'm just tired."

That had been an excuse that had always worked at the safe house.
Nobody cared enough to push for more of a reason than that, but
Malfoy clicked his tongue, clearly displeased.

"Hermione."

“No, no, it’s fine,” Hermione said, frantic now with her dwindling
supply of excuses. “I’m just tired. I missed you. Now we can relax
together…”

She slid along the cushion to his side, then rested her head on his
shoulder. She picked up a book she’d left here earlier and opened it
to her bookmark.

Malfoy just watched her for a moment. Hermione was sure that the
bit of her forehead that was visible to him over the top of her book
was pink. She was no master of secrecy.

But, to her surprise, Malfoy sighed. She felt him lean down to press
his mouth to the top of her head.

“You don’t want to tell me?” he coaxed quietly. His breath warmed
her hair.

“I’m sure you could read my mind, if it matters that much to you."

“I was taught that it’s very unromantic for gentlemen to read the
thoughts of ladies.”
Hermione gave him a very skeptical look. She doubted propriety
dictated Malfoy’s security measures.

He rolled his eyes, like he knew what she was thinking.

"That ring around your neck tells me the important stuff," he

admitted. "Mostly, it lets me know if you're in danger. Afraid for your
life. Nothing else though. All the other stuff in your head, I want to
hear from your own pretty mouth."

He kissed her playfully at these last words, then nosed at her cheek.
Hermione turned towards him, smiling in spite of herself.

"Then don't pry," Hermione scolded, still leaning into his kisses.

Malfoy bit her cheek lightly and she giggled.

"I'll ask again later," he said, leaning back into the sofa.

Hermione picked her book back up, hoping that this would be the
end of it.

Malfoy watched her read, gently rubbing her shoulder with his thumb
as she did so. His head swayed slightly every now and then,
reminding her that he was drunk.

Really, she ought to be enjoying this more. Who knew when she’d
next get to see Malfoy in this state?

“I have a question,” he said abruptly, after a moment.

“What is it?” Hermione asked warily.

“Your hair isn’t as curly as it was back in school. Did you do that on
purpose?”

Hermione gave him a strange look.

“What?”
"Your hair," Malfoy repeated seriously. "It's not as curly as it was."

"How do you even remember what my hair used to look like?"

"I have a good memory."

Hermione was baffled by Malfoy's curiosity about her curls. Maybe it

was because his own hair was stick straight and usually neatly
combed to the side.

“It takes some work to make the curls all-round and defined,” she
explained. “They don’t just look like that unless I style them a bit.”

“Like brushing? Can I brush your hair again?”

Hermione giggled.

“You’re actually not supposed to brush curly hair. That’s part of why
they’re kind of fuzzy right now…”

“What? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“I mean, it doesn't really matter,” Hermione said, laughing at the look

on his face. “It’s not your fault for not knowing. Most people who
don’t have curly hair don’t realize-”

“I want to do it properly,” Malfoy said. “I care about doing it properly.”

Something twisted in Hermione’s heart, just below the surface. She

tried to ignore it.

“I’ll show you how to do the hair,” she said, grateful for the diversion.
“Come on.”

“Okay, so-“

Hermione cupped water in her hands and started working it through

her hair.
Malfoy watched her raptly.

It was so weird being here with him like this. He was watching her do
her hair-how bizarre. Had he never had a girlfriend with curly hair?
He said a woman had never stayed with him here.

“Ok,” Hermione said, scrunching the wet hair a bit. “So-when it’s wet
like this, it clumps into pieces. See?”

She used two fingers to carefully lift a wet, already-coiling piece of

water-darkened brown hair.

Malfoy nodded. His grey eyes were serious. Hermione felt a little
flutter of nerves in her stomach under the attention. She cleared her
throat.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” Hermione said, avoiding his gaze. “At
the safe house I usually kept it tied up. But let’s see… you’ve got no
gel or hair cream or anything here so I’ll skip that part. Now I just sort
of scrunch the water out with a towel…”

Malfoy handed her a towel and watched as she carefully squeezed

her hair.

“What next?” he asked.

“That’s pretty much it,” Hermione said, turning from the mirror to face
him. “It just has to air dry now.”

She made an awkward sort of ta-da motion with her hands.

“And you don’t brush it at all?” Malfoy asked, standing up from his
spot on the edge of the tub. He moved closer, circling her and
examining her hair.

“I can brush it before I clump it,” Hermione said, smiling up at him.

She felt very small when he stood over her like this, close and
attentive. “Not after, though. It has to dry like this, in sections. I have
to be careful to not really touch it.”
“Alright,” Malfoy said thoughtfully. “Okay. We’ll be careful not to touch
it.”

Hermione giggled at his earnestness, and Malfoy smiled down at

her.

It was almost too easy to pretend that there was nothing outside this
bathroom. Wouldn’t that be amazing? If there was no war, no Nott,
no Shacklebolt. That the messy, bloody chessboard of Hermione’s
life was instead as clean and simple as the white marble counter
here in Malfoy’s bathroom.

Hermione was used to pretending; she was good at it. It was a

helpful coping strategy in the years of the war, when reality felt too
horrific to accept.

For example, one of her favorite things to pretend back at the safe
house was that she wasn’t organizing Healing supplies because of
injured soldiers-no, that would be awful! She was organizing them
into little first aid kits, ones that she would give out to everyone
before the Christmas Quidditch match at the Weasley’s. Just a
precaution, she would say, and everyone would tease her for
worrying.

Another useful one was pretending she was on a camping trip with
friends. That was the only reason they were living in the cramped
safe house, and that was the only reason she was using a shower
shared by thirty others, with green mold on the tub and with cheap,
occasionally homemade soap for shampoo. Just a camping trip. She
would be home soon.

So right now, Hermione looked up at Malfoy and pretended they

were just-dating. She was in his bathroom (even in her fantasy it had
to be his bathroom, as she would never have been able to afford a
house with a bathroom like this), because he’d asked to see her
curly hair routine.
“I have an idea,” she said, searching for another diversion for them.
“While my hair dries, let’s-come up with more decoration ideas for
your room?”

Malfoy was, unsurprisingly, very on board with this suggestion.

They went to the bedroom and Hermione paced around slowly,

examining everything.

“I’ve never had to furnish a room before,” Malfoy said.

“At all?” Hermione asked, surprised. “You’ve never-moved in with

someone?”

“No,” Malfoy answered simply. “Have you?”

“Um, no. “

“This is both of our first times living with someone else, then.”

They were both twenty-two-was it normal to have not moved in with

someone before, at this age? In a world without a war, of course.

Malfoy slid his hands into his pockets and looked around the room
and Hermione tried to see him as a girl might see her new live-in
boyfriend. He was very handsome. Even though he was drunk.
Hermione actually thought that a little inebriation suited him. He
looked a lot more handsome when relaxed like this, his usually
closed expression easier to read.

“Do you want to pretend like we’re-decorating a new flat together?”

she asked. “As though we’re about to move in. And we’re trying to
decide on furniture-”

She felt stupid almost immediately.

Good lord, was this what Stockholm Syndrome was like? Gradually
losing track of what was and was not something embarrassing to
say? Wanting to open herself up to Malfoy, so he could see all her
complicated inner workings, even the miswired ones…

“Nevermind,” she said hastily.

But Malfoy was already speaking.

“Yeah,” he said, surprising her. He sounded interested. “Let’s play.”

Hermione shot him a look out of the corner of her eye, trying to see if
he was mocking her.

“Okay,” she said, clearing her throat. “So-we can sort of decide on
the premise. It’s like playing pretend, when you were little? We pick
characters and stuff.”

“You pick first.”

Hermione’s heart jumped oddly with excitement. She’d never played

the game with anyone else before. The fact that Malfoy was drunk
made it easier to let herself fall into the old habit. She told herself
that he wouldn’t even remember this later, after all. Low stakes.

“Okay,” she said eagerly. “I want to pretend to be a muggle couple,

then. There’s no wizarding war, or anything.”

“Sounds perfectly lovely. And we just purchased this flat?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Okay, and we just walked in. And maybe you’d
say something like-”

“I had some starter furniture brought over,” Malfoy said, catching on.
“But I figured it would be a bit bare, at least until you started picking
some of the decorations.”

He did a convincing job of looking around the room with crossed

arms, as though very aware that it was a blank canvas until his
woman came in and worked some magic.
Hermione stared at him. For a moment she felt like she could reach
out and touch this version of Malfoy. Her muggle boyfriend.

“It’s good starter furniture,” she finally said. “I think maybe we should
start with-new drapes.”

Malfoy went to the window and assessed the curtains. Hermione

tried not to giggle.

“You’re perfectly right, my peach. We ought to-”

“My peach?” Hermione repeated, laughing. "Is that how you think
couples talk?"

“I always call you that,” he said, play-irritated. “As I'm sure you
remember from all the time we've spent together. And I was saying-
you’re perfectly right. What sort of drapes would you prefer?
Something silk?”

“Hm,” she said. “Silk would be terribly expensive.”

“Good thing you married someone terribly wealthy.”

“Oh, we’re married?” she giggled.

Malfoy gave her a quick smile. He was about to say something else,
evidently planning on staying in character, but he swayed a little as
he took a step away from the curtain and stumbled inelegantly on a
corner of the rug. Malfoy swore under his breath and Hermione tried
not to laugh.

“You seem a little drunk, dearest,” she said innocently. “Did you have
one too many at the office again?”

“Er,” Malfoy said slowly. He appeared to be thinking about what his

job might possibly be, in this other world. “Yes. The office. I-had a
long day at the… Ministry? The muggle Ministry.”
“Ah yes, the muggle Ministry,” Hermione said. “Prestigious and well-
paying.”

“I need to keep you in style, darling. This flat isn’t cheap, you know.”

“Oh, I can only imagine. Thank you very much for working so hard to
take care of us.”

She’d said the last sentence teasingly, but Malfoy seemed to be very
impacted by it. He looked at her and a brief, hungry expression
crossed his features.

“I really love hearing you say that,” he said.

“Well-I’m glad,” she said, trying not to stammer. That look in his eyes.
“Thank you. Especially since all your hard work at the muggle
Ministry allows me to, um… pursue my passion of running a
bookshop.”

“A bookshop,” Malfoy said, like he was considering the idea. “That

makes sense. It sounds like this bookshop isn’t very profitable?”

“Oh, not at all,” Hermione said very seriously. “We’re in the red every
single quarter, my love. I give away all the books to underprivileged
students.”

He laughed.

“Of course you do. My darling bleeding heart.”

He swayed slightly, then took a seat on the bed, looking around the
room.

“I hate to interrupt our afternoon, little wife,” he said. “But the room is
spinning, and that’s getting in the way of my interior design sense. I
think I ought to take a sobriety potion.”

Hermione laughed. Malfoy informed her that the tonic was in his
nightstand drawer and she fetched it for him. He kissed her hand
when she handed him the bottle, then downed the vial and closed
his eyes, waiting for the potion to set in.

“I like this game,” he said. “We should play it more often.”

Hermione was pleased.

“I’m surprised,” she said. “I thought your universe was exactly as you
wanted it to be. No pretend necessary.”

“Things could always be better.”

Malfoy’s hair was a bit mussed, his mouth twisted into a slight
grimace as he leaned back and waited for the tonic to work its
magic. His face was relaxed, his eyes still closed.

Another pang of guilt rose in her but she quelled it. She hummed
nervously instead, pulling at the hem of her shirt.

“You’re keeping something from me,” Malfoy said without opening his
eyes. "I can tell you’re anxious."

He was sobering up. Hermione licked her lips, then chewed the
bottom one.

“No,” she said. “I’m not.”

“You’re not a good liar.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” she said hopelessly, twisting her shirt in her
fingers. "You said you wouldn't pry."

He opened his eyes. He was definitely a lot more sober now. His
face was serious, his expression harder to read. Hermione suddenly
felt a little embarrassed-what did he think of the game now that he
was no longer drunk?

“Come here,” Malfoy said, gesturing her over with a tip of his head.
She walked over to the bed, standing before him. He reached
forward and pulled her a little closer, so she stood right between his
spread knees.

“You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?” he said, playing with
her fingers.

Hermione kept her lips sealed, and a flicker of displeasure crossed

Malfoy's handsome features.

He pulled her even closer. Her thighs rested against the mattress.

“If you don’t tell me what bothers you,” he said, his voice quiet and
coaxing. “Then I can’t fix it for us, can I?”

Hermione closed her eyes, like a child hoping that blocking their own
vision hid them from the world, too. Maybe that was the only way to
keep his questions at bay. She felt Malfoy touch her face, felt his
fingers stroke her cheek. He placed the pad of one finger on her
bottom lip, parting her mouth. She heard him exhale a little.

Then he moved his hand to her necklace. He slipped a finger under

the thin chain of her necklace and gave it a light tug. Hermione
opened her eyes.

“Tell me, Hermione,” he demanded.

“I just feel guilty,” she whispered. She would tell him just enough to
get him to drop it. She would give him half-truths. “I think I’m
disappointing the Order.”

“By being here?”

He sounded mollified, which encouraged Hermione to continue

giving him choice bits of the truth.

“Yes. I think-they'd be disgusted to know I'm not trying harder to

escape. Like I’m a traitor."
“You shouldn’t feel guilty,” Malfoy said in a soothing, low voice.
“You’re so good. You deserve good things. You could never do
anything wrong…”

Her eyes fluttered closed at the sweet things he was saying. How
hard would it have been for he friends at the Order to tell her that
she deserved good things? How come she had to be kidnapped
before hearing someone say it?

“Let’s talk about something else,” Hermione whispered.

"Hermione…"

“I’m begging you.”

Malfoy’s face had been serious and calm, but at the word begging
his eyelids flickered, as though a little pulse of desire had caught him
off guard.

“Not fair,” he said. “You know I like that word.”

Hermione did know. She understood him very well, actually.

Sometimes she wondered if this type of dynamic wasn’t what she
wanted too. It seemed to come very naturally to her.

It made sense to give him what he wanted right now, didn’t it? To get
him to stop asking her…

Hermione leaned a little closer and nuzzled her nose against

Malfoy’s cheek, then kissed his jawbone.

Malfoy's jaw clenched, and that was rather sweet. She breathed
happily against his skin and then kissed him full and sweet on the
mouth.

Malfoy shuddered against her.

He kept his hands stiffly unmoving at his sides-perhaps

remembering that she’d asked him to not touch her last time. But
Hermione picked up one of his hands and let him put it on her hip,
and then Malfoy's fingers instantly tightened around her.

"Hands are okay?" he asked, breathing a little harder. “Can I bring

you up here…”

Hermione nodded and he dragged her close, pulling her onto the
bed with him. His hands pulled one knee to each side of his hips,
and then Hermione was straddling him, keeping herself elevated a
bit so she didn’t press herself fully to his lap.

Malfoy stared up at her, reverent. His lips were parted and his grey
eyes looked almost clear, illuminated at this angle. It made it easier
to see his pupils dilate, huge and black.

"Perfect," he whispered to her. The praise sent a thrum of happiness

through her. Malfoy slid his hand down her hip. "Look at you."

He pressed his face against her skin, kissing her collarbone, then
her neck. His kisses were more than they'd been before-open-
mouthed and somehow more viscerally starving. Was it because
they’d been playing that game? Was Malfoy, like her, thinking about
a life where they might have been flat-shopping? They would have
been much more physical already, in that world…

Her skin sang under the gentle, working pressure from his mouth,
under the increasingly tight vice of his fingers around her hip and
waist. Hermione’s legs quivered but she didn’t dare let herself relax
onto his lap. If she did, her center she would be pressed to the front
of Malfoy's trousers. Separated only by a few flimsy pieces of fabric.

Malfoy seemed acutely aware of this as well, though it was clear that
the prospect was intensely desirable rather than nerve-wracking for
him.

The kisses on her neck and chest grew a little more frantic, and his
breaths came harder. He nipped her skin a little hard, on her throat,
and then hummed quickly and apologetically before kissing the sting
away.

Malfoy’s fingers slid up to her ribcage, then his thumb gently rubbed
at the side of her breast, over the soft fabric of her jumper. Hermione
didn't protest. He was good at this, was good at touching and toying
and making her feel good.

“Sit on me,” Malfoy pleaded, biting down on her shoulder.

“Hermione-sit on me-”

She finally did, and Malfoy groaned in ecstasy at the contact. He

dropped both hands to the flare of hips and pushed down, pressing
her body harder to him.

His cock was very, very hard. Hermione felt it fully, the shape and
curve and bulk of it, pressed against her own center. Her trousers
were soft and for lounging, made of thin cashmere, and with
something hard pressed between her legs she felt closer to nude
than clothed.

“Yes,” Malfoy whispered quietly, dropping his head to rest his

forehead against her chest. His shoulders shook slightly. Malfoy's
cock twitched under her, responding to the pressure and warmth of
Hermione’s weight. Malfoy groaned quietly. “Oh, fuck. Yes.”

Hermione panted a little, her brain almost short-circuiting with the

feeling of something other than her own fingers touching her
between her thighs. His cock was pushed right against her. She felt
it, each time it twitched or hardened. And oh God, sitting on him
meant pressure on her clit-and it felt so good. Nobody had touched
her there in years-Hermione realized with distant shock that she was
wet, and then-

Malfoy dragged her body forward by the hips, causing her to rock
against him. Bright, firecracker bursts of pleasure fired in Hermione's
brain at the friction and she gasped, bracing herself on his shoulders
so she didn't collapse.
This reaction was evidently like a drug to Malfoy. He groaned and
licked a slow stripe from her throat to her jaw.

"What a good fucking girl," Malfoy whispered into her ear, holding
her quivering body down against his. Her hips twitched of their own
accord and Malfoy made a delighted, cooing moan. "Look at that.
Does that feel good?”

Hermione nodded silently, her lips shaking and pressed closed. She
didn’t let herself moan-partially because she didn’t want to
acknowledge how much she was enjoying this (had she always
wanted a man that was like this? Had he made her want this, or had
she always secretly needed someone to praise her, to take care of
everything-) but also because Hermione was simply used to making
no noise at all when feeling pleasure. Back at the safe house, she’d
masturbated silently, bringing herself to furtive, unsatisfying orgasms
as fast as she could.

But what was happening now was very different.

There was nothing furtive or unsatisfying about this. Malfoy seemed

like he could spend an entire eon here with Hermione seated on him.
His full attention was on her, and every shock of pleasure he
delivered to her was both deliberate and hair-raisingly electric.

He gripped her hips so hard that she felt each of his fingers digging
into her through the thin fabric of the trousers. He’d dressed her in
them this morning. Malfoy took care of everything.

With another slow, rolling motion, he tugged her hips forward so she
ground against his lap. Hermione’s eyes rolled back and she shook,
and between her legs she felt Malfoy's cock twitch insistently at the
sight of her reaction.

Hermione was shaking so hard that her vision was vibrating.

Her body was out of her own control, her muscles trembling like
leaves on a tree. Malfoy was so good at working her up. He was
ruthlessly effective and well-paced, and Hermione was already
eagerly anticipating the moment when these steady, grinding rolls
would culminate in what would certainly be an earth-shattering
orgasm. Nothing like the meager ones she used to give herself, in
the darkness of her safe house room. No, the lights here were on,
and there was a man holding her hips, and-

Abruptly, unthinkably, Malfoy stopped moving. Hermione’s hips

halted their pleasurable, aching motion, and she hissed in frustration.

Hermione tried-automatic and instinctive-to rock forward again onto

him, searching for friction, but Malfoy’s hands were iron and kept her
hips pinned in place.

So mean of him, now that he'd teased her to this extent, not moving
her anymore-

"What?" she gasped. “Why?”

Malfoy's eyes were as black as a shark’s, only a thin, starving ring of

silver around the pupil. His cheeks were flushed, his eyelids heavy,
his jaw slack. He looked blissed out, his expression almost vicious
with pleasure. Like everything he needed and wanted was about to
be delivered to him.

“Tell me how good you're going to be,” Malfoy whispered. “Tell me

right now."

He tightened his hold on her hips and Hermione whimpered. He was

big and steady-so strong, and if only he would use that strength to
take hold of her and rock her back and forth again-

"Tell me," Malfoy snarled, and Hermione forced her mouth open.

"I'll be so good for you," Hermione pleaded. Malfoy’s teeth clenched

into a grimace of pleasure and she kept talking. "So good, so good.
I'll do what you like, just like I promised."
Chapter 16
Chapter 16

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“Oh, you’re perfect,” Malfoy hissed. “Say it again.”

“I’ll be good,” she said. “I’ll be good-”

A heady, roaring rush of victory surged through Malfoy. He had never

experienced pleasure as total as this. His need for control, his
obsessive fixation, his need to provide and to give -every one of his
dark desires was being fed, every chord of his psyche rang with
pleasure.

Hermione’s cheeks were so pink. Her eyes were half-closed, and

what was visible of her irises was shining and bleary. So beautiful.

“Is this what you’d be like if you were my wife?" Malfoy asked softly.
He pushed her hips down, pressing her down harder on him. “Maybe
we shouldn’t be doing this on the bed, darling. We haven’t even
finished decorating our flat yet.”

Hermione’s hips tried to rock forward but he kept her still. Malfoy
leaned forward to press kisses to her chest, just above the swell of
her breasts, and she shuddered when he licked her skin.

“Look at you squirm,” he cooed, looking up at her. “Are you getting

excited? Do you need me to make you feel good?”

Eye contact seemed to be too much for Hermione-she squeezed her

eyes shut even as her lips parted at the feeling of his tongue on her
skin.
“Eyes open,” Malfoy said at once, and she did as he said.

“Okay,” she whispered dizzily.

“You’re being so good,” Malfoy breathed. “Working so hard for me."

“Yes.” She shook when he pressed her harder down on his lap. “Yes,
yes…”

“I'm going to put my hand around your neck."

“Yes, okay…"

Malfoy wrapped his fingers around her throat, his eyes drifting half-
lidded when she gasped.

“You like the way I handle you?” he asked. “It seems like it’s growing
on you.”

Hermione shivered, her lips parting silently and closing over and
over. Malfoy wanted to bite her lip, wanted to hold that pink, wet
tongue between his fingers until she whined.

“Words,” he said instead.

“You like the arrangement," she said, eyelids fluttering. "It's your
idea…"

Malfoy smiled lazily.

“Of course,” he said, like a gentleman. He leaned close and kissing

her cheek. “Of course, sweetheart. But… you don't like it even a
little?"

With his free hand, Malfoy reached between her legs and pressed
two fingers to where he knew her clit must be.

Hermione choked silently and shuddered.

"I like it," she hissed, her head dropping forward.

“I know,” Malfoy said, pressing his fingers against her harder. “And I
like it too. But you already know the things I like, don't you? Why
don't you tell me some of them."

Hermione whimpered. She swallowed and her throat worked under

his fingers.

“You like when I’m good,” she said. Her face was tipped up to make
room for Malfoy’s large hand around her throat. “And-grabbing my
neck.”

“What else?” he asked.

Her hips twitched against his lap.

“Dressing me,” Hermione gasped. “Undressing me-”

“Mm. And?"

“I don’t know,” she whispered frantically. Hermione's hips were

rocking perceptibly now. “I don’t know, why are you making me say
all of them-“

“Because I like telling you what to do. Isn’t that right?”

Hermione let out a faint, petal-soft whimper. She nodded.

Malfoy stared at her. The sight of her like this made his cock
straining against his trousers.

“Take off your shirt,” he said, releasing her neck.

Hermione swayed forward slightly at the loss of his hand supporting

her, but he kissed her and she rebalanced with one hand on his
shoulder.
Malfoy pulled back, breathing hard, and waited for her to do as he
said.

She was wearing a soft cashmere jumper and just a little slip of a
shirt underneath. All day he had noticed-of course he had noticed-
the way her nipples had gently poked through the fabric. He hadn’t
let his gaze linger. But now, as Hermione tugged the jumper jerkily
up over her head, Malfoy stared freely. He had been patient, after all.

Hermione’s midriff was lightly freckled, the sweeps of dark dots

arrestingly beautiful against her pale golden skin. The lines of her
ribs showed still, but less than they had when he’d found her in the
safe house all those months ago, which was good.

And then, finally, the hem of her shirt lifted over her breasts.

Malfoy made an involuntary, ragged sigh of relief.

Yes.

Another wall between them, finally broken. He'd seen her chest. Now
there would be no more shy turning away from him, no arms hugging
herself in embarrassment. Her tits were his now, along with the rest
of her.

Malfoy pressed his hand to the soft skin of her stomach, then
dragged his palm slowly up to her chest. Her breasts were so lovely.
The size of a small handful and delicately rounded, so soft that
Malfoy worried she might bruise like a peach if he bit her. He would
have to be gentle.

“Can I put my mouth on you?” he asked, flicking his eyes up to hers.

She was staring at him.

“Okay."

Malfoy kissed her mouth, then her chin, then dropped his head and
kissed the top of one of her breasts. Hermione shuddered and he
had to clench his teeth to stop himself from biting her. He kissed her
other breast, then licked a wet, dragging line from one nipple to the
other. He couldn't help himself from biting her just a little.

Hermione whined quietly. Malfoy exhaled sharply and pressed his

hand to his cock, trying to alleviate some of the aching pressure.

“Get on your back,” he said.

“Are-you going to-?”

“Do as you’re told.”

Hermione did so at once. Her brown eyes were glassy and her
cheeks were flushed. The pink glow of it extended down to her tits.

“Take off your trousers,” Malfoy said quietly, palming his erection
through his trousers.

“Malfoy,” she said, a little frantic. Her eyes held an edge of fear.
“Malfoy-are you going to-?”

“Am I going to what?” he asked softly.

Hermione’s eyes darted between his. She didn’t seem capable of

making herself say it.

“Am I going to fuck you?” he asked. “Is that what you’re wondering?”

The flush on her face and chest deepened. Hermione didn’t speak.

“No,” Malfoy said, stroking her hip. “I’m not. But I want to put my
hand between those pretty thighs. Is that alright?”

Hermione nodded quickly, dizzily, then slid her thumbs under her
waistband and tugged her trousers off. Her underwear was light
purple. They rode high on her hips, the delicately laced edges
contrasting beautifully with her skin.
She'd taken off her trousers eagerly but her legs were pressed tightly
together. Malfoy tried to part her thighs but Hermione’s expression
turned unexpectedly embarrassed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, stroking her thigh.

Hermione just swallowed. The color on her cheeks was bright and
pink.

Malfoy clicked his tongue softly. He pulled her legs apart and this
time she didn't resist.

It became immediately clear what she was trying to hide.

“Fuck,” Malfoy whispered. Her underwear was soaked in the center,

shining with her wetness. "Oh, good girl."

The lavender fabric of her underwear was sodden and sticky. It clung
over the folds of her cunt, rendering the cloth almost transparent.

Hermione’s face was red. Malfoy rubbed her lower stomach lovingly,
then leaned low to kiss her hip.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “Look at this pretty mess. Did you

make it just for me?"

Hermione’s mouth was slack, she seemed to be hanging onto sanity

by just a hair. Through her underwear Malfoy saw her cunt clench.

He kissed her stomach again and then sat up and rested a broad
palm just over her pubic bone. He took his time, enjoying the feel of
the lacy edge of her underwear under his hand, the way her muscles
twitched. Then he extended his thumb lower, letting it brush just over
the visible little nub of her clit, poking through the sodden fabric.

Hermione arched instantly, violently up against his hand. She made

a noise he’d never heard her make before.

“Yeah," he breathed. "Is that the spot?”

He pressed against her clit once more. Hermione’s jaw dropped
open further and her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, and the word was more tremor than
anything else. Her hips thrust a little. “Malfoy, please.”

“Keep saying my name. I like that.”

Malfoy dragged his thumb up over her clit again, firmer and slower
this time, feeling the nub catch a little as he pushed up against it.
Hermione’s pussy convulsed.

“Malfoy,” she said again, a frantic edge to it this time.

His jaw clenched tight.

“I think you might come right now,” he whispered. He had to fight to

keep his tone steady, to keep his thumb firm and slow instead of
rough and fast. “Just like this. With just my thumb on your clit, over
your underwear. Is that really all it takes, kitten?”

Hermione made no noise, only shuddered, her mouth open in a

silent moan. Her eyes had rolled back.

“How long will it take?” he asked, stroking his thumb against her. “A
minute? Half a minute?”

“Malfoy,” she gasped. “Oh my god-Malfoy, Malfoy-”

She keened desperately but he ignored her.

“Maybe it’s seconds, not minutes? Seems like my thumb will be too
quick.”

He removed his thumb and curled his index finger to drag just his
knuckle, feather-light, over the tip of her clit. Hermione’s hips thrust
pathetically upwards.
“Please,” she begged. Her cheeks were hot and bright pink. “Please,
again, again.”

“I'm going to count how many touches it takes for you to come. I
think it will be… fifteen. What's your guess?"

Hermione didn't speak, just tried to push against his knuckle.

"Your guess," Malfoy demanded.

“I don’t know,” she whined. “Ten. Ten-”

He ran his knuckle again over the quivering peak of her clit.
Hermione took a rough, gasping breath.

“Again-” she begged, and Malfoy obliged.

“Three. Good girl, listen to you whine. There’s four… now five…”

Hermione’s eyes closed on the sixth.

Malfoy went a tiny bit faster. Seven, eight, nine.

She groaned gutturally at ten. The sound was raw and un-self
conscious, rended from the deepest part of her.

Eleven. Twelve.

“I’m going to come,” Hermione said frantically. Her hips thrust up,
humping the air mindlessly, seeking contact on her clit. “Malfoy-
please-please I’m going to-”

“Thirteen-”

Hermione screamed, loud and hard.

“Fuck,” Malfoy hissed, pressing his free hand to his cock, where it
strained painfully against his zipper. With his knuckle he dragged
against Hermione again and again, applying more pressure, helping
her ride her climax. Her hips were thrashing; Malfoy pinned her down
to keep her still, so he could keep his hand rubbing on her clit a little
longer.

Hermione’s scream broke into an overstimulated sob. Tears shone

on her face, her hips still shook violently with the force of her
orgasm. Under Malfoy’s hand he felt her pussy tighten and relax,
tighten and relax, the spasms of pleasure rocking through her cunt.
He rubbed two fingers firmly in a circle over her clit and Hermione’s
leg convulsed.

“Oh-oh,” she gasped. Her hand found his, pushed weakly at it. “Stop-
too much-”

Malfoy took his hand off her and licked her fluids from his fingers.

Hermione was glowing. Boneless. Her eyes were semi-closed, her

eyelashes still wet with tears. Her chest heaved.

Malfoy could barely see through the fog of arousal. Adrenaline

pumped through him-he’d made her come. Hermione had come in
his bed, with his fingers pressed to her soaking underwear-she’d
screamed with his knuckle pressed to her clit.

“Close your eyes,” he gritted out, undoing his belt with shaking
fingers.

Hermione closed her eyes at once, squeezing them shut. His balls
tightened further at her docile obedience.

Malfoy unbuttoned the top of his trousers and tugged them down just
enough to wrap his hand around his cock. He needed to come. It felt
like he was seconds away from exploding in his pants-he’d never
gotten this turned on from watching a woman orgasm before.

“I won’t touch you,” he soothed, when she twisted in alarm at the

sound of his zipper. His breathing was heavy, it was difficult to speak
clearly. “Don’t worry. I promise not to get any on you.”
He didn’t want her watching him come yet. He didn’t want to scare
her, wasn’t sure he could control the way he looked just now, how
hard and greedy his expression would be as he fucked his hand to
the sight of her soaked underwear, to the memory of her screams.

Her eyes remained squeezed shut; she was so good at following

instructions. Malfoy imagined slotting himself at her entrance for the
first time. Look down, he would command. Watch yourself take all of
me.

And when she was close: Don’t come yet. She would be on the brink
but he would let it dangle in front of her, and she’d hold it in like a
good girl. You don’t get to come yet-

Malfoy’s orgasm came suddenly and without warning.

Pleasure hit blinding, fever pitch and Malfoy’s balls spasmed, then
he was coming harder than he ever had before. He gasped and his
head dropped forward. His hips thrust jerkily of their own volition as
he emptied himself onto the bedspread, stroking himself in rough,
uneven motions with a shaking hand, the pulses of pleasure endless
and throbbing.

Hermione’s eyes remained closed, squeezed tight, as though

bracing herself to feel him spatter on her. But of course he didn’t-
he’d promised.

“You did such a good job,” he gasped, shaking as he wrung the last
dregs of come from his cock, dripping and white onto the sheets.
“You did such a good job for me.”

Malfoy had predicted that, when Hermione finally caved and let him
touch her between the legs, she would require very gentle care
afterwards.

He had been mostly correct. Hermione was obviously overwhelmed,

though the resurgence of guilt and confusion he’d worried she’d
exhibit wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.

She rolled to her side, shaking a little from the physical aftershocks.
She pressed her hand between her legs like she couldn't believe the
things she'd felt.

Malfoy vanished the mess on the bed and then slid close to her.

“Are you alright?” he asked. He pulled her to his chest and she
leaned against him.

“Yes,” she said, though the answer seemed breathless and

automatic. “Yes.”

He gathered her a little closer and smoothed his hand lightly up and
down her back.

“My sweet girl,” he said softly, his eyes closing. “Was that fine for
you? Did that feel good?"

She nodded twice, the motions drowsy.

Her tremors lessened after a few minutes. She clung to his shirt,
which was still on despite the fact that his belt was off and his zipper
undone. Malfoy pulled up his trousers, trying not to jostle her too
much.

Hermione sighed quietly and tucked her face against his chest.

“So good for me,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her curls, which
were now sweat-damp. "You did such a good job, didn't you? My
favorite thing…

He said whatever came into his head, keeping a soothing stream of

whispers against her hair. it seemed to relax her. Hermione softened
in his hold and he wondered if she was falling asleep.

“I helped the Order today,” Malfoy mumbled into her temple. “I forgot
to tell you.”
“You did?” she asked, turning her face up to look at him.

“Yes,” he said, kissing her nose. “I stopped an attack. Isn’t that nice?”

Hermione wriggled and tried to sit up. Malfoy let her. He leaned
against the headboard of the bed and rubbed his face. He was
sleepy now too.

“What attack?” she whispered eagerly. She wrapped a comforter

around herself.

“Mm. One near the Hogsmeade house.”

“When?”

“Just after I left the Commander.”

She looked shocked.

“Weren’t you drunk?”

“Only a bit.”

Her face turned prim, and Malfoy had to stop himself from laughing.
She seemed struck with a sort of Puritanical disbelief that anyone
would ever consider working while drunk.

“It wasn’t my finest hour,” he said. “But I didn’t have any trouble.
Well-“

He remembered the injury on his arm.

The pain had been easy to ignore, first while drunk and then while an
unclothed Hermione had been lying on the bed in front of him. Now,
as though reminding him of his stupidity, the scar stung sharply. He
needed to finish Healing it.

“Actually,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Maybe you can help me

take a look.”
He slid the sleeve off and Hermione covered her mouth when the
wound came into view.

“It’s not that bad,” he protested, amused.

It really wasn’t. The injury was somewhat deep but he’d stitched it
back together with a quick Healing spell already. The scar-angry,
purple-would fade to white in the next month or so. His arm hurt; but
his muscle fibers had been severed. That was to be expected.
Surely, Hermione had seen worse.

But she seemed very impacted by the sight of him hurt. She touched
the skin right next to the injury. There was dried blood there that he’d
forgotten to clean off.

“If this had hit you twenty centimeters to the right, it would have
punctured your heart,” she said, doing a poor job of sounding
indifferent.

“I wouldn’t have let that happen. I cheated out, so it hit my shoulder.”

She was pale and kept staring at the dried blood.

“Are you worried about me?” he teased, leaning towards her. He

kissed her and she bit his lip in irritated reprimand.

“No,” she protested unconvincingly, pushing him back so he leaned

against the headboard again. “Here, let me see your arm. You idiot.”

He smirked and held still so she could examine him.

“Did you stitch the flesh? Or just the skin?” she asked.

“Of course both.”

“How sore is it? Dull pain or sharp pain?”

“Pretty sore. Sharp.”

“I’d recommend some nerve repair,” she said, feeling along his
muscle. “I know a charm I can teach you.”

Malfoy watched her distractedly, pleased with the way she touched
his skin, the way she worried about him. The blanket had fallen down
a bit. He could see her breasts, soft and lovely. One was still a little
pink where he’d lightly bitten her.

“A charm?” he repeated absently, enamored and distracted by the

sight of her.

Hermione saw him staring and scoffed.

“Pay attention,” she grumbled, pulling the comforter higher.

Malfoy smiled lazily.

“Sorry. Here-you do the charm.” He summoned a spare wand from

the dresser and handed it to her.

“Me?” she asked, taking the wand. “You’d give me a wand? I could
attack you right now.”

“You wouldn’t succeed,” he said, closing his eyes and resting his
head back against the headboard. “Go on. Let’s see your Healer
skills. Or your combat skills, I suppose.”

After a moment, he felt her small hand rest on his chest. He opened
an eye to watch her. Hermione was leaning forward, his wand in her
hand, and carefully examining his bicep. After a moment, she
directed a thin beam of golden light at the site of the injury.

Malfoy grunted. It stung. But when Hermione finished, he found the

pain to be much less severe than before.

“Thanks,” he said with a smile, kissing her nose.

She snorted, then, as though curious, directed a Stinging Hex at his

chest. Amateur. He really needed to make sure she never had to be
on a battlefield. Malfoy batted the spell away and turned part of the
magic into a little puff of rose petals, just for showing off’s sake.
Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Couldn’t have done that with the guy who hit your shoulder, could
you?” she muttered.

Malfoy laughed. He shrugged his shirt back on.

“Did anyone else get hurt?” Hermione asked curiously.

“No. Well, nobody on the Order’s side.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“You mean-you injured Death Eaters?”

“I had to kill them," he admitted, toying with a rose petal. "They

would have gotten Tonks today otherwise.”

“You killed your own men? You rescued Tonks?”

“I didn’t rescue her,” he said, a little indignant at being made out to

be an Order hero. “I stopped the attack, because that was the deal
we made. I did it for you.”

Hermione’s eyes were shining. Malfoy decided maybe being an

Order hero wasn’t the worst thing, if it kept her looking at him like
that.

She clambered free of the twisted blankets and crawled into Malfoy’s
lap. The wand he’d given her lay discarded on the bed. Malfoy
levitated it back to his dresser but Hermione didn’t seem to care.

“Thank you,” she whispered, holding his face in her slim hands. Her
eyes were wet. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Malfoy’s breath hitched.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Hermione kissed his cheek, his nose, then his mouth.

Malfoy’s eyes drifted closed. Pleasure and joy thrummed in his

chest.

“Thank you,” Hermione repeated, clinging to his neck and burying

her face in his shoulder. “Thank you for doing that for me.”

The combination of her breathless gratitude and the extensive skin

to skin contact was making Malfoy lightheaded. He exhaled quietly
and adjusted Hermione so she wouldn’t feel his cock harden.

“You’re welcome,” he said again, turning his face to kiss the side of
her head. He breathed in the scent of her hair. “You know I’d do
anything for you.”

Malfoy hadn’t done so intentionally, but it was clear that delivering

the news about Tonks had flipped something in Hermione.

Gone was the lingering shadow of guilt that had seemed to haunt
her. Hermione curled against his chest, clinging tight to him, and
didn’t even ask to put on clothes before falling asleep. He woke with
her warm body still pressed tight to his, his arm curled possessively
around her waist.

“Good morning,” he said, when she stirred. “How are you feeling?”

“Mm,” Hermione mumbled.

Malfoy watched her blink the sleep from her eyes. Hermione exhaled
lazily against his chest, sending a tingle running down his spine. He
ran a finger up her ribs, smiling at the way she quivered in response.

“You didn’t put my clothes back on?” she mumbled, eyes still closed.
She sounded vaguely annoyed at his lax caretaking and Malfoy
laughed. He crawled on top of her, pinning her down and biting at
her neck until she giggled and thrashed.

“Very rude. Not: ‘you didn’t put my clothes back on’,” he said, holding
her down. “How about: 'can you dress me now, please?'”

Hermione was trapped below him, but she managed to turn her face
into his shoulder and bite him. Malfoy smiled broadly.

“I’m waiting,” he teased.

“Can you dress me now, please?”

“Yes. Thank you for asking so nicely.”

He rolled off her and stood up, offering her a hand to help her up as
well.

Hermione was still only in her little scrap of lavender underwear, and
she made an instinctive effort to cover her chest with her hands once
the blanket dropped from her. Malfoy clicked his tongue and nudged
her hands down.

“Let’s get you in the bath,” he said, shrugging off his shirt. “Take off
your underwear.”

Hermione didn’t obey right away. She followed him to the bathroom
and watched as he turned the water on. He added foaming bubbles
this time, to assuage her embarrassment at being nude.

Behind him, he heard Hermione shift slightly. He saw, out of the

corner of his eye, her feet lift and then drop back down, and then
purple underwear fall to the marble floor.

“Get in,” he said, shaking the soapy water from his hand. The
temperature was warm and comfortable.
Hermione had dropped her hands from her chest-she held them
lower now, guarding the spot between her legs from his view. Malfoy
didn’t protest, but still watched unapologetically as she lifted one leg
over the edge of the tub, then the other, trying her best to not flash
Malfoy as she did so. Her face and neck were pink with
embarrassment.

It was cute. The sight of her blushing-her breasts uncovered, the

nipples in little points.

Hermione sank under the protective cover of bath bubbles, then

visibly relaxed when Malfoy crouched next to her and started rubbing
her neck. Her body was covered but for her slim, golden shoulders-
peeking up over foamy bubbles-and the tops of her knees.

“Shoulders submerged,” he reminded her, pouring half a vial of

Dittany into the fragrant bathwater.

Hermione slid lower.

“Good.”

When Hermione was bathed and toweled, Malfoy turned on the

shower for himself. He examined his bicep under the hot water. It
had healed extraordinarily well.

Through the steamy glass, Malfoy saw that Hermione was waiting
patiently outside the shower for him. He smiled, charmed.

“You can go back to the room if you like,” Malfoy said, wiping a circle
on the glass to see her. She was wrapped in a towel, her hair in wet
ringlets. “Though I do like seeing you so close. Are you sure you
don’t want to get in here with me?”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. He smiled, then kissed his
hand and pressed it to the glass.
“I’m going to dress you a little differently today,” Malfoy said, stepping
out of the shower and grabbing a towel for his hair. “Is that alright?”

He walked to the closet and Hermione followed, her bare feet

padding softly over the floors.

“I knew it was only a matter of time,” she said, settling onto one of
the low benches by the coats.

Malfoy cast an amused eye at her.

“What do you mean?” he asked

“This must be where the skimpy dresses start making their

appearance,” she said, rolling onto her tummy. One of Malfoy’s
discarded ties was on the bench and she picked it up to fiddle with it.
“Frilly underthings? Bells on my collar?”

“Cute,” Malfoy said with a snort. “But you should be careful of giving
me ideas.”

He took one of his own white shirts from where it hung and handed it
to her.

“How tame,” she said.

"I thought it would be sweet to see you in my clothes."

Hermione smiled and put it on.

An hour later, they were settled in his office, getting into the routine
of the day.

Malfoy sat at his desk and reviewed papers while Hermione lounged
on the low green ottoman next to him. She was reading a new book
he’d given her. The servants had brought her a small square of
cherry cake with her tea and she put the book down on occasion to
take delicate bites out of the frosted pastry.
“Don’t get any frosting on my sleeves,” Malfoy hummed without
looking up, nudging her ottoman with the toe of his shoe.

He didn’t actually care, he'd only said it to annoy her. Hermione gave
an indignant snort and Malfoy smiled at her, propping his chin in his
hand.

“You look nice,” he said.

Hermione’s legs were bare but for black knit socks that were too big
for her-they scrunched down over her ankles. Malfoy's shirt was too
large as well-the bottom of it dragged to her mid-thigh and his
sleeves dangled past her wrists. She’d had to fold them up many
times to get them to stop falling.

“You’re the one who wanted me in this,” she protested, struggling to

cross her legs without showing him too much underwear.

“Mm. I know.”

Hermione glared at him. She swiped a glob of cherry frosting off the
cake with her finger and, making sure Malfoy was looking, wiped it
deliberately down the front of her shirt. The frosting was pink and left
a bright, creamy line against the starched fabric.

Malfoy clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Come here,” he said, putting his papers down.

Hermione stood and walked to him. Malfoy drummed his fingers on

his desk, trying to give her a stern sort of look. But she seemed to
have developed a good sense for when he was only playing at being
strict. She scrunched her nose petulantly, looking unintimidated.

Malfoy lifted his hand and used the side of his finger to scoop up
some of the mess on her shirt. He sucked the frosting off his
knuckle. Hermione looked scandalized and he smirked.
“Don’t be fussy,” he said, leaning back. “Go on. Read. If you put
frosting on my shirt again I’m going to make you roll around in it.”

“Fine," she muttered. "Don’t tease me about the shirt anymore

though. It’s too unwieldy for me to be able to keep it clean.”

“Fine,” Malfoy said with a smile.

Before she could walk back to her seat, Malfoy looped his finger
under her necklace. He gave the chain a light tug and the new silver
bell on her collar jingled merrily.

Hermione glowered at him.

“What?” he asked with a lazy smile, dragging her close and nipping
her neck. “It’s sweet…”

Hermione managed only a few seconds of irritated silence before

finally dissolving into giggles under his mouth.
Chapter 17
Chapter 17

Any last bit of resistance in Hermione faded to nothing when she

learned what Malfoy had done for Tonks.

That was it. What other factors were there to weigh? The world was
imperfect, and if the only aid available to Hermione came in a shade
of grey, then so be it.

Malfoy could be her imperfect angel. The man who saved her
friend's life when no one else was there.

Hermione was tired of the way everyone wanted to take from her.
Shacklebolt wanted her Healing expertise, wanted Hermione to
patch up the injured soldiers only to send them back out to be
blasted to bits this time. And Nott, well… who knew what he wanted.
The only obvious thing was that he had his own interests too.
Interests that involved taking Hermione and trading her like a coin.

Not Malfoy.

Malfoy was a giver. A provider.

Hermione had made her decision. She wouldn’t let Shacklebolt

break her out. She would keep Nott's secret for him-she couldn't
betray an Order spy-but if he asked for her decision, she'd tell him
the truth. That he and the Order could figure it out without her, for
once. She was already doing her part for them.

She curled more comfortably on the green chaise by Malfoy's desk

and tried not to get cake crumbs on her book. She was aware of
Malfoy watching her and she shot him an annoyed look, pointedly
tugged at the hem of her oversized shirt try to get it to cover more of
her thighs.
Malfoy smiled lazily at that and she gave up. It seemed like he liked
the sight of her trying to cover herself up just as much as he liked the
sight of her bare skin.

“I thought you had to work,” Hermione said. “You don’t look to be

doing much.”

“I’m distracted.”

"Can I have another piece of cake?"

He laughed.

"Yes."

Although Malfoy seemed very happy to have Hermione spend her

days lounging on chaises and drinking tea, he didn't take the same
luxurious approach towards his own life. She could tell he was a
soldier by nature. Malfoy was a focused worker and didn't seem
particularly inclined towards overindulgences.

At least, none other than her.

Hermione finished another novel and a half over the course of the
afternoon, while Malfoy pored over maps and documents at his desk.
On occasion, he took Floo voice correspondences. He always
silenced the sounds of these conversations though, leaving
Hermione to focus on her reading without much more than the low,
muffled sound of his voice in the background.

She looked up from her book and gazed absently at a map pinned
on his wall. There were red lines all over the bottom edge of it. It
seemed like the Death Eaters had cemented their hold on the
northern border of France.

Hermione looked at Malfoy, who was presently studying the map as

well. Was there something evolutionary, she wondered, about war-
hungry men wanting their partners to be soft and unperturbed?
Hermione liked watching him work. Malfoy was exceptionally
intelligent, as she'd already known, and it was always sort of nice to
watch very smart people do things they were good at. He read at
lightning speed, absorbing information easily and quickly. She had
paid enough attention to his facial expressions over the last few
weeks to more easily be able to discern nuance in them now. She
could see the way he studied things, could see the way he took in
facts and let his mind run and skip like a river over strategies and
implications and consequences, until he reached some decision or
the other.

And then he moved on. She liked that he was decisive.

“Does anyone know what happened yet?” she asked, stirring her tea.
“With-the men who were hunting Tonks?"

“No. But I expect to see the report about their bodies sometime
today."

“You don’t think they’ll find out it was you?"

“Unlikely. I left a fairly clean scene.”

He didn’t seem worried, and so Hermione relaxed too.

After a while, Hermione grew restless. Never in a million years would

she have guessed that she'd be the one to try to distract someone
else from work, but she supposed he'd finally succeeded in his goal
to give her nothing to do but rest.

“How much longer?” she wheedled, rising from her seat to pad over
to Malfoy's desk.

He set his quill down and turned his chair towards her.

“Bored?” he asked, leaning back.

“A little.”
"Come here."

He spread his legs and touched his knee, and Hermione sat on his
leg.

Malfoy shifted the chair back a few inches, then turned them both to
face his desk again. He looked at his work over Hermione's
shoulder, with his hand on her stomach.

She peered curiously at the papers but found he’d already cast a
Blurring Charm on everything. Bored again, she tipped her head
back to lean against his chest.

“What do you want to do?” he asked absently as he ticked notes on

the page. His voice vibrated against her head.

“We've been inside all day," she said. "Maybe we can walk around
the grounds?"

“Alright. Let me just finish this last thing.”

She waited with some impatience. After a while, when she was
starting to suspect he'd forgotten about her, she shifted on his lap.
Malfoy snorted and readjusted her. She rebalanced and tried to find
a spot on his lap she could move in a way that would get his
attention more successfully.

He laughed.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m almost done. Don’t be impatient-“

She ground back against him and felt a satisfying-albeit brief-rush of

victory when his words cut off in a sharp breath.

Malfoy put his quill down and grabbed her throat.

“Hey-“ she protested.

“You have my attention,” he said, dragging her back against him.
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? What will you do with it now?”

With his other hand, he brushed aside the hanging fabric of his over-
large shirt on her, exposing her thighs and underwear. Then he
patted her lightly between the legs, twice. Like he was petting a cat.

“I wasn’t even going to touch you again until you asked,” he said.
“But I suppose you are asking, now?”

Hermione looked down at his hand between her legs, which rested
now just over the gusset of her underwear without moving.

“Are you?” Malfoy asked again.

His long fingers slipped under the band of her underwear.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes. I am.”

But Malfoy removed his hand from her underwear. He adjusted her
so she balanced more securely on his lap and then returned to his
work.

Hermione was too embarrassed to let her outrage show. But he must
have been able to tell.

“Good girls are patient," he said.

He was hard under her for the rest of the twenty minutes, which
Hermione supposed was some small solace.

Hermione had been worried that the dynamic of everything would be

different now that she’d let him touch her naked. Would it all twist
into something ugly? All this possessiveness? Would he grow greedy
and start treating her like some sort of sex doll?

But Malfoy was, if anything, more tender than ever before. And
letting him touch her felt less like opening the floodgates than it did
melting into him.
When Malfoy finished working, they went outside. Hermione had
thought that he’d bring her right back to the bedroom, but he didn’t
seem in any particular hurry. He lay back in one of the reclining
wooden chairs by the fountains with her between his legs, curled on
her side and resting against his chest and stomach.

Just as Hermione was drifting off, a servant’s voice abruptly

interrupted the lazy afternoon.

“Master Malfoy,” the man said. “Dolohov at the Floo, sir. He requests
a meeting.”

Malfoy checked his wristwatch.

“He didn’t make an appointment,” Malfoy said.

Hermione wanted to laugh-what was Malfoy, a dentist?-but somehow

the way he said it indicated that scheduling time with Malfoy was an
understood prerequisite. Perhaps it was one of the stringent security
measures she’d come to realize he employed.

“Shall I tell him to make one, and return later?” the servant asked.

“It’s fine,” Malfoy said. “Have him wait while I prepare the wards.”

The servant bowed and left.

Malfoy sat up, easing Hermione off him. He murmured a spell and a
brief, vibrating hum went through the air. His security wards-they
were exceptionally powerful. Hermione even saw them flicker
momentarily into view: a web of glowing yellow threads, stretching all
over the grounds. One even darted lightning-quick to the signet ring
around her neck.

“I’ve never seen wards like those," Hermione said.

“I have rather a lot more people trying to kill me than the average
person," he said, casting some indecipherable magic that
presumably adjusted the wards for Dolohov's appearance. "These
wards are ancestral. I tied them to my family blood, and to the
materials of the old Manor. Bricks and fireplaces and things… they’re
built in everywhere throughout the house.”

Hermione was unsettled at the implication that people were

constantly outside the walls of Malfoy's house, waiting to get in.

He smiled at her.

"Don't worry," he said.

They returned to the house and Hermione sat on the sofa in the
living room. Malfoy dropped next to her and propped his feet on the
table.

The empty fireplace in front of them lit up, the flickering flames green
and bright.

Dolohov’s silhouette appeared in the fireplace. He didn’t seem able

to walk through the wards.

Malfoy made a gesture and the wards dissipated. The fire expanded,
hot and tall, and more of the ward threads that Hermione had seen
Malfoy tighten outside webbed out from the hearth. Then Dolohov
stepped through, brushing ash off his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he said. "I know you hate drop-ins. I have news about the
wands."

“It's fine. Want anything to drink?”

"I brought a gift from Italy," Dolohov answered. He tossed a bottle of

wine to Malfoy. "Hello, Granger."

Hermione gave him a little wave.

“Ah, Perricone,” Malfoy said, looking at the wine label. “Good man.”
“When in Sicily,” Dolohov said, sitting in the chair across from Malfoy.
“Did you get my report by owl?"

“Yes. You said you found Yaxley's?"

“Right,” Dolohov said. “At his mum's house in Milan. I guess she
hung onto it after he died. It wasn't a match. So that leaves only two
possibilities left."

Malfoy hummed thoughtfully. One of his hands went-absently,

automatically-to Hermione’s hip.

She was very aware that she was dressed in extremely little. It was
one thing when Malfoy and her were alone-but now Dolohov was
seeing her in just an oversized men’s shirt and a bell around her
neck. He didn't seem too interested, though, luckily.

"We're getting closer," Malfoy finally said. "About time."

“Yeah,” Dolohov said, lighting a cigarette. “It have been faster if we

could just scan for the wands. But since we've got to physically
examine each one… well, that’s why this has been such a costly
endeavor, I suppose.”

He looked at Hermione. His gaze was blunt and this time his eyes
lingered on her necklace.

“I hate that I have to ask,” Dolohov said to Malfoy. “But she was
there that night too. Did you check her wand?”

Hermione stiffened.

“What does he mean?” she asked, looking at Malfoy. "What night?"

Malfoy just pulled her against his chest, resting his hand on the side
of her cheek.

“Not a match,” Malfoy said to Dolohov.

Dolohov looked skeptical, and Malfoy laughed.

“What?” he asked, toying with Hermione’s hair. “I'd have no reason

to hide it-the Commander only wants the wand, not the bearer. I
scanned her wand when I took her from Surrey. The logs are with
Macnair, you can check."

Dolohov nodded.

“What night are you talking about?” Hermione asked Malfoy.

“Battle of the Ministry," he said, playing with the cord of her necklace.

"There were a lot of people there that night," Dolohov grumbled,

blowing out smoke. "It's taken us three years to track down
everyone's wands. What with some of them dying, or fleeing, or what
have you…"

“Why don’t you go to the kitchens and tell the staff what you want for
dinner,” Malfoy said to Hermione. “Go on.”

“I want to hear more about this!"

“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m excusing you from the room.”

Hermione prickled with curiosity. She knew Malfoy wouldn’t let her
linger and hear more. And this had been the deal-but still. The Battle
of the Ministry? What could the Death Eaters possibly be doing,
looking for the wands of everyone that had been there that night?

She stood and left the room, her mind still ticking. She heard
Dolohov make some remark and Malfoy respond with: I don't like her
to worry.

Hermione went to the kitchens. It was her first time actually

interacting with more than a passing servant. The chefs were already
at work, preparing ingredients for dinner. They looked up and politely
put their tools down when Hermione entered.
“Preference for dinner?” squeaked a house elf.

Hermione noticed that the elf was wearing clothes, which was
pleasing. She was happy to know Malfoy paid them.

“Um-” Hermione looked back down the corridor, trying in vain to hear
the conversation. “Could we do-some kind of chicken?”

“Of course. For Master Malfoy?”

“Same.”

The house elf sent her off with a snack-a shallot tartlet and a little
glass of pumpkin juice. Hermione hummed appreciatively as she
nibbled the tartlet, then wandered back to the main house. She knew
Malfoy would be anticipating her trying to sneakily hear more, so she
didn't bother. She decided to walk around rather than sit and agonize
over the mystery. Hopefully by the time she’d finished her snacks,
Malfoy and Dolohov would be done talking.

Unfortunately, Hermione had forgotten that she’d planned on

avoiding walking around alone, specifically for the reason of avoiding
another one on one interaction with Nott.

She ran into him almost immediately, though luckily Pansy was with
him as well.

They were standing in a tapestried hall by the orangery, Nott helping

Pansy fasten a little bracelet to her wrist that had come undone.
Pansy seemed to be giving him an earful about some wedding detail
or the other, and neither of them noticed Hermione.

“-the McLaggens wouldn’t snub an invite from us,” Pansy said.

“Though Clarice has been such an awful bore about the renovations
they’re doing to the Como estate.”

“Must we discuss this?" Nott asked. "You know these little society
details don't interest me."
There was a tense silence, then Pansy suddenly snatched her hand
from Nott and did up the bracelet herself.

“These little society details?” Pansy repeated. Her face was wan and
twitchy, and Hermione noticed there were dark circles under her
eyes, masked with makeup. “I thought this was what the war was all
about, Theo. Letting us maintain our way of life? Letting us focus on
the same things our parents did, and their parents before them?”

“Wartime is the best time to eke out influence, Pans. It’s foolish to try
to focus only on society business while power changes hands. When
everything is over, when the dust has settled, don’t you want to be
on top-”

“I wonder,” Pansy hissed. “Why you and the other men pressed so
hard for a war, if all you wanted was for the dust to settle again.
Things before the war were perfectly settled, if I recall. My family
wasn't in debt, and nobody had died, and if it were up to me, nothing
would have changed-”

Nott spotted Hermione.

“We have company,” he said.

Pansy spun around and locked eyes with Hermione.

“Hello, Granger,” she said in a business-like sort of fashion, turning

back to her bracelet. “Thank you, Theo. Much better now-it was a
little loose-”

Hermione didn’t speak.

Pansy seemed on edge, twitchy. Her hands-gleaming red fingernails,

filed to perfect ovals and clutching a small purse-shook.

Then she seemed to gather herself. She turned to Hermione and

smiled, her black eyes cold.
“I’m sure you have no sympathy for us,” Pansy said in a cheerful,
slightly unhinged voice. “The Order has bled far more than our side
has…”

Her voice trailed off and she pressed her lips together. Her face was
pale and nervous.

"It's all dominoes, I suppose," she went on. "There's no picking up

the old ones. We must just try to fall forward…"

Hermione didn’t know what to say to this. Pansy herself seemed

barely to register she was speaking. She smiled thinly, then brushed
past Hermione and left, not even waiting for her fiancé.

Nott stared after her.

Then he turned his gaze to Hermione.

“She’s living in a fantasy,” he said. “She wants it to be like it was. The

parties, the summer houses… But it’s all paid for in blood. That’s
what she won’t accept.”

Hermione had no interest in talking about this with him. She turned
and walked away, still distracted by the glimpse into Pansy's inner
life. All shiny surface, all grieving hollow within.

As expected, Nott followed her.

“No interest in staying for a chat?” he asked. “I thought we had

things to discuss.”

“We don’t,” Hermione said. “I’m not interested. That’s my answer.”

Nott seemed surprised. He reached for her arm, and she batted his
hand away.

"Is this because of Draco?" he asked.

When Hermione didn't respond, Nott took hold of her wrist. He pulled
her close.

Unlike with Malfoy, Hermione somehow knew that Nott didn’t have
the bite to follow his bark. She wasn’t afraid of him, and even now as
he loomed over her, his dark hair falling over his eyes, his dark gaze
confused and unhappy. She met his eyes indifferently.

"You're turning your back on the Order for him?" he asked quietly.

Hermione understood now why Malfoy had said Nott didn't have
what it took to be a Death Eater.

Being a Death Eater meant you had to treat death, revenge, and
violence like business. But one look at Nott's face and Hermione
knew-for him, besting Malfoy was personal.

"I don't need you or Kingsley to understand," she said. "And anyway-
you should listen to Pansy. I think she understands something that
you don't."

"What might that be?"

"That the war has eaten everything," Hermione said, flatly meeting
his eyes. "There's no fixing things, all we can do is try to minimize
the damage. So I'm done throwing myself on the cross, when all
there is to be gained is scraps."

Nott's black eyes were unblinking. His lashes were dark and shining.
He had gotten very close to her now, but Hermione was unafraid.
Malfoy's protection over her was like a shield; under it, she knew no
fear.

Nott took another step closer, pressing his body against hers. It was
tentative-more of a challenge than a true claim. Hermione was
interested to learn that she had become very accustomed to the
terrain of Malfoy's body, and that Nott's was unfamiliar by
comparison.
She was sure that he knew as well as she did that all it would take
was one word from her, and Nott's corpse would be feeding the
crows by nightfall. He wouldn't dare hurt her. Hermione pushed him
back and he didn't protest.

"I like your bell," he said quietly. "Does it jingle when he plays with
you?"

“I’ll leave it to your imagination,” Hermione said. She shouldered him

away and walked down the hall back to Malfoy’s living room.

She felt Nott's eyes boring into her back until she rounded the
corner.

Hermione returned just in time to catch the very end of Malfoy and
Dolohov's conversation.

"… soldiers might be a little more motivated to work harder," Dolohov

said. "If they knew why the Commander wants the wand."

Malfoy snorted.

"Soldiers who need motivation to work hard aren't very useful

soldiers, are they?"

Hermione curled on the sofa next to Malfoy, her stomach still twisting
with agitation at the memory of Nott and Pansy. But Malfoy rested
his hand on her head and she relaxed, then lay her head in his lap.
He looked down at her with a smile, using one finger to stroke the
shell of her ear.

"A general and a philosopher," Dolohov said, already stepping into

the Floo. The security wards buzzed and vibrated, aware of a
breach. Malfoy's magic was powerful, and Hermione found vicious
satisfaction in the fact. "You would have been at home in Ancient
Rome, Draco."
"I don't know…" Malfoy said, tracing Hermione's jaw. "I find I prefer
the battles to the politics."

"One is sine qua non of the other, I'm afraid," Dolohov said wearily.

He gave Malfoy a salute, then disappeared.

The fire flickered into darkness, and Malfoy and Hermione were
alone again.

She stretched out on the couch, her toes pointing as she extended
her legs across the velvety fabric. Malfoy smoothed his palm over
her forehead and she let her eyes drift closed.

"Pretty little thing," he whispered reverently. "All this talk of Roman

emperors. Makes me want to feed you grapes.”
Chapter 18
Chapter 18

CW at the end.

Note - regular readers may be aware that I often edit chapters after I
post them. I do not ever change plot but I torture myself over writing
style and language so I often mess around w that a fair bit. Most
edits are minor. But I fiddled with the last chapter a lot over the last
week, so if you're the rereading type then it might be worth looking at
it again.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

A year had felt like a very long time when Hermione first struck their
deal.

She had imagined counting the days, had imagined waking up each
day already dreading the night. In these imaginings, Malfoy was a
hard shadow of a man. All edge, all appetite-nothing to offer her but
his hunger.

In none of her imaginings had anything like this ever happened.

Hermione was lying face up on Malfoy’s lap, trying not to giggle as
he balanced a grape on her nose. They were trying to figure out the
logistics of how feeding someone fruit was meant to work.

“The issue,” he said. “Is that it obviously takes you some time to
chew. So-is the desired outcome that I wait with a grape hovering
over your mouth? Or…?”
“I think maybe it’s more of a leisurely sort of thing,” Hermione said.
“Like-I ask for a grape and you give it? Rather than a constant
stream of grapes…”

She opened her mouth for a grape, showing him her tongue.

Malfoy smiled. He tossed the grape in his mouth and chewed it, eyes
sparkling at the sight of her annoyance. He leaned down and kissed
her, and Hermione tasted the sweetness of the grape on his lips.

She was about to demand he give her another grape when Malfoy
leaned back and checked his wristwatch. She deflated. Did he have
more things to do?

“I’m tired,” she said, trying to draw his attention away from the time.
“Can we go to bed?”

Malfoy noticed her shift in demeanor and smiled apologetically. He

held her cheek and pressed his thumb to her lips. She puckered her
lips and kissed the pad of his thumb and he smiled, delighted.

“I might be busier tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll have to help Dolohov with

the search.”

This was not what Hermione wanted to hear. She fought back a little
flare of irritation. Twined with the feeling was an edge of worry.
Would Malfoy have to leave the house again? For how long?

“I’ll spend time with you tonight,” he promised. “No, don’t pout,
sweetheart. Let me make it better.”

He kissed her mouth, then her neck, then held her wrists together
and bit gently at the skin under her ears, until Hermione was limp
and shivery lying on his lap. She quivered and the little bell on her
collar made a small, tremulous noise. She remembered what Nott
had said and she reached automatically for the bell, trying to hold it
still so it wouldn’t tinkle.
“No,” Malfoy said lazily, brushing her hand to the side before her
fingers reached her throat. “Leave it.”

He kissed her again, this time holding her hand still. Malfoy lowered
his face to her neck and she felt him lick her throat, then the bell.

Hot, twisting anticipation seemed to have made its home in her lower
stomach. Ever since earlier today, when he’d refused to touch her.
And the little barb of fear-of being seen by Nott, of not knowing
where Malfoy would stop when he teased her-lended everything an
extra intensity. When Malfoy pressed his hand to her underwear, his
palm came away damp. He exhaled quietly.

“What will I do with you?” he asked, holding her jaw with that hand.
She felt her own slight moisture on her cheeks. “Hm? Looks like you
need attention.”

“Malfoy,” she said. She squirmed. “Please-let’s go to the room.”

“What do you want to do in the room?” he asked.

His eyes were unyieldingly hard on her. From her position lying on
the sofa, Hermione looked up at him, feeling soft and powerless.

“Please?” was all she managed to say.

She felt his cock harden under her shoulder.

In his room, Malfoy undressed Hermione slowly on his bed. She was
only wearing his big shirt and a pair of his socks, but he took his time
stripping her.

Hermione felt a hot, rippling sense of unreality submerge her as she

relaxed fully into his touch, as she let him do what he wanted.

He pushed her onto her back, then dragged one of her legs up to
rest on his shoulder. He tugged her foot free of the sock and kissed
her bare, sensitive ankle.
Hermione was half-mad by the time he did the same to her other
foot. She felt so needy for him to touch her faster that she actually
grabbed his large wrist and tried to move it towards her underwear.
Her stomach muscles tensed with anticipation.

Malfoy laughed softly.

He twisted his hand firmly, breaking her hold, then pinned her fingers
to her side.

“No,” he said. “Be patient.”

The sharp scars on his cheek and jaw were more visible than
normal, with his face close to hers and his cheeks faintly flushed.
The sight of them was evocative for reasons Hermione didn’t
understand. It reminded her of his physicality, of how he used his
body and made it do what he needed it to.

Malfoy released her hand and returned to kissing her ankles.

Hermione lasted only a few moments before reaching hopefully for
his hand again.

Malfoy pinned both her hands over her head before Hermione could
react. He kept his fingers around her wrists, vice-like.

“Do I have to keep you still?” he hummed.

Malfoy summoned something from the bathroom. One of her hair

ribbons. Malfoy calmly looped the satin around her wrists and
secured it with a tight knot. He let go of her and her hands remained
bound together.

Malfoy sat back again, examining her. His cock was tenting his
trousers. He loomed large and powerful over her. The mattress was
dipped slightly under their shared weight. She felt like gravity and
physics and prophecy were holding her in place there, captured
under him.
Malfoy seemed to be enjoying the sight of her trussed up before him.
He stared his fill, then slid his knee between her legs. He parted her
with one firm movement.

“Wider, sweetheart,” he said, easing her thighs apart. “There you go.
Stay open like that for me.”

He kissed her breasts, then her stomach, then her hip. He kissed the
thin lacy band of her underwear, then kissed it again. Hermione let
out a quiet sob at the intensity of even this small sensation.
Goosebumps had risen all over her. Each of her nerves was at full,
shaking attention; absorbing what Malfoy gave her.

Malfoy slid his fingers under the band of her underwear. He curled
his grip once, then tugged sharply to the side. Her underwear tore;
her skin sang with the jolt of sensation, then-instantly-she felt the
cool air of the bedroom on her cunt. She was so wet. So wet that it
felt abruptly cold and slick between her thighs at the change in
temperature.

Malfoy stared between her legs. His breathing was a little unsteadier
now. The sight before him seemed to be quickly undoing his self-
control.

Malfoy lifted one hand to her, and used his thumb and finger to
spread her lips. Seeing more.

“There it is,” he groaned softly. “Fuck. Finally… And look how soaked
you are.”

The word was hard with satisfaction. Almost unkind. Reverent

instead, somehow. Hermione’s cheeks flushed hot with
embarrassment against Malfoy’s blankets.

Malfoy dragged his fingers to her clit and started rubbing.

Skin on skin, unblunted-he had put two fingers to her without

preamble, had found her clit and slid his touch over and around it,
the skin slick with her fluids already. Hermione was unprepared,
she’d expected teasing, or thigh kisses-Malfoy circled her clit firmly
and she choked back a wail. The most intimate place it was possible
for her to be touched; Malfoy played with it now with firm, possessive
greed-like he was in a rush to consume all of it.

He drew the pleasure out of her with terrifying precision. His touches
hard and controlled, the sensation almost too much, too fast.
Hermione’s wrists hurt and she realized she was writhing, causing
the ribbon to dig into her skin.

“Easy,” Malfoy cooed, a dark edge of commanding amusement in his

voice. “Easy, sweetheart.”

He lifted his fingers from her clit and slid them to her entrance. She
braced for his entry but he just lingered there, at the soaking skin of
her entrance, petting her opening.

“Please,” she sobbed. “Please. Just-a little.”

He pushed into her very slightly, then grunted when she clenched
around him.

”Fuck,” he said.

He slid his finger in deeper. To the first knuckle.

Hermione quivered under him, feeling her inner walls clench

convulsively at the intrusion. Her eyes were rolling back. Malfoy’s
finger was big. And nothing had been inside her since the last time
she’d had sex, an ill-advised drunken liaison with Zacharias Smith a
year ago. It was sensation overload now, her sensitive inner nerves
singing under Malfoy’s efficient pressure.

He kept his grey eyes fixed unblinkingly on her face as he pushed

his finger all the way in. He curled his finger up against her front wall.

Hermione let out a shaky scream.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she gasped. He curled his finger and pressed it again and
again. “Yes! Yes-“

Hermione wailed; a squirt of fluid came out from her, soaking his
hand. Malfoy bared his teeth.

“I want to fuck you,” he said softly.

“Yes,” she managed to say. “Okay-yes-“

He smiled.

“I want to fuck you,” he repeated. “But I want to finish inside you

when I do.”

Hermione jerked away automatically, alarm shooting through her.

She tried to get up.

“No-“

“Shh,” he whispered soothingly into her ear. He caressed her

stomach. “I won't force you if you don’t want it. Don’t be scared.”

“You can’t get me pregnant,” Hermione said. “Please-promise-“

“Alright, sweetheart. I promise. Let’s play like this instead, hm?”

Malfoy brought her bound wrists down from over her head. He rested
them on her stomach, underneath him, and for a moment Hermione
thought he was untying her.

“We can pretend,” he said quietly.

Malfoy shifted his hips forward against her fingers. She felt his hard
cock through his trousers. Twitching against her hand.
The implication that he found her tied hands arousing elicited an
instant response in Hermione. She tried to touch him, forgetting her
hands were tied together. She whined and rubbed the back of her
wrists up and down the outline of his shaft, the closest approximation
to grasping him available to her.

Malfoy laughed breathlessly.

“There you go,” he said, groaning at her increasingly frantic touch.

“Less scared now? You want to touch?”

His cock jerked upwards, straining against his trousers, as though

Malfoy had been harboring years of impatient hunger. Hermione tried
to pull his trousers down. She wanted to see him. But her hands
were too clumsy, bound by ribbon as they were, to undress him.
Malfoy used one hand to pull the band of his trousers down for her,
pulling down the band of his black boxer briefs as well.

Hermione was unprepared for how it would feel to see his cock. It
was hard and symmetric and slightly curved-the tip of it was dark
pink. The sight of it was shockingly lewd, after these weeks of careful
non-sex between them. He was hard and ready. Perfectly sized and
shaped to drive into her.

Malfoy thrust lazily forward against her hands, fucking the air around
her fingers.

He held her wrists firmly at the right height. Then he brought his
palm to his mouth and spit into it, wet his cock and slid it between
her tied hands.

He groaned quietly.

“Good job,” he said, pushing his cock between her palms. “Just like
that.”

Hermione made an automatic, visceral noise of reaction. His cock

was hard between her hands, which were bound close together, tied
with ribbon. It gave him a small tight channel to shove into, and from
the looks of it, it felt very good.

Hermione stared at his face. He was so handsome-she’d long

thought so, though she’d never let the thought take root as she did
now. His jaw was sharp and his grey eyes were hazy and heavy-
lidded with pleasure. A strand of white blond hair fell forward over
them.

In what other situation would he be so unalert? So distracted, his

vision imperfect? Hermione’s stomach tightened at this thought-that
Malfoy, the hardened Death Eater, had no room in his usually sharp
mind for anything other than fucking her.

He kept groaning softly. He stared down at her hips as he drove his

cock between her hands again.

“We can pretend I’m going inside you,” he said, holding her hands
steady. His voice shook softly. “I would push you open. Just like this.”

Hermione needed him to touch her. One of his hands was around
her bound wrists, the other was on the bed, bracing his weight-the
absence of friction between her legs felt unbearable. Especially as
she watched pleasure cloud over Malfoy’s features. Especially as
she watched his long cock slide slowly in and out of her bound
palms, and as he told her all about how he would fuck her just like
this.

He went a little faster and Hermione sobbed.

“Malfoy,” she said. “I need-can you please put your hand-?”

His eyes flicked to hers.

“No,” he said. His cock slid steadily in and out of her hands, and
Hermione shuddered when his hips snapped faster with the gradual
increase in pleasure. “You just lie there and wait, sweetheart.”
All she could do was be there and watch him, like some sort of
voyeuristic torture.

She watched as his breaths came rough and fast. As he thrust

harder and less steadily, as his jaw tightened until the corded muscle
there stood out like steel. She made little whimpering noises that she
heard only distantly, as though they were coming from someone
else.

“I’d get very close,” he said to her, exhaling sharply at each word.
“And I’d hold your hips tight and push in as far as I could. And when I
finished, I'd make sure it all went deep inside you."

Hermione needed him to touch her. She was suddenly wracked with
fear that he would come and then leave her tortured like this, that he
wouldn’t let her come at all once he was done.

“Malfoy,” Hermione sobbed, her tongue thick and clumsy. She tried
to pull her hands back but they caught around his shaft. “Please,
please, wait-touch me first, please-”

“No,” he answered, his breaths heavy, and the firm rejection made
Hermione’s cunt clench intolerably.

Denying her seemed to push him over the edge.

He grunted, then pulled back, his cock sliding out from between her
palms. He grabbed his shaft and stroked himself fast and uneven,
pushing himself over, his hips quivering with the need to release

“Look up at me,” he gasped. “Yes, look at me-”

He made a broken groaning noise, and then he came. He finished all

over her tied wrists, over the ribbon binding them, spurting over skin
and silk.

Hermione’s involuntary whimpering noises cut abruptly off into a sort

of pathetic, shocked silence-she stared helplessly at his cock
twitching, at the orgasm he’d so lovingly described as going into her.
Her cunt was empty right now instead.

The pressure in her lower stomach was painful; her clit felt swollen
and sensitive, aching and aching in response to every spurt of cum
Malfoy dragged out of himself.

She keened silently as Malfoy finished. Her wrists were sticky with
him, the ribbon ruined. Malfoy shuddered. He leaned back and let
the last of it fall onto her stomach, pooling between her hips.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Malfoy whispered breathlessly, still pulling

slowly at his cock. “No, no, pet, don’t cry. I’ll take care of you right
now.”

He let go of himself. His hand was large and had his spend on it; he
dragged his fingers through the mess on her stomach and then
smeared it down to her cunt. The cum left sticky white streaks
shining against her golden skin. Malfoy rubbed it into her clit, working
it into the skin around her most sensitive spot.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

“You did such a good fucking job,” he cooed. “Didn’t you? Didn’t my
girl work so hard-“

Hermione moaned and shook. His cum acted as a sticky lubricant

and he kept it on her clit, not pushing any into her, and so Hermione
abandoned any alertness or concern. His motions were firm and
fast-no teasing, no toying-just giving her what she needed, right
where she needed it-tight and hard-oh God, oh God, yes, please,
she was about to explode-

Her orgasm tore through her like a fire. Hermione cried out and
thrust against Malfoy's hand, shaking, fighting for air. The sensation
was beyond what her body was capable of absorbing, it rocked
through her with obliterating intensity and she screamed when he
pushed harder against her clit.
“Yes,” she sobbed, flooded with gratitude. “Yes, yes-thank you-”

“You're welcome, baby,” Malfoy said as Hermione thrust up against

his palm. He ground his hand firmly against her, pressing his spend
against her clit, dragging wave after wave of pleasure out of her
cunt. “All over my hand, sweetheart. Let’s make a mess.”

She felt like nothing but raw nerve endings and thrumming orgasm
and hot, sticky pleasure between her thighs.

Malfoy rubbed her clit until Hermione was slumped into a shivering
puddle. Then he crawled atop her and kissed her. His hand was still
covered in come and he dragged it up her hips, pressing it against
her stomach.

“It would have been all in here,” he whispered lazily into her ear, and
she could imagine the hard curve of his smile as he spoke. “Maybe
next time, hm?”

Hermione barely heard him, she was still shaking so badly. She
curled tight under him and he held her firmly against his chest.

The afterglow was intoxicating, too heavy to fight off. Malfoy was
warm and large and strong all around her. She fell asleep almost
instantly, with him whispering possessive little love notes in her ear.

There was supposed to be plot in this chapter but oh well! Chapter

count goes up instead :)

CW: breeding kink talk. Dub con is at a high level at certain points.
Chapter 19
Chapter 19

Hermione was dreaming about the war.

In her dream, she was situated at the very top of a tall, spiring tower.
Outside her window were large, fluffy clouds. From all the way up
here, Hermione couldn’t see any evidence of the war. But she could
hear it. Distant yelling and explosions.

There was no door in the tall stone room she lived in. But Hermione
wasn’t sure if this was because there was truly no door, or if perhaps
she had simply not looked hard enough.

Towards the end of the dream, Malfoy arrived in the form of a large,
black-scaled dragon. Hermione knew it was him because of the
eyes-they were huge and silver, bright with intelligence but flat as
metal coins. Devoid of emotion. Still, they followed her with alert
affection, and with something greedy and adoring in their reptilian
depths.

The dragon licked Hermione's cheek when she let it get close. And
then she woke up.

She was in bed, curled in warm, soft blankets, and Malfoy was
touching her cheek. He was standing over her, already fully dressed.
The outline of him was dark and crisp against the pale, early morning
bright of the window.

“Good morning,” Malfoy said quietly, dragging his thumb along her
cheek. “I’m getting ready to leave.”

Hermione blinked away the sleep; she sat up.

“Leave?” Hermione asked. “Where?”

“Latvia. But I’ll be back tonight.”

Malfoy looked like he’d been up for hours. He was in the robes with
the armored guard plates-the uniform that he'd had on the first night
he'd stolen her, and the night he'd returned from saving Tonks.
Hermione recognized it now as his war attire. His blond hair had
been a soft, rumpled sweep against Hermione’s cheek when he held
her close to his chest last night. But now it was sharply brushed to
the side-still a little damp from a shower.

He was holding his Death Eater mask at his side. Not wearing it yet-
not in front of her.

“Can’t you go later?” she asked nervously, wanting to make excuses

so he would stay. “You haven’t even dressed me.”

Malfoy just smiled. He stooped to kiss her, and lingered like that-his
head close to hers, one of his hands bracing his weight on the soft,
warm bed. Hermione thought-wished-that he would crawl back in
bed next to her.

“I left a dress for you in the closet,” he said quietly, into her neck. “So
that you can get dressed after sleeping in. Or you can stay in
pajamas today, until I get back.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. She felt powerless to stop him from
leaving her, and angry that he wasn’t indulging her.

“Don’t go,” she demanded.

Malfoy looked amused at her indignation. He tapped her chin with

his thumb.

“I make the rules,” he said softly, straightening up.

"What if something happens to me while you're gone?" Hermione

tried.
“There’s nowhere safer than here. I made sure of it. And if something
does happen, you know what to do. Hold my ring. I’ll come back
immediately and take care of you."

“You wouldn't get back in time," Hermione said pettily. "If something
really were to happen. Latvia is too far to Apparate in one go. By the
time you get back, who knows what-"

Malfoy held out his hand.

The ring at Hermione's throat hummed instantly, responding to his

magic. Even the bell on her necklace quivered, emitting a shivering
metallic noise where it touched the ring.

“I’m connected to it,” Malfoy said, holding up a hand.

Golden threads of magic flickered palely into view. He showed her

how they wound around his fingers, his palm-even up his shirt and
presumably into his chest. He closed his fingers, pulling the golden
threads taut, and the thin silver chain of her necklace drew tight
around her neck. She felt his signet ring vibrate, the epicenter of the
magic.

Malfoy relaxed his hand and the chain slackened. He let his hand
drop at his side and the golden strings faded once more out of view.

“That ring is full of my family’s magic,” he said. “Your necklace and

little bell are part of it too now, just from touching it. You have nothing
to worry about. I can Apparate to you from Latvia. I could Apparate to
you from the fourth ring of hell.”

Hermione refused to seem impressed or even interested.

Malfoy looked at her with amusement, a little fond smirk on his face.
He absently tapped the Death Eater mask at his side with one long
finger, as though thinking. Hermione had the feeling he might
actually stay, if she asked him a little nicer.
But before he could, Malfoy seemed to overcome the impulse.

“Don’t pout, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing her curls out of her

face. “It hurts my heart. Be a good girl and wait for me, now. I’ll bring
you a present when I come back.”

“What kind of present?"

Malfoy laughed.

“Something you’ll like,” he promised.

Hermione didn’t say anything. Malfoy leaned down to kiss her

goodbye, but Hermione turned her head away

“Hey,” Malfoy chastised, grasping her jaw. He turned her to face him.
“You can tell me you don’t want a kiss. But you know better than to
jerk away.”

Hermione glared up into his eyes and silently willed him to stay.

Malfoy kissed her nose

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back soon.”

He straightened up and cast a handful of powder into the Floo. The

flames turned green and Malfoy stepped into them, sliding the mask
over his face as the fire carried him away.

In a half-hearted attempt at rebellion, Hermione refused to eat her

breakfast. The servants had left her a tray of toast and blackberry
preserves and a poached egg on the coffee table in Malfoy’s office,
perhaps assuming she’d want to read there in his absence. But
Hermione ignored it. She relished in the grumbling sound her
stomach made, knowing it would upset Malfoy to learn she hadn’t
eaten.
Hermione walked around his huge, empty office for a while, staring
glumly at the books on Malfoy’s shelves. Then she returned to their
bedroom and languished there for an hour or so. She lay atop the
perfectly made sheets (she wasn’t sure when the servants or elves
managed to get in and out, but the bed was always made) and
closed her eyes.

There was a lingering muscle memory, sometimes, that made her

want to jump to her feet in a panic and make progress on the never-
ending list of things she’d had to do at the Order.

But she was getting better at quelling it. She was getting better at
lying here, and accepting the stillness of the world around her. The
silence of this big house, of the pretty eggshell toned wallpaper and
the dark beams in the high ceiling.

Had the world always been this quiet? It felt like a different universe
from the one she was used to with the Order, where it was all noise
and requests and busy, frantic energy.

Hermione’s resolve to not eat breakfast dwindled by noon, when her

hunger became harder to ignore. She finally clambered out of bed in
search of her breakfast, but it seemed the servants had cleaned it
up. Her little tray was nowhere to be found.

Chagrined, Hermione left the room with a plan to go to the kitchens

to find something else to eat. But she paused on the way there, at
the wall of wide, clear windows in the living room. All the windows in
this house felt tremendous. Floor to ceiling, all glass and no pane.
So different from the decorative criss-crosses, the brass
embellishments, of the windows that Hermione remembered at
Malfoy Manor. As though Malfoy had learned the hard way that clear-
eyed visibility was crucial.

It was cold and white outside. Winter had arrived in earnest.

And there was a thin figure out by the skeletal hedges. A thin figure
in a large black coat.
Hermione's heart seemed to stop. Years of trained trauma rose to
the surface. There was a stranger in the safe house, there was a
Death Eater who had made his way in, they were all in danger-

But the figure lifted a cigarette to her mouth, tilting their face up to
reveal dark eyebrows and red lipstick, and Hermione steadied
herself on the window frame.

Not an intruder. Just Pansy Parkinson.

She was wearing a fur coat over what looked like pajamas.

Hermione reeled with relief. She willed her heart to slow down. Just
Pansy. It was just Pansy.

Pansy’s dark hair was loose, uncharacteristically messy where it

hung over the fur collar. She looked hungover or perhaps drunk; she
was staring off into the distance.

Hermione decided, after a moment’s hesitation, to go talk to her. She

had already spoken to Nott, after all, and who knew what additional
information or context Pansy would provide? Hermione knew that a
woman's perspective was almost always worth knowing, if one could
find one.

It was freezing outside, and Hermione shivered as she stepped from

the warm, comfortable halls of Malfoy’s home out into the wintry
grounds. The dress that Malfoy had laid out for her that morning was
long-sleeved, but insufficient against the biting cold air. Hermione
wished she had a coat as thick and warm as Pansy’s seemed to be.

Pansy watched with vague interest as Hermione approached. She

took another drag from her cigarette and was even polite enough to
turn her face away when she blew out the blue-white smoke, which
was thick and velvety in the chilly air.

“Hello,” Pansy said dully. “What do you want?”

Her eyes were red from crying.

“Are you-alright?” Hermione asked uncertainly. She shivered and

held her arms tighter.

Pansy snorted and tapped the filter of her cigarette with one red-
polished nail, helping the excess ash fall to the ground.

“Just peachy,” she said. “What about you, Granger? Are you
enjoying your stay?”

“It’s sort of nice to pretend the war isn’t happening,” Hermione

admitted.

Pansy laughed.

“Pretending is critical,” Pansy agreed. “It’s important to avoid thinking

about the hard things."

Hermione once again had the sense that the woman was a bit drunk,
though Pansy retained a sense of elegance that would have ruled
out inebriation in most others.

But she just had a sort of-fuzzy sense of vulnerability about her.
Hermione recognized the demeanor of someone who was trying to
drown out misery.

What was eating away at Pansy?

But before Hermione could figure out a way to ask, Pansy reached
into her coat and drew a wand. The motion was surprisingly quick-
seeing as Pansy was drunk-and Hermione flinched out of automatic,
involuntary alarm.

"Oh, please,” Pansy snapped irritably. “I’m not going to attack you.”

She lifted her wand with exaggerated slowness and re-lit her
cigarette, which had gone out.
“Sorry," Hermione said. Her cheeks were warm with embarrassment.
"I think I’ve become more skittish without my wand."

“A wand can’t keep you safe anyway,” Pansy said, inhaling from her
cigarette once more. She stared out into the woods. “Plenty of
people die clutching their wands.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say to this.

She stood silently for a while, until Pansy cleared her throat. Her
black eyes were bright.

Then, Pansy said:

“I didn’t mean to miss the funeral.”

The statement was unexpected, as was the suddenly shaky tone

with which Pansy delivered it.

Hermione didn’t even know what funeral Pansy was talking about.
There had been so many.

Hermione didn't speak, and Pansy seemed to take this as an attack.

“I mean it," Pansy snapped defensively. “I know you lot won’t believe
it. But I was trying to go. I was trying. My parents caught me trying to
leave the house. They never liked him-just like you lot never liked
me-”

That funeral.

Hermione tried not to let her shock show. She had, in fact, resented
Pansy for not showing up. Though the resentment, and even the
memory of the funeral, had long since faded into irrelevance as
newer and fresher tragedies accumulated.

Pansy wiped her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to miss the funeral,” she whispered again.

The words were thick with scar tissue. Like Pansy had said them to
herself over and over again.

“It’s okay,” Hermione said uncomfortably. “I’m sure he-would have

understood-”

It was bizarre to be reminded of a tragedy from so long ago, to be

reminded that Hermione was now someone who couldn’t even keep
count of the many friends she had to grieve.

And it was bizarre to learn that-almost five years after the fact, and
engaged to another man-Pansy was evidently still haunted by what
her dead boyfriend’s friends thought of her.

Friends that-true to Pansy’s suspicion-had never liked her, and had

been angry but unsurprised when she didn’t show up at the service.

“I just wanted someone to know,” Pansy said, wiping her face. “So if
you ever get out of here, be sure to tell your Gryffindor friends.
Okay? That Pansy meant to go.”

Hermione had grown used to the mashup of emotions that reared

their Hydra-like heads in the face of grief. She felt them all now, as
she watched Pansy’s thin shoulders tremble with stifled sobs. It was
odd how, as the war went on, every emotion just started to feel
mostly like sadness.

“Okay,” Hermione said quietly. “I will.”

Hermione lost much of her appetite after the conversation with

Pansy. She walked back to Malfoy’s room instead of the kitchens,
not hungry any longer.

Hermione had long had the sense that the world was fundamentally
wrong in some way. It was a surreal feeling, a sort of dissociated
detachment that whispered to Hermione that clearly, clearly, this all
had to be a nightmare. Clearly, things had happened incorrectly-the
path of history had at some point veered violently off the course it
was intended to have gone on, and now Hermione was glimpsing
some alternate reality hellscape.

She had assumed that this was just a natural reaction for those on
the losing side of any war. The cognitive dissonance of sacrificing
everything for the greater good, then learning that it had been for
nothing.

So Hermione was unsettled to learn that the feeling was, apparently,

not confined to the Order. In Pansy’s haunted expression Hermione
had recognized the dazed, disbelieving pain of her own soul.

Hermione sat back on Malfoy’s bed, facing the window. She watched
the small, cold sun arc across the winter sky, going from high and
white to bloody red, before it sank unfeelingly below the treetops.

The lamps in Malfoy’s room came on automatically once it got dark.

Hermione had the feeling that he’d charmed them to do that, just for
her. Even her little candle flickered to life.

Malfoy had left one of his silver watches out on the side table for her,
magicked to be floating upright like a tiny grandfather clock. It was
now just past five o’clock. Hermione watched the thin, spider-leg like
second hand twitch ever closer to the twelve. Then it would start
again, beginning the weary journey of another minute.

The watch had the date visible on the bottom edge of its face. A little
box for numbers; today was December fifth. How long had she been
here with Malfoy already? Something like-two weeks? Maybe three?
So he would have her until next November. The beginning of
November. And that’s when Hermione would be returned to the
world.

Hermione found she didn’t want to think about that.

Six o’ clock came and went. Then seven.

Malfoy had promised to be back for dinner.

Eight o’clock, nine o’ clock, ten o’ clock.

Hermione chose a book at random and tried to read it, hoping to

distract herself from increasingly vivid imaginings of Malfoy dying.

She must have fallen asleep. Because the next thing she knew,
Malfoy was tugging a book out of her loose grip. She’d fallen asleep
by the fireplace, waiting for him to come back.

Malfoy smelled like the outdoors. Rain and dirt and sweat. A tinge of
coppery blood.

“Asleep on the rug?” Malfoy asked quietly. “Not good for your back,
darling.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around his leg and he laughed softly.

“Missed me?” he asked, palming her head.

Malfoy lowered himself to the rug next to her, then tugged her close.
He was still in all his gear.

“I know I’m late,” he said quietly, pressing his lips to her temple. “I’m
sorry.”

Hermione leaned into his kiss. She turned to him, but then froze
when she saw there was a new cut on his face. Parallel to the side of
his cheek, red and dark going from his temple down almost to his
mouth. Blood had dried on his skin.

“What happened?” she asked, reaching for him.

Malfoy caught her hand before she could touch the scar.
“Slow to dodge a hex," he said. “I’ll put a bandage on in a second.
Don’t get your hands dirty.”

Hermione wanted to examine his cut. But he lowered her hand firmly
to her lap, and she laced her fingers together to keep herself from
reaching for his face again.

“Did someone attack you?” she asked, her fingernails biting into her
own palm.

“Yes. People were expecting us,” Malfoy sighed, lying back on the
rug and stretching out his long legs. “Unfortunately.”

Malfoy didn’t seem concerned about the attack-presumably, this was

not an unusual occurrence. But Hermione could not be so blasé.

“You promised me everything would be fine,” she said, trying to keep

her voice steady.

Malfoy looked at her. He took her hand.

“And it was. There’s none of them left,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”

Malfoy kissed her knuckles, then toyed with her fingers. He ran his
thumb over her nails, which were neat and trimmed from her bath
the previous day.

“I have your present,” he coaxed, meeting her eyes with a smile.

Hermione couldn’t hide her suddenly straightened posture, her alert

excitement. It had been a long time since anyone had given her a
gift.

“What is it?” she asked, peering around him.

“I can’t tell you,” he said in a tone of mock offense. He summoned a

box from by the fireplace. “You have to open it to see.”
The box was wrapped in red paper, and had a small, curly gold
ribbon affixed to the top.

There were holes poked in the top of the box, through the wrapping
paper.

Hermione took the whole thing from him, breathless with excitement.
Her fingers shook as she ripped apart the wrapping paper. Surely he
hadn’t-

No sooner was the top off the box when something small and fluffy
sprang instantly out and onto Hermione’s face.

“Oh,” Hermione gasped in ecstasy, peeling tiny claws off her

shoulder. It was a kitten. “Oh my god, oh my god-”

Malfoy laughed, clearly pleased with Hermione’s reaction.

The kitten swatted at Hermione's hair, wiggling easily out of her

hands when she tried to pull it away. It leapt onto her shoulder and
instantly tangled itself in her curls.

Hermione giggled and tugged it free of her hair, then held the kitten
up to the light, staring rapturously at it.

A friend.

Malfoy smiled and reached forward to run a knuckle down the

kitten’s bony spine. It arched happily into his touch.

“You like him?” Malfoy asked.

”I love him,” Hermione managed to say.

Malfoy kissed her shoulder.

“I’m sorry for leaving you alone, darling,” he whispered. “Now you
have someone to keep you company, when I can’t.”
Hermione was vaguely concerned by the implication that she might
need company again in the near future, when Malfoy had to go
search for the wand once more. But she was too awestruck by the
kitten to care just now.

It was so darling. The kitten’s fur was so black that it was very nearly
blue, and it had wide yellow eyes that lit on Hermione like twin
moons. It opened its mouth to yawn in a flash of pink tongue and
white fangs.

There was a thin white collar around the kitten’s slender neck, with a
small gold tag on the front. Hermione plucked the tag up, looking for
a name. But the metal was smooth and unblemished.

“You pick the name,” Malfoy said, unbuckling his arm guards.

Hermione admired the tiny black kitten.

“Crow,” she finally said.

Malfoy smiled.

“Cute,” he said. "Crow-kshanks?"

Hermione laughed, surprised and delighted that Malfoy knew the

name of her old ginger cat. (Crookshanks was now wandering feral
somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, probably fatter and happier than
he’d ever been, though Hermione missed him terribly. There had
been no room for pets in the safe house.)

"No," she giggled. "We can't give him a name like that to live up to.
Crow needs to make his own way, don't you darling?"

Malfoy kissed her cheek with a smile, looking relaxed and at ease.
He seemed happy to be back home with Hermione.

He ran his thumb over the gold tag of the kitten’s collar and the
name appeared, etched neatly in four evenly-spaced letters.
Crow.

“I love you, Crow,” Hermione cooed, holding the kitten up to her face.

Malfoy made a little affectionate noise.

“So sweet, princess,” he said, combing his fingers gently through her
curls. “Are you happy with me now? Am I forgiven?”

Hermione nodded, laughing with delight when the kitten batted at her
cheeks.

Malfoy reclined on one arm and watched her play with Crow. The
kitten occasionally tried to hunt Malfoy’s hand, swinging its whip-thin
tail back and forth before lunging at his long fingers.

Malfoy snorted with amusement-presumably at Crow’s imperfect

killing form-and wiggled his hand, sending Crow into a frenzy and
making Hermione laugh.

It was very late, and neither Hermione nor Crow were immune to the
inexorable drowsiness of late night, even with the giddy excitement
of a new friend. By the time Hermione had grown tired enough to fall
asleep, Crow had as well. They curled next to Malfoy on the rug,
tucked into one another.

He drew them both into his arms, and Hermione felt herself relax at
the comforting feeling of his hard chest against her back. Rising and
falling calmly, steadily.

Hermione buried her nose in Crow’s black fur and wished with every
fiber of her being that Malfoy would stay home with her always,
instead of going out into the world.

She breathed the wish into the top of Crow’s silky head, and the
kitten purred.