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Tender Vengeance Part III
Tender Vengeance Part III -

Disclaimer: Harry Potter (the boy-wizard, as opposed to the Harry Potter, Sr. and Jr. of Troll infamy fame) and the other denizens/artifacts/spells/etc. of the Wizarding and Muggle worlds are the creations of J.K. Rowling. No profit is made from this work, which is intended as a commentary on the original, not as a derivative work. No infringement on the rights of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Publishing, et al is intended. To the extent permissible by law, I retain the rights to my language/text/story.

Pairing: HG/DM References to GW/V, GW/HP and HG/RW
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, violence, language
Genres: Angst, Romance, Drama, Smut
Spoilers: Through HBP
A.N. In which, as promised, the smut comes into its own...eventually.
Additional A.N.: I know that a lot of fanon holds that the study of Ancient Runes has to be the study of ancient practices of runic divination, that is, casting runes. However, Hermione, in worrying about her Owls, seems to be concerned that she made mistakes in linguistic translation rather than divinatory interpretation. Runes were, of course, also used as a form of writing. Certainly in Tolkien, the inscription on Balin’s Tomb, presented in both Dwarvish Runes and in English, can be used as a key to decipher runic inscriptions found elsewhere such as the frontispieces of all three volumes of the trilogy. Beyond that, Hermione seems to have nothing but contempt for most methods of divination. I decided to go with a mix of the two.

Tender Vengeance
Part 3 - Accommodation

Draco, in what Hermione took to be an unusually magnanimous mood, decided to honor his portion of their not-yet-finalized agreement straight away. Before he left their living quarters to do whatever it was Voldemort had him doing during the day, he introduced Hermione to Priddy, a Malfoy House Elf who had followed *young master* into exile, and who would come at Hermione’s call. Introductions made, Priddy returned to service in the kitchens. Draco then provided Hermione with a runic text, several excellent reference works, quills, parchment and ink, and invited her to begin a translation.

Hermione was grateful to have something to occupy her mind, keep her from dwelling on the horrors of the past day, the horrors in store, or from uselessly and constantly worrying about Ginny. She reached for the text, a thick volume whose worn leather bindings made it clear that the work was very, very old. A quick glance showed her the text was a compendium of healing spells and remedies, dating back a thousand years or more. Despite her circumstances, Hermione was ever the scholar, and couldn’t fail to be intrigued. Out of favor for centuries, ancient healing practices were now being reevaluated by mediwitches who were finding that some of the long discredited cures had real merit. St. Mungo’s hospital had recently announced that it was dedicating a team of researchers to investigate the old spells with modern methods, with the aim of determining which parts of traditional cures were valid medical treatments, and which were useless superstition. The difficulty lay in finding authentic texts. After so many centuries, few were left intact. The one in her hands was a researcher’s dream.

“Where did you get this?” she asked Draco, poring over parchment that was thin and fragile with age. Draco had transfigured the divan to a worktable and chair for her. She had lain the text out and was now examining it carefully.

“It’s been in the family for ages,” he said. “Probably penned by one of my ten-times-great-grandmothers.”

“Grandmothers? Not grandfathers?” Hermione reluctantly tore her attention from the text to bend a curious look upon Draco.

“With a title like *The Huswyve’s Companion* my galleons are on it coming down from the distaff side. And, no, I don’t read runes. That’s just what I was taught it was called, when I was growing up. As far as I know, its always been regarded as a family curiosity, not worth translating. But I remembered you’d done Ancient Runes and thought you might like to try your hand at it. If it doesn’t hold your interest, we’ll find something else.”

In fact, the text held her interest quite thoroughly. Priddy had to call her three times before she realized that the House Elf was even in the room.

“I is wondering if Miss is needing anything?” she said.

“Oh. Well. Pumpkin juice?” Hermione said distractedly her attention on puzzling out a particularly obscure arrangement of symbols.

“Priddy is thinking some sandwiches as well,” Priddy sniffed. “Young Master will not be thanking Priddy for letting Miss starve.”

“Umm hmmm,” Hermione said absently. She was only barely aware of Priddy’s return with a pitcher of iced pumpkin juice and a plate of sandwiches, a few moments later, and paid no attention when the elf apparated away once more. Absently reaching for the glass of juice, she continued sorting through one of the reference works. She was startled when Draco appeared, almost at her elbow, what seemed only a few moments later.

“Did you forget something?” she asked curiously. After all, he’d only left her with the book a short while ago.

“Forget something?” he asked with raised brow. “No. I found something. Someone to be our Bonder. He’ll be here directly after supper.”

“Oh. All right.” Hermione said, eager to get back to her work. “So, then, I’ll see you at supper” He arched a brow at her, his lips beginning to curl upward in something like a smile.

“Hermione,” he said gently, “It *is* supper time.”

She looked down at the worktable, shocked to see that she already had several feet of parchment’s worth of translations. Her stomach chose that moment to let her know that she had, indeed, been working for hours longer than she’d realized, growling loudly enough for Draco to hear.

“Merlin, Hermione, did you forget to eat lunch?” he chuckled, eyeing the plate of untouched sandwiches growing stale on the table beside her. “Never mind.” He waved his hand at her worktable. The food and her nearly empty pitcher of juice disappeared, while all her work materials tidied themselves up and flew off to land in an orderly pile on the sideboard. A moment later, the worktable was transfigured into a beautifully set dinner table. Hermione tried not to think about how well Draco was doing with wandless magic, and let him pour her a glass of wine.

As they ate their meal, he inquired about her translations, and was particularly pleased to learn that the text--correctly titled *The Huswyve’s Companion ynd Cures Effycacious*--had seemingly been written by *she who once hight Gudren Carlsdotter, and now hight Judith, wife of Armand du Malfoi*. The work had, indeed, been penned by a Malfoy ancestress, seemingly a Norsewoman wedded to a French nobleman about a generation after the Norse were granted the portion of the French coast that still bore their name: Normandy. Family pride aside, Draco turned out to have some astute observations to make about the material Hermione was finding. Which was a very detailed book of recipes for salves, ointments, poultices, potions, tisanes, and other cures for just about every malady, illness or accident--natural or magically induced--then known to man. In addition to the recipes themselves, there were guidelines for casting runes, to determine which variation of a treatment would be most effective in a given case. Gudren appeared to have been a dedicated healer, and one whose ancient recipes bore closer examination.

“Boomslang skin for treating severe scaring?” Draco said thoughtfully, filling the crystal goblet before him with more of the very fine wine he had poured for Hermione. Her goblet was also filled, but she had taken only a few sips. Draco was on his third glass. “That’s a major ingredient in Polyjuice Potion. Perhaps it somehow causes the scar tissue to polymorph back to the original condition of the skin?”

“That was my thought,” Hermione said. “You don’t use it alone, of course. There’s a recipe for a paste, with comments about variant ingredients, depending on the cause of the wound and the indication of the runes. There’s also a notation that it works well on scars resulting from hexes or curses.

“Dead useful if that’s true,” Draco said.

Hermione agreed. She had hopes that if the recipe worked, perhaps something could be done about the terrible scars Bill Weasley had gotten in the battle at Hogwarts. Of course, there was the little matter of getting it to him...

Despite polishing off the rest of the wine by himself over the course of the meal, Draco showed no signs of impairment. His hands didn’t tremble, his speech wasn’t slurred, and he continued to ask probing questions about her translations, and to offer insightful observations. She wasn’t used to that. Ron and Harry might have good ideas about the political intrigues that seemed to have surrounded them from the first, but they rarely had anything of importance to say about purely academic pursuits, such as the translation of dead languages or the potential effect of potion ingredients when used in ways other than those listed in their Potions textbooks. Hermione found the time passing comfortably enough.

Until, just after they’d finished their meal, and Draco had transfigured the table back into a divan once more, another person arrived, and she learned just who it was Draco had found to be their Bonder. As Draco stood aside to let the new arrival enter their living quarters, Hermione surged from the divan, gasping in outrage.

“You can’t possibly be serious!” she said.

“Believe me, Miss Granger, I am not overeager to abet Draco in this folly,” Severus Snape told her repressively, gliding into the room, his robes swirling like bat wings.. “I am no more anxious to be here than you are to have me.”

“But you *are* here, and we can get on with things,” Draco said, crossing the room to the sideboard, and reaching for the bottle of firewhisky. “Care for a glass of Old Ogden’s?” he asked.

“Rarely,” Snape said repressively. “Certainly not on occasions when I wish to keep my wits about me, such as when I’m undertaking the grave responsibility of Bonding someone in an Unbreakable Vow.” Draco was completely unmoved by the implied censure of his own behavior. Having filled his glass, he raised it to the older wizard in a mocking salute, before drinking it down.

“Couldn’t you have found someone else, other than this traitor?” Hermione demanded, doing her best to ignore her former professor, the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore.

“I don’t want any of the other Death Eaters to know what I’m doing,” Draco began, pouring himself a second glass, “and it’s not as if I can just pop ‘round to the Ministry and register our agreement with a Contract Keeper. No, Hermione. Severus here is the best choice for our Bonder.” His use of their former professor’s first name, rather than his last name, or the honorific, was not lost on Hermione. She realized that Draco addressed him not with the respect due a younger man to one so recently his teacher, but as if they were peers.

Or, as if he had no respect for the older wizard whatsoever.

“After he betrayed Dumbledore, you still trust him?” Hermione said, trying to puzzle out the new dynamic between the erstwhile student and his whilom favorite teacher.

“In point of fact, he’s already proved that I can trust him with my very life, haven’t you, Severus?” Hermione frowned. The words would indicate genuine trust and respect, but there was something venomous in the way they were said, and the look Draco bent upon the older man was close to hatred. For his part, Snape returned the look with what appeared to be regret. Hermione had no idea what any of this could mean, but neither man seemed in the mood to explain. “Let’s proceed, shall we?” Draco said finally.

“Not until I’ve seen the contract,” Snape told him. “I want to make sure you’re not Vowing to do something that would anger the Dark Lord.”

“The Dark Lord, but not my father?” Draco said, handing Snape the parchment.

“I already know it will anger Lucius,” Snape said dryly, as he unrolled the parchment and began to run his eye over the contents. “Otherwise, you would simply have asked him to be your Bonder.”

“From Azkaban?” Hermione said uneasily.

“Father was...liberated, yesterday,” Draco said cooly. Hermione correctly understood this to mean that Lucius had been rescued, probably with other Death Eaters, sometime the same day that Ginny and she herself had been captured. These events happening so close to Dumbledore’s murder, the Wizarding world must be cowering in terror. Hermione desperately hoped that Harry and Ron wouldn’t be driven to mount some sort of rescue attempt, prematurely. No true victory could be won against Voldemort until the remaining Horcruxes were all destroyed. Rescue would have to wait until that was accomplished.

While Hermione was occupied with her musings, and Draco with his firewhisky, Snape studied the scroll. After a few moments, he raised a brow.

“You undertake to protect Miss Granger against the Dark Lord, himself?” he asked dryly.

“I’m a Malfoy, Severus. I protect what’s mine,” Draco said.

“You’re an idiot, you mean,” their former potions master snorted, before turning his attention back to the parchment. “Then again, no more so than I’m sure our lord expected.” Hermione was about to ask him what that was supposed to mean, when another portion of their agreement caught his attention, causing him to roll his eyes in exasperation. “Unicorns?” he said incredulously. “*Unicorns?*”

“Well, it was either that or thestrals,” Draco said.

“You put the bit about the carriage in there?” Hermione said, almost as incredulous as Snape.

Draco offered her a mocking bow.

“My lady’s wish is my command,” he drawled. She flushed. Snape shook his head in disgust, but kept reading. Seemingly, after the unicorns, nothing in the rest of the contract surprised him.

“Well, there’s certainly nothing there to anger the Dark Lord,” he said eventually, rolling the parchment up once more. “Laugh himself to death, perhaps, but not anger.”

“Even Draco’s promise to protect me from him?” Hermione said.

“That’s the part that might prove fatal,” Snape admitted. “But the Dark Lord *is* immortal, so I think he won’t quite choke to death in hilarity, no matter how hard he laughs.” As Hermione continued to look doubtful on this point, Snape elaborated. “I see you do not fully appreciate the complexities of our lord’s decision to offer you to one of his followers.”

“Complexities,” Hermione repeated. “Of course. He’s a Slytherin. Naturally, there would be *complexities.*

“You see, my love, you *are* learning,” Draco drawled.

“Not nearly fast enough, it would seem,” she retorted. “As I still don’t understand why Voldemort wouldn’t kill you for promising to protect me from him.”

“Draco, do try to impress upon Miss Granger the folly of addressing our lord, even in absentia, by name. If he kills her out of hand, you will be forsworn for failing to protect her, and when you die as a result, Narcissa will make my life miserable for failing to protect *you.*”

“You still haven’t explained the complexities,” Hermione reminded him.

“Let me see if I can simplify them enough so that even you might grasp the salient points,” he said dryly, flecking an imaginary spec of dust from the sleeve of his robe. “As a Muggle-born, you are exactly the sort of creature the Dark Lord has pronounced unfit to live. He would, ordinarily, kill you out of hand. But, you have a value to him, so he forbears. Nevertheless, you arouse his natural antipathy, and he will always *desire* to kill you, even though it is against his best interest to act on that desire. If you remained his prisoner, directly, the temptation to put an end to you might prove too great. And, while any of his followers will begrudge him nothing, to their own lives, or the lives of their loved ones, still, they might, if only subconsciously, somewhat resent being deprived of a particular toy or prize which had been given them. Your value to the Dark Lord as a tool against Harry is one safeguard for your life. His desire not to alienate a loyal follower by harming you is a second safeguard. The third, of course, is your potential use as reward for service, once the war is won. After all, once the our lord comes into his own, and establishes the new world order, his loyal followers will need to be rewarded commensurate with their service. By giving you to Draco, he has increased the boy’s powers exponentially. The ability to retain such added powers permanently will be seen as a significant reward...meaning one less property or title or artifact our master has to part with, when the time comes.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, faintly. “Tell me, Professor, is there any documentation that Salazar Slytherin and his entire house are direct descendants of the rulers Byzantium?” Draco surprised her by laughing with real enjoyment at her remark.

“Yes, *Byzantine* is a fair description of Slytherin thought processes,” he admitted. “But tell me, Severus, is there anything else you want to say about that contract before I undertake the Unbreakable Vow?”

“No. There is nothing here that would prevent me, in good conscience, from acting as your Bonder.”

“Brilliant,” Draco said. “Then shall we get on with it?”

“Very well,” Snape said, taking out his wand. “If you will take the scroll in your right hand, Draco. Now, Miss Granger, place your right hand in Draco’s, also over the scroll.” When she had done so, he pressed the tip of his wand to their joined hands. “You may begin,” he said.

As Draco promised that, so long as Hermione fulfilled her end of their bargain, he would uphold their contract, tongues of flame shot from Snape’s wand to twine about their hands. The flames seemed to absorb the contract, mystically incorporating it into the ritual being performed. Eventually, Draco completed the Vow, and the serpentine flames faded away.

“That’s that, then,” Snape said, lowering his wand. “I will wish you a good evening.”

“Good night, Severus,” Draco said. Hermione remained silent, having nothing to say to the murderous bastard. He, however, had something to say to her.

“You will not believe this, Miss Granger,” Snape said. “But you happen to be an extraordinarily fortunate young woman.”

“Right. I’m dead lucky, I am,” she said bitterly. “I’m the most fortunate girl in Britain.”

“I did say you would not believe me,” Snape remarked dryly, turning on his heel and departing in a billow of black robes. After he left, Draco returned to the sideboard, taking out two glasses.

“Will you join me in a glass of firewhisky, or would you prefer brandy?”

“Neither, thanks,” Hermione said. “I’d like to get back to my translation, if you don’t mind. I was in the middle of--”

“I do mind,” he said, turning back to her, his gray eyes capturing her gaze. “We’ve only a few hours until midnight, and there’s the little matter of renewing the ritual.” Hermione went cold.

“Of course there is,” she said in strangled voice.

“Perhaps you will reconsider the offer of a brandy?” he said, not unkindly. Hermione drew herself up to her full height, and raised her chin, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.

“As you keep reminding me, I’m Gryffindor. I don’t look for courage in a bottle.” Draco’s lips twisted into a wry smile and he lifted his glass as if toasting her.

“No, you don’t. Another reason why I adore you” he said mockingly. “But there’s more than courage to be found in a bottle,” he went on, more seriously. “One can find forgetfulness, relaxation, peace.” Hermione shivered. She’d give a lot for a bit of peace, right now.

“One glass, Hermione,” Draco said quietly. “Not for courage. For peace.”

He held out a brandy snifter containing a small pool of golden brown liquid. She bit her lip, considering, then hesitantly reached out her own hand to accept it. She continued to stare at the snifter a moment longer, before finally raising it to her lips and taking a small sip. The liquor was smooth as silk on her tongue, and she could feel warmth spreading outward from her belly to her whole body. Sighing, she took another, larger sip.

“This really is quite good,” she admitted.

“Saraband’s Reserve Label,” Draco said, naming one of the most prized brandies in the Wizarding world. She smiled wryly. Of course, even exiled from his manor, on the run from the Ministry of Magic and hiding with the other outlaws following Voldemort, Draco Malfoy would still manage to have the best of everything. Something in that idea was so familiar, it was almost comforting.

Not comforting enough. Hermione continued to sip at her brandy. She tried to eke it out as long as she could, but eventually, the glass was empty. Draco took it gently from her, setting it with his own empty glass back on the sideboard.

She stood still, unable to look at him, staring at the toes of her silk slippers peeping from beneath the hem of her rose silk robe. But that was no good, because a moment later a pair of black leather shoes and black robes came into her view only inches from her slippers and a hand beneath her chin was lifting her head so that she had to look into his face anyway.

Still unreadable. She had no idea what secrets were hidden behind those impassive features, those steel gray eyes that were, even as she watched, heating once more to silver. That, at least, was no secret. The pure *fact* of desire, for whatever murky motives of anger, power, or vengeance might call it forth.

Draco released Hermione’s chin to brush his knuckles gently down her cheek, simply contemplating her for a moment. She returned his regard, was struck anew by how much he’d changed, physically, since she’d last seen him at school. She barely came up to his chin, and when he stood as close as he was now, she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. But he was bending down, now, and Hermione wondered if it would count as fighting him if she tried to pretend to herself that he was Ron. Surely not? If the intent was to make herself give Draco the physical response he demanded? Deciding it was her best course for getting through this, Hermione let her eyes flutter shut as Draco’s lips pressed softly against her own...and taught her at once that there was no point in pretense.

Soft. Gentle. Tentative. She’d never been kissed like this. Her kisses with Viktor and Ron had been sweet, and spirited, perhaps a bit clumsy, but making up in enthusiasm whatever they had lacked in grace or experience. She couldn’t pretend this was Ron kissing her, because it was nothing like the kind of kiss Ron had ever given her. Maybe later, she thought. When they started to do the things that she had never had a chance to do with Ron, so that she had no basis for comparison, maybe then she could try to pretend. Fortunately, it seemed that Draco was being surprisingly gentlemanly about the whole thing, given how horrid the situation was. Hermione remembered how he’d handled matters with the Imperius, sparing her a great deal of pain, and wondered if, just maybe, he felt a little sorry for her and wasn’t quite the bastard she’d always thought him. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, he was going to go about the business of renewing the ritual as quickly and painlessly as possible. Hermione relaxed a tiny bit, and, remembering that their contract required her not to resist him, ever so hesitantly kissed him back. Even if she wasn’t yet having any luck pretending he was Ron, this wasn’t as bad as it could have been, she thought resignedly.

And if only the kiss had stayed gentle, she might have continued to be resigned.

Draco’s arms slid around her pulling her closer, and he slowly began to deepen the kiss, nipping at her bottom lip until she gasped and opened for him, allowing his tongue to slide into the cavern of her mouth, and twine with hers. He tasted of firewhisky, the heady burn of the potent drink tingling in her mouth, and beneath it something else, something intrinsically Draco. Not quite so gentle, now, this kiss. Masterful was closer to the mark, again, nothing like Ron’s, sweeping away resistance as he moved his hands over her curves caressingly, so that her heart pounded and her breathing quickened but he wasn’t breaking the kiss, wasn’t letting her catch her breath. Hermione whimpered, found herself lifting her arms to wrap around Draco’s neck, clinging to him to keep herself from falling. A low growl of approval sounded against her lips and his hands began to move to the fastening of her robes, parting them and pulling the garment from her body. Hermione shivered in her thin chemise, fighting the instinct demanding that she clutch the robe to her body, not let Draco draw it away. But she wasn’t supposed to fight him. That was part of their contract. So she let it go.

Her eyes opened once more when he finally broke the kiss and allowed her to take in deep, shuddering breaths, which turned to gasps as his lips trailed from her mouth over her cheek to her temple, feathering light, tender kisses across her skin. Her mind made the connection between what he was doing now, and the light, tender touches she had experienced while under the Imperius, but she had no leisure to consider the matter, what any of it meant. His hands had moved up to cup her face, holding her head still, as his lips returned to her own, delivering another breath stealing, soul shaking kiss. A kiss she didn’t want to accept.

She wasn’t supposed to fight, she reminded herself. Not what he did, but more insidiously, not what he made her feel. Drowning in the taste of firewhisky and Draco Malfoy, Hermione understood, finally, just how cruel, how calculating, he had been in his demands, the bastard she’d always thought him and worse. The kisses he was giving her were passionate, consuming, ruthless, utterly outside of her experience. If not for their agreement, she would be fighting them with every bit of willpower, strength, and inner courage she possessed. And, even though her physical struggles would have been useless, her mental struggles would not. She would have refused to let herself respond, would have done exactly what he’d mockingly described: closed her eyes, thought of what passed today as the Empire, and let him rut with her body, while she insulated her mind.

At least, she would have tried.

But she couldn’t do that, now. The wretched agreement he’d extorted from her had taken the one weapon she had against him: her indifference.

Moaning, knowing that failing to keep her end of the bargain would only make matters worse, Hermione opened her mouth, allowing Draco’s tongue access once more, allowing her own tongue to twine again with his.

Draco’s hands slid downward once more, leaving her face, caressing her neck and shoulders, sliding to her waist. A moment later, without breaking their kiss, he slid one arm beneath her knees, another around her back, lifting her into his arms. It was a very short walk to the bed, after all, and she was almost immediately set down once more.

On her back. In Draco’s bed.

Hermione felt tears filling her eyes, didn’t even try to hold them back. He’d told her not to fight what he made her feel, after all, and what she felt at the moment was absolute despair.

But she would be lying if she said that despair was the only thing she felt. No matter how much she didn’t want to respond to him, her body *was* responding, the memory of shattering bliss something she cold not entirely repress. As Draco drew away once more, this time to divest himself of his own robes and underclothing, she dashed away her tears, and spoke.

“Merlin, I hate you,” she whispered. He went very still, looking at her with those dangerous, molten eyes.

“I know,” he said finally, and quickly finished stripping off his clothes. She drew a breath. He was beautiful, in the way sculpted statues of ancient gods were beautiful. Pale as marble, perfectly formed, muscles defined, delineated, marred only by the ugly, twisting bit of darkness stained into his left forearm, where he’d accepted the Dark Mark. But that sight was not the one that caused her to grow pale and avert her eyes. Her gaze had fallen upon that heretofore unknown part of him that was, at the moment, particularly well delineated, rampant in display. She quickly raised her gaze to his face. He did not comment upon her embarrassment, but continued their conversation while he finished undressing. “Of course you hate me. Here, now, it doesn’t matter.” he said, toeing off his shoes then bending over the bed grasping Hermione’s ankle and lifting it to so that he could pull off her slipper.

“Hate me as much as you please, Hermione. So long as you make no attempt to shut me out, you uphold our contract.” He rid her of the other slipper, then knelt back on the bed, sliding his hands along her ankles, raising the hem of her chemise to expose her stocking-clad legs as he did. “Charming,” he purred. “I think we’ll leave the stockings and garters for the moment. Your chemise, however, is definitely *de trop.*

This, too, was in their contract, that she not hide herself from him. Though she turned crimson with shame Hermione didn’t fight as he pushed the garment above her hips, urged her to lift up so he could pull it the rest of the way off her body. He tossed it aside, and remained kneeling above her for a moment, his molten silver gaze burning her from head to toe.

“Open for me, Hermione,” he demanded, voice soft, dangerous...silver. She forced herself to obey. Draco stretched over her, and began kissing her once more. She could feel his shaft hard against the soft flesh of her thigh, and braced herself for the intimate invasion that must surely result. It didn’t. Or, not immediately. Instead, Draco seemed momentarily content to devour her mouth with more ruthless kisses that left her breathless and gasping.

Momentarily.

The kisses moved away from her lips, trailed down her jaw to her neck, over her collarbone, and down to her breasts. She expected him to simply latch onto her nipple, but he didn’t, instead kissing his way around the entire circumference of her left breast, not neglecting to lave his tongue along the sensitive underside, making Hermione whimper once more, while his hand came up to gently fondle her right breast, as slowly and teasingly as his play with her left Only when he’d spent several minutes kissing the tender flesh, only when her nipples were hard aching points begging for his attention, did he open his mouth over one tender bud and take it delicately between his teeth.

Unable to keep herself from reacting to his too-skilled, too-knowing touches and caresses Hermione’s body began to spiral out of her control. She quickly found herself helpless to do anything but arch into him, raise her hands to thread them in his hair, hold him closer to her breast.

“Damn you,” she moaned as he nipped lightly, then soothed the little sting by curling his tongue lovingly around her nipple. He chuckled, the vibrations driving her mad.

“Probably,” he smirked, kissing his way from one breast to the other, continuing to drive her wild. Hermione writhed beneath him, unable to control her responses, hating herself as much as him. He was unrelenting in his attentions to her body, kissing his way from her breasts down her torso and over her belly, across her hip bone and down her thigh to the tops of her stockings. He caressed her legs through the sheer silk, then began to undo the garters and rid her of the last barrier between her flesh and his touch.

He touched her everywhere. Caresses. Kisses. Nibbles of his teeth. And, Merlin, but there was sweetness and fire in the way he touched her, and if she didn’t know how very much he hated her, hated everything she was, she would have thought he wanted nothing more than to bring her extraordinary pleasure, to spend his passion on her, ignite an answering passion in response.

It couldn’t be, she knew. This was merely a game on his part, a way to humiliate and shame her, to break her. It was retribution for six years of school rivalry, for her helping Harry to defeat Voldemort, for her part in sending his father Azkaban. She strove to remember that each sweet touch, gentle caress, burning kiss was nothing less than an erotic battle, sensual warfare, tender vengeance.

He didn’t make it easy for her to remember. Everything he did was geared to making her mindless with desire. Nothing so much as when he placed his hands on her thighs, gently parting them yet further, and settled between them, lowering his mouth to the secrets hidden there.

The first long, slow stroke of his tongue down the seam of flesh sent her arching off the bed once more, a cry of anguished need escaping her lips. Another growl of approval against her sensitized skin, another slow stroke, this time more probing, intimate, deeper. Hermione cried out again, twisting her fists into the bed-sheets, trying to get control of herself.

But Draco had taken control, and he wasn’t about to cede it. He seemed to know how to touch her, taste her, excite her, to know things about her body she’d never suspected. Merlin, how did he know? How had he learned? His tongue still seeking out the most responsive spots to taste, he slid a finger inside her, began finding other tender, responsive nerves.

She’d been wrong. Draco wasn’t the complete bastard she’d always thought him. He was far more ruthless, vicious, vile than she could have conceived. He took his time enjoying her, drawing from her cry after helpless cry, making her writhe and buck and twist beneath him.

Making her body flood with moisture. Making her skin burn and her flesh ache. Making her *want* him. Making her willing. Making her hate herself more than she could ever have imagined possible.

She could feel it approach once more, that unexpected, unwanted bliss, could feel her body tighten, humming with expectation. It was too much to be borne.

“No!” she sobbed, trying to keep her hips from thrusting upward, trying to keep herself from offering more of her body to him than he had already taken.

A warning nip to her thigh

“Leave off, Hermione,” he growled, less pleased than before. “You’re not to fight me in any way.”

“Please,” she begged him. “I can’t bear it.”

For a moment, she thought he’d relented. He stopped his exquisite torture, moved back up her body, stared down at her tearful face with those molten silver eyes.

‘’Poor Hermione,” he said almost gently, “Even yet so innocent, so untried.” He rested his weight on one arm, lifting the other to stroke the back of his hand once more over her tear stained cheek. “You’ve no idea how very much more there still is for you to bear.”

“Draco,” she pleaded. She should have known better than to appeal to his mercy. Like his master, he had none.

He dropped a kiss to her lips, and she tasted the sticky salt sweetness of her own desire. Then she felt him once more, hard and ready at her entrance, and she tried again to brace herself, to prepare, but there was no way to adequately do so. He thrust in hard, seating himself to the hilt, meeting no resistance from her sweetly wet core, causing her no pain.

Pinned beneath him, filled with him, kissing him, Hermione found herself once more caught up in a maelstrom of approaching pleasure. Helpless to stop herself she kissed him back, wrapped her arms about him, lifted her hips to meet the thrust of his.

She had a lion’s courage, but a woman’s heart and a woman’s body. She might have trampled a serpent beneath her foot, but she was no match for a dragon. He proved this to her, intimately, irresistibly, incontrovertibly. Each thrust of him into her core, each stroke against sensitive nerves, each heated kiss and burning touch proved that he could and would have what he wanted from her: that moment of sweet, shattering bliss she’d only known under the Imperius.

And it was that realization that saved her. It was too great a betrayal. Of Ron, of Harry, of Dumbledore, of everyone she loved, everything she believed in. She was abed with a Death Eater, the murderer of Albus Dumbledore, perhaps others, and she found she could, after all, deny Draco what he wanted. Not by fighting him, but by acknowledging her inability to fight. Her physical pleasure mounted, but could only push her so far. She hung, coiled and tense, suspended in the maelstrom, unable to surrender to it.

It didn’t take him long to understand.

“Damn you, Hermione,” he swore in her ear. “It’s yours, damn you. Take it.”

“I...I...can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“You can. You will,” he said implacably. A moment later, he’d pulled away, just far enough to change his position, pull her legs over his shoulders, angle himself to go more deeply yet into her tight core. Hermione screamed in reaction as his fingers twisted over her clit, her body thrumming with ever greater tension. If he’d simply lost his head with his anger and pounded into her, there was no doubt that he’d have reached his own pleasure before she had hers. He didn’t. The pace he set was brutal, but controlled, his attention on her response. He would not let her escape it, deny it, and before he was through she was screaming in animal need, nails raking bloodily down his back, the kisses she returned to him as devouring, as brutal, as hungry as his own. Once again, the coiling, sweet tension, the shattering bliss, came closer, and this time, she couldn’t cling to thoughts of those she loved, those she was betraying, because there was nothing in the world but a dragon’s fire, consuming her, the taste of firewhisky and a pair of burning silver eyes.

“Take it, Hermione,” he gasped into her ear. “Take your pleasure with me.” He twisted his hips, thrusting deeply and the world exploded into a thousand silver shards as Hermione did as he demanded, shattered, broke apart, and shivered into bits. “Yes,” he groaned, holding her as she came apart in his arms. “That’s it, Hermione. That’s it, sweet, sweet girl...” He scattered a dozen feather-light kisses across her temple and her brow.

His own pleasure was scant moments behind hers. Still, she’d recovered just enough to be shockingly aware of it, of him, of the brief moment when Draco Malfoy finally lost control. He surged into her, his face contorted by a look as of pain and she felt the warm gush of seed, heard his helpless groans as his body was seized by the same shattering rapture that had claimed her own.

She clung to him, holding him as he’d held her, and she realized that for once she could read him, for once his expression was not shuttered or impassive or remote. He looked...vulnerable. It was an illusion, of course. Draco Malfoy was anything but vulnerable. Still, the illusion was one which, in the moment, couldn’t fail to move her. She tightened her arms around him, as he collapsed above her, buried her face in his neck, breathing him in: sandalwood, firewhisky, musk, Draco.

They clung together that way for several moments, and when he finally moved, it was merely to lower her legs back to the bed. He didn’t seem to want to move off of her, or to stop kissing her, and it was so easy to let her mind drift in the aftermath of ecstasy, to not think, to simply respond to the sweet demands his body made of hers. Eventually, he did withdraw, and she felt his seed once more damp on her thighs. She sighed as he rolled away, just far enough to lay prone beside her, his face turned into the mass of her curls, one arm thrown possessively over her waist, keeping her close. He lifted up enough to give her a final, soft, sleepy kiss, but was wise enough not to break the tentative peace between them with words. She was emotionally fragile, and anything he said would have made her come all over tears. As it was, she simply stared into the dark above her, her mind coming to several realizations at once.

Any hope of protecting herself from what was happening by pretending he was someone else was gone. There was no room for the ghost of Ron Weasley in the bed Hermione shared with Draco. She could never fool herself into believing that the dragon claiming her was the sweet boy who held her heart. Distressing as that thought was, another came that was even more distressing. She had assumed that the tender words she’d heard while under the Imperius were simply her mind’s way of dealing with the orders being given her. But they weren’t. Draco had used them again, calling her *sweet girl* once more. She now had an answer she didn’t like to a question she had never wanted to ask. And there was nothing she could do about it.

Draco’s arm tightened about her waist, drawing her closer. His even breathing told her he, at least, had found rest. Closing her eyes, Hermione attempted to follow him into the dreamless dark.