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Entry tags:	dark bonding

Dark Bonding, Part I
Dark Bonding Part I

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
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, language
Genres: Angst, Romance, Drama, Humor, Smut
Spoilers: Through HBP

Dark Bonding
Part I - The Schemes of Madam Malfoy
by
Margot Le Faye

A. N. I am a sucker for Veela fic. This is one of three I'm working on, but I'm not going to even attempt to post the other two right now. At all odds, I have only seen this idea handled as fluff, humor, or as a somewhat angsty romance, without addressing the darker possibilities the situation offers. Draco is always shown as coaxing, cajoling or seducing Hermione into acceptance of the situation, and his parents are usually won over pretty damned easily. Which strikes me, given the canon, as entirely OOC for any of the Malfoys. Since I write dark better than light, this will be a somewhat more sinister take on the subject. With lots of smut. Because I rarely write something that doesn’t have lots of smut. Enjoy.

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Narcissa Malfoy stared down at the pale figure writhing in fever dreams on the bed before her, her expression cold.

“You’re certain?” she demanded of the tall, robed woman next to her. The seer raised a brow haughtily.

“I’ve never failed in these matters, Madam. If I had, you’d have hired someone else.”

Narcissa nodded. There was justice in that remark.

“The boy is certainly full Veela,” the seer said. “Such a thing is rare, but not unknown. You yourself bear the mark of Veela blood, as does your husband. It is not surprising that you would miss the signs, but I tell you now, your son is full Veela, not part. The mating sickness will not pass, as it would in one of lesser blood. And, the girl he has named is without question his one true mate.”

“I understand,” Narcissa said. The seer had merely confirmed what her son’s delirious ramblings--helped along by a touch of Veritaserum--had already told her, but she had, under the circumstances, needed to be certain beyond any possible doubt.

Now she was. There was no mistake and the situation, distasteful as it was, would have to be dealt with. As it would be. Whatever it took, whatever she had to do, Narcissa was not about to lose her son.

The idiot boy, clearly dismayed by the identify of the mate revealed to him in dreams, had tried to hide what was going on, letting himself get dangerously ill, perhaps in the not unreasonable assumption that, with two parents who were wizards rather than Veela, he couldn’t be more than part Veela, himself, and that his mating illness would eventually pass. Fortunately, Severus Snape was not as unobservant as most of the other Death Eaters. It took very little time for him to discern exactly why the boy was getting so sick, so quickly, to concoct an excuse for their absence that satisfied even the Dark Lord, before spiriting a barely conscious Draco back to Malfoy Manor and into the alarmed embrace of his mother. All without setting off any of the wards the Ministry had placed there to alert them to the fugitives’ return.

Snape knew only that Draco was clearly a Veela coming into his majority and pining for his mate. He had no idea who that mate might be, as the boy, sick as he was, refused to name her. Snape gave Narcissa his best advice on the subject--pour a vial of Veritaserum down the stubborn git’s throat, identify the girl and get her into Draco’s bed forthwith, and certainly within the next five days if she wanted her son to survive with his sanity intact--then returned to his master’s side.

Narcissa had wasted no time taking Snape’s advice. She learned the girl’s name within ten minutes of her son’s arrival at the manor. And, in very short order after that, learned enough to guess why Draco was resisting the bond, seemingly determined to die rather than yield to it. A bit of adolescent melodrama with which she had no patience. Narcissa quickly made plans of her own, one of which involved consulting the most powerful, most discreet seer to be found for hire anywhere in the Wizarding world.

“And there is no alternative?” she pressed, now. Narcissa didn’t have any real hope that there was, but if anyone knew of one, it would be the witch at her side.

“No alternative but madness and death,” the seer confirmed. “You have four days, perhaps a little more. After that, you cannot hope to save both his body and his mind. A Veela must have his mate, or die.”

“Then he’ll have her,” Narcissa said coldly. The seer closed her eyes briefly, concentrating. A moment later, she opened them once more, and gave the other woman a deferential nod.

"So he shall," she affirmed.

Narcissa gave a frosty smile. Not that she had ever doubted her ability to do what needed to be done. Still, the confirmation of success was nice. She turned on her heel and left the room. With a last pitying glance at the boy suffering on the bed, the seer followed after.

Being the best at what she did, and having had to come from halfway around the world on very short notice, the seer had set fees for her services commensurate with those facts. In short, she charged Narcissa an exorbitant number of galleons. A hefty bonus for her silence had been added, as well. A few moments after leaving Draco Malfoy’s bedside, she stood calmly in Madam Malfoy’s sitting room, awaiting Narcissa’s masterfully executed Obliviate. A moment later, their business concluded to each woman’s satisfaction, the seer Disapparated, leaving Narcissa to finalize arrangements for other sorts of services at fees every bit as steep as the seer commanded.

The cost was nothing. Narcissa would gladly have disposed of the entire Malfoy fortune, and her own considerable inheritance as a Black, if doing so would save Draco. Happily, the Malfoy fortune was vast enough to be little diminished by the expenses she incurred in this business. She was far more disturbed by having to deal with Muggles--and Muggle criminals at that--but it really was the safest path. Death Eaters might have been able to manage the matter more forthrightly, but she had no intention of allowing any hint of the situation to be known outside the family, ever. The immediate family. Her sister Bellatrix, she was sure, would tell her it would be better for Draco to die rather than to be mated to a Mudblood. As Bellatrix was a raving fanatic who had never borne a child, her opinion on the subject didn’t count for much with Narcissa.

Lucius’ opinion was another matter. However, while Narcissa might have lain down her own life for her beloved husband’s, she would sacrifice his for her far more beloved son’s without a second thought. Thankfully such extreme measures would not be needed. Lucius would know nothing of what was toward until the Dark Lord’s triumph and Lucius’ own release from Azkaban, which would certainly follow. Her husband would return home to find the situation well in hand, the Malfoy name, fortune and future secure, and he would do what Narcissa herself was prepared to do: make the best of a very bad situation, and work to keep this particular family skeleton buried deep in the closet--or, comfortably appointed bedchamber--where it belonged.

Thus it was that within moments of the seer’s departure, Narcissa downed a vial of Polyjuice Potion, and exchanged her elegant, now too-large robes for a set of drab Muggle clothing more befitting her smaller, stouter, older form. Satisfied that her appearance was suitably nondescript and eminently forgettable, she Apparated to a safe point on the outskirts of Muggle London, from which she could make her way to the unsavory little pub where, before they let themselves be Obliviated, her sources had told her she could find what she required.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Hermione Granger was keenly aware of the difference between this summer and the other summers she had spent between each year at Hogwarts. For one thing, her return to Hogwarts was very much in doubt. Even if the Ministry of Magic and the school’s Board of Governors agreed to reopen it, Harry had already announced he would not be going back. He intended to finish the search for Voldemort’s Horcruxes, and force a final confrontation with the monster decimating Wizarding Britain. And of course she and Ron would be at his side. Harry’s infuriated protests that it was too dangerous had been roundly ignored by both of them. Hermione pointed out that Dumbledore himself had told Harry to share everything he had learned in his private lessons with his two best friends, and that the assistance she and Ron had given him had helped him against Voldemort ever since first year. He wasn’t going anywhere without them, and that was that. After she made that statement, standing with her arms folded across her chest and staring him down with her best no nonsense glare, Harry returned her stare, gobsmacked, for a solid minute. Then a grin broke out across his face as he gave in to the inevitable.

They had not gone immediately. Harry had promised Dumbledore that he would remain at Number Four Privet Drive until his seventeenth birthday brought both his majority in the Wizarding world, and the end of the protection his mother’s blood afforded him. That event was still a few days off. Meanwhile, there had been the wedding of Bill Weasley and Fleur Dellacourt to attend. Fleur had volunteered to mute the festivities somewhat in light of Dumbledore’s murder, and the chilling effect that would have on the Wizarding world. Oddly, it was Harry who had told her not to, insisting that doing so would be like handing a victory to Voldemort, and stating, moreover, that Dumbledore himself would never have wanted to be the cause of casting a shadow on what should be a joyous occasion. When Molly Weasley and Arthur Weasley had concurred, Fleur had pressed on with her original plans, and the wedding one week past had been a gloriously joyous affair, a true celebration of love and life, and all that was good in the world.

Hermione had needed that reaffirmation of goodness. She had absolutely no illusions concerning what they were about to do, the danger involved. Dumbledore was dead. Before all was done, any or all three of them might be, as well. But she was going to do everything in her power to ensure the best outcome for them all.

For that reason, a particularly beautiful negligee of pure silk in a lovely, shimmering bronze that brought out the amber lights in her eyes and the golden tones in her hair was carefully packed away in the bottom of Hermione’s trunk. Before they left on their journey, and with a great deal of frequency thereafter, if she had anything to say about it, Hermione was going to give herself to the boy she loved, had loved since as long as she could remember. If she and Ron both managed to get through the coming battle relatively unscathed, there would be a wedding every bit as extravagant as Fleur’s and Bill’s. But if not, if one or both of them fell...they would not have done so without giving physical expression to the love between them, and that memory would be one for the survivor to cherish; a source, she hoped, of comfort in a future she fully intended would be free of the Dark Lord’s evil.

Hermione was planning the loss of her virginity with the organization and efficiency with which she planned her study sessions. She had purchased several books, both Muggle and Wizarding, on sexual techniques, and while she wasn’t remotely ready to try some of the more outrageous variations discussed with great frankness in the tomes she had purchased--honestly, who could possibly want to put his or her mouth down there? And as to letting a penis come anywhere near that orifice, not bloody likely--she was looking forward to experimenting with some of the positions and practices that were supposed to offer considerable stimulation to both partners. So, in addition to the negligee, there were scented candles, and a soft fur throw that would add both romantic and sensual atmosphere. That was only the start of the things Hermione had collected. While a legal adult in the Wizarding world, she was, annoyingly, still a few months from adult status in the Muggle one, meaning she had to cast a spell on herself and her ID to make the purchases she wanted in the Muggle sex toy shop one of her more adventurous cousins, Margaret, had told her about. Hermione’s face had been red for hours after she left there, but she had come away with what she required: a bottle of organic, edible massage lotion that warmed on contact, and a body powder, also organic and edible, that would make her skin shimmer and impart the taste of honey to her flesh. Her Muggle CD player had been enchanted to work on magic rather than electricity, and suitably romantic music had been collected and packed away. Purchase of a magnum of Wizarding champagne would have to wait until she returned to Diagon Alley, but that was the final thing she needed to ensure that her night with Ron would be perfect.

The night in question was, like Harry’s birthday, still a few days off. For now, she was spending time with her parents. Tonight, Margaret was bringing some of her girlfriends by and whisking Hermione off to one of the popular clubs in the area. It wasn’t really the sort of activity Hermione much indulged in, but who knew when, or if, she would see Margaret again, so she allowed herself to be carried off. Her parents waved good-bye with fond admonitions to her to have a good time.

She did so, giving herself over to the loud beat of the music, the unrestrained Muggle dancing, so different from the formal dances of the Wizarding world. Over the course of the evening the girls were approached by a number of smitten young men. Margaret and those of her friends who didn’t already have boyfriends exchanged numbers and made plans for casual dates. Hermione, of course, politely declined all offers to dance on the grounds that she already had a boyfriend. Still, she had a wonderful time dancing with Margaret and the other girls. It was very late when the club closed, and they finally drove away.

The police investigation later concluded that no wrongdoing had been involved. A mechanical failure which could not have been expected or avoided had caused Margaret’s car to veer off the road and into the ditch. The other girls were flung free, their injuries ranging from superficial to severe, but none of them permanent. Margaret herself sustained the worst of the survivable injuries, a head wound that left her in a coma that lasted two weeks. Hermione’s body had clearly burned in the wreckage before rescue vehicles arrived. The only thing left for her distraught parents to bury in the closed casket funeral were bones and ash.

Narcissa knew just enough about Muggle science to use a lock of Hermione’s hair--the girl had so much, she’d never miss it--to conjure the needed bones into existence, and leave them to burn in the wreckage.

Because there was no Dark Mark over the burning car, because the matter wasn’t handled in the open, arrogant way that the Death Eaters would have gone about murder, because she used soon-to-be-Obliviated Muggle criminals to sabotage the car and carry off the unconscious girl, employing only the very most subtle and undetectable magic to ensure their success, even the separate investigation conducted by the Ministry of Magic concluded that the car accident had been exactly that: a wholly unavoidable, tragic, unforeseeable accident that had taken the life of the best friend--and most clever ally--of The Boy Who Lived.

Ron, walking around in a state of shock, couldn’t get beyond the brutally simple fact of Hermione’s death, itself. Harry couldn’t accept it. He alone remained convinced that Voldemort, somehow, was behind this, that he’d captured Hermione, not killed her, and vowed he’d both find Hermione and exact revenge. Ron, reduced to hopelessness by the horror of what had happened, just set his sights on revenge. In the end, both boys threw themselves into the quest for Horcruxes, as the only distraction from their all-encompassing grief.

And while they did, a rather different drama was enacted at an isolated estate, thousands of miles away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Hermione came awake slowly, disoriented, not recognizing the room in which she found herself. The bed was too large, too soft to be her own, nor did her bed boast either a canopy, or silken hangings. Her bedroom was not so extravagantly large, the carpets not so luxuriously thick, the walls were painted a cheerful yellow rather than hung with what looked to be authentic medieval tapestries upon which maidens and unicorns disported themselves. Her bedroom most certainly did not feature a currently unused tiled fireplace, the elegant antique wing chairs set before it, and the woman holding a snifter of brandy while she sat in one of those wingchairs was definitely not her mother.

Hermione sat up warily, searching for any sign of her wand and finding nothing.

“Awake at last,” the woman said dryly, finishing her brandy and standing up to approach the bed, drawing Hermione’s gaze back to the room’s other occupant. Hermione’s eyes widened as she recognized the elegantly coifed witch coming toward her in a swirl of expensive midnight blue robes.

“Madam Malfoy?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes, you would remember me from the World Cup three years ago, I suppose.” the witch confirmed.

“Where are we?” Hermione said. She had a suspicion, but she couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out why she would be in a comfortable chamber in Malfoy Manor if she had indeed been captured by one of Voldemort’s followers, as appeared to be the case.

“We’re on a Muggle estate I purchased anonymously some years back, in a godforsaken part of the world that used to be ruled by the Russian Empire, well beyond the reach of the Ministry of Magic, if they had even the remotest clue where I am, which they do not.”

“A Muggle estate?”

“Can you think of anyplace the Ministry is less likely to look for me?” Narcissa inquired with one aristocratically raised brow.

“Other than a straw hut in a remote village in the Brazilian rain forest, not really,” Hermione returned coolly “And as you had no reason to hide from the Ministry, being cleared of any involvement in the crimes committed by your husband and son, I can only conclude that you are in hiding with one of them, if not both.”

“I’m not in hiding at all,” Narcissa sneered. “So far as the world knows, I am secluding myself at home in Malfoy Manor, prostrate with grief over Draco’s disappearance and the wholly unfounded charges laid against him. Tomorrow, I will be seen emerging from the manor in order to pay my weekly visit to my --wrongly, as I maintain--incarcerated husband in Azkaban.”

“So, then, if Lucius is still in Azkaban, you’ve got Draco hidden here,” Hermione reasoned. “Which surprises me greatly. Why isn’t he sitting at Voldemort’s--”

“Don’t use that name,” Narcissa hissed, shuddering.

“--right hand,” Hermione breezed on, relishing Narcissa’s obvious discomfort, “enjoying his reward for helping to destroy Dumbledore? And why am I here, at all? I’d have thought anyone in Voldemort’s service,” Narcissa cringed at the name once more, “would have handed me over to him immediately, for whatever value I might have in getting him to Harry.

“I am not in the Dark Lord’s service,” Narcissa snapped, “And you are not in a dank cell awaiting his pleasure because he has nothing to do with this. If I have my way, he will never learn anything about it, at all.”

“Then why am I here?” Hermione demanded.

“You’re here to save my son’s life,” Narcissa told her. “I’m doing what I have to do to preserve it.”

“Draco?” Hermione said in surprise. “What have I got to do with--”

“What do you know about Veela?” Narcissa interrupted.

“Veela? The Eastern European sprites?” Hermione frowned. “Is...is Draco under the influence of one? Do you need me to help you break some sort of spell? Not that you would, because I’m sure that--”

“What on earth would make you think that Draco was under a Veela’s influence?” it was Narcissa’s turn to be surprised.

“Because that’s what Veela do,” Hermione replied, her confusion deepening. “Veela are unusually beautiful women who can be recognized by their long, silvery hair. They are powerful magical creatures, some of whom have the ability to shape-shift. Veela wives were much prized amongst the pureblood aristocracy of the middle ages, and all the older Wizarding families have some degree of Veela blood. They’re also very beautiful, with an innate glamour that attracts men to them, leading potential mates to do just about anything to impress them. Isn’t that what’s happened to Draco?”

“Women. Wives. Attracting men,” Narcissa said in disgust, ignoring Hermione’s question. “Is that all you know, girl? Draco has complained that you always best him, getting top marks in school. Do you honestly believe the Veela race has been propagated by females, only?”

“I...well, I hadn’t really given it much thought,” Hermione stammered. “It isn’t as if I’ve studied Veela. I’m just going by what I saw at the World Cup, and what I learned through...a friend who is part Veela.”

“Then you’ve learned almost nothing to the point,” Narcissa said, beginning to pace in front of her.

“In which case, pray enlighten me so that we can get on with whatever it is you’re trying to do to save Draco and I can leave,” Hermione said irritably, throwing the covers off and getting out of bed. She was a bit disconcerted to find herself in a silky black negligee that was even more elegant and seductive than the one she had purchased for her first night with Ron. If her bronze gown had seemed to reflect light in beautiful, shimmering patterns, this gown seemed to absorb it, holding light captive to create compelling patterns of darkness and shadow. More, unlike Hermione’s Muggle-made gown, this one draped about her body as if it were water constantly flowing about her form. It was the most exquisitely sensuous garment Hermione could ever conceive, beautiful, expensive, and Hermione would have thought it an item from Narcissa’s own wardrobe, had it not fit her shorter, slightly more voluptuous form to perfection.

“Why am I wearing this?” she asked warily. Narcissa gave a short bark of unpleasant laughter.

“Well, that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? The reason why I spent a small fortune on a gown of sentient silk for a worthless little Mudblood. You’re wearing that gown because it would appear that Lucius and I had enough Veela blood in our respective family lines for Draco to be, most unexpectedly and damned inconveniently, full Veela himself. As a full Veela male, while he will likely assemble a harem in due time, he has one true mate with whom, upon coming into his majority, he must bond or die.” Narcissa watched Hermione’s reactions to this bit of news, gave a nod of satisfaction at what she saw. “Yes, you’re clever enough to see it, aren’t you? You’re here because, despite your filthy blood, you are Draco’s true mate.”

“I can’t be,” Hermione whispered, shaken, sitting down, hard, on the bed she had so recently vacated as her legs gave way.

“Oh, believe me, you are,” Narcissa said bitterly, prowling nearer. “Believe, as well, that the situation revolts me as much as it does you. Do you think I want my son to dirty himself with a common creature such as yourself?” Hermione flushed red, gasping with outrage, but Narcissa ranted on, ignoring her. “Do you imagine for a moment that I am content to have his life depend upon you? Do you honestly believe that I accepted the news lightly, without exhausting every avenue to see if there were an alternative, or a mistake?”

“No, no you wouldn’t,” Hermione conceded. “But you can’t think I’ll agree to this, that I’ll submit to it? Because I’m no Veela and my life certainly isn’t the one at risk. And you can’t imagine that you’re going to get away with kidnapping me! Harry and Ron will use locator spells, and every kind of magic they possess to get me back. The Aurors will help them. They will stop at nothing until they find me.”

“Ah, but that is the beauty of the situation,” Narcissa said with a great deal of satisfaction. “They are quite convinced that they know exactly where you are.” Narcissa reached for the copy of The Daily Prophet that had been folded beside her on a beautifully inlaid end table, and tossed it casually to the anxious girl on the bed. Hermione opened it with shaking hands.

Her own laughing image, sandwiched between the grinning images of Harry and Ron, waved back at her from a Wizarding photo taken at Fleur and Bill’s wedding. The headline spread across the paper in large print above the picture told her everything she needed to know: Harry Potter’s Best Friend Killed in Muggle Accident. Her eyes flew to the date: the morning after she had gone dancing with Margaret. Hermione read the article in shock, terrified until she assured herself that all of the other girls had survived, and that Margaret was in stable condition, as well, then raised dazed eyes to Narcissa.

“Harry and Ron won’t believe it,” she said, but her voice shook because the article had quoted a Ministry official saying that an investigation showed magic had not been involved, and that there was no reason to suspect Death Eater activity in this case. There was a chance that her best friend and her boyfriend would accept that she had died in exactly the manner the paper described. Oddly, Narcissa herself seemed to think otherwise.

“Of course the Potter boy won’t believe it,” the older woman said. “He’s far too paranoid, with good reason, I will admit. As the Weasley boy doesn’t seem to know how to think for himself, he’ll follow wherever Potter leads. And what Potter will believe is that whatever happened to you, death or kidnapping, happened because of the Dark Lord. He’ll doubtless throw himself into the cause of bringing our lord down, in the hopes of rescuing you from his clutches. With any luck, his very fervor to accomplish that task will make it all the more unlikely that he will succeed, but that is of no concern to me at the moment. As there is no one in the Wizarding world, aside from you, I, and eventually Draco, who knows what’s really happened, and no one in the Muggle world with any memory of it, either, your friend has no chance of ever finding out. Don’t hope for rescue, girl. It won’t be coming.”

“It will,” Hermione said fiercely. “Harry won’t give up on me, Ron even less so. You’ll see.”

“Perhaps,” Narcissa surprised her by saying tranquilly. “But they’re hardly going to find out in time to fetch you within the next hour. And that’s all they have. In another hour, it won’t matter. You’ll be bound to my son and you won’t want to leave him, even if Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and the entire Ministry show up to pry you out of his arms.

“Never,” Hermione whispered, horrified.

“Inevitably, stupid little girl,” Narcissa retorted, favoring her with a particularly nasty smirk. “Do you think such things are left to chance, when a Veela’s very survival depends upon having his mate? When you bond, Draco’s claiming bite will pour Veela venom into your veins. It’s a highly addictive substance, and the bite--” Narcissa broke off, her lips thinning and nose wrinkling as if at an unpleasant odor. “Well, I dare say you’ll discover that for yourself, soon enough.”

Hermione shuddered in revulsion. The idea of the bite sounded horribly animalistic, and she wanted nothing to do with anything so...bestial.

“If you think I’ll allow Draco to bite me, let alone poison me, you’re barking,” she informed Narcissa flatly.

“The depth of your ignorance astounds me,” Narcissa retorted, eliciting a gasp of outrage from Hermione. The older witch’s gaze raked contemptuously over Hermione’s form. “I cannot imagine why you are Draco’s mate. Veela males are only supposed to form bonds with the most superior females available to them. I cannot fathom why, in a school filled with perfectly suitable pureblood girls, the magic in his blood would call to you. ”

“It doesn’t call to me,” Hermione insisted. “I feel nothing for Draco but loathing. I’ve never felt a moment’s attraction to him. You’re making a horrible mistake!”

“Yes, well, you will probably realize otherwise, after the fact,” Narcissa said dismissively. “Really, though, there’s nothing more to say. I’ve been courteous enough to explain the situation rather than just dumping you into Draco’s bed and letting nature take its course. Now, however, it is time to do exactly that. Come along.”

“Courteous?” Hermione spluttered, surging to her feet once more. “Kidnapping me? Making my family and friends believe that I’m dead? You can’t possibly think I’ll--”

“Enough,” Narcissa snarled raising her wand. “Are you going to come willingly?”

“Never,” Hermione spat, bracing herself, prepared to fight the Imperious. Narcissa didn’t employ it. A practical woman, she simply hit Hermione with an immobilizing hex, freezing her where she stood. Hermione could do nothing but watch as Narcissa used her wand to open the door connecting the chamber in which she’d awoken to the even more sumptuous one holding the Malfoy heir.

Narcissa did not enter the room herself. She waved her wand at the bed Hermione could barely make out, quickly averting her eyes. Only later would Hermione realize that Narcissa had stripped the covers from her son’s feverish, naked body, preparatory to depositing Hermione on his bed. This she accomplished a bare moment later, levitating the girl’s immobilized form, shifting it horizontal, then depositing it next to Draco before lifting the incantation that held her paralyzed.

The instant Narcissa had completed her tasks, she pulled back from the room, slamming the door shut and retreating into the other chamber. She had absolutely no desire to witness the vulgar activities about to take place. Before she could Apparate back to the privacy of her sitting room and fortify herself with another brandy, however, she heard one keen, despairing wail come from the girl she had given to her son. Shuddering with revulsion, Narcissa made her escape.

As it happened, Madam Malfoy was wrong about one thing. Hermione’s fate was not sealed within the hour. It was sealed almost before Narcissa had slammed the door shut, the instant a delirious Draco, instinctively sensing the presence of his mate, had set one burning hand on her bare arm.

Hermione whimpered at the electric contact, fear and anger not done away with, so much as overwhelmed by an additional feeling, that of absolute need and exquisite desire.

“Merlin, no,” she whispered, eyes gone wide as Draco shifted to lie over her, and she saw his face and his silvery gray eyes in which nothing like conscious thought could be discerned. He was clearly acting on animal instinct alone, and the hell of it was, his instincts were calling forth her own. Those glazed, animal eyes focused on her neck, and he did not kiss her, but set his burning lips there, suckling the soft, vulnerable flesh. An instant later, the sharp, sweet pain of a Veela male’s claiming bite took her, and Hermione gave the keen, despairing wail from which Narcissa fled.

Fire burned along Hermione’s veins, engendered by that wonderfully painful, pleasurable bite. It burned away memory, duty, conscience and self-awareness until the only thing she could recall was Draco, his need for her, and hers for him. She made no protest as Draco, mouth still fastened to her neck, mating fangs still injecting the addictive venom that would bind her to him, set his hands to lift the hem of her gown, which now showed itself magical enough to anticipate his desire such that it flowed apart, turning itself from a garment draping her to a sensuous cloth lying beneath her, soothing along her aching flesh, arousing her already heightened senses that tiny bit further. Draco finally retracted his mating fangs, lifted his head from her neck, and she saw a drop of her own blood smeared at the corner of his mouth. She rose up to kiss it away. Draco returned her kiss with a deep, passionate kiss of his own. He seemed just a bit more sentient, closer to human, aware. When he broke the kiss to stare down at her once more, his eyes held sentience, and Hermione thought he knew who she was. His lips drew back in a feral, utterly possessive grin which she could only find breathtakingly beautiful, as he slid one knee between her thighs and she willingly parted them to accommodate him, wanting nothing more than to cradle his hips with her own, to feel him claim her in every possible way.

“Mine,” Draco growled, a moment before his lips found hers and she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close. An instant later there was another, sharp, sweet pain as he joined their bodies, irrevocably setting the seal on his claim.

Deeply caught in the mating imperative, Hermione climaxed the moment he achieved full penetration. Draco moaned his approval of his mate’s responsiveness, but did not join her in pleasure. The mating imperative had him in its grip, as well, and the only objective that came clear in his desire-fogged brain was that his mate must be brought to pleasure as often as physically possible within the next hour in order that she know to whom she belonged, that she never forget it, that the entire world understand she was his and his alone.

He was young and more passionate than Hermione would ever have guessed. The depths of her own passion had never been so clearly revealed to her. He devoted himself to her pleasure and she responded to every nuance, every caress, every touch and taste with which he gifted her.

The bed proved wholly inadequate to the violence of their initial coupling, and they slid to the floor, eased along the way by the scrap of black, ensorcelled silk, that had briefly been Hermione’s nightgown. The silk protected tender flesh from the rough carpet, but that was not its only purpose or action. It acted almost as an extension of Draco’s will, caressing across Hermione’s newly sensitive breasts when his hands were busy holding her hips, his mouth occupied with setting devouring kisses upon her own. Later, it twined between them, binding them together as he lifted her legs over his shoulders, so that he could thrust deep within her. Later still, it tied itself into a hard little knot, threading between their bodies to rub against Hermione’s tender clit as Draco slid in and out of her in a tortuously languorous pace.

Hermione was dazed with pleasure, mindless with it, boneless and limp, her orgasms coming one after another, scant minutes apart as the mating imperative forced her to unimagined heights in her lover’s arms. At one point, he’d wickedly withdrawn from her, and she’d howled at the loss, frantically seeking to pull him back into her warm, wet, quivering depths. Then she felt the exquisite flick of his tongue along the sensitive nub of her clit, and she came apart once more, keening her release, bathing his face in her copious juices. A moment later, any inhibition she had ever had on the matter well and truly forgotten, she had wriggled around so that she could take him into her mouth, as well. As he continued to suckle the tender bud of flesh between her thighs, her actions elicited a moan of pleasure from him that increased her own arousal, as the vibrations hummed against her sensitive flesh. He laved and swirled his tongue, now stabbing it into her honeyed depths to lick up her cream, now caressing the tender bundle of nerves, nibbling, licking and sucking at her gloriously, while she artlessly but enthusiastically, swirled her tongue along his length and took him as deeply down her throat as she could manage, knowing only that her greatest pleasure lay in bringing him an equal measure of rapture. He continued to bring her to climax, but resolutely avoided his own. Hermione, unaware that this was simply part and parcel of the initial mating imperative, whined her disappointment when he gently tugged her head away from his cock, kissed her so deeply she could taste herself on him, before turning her so that she knelt on the black silk on the floor. He didn’t tease, but drove into her sweet depths from behind, one hand guiding her hips, the other fondling a pert breast. The new position allowed him to push deep inside her, and Hermione keened her appreciation. A moment later, the clever black cloth caressed the breast Draco wasn’t fondling, so that both nipples were equally, exquisitely aroused. Another edge of cloth knotted itself once more, lightly abrading her clit in counterpoint to Draco’s thrusts inside her, so that she was unbearably stimulated. She shattered for him again within moments, collapsing beneath him to lie upon the carpet.

By now, Hermione was exhausted, worn, and she knew her quaking limbs would not support her. Draco, sensing this as well, eased her onto her back. He seemed far more sane, composed, himself, than he had been at any point before, but the look he bent upon her was still one of absolute hunger, if mixed with other things she could not name.

“Open for me,” he said with something like tenderness, and Hermione could do nothing but obey. The frenzy with which they had been mating dissolved, and he took her now with utmost gentleness--reverence, even-- slowly, languidly, as if she were the most fragile creature in the world and he must go carefully with her. The kisses he gave her were no longer demanding and devouring, but soft, delicate, coaxing her to pleasure rather than inflicting pleasure upon her. She very much liked the change, and sighed into his mouth, her tongue languorously twining with his, her hands threading themselves in his hair, her hips lifting to the gentle rhythm he set them.

This time, her climax did not roar over her in a fury, ebb away in a moment, and return with a vengeance, but built, slowly, inexorably, to some new, unguessed at pinnacle. At it’s height, he drew away, his eyes burning into her own.

“Mine,” he said again, as he had earlier, then added, “my Hermione.”

Some quality of possession in his voice, some intimation of tenderness, need, desire, communicated itself to her, wrapped around her soul. He continued to thrust into her, deeply, powerfully, with breathtaking, masterful slowness and command. Every nerve in her body seemed attuned to him, and the ones within her no longer virgin channel most keenly of all. Her eyes were locked to his. She could not gaze away, and watched in wonder as his own pleasure finally took him, tore him apart in her arms.

It was at the moment of his climax that her final release came, a release far more powerful than anything she had experienced before. And in that moment, her eyes locked to his, she found that she truly joined Draco, truly met with him, as if their very souls meshed together as one being. Her pleasure was his, and his was hers, and there was no distinction between them. Rather they fed upon each other, sustained each other, so that for an untold span of time, there was nothing in the world but this, no one in the world but them, no future and no past but a present of matchless, unending rapture.

Mortal flesh was not meant to sustain such ecstasy, nor could theirs, for long. Eventually, the climax ended, though as gently, as sweetly, as it had built, and they were left, sated and spent, upon the spill of black silk on the carpet before the unlit fire.

Slowly, their breathing calmed. Draco peppered a dozen soft kisses over her brow, before gently withdrawing his spent flesh from her clasping core, and rolling to her side. Hermione didn’t know how he had the energy. She, herself, couldn’t move. He lay beside her, unspeaking, gathering himself. A moment later, he sat up, sighed, taking in their surroundings.

“Bloody hell,” he said mildly. A moment later, he regained enough energy to scoop up both Hermione and the scrap of silk beneath her, and carry them both to the bed. For her part, by the time he had placed her on the bed and stretched out at her side, Hermione had regained enough energy to remember who she was, who he was, and who she was supposed to be in love with. She had been, she knew, deeply and truly in love with Ron Weasley.

But she wasn’t any more. She wasn’t in love with him because of a damned biological imperative that had nothing to do with her own needs or wishes or desires. Draco had required her. Draco had infected her with an addictive poison, Veela venom, that would chain her to him for the rest of their lives.

Tears slipped gently from her eyes, making a slow trail down her temples to her hair.

“Don’t cry,” Draco said softly, gently stroking his hand over her curves in a caress that spoke more of comfort than desire. As he moved his arm, her eye fell on the damning symbol burned into the flesh of his forearm: the Dark Mark. Grief swamped her, making her tears fall harder, faster.

“Shhhh,” he soothed, pressing a kiss to her brow. She wanted to hate him for it, for the false comfort, for allowing himself to be branded to the service of evil, for fixating on her as his mate, depriving her of her own choice in the matter.

She couldn’t hate him if she tried.

With a heartbroken whimper, Hermione turned to her mate and let him pull her into his arms, accepting whatever comfort he chose to give.