Current mood:

artistic

Dark Bonding Part II
Dark Bonding Part II

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

A.N. Placki, pronounced PLOT-skee, are large pancakes, served with jam (and perhaps a dusting of confectionery sugar) rather than syrup.

Dark Bonding
Part II - Breakfast En Famille
by
Margot Le Faye

Hermione came awake slowly, drowsily aware of a soothing rhythm, of something warm and soft pillowing her cheek, and of being cozily tucked up in something else that was warm and soft. She sighed, rubbing her cheek against her comfortable pillow, which action elicited a masculine chuckle. Her eyes flew open at the sound, and she found her pillow to be a young man’s bare chest, the soothing rhythm his heartbeat. They were resting beneath a luxurious duvet made from a decadently thick, soft velvet, French blue in color, the same shade as the equally decadent silk sheets and pillowcases of their bed. The entire room, which appeared to have been constructed in the Rococo style of the eighteenth century, was done up in French blue and cream with accents of gold. The walls and ceiling were cream, the intricate and fanciful moldings blue, the drapes had a blue and gold floral patterns on a cream ground. The glossy sheen of a highly polished wood floor was visible at the edges of thick Aubusson carpets. Hermione had been in enough museums to recognize that the carpets were in a classic eighteenth century design, and while they appeared remarkably well preserved, there was a definite patina of age to them. If they weren’t originals, they were shockingly well-executed reproductions. With the Malfoys, her galleons were on their being originals. Whatever Muggle estate Narcissa had chosen to go to earth in, the place had either been lovingly maintained for centuries, or meticulously restored to its full Rococo glory. This single room and its contents were probably worth more than Hermione’s parent’s dental practice brought in over the course of a decade.

At his ease in all this antique splendor, Draco Malfoy--a Veela and her mate--was sitting up with her in a wide bed, leaning against a headboard that had been carved, rather intricately, from oak. Serpents, Hermione was relieved to note, did not figure amongst the carvings, which seemed to be floral in nature, like the designs on the drapes and carpeting. More interesting than the furnishings of the room was the fact that Draco had drawn her into his arms, was holding her close, gazing down at her through hooded grey eyes, in quiet contemplation.

Hermione, her own emotions a confused tangle, could make nothing of his expression, gather no clue as to what he might be feeling. If he was not glaring at her with the hostility she’d come to expect from the past six years of school, neither was he showing her the tenderness she’d been given during their most intimate moments the night before. His regard was steady, absorbed, as if she were a puzzle he must solve. Well, perhaps that wasn’t far off the mark. Puzzling was the least of what their unexpected bond was. But before her active mind could worry the matter, he spoke.

“Good morning,” he said quietly, tightening his arms around her and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. She found she wanted nothing more than to return that kiss, and so she did.

“Good morning,” she said softly once the kiss had broken. Belatedly, she realized that they were both naked, pressed against each other flesh to flesh, and her cheeks flamed with color. Last night, after the claiming bite, her entire world had narrowed down to Draco, his need for her and hers for him. Then, she’d been completely unselfconscious. Now, the memories of what they’d done left her feeling oddly vulnerable. Her own emotions were a right mess, and she imagined his must be, as well. Surely he hated the fact that he was bound to a Muggleborn even more than Narcissa had made amply clear that she did? Was the gentle kiss Hermione had just been given merely a way of confusing her...or controlling her? Hermione drew away from him, holding the sheets modestly to her breasts, wondering if he’d make some sort of lewd comment to the effect that she had no secrets that had not been revealed to him. Their enmity had run deep for years, after all. How much could the Veela bond really affect such a volatile history? But Draco merely retrieved the scrap of silk from where it had been tangled in the bedclothes and handed it to her.

“Sentient silk,” he said appreciatively. “Somebody loves me.”

“Your mother,” Hermione said primly, pulling the cloth to herself beneath the concealment of the sheet, trying to suppress a shiver as the fabric flowed from her hands and wrapped around her form seemingly of its own volition, sliding against her skin almost lovingly. A moment later, she was wearing a negligee once more. It remained a sensual garment, but was not overly revealing and she was satisfied that her modesty was sufficiently preserved.

“Ah. Of course Mother would want the proper embellishments,” Draco said, watching Hermione speculatively as she pushed the covers away and got out of the bed. “How did she persuade you to bond with me, by the way?”

“She didn’t,” Hermione said coolly, eliciting a frown from Draco. He opened his mouth, clearly about to ask for details but she cut him off. “Where’s the loo?”

“The en-suite bath is through the door to your left,” he offered.

Hermione nodded and made her way to the predictably large, luxurious facilities where she could attend to the usual morning business of waking up.

Draco admired the view of his mate’s lovely derriere moving beneath the sensuous flow of silk as she retreated to the en-suite bath. The moment she closed the door behind her, however, he gave a soft groan of frustration and let his head fall back against the hard wood of the headboard, where he banged it a couple of times for good measure. Hermione’s curt words that his mother had not persuaded her to bond with him told him everything he needed to know. One unbelievably stupid accident destroying his six-month supply of the suppression potion, and his best efforts to protect her were hopelessly buggered, everything he'd hoped to accomplish in Voldemort's service rendered moot. The backlash from months of suppressing his instincts caused the mating fever to overwhelm him within a matter of minutes of his failing to take his daily dose, which inevitably led to Snape discovering his little secret, which in turn inevitably led to his being presented to his mother, in all his feverish, babbling, dying glory. Narcissa Malfoy was hardly going to let her only child expire when she had the means to save him, the legalities of said means be damned. Instead of being able to approach Hermione on his own terms, under carefully orchestrated circumstances that would have predisposed her to favor his suit, Draco had been presented with her when he was absolutely powerless to do anything but follow the compulsion to claim her as his own. His mate had been forced into their bonding, and he was going to have his work cut out for him in winning her over. If he knew his Hermione--and she was unquestionably his, and he unquestionably knew her better than she realized--her steel-trap of a brain would be worrying through all the political problems raised by their improbable mating and scheming for a way to turn his allegiance from the Dark Lord to Harry sodding Potter. She didn’t appreciate that his loyalties were, by necessity, completely fixed. Then again, neither did his mother, or she would have understood why he had not sought out Hermione once the mating fever struck. Of course, even if his mother had understood perfectly, he suspected she would have acted exactly as she had done. Whatever sins might be laid at the door of Narcissa Malfoy, lack of maternal feeling was not one of them.

Draco sighed. Well, the plan he'd been following had always been the ideal scenario, anyway. He'd been keenly aware it might not succeed, and had prepared for that eventuality. His goal had not changed, merely the route by which he might arrive at it. Time to make use of those preparations.

Draco looked around the room for the object he knew had to be there. Sure enough, the small mirror was lying innocently, and very conveniently, on the night stand by the bed. He picked it up, and called out, “Mother?” A moment later, Narcissa’s image appeared in the two way mirror.

“Good morning, darling. I take it things went well?” she said delicately, alluding to the bonding without discussing it outright.

“Perfectly,” Draco assured her. “But I don’t recognize this room, unless you’ve taken to redecorating the manor.”

“Where the Ministry could find you? Don’t be silly, Draco. We’re on the estate I bought a few years ago. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

“Not entirely. I trust we’re secure, here?”

“Need you ask?” Narcissa said coolly.

“Sorry, mother. I suppose I’m still a bit on edge.”

“From nearly letting yourself die, I would imagine,” Nacissa told him tartly. “But I’ve no time to ring a peel over your head, right now. Join me for breakfast. I’m having it served in the garden, in half an hour. Don’t forget, we’re on a Muggle estate, so you’ll find Muggle clothing in the armoire, and Muggle servants in the hall. Shall I send a maid to fetch you?

“I think I can find my way to the garden,” Draco told her. “But I want a bath, first.”

“Half an hour should be sufficient time for you to take one,” Narcissa said airily. “I shall see you at breakfast.” She waved her hand over the mirror, ending the conversation.

Draco put the mirror back on the night-stand and ran his hands through his hair. His mother might have ensured he survived the bout of mating fever, but how long he continued to survive was pretty much in the delicate, if capable, hands of his adorable and aggravating mate. Draco smirked at the closed door of the en-suite bath. Fortunately for him, Veela had an arsenal of weapons to use in the war between the sheets. And it was time to start unleashing them.

While Draco was conversing with his mother through the use of two-way mirrors, Hermione was trying not to be overly impressed with the bathroom accommodations. Although the color scheme of the bedroom had been followed in here, where the bedroom was entirely antique, the bath was relentlessly modern. The tiles and fixtures were all the same French blue and cream with gold accents as the main bedroom, but instead of carefully preserved plaster and polished wood, here all was sleek porcelain, gleaming fixtures, and compact fluorescent lights. Seemingly, Narcissa was willing to put up with all sorts of Muggle things--including a Muggle mate for her son--in order to keep Draco alive, well, and hidden from the Ministry. And lapped in luxury, to boot. Fearing for their lives didn’t seem to be a good enough reason for the Malfoy’s to give up their little comforts, even if those comforts had to be of the Muggle, rather than Wizarding, variety.

Aside from the electric fixtures, the room featured a large shower with multiple shower heads and a separate spa tub for a bath. There was a wide vanity with two sinks, presumably his and hers, and a large mirrored cabinet above. When her face was washed, her teeth cleaned and her breath freshened, Hermione used the lovely silver-backed brush with boar bristles on the vanity to bring order to her hair. As she coaxed the tangles from it, she caught a glimpse of silver on her neck. Holding her hair away from the glint of light, she leaned forward to the mirror, inspecting the reflected image carefully. An exquisite crescent of silver was now embedded in her flesh, precisely where Draco had bitten her the night before, and it took no great wit to realize that this marked her as belonging to a Veela. She shivered, letting her hair fall back over the mark, then resolutely went about finishing her toilette.

She wanted a bath. True, before they’d surrendered to exhaustion the night before, Draco had very tenderly sponged the blood and seed from her thighs, using a damp flannel, but such ministrations were hardly a substitute for the sort of lovely soak in warm water she was desperate for right now. She eyed the spa tub regretfully, but decided that could wait. A confrontation with her so-called mate was inevitable. She had been brought here against her will, her life turned upside down and inside out to suit his convenience. She might have been forced to bond with him, and perhaps the nature of the bond somewhat reconciled her both to the abduction and the need for it, but she would be damned if she would simply let him and his horrible mother dictate the terms of her life. She was her own woman with her own priorities, plans, dreams and ambitions. Perhaps being mated to Draco had altered some of those dreams and plans, perhaps they required adjustment, but she was far from ready to give them up altogether.

Of overriding importance, though, was the question of their respective allegiances in the coming war. If she had to accept where Draco Malfoy’s loyalties lay--and she was by no means resigned to doing so-- there were a few things he was going to have to accept about her loyalties, as well. Best to get things sorted at once she decided, with a last affirming nod to her own reflection.

She returned to the bedroom to find Draco still lounging on what she now realized was an impossibly large bed. He’d tossed the duvet aside, and was completely relaxed, long, lean body unselfconsciously naked beneath the silk sheet which was pulled up only as high as his waist. Hermione’s eyes were drawn to the smooth skin of his chest, which bore only a light down of fair hair, and which boasted muscles as impeccably delineated as those of the statues of young athletes from classic antiquity. When she reluctantly forced her gaze upward, to his face, she found that he was watching her with that same quiet contemplation she had noted before. Deciding she might as well begin as she meant to go on, she drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and began to enumerate her concerns.

“Look, Draco,” she said, walking toward him. “I realize that you don’t--”

That was as far as she got before a wave of pleasure crested over her, spreading out from the point at which he’d bitten her, forcing her into an instantaneous climax. As she sobbed out her release, her wide eyes fixed on Draco’s, to find his glinting silver with passion, while his lips twisted into an all too self-satisfied smirk. She didn’t know how, but he was doing this to her. As another powerful orgasm built, her knees began to buckle, and she collapsed. He was there in an instant, catching her up in his arms before she hit the floor, carrying her back to the bed, setting her gently down as she writhed in yet another climax. He let her go, but remained standing over the bed, watching her intently.

And still the wicked, wild pleasure held her in its thrall.

The pleasure was relentless. Whatever he was doing, it was forcing her aching flesh to experience orgasm upon orgasm, suffusing her in rapture, sustaining that rapture far longer than she could endure.

“Draco!” she shrieked when the pleasure became unbearable. “Stop! Please stop!”

The bastard held her to it for a fraction of a second longer than she could stand, reducing her to a mewling, gibbering wreck, before he relented and eased her down.

“Lovely,” he purred, rejoining her on the bed. “Do you know, you’re quite pretty when you’re flush with arousal, writhing in ecstasy with my name on your lips?”

“Do you know you’re a right bastard, under any circumstances?” she said waspishly, dragging her shaking body to the far side of the bed, away from him. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Experimenting, of course,” he said, drawing her close again, despite her protests and bending to offer her a surprisingly sweet kiss. “It’s what newly bonded Veelas and their mates do. Test the limits of their power over each other.” She narrowed her eyes as she weighed this bit of information, gazing at him consideringly.

“Does that mean I have power over you, as well?”

“I thought we’d established that last night,” he smirked. “Rather the point of all of this, isn’t it? You have the power of life and death over me. It’s only fair, therefore, that I even the odds a bit, exercise some power of my own.” Hermione shook her head in disbelief.

“Only you would see our situation in those terms,” she said dampingly.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, flicking his gaze at her nightgown, which obligingly flowed off her body, leaving her naked and pressed up against him.

“No!,” she said, distraught, struggling to get out of his embrace. “I can’t!”

“Shhh,” he said, dropping a reassuring kiss to her brow. “I realize I may have gone a bit too far. Just relax, pet. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

One day ago, she wouldn’t have thought a promise from Draco Malfoy worth the breath he had used to speak it. But, the bond between them inclined her to trust him, allowed her to be soothed by the tone of his voice as well as the import of his words. She stopped fighting and lay still in his arms, allowing him to do as he pleased.

He was pleased to explore every silken inch of her flesh, slowly, thoroughly, and with great attention to what elicited sighs of pleasure, what produced little gasps of discomfort, what caused her to moan in need. He quickly discovered that his earlier game had left her clit too tender for the attentions he wished to show it. He decided to kiss it and make it better. The kisses had to be very delicate, very gentle, not quite as thorough as he longed to be, but his mate’s shivers of arousal, her breathy moans, the way her hands buried themselves in his hair to hold him close were all very pleasing to him, and made up for any restraint he had to show. Her responses were pefect, she was perfect, and he found he wasn't quite as upset at the forced change to his original plans as he probably ought to be. Plan B, he mused, had a lot to recommend it. Draco went slowly, gently, until his mate was gasping and writhing her way through one more climax, and then he kissed his way up her body and slid, still gently, inside.

Hermione was beside herself. She was sore and aching but Draco was doing the most amazing, exquisite things to her, things that enticed her to ignore the minor pain in exchange for the enthralling pleasure. The kisses he’d give her most intimate parts had made her damp with longing. When he’d added slow caresses of his tongue, she’d become an outright river, drenching his face with her arousal. Her climax had been wet and sticky and glorious and she was still in its grip when he’d covered her, kissed her, entered her again. He wasn’t being as forceful as he had been when he’d used the bond to bring her to completion. That had been too much. This, what he was doing now--easing his body into hers, going slowly so as not to hurt her, holding himself back so that his pleasure would not come at the expense of her pain, but would rather engender pleasure within her as well--was an irresistible enticement to mutual bliss.

“So beautiful,” he murmured into her hair, surging deeply inside her yet still careful not to cause her any pain. “Beautiful when I fuck you, beautiful writhing on my cock.”

Hermione was disturbed to find his coarse words only made her hotter and wetter than his physical attentions already had. She’d become quite the little wanton after only one night with him, she realized. More disturbing to realize that she didn’t care how wanton she’d become, if only he would stay right where he was, pleasuring her, never leaving her, always with her. With a sigh of need she lifted her legs, wrapping them around his waist, urging him deeper, even as her hands tangled in his hair and she peppered light kisses along his jaw. He hissed in appreciation, slid a hand between their joined bodies, and traced light circles on her yet tender clit. “Come for me, my beauty, my sweet, my mate, my Hermione...”

She obliged him, climaxing hard, capturing his lips and kissing him deeply, pulling him into the maelstrom with her so that they were both buffeted by the storm, clinging together to survive the onslaught of rapture. She reveled in the feel of his seed releasing deep inside her, flooding her with wet warmth. One final, deep thrust and he went rigid above her, locked in her embrace. The two of them strained at the peak for an unending moment, before he collapsed on her. Hermione found she liked the weight of him right where he was, and when he attempted to ease away, to avoid crushing her, she tightened her legs around his waist and her arms about his neck, silently letting him know she was having none of it. He chuckled and kissed her.

“Don’t worry, pet,” he said, raising his hand to stroke her hair tenderly away from her brow. “I’m not going anywhere.” But the motion had brought his Mark into her view once more, and she sighed, loosing him from her embrace.

“Aren’t you, though?” she said wistfully. Having caught the direction of her gaze, Draco realized what had caused her sudden melancholy. His own amusement fading, he rolled to her side.

“Not immediately,” he told her coolly. “Right now, I’ve no plans beyond a bath followed by breakfast, and having you join me in both.”

“Including the bath?” Hermione asked interestedly, thinking longingly of the spa tub, but certain she was too knackered to move. But as before, he saw the problem at once, getting out of the bed, pulling the covers from her, and lifting her into his arms.

“Especially the bath,” he said, the seductive tone having returned to his voice, and the heat to his eyes. Hermione discovered she was not immune to that seduction and threaded her arms around his neck, pressing kisses to his jaw line as she let herself be carried off.

His mate in his arms, Draco made his way into the en-suite bath, setting his precious burden down gently on one of the seating ledges inside the spa tub, which he then began to fill. As warm water poured in, he examined several bottles that had been placed on a shelf near the tub, eventually finding one that met his exacting standards. Opening the bottle, he poured its contents into the tub. A moment later, the fragrance of sandalwood drifted upward on the steam. Draco continued to scrutinize the bottles on the shelf, selecting three more before joining her in the tub. He set two of the bottles near Hermione who, picking them up, discovered them to be a body wash and a shampoo. Meanwhile, he had opened the third bottle and was pouring it into the tub.

“What’s that?” she said. “Isn’t the sandalwood bath oil enough?”

“Not today,” Draco said tipping the bottle to extract the last drops. “This is a potion meant to soothe the aching muscles of virgin brides,” he informed her with a smirk.

Hermione flushed prettily, taking his meaning.

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. Draco’s smirk grew.

“Blushing virgin brides,” he purred. “My favorite,” he bent to kiss her. Hermione considered pointing out that she wasn’t a bride, but decided in favor of the kiss. After that, she forgot her objections as Draco began amusing himself by bathing her with his own hands, taking a number of liberties she consciously resented, even as she moaned and thrust herself more completely against his teasing hands and fingers. Eventually, Draco moved to kneel between her parted thighs as she sat on her ledge, and proceeded to give her newly healed muscles a reason to be sore again. Hermione was whimpering her way through what she thought might well have been her tenth orgasm of the morning before he took his own release with her.

“Merlin,” she groaned her head buried in his neck, when he finally stopped. She was still seated on the ledge, her legs wrapped around his waist beneath the warm water. He remained kneeling between her thighs, hands braced against the edge of the tub to keep his weight from crushing her.

He said nothing for a moment, then pulled back, gave her a punishing kiss, and disentangled himself from her body.

“Much as I’d enjoy spending the rest of the day shagging you rotten, I have to make an appearance at breakfast,” he said regretfully, pulling himself up from the tub. A quickly muttered charm left his hair and body perfectly dry, while an Accio drew his wand and fresh clothing toward him. Hermione was surprised to see that he hadn’t retrieved a set of robes, but Muggle clothing--silk boxers, expensive wool trousers, silk jumper, cashmere sweater--all in black with accents of charcoal grey. He began to dress with quick, economical grace.

“When you’re done with your bath,” he told her, “come and join us. I’ll send a maid to direct you.” Hermione nodded. That explained the Muggle clothes, then.

“Where are my clothes?” she asked, feeling just a little too indolent to do anything but continue to lounge in the tub, for the moment.

“I’ve no idea,” he said, fastening a pair of gold cufflinks into his jumper, “but the sentient silk is on the bed. I’ve Scourgified it, so you can wear it in public without any embarrassment.”

“You expect me to wear a nightgown to breakfast?” she said, scandalized.

“Not at all," he grinned. "Just pick it up, think about where you are going, and you’ll find it will take an appropriate form for breakfast with my mother.” He strode over to a mirror, frowned, waved his wand at a few almost invisible wrinkles, smirking in satisfaction when his appearance was as immaculate as ever.

“How convenient,” Hermione said dryly. “But I’m going to require more for my wardrobe than one scrap of silk.”

“You don’t, you know,” he said, turning from the mirror with a wicked smile. “While of course I want you to have the most elegant wardrobe I can provide, you don’t actually need anything other than the sentient silk. It’s an extraordinarily versatile fabric, and can transfigure itself to meet virtually any requirement. Frankly, I rather like the idea of you constantly draped in a piece of cloth that will obey my will and arouse you at my leisure.” Hermione flushed at his words.

“Keep that up and I’ll come to breakfast draped in a bed sheet,” she threatened. He laughed.

“Do you know, I adore the fact that you stand up to me. Probably one of the reasons we’re mated,” he told her, sliding his wand up his sleeve and out of sight. He walked to the tub, and bent once more to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Wear the silk, Hermione. I promise to behave. For now.” With that, he turned on his heel and left.

Hermione mulled over his words, along with everything else that had happened since she’d been brought here. While their physical relationship was progressing nicely--brilliantly, if she were honest--Draco had proved all too adroit in avoiding a serious confrontation about their opposite loyalties. Well, he couldn’t distract her with great sex forever, she told herself. Sooner or later, they would have to talk about the coming war. But, perhaps it would be better to wait until Narcissa returned to the Manor? Surely the older witch couldn’t remain away for long without raising the very Ministry suspicions she had been at such pains to avoid. Unless, of course, Draco expected her to return to the Manor with his mother, while he himself returned to Voldemort?

Really, Hermione didn’t have enough information to begin to make any kind of coherent plan. Perhaps she’d get more at breakfast. The water began to cool, so Hermione finished her bath, washed her hair, and dried herself off. She didn’t have quite the facility with wandless magic that Draco had exhibited. Without her wand, she had to use towels, though that was no hardship considering the number of large, soft fluffy ones that had been set out for her. Towels wouldn’t answer for her hair, though a thorough rubbing removed most of the dampness. She checked the vanity. Sure enough, there was a hair dryer in a drawer below the sink, along with several kinds of styling attachments. The mirrored cabinet proved to hold various gels, mouses and other hair care products. Hermione chose something she thought would help tame her curls, and set to work. Fifteen minutes later, hair as orderly as she could make it, she returned to the chamber she’d shared with Draco, and reluctantly took up the bit of silk neatly folded at the foot of the entirely rumpled bed.

The silk slid over her like a caress. She shivered, closing her eyes. It took her a moment to calm her nerves, compose herself, but she finally got herself back under control. When she opened her eyes again, she was wearing a very sophisticated morning dress, entirely suitable for breakfast, yet stylish enough that she could have worn it to pose for the cover of Vogue. Looking at her reflection, she couldn’t help but notice the new mark she bore from Draco’s claim. She examined it more closely than she had earlier. It did not look like a scar. There was no raised, toughened skin deforming her. There was only the tiny crescent, gleaming silver like the moon, adorning her neck, rather as if a bit of precious metal had been set within her flesh. Hermione stared at the beautiful scar, a thousand things running through her mind.

If she loved Draco, she would henceforward wear her hair piled into a chignon on top of her head, or pulled back, anything to proudly show off this exquisite sign that she belonged to him, and he to her. But, while the bond between them made her crave him, long for him, desire him, even trust him more than she probably should, that wasn’t love, was it? And there was no question but that he did not love her.

Draco was a Death Eater. He might need her, might enjoy her, might even have come to feel some sort of bond-induced affection for her. But he had always despised her for her Muggle blood. He had not courted her, not married her. Despite his earlier, teasing words, she was not a new-wed bride and beloved wife, but a prisoner and a concubine, no matter how comfortable the prison in which she was confined.

Hermione let her long brown ringlets obscure the mark, and sat down on one of the room’s armchairs, awaiting the maid who was supposed to lead her to breakfast.

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

Narcissa, as elegant in linen slacks, silk blouse and string of pearls as she would have been in the best dress robes Gladrags Wizardwear had to offer, was waiting for her son seated at a lovely wrought iron, glass-topped table set in the middle of the well-kept garden. However, she had only instructed that two places be set, and was not best pleased when Draco informed the maid, a local girl whose family had been caretakers of the estate for generations under the previous owners, that a third place would be required. He proceeded to instruct the girl to send another maid to fetch his wife from the bedchamber when she was done her bath.

“Your wife”? Narcissa hissed in English the moment the girl had left. A very powerful Dark artifact ensured that the Malfoys could understand the servants and be understood, in turn. But it also ensured that what the Malfoy’s wished to keep private would remain so.

“I rather thought that you didn’t want to call attention to us,” Draco said calmly, pouring freshly brewed coffee into a delicate proceline cup. “Surely a young man visiting his mother with his wife in tow will cause less remark than the same visit with his mistress?” In point of fact, he was more concerned with how the staff treated his mate, than with the suspicions of any easily Obliviated Muggles. A wife commanded respect and obedience in ways that a mistress, even in the most lenient of households, simply did not. Given his parents' aversion to all things Muggle, he rather hoped his mother would not question his reasoning. In this he was disappointed.

“I am reliably informed that Muggles don’t concern themselves with the proprieties the way we do,” Narcissa sniffed disdainfully.

“Why take the chance?” Draco responded. “At all odds, what’s done is done. Now, why don’t you tell me about where we are? The only thing I remember is that it's a Muggle property, far from Britain. I must say,” he began admiringly, “it was very clever of you to find a hideaway that’s not only unlikely to come under the scrutiny of the Ministry--or that of, ah, certain of our friends--but is reasonably suitable to our station, as well.”

As he had intended, the praise soothed his mother’s ruffled feathers. Narcissa launched into a recitation of her efforts to find a suitable location, a description of their surroundings, including the Muggle politics they would need to avoid, and an explanation of the arrangements she had put in place to care for the house and grounds, and to provide for her own comfort, or that of her family, when any of them were in residence. The Dark artifact she’d brought here ensured that small charms and magics would not bring them to the attention of the Ministry, provided they were careful. Narcissa was just reminding Draco to keep his use of more powerful magic to a minimum when Hermione joined them, with a softly voiced “Good morning.”

The sight of the Muggle-born girl recalled Narcissa to her grievance with Draco.

“Is this necessary?” Narcissa demanded of him, ignoring Hermione’s greeting.

“Did you expect me to keep my mate confined to the bedchamber?” he asked dryly, as he rose from his chair. Narcissa’s look made it clear that she saw nothing at all wrong with that idea. Draco favored her with a sardonic smile before proceeding to annoy her further by pulling out a chair for Hermione and making sure she was properly seated. He would have done so had they been alone, but with his mother present, the gesture served to reinforce the idea he wished to get across to her; to whit that he valued his mate very highly and would not tolerate her being treated with anything less than the respect he believed she deserved.

“Thank you,” Hermione murmured, shyly smiling up at him as she settled into her place. The tension between mother and son was palpable, and she knew herself to be the cause. Narcissa was clearly unhappy, and breakfast was likely to be something of an ordeal. Hermione was grateful for Draco’s support. Still, she thought as she cast a surreptitious look at the beautiful silver samovar on Narcissa’s left, she wished the woman had placed it between them, instead of on her other side, out of Hermione’s reach. She doubted the older witch would take it well were she asked to pour. Nor did she, thought it was Draco who did the asking, and that with merely one raised brow. With a huff of displeasure, Narcissa did the honors, filling what Hermione recognized as an authentic Sevres porcelain teacup in the famous rose Pompadour glaze, with warm, fragrant tea. Narcissa handed the priceless cup and saucer to Hermione, who accepted it with murmured thanks, and took a delicate sip, as the maid reappeared, setting Hermione’s breakfast--on a matching Sevres plate-- before her with a small curtsey before heading back to the kitchen once more.

“Wouldn’t you have been more comfortable with a tray in your room?” Narcissa inquired with poisonous sweetness, as Hermione set down her tea and reached for the Goblin-made silverware--not that the Muggle servants would recognize it as such--which had been set out for her. Hermione was reluctant to respond to Narcissa's barb, and was grateful when Draco spared her the necessity.

“Confining Hermione to one room with no intellectual stimulation is the quickest way to drive her mad and send both of us into an early grave,” Draco informed Narcissa. “Now you’ve committed us to this road, you’re going to have to deal with the consequences.” Narcissa narrowed her eyes at his remark.

“What the devil does that mean?” she asked coldly.

“It means that we have a secret that must be kept from the Dark Lord at all costs. I could marry a girl with the purest bloodlines in the Wizarding world tomorrow,” he said casually, and Hermione felt a stab of hot, swift rage at his words which she quickly suppressed realizing now was not the time to indulge her temper, “but if he knew I had a Veela bond with any Muggle-born,” Draco went on, “Harry Potter’s best friend in particular, he’d consider that a sign of my unworthiness, and he’d wipe out our entire family.”

“Guess you’ll have to change sides, then,” Hermione interjected with no little satisfaction, her temper quite restored, as she dropped a spoonful of jam that seemed to have been home-made from a local berry onto the delectably large, golden brown pancakes the translation charm told her were something called placki.

“Don’t be naive, darling, it doesn’t become you,” Draco said silkily. As she hadn’t really expected it to be that easy, she merely shrugged, and took a bite of her breakfast. He smirked at her, then returned to the conversation he was having with his mother. “I think you already knew how the Dark Lord must react, or you would have simply brought me back to court, and left Hermione with me there,” he said to Narcissa, “instead of hiding us all away on this charmingly isolated and brilliantly hidden estate.”

“Of course I knew,” Narcissa snapped. “That’s why I dealt with as few people as possible, went disguised by Polyjuice to hire Muggle criminals to sabotage the girl’s car, and Obliviated anyone who knew anything remotely connected to the matter.” She bit her lip, considering her last words. “Well. Except for Snape. He’s the one who brought you to me, but all he knows is that you were sickening for your mate. I think he suspects that you are full Veela, but we could claim that such is not the case.”

“You may leave Severus to me,” Draco said coolly. “I know one or two secrets he is every bit as eager to keep from the Dark Lord as we are this...complication.”

“Are you certain?” Narcissa asked uneasily.

“Perfectly,” Draco said. Narcissa nodded.

“All right, then,” she said. “How do you believe we should proceed?” Draco recognized her words for the victory they were, but knew better than to gloat.

“What excuse did Severus give for my absence?” he asked.

“You’re spying on someone who knows the whereabouts of a particularly useful Dark artifact. Snape believes it will take you a few days to--ah--obtain it from the owner.”

By theft, possibly with a side of murder, Hermione thought unhappily, losing her appetite and setting down her silverware.

“Brilliant,” Draco said sourly. “And when I show up without it?”

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re going to bring him Morganna’s dagger.”

Hermione covered her shock by picking up her tea and taking a fortifying sip. Morganna’s dagger was legendary, but thought to have disappeared upon the sorceress’ death, nearly a thousand years before. Forged of a strange black metal rumored to have been obtained from a fallen star, once unsheathed, the dagger could not be sheathed again until it had slain an enemy. Oh, yes, Voldemort was going to be very happy when that little trifle came into his possession.

Draco raised his brow. “Father is not going to be happy about losing the dagger.”

“He can lose our most prized, and secret, family heirloom, or he can lose the entire future of the Malfoy family,” Narcissa said, before taking her own sip of tea. “Which do you think he’ll chose?”

“Do you know, I am not entirely sure,” Draco informed his indignant parent. “But I shall accede to your demands on the matter, and give up the dagger. All right. Snape’s story gives me another day or two before I must return to court, or risk arousing the Dark Lord’s suspicions. We can use that time to set up the estate for Hermione’s comfort.”

“You mean to keep her here, then?” Narcissa said. “I thought, once you returned to court, I could take her back to Malfoy Manor. It will be much easier to keep an eye on her there.”

“Where the Ministry can find her, next time they decide upon one of their unannounced visits?” Draco said.

“Despite their unannounced visits, they’ve never found the things we’ve truly wanted to keep hidden,” Narcissa replied.

“But Hermione isn’t a thing, mother,” Draco said in a voice that managed to be both perfectly respectful and shockingly dangerous. “I don’t think you’d find it as easy to conceal my mate as you would a bit of enchanted metal or bespelled parchment.”

Not if I have anything to say about it, Hermione silently agreed, and began eating her delicious placki once more.

“At all odds, Hermione doesn’t need anyone to keep an eye on her, Mother. She’s bound to me. She won’t leave the grounds without my permission because I can set my will on her to prevent it.” Hermione’s fork slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers to rattle onto her plate. Merlin, did the bond really give him so much control over her? Narcissa smirked at her reaction, while Draco ignored the interruption. “We can ward the estate so that no one with magical abilities who isn’t a Malfoy can enter.”

“I suppose we could, if we must,” Narcissa admitted reluctantly, and Draco relaxed. He had now gotten everything he wanted. Rather than being a pampered prisoner under his mother's charge, Hermione would be mistress of her own establishment. True, her authority would be severely curtailed, and Narcissa would still keep a watchful eye upon her, but his mother had seemed to have gotten the point: Hermione was more than an object to be used for his convenience, and her autonomy was to be respected. In so far as that could be done without endangering the Malfoy family.

Narcissa finished off her cup of tea, daintily patting her lips with her napkin, before setting it aside and rising to her feet. “Do excuse me. If we are to accomplish all of that within the next few days, there are some books at the Manor that will prove useful. I’m going to collect them. It’s a few hours earlier in England, so I have time to select what I need, make my daily visit to Lucius, and return here before you will have had dinner. What else would you like me to bring for you, Draco?”

“Nothing. I have all I need,” he said. Narcissa raised a brow at this assertion, but did not challenge it. She bid them, or at least Draco, a good morning, then disappeared back into the house.

“How is she going to Apparate between here and Malfoy Manor without arousing the suspicions of the staff?” Hermione wondered. Draco regarded her with amusement.

“It really is a pity they don’t teach the Dark Arts at Hogwarts,” he informed her. “The Defense courses never really give you a true feel for the scope of things, even when they can find a teacher who properly understands the topic.”

“What has that got to do with your mother Apparating out of here?” Hermione asked.

“It’s got to do with how she obscures what she’s doing from Muggles,” Draco explained patiently.

“All right, she uses a Dark Arts spell,” Hermione drew the obvious conclusion. “I’m more interested in how it works than whether it’s dark or light.”

“She doesn’t use a spell. A spell of the magnitude needed would draw the Ministry to us almost before she got off the incantation. No. She uses a Dark artifact. Something called a Calypso.”

“Calypso? The sea nymph?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Eventually. But originally, she was a goddess of death. Her name means--”

“The hider,” Hermione realized, “because kalyptein has to do with concealing something, covering it up, and death hides those who were once alive from those who still live.”

“Knew you’d suss out the salient points,” Draco said with something that Hermione thought seemed awfully like pride.

“Yes, well, I’m not sure I care to suss out anything else regarding an artifact named for a goddess of death,” Hermione said, shivering.

“Not about how it was made, at least,” Draco agreed, his expression turning grim. Hermione regarded him in horror, wondering just how familiar he was with the making of such an item, and how he’d come by that familiarity. Seeing her look, Draco hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry. Neither I nor either of my parents made one,” he said. “The Malfoy Calypsos are all vey old, and they were all acquired, not made personally by any of my ancestors.”

“Sure of that, are you?” Hermione said doubtfully. To judge by the living Malfoys, that family would scupple at nothing that brought them power.

“Absolutely,” Draco said easily. “The family records--the real ones, not the ones we keep around to humor the Ministry--are very clear.”

Hermione made a non-commital sound as she sipped her tea. Clear the records might be. Trustworthy was another thing entirely.

“So,” she said finally. “How does it work?”


“The Calypso has been attuned if you will, to my mother and myself.”

“Blood rite?” Hermione interjected calmly.

“As you say. One has to be a Malfoy born or by marriage. But, one drop of blood from my mother, one from myself, and it obeys our desires. When she disappears into her room, the servants will literally forget she exists, until she reappears again, at which time they will believe that she was simply in some other part of the house, or in the garden, while they were going about their duties.”

“Dead useful, that,” Hermione was forced to admit.

“Did you expect anything less?” he inquired, amused once more.

“Well, no, I suppose not. Still, the effects of the Calypso have to be fairly limited or you wouldn’t be looking at additonal wards. And that means you’re wrong, you know,” Hermione said softly. “You forgot the reason why you can’t ward this place against non-Malfoys.” He opened his mouth to respond, but she forged on. “Careful as your mother has been, the Ministry is bound to keep her under close watch until they find you. Sooner or later, they will find you, Draco, no matter how many Calypsos your mother brings here.”

“Will you be sorry, then?” he asked gently, a small smile playing about his lips, warning her that he did not take her concerns seriously.

“I find the thought of you wasting away in Azkaban a bit more distressing than I might have yesterday,” she admitted, coloring slightly. “Enough so that I’m going to try to persuade you to do the right thing, the smart thing.”

“Which would be...?”

“Turn yourself in, if not to the Ministry, then the Order,” Hermione began earnestly, leaning toward him, covering his hand with her own. “Harry was on the Tower that night, when you...when Dumbledore...well," Draco had gone very still at her words, and she realized he was not happy that there had been a witness to those events. Hermione forged ahead anyway, determined to make him see reason. "Harry was there, and he told us, Ron and me, what happened. I know that you didn’t want to kill Dumbledore. I know you were on the verge of accepting his offer to hide you when Snape arrived. Dumbledore might be dead, but the Order isn’t. You can still take that offer, come to us for protection.”

“I suppose I could,” Draco allowed, turning his hand so that his fingers locked with hers. “But I can’t think of a single reason why I should. Exactly why is it you think I can’t ward the estate against non-Malfoys?”

“Because those wards won’t just keep the non-Malfoy witches and wizards out,” she went on, exasperated, “they’ll also eject any of them who happen to be in residence when the wards are set.”

“Yes, I suppose they will,” he returned tranquilly, keeping hold of her hand, gently caressing her fingers.

Hermione blinked at him, nonplussed, then said carefully, “You do realize that warding the estate to protect me in a way that forces me off the estate rather negates any protection you try to set up?”

“You won’t be forced to leave,” Draco assured her. “The wards will recognize you.”

Hermione felt a chill down her spine.

“How do you figure that?” she asked uneasily. “You haven’t married me, therefore I’m no Malfoy.”

His smile dazzled her both for its beauty and its wickedness. He sat suddenly forward, releasing her hand and threading his own in her hair, pulling it aside to reveal that telltale crescent of silver. His gaze lit on the mark and his smile grew wider, and somehow fierce.

“Aren’t you, though?” he demanded before pulling her forward, into his embrace, kissing the bit of silver until his delectable mate was writhing in his arms in pleasure once more. “Aren’t you?” he whispered once again, and brought his lips to her own.