A heat had bloomed under her skin—like a fever, or a poison. For weeks it had hummed within her, bruising; fraying. She wondered if she was slowly coming undone; as if the end of the cord that laced her up had been captured and was now being pulled upon, unravelling.
“I know… I believe that it is important to apologise to you, Ms. Granger.” He began. A distant cloud passed the winter sun, casting the room in a strange grey light, “I am at a point where… I can no longer carry on as I have.”
“Apologise to me, Malfoy?” She crossed her legs, the sole of her heel creating static as it dragged across the rough carpet. This is progress, she thought. It had been five weeks since Draco was first escorted to The Therapy Room, and by the fifth session Hermione had deduced the Clients were opening up, revealing hidden memories which explained their allegiance to the Dark Lord, and her work with Draco was perfectly on schedule.
“Yes, to you,” he said, the sincerity in his voice echoing within her, “What I have done… is terrible... obscene... I can only hope that you understand why I have done the things I did,” his eyes fixed on her, “and… I hope that you will forgive me—for what I need to do now,”
*
The Therapy Room was positioned on the very top floor of The Facility, which The Ministry had built on the outskirts of some muggle industrial estate. In that first session, Draco did not look at her—he only stared at the two plastic chairs, facing each other at the centre of the room.
“I am sure you are aware by now Malfoy, that I run a specialist Reformation Course, created especially for those with escalating behaviours within The Facility—those deemed beyond redemption. And now since your appointed Isolation Period has ended, you have been assigned to me,” Hermione spoke at him while gesturing to an empty seat. “You may leave, Ronald.”
Ron Weasley nodded quickly, his face red against the black uniform. Draco, on the other hand, was without colour—the charcoal-grey scrubs only accentuating his white hair and cold eyes, as well as a pale peach scar, which ran along the highest point of his cheek.
There was no need for the Clients to be shackled. Since their magic had been temporarily suspended, they were no stronger than a muggle. Only the Officers carried wands. Besides, it wasn’t a prison, The Ministry said. It wasn’t Azkaban. It was a Facility—one that was made to help.
“You’re wasting your time, bringing me to these sessions.” He spoke once Ron had left the room; his voice rumbling like distant thunder, “There’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know.”
And so the first session proceeded as Hermione expected: denial.
“There’s a difference between knowing and believing, Malfoy. Section 12 of The New Reformation Office Guidelines for Peace and Tranquility states, ‘We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided.’” She sat down neatly on the chair before him, bringing her clipboard onto her lap, “Helping others is never a waste of time.”
“Then your time would be better spent elsewhere. I do not need your help.” He crossed his arms, his sinewy muscles and veins flexing, the thin scrubs doing nothing to hide his lean body.
He must be exercising in his cell outside of the delegated curriculum. “We must follow the process, Malfoy.” She drew back to the clipboard and flicked through the white pages, “Draco Malfoy,” She read aloud. His record was comparably slim to the other files Hermione had held, but not without its damning reports. “Arrival date 6th October, 1998. Apprehended at Malfoy Manor with Lucius Malfoy, your father.” She paused before scanning the pages, her brow knitted, “Your Isolation Period was without incident. But as to why you attacked a fellow Client within The Facility, there is no answer for it.” She let the pages fall back, fixing her gaze on him, “It seems nobody knows why. Why did you attack him, Malfoy?”
He was silent as he stared at the floor; at the space between them.
She continued, “For your father, the Reformation Program was a resounding success—as with many other former Voldemort supporters. Don’t you want to join them?”
“I will never join them,” he growled.
Hermione nodded. “Then we must begin.”
*
“What is it that you must do?” She said, a keen feeling in her heart. She knew they were on the verge of a breakthrough—one that would help define the shape of his rehabilitation.
“A decision… a choice must be made. It has plagued me—haunted me—for longer than I’d like to admit. But, it seems the day of reckoning has arrived, and there is no escape.” His eyes were almost clear as he spoke to her, “No escape.”
*
Hermione had identified that each subsequent session followed the same pattern: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and then acceptance—much like the stages of grief. But every client had something that set them apart from the other. She accepted this, as there are variables in every experiment, but with Draco, that variable was impossible to detect, despite how she could sense it—stronger than any Client before.
“For centuries, muggles have had the upper hand over wizarding society. Voldemort sought to end that—to purify the bloodlines and place us at the forefront of power,” he spoke hard and fast, and it was just as she had predicted again—with the second session, came anger.
“Voldemort killed wizards who disagreed with him, where was their power?”
“He was fighting a war. Fighting back against those who killed the wizarding way, our culture—”
“You believe culture to be more valuable than flesh?”
Slowly, his head turned toward her; for the first time meeting her gaze, “And what would Ms. Granger, High Governor of the Reformation Office, know about the flesh?”
Heat flushed through her body, pooling between her hips. “Pardon?”
“Ah,” he looked away, down to her feet. “I suppose you have fought in wars. It’s hard to remember that, sometimes, when you look how you do, now.”
“Oh. Yes.” She breathed, acutely aware of her outfit—the blazer pinching at her waist, the black stockings suffocating her legs. She pulled her feet tightly under the chair, continuing, “Voldemort did not care for culture, Malfoy. He only wanted power.”
“Everyone seeks power.”
“That is not true. And I hope you come to learn that, in our sessions.”
“Griffindors,” he huffed, “You Griffindors are all the same—delusional.” He leaned forward, his white-knuckled hands gripping his thighs, “You have no idea what occurs in the minds of others,”
“You are in no position to tell me what I can and cannot fathom.” She worked to keep her voice stable—her body stable.
“The other Clients—Macnair, Rowle—” he cocked his eyebrow, “You could not even imagine the depths they would willingly sink to get what they seek,”
Hermione could only stare back at him, her skin pebbling beneath the tight fabric of her clothes.
“But I do. I know what they seek. And I believe them.”
“What do you believe?”
“The same thing that Voldemort believed: that there is no good and evil. There is only power and those too weak to seek it.”
“Then, it seems we must meet again next week, Malfoy.”
*
“There comes a time when all must make difficult choices. But that is where we find our power; where we find out who we truly are.” The dark cloud in the distance had now covered the sun, and raindrops drummed on the wide window pane, reverbrating around the room.
“Even if it means going against everything you’ve ever believed in?” He pleaded, desperation pouring off him in waves, threatening to drown her, “Even becoming the person you’ve always fought to become?”
*
Those early sessions were like a sparring match, each mind armed with shields and daggers, but Hermione held the wand. She was the one who had The Facility, The Ministry, and even the facts of what was true and right on her side. So how could it be—that when the second session ended, and the third one began, doubt crept its way under her skin?
“Upon being released from The Facility, The Ministry provide a tiered reward system,” Hermione had found that the best way to combat the Bargaining stage, is to do it first. “We feel it is essential to incentivise self-improvement,”
“Oh?” His head cocked to the side, “So you’re telling me that I won’t need to wear this… outfit on the outside?” He pulled at his clothing. The hem of his shirt lifted an inch above his waistband, revealing the hard muscles on his stomach.
Hermione clenched her thighs together before quickly looking away, “Of course,” she replied, diligently ignoring his sarcasm—and his body—“As well as many other rewards, each tailored to the individual’s need.”
The shirt fell back into place. “Perhaps a personal chef? One that serves more than chickpeas and rice?”
She squinted, “Is that why you attacked Dolohov? I’ve read over your record multiple times and I still cannot figure out a reason as to why it happened. I can only discern that it must be over food, as it was in the cafeteria—”
He grinned, “His voice annoyed me. Is there anything else you found noteworthy in my Record? Anything that… takes your fancy?”
“No.” She said firmly, before continuing with her appeal. “The Ministry will be your guide, post-release. Accommodation, documentation, employment—all are arranged and implemented by The Ministry.” She spoke gently, “You need not worry for a thing.”
“Oh yes, The Ministry certainly wouldn’t want us to worry. They wouldn’t want us even to have a single thought—”
She cut him off, “And in due course, the individual will be reunited with their wand, of course, since their magic would’ve been reestablished,”
His face fell, and she knew she had him. His voice was almost a whisper. “I no longer have a wand.”
But she spoke lightly, “No? Hawthorn, unicorn hair, I believe it is?” His gaze fixed on her—no, through her, “Oh yes, Harry handed it in shortly after your admittance to The Facility. It is currently in the safekeeping of The Ministry.”
“Where,”
“Well, not here, of course,” her heart wedged into her throat at the sight of his stiff, charged body. Gripping the clipboard, she breathed out quickly, “But, I don’t believe I am obligated to impart the location of Client wands,”
“If you tell me—” He ground out until he ceased speaking. His eyes had refocused, trailing from her face down her body and onto the floor. That languor seemed to return to him as he stretched out, running his hands down his thighs, until his gaze flicked back up to hers.
And there it was again: that variable. She had felt it since he was led into The Therapy Room, for the first time. A strange impulse came over her as she sat opposite him, their knees only a metre apart. It pulled at her insides, vying for her attention, like a muffled alarm. She had to work to keep her body planted on the seat, to resist the urge to leap up from it and do Merlin knows what.
“I will never join them,”
“Then we will meet again next week, Malfoy.”
*
“Even then.” Emotion tore through her. Was this it? Was Draco going to renounce his Allegiance and join her—join The Ministry—finally? “Please, let me help you. Tell me: what decision haunts you? What choice is it that you must make?”
“Oh,” he said, surprised, a rare smile pulling at his lips, “but it is not me who must make the choice. It is you, Hermione.”
*
The weeks between each session seemed to grow wider than before, but Hermione continued with her routine: five o’clock rise, calisthentics, shower, dress and meetings, meetings, meetings. Being the High Governor of The Reformation Office was not easy work, but she met each task with an industriousness rivalling that of an automaton, despite how that strange heat had imbedded itself under her skin, and how her stomach pealed an ache every time she ate.
Frustrated, she visited Nurse Clearwater at The Facility, ensuring to accurately relay symptom after symptom, only to be told she was in great health. Impeccable, in fact.
“You would do well to take an evening off, Ms. Granger. Perhaps some personal TLC is in order; if you understand me?” Nurse Clearwater smiled, and Hermione only huffed as she slipped from the examination table, swiftly exiting the room.
She was now determined to bring Draco’s case to a close. When the Daily Reports were given to The Ministry, when orders were delegated to the Officers, his pale face hovered at the forefront of her mind, like a ghost, haunting her. The fourth session was pivotal—The Clients primed; ripe like a wound about to bleed—and Hermione was ready to bring the final strike.
“Since your father’s discharge, you have refused his request for reunion. Why is that?”
Draco was sprawled wide on the plastic chair, as relaxed as a man who believed they had everything in the world, “I wouldn’t want to pull my father away from his advocacy work. He’s such a busy man—now that he’s reformed.”
“You have also refused visits from…” She looked over her clipboard, pulling away from his long, hard body, “Your mother, from Blaise Zabini, from Pansy Parkinson—”
“All very busy people,” he interrupted, “Besides, wouldn’t associating with me—a dissident—” He glanced to the report on her lap and then up to her face, “be a tar on their recently renewed name?”
“Recent?” Hermione quizzed, “It’s been six years, Malfoy.”
“What?” His stiffened, that easy posture evaporating. “Six?”
“It’s 2004. February 11th, to be exact. There’s a calendar in the cafeteria.”
“Yes.” He said firmly, leaning against the back of the chair again. “Yes, of course. I didn’t… didn’t realise how much time…”
“Well, your Isolation period was four years, wasn’t it?” Hermione tried to hide her delight at that spectacular blow, “And it was almost two years before that occurred—” Watching him, she turned her voice liquid, lulling him into a sense of security, “How does that make you feel? To know that it’s been that long, without...”
“Without what?” his expression grew dark.
“Well, without a friend, perhaps.”
“Are you asking to be my friend, Granger?”
She laughed awkwardly, “No! No, that would be inappropriate—” she shifted in the seat, her palms suddenly sweaty against the cold clipboard, “But, you must feel rather alone?”
His eyes were almost black as they stared back; burning; searing her. “I have always been alone,” He purred out. How long had it been since he had been with a woman? As long as it had been since she had been with a man? Hermione started, but he continued, “And you, Ms. Granger? You must’ve worked here for six years?”
“Oh. Oh yes.” A memory bloomed in her blood: the creaking of the wire bed springs as she ground her cunt down into it, desperate for relief—“It does go by rather quickly, you are correct.” She looked back at her clipboard, it being a strangely safe place to always return to, “But,” she carried on quickly, “in Section 36 of The New Reformation Office Guidelines for Peace and Tranquility, ‘every one of us, must commit ourselves to the fight against what is wrong, even when it seems safer or easier to do nothing,’… I am grateful to commit my years to something so important.”
“Mmm, I must agree with you on that one.” he mused, smirking, “Your Reformation Office sure do love their Dumbledore quotes.”
Dumbledore. Another memory beat through Hermione’s blood: the story Harry had relayed to her; the one where Draco tried—and failed—to murder Dumbledore before Snape took his place. With no way of proving it, the Ministry was never informed, and in turn, Draco believed his plan to be unknown to anyone alive today. “Of course, Dumbledore—” she said softly, “You remember his speeches, then?”
Draco winced, “It’s hard to forget them… He had a way of speaking that got into your head,”
“Yes,” she nodded, “He was very wise. It was so awful when he died.”
His lip curled, “Tragic,”
“Wizarding society was never the same after, was it? It would’ve been wonderful to have his assistance, with The Reformation Office.”
“I’m sure he would have something to say about it.”
Deliberating if this next blow might be too dangerous, too risky, she began gently, “I do miss him sometimes,” He only stared at her, and now she knew she was playing with fire. “Do you miss him, Malfoy?”
“Miss him?” he answered, incredulous. “I… I barely knew him. I wouldn’t say I have the right to—”
“The right to miss him?” Her eyes widened, “Of course you do—you were one of his students. All are entitled—”
“No,” his eyes glittered, “Not everyone has the right. No one is naturally entitled to anything. It is earned.”
“But, Malfoy—there are many things people do not need to earn. Missing someone…” and now she knew she was pushing too far, “…Loving someone—is one of those things,”
“Stop, Hermione,” he shouted, finally, almost rising from his seat. She could see now that tears lined his eyes.
That feeling—that variable—shot through her—through her chest, down through the centre of her stomach and beyond, piercing, aching. He was like a large shard of glass, easy to shatter but lethal to touch. A wild and terrible urge tore through her—begging her to touch, to hold, despite the injury she would receive—but before she could reach out, The Therapy Room door flew open.
“Ms. Granger,” Ron stood at the threshold with his wand aloft, his gaze glued on Draco, “Is everything okay here?”
Hermione spun in her seat, gasping for stolen breath, “Everything is fine,” she sang, “I am so sorry Ronald. Please, everything is fine—”
“I heard shouting,” he demanded, his sight still fixed on Draco, who now returned a glare more devastating than Ron could ever dream of exhibiting.
“Everything is fine Ronald,” she repeated, having barely recovered. “You may go.”
Skeptically, Ron left, slamming the door hard behind him, and Hermione’s attention returned to Draco, like a magnet clipping back to its opposite. “I… I am sorry, Malfoy.” She croaked, “I shouldn’t have said… that.”
But as she raised her head to look at him, she was stunned to find him stoic. That anguish which had twisted his face—those tears which had shone in his eyes—were gone. No evidence remained of his pain, which, only ten seconds ago, poured from him like a flood. All that was left was cold and blank, reminding Hermione of Occulmency—at least, the muggle kind. “The only thing a human is entitled to, the only thing that is a birthright, is freedom. Freedom is true power, it is knowing yourself completely.” He lifted his jaw, watching her with shadowed eyes, “Would that be on your list of birthrights?”
“Of course—” she stuttered, “We are all free to live peacefully. To know that we are safe from harm. From terrible ideologies which seek to eliminate a person just because of who they are,” he only sneered in response, but she continued,“You are entitled to live peacefully. Just like those who have left The Facility. Just like your father.”
A glimmer of that torment seemed to return to his face.
“I will never join them,” he growled, but this time, his voice shook.
“Then I will see you next week, Malfoy.”
*
“What…? What do you mean? I don’t have to make any choices—”
“I’m afraid you do. And I am going to tell you how many choices you have.” He leaned back as his head slanted to the side, “You have two.”
Her hand flexed toward her blazer pocket; flexed toward her wand, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Malfoy,” Her voice quivered, “But we need to get back on track.” For a brief moment, she had believed her work with Draco had paid off—but now, it was moving away from her, slipping from between her fingers—
He sighed, his mocking smile simmering, “You do so love being on track.”
“I am committed to your Reformation, Malfoy—”
Instantly, the grin fell from his face, where only darkness remained. “Reformation is just a pretty word to describe Indoctrination. A tool of control for The Ministry—a wand to regain power.”
“It is not control,” she replied firmly, “The Reformation Office was created to protect those more vulnerable. To protect half-bloods and muggles from insane wizards like Voldemort—”
“Oh, Voldemort. I would’ve forgotten about him if you didn’t constantly remind me. I care nothing for Pure Blood Ideology. No, this is about more than that.”
“I… I don’t understand,”
“But you wouldn’t, would you? You’re a Griffindor. Innocent. Foolish. The Ministry would know, though. In fact, if they were honest, they would agree. The Reformation Office, The Facility—none is about Pure Bloods or Voldemort. It is about force.”
“You… You are not in allegiance with Voldemort…? But,” Hermione fluttered, stunned, “Everything we have been working on—the entire reason why you are imprisoned—I mean, housed—at The Facility. Your allegiance…”
“I told you: there’s nothing you tell me I don’t already know. I warned you.”
“I thought… I thought we were making progress. The whole time, you were hitting targets—”
“I watch, Granger. Don’t you think I have worked it out by now? The formula? They get angry, they cry, they tell you what you want to hear so they can be freed—”
“You… you deceived me—” she breathed while her eyes darted about the room. Her chest rose and fell and her curls fluttered about her crimson face. Draco froze still, tracking her every movement, until she shot up from the chair, indignant. “You lied.”
Hermione started toward the door but he bolted from the chair with a speed she had not yet seen from him. In all their sessions, Draco had moved with a slow, easy grace, but now he was wild—violent, almost. She staggered backwards in shock, but he advanced toward her.
“I have never lied to you, Granger. Ever.” The rain hammered against the window, “The other Clients have lied to you. Rookwood, Goyle—they came back to The Facility, didn’t they? The Program does not work.”
“They… They relapsed,” she gasped, her body shuddering as he towered over her, blocking any light, “No Program has 100% success rate—”
“No? Well, in a way I suppose I should be thankful. Because of your little Program, your naivete, I now have this opportunity… since I have been deemed beyond redemption,” he gritted out, “Yes, I have played Devil’s advocate, perhaps. But it had to be done. A necessary evil. It was the only way I could get here.” He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, “Closer to you.”
Hermione grabbed onto herself, wondering how she could reach for her wand without him seizing it, seizing her—
“Don’t be afraid, Granger. I’m not going to do anything that you don’t want to happen. See, that’s the point. I am giving you a choice, which is more than I have been given. And until now, you also.”
“I don’t know what you mean Malfoy! What choices?!”
“Tell me: is it your choice that you don’t leave The Facility? That you and the other Officers sleep, eat, live here; no different to the Clients?”
“How do you—”
“I told you, I watch. The other Officers are not as good at hiding it as you are—Weasley the fool wearing his moccasins to the cafeteria at breakfast. I would never have guessed it were only you. Always pristine in your uniform. Always on time, like clockwork. Always perfect,” He reached toward her face without touching it, only cupping the air around her skin, like it was electric. “Soon I realised that not only leaving The Facility was forbidden but so was socialising; so was sex—” heat flooded through her body, hotter than ever before, “You’ve got no more freedoms than us, the only difference is, you don’t even realise.”
Her breath shuddered as she craned around Draco’s wide frame, searching for the door. It was so close but so, so far away—“That’s not true. We do have freedoms, I…” She searched her brain for evidence to the contrary, but it was blank. She turned back to him, back to his face. Sobeautiful, she thought suddenly. His features seemed carved from marble, his smooth skin only fractured by that scar below his eye. Even without his magic, he looked supernatural. She gasped, “Draco—”
He moved closer, his hand inches from her face until, finally, his thumb grazed against her jaw. His touch was cool against the burning heat of her skin. She fought against her eyes closing, against leaning into his touch. “I know that you, too, are alone,” he purred, his breath dancing over her cheek until slowly—almost anxiously—his fingers slid from her jaw, tracing down her neck and pushing into her hair at the nape. He shuddered and staggered forward.
His scent bloomed, enveloping her. How is it that he smelled of dew-covered grass when he was never let outside? And when was the last time she smelled that scent—the smell of the outdoors; of nature; of freedom?
He leaned in further, his lips only an inch from her ear, “Do you know, that the best way to destroy an ideology, is to poison it from the inside,” his words were like liquid, pouring into her blood, “To corrupt it, at the very top. And do you know who is at the very top, Hermione?”
He pulled away, watching her large brown eyes somehow grow larger, “Me,” she replied breathlessly.
His hand trailed from her hair back down her throat, fixing against her neck, and he moved to whisper in her ear again, “The Ministry’s very own Poster Girl for Obedience. What could prove to me more that The Ministry have no power, than corrupting her?”
“No,” she erupted, ducking from his touch. She clambered to the centre of the room, stumbling against the plastic chairs, “This is wrong—” Draco still stood where they had been together—his hand floating where it had been at her neck—“You can’t want this,” she pleaded.
But he spun to face her, enraged, “Do you not think I could’ve left this place the moment I arrived if I had just said all the right things? That I was sorry, that I would never think bad things again, that I would obey—” his hand scraped through his hair, “Just like my father did. Doing and saying anything to appeal to whoever was in power, like a puppet on a string.” He held his out hand like a puppeteer, “Weak. To obey is to be powerless,” He slammed his arm at his side, “But I will not obey. I will not be forced. I will not join them.”
“So, this is all about obeying?” She gasped. The cogs in her brain wheeled as she scanned her memories: his report; his escalating behaviours; their past sessions; their history. She thought of his father; of Hogwarts; of Voldemort; of Dumbledore—Dumbledore. “Because… Because you were forced—you never wanted to kill Dumbledore, did you?”
Draco froze, his eyes like blue ice—the kind at the very bottom of an iceberg—“And how…” he slowly stepped forward, “Did you know that?”
“I… I knew when it happened,” she confessed, “Harry, he saw you. He told us that you said you had no options—no choices—that Voldemort was going to kill you, your family—”
He grew ashen. Stumbling slightly, he leaned against a plastic chair, staring toward the floor. For the first time in their sessions, he was speechless.
She hurried on, “That’s why you refuse orders. That’s why you reject The Ministry, The Program—because you never could.” Draco was silent. “You were just a child, Draco. You didn’t have a voice,” she spoke softly. That urge tore at her again—to reach out and touch him. To hold him. Her legs willed her to move, but suddenly, and slowly, he dragged his gaze up to hers—that strange thing like Occulmency shuttering over him again.
“It seems we both know each other’s secrets,” His head slanted to the side, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“Please,” she sighed, “You don’t really want this. You’re only doing it to prove something, to The Ministry, to yourself—”
“Oh, but I do.” He straightened and dusted down his scrubs, “I was taken to The Facility because I refused to obey. That is not a choice I was given. It is a reaction to tyranny. But what I choose to do with it; that is my choice.” He breathed, and his voice softened, “And then there’s you. You practically run The Facility yourself. It would crumble, wouldn’t it, without you? Working day and night like a fucking work-horse, fixing everyone else’s mistakes. But… destroying The Facility from the inside is not the only reason I have worked my way up to here—spent six years working up to your private sessions—no, I could’ve done that easier another way.” He laughed, “I did wonder myself why I hadn’t just taken an easier route until I realised—” his pale skin flushed peach, and she realised that Draco had blushed, “I suppose it has something to do with the way that you walk,”
“My walk?” Hermione yelped, keenly aware of the sweat forming under her skirt, dampening her legs.
“Yes. I’m not sure. It’s like… like you’re all alone. So distant. Unaware of anyone watching you. I have to confess it got into my head for a while. The way your hips—” he sighed, that easy grace returning, glossing over his body, “Dolohov noticed that about you, too. I needed a way to make it onto your list, to be deemed beyond redemption…” he said sarcastically, “but… I took it a little too far. I got this scar on my face and four years in Isolation, and he no longer has an eye.” Hermione’s heart fluttered into her throat while he grinned, watching her. “Still, it’s been worth it. And, I hope, it will be for you, too. We are both prisoners of this regime. As you seek to free me, I seek to free you.” He took a wide step toward the centre of the room, “I will not obey, I will not be forced, and neither will you.”
Hermione stepped backwards while whipping out her wand from her blazer pocket. She swiftly lifted it toward his face. Draco stared down it as if it were the barrel of a gun, his expression indomitable.
“You have two choices, Hermione. Two different spells that you can cast with two very different outcomes. One, you can Stupefy me and leave. Leave and return to that empty room that’s just down the hallway. That room that is no better than mine—a prisoner. Or, two, you can Silencio this room, and no one will know. No one will ever find out that you got something that you wanted. I can see it now, in your body, your eyes. You’re begging for it: for change, for something to happen, for freedom, and you don’t even know.”
She whimpered, her arm shaking as she struggled to hold the wand.
“I can see the heat pulsing through you. I always feel it. So, I am giving you something that has not been given to us: a choice.” He strode forward, advancing on her even as she held the wand to him. He grabbed ahold of her wrist—her blood sung under his touch—and pushed it into his hard chest, “Now,” he spoke, his voice dark and thundering, “either Stupefy me or Silencio the room, so nobody can hear me fuck you.”
The breath was stolen from Hermione as he towered over her. His eyes roiled and undulated like the wild, black clouds beyond the window. The moments howled by as they faced each other, separated by the wand—separated by Heirachy, by Ideology, by Hermione’s Choice.
Everything Hermione has worked for—all the years she has dedicated to healing the poison Voldemort had spread and ignited throughout wizarding society—would all be for nothing. If rules were not followed and orders not obeyed, that poison could rise again, spreading disorder and threatening lives. Would she be responsible? Was she not responsible for the Peace and Tranquility of Wizarding lives?
Her body floated as if it were in stasis; only her hand being gripped to his chest; gripped to the wild beating of his heart kept her anchored to the earth. She had never felt anything so alive. And she had thought him a ghost?
The wand had fallen to the floor once she had cast the non-verbal spell. His face was motionless, mute, clear—clearer than a morning winter’s sky—until he fell into her.
I am the variable, she realised.
Gasping, his mouth tumbled against hers—violently, ardently. He seized her, his hard grip capturing her so fiercely that air heaved from her lungs, immobilising her. His soft lips dragged over hers so sweetly, so painfully sweet, that she cried out. His tongue licked across her lips, biting, sucking, devouring them while he bent her body into him, manipulating her into him, and she gasped for air against his mouth, letting him consume her—begging him to.
His touch was like kindling: pure oxygen for that fire burning within her. It raged, the flames climbing and licking up her insides. He ground against her; her breasts and thighs clamped against his tall, hard body as he lurched forward, and Hermione’s back landed hard on the wall. She yelped, rocking forward, grinding against him as his wet mouth travelled from hers down toward her neck, his sharp canines digging into her skin. He was possessing her, claiming her, as if, at any moment, she might escape or be taken from him.
Frantically, he pulled his lips away from her throat, “This is your choice?” he roared as he gripped her; one hand on her jaw and the other fixed to the base of her neck. She seemed so small in his hands. “You have to tell me the truth—” he demanded, shaking.
Lost to the song of her pulsing blood, her irises pulled from her lids and locked onto his, “Yes,” she breathed.
He made a strained sound as his mouth crashed against hers again. It was wet, hot, desperate. He lifted her against the wall, her pencil skirt rising to her waist as he wrapped her legs around him. Her heels tumbled onto the floor as he dragged his grip across her thighs, pulling at the fabric of her stockings. She could feel his heart pounding like a wild drum in his ribcage and then, she felt it. That rock-hard rod, pushing against his waistband, wedging between her legs, burying against her soft flesh. She gasped against his lips—wanting it, wanting it so bad her whole body was burning alive.
He shuddered, aware of every nuance in her—as he had always been, she realised. And she realised that he was right, he did know what she wanted, more than she could ever imagine.
He snatched her from the wall, taking the brunt of the fall as they landed on the ground. Hermione found herself lying on top of him: her hips and legs meshed with his. Intoxicated, and in this new freedom, she straddled him, enveloping her mouth over his hot lips as he moaned. His hips flexed and his cock rubbed again—hard and long—against her clit. Electric ripped through her body as she shuddered against him.
Frantically, his hand slid between her blazer and the starched shirt, damp against her skin. Wrenching the collar from her neck, he pulled her toward him, devouring her flesh as if he were a creature starved. He tore the blazer from her arms and threw it to the wayside before his hold returned, to the buttons on her shirt.
“Please,” he breathed, and Hermione nodded, her eyes closing. Air whipped through her curls as Draco spun them both around on the floor so that he lay atop her; his cock still pressed tightly between her legs. His breathing was ragged as his fist wrapped around the seam of her shirt, tearing it open, the buttons bursting apart and sailing through the air. Hermione gasped, her skin pebbling as Draco’s breath drew close, his lips skirting between the edge of her bra and the swell of her breast.
“Please,” she pleaded, unable to wait any longer. The fire that tore through her was now in her brain—roaring, burning—and every tip of every part of her now seared with anticipation. Her nipples swelled and pressed against her bra, aching for him. He moaned softly at her request and wrapped his fingers around the cups of her bra before thrusting downward. Her breasts burst out from their entrapment, jiggling under the weight of gravity.
He groaned, his cock quivering against her. Still holding onto her bra, he thrust her body toward him and pushed his face against her bare breasts. “Free,” he gasped, his voice muffled against her skin, and Hermione did not know whether he was talking to her or himself. His mouth wrapped around her nipple, soft and warm as his tongue stroked and teased it. Hemione cried out, gripping his body as he groaned, the sound vibrating in his chest. He pulled his lips from her nipple to reach for the other one—bearing down and sucking hard on it.
His breathing became faster, more erratic until he stole away from her breasts altogether and pulled down toward her waist. There, Draco sat upright, resting on the back of his heels. She whimpered, wanting, needing him on her. Her eyes opened to find him looking down upon her, breasts bare and her skirt pushed up to her stomach, and it was then that Hermione realised that he had won. Even though she had the wand, the authority, even The Ministry—he held the power—and the only tool he had used was his mouth.
Slowly, almost meditatively, his hand moved from her hip to between her legs. Heat blazed at her core as his hand rested there, his fingers pressed against her pussy, hidden beneath her black stockings. He rubbed her clit, massaging and petting deeply. Hermione moaned sweetly, spellbound under his touch, until Draco seized his shirt, tearing it from his body, revealing his lean, muscled frame, as his blonde hair fell in wild disarray.
Hermione thought she had known determination. It wasn’t until she saw the look on his face, that she discovered what it really looked like.
In the dim light of The Therapy Room, silhouetted against the blank window, she could just about make out his features. His expression was fixed, resolute, clear—only one goal drove him, it was an almost unhuman single-mindedness—and pleasure flooded through her at the sight of it.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he spoke, his voice dripping in darkness, and before she could suck in a breath, he took her stockings and tore them in two.
Rising on his haunches, his cock broke free. He gripped ahold of it, dragging his fist down, revealing the silken peach skin. He looked like a God, an avenging angel, as energy—magic even—radiated from him. Beautiful, she thought again, and then he fell forward onto her, their worlds colliding.
He found her mouth again, gasping hot and desperate, his teeth dragging along her bottom lip, almost drawing blood. Hermione cried out, and Draco responded by gripping her tightly, wrapping his arms around her, and using all his weight to fix her into place. It was then that his cock found her: shifting aside her soaked underwear, which was already half torn at the seam, his tip pushed gently at her entrance. More, she thought. I need more. And her hips worked to receive him deeper. Draco groaned, his heart hammering and his hips moving in sync with hers.
She stretched around him tightly, the pain healing rather than hurting. “Draco,” she cried, tears now streaming down the sides of her face. Draco held her face between his hands, wiping away her tears as he brought his cock as deep as it would go. He gasped, rocking his hips gently, gradually increasing speed. “Hermione,” he murmured as he kissed her—as his lips roamed over her face, her neck, her breasts.
She was alive—where she had been wandering in a heated daze for weeks, her body aching and burning for something she did not know what, that emptiness was now being filled—healed by him. His cock hit the very peak of her core, pumping in and out, in and out. He reached an even rhythm, the round tip sliding tightly against a pleasure point inside her, over and over again. It throbbed as his cock became like a rock, thrusting into her, the rough carpet grazing against her skin.
She could take it no longer; she was alight—every nerve ending burning as a bright flame—every part of her awakened. The orgasm ripped through her body like a wild storm, radiating from that sweet pain where he penetrated her.
Through the mists of pumping blood, she heard him cry out, their limbs convulsing, clamping down on the other. His cock pulsed furiously inside her, filling her as he came, and in some unknown way, Hermione felt that she had won, too.
Draco collapsed against her, his sweat-tipped locks tracing against her skin. The rain had ceased, and awareness began to creep back to Hermione—insidiously—as she felt his breathing and heart steady next to hers, until suddenly, he stiffened. Rising from her chest, he looked upon her crimson face, still glistening from tears, with an unidentifiable expression.
Crrrrack—
Draco was stunned—Hermione had laid a hard slap across his face, instantly bringing the blood to his cheek in the shape of her palm.
“Uh. Ouch,” Draco said while flexing his jaw, “that hurt,”
Hermione twisted, tearing herself out from under him—his cock sucking out of her in one quick slip.
She tore about the room—gasping and whimpering as she collected her belongings, scattered chaotically across the entire space. Her blazer, her heels, her wand—her nipples and clit smarted against her clothing as she bent to retrieve them.
Draco stood on his feet and shrugged his still-hard cock back into his scrubs. Shafts of yellow sunlight broke through the clouds, dancing against his bare chest.
“Hmm,” he regarded her quietly, watching as she shoved her toes back into her heels—his come dripping down her thigh onto her torn stockings.
Wordlessly, her gaze flicked to him, rage flickering about her lashes.
His head cocked to the side, “Same time next week, Granger?”