A sliver of peace
Draco (Age 17)
"Hermione," Draco whispered. "You look beautiful tonight."
"Thank you, Draco."
"I came here because there's something I need to tell you," he continued. "I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you in the maze. I have thought about you every minute, every second, for the last six years….those dreams you’ve been having…that was actually me. You’re my best friend, my soulmate, my reason for living…and I would really love it if you would honor me with a dance.”
"Oh, Draco! Ravish me!" Arys exclaimed, his voice a hilarious imitation of Hermione's, unable to contain his laughter any longer.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Arys, this was your bloody idea, be serious!”
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Arys said, clearing his throat. "I would love to dance with you, LordDraco," he continued with his best Hermione impression. His eyes were gleaming, tears welling in the corners as he struggled to contain himself.
“Forget it.” Draco said with a huff. “This was a stupid idea.”
"Draco, I really am sorry," Arys began, his voice still laced with a hint of amusement, "but you're thinking too much about this, and you're coming on a bit... strong." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You can't just approach her and declare that you've been completely obsessed with her since you were a pre-teen. It's likely to scare her off."
Arys’s expression softened. "Take it slow, Draco," he advised, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Give her time to warm up to you. Earn her trust, her friendship... and then, maybe, something more."
Draco exhaled slowly. Arys was right, as usual. This was uncharted territory, a landscape as foreign to him as the depths of the ocean. He had spent so many years constructing walls, building fortifications around his heart, that he wasn't sure how to dismantle them. He had become so adept at playing the role of the arrogant, aloof pureblood, the cruel and heartless Death Eater, that he'd almost forgotten who he truly was. Now, faced with the daunting task of revealing his true feelings, he felt like a novice, a bumbling fool with no idea how to proceed.
The years had taken their toll, leaving him unsure of how to navigate the delicate dance of courtship, how to express the depths of his emotions without overwhelming her. He was used to deflecting, to hiding, to burying his true self beneath layers of carefully constructed stone. Now, he had to peel back those layers, expose his vulnerabilities, and offer his heart to the woman he loved, hoping against hope that she wouldn't reject it.
Everything had changed. The suffocating uncertainty that had plagued them for years had dissipated, replaced by a newfound clarity. They now had a clear path forward, a tangible strategy to defeat Voldemort.
After the chilling encounter at the cathedral, Voldemort had revealed a crucial vulnerability. He had boasted of creating a Horcrux, a safeguard for his immortality, residing within his monstrous snake, Nagini.
Armed with this knowledge, Draco and Arys had plunged into relentless research, scouring ancient texts and forbidden archives. They uncovered the secrets of Horcruxes, their creation and their destruction. They learned that these dark objects, tethered to Voldemort's soul, could be destroyed by potent, destructive magic – basilisk venom or Fiendfyre. Since neither of them were capable of wielding and controlling Fiendfyre, they focused their efforts on acquiring basilisk venom. The quest led Draco deep into the shadowy underworld of the black market, where he bartered and negotiated, risking exposure, until finally, he secured a vial of the deadly substance. Now, with the weapon in hand, they were prepared. The weight of the world still rested on their shoulders, but it was a burden infused with a newfound sense of purpose. They were ready to strike, to deliver the final blow, to end Voldemort's reign of terror once and for all. All they needed was the right moment, the opportune time to unleash their plan and change the course of history.
And with this newfound clarity, another weight lifted from Draco's heart. He no longer needed to hide his feelings for Hermione. The dark cloud that had hung over their lives was about to dissipate, and a glimmer of hope, a possibility of a future together, flickered into existence. He couldn't help but feel optimistic. She had kissed him, after all. She had wanted him, thought of him during her most intimate moments. He hoped, with a fierce intensity that bordered on desperation, that once the truth was revealed, once the war was won, she might actually be able to love him in return, the way that he loved her with all of his heart. The way he had loved her for years.
Her birthday was just around the corner, and Draco wanted to get her something truly special. Something she had always dreamed of, something she truly deserved. He planned to invite her to the upcoming ball that his father was throwing in his honor, something to commemorate his recent promotion to second in command. His plan was to ask her to dance, to finally be real with her, and then give her the gift afterward.
He set off for Diagon Alley with a purpose. As he approached Ollivanders', he couldn't shake his nerves. Wands, he knew, were notoriously fickle, typically choosing their wielder. He worried he might not pick the right one, that he might fail in this seemingly simple task. But he was determined to try.
Stepping into the dimly lit shop, the scent of old wood and magic thick in the air, he was greeted by the proprietor himself. Garrick Ollivander, with his wide, pale eyes and air of otherworldly wisdom, seemed surprised to see him.
"Draco Malfoy, what a pleasure," Ollivander greeted him, his voice a gentle rasp. Draco was used to people being intimidated by him, by his name, by his reputation. But the wizard before him seemed unfazed, calm, almost expectant. It was a refreshing change.
"I need to find a wand... for a friend," Draco explained, the lie feeling heavy on his tongue.
"It would be ideal if your friend could come in person," Ollivander suggested, his gaze unwavering. "It's very difficult to identify a wand without the potential wielder present."
"They are unable to join us," Draco said, a touch of apprehension creeping into his voice, "but I know them intimately. I hope that will suffice."
"Very well," Ollivander conceded, his eyes surprisingly kind. Draco felt a surge of trust, an unexpected connection with the old wandmaker. "Tell me about them."
And so, Draco began to describe Hermione. "She is incredibly powerful," he said, his voice softening, "capable of performing spells wandlessly that most could never replicate even with a wand. She has a heart of gold, she is determined, brave, a Gryffindor through and through. She is fearless, incredibly intelligent, compassionate..." He could have gone on for hours. His perfect witch. Just talking about her made his heart flutter in his chest.
Ollivander listened intently, his head tilted, his fingers tracing his chin thoughtfully. "Have you felt a unique connection with this witch, something inexplicable?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," Draco breathed, the admission escaping his lips before he could stop it.
Ollivander turned, disappearing into the labyrinth of shelves that lined the shop. He moved with a surprising agility for his age, his long, silver hair flowing behind him like a veil. He finally located the object of his search, a dusty box tucked away in a dark corner. He placed the box on the counter before Draco and removed the lid.
"This wand is very special," he said, his voice hushed with reverence. "It hasn't been matched with anyone I've attempted so far. I had given up hope that anyone would be able to wield it. It's crafted from an ancient and wise willow tree that once stood on the grounds of Hogwarts. Its core is a phoenix feather that was allegedly plucked from Fawkes, the late Albus Dumbledore's phoenix. Based on the witch you've described," he continued, his eyes twinkling, "I believe this one could be a perfect fit. Give it a try and see what you feel."
Draco reached for the wand, his fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. As he grasped it, he felt a surge of power, a warm energy flowing into his hand. It wasn't uncomfortable at all, more soothing than anything. It didn't call to him directly, but it felt more like an extension of his soul. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation. He felt like the sun was shining directly above him, warming every inch of his skin.
"This is the one," he said breathlessly, his eyes still closed.
After leaving Ollivanders, he had one more stop to make. He entered a shop that Pansy had recommended for women's formal dresses. The women working at the shop glanced at him curiously as he approached the counter, their eyebrows raised in surprise.
"I need a dress," he said, his voice firm despite the unfamiliar territory. "Something fit for a princess."
*****
The ballroom buzzed with chatter and laughter, the shimmering chandeliers casting a warm glow over the elegantly dressed witches and wizards. Draco stood near the edge of the dance floor, as a group of giggling women, adorned in jewels and silks, encircled him. He barely registered their flirtatious glances and whispered compliments, his eyes constantly scanning the entrance. He hoped she would come. He had sent her an invitation and the emerald green dress, a daring choice with a plunging neckline and open back, but she hadn't responded. Arys had promised to try and convince her to come, but he was nowhere to be seen either. Draco, in his black dress robes and dark green tie - a subtle nod to the dress he'd chosen for her - felt a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.
One of the women, a blonde with a particularly dazzling smile, casually slid her hand down his arm, her fingers lingering a little too long. He knew what she wanted, the unspoken invitation in her eyes, but ever since that stolen kiss with Hermione, he couldn't bring himself to be with anyone else. How could he? The memory of her soft lips, her hesitant touch, the way she tasted, haunted him. No one else would ever compare.
Suddenly, the grand oak doors of the ballroom swung open, and his breath hitched in his throat. His brother, disguised as the unfortunate redhead Draco had "borrowed" hair from, entered the room alone. Disappointment washed over him. She wasn't coming. Of course she wasn't. Why would she be interested in attending a ball thrown for a Death Eater, a celebration of his dark deeds? He felt a surge of self-loathing.
Just when he was about to give up and retreat to the solitude of his room, the doors opened again. This time, his heart hammered against his ribs as he saw the love of his life step into the ballroom.
She was always beautiful to him, no matter what she wore, but tonight, she was breathtaking. The emerald green dress flowed around her like liquid silk, accentuating her curves, the plunging neckline revealing just a hint of cleavage. Her hair was woven into an intricate braid, a few stray strands framing her face, and her eyes, usually filled with fierce intelligence, now sparkled with an unfamiliar vulnerability. The room seemed to fall silent as she entered, every eye drawn to her. He watched her, mesmerized, as she navigated the room with grace. When she turned, he caught a glimpse of the exposed back of the dress, the smooth expanse of her skin leading down to... He felt a wave of dizziness, a primal urge to take her back to his chambers.
Dobby appeared at her side, offering a glass of champagne. Her lips curved into a genuine smile, and a faint blush rose on her cheeks as she accepted the drink.
He took a deep, steadying breath. It was time. He would ask her to dance, hold her in his arms, maybe even steal another kiss after they left the ball. He took a step towards her, determined, but froze mid-stride. Another wizard had approached her. Cedric Diggory. Of all the people in this room, it had to be him. Cedric, the epitome of everything Draco wasn't: handsome, kind, a star student, and a Hufflepuff through and through – loyal, brave, and inherently good.
He gritted his teeth, a bitter taste rising in his throat. Cedric was clearly smitten with her, who wouldn't be? But what twisted the knife was that Hermione seemed genuinely interested in him too. Her cheeks were flushed, her laughter light and carefree, a stark contrast to the tense, guarded expression she usually wore around Draco. He watched them, consumed by jealousy and self-hatred. He wanted to smash something, to scream, to disappear. She deserved someone like Cedric, someone worthy of her light, not a Death Eater with blood on his hands.
Cedric eventually excused himself, likely promising to find her later for a dance. Draco felt his body trembling with barely suppressed rage. Hermione, as if sensing his intense gaze, turned her head and their eyes met across the room. Her expression was unreadable, a mix of curiosity and something he couldn't quite decipher. He held her gaze for a moment too long, before abruptly looking away. He couldn't face her, not now. He turned and stalked off in the direction Cedric had gone, his anger a burning ember in his chest.
He found Cedric alone on the balcony. The cool night air felt nice on his hot skin, but his rage still simmered beneath the surface. The wizard was leaning against the railing, gazing out at the moonlit grounds, a pensive expression on his face.
"Cedric," Draco said, his voice a low, chilling blade cutting through the silence.
Cedric turned, his brow furrowing slightly at the unexpected interruption and the icy tone. "Draco? Hello... congratulations on your promotion, and thank you for the invitation."
Draco's hand slid into his pocket, his fingers closing around the familiar smooth wood of his wand. Cedric stiffened, a flicker of unease in his eyes as he registered the subtle movement.
"You're most welcome," Draco replied, his voice devoid of any warmth. He drew his wand, the tip glowing faintly in the moonlight as he pointed it directly between Cedric's eyebrows.
Before Cedric could react, before a single word of protest or a cry for help could escape his lips, Draco whispered the incantation, his voice barely audible.
"Obliviate."
Cedric's eyes widened momentarily, a flash of confusion crossing his features, before his gaze softened and glazed over. The vibrant color drained from his face, leaving him looking pale and disoriented, as if he might faint. Draco reached out to steady him, feigning concern.
"Cedric, are you quite alright? You look ill."
Cedric swayed slightly, raising a hand to rub his forehead, a dazed expression on his face. "Yes, yes, I'm quite alright," he mumbled, his eyes slowly refocusing as he tried to gather his bearings. He looked around, a flicker of confusion returning to his eyes. "I... I just felt a bit dizzy for a moment."
"I'm sorry you're not feeling well," Draco said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Perhaps you should head home, sleep it off."
"Yes... you're right... I should go..." Cedric agreed, still looking slightly bewildered.
"Allow me to show you out," Draco offered, placing a hand on Cedric's shoulder, guiding him back into the ballroom.
He steered Cedric through the crowd, expertly avoiding the dancing couples and chattering guests. He hadn't erased all of Cedric's memories, just the ones from the past hour. Cedric wouldn't remember meeting Hermione. He wouldn't remember her radiant smile, the way her laughter filled the air, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about something she loved. He wouldn't remember the way her scent lingered in the air after she passed. He wouldn't remember the spark of connection, the undeniable attraction that had flared between them.
Draco led him to the nearest fireplace, the emerald flames licking at the logs. "Just say 'Diggory Manor'," he instructed, his voice smooth and reassuring.
Cedric stepped into the fireplace, a bewildered expression still etched on his face. He threw a handful of floo powder into the flames, the green fire engulfing him as he spoke. "Diggory Manor." With a whoosh, he vanished.
When Draco returned to the ballroom, a wave of nausea washed over him. Voldemort had arrived. He sat upon the dais, his crimson eyes scanning the room like a predator assessing its prey. Draco approached him, bowing low, his face a mask of subservience while inwardly, he seethed. He watched as people lined up to pay homage to the Dark Lord, each one vying for his attention, his approval. He imagined how satisfying it would be to watch Voldemort take his final breath, to see the life drain from those cold, reptilian eyes once and for all.
After Voldemort finally retired for the night, Draco immediately sought out Hermione. He spotted her standing near a window, gazing out at the moonlit gardens, her profile bathed in the soft glow. He approached her from behind, his eyes drawn to the elegant curve of her bare back. The dimples at the base of her spine, just above the swell of her hips, captivated him. As he got closer, he couldn't resist the urge to reach out and touch her. He trailed his fingers lightly over her dimples, her skin soft and warm beneath his touch. She turned slowly, as if recognizing his touch before she even saw him.
Her large brown eyes met his, their depths filled with a mixture of curiosity and something he couldn't quite decipher. He momentarily forgot what he had planned to say, his gaze flickering between her eyes and her lips. She was so beautiful, it made his heart ache. He wanted to kiss her again, to lose himself in the warmth of her embrace.
"Who are you looking for?" he finally managed to ask, his voice a low husk.
"No one," she replied.
"Are you ready to go?"
She glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on the dancing couples, a fleeting expression of longing crossing her face. "Yes," she said quietly, a hint of sadness in her voice.
"I'll walk you back to your room," he offered, taking her hand in his. He was surprised when she squeezed his hand gently in return.
They walked together through the dimly lit corridors, the silence between them charged with electricity. He did his best not to stare at her bare back. He wanted to kiss those dimples, to trace the delicate curve of her spine with his lips. He wanted to explore every inch of her, to memorize every detail of her body.
When they reached her door, he took a deep breath. He wanted to kiss her, needed to feel her pressed against him again, but he wasn't sure what to say, how to bridge the gap between them.
"Thank you for inviting me tonight, Malfoy," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "I had a wonderful time."
He just stared at her, frozen. His mind screamed. I love you. I love you. I love you so much I can hardly breathe when you're near. But thankfully, the words didn’t tumble out.
"Have a nice night," she added, a hint of confusion in her voice at his silence.
"I want to kiss you again," he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips in a rush.
She looked startled, her eyes wide. He couldn't tell if she was scared or intrigued. His heart hammered in his chest, and he hoped she couldn't hear it.
When she didn't respond, he tried again, his voice softer this time. "Can I kiss you?"
She finally nodded, a slight smile curving her lips. His mind, which had been a whirlwind of emotions, suddenly cleared.
He approached her slowly, his gaze locked with hers. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs caressing her cheeks, and gently pressed his lips to hers.
It was like being struck by lightning. His whole body came alive, a surge of electricity coursing through his veins. Goosebumps erupted over his skin. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, his hands resting on her bare back, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.
He traced her lips with his tongue, and she opened for him, her eyes fluttering closed. She tasted like champagne and something uniquely Hermione, her scent intoxicating. He allowed his mind to brush against hers, and was immediately met with the familiar warmth of her magic. It was like coming home.
His tongue explored her mouth, eliciting a soft moan from her that sent shivers down his spine. He wanted to capture that sound, to keep it forever. She reached behind them for the doorknob, turning it quickly without breaking their kiss. As the door swung open, he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist. He carried her to the bed, wandlessly slamming the door behind them. He laid her down gently, her hair fanning out around her head like a halo. Her dress had ridden up, exposing her long, slender legs. She was breathtaking.
He stood at the foot of the bed, devouring her with his eyes. She sat up, her fingers toying with the thin straps of her dress, and his breath caught in his throat. She slowly lowered one strap, her movements deliberate, teasing. He felt a surge of desire, so intense it was almost painful. When she lowered the other strap, he had to look away for a moment, his self-control hanging by a thread.
Suddenly, a burning sensation erupted on his forearm. No. No. No. No. NO! He gripped his arm, his knuckles turning white. He was being summoned.
"We will finish this later," he growled, his voice low and husky, his heart filled with a mixture of frustration and a burning hatred for the Dark Lord. With a final, lingering look at her, he turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving her breathless and him painfully hard.
******
He wasn't sure how he had ended up here. What strange twist of fate had led him to this moment of unexpected bliss? Just hours earlier, he had been pacing the halls of Malfoy Manor, his heart heavy with worry. He had gone to Hermione's room, the wand he had picked out for her wrapped in hand, only to find her missing. Panic had seized him. He had searched every room, every hidden corner of the manor, his fear growing with each passing moment. Where could she be? Had she been captured? He realized soon after that Arys was also gone.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he managed to establish a connection to her mind, a faint thread of her magical signature leading him away from the manor, towards the vibrant pulse of a hidden gathering. He apparated to the location, the dimly lit cellar of Hogshead.
He had found her, challenged her with a wager, and he had won.
Now, here he was, back in the quiet sanctuary of his sitting room, the chaos of the underground party a distant memory. She laid on the plush velvet sofa, her nightgown riding up over her hips, her breathing unsteady, as she pleasured herself in front of him. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls and on her bare skin. He sat in an armchair opposite her, watching her, a sense of wonder washing over him. He had never been so turned on in his life. He couldn't believe she was here, in his room. He had risked everything for her, faced his own deepest fears, and somehow, miraculously, it had paid off. He had her.
Her back arched and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She was trembling, breathing fast as quiet moans escaped from her lips. He ran his fingers through his hair haphazardly, his own breaths becoming shallow. He held his glass of whiskey against his cheek to cool himself down as he slowly traced the lines of his lips. His body was completely still.
“I want you to come. I want to see you fall apart.” He said roughly. “I want to hear you say my name.” He had never wanted anything more in his life.
She paused her movements, “Oh, ummm…I am not sure I can.”
“Keep going.” He ordered.
“No, I mean, I never have before.”
His eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening in surprise. His mouth fell open slightly. He was shocked, speechless. He watched her for a moment, his gaze intense and penetrating. She had never had an orgasm before? His mind was racing, he wanted to touch her so badly, to show her how good he could make her feel.
Finally, he slowly stood. He discarded his drink on the table, before taking a casual seat near her feet. He pulled her legs over his lap and began tracing them with his fingertips. She exhaled roughly in response. He watched her in awe. He slid his hands up her legs to her thighs and her mouth fell open.
“Can I help?” He asked as he traced further up her legs, pausing at her lace knickers before he finally met her eyes. Please say yes. He had never wanted anything more.
She watched him beneath hooded eyes, her body trembling until finally, she nodded.
His hands slowly moved higher until he was tracing along her knickers. He hooked his fingers through the lacy material, grazing her skin, he could feel how wet she was. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes as he slowly peeled them down to her knees.
She was exposed before him, legs open. He wanted to savor the moment. He just stared at her bare center for a long time. He couldn’t wait to feel her, and he wondered what she would taste like. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He felt euphoric, fuzzy, lost in a daze.
He pushed her nightgown further up her hips with both hands until it pooled around her stomach. He brushed fingers down her stomach until they reached her fold and a moan of pleasure escaped her lips in response. He ran his fingers over her and her entire body quaked. He fucking loved it.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes,” She responded through labored breaths.
He pressed a single finger on her clit and she gasped. He noticed while she was pleasuring herself that she hadn’t been touching herself here, the most sensitive spot. A subtle smile crept across his features. He began to trace a slow circle over the spot and his smile widened as she squirmed beneath him.
“Oh….Oh!” She gasped as he swirled his finger over her clit a few more times. She began moving her hips against his hand in response.
“Fuck.” he hissed “You’re soaked.”
Each of her movements and moans sent an electric shock directly to his cock. She was writhing beneath his touch now, so close to falling apart.
He switched his finger for his thumb, sliding the other lower, toward her entrance. She nearly came apart when he slid it partially inside her, continuing to use his thumb to trace slow circles on the sensitive spot. Fuck. She was so wet, so tight.
He began to work his finger in and out slowly, moving his thumb in unison. She bucked against his hand, her eyes rolling behind her lids, back arching off the couch. Her legs were shaking so hard they nearly knocked together.
“Malfoy!” She gasped.
He chuckled. “Just wait…” He said in a low voice.
He was studying her, his eyes glazed, a lazy smile on his face. This might very well be the best moment of his life.
“MALFOY!!!”
He slipped a second finger inside her. “Look at me.” he ordered. “I want to watch you.”
He could tell she was trying her best to keep her eyes on him as he curled his fingers inside of her.
Her entire body tensed and then she was screaming his name. He felt the orgasm rip through her body, felt her beautiful wet cunt pulsating on his fingers and he nearly came in his pants. He pushed and pulled his fingers harder as her whole body continued to seize. His gaze burned into her as her violent quakes turned into soft flutters of pleasure.
He looked down at her, wishing he could relive the last five minutes of his life on a never ending loop. He was so….happy. He slid his fingers from her and they glistened with her wetness. He couldn’t help himself, he had to taste her, he popped them into his mouth, licking the remnants of her from them with a smile.
She looked exhausted, but a small smile tugged at her tired features. He watched her, his heart aching with a mixture of love and protectiveness. When her eyes started to flutter closed, he gently lifted her from the settee, cradling her close, her head resting against his chest. He carried her across the room to his bed. He adjusted the pillows, ensuring she was comfortable, then brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead and laid beside her. He watched her sleep for a long time, his gaze tracing the contours of her face, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. He felt drunk off her scent, intoxicated by the feel of her skin against his, the warmth of her body radiating against his own. The idea that this could be his future, that this woman, this extraordinary witch who held his heart captive, could one day belong to him completely, filled him with a joy so intense it bordered on pain.
He pulled her small body closer. He wrapped his arms around her, his hold protective yet gentle, afraid to crush her, afraid to break the spell. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, memorizing the feel of her in his arms.
*****
Draco had managed to see Hermione twice already this week. It wasn't the constant togetherness he craved, but it was a start.
The first time had been a moonlit swim in the garden. He'd watched, mesmerized, as she shed her clothes, joining him in the water despite being afraid. In the deepest part of the pond, he had held her tight, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight, as she wrapped her legs around him. He had held her close, their bodies pressed together, the water buoying them up, making them feel weightless.
Their second adventure had been a trip to Diagon Alley. He had watched as she explored Flourish & Blotts, her eyes wide with wonder as she trailed her fingers along the books. The way her face lit up when she discovered rare first editions was a sight he would treasure forever. It was a moment of pure joy, a glimpse into the heart of the girl he loved so deeply.
Contrary to how wonderful the week had been so far, a knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach as he watched Arys and Lucius prepare for their trip. Lucius was adjusting his silver cufflinks, his expression a mask of cool indifference. Arys, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with excitement, his eyes sparkling, his carefully packed leather satchel hanging on his shoulder.
They were bound for New York City. Lucius had arranged a trip to scout potential accommodations for Arys's upcoming healing internship. It was no secret that Lucius had pulled strings, exerted his considerable influence, to secure this opportunity for Arys. While Draco was happy for Arys, a wave of apprehension washed over him.
He was worried about Arys being alone with Lucius for such an extended period. He knew firsthand how cruel and manipulative his father could be, the subtle barbs, the cutting remarks, the constant pressure to conform to his expectations. Arys, with his gentle nature and unwavering kindness, was particularly vulnerable to such emotional manipulation. The mere thought of Lucius hurting Arys, even with words, made Draco's blood boil.
"Arys?" Draco's voice was soft. He didn't want to dampen his brother's excitement, but he needed to speak with Lucius before they left. "Would you mind if I spoke with Father... alone?"
"Not at all. I'll be waiting in my room. Come find me when you're done." Arys nodded to them both before exiting the study, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him.
The moment Arys was gone, Draco's demeanor shifted. He swiftly cast a silencing charm around the room. He turned to face his father, his silver eyes hardening, his expression a mask of barely contained fury.
"I'm not entirely sure what your motives are," Draco began, his voice low and dangerous, "or why you've suddenly decided to play the role of a caring father to Arys. But I want to make one thing perfectly clear." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "If he comes back with a single hair out of place, if he seems the slightest bit sad, hurt, or insecure because of anything you've said or done to him, you will regret it."
Lucius, who had been lounging in his armchair, a glass of firewhisky in hand, straightened up, his eyebrows arching in surprise.
"Draco," he drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm, "are you threatening me?"
"Take it as you will," he retorted, his gaze unwavering. "But know this, Father. I will not stand idly by and watch you hurt him. You have no idea how special he is, how incredibly powerful. Did you know that he’s a seer? I have never seen or read of anything even remotely similar to the power he possesses. On top of that, he is kind, compassionate, and deserves nothing but love. If you are incapable of providing that, then stay away from him."
Lucius's silence was a challenge in itself. Draco, fueled by a protective fury, decided to take matters into his own hands. With a surge of magic, he forced his way into his father's mind, bypassing any mental barriers Lucius might have erected. He heard a distant startled yell, but he pressed on, his magic tearing through layers of memory and thought.
He searched for any trace of Arys, any flicker of emotion or connection related to his brother. What he found astonished him. Lucius's entire mind seemed to be illuminated by thoughts of Arys. He was everywhere. In countless memories, both big and small. Draco was overwhelmed, his own mind reeling from the sheer volume of memories flooding his senses. He began to sift through them, a chaotic jumble of images and reels.
He saw Lucius cradling a newborn Arys, his face softened with an unfamiliar tenderness, whispering promises of protection and love. Night after night, he watched Lucius apparate to the secluded cottage, a shadowy figure slipping into the room where Arys slept peacefully, his expression a mixture of longing and regret.
He felt the raw agony radiating from his father as he paced the floor of his study, his mind consumed with worries about his younger son, alone and vulnerable in the isolated cottage. He saw the pain etched on his father's face, the lines of worry deepening with every passing year, the burden of guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders.
And then, the image that shattered Draco's perception of his father completely: Lucius, the stoic, proud patriarch of the Malfoy family, collapsing in his study, clutching a framed photograph of Arys and Draco as infants, tears streaming down his face, his body wracked with silent sobs.
Each memory revealed a depth of emotion he never imagined Lucius possessed. He saw the constant struggle between Lucius's love for his sons and the dark path he had chosen. It was a heartbreaking paradox, a father's love twisted by fear and regret. Lucius’s mind was filled with a profound sadness, a longing for a connection with both of his son’s that he didn't know how to forge.
Draco withdrew from his father's mind, his emotions a tangled mess of shock, confusion, pain and anger. He had never imagined that Lucius harbored such deep feelings for either of them. He had always seen his father as cold, distant, and emotionally unavailable. But the truth was far more complex. Lucius loved his sons, in his own flawed and complicated way. He just didn't know how to express it. Draco couldn’t stand to look at him, he felt so angry, so upset by what he had just seen, he turned and fled the room to find Arys.
****
A summons came later that night, a searing pain on his forearm that jolted Draco from sleep. He apparated to the Cathedral.
As he stepped into the vast, echoing space, a wave of nausea washed over him. The scene before him was one of pure horror. Voldemort and a group of Death Eaters, their faces masked and gleeful, formed a circle around a small, trembling figure. A child, no older than ten, his eyes glazed and heavy, lay helpless on the ground. His ragged clothes and grime streaked face hinted at a life of poverty and neglect.
The air crackled with dark magic and Draco's stomach churned. He had witnessed countless acts of cruelty during his time as a Death Eater, participated in many himself, but something about this, the vulnerability of the child, the sadistic glee emanating from the group, was different. He wanted to shield the child, his life hanging on by a thread. His small body was already so broken as blood pooled around him. The boy didn’t even look up when Draco arrived.
"Draco!" Voldemort's voice, a chilling hiss, cut through the tense silence. "Have you heard the exciting news?"
Draco tore his gaze away from the child, forcing himself to meet Voldemort's crimson eyes. "No, my Lord," he replied, his voice carefully neutral. "I'm afraid I haven't."
A cruel smile twisted Voldemort's lips. "I have finally set a date for the mass extermination of Mudbloods. We are celebrating!"
Draco's blood ran cold. The casual announcement of genocide, the gleeful anticipation in the faces of the Death Eaters, filled him with a revulsion he could barely contain. He had always known Voldemort's ultimate goal, but to hear it spoken so plainly, to see the eagerness with which his followers embraced this horrific plan, sent a shudder down his spine.
He wanted to scream, to lash out, but he knew he couldn't. Not yet. He had to play the part, maintain his facade of loyalty, until he could ensure the safety of those he cared about.
He forced a smile, a grotesque imitation of the joy he saw in the faces around him. "Congratulations, my Lord," he said, his voice hollow. "A momentous occasion indeed."
Voldemort gazed back at the boy, his face twisted with hatred, “CRUCIO!”
The boy’s small body hardly writhed under the painful spell, he was so weak and in so much pain already that it seemed to hardly register. Draco could tell he wouldn't be alive much longer.
Voldemort looked disappointed by the child’s lack of reaction, “Well…this is hardly fun anymore, I will let you all finish the Mudblood, but please make it slow. Come Nagini!” He said as he and his disgusting snake disappeared into the night air.
The gathered death eaters raised their wands to continue the brutal assault on the boy. Their eyes glittering with excitement, they were practically salivating. It made Draco want to vomit.
Draco didn't hesitate. He dove into the boy's mind, his own consciousness slipping into the fractured landscape of the child's thoughts. It's almost over , his voice soothing against the raw terror that clawed at the edges of the child’s awareness. You don't need to be scared anymore. There will be no more pain.
The boy's eyes, a dull hazel, fluttered open, nearly swollen shut. He was sobbing now. A fresh wave of nausea washed over Draco, a visceral reaction to the sheer injustice of it all. He bit back a scream of rage that threatened to tear its way out of his throat. The boy was tiny, his body a skeletal frame, skin stretched taut over jutting bones. Dark curls, the color of rich earth, clung to his damp forehead, curls that were so achingly familiar they sent a fresh lance of pain through Draco's heart. They were like Hermione's curls, the same shade, the same texture. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he saw Hermione staring back at him, a vision of what could have been, of what might still be if he failed.
The air in the room grew heavy, the temperature plummeting as Draco's control wavered, his magic crackling with uncontrolled grief and fury. He poured every ounce of his will into maintaining the connection, into shielding the boy from fear and pain. How could the world be so cruel? How could it inflict such suffering on one so innocent?
Before the death eaters could continue their assault, Draco raised his wand and, as quietly as possible, he whispered the killing curse below his breath. The boy’s body stilled, he no longer sobbed, he looked at peace.
A ripple of confusion spread through the Death Eaters. Their wands, moments before poised to strike, wavered and slowly lowered as they exchanged bewildered glances. Draco, his face a mask of cold fury, met their eyes with a chilling intensity. He didn't need to speak. The raw power emanating from him, the chilling finality in his stance, spoke volumes.
Without a word, he apparated, the familiar wrenching sensation pulling him back to the cold familiarity of Malfoy Manor.
He landed squarely in the middle of his room, the familiar surroundings doing little to quell the storm raging within him. He stumbled, his legs suddenly weak, and collapsed onto the edge of his bed. The swirling panic he'd been suppressing threatened to drown him in despair. He wanted to scream, to unleash the torrent of grief and fury that clawed at his throat. He wanted to obliterate the world, to reduce it to ashes, to punish it for its cruelty. He wanted to punish himself.
He knew, logically, that there had been nothing he could do to save the boy. He'd arrived too late, the damage already done. But the knowledge offered no peace, the guilt gnawing at him with unrelenting ferocity. He'd failed. Another innocent life lost, another victim claimed by the darkness he felt powerless to stop.
His magic bubbled beneath his skin. He lashed out, tearing the room apart. Furniture splintered, paintings ripped from the walls, and books flew from the shelves, their pages scattering. He didn't try to stop it, didn't try to control the destructive force that pulsed through his veins, until he finally slumped against the wall and sobbed.
He didn't hear Hermione enter, didn't register her presence until her soft voice broke through his haze of despair. "Malfoy?"
He looked up, his vision blurred with tears, and saw her standing in the doorway, her face etched with worry. She didn't flinch at the sight of the ravaged room, didn't recoil from the raw pain that emanated from him. She simply walked towards him, her movements calm and measured, and knelt beside him.
He didn't resist as she gathered him in her arms, his head falling against her shoulder. He clung to her, his body trembling, and sobbed, the sound raw and ragged as she led him to the shower and cleaned him up.
He didn't deserve her comfort, didn't deserve her care. He was a monster, complicit in the very evil that had taken the boy's life. But she was there, a beacon of light in the suffocating darkness, offering him peace he didn't deserve.
He knew he wouldn't sleep peacefully again, knew that the boy's hazel eyes, wide with fear and pain, would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. But in that moment, held in Hermione's embrace, he found a sliver of peace.
*****
He couldn't understand why Hermione still wanted to be around him. He was toxic, tainted by the darkness he'd been immersed in for so long. He'd pushed her away, hurt her, betrayed her trust. Yet, she was still there, a constant presence in his life, offering him support and understanding he didn't deserve. The next day, they flooed to the French countryside, the sprawling grounds of the Malfoy chateau stretching out before them. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the ancient trees. But Draco barely noticed the beauty around him. He was too consumed by her.
They walked in silence for a while, their hands brushing occasionally. Draco felt a surge of comfort at her touch, a sense of grounding he desperately needed. They explored the grounds all day. He found himself laughing for the first time in years. Hermione's laughter was infectious, and he felt his spirits lifting, the weight on his chest easing slightly.
Later in the day, he tried to make her food, which was an utter disaster…until she leaned in and kissed him.
The kiss was soft and gentle, a whisper of affection that sent shivers down his spine. He deepened the kiss, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her closer. He felt a surge of emotion he couldn't name, a mix of gratitude, relief, and overwhelming love. Their kiss ended with him between her legs, kissing and licking her until an orgasm exploded through her. Afterward, his beautiful witch attempted to return the favor and he had to hide the fact that he had already made a mess in his trousers. He hadn’t done that since he was fourteen, but he thought he played it off well enough.
****
The days that followed were a blur of anticipation and restless energy. Draco paced the halls of the manor, his mind a whirlwind of plans and contingencies. Every waking moment was consumed by thoughts of the impending confrontation with Voldemort.
Arys would return soon. Each passing hour brought them closer to the moment they had been preparing for, the moment that would decide the fate of so many. Draco felt a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach, a mixture of fear and excitement that thrummed through his veins. He knew the risks, the dangers they faced, but he also knew that they had no choice. The time for hesitation was over.
The night before Arys's arrival, sleep eluded him. He lay in bed, his mind racing, replaying every detail of their plan, every possible outcome. As dawn slowly approached, a sense of calm settled over him. He knew that they were ready, that they had done everything they could to prepare. The rest was in the hands of fate. He closed his eyes, and finally, sleep claimed him. But even in his dreams, the excitement thrummed beneath his skin, a vibrant anticipation of the battle to come. He dreamt of victory, of a future free from fear, a future he and Hermione could build together. He dreamt of a world where innocent boys with hazel eyes wouldn't be tortured and murdered, a world where his future children would be safe. And for the first time in a long time, his dreams were hopeful.
He was awoken later that night by a subtle shift in his mattress.
"Her-Granger?" he rasped, his voice rough with sleep. "Am I dreaming?" He asked as he sat up.
“Hello.” She said with a shy smile.
“Why are you here?” He asked curiously.
“I’m here…” she took a deep breath. “I’m here because I want you to…fuck me.”
His mind momentarily short-circuited as her words pierced through him. The walls of his mind felt like they were crumbling and he was momentarily stunned silent. He stuttered and stammered, his thoughts scrambling to catch up with what she had just offered. His jaw slackened, and he blinked rapidly, as he tried to reboot his brain and process the unexpected turn of events.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.
"This better not be a dream," he breathed, his words directed more towards the universe than to her. A flicker of hope ignited in his heart as he desperately hoped for this moment to be real.
In response she slowly pulled her silk gown over her head, revealing her naked flesh beneath it.
His eyes widened as she snapped her fingers and the fire roared to life behind her. He allowed his eyes to take in every inch of her, before he finally spoke.
“If you don’t mean it, I need you to leave now.” He warned. “If you do this, you are agreeing to be mine, and I’m not sure I will ever let you go.”
She continued to crawl toward him in response, the fire illuminating her skin in a golden haze. She was so beautiful. His whole body was tingling. He felt dizzy with need.
His legs spread, almost instinctively, and she crawled between them. He was as naked as she was beneath his sheets. His fingers brushed down the sides of her arms as he took in her body above his. She leaned down and tenderly kissed him.
She straddled him, slowly grinding against his erection, soaking both of them with her wetness. They kissed for sometime, the world seeming to slip away. His fingers dug into her. It was taking every ounce of his self control not to immediately take her. Dark desire swirled in her eyes and he couldn’t look away. She held him in a trance, she had complete control of him, body and soul.
He grabbed her and flipped her beneath him without breaking their kiss. He pressed his cock against her wet entrance and he had to take a deep studying breath, this was going to be much quicker than he wanted. She moved her hips toward him, as if sensing his hesitation.
He paused for a moment before he slowly pushed into her. She cried out into his mouth. The sound and feel of her flayed him open, he felt like his whole body was on fire as pleasure pierced through him. He hissed, his voice raw. He almost choked on the noise that bubbled up from inside him. It was hoarse, animal like even. He sounded wounded as he groaned into her mouth.
“Oh fuck,” he muttered as he buried his face in her hair. She smelled so good.
He could hear the distance chants in the back of his head again, threatening to overwhelm him. MINE. MINE. MINE. But something was different this time. The chants, though still laced with an undeniable possessiveness, lacked the searing intensity, the white-hot fury that had accompanied them before. Instead, a note of… awe? reverence? threaded through the chant, sending a shiver down his spine.
As he began to move inside of her, her mouth fell open in a silent cry. He paused to watch her.
“Are you okay?” He slowed his movement.
“Yes, please don’t stop.” She cried out.
He began to slide in and out of her moving an inch further with each slow thrust, gradually making his way deeper. He was already getting close.
MINE. MINE. MINE.
He dropped his hand in between them and his fingers found her sensitive spot. He began slowly swirling his fingers against it.
“You feel so good…so fucking good.” he growled.
MINE. MINE. MINE.
She could barely catch her breath as the moans escaped from her lips. He thrust in and out of her at a steady pace, continuing to circle his fingers around her clit. His lips found hers again and he swallowed her moans as he began to quicken his pace. He felt her tightening around him and he groaned in response.
“When you come, I want you to say my name.”
“Malfoy…” She moaned softly.
“My name,” He whispered into her ear.
MINE. MINE. MINE.
Pure, unfiltered magic swirled between them as he watched her come apart.
“Draco!” She screamed as the orgasm ripped through her. Their magic erupted in a golden haze, so strong that the furniture in the room rattled and the fire went out.
MINE. MINE. MINE.
“Fuck, Fuck!” He grunted as he found his own release inside of her.
He felt her body relax as her tremors finally subsided. Merlin, he had never felt anything like that before.
Her curls fanned out around her head, her cheeks pink, and she was…smiling softly. He watched her completely entranced.
“What was that?” She whispered into the dark as the magic around them dissipated.
“I am not sure.” He responded truthfully.
He traced the edges of her lips and then leaned forward and softly kissed her.
Her eyelashes fluttered as sleep began to take her. He continued to watch her, completely overwhelmed by the love he felt for her.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you” he whispered, before she drifted to sleep beneath him.
mine. mine. mine.
****
"I'm leaving, Malfoy," Hermione's whisper sliced through the pre-dawn stillness.
Draco, perched on the edge of the armchair, had been captivated by the sight of her sleeping. The soft moonlight filtering through the window painted her features, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbones and the long, dark lashes that fanned against her skin. He'd spent the majority of the night like this, memorizing every detail of her face, etching it into his memory. He'd traced the lines of her brow, the slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips, committing each to heart.
He'd risen with the first hint of dawn, readying himself for the impending confrontation with Voldemort. As he dressed, his mind had been a whirlwind of anticipation, his body thrumming with fear and adrenaline. He'd envisioned the duel, the clash of wands, the final, decisive blow that would end the Dark Lord. He'd imagined the look on Voldemort's face as he realized his defeat, the shock and disbelief.
Hermione's words pierced through his thoughts, shattering the image of Voldemort's demise. He froze, his hand hovering over the buckle of his belt. He didn't turn, couldn't bear to face her. He knew what he was about to do.
"You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice curt, clipped. He hated the harshness of his tone, hated the fear in her eyes, but he couldn't afford to waver, couldn't risk compromising their plan.
He continued dressing, his movements precise and deliberate. He fastened his wand holster, the familiar weight settling against his hip, and smoothed his hair as he finished putting on his Death Eater robes. He wanted to tell her everything, to confide in her, to share the burden that weighed so heavily on his soul. He wanted to explain the plan, to tell her about Arys, to reassure her that they were about to rid the world of Voldemort once and for all. But he couldn't. The risks were too great, the stakes too high. He knew she would want to help and he couldn't endanger her life any further.
"But Voldemort, he plans to..." she pleaded, her voice trembling as she slowly rose from the bed, clutching the sheets around her chest. He hated that she was so scared, and the thought of Voldemort getting anywhere near her caused his blood to boil beneath his skin.
"Do NOT leave this room. I will be back." His voice boomed through the room.
"Malfoy, I don't have the time! I have to get out of here! Voldemort is going to have me killed!"
"I am going to take care of it," he said coldly.
"I am leaving with Arys, that was...that was always the plan. I was never going to stay here forever. If it wasn't now, it would have been a year from now. Malfoy - please."
"I don't think YOU understand - YOU. ARE. MINE. No one will EVER take you from me." His voice shook the room. His nostrils flared, his eyes blazing. He couldn’t let her out of this room while the dark lord was still alive, it wasn’t safe for her anymore.
She jumped from the bed, the sheets wrapped around her naked body, and ran for the door. He left the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He frantically placed wards and locking charms around the room to ensure no one could get to her and apparated to Arys’s room.
It was time.