Mudblood
Hermione stands with her hands on her hips, feet planted shoulder-width apart. It's dark in her apartment and cold though the warmth from the just-extinguished fire is enough to stave that off for a moment.
It does nothing to warm the bond in her soul.
Draco's doing it again. Fucking another woman or man, she doesn't care which. What she cares about is the foreign pleasure rolling down the bond, the empty pit that has been growing in her stomach, and the pain beating behind her eyes.
What's worse is the feeling he's trying to hide. Smug that he's fucking someone worthier than her. It takes away any redemption his vague sense of guilt and shame might have bought him.
She clenches her jaw. Draco won't be coming over tonight. His Veela nature had two major needs- mate and physical affection. Usually those things were gotten together but Draco seemed to be dealing with the latter all on his own. As for the former-- well. He'd seen her that morning.
Did he know he'd be with someone else tonight?
Hermione is tired because it's not the first time she's asked herself that question.
The problem, she muses as she strips out of her work clothes, the problem is that she is every inch her parents' daughter. Willing to put her heart through the gauntlet for love, willing to sacrifice her happiness for another's. It's those characteristics that carried her through the disastrous two-year-long relationship with Ron Weasley.
It's the blindness that has carried her through this one with Draco.
Blindness is perhaps the wrong word. She's too smart, too experienced now to be blind. Instead, she is...closing her eyes. Looking away. She's known since they were eleven that Draco was a blood supremacist but she'd thought that, given enough time, enough incentive, he could be different.
Hermione is not going to let herself be blind anymore.
She goes, naked, to her bedroom, then the master bathroom, then the shower. She washes the day from her curves, lets the water push and overwhelm her hair. It's all reflex action as she tries to ignore the bond.
Draco comes, shoots a blinding wave of euphoria against the wall he's erected. He thinks it keeps her from seeing the details. All it does is prevent her from feeling the way he does. She has a similar one in her mind. It's meant to be more but the mate bond won't let it be.
She hates that sometimes.
She doesn't want to see the contentment that steals over him as the Veela basks in physical closeness. She doesn't want to feel that fucking pride.
If he looked at the bond now, he would see her, furious. Hurt. Ashamed. Humiliated.
He isn't looking, half asleep already in someone else's bed.
After the war, she promised herself she would never feel inferior again but here she is. Feeling like second runner up in a race she can't even enter but wants too.
She gets out of the shower, dries herself briskly. She can sleep now (maybe) that he's done. She has the next week off in deference to the sensitivity of the experiments in the DoM. She'd planned to spend that week with Draco.
She climbs into bed, pulls the covers over her and pretends she's back in the tent in the Forest of Dean with Harry, the closest thing to a brother she has. She falls asleep to the memory of crappy radio and feeling warm.
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"I'm leaving Draco," she announces to Harry as soon as he enters her apartment the day after next. He freezes in the doorway, arms filled with dinner groceries, but only for a moment. With a raised eyebrow, he kicks the door shut, wandlessly casts a secrecy spell, and joins her in the kitchen.
"Okay," is what he says, proving that he is her favorite.
She pulls the tomatoes from the bag. She begins to chop them for the salad.
Harry starts the stew. Dinner at Hermione's has become a weakly tradition once they'd both been uninvited from Sunday dinner at the Burrow.
"He was with someone else last night," she says. To her horror, it does not come out nearly as nonchalant as she's thought. She swallows, reminds herself that it's Harry, and carries on. "A pureblood, I think."
Harry wordlessly puts the lid on the stew pot, strides over, and hugs her. "I'll kill him," he tells her serenely, resting his chin on the top of her head. Despite his tone he is deadly serious.
She returns the hug for a moment before pulling away. She wipes at the tears gathering in her eyes. "No, no, I'll handle it. I am handling it. I just- I'm just-"
"Processing," Harry offers. He frowns at her. "Veela are rather possessive and, even though Draco is a piss poor one, he won't be any different. Leaving him could end badly."
"I can handle Draco," she says, fights the urge to defend him to Harry. She doesn't know if that's true but she also knows that she doesn't want Draco dead which is what will happen if Harry gets involved. "It's just...I love him."
Harry pulls out a kitchen chair for her and then takes one himself. "I know."
She collapses into her chair and puts her head in her hands. "I've tried to make it work. I thought, maybe, after the War he'd come around."
"You think it's just the blood issue?" Harry asks.
"No," she admits. "But the rest is normal relationship things. Wanting Italian but he doesn't like Italian. Things you can compromise on but this isn't that."
"No," Harry agrees. "It's not." He leans forward, takes her hands in his, envelops them in their warmth. "I'm with you, 'Mione. One hundred percent. Anything you need."
A fresh wave of tears rise to choke her. Harry's more than she deserves, she thinks. His support always overwhelms her, makes her so absurdly grateful for that stupid troll that had pushed them together.
"I'll need your help," she says when she can, "after. I don't know when. There's something I-I didn't tell you. And I need you to understand why I didn't before you get angry."
Harry tenses when she pulls away but lets her. He watches her with his uncanny green eyes as she centers herself but doesn't say anything, trusting her.
She takes a deep breath. "Draco and I completed the bond."
The effect is immediate. Harry's magic lashes out like a storm, whipping the room into disarray. It's only for a moment but by the end, she's panting and half the glass has shattered. Harry himself hasn't twitched a muscle.
"I'm sorr-"
"Don't," he says softly. "Apologize. It's not you I'm angry at, it's him."
"He didn't want me to tell you," she says, folding her arms around herself. "Said he needed time having the bond to himself. Like an adjustment period. I just wanted him to be happy and I thought what's a month or two?" She stares down at her lap, angry and humiliated. "I feel so stupid."
"No one could ever call you stupid," Harry says. He's managed to tuck his magic away and the air smells of ozone. "You're the smartest witch of our age."
"But I am," she cries, jerking up to look at him with red-rimmed eyes. "I should have known that it was too, too sudden, that he wasn't going to change! I should have realized he hadn't changed! I should have-" she bites her lip but meets his eyes. "I should have told you."
"You and Draco were together for a year," Harry says. "During which you constantly weighed the pros and cons of completing the bond. You would have only done it if you thought he had. The fact that he hadn't-" Harry's voice hardened "-is on him." Abruptly, his expression melts. "And though I wish you had told me, you didn't have too. I promised you a long time ago that I wouldn't get involve unless you asked and I meant it."
"You're too good to me," Hermione whispers. "Thank you, Harry."
"No need to thank me, 'Mione. You might not want to considering what I might do to Malfoy the next time I see him."
"I'll keep that in mind," she says. She clears her throat and rubs her hand over her eyes. "But now you know why I need your help."
He nods grimly. "The bond." He sighs and leans back in his chair. "Well, between the two of us we managed to turn this medieval country around. What's an impossible, soul-entwining magic bond to us?"
She laughs and he joins in and they laugh until they start crying and the pot whistles from the stove, telling them dinner is ready.
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It's Monday evening when Draco finally arrives in her apartment, an impressive three and a half days since the Veela last saw his mate. He never owls ahead anymore, just checks through the bond and arrives.
He's too late for dinner and he has a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers.
What she wants to do is slam the door in his face. She's not nearly ready for this but knows that she won't ever be. It's now or never and if she does it in public there is the very real risk that he'd kill someone.
She lets him in, turns her head so his kiss falls on her cheek. He looks confused when she doesn't take the flowers or the wine from him but follows her into the living room nonetheless. She wants his hands full so he won't try to touch her.
"Hermione?" he asks, setting the flowers and the wine on a side table. "What's wrong."
There's no point in delaying it further. The wards are closed, silencing everything and making her walls nearly indestructible.
"I'm leaving you," she says and could kill herself at the look on his face. Like this is a nightmare he hasn't fully comprehended yet.
"What?" he asks.
She wills herself to be strong. "I'm leaving you."
He shakes his head like he's underwater. "No you're not."
"I am," she says. She purses her lips, tries to still their trembling. "I am, Draco."
He is still in shock but the anger is fast approaching. "I don't understand. You- why?"
She wants to shout accusations but she doesn't. The first thing they teach in human resources is how to use "I" instead of "you". It's also the first thing abuse victims do to soothe their abusers.
Draco has never abused her (except he has, all emotional, all the lying). She's using the language not to placate him but to not exacerbate the situation.
She thinks that's what an abuse victim would say.
"I know about Friday," she says. It might as well be a "you" statement but what else can she do? It's the culmination of why she's leaving him and easier to say than the rest.
Draco pales, silver eyes going dark. He tries to smile anyway. "You think that meant anything? Blaise-"
"I don't care who it was," she interrupts though, no, she really, really does. The name is like a brand in her mind but she'll deal with that later. "I care it happened. Why it happened."
They stare at each other. She can see his mind working, looking for any excuse for his behavior, trying to turn this situation around. He's not panicking which was what she feared nor is he going on rampage which is what Harry feared.
She watches as he thinks about using physical proximity aspect of his nature, that he needed touch to survive, and discards it, remembering that he'd been with her that morning. The manipulation is second nature to him and she has, at times, resented it. Resented how he can never let himself be around her like she is around him. It's not a large resentment but it's there.
"I got caught up," he says, runs a hand through his perfect, blond hair. "I swear, Hermione, it's not anything you're thinking."
"I know what it was," she says. "I could see enough through the bond."
He reaches for her, through the bond, checking instinctively. She feels him impact the wall she put up and then sees him register the transparency of it.
"You saw," he repeats and runs a hand over his face. "Hermione, you can't really think I would prefer Blaise over you."
She doesn't attack the obvious by saying he clearly did by merit of him fucking Blaise over her. She wants this over, done with, ordered and stacked away like files in her office that she has no intention of looking at again.
"I think you would prefer a pureblood," she says bluntly. The scars on her arm burn.
"Contrary to whatever you might think of me," he says, biting, "it's not always about blood purity."
"Then what is it, Draco?" she snaps back. She can't help it, the bastard is actually hurt about this like it hasn't always been about the fact he's a pureblood and she's-- she's not. "In what other way do you find me deficient? My looks? My politics? Is it the sex?"
All of her insecurities are welling up, insecurities she'd thought she'd laid to rest long ago but he keeps bringing up. She stands tall in front of him, chin jutting forward.
"I don't find you deficient," he says. "Merlin, I love you! You're my mate."
Her lip curls at the word. She'd meant to be calm, composed, she'd thought he would be the one shouting, but she's angrier than she realized. Hurt, maybe, instead of angry. Destroyed. "I'm your mate," she says, "but that doesn't mean you love me."
That's the crux of it, she knows. Hermione was raised in a household with two parents who were (still are) desperately in love. She knows what it looks like. When she was with Ron she knew what it felt like, for a time, that reciprocal love. With Draco she's never felt it no matter how much she wanted too.
He doesn't love her.
"You don't love me," she repeats. Her face is wet. "I'm leaving you."
She can feel him battering at the wall in her mind but she doesn't look at him. She'd always been good at occlumency so the spikes don't hurt, the jabs don't hurt.
When he grabs her and slams her back into the wall-- that hurts.
She gasps at the impact, breath fleeing from her lungs and his mouth is on hers. He kisses without compromise, forces her tongue into submission. She yells a protest and has no more air left in her lungs. Dark spots have begun to gather in front of her when he finally pulls away, body a hot, firm line against hers, pinning her in place.
His eyes, when she meets them, are a deep, inhuman black. Her heart pounds against her ribs, reverberates in his chest with how tightly he's pressed against her. His Veela nature has come to the front.
"Mine," he hisses, face inches from hers. He buries his mouth against her neck, nipping and biting. During sex, she finds this erotic. Now, she is terrified when he takes her pulse point in between his teeth.
"No," she stutters. His hips are nudging at hers, insistent, and it is only through their force that she opens her legs, lets him settle against her. He's hard but she doesn't want it and this is wrong. "You're not mine, Draco, I can't be yours."
She pushes at his head, tries to get him away from her but he latches onto the space between neck and shoulder with his teeth, growl ripping through him. She cries out at the pain and tries again to shove him away but he won't be moved.
Instead, he grabs her wrists in his hands, shoves them against the wall and grinds against her, slow and filthy. She struggles, writhes against him but he's so strong, stronger than she remembers it seems. All it does is bring her more fully in contact with his hard length which he takes as encouragement to thrust against her forcefully. The zipper of his pants stabs her and she says "ah!". He purrs smugly content, having obviously misinterpreted the source of the sounds. His next thrust is gentler and he grinds a little. His teeth ease out of her neck and he licks at the blood he's drawn, comforting.
Hermione is scared. Draco- it's so much worse than she'd thought and he isn't showing signs of stopping. She can't get away and he's hurting her. Will hurt her more if she continues to struggle.
She does the only thing she can and goes limp and the next time he grinds through their pants she moans. She feels sick, shaky but he's so far gone he can't see that.
He purrs louder, odd vocal cords thrumming, and he comes back up to kiss her. She participates this time, tentatively, scared, and she's crying the entire time.
He doesn't notice, just deepens the kiss and hums appreciatively.
It works. His grip eases around her wrists from crushing to bruising and then his thumbs are rubbing circles over her palms. She wants to rip out of his hold then, take off and run, but she's scared he'll be too fast, that he'll grab her again and next time he won't let go until- until-
She gathers her courage and pushes against him, arcs her body against his, brushes her breasts against his chest. He drops her hands completely in favor of wrapping his arms around her shoulders and the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. She forces her trembling hands, still throbbing from his grip, to slide up and over his shoulders, holding him. She hikes one leg over his hip.
That works too. He reaches down and cups her ass, grinds, and then supports her as she wraps her other leg around his hips.
This doesn't feel good, it feels awful (did Blaise do this too?), but she can't afford to sob. Instead she buries her face against his shirt as he carries them into her bedroom by instinct alone. It's the only place in her apartment that smells like the two of them so completely and she's absurdly grateful that her guess has paid off.
Her wand is on the night stand.
He follows her down onto the bed, blanketing her body with his. He's still doing that odd purr, comforting his mate, and she can't bring herself to relax like she usually does. She brings her hands up to thread her fingers through his hair but he presses them down to the bed. He releases them too quickly for her to properly panic but her heart races nonetheless and she tries to hide the naked fear.
He has other things on his mind and doesn't notice. Or maybe he does.
He plants kisses along her neck, her collar bones, the valley between her breasts. He rucks up her shirt and lets his mouth fall open and hot on her stomach, tongue swirling lazily. It doesn't feel like usual, like he's anxious for the taste of her, like he can't get enough. This feels predatory and her stomach muscles tense and jump under his ministrations.
When he gets to the waist band of her jeans, she acts. She twists as the button pops open and snatches her wand from the bedside table. He looks up at the movement, eyes still black, mouth filled with sharp, sharp incisors.
She points her wand directly between his eyes. "Stupefy."
He rears back, gaining his knees, spitting and hissing like an angry cat. She flips over and scrambles out from under him and makes for the edge of the bed. A clawed hand grabs her below the knee and he breaks skin as he drags her back.
She screams and kicks out with her other leg. Her foot glances off his hip but it's enough, enough for him to twist away giving her enough room to get her wand between them.
"Stupefy! Stupefy!"
His hand goes slack around her calf and this time when she jerks over the side of the bed she hits the floor, hard. She gains her feet and runs to the living room without looking back. Three stupefies and he's out but not for long. Veela are particularly good at throwing off magic.
She doesn't bother measuring out the floo powder, just throws the entire container into the low burning flames, yells out her destination.
She arrives in the foyer of Potter Manor and doesn't have the strength to stand. She collapses to the ground, heedless of the soot, and shakes. She wants to break down, she wants to cry but the floo--
The floo is still open.
Hermione panics. She can't quite remember the spell to seal the floo and her wand is slipping in her hand and he could be waking up any minute.
"Bombarda Maxima!"
The fireplace explodes and she barely has the presence of mind to throw up a shield so she isn't crushed. She lets the shield die while the dust settles and bursts into shoulder-shaking sobs.
Harry runs in then, wand drawn, face tight. It blanks for a moment upon seeing her-- covered in dust, bleeding from the neck and leg, sobbing -- and then he is beside her.
"Where are you hurt? Who hurt you? What happened?" He reaches out to pull her shirt away from her neck and she flinches back. For a second --just a second-- his hand had seemed paler, tipped in sharp nails.
He pulls back, alarmed and hesitant. "Hermione, it's okay, it's me, Harry, I just want to-"
She throws herself at him, pushing the fear down just enough that the need for comfort overwhelms it. This is Harry, this is her brother, he won't, he won't--
She cries into his shoulder.
He tentatively brings his arm up, rubs circles on her back, arms loose around her. Just holds her, doesn't speak. She loves him so much for that, for his unquestioning support, for everything, and she lets go completely. She lets the fear, the tension, the horror slide off of her, lets herself believe in her safety.
After a long, long time her sobs die down, body too exhausted to sustain them. When she pulls back her eyes are red and puffy and his shirt is wet from her tears.
"I need to ask you some questions," he says quietly. Sometime in her crying he'd maneuvered them so she was sitting in the v of his legs, side to his chest. He keeps his arms around her but is very careful not to tighten them. "Is that alright?"
She sniffles, rubs at one eye with the heel of her hand and nods. Her throat feels raw.
"Was it Draco?"
She nods, throat tightening at the name.
Harry releases a slow, calming breath. "Okay. You left him."
It's not a question but she nods anyway. She matches her next breath to his, is grateful when it reaches her lungs for what feels like the first time. Her head aches.
"He hurt you," Harry says in his calmest voice. There is tension in every muscle of his body but he's doing his best to hide it. "Didn't he?"
She licks her lips. "Yes."
Speaking was a mistake. Her voice breaks and it sounds like she's been gargling with glass. Harry actually twitches and the air around him gets hot for one second before he gets it back under control. He doesn't say anything and she finds herself talking.
"He- he didn't mean to, the Veela took over and I was leaving. He didn't- didn't do anything." He didn't succeed.
Harry's jaw clenches but when he speaks his voice is light. "Okay. What do you need right now?"
She expected him to go off so she is surprised by the question. Glad though. She feels tender and delicate and not at all up to convincing Harry that he shouldn't kill Draco.
She takes the reprieve and thinks about it. "I need a shower," she says and her voice is finally beginning to sound like her own. "Then I just want to-- want to rest." She can't help looking at him anxiously. She feels all sorts of wrong in her own body and it's making her nervous.
Harry just nods and helps her to her feet. "Your room or mine?"
"Mine," she says. "I need some... alone time."
He nods again as if that's to be expected. "Alright. Do you want me to send the elves with anything?"
She shakes her head, hates how she still feels foggy. "No, I can manage. There's just-- promise me you won't go after him. He-- I'll be fine."
"I promise I won't kill him," Harry says and makes a face. "Intentionally kill him. I won't go after him until you ask me too." He runs a hand through her hair, gentle. "And, yes, you will be fine. But it's okay not to be for a while."
His words come back to her while she's in the shower and she wraps her arms around her legs and lets herself not be okay while the water pulled every last trace of Draco from her skin.