fantom-as

[fantom-as]

new dramione story coming your way!

[fantom-as]

Heart-Shaped Candy

fandom: harry potter

pairing: tom riddle x bimbo!reader

description: In attempt to comfort you after you break your ankle, your boyfriend Tom buys you a bag of candy.

word count: 2,6k

warnings!: hurt/comfort, fluff and smut, bimbo!reader, lollipops, candy, orgasm, dumb!reader, coquette!reader, the color pink, praise kink.

read part 1 here

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮ heart-shaped candy ╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

During one of the very few classes where you, Tom’s girlfriend, weren’t sitting right by his side, you were with him in his mind, as he couldn’t stop thinking about you no matter how hard he tried. He imagined you under the desk on your knees for him, sucking him off with those plump pink lips wrapped around his shaft and your big doe eyes focused on him while he tried to keep his attention on whatever the professor was saying. You two had been dating for over two months, and still, he could’ve come just at the fantasy of you.

But then he opened his eyes, and class was over. He was ready to go get you from where you had your class, having half a mind to drag you down the corridor and have his way with you down in one of the poorly lit areas of the castle. He was making his way to you, knowing that you were waiting just around the corner, as you were instructed to do whenever you were in separate classes, when he heard you scream.

Tom tensed and rounded the corner, to see you on the floor, your face twisted in pain while your gasping Hufflepuff classmates circled you.

“Y/N, let me help you,” your ex-best friend—Darren, Dumbass?—the one Tom told you to stay away from and you obediently listened, was crouched down next to you, his slimy hands dangerously close to your body.

“What’s going on here,” Tom asked calmly, yet the authority in his voice made the circle of Hufflepuffs to break apart, no longer shielding you from his eyes. There was an agonized frown marring your forehead, and you held your ankle with both of your hands. Tears were streaming down your face and little sobs escaped your throat—the sight made even Tom’s cold dead heart clench. Tom gave your ex-best friend a deadly look. “Don’t you dare touch her.”

The Dumbass eyed Tom suspiciously, animosity emanating from his body even as he stood up, keeping away from you.

“What happened,” Tom repeated, crouching down to you.

“She broke her ankle,” the Dumbass said.

You sniffed and sobbed. “I fell…”

That didn’t surprise Tom. The velvet pink heels were so high it was a miracle you hadn’t fallen off your feet sooner. You had told Tom they were your favorite pair and refused to wear sensible shoes no matter how many times Tom told you it was uncomfortable and impractical. You let him have his way concerning a lot of things in your life, but this was something he simply couldn’t talk you into.

“Come here, little one,” he said, putting one of his arms under your legs and the other around your back, making sure not to harm your further as he lifted you in the air. Yet you still let out an adorable little moan of pain and hid your face in his chest. “I’ll take you to Madam Pice, she’ll heal you immediately,” he said softly.

“Thank you, Tom,” you mumbled into the fabric of his uniform sweater.

In the hospital wing, Madam Pice told Tom to put you on the cot, and he did so. You were still crying, and although he liked it when he did, he soon realized that he only liked to see you cry when you two were having sex and not because you were suffering a physical injury. He put his hand on your forehead to find it hot, your cheeks flushed, and he brushed his finger over your pink-bow-tied braids. He then unbuckled the heel and took it off your injured leg, his hands moving up to take off the rose-colored knee-high sock.

Madam Pice swept into the room and, with a disapproving tut, she knelt beside the cot, rolling up the sleeves of her robes.

“Honestly,” she muttered, pulling out her wand. “Students these days have no sense of self-preservation.”

A soft, golden light emanated from the tip of her wand as she hovered it over your swollen ankle.

“There. The swelling will go down in a few minutes, but you'll still need to rest. No walking around or straining it further,” she instructed. “You'll stay in the Hospital Wing for a few hours—just to be sure. If you feel any sharp pain, let me know at once. Otherwise, try to rest.”

She gave Tom a glance, assessing whether he was going to be a help or a hindrance. Then, with one final nod, she turned on her heel and strode away.

Tom leaned it to take your still swollen yet no longer broken ankle between his cool slender fingers. Leaning in further, he placed a small kiss on the tender flesh, making goosebumps erupt on your skin. He reached out his hand to brush the remnants of tears off your flushed cheeks.

“Thank you,” you whispered. Although your relationship had started on a particularly violent note, the more time passed with Tom as your boyfriend, the more you began to realize that Tom actually just wanted to take care of you. Both in daily life, and in the bedroom. He gave you not necessarily what you wanted but what you needed. And you were grateful for that. Only you didn’t know whether you could put all those feelings into a one simple word. You hoped he knew what you meant.

“Rest, Y/N,” he said, without smiling. “I have two more classes, but after that, I’ll come take you. Don’t go anywhere on your own.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Instead of going back to class, as Tom had promised you, he instead turned to Hogsmeade, where he planned to get you your favorite sweets. As he entered Honeydukes, the scent of sugar and cocoa instantly filled the air. The store was buzzing with students, but Tom didn’t waste any time scanning the shelves, his mind already racing with ideas of what you might like.

He grabbed a handful of Chocolate Frogs, knowing you’d always been fond of the collectible cards. Next, he made his way to the shelves of Fizzy Whizbees, their colorful, popping candies practically begging to be tried. He wandered further, eyeing the jars of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

He wanted something to remind you of home, something comforting in the way only Muggle treats could be. He walked over to the corner of the shop where a small collection of Muggle sweets had found their way onto the shelves. He reached for a lollipop, its swirl of pink and red and white drawing his attention, and then grabbed a pack of bubblegum—the kind that you always had in your mouth no matter the time of the day.

With his arms loaded, he made his way to the counter, where the shopkeeper smiled knowingly. “Looks like you're spoiling someone today,” they remarked, eyeing the mountain of sweets. Tom only gave them a polite look and paid for everything, already imagining the look on your face when he returned.

He was glad to find you still obediently lying in your bed, waiting for him as he had told you. “Feeling better, little one?”

You nodded, beaming up at him and rolling your ankle. “Much better,” you said, clearly in a much better mood than you were when he left you. “Madam Pice said I can leave.”

Tom nodded, coming around to your side to help you put on you knee-high socks. But instead of heels, he put on the only pair of sneakers you owned—baby pink with ribbons instead of shoelaces. Your face fell when you saw them, but you didn’t argue and let Tom put them on your feet.

“Think you can walk on your own, princess?” he asked.

“I think so.”

You stood up alright and you seemed to be in no more pain, yet Tom still kept his arm wrapped tightly around your waist to support your weight as you made your way down to the dungeons.

“Hey, I thought we’ll be going to my dorm…” you said, pouting your lip.

Tom chuckled, the sound reverberating through your ears—the sound and mannerisms of today so unlike him…

“Oh, no, little one, we’re going to my dorm. You’re my girlfriend and you got hurt. So it is my duty to take care of you properly.”

Your face fell even more because going to his bedroom meant only one thing—having sex non-stop for the rest of the weekend, and you weren’t in a mood for sex, but, as all the other times, you didn’t argue him. He was in such an unusually bright mood, you simply didn’t want to ruin it.

When he took you to his bedroom, he put you on the bed and told you not to get out and that he’d give you all you might need or want. You smiled at that.

Tom moved swiftly around his dorm, setting down the paper bag of sweets on his desk before turning back to you. His eyes softened as he took in the sight of you—still obediently perched on his bed, just as he had instructed.

“I got you something,” he said, pulling out the collection of sweets he'd gathered from Hogsmeade.

He poured them onto the blanket beside you—Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Fizzy Whizbees, a few pink sugar quills, bubblegum, and, of course, the lollipop he had specifically picked out for you. The pastel pink and white heart caught your attention, and without much thought, you reached for it.

Tom's eyes flickered with amusement as you unwrapped the candy and popped it between your lips, your tongue swirling around the sugary swirl. His gaze darkened.

He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. The way your lips wrapped around the lollipop, how your mouth hollowed slightly as you sucked, sent something deep and primal surging through him. His jaw tightened, his fingers tapping idly against his bicep as he tracked every slow, languid movement.

“Of all the sweets I brought you, you choose that one,” he mused, voice deceptively light.

You blinked up at him, completely unaware of how his pupils had dilated, how his body tensed with restrained control. Or maybe you were too aware. “It’s my favorite,” you mumbled around the candy, your voice slightly muffled.

Tom exhaled through his nose, a slow smirk curving his lips. His eyes never left your mouth, watching the way your tongue darted out to taste the sticky sweetness, how your lips glistened with sugar.

“Of course it is, little one,” he said, his voice lower now, almost a murmur. He pushed off the desk and moved toward you, his fingers brushing under your chin to tilt your face up. “And you don’t even realize what you’re doing to me, do you?”

You batted your eyelashes innocently, lifting your leg in his direction. “I think my leg still hurts,” you said sweetly. “Can you kiss it better?”

Tom moved onto the bed slowly, deliberately—like a serpent closing in on its prey. His movements were fluid, controlled, every inch of his body radiating an air of quiet dominance. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he inched closer, his dark eyes locked onto you with unwavering intensity.

You were still sucking on the lollipop, blissfully unaware of the way his pupils dilated with every slow swirl of your tongue against the glossy candy. His gaze followed each movement—the hollow of your cheeks, the soft parting of your lips, the way your fingers toyed absentmindedly with the stick.

A low hum rumbled from deep in his throat, barely audible but thick with something unspoken. His hands, firm yet calculated, planted themselves on either side of you as he hovered above, caging you beneath him.

His face was close now—so close that you could feel his breath ghosting over your skin. Yet, he didn’t touch you. He simply watched, his eyes tracing the movement of the lollipop between your lips, the way your mouth glistened with the sugary sheen.

The air around you grew heavier, thick with tension.

“I want to try something,” he murmured, his voice silk-smooth but edged with something darker.

He took the lollipop from your hands and rubbed it across your lips. Back and forth. You wrapped your lips around it again, sucking on it. His eyes were on your mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispered, removing the lollipop from your mouth and kissing you, his tongue thrusting into your mouth, tasting that sweetness. You let him devour you, and he sucked on your tongue. His hands were on your hips, and you could feel his erection digging into your lower belly. You whimpered.

“Now, now, princess, enough crying for one day,” he mumbled against your lips.

Tom moved further to take off your sweater and shirt along with your skirt and socks, leaving you only in your see-through hot pink bralette and barely-there panties. He pinched your nipples through the fabric, moving it to the side to expose your breasts without taking off the bralette. He bent down, dragging his mouth across one breast, his tongue licking the stiffened nipple. Suddenly his mouth was all over your chest.

Tom lifted his head from your breasts, the heart-shaped lollipop still in his hand. He puts it in his hand, licking and coating it with his saliva before pulling it away from his mouth and bringing it to your breasts, dragging the damp candy across your nipple, circling it over and over. Groaning, you shoved your hands into his hair to keep him close and he sucked on your breasts again.

“So sweet,” he whispered.

His hands moved down. He kissed his way down your body, the inside of your knees, the front of your panties before he tosses them somewhere on the floor without a second glance.

He rubbed the lollipop on the exposed pink pearl of nerves. You shudder while he coos at you. “Doing so well, princess. Now, spread your legs. Eyes on me.”

Tom licked the lollipop before tracing your folds, your clit, up and down all over your center, making you candy-sweet. He paused at your entrance, then slowly inserted the lollipop inside you.

“Ah,” you moaned.

He pushed it further. You whimpered, closing your eyes and letting the sensation wash over you. Tom pulled the candy almost all out before thrusting it back. In and out. In and out, his movements grew erratic. He teased your clit, rubbing it in tight circles, ratcheting your pleasure, until your entire body turned to liquid and got completely out of your control. Instinctually, you lifted your hips, wanting the lollipop to go deeper.

“I’m gonna come…” you whimpered.

Tom’s breathing quickened as he picked up his pace.

“Good. Good, princess. Come all over that damn candy.”

With those words only, you came. Your body shuddered uncontrollably, your lips forming a silent O, and not so silent later, when you let out a scream of pleasure past your lips. Breathing heavily and your eyes drooping, you sank into the mattress, as Tom settled on his knees to watch you in your post-coital bliss.

He put the lollipop that was now coated with your juices back into his mouth.

“What do you say, little one? One more?”

Pouting, you shook your head.

But the smile on his face spread, turning sinister.

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮ the end ╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

[fantom-as]

𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ||

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞

Description: On Valentine’s day, Hermione receives a box of chocolates that starts her obsession with a certain forbidden flavour.

Trigger warnings!: cannibalism, food, sensuality, obsessive!hermione granger, dark!draco malfoy

Word count: 7,1 k

The package arrived on a cold, misty Valentine’s morning.

Hermione Granger hadn’t expected a gift—not from friends, not from admirers, and certainly not from a lover. Valentine’s Day was a frivolous holiday, one she ignored entirely. Yet there it was: a small, elegantly wrapped box resting atop her stack of morning correspondence. A crimson ribbon was tied in a perfect bow, the deep black wax seal on the card embossed with an unfamiliar crest.

Frowning, she set her tea aside and turned the package over in her hands. There was no sender’s name, no note of affection. Just her own name written in a steady, precise hand.

Her first instinct was suspicion. Working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had trained her to distrust the unexpected, and unmarked gifts were rarely innocent. A quiet Homenum Revelio revealed no hidden curses. A deeper detection spell found no poisons or enchantments. Whoever had sent it was clever—but not malicious, at least not in an obvious way.

Curiosity won.

Carefully, she tugged the ribbon free and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in dark velvet, was an array of the most exquisite chocolates she had ever seen. Each piece was crafted with artistic precision—some swirled with gold leaf, others dusted in shimmering red powder. Their scent was intoxicating: a blend of deep cocoa, spiced honey, and something richer, something she couldn’t quite place.

Hermione hesitated. It was foolish to eat something from an unknown sender. But something about them—about the sheer decadence of the gift—called to her.

She reached for the smallest one, a simple dark chocolate truffle with a glistening red sheen. The moment it touched her tongue, warmth bloomed in her chest. The flavor was unlike anything she had ever experienced: impossibly rich, smoother than silk, with a depth that sent a shiver down her spine. Hints of cinnamon and something darker, something more primal, lingered on her tongue as the chocolate melted away.

Her breath caught.

It was… divine.

A slow heat curled low in her stomach, a hunger awakening in her that she didn’t quite understand. She closed her eyes, savoring the lingering taste, the way it coated her tongue, the way it left her craving more.

Only when she reached for another did she notice the small slip of parchment beneath the chocolates.

With slightly trembling fingers, she unfolded it. The ink was dark, the handwriting familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place.

True hunger cannot be denied.

A chill ran down her spine.

She stared at the note, the words pressing into her flesh, sinking deep into her bones.

True hunger cannot be denied.

—

The taste lingered.

No matter how much Hermione tried to shake it, the memory of that first bite haunted her—an exquisite ghost that refused to fade. She could still feel the silkiness of the chocolate melting against her tongue, still sense the strange heat curling low in her stomach, still hear the echo of those words.

True hunger cannot be denied.

A week had passed, and she had exhausted every avenue she could think of to trace the sender. She had examined the box for enchantments, scoured magical merchant records, even enlisted the help of an Unspeakable colleague to identify any rare magical ingredients that might explain the undeniable pull of the chocolates.

Nothing.

The truffles were unlike anything commercially available. The scent, the texture, the indescribable depth of flavor—whoever had crafted them was no ordinary chocolatier. They were a master.

And Hermione needed to find them.

At first, she had told herself it was simple curiosity. A puzzle to be solved. But the more dead ends she hit, the deeper the obsession grew. She found herself thinking of the chocolates at night, her fingers itching to reach for another piece—she had rationed them, wanting to make them last, but each bite only made her crave more.

It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t logical.

And yet, the need burned inside her.

She spent hours poring through magical confectionary texts, searching for anything remotely similar. She visited every high-end chocolatier in Diagon Alley, then Hogsmeade, then Paris. Nothing matched.

She needed to go somewhere deeper, darker—akin to the flavour of the chocolates.

It wasn’t until she paid a visit to Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley that she found her first lead.

The shop was as vile as she remembered—dark, musty, filled with cursed artifacts whispering to her as she passed. Borgin himself sneered as she approached the counter, but the moment she slipped a gleaming Galleon onto the wood, his demeanor changed.

“I’m looking for something rare,” she said, voice steady.

“Aren’t we all?” he replied, but his greedy eyes flicked to the coin.

She unwrapped one of the remaining truffles and placed it in front of him.

“Tell me who makes these.”

Borgin hesitated. The moment his eyes landed on the chocolate, something flashed across his face—recognition. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced with an oily smirk.

“Expensive taste, Miss Granger.”

Her pulse quickened. “You know where they came from.”

Borgin tutted. “Knowing and sharing are two very different things.”

She slid two more Galleons onto the counter. “Try me.”

He sighed theatrically but took the money. “You won’t find these in Diagon Alley, or anywhere respectable for that matter.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “There’s a place, a supper club of sorts. Exclusive. Invitation only.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“They call it Nocturne,” Borgin continued. “And the man behind it… well, let’s just say he has a reputation for indulgence.” His eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “You won’t find his name on any registry, and you certainly won’t find an invitation. But if you’re determined…”

“I am.”

“Then you’ll want to start at the south end of Knockturn Alley. Midnight.”

The deeper Hermione ventured into Knockturn Alley, the quieter the world became. The usual rabble—the hooded figures haggling over cursed artifacts, the stench of damp stone and something rotten beneath it—seemed to retreat as she moved through the shadowed streets.

She followed Borgin’s directions until she reached an unmarked door at the alley’s dead end. A soft golden glow spilled from the cracks, the only sign of life. There was no handle, no knocker—just smooth black wood and the faint hum of magic in the air.

Hermione raised her fist and knocked.

The door swung inward.

The warmth inside was immediate, sweet and sharp. The room beyond was a lounge of sorts—intimate, dimly lit, with plush crimson seating and golden chandeliers casting flickering shadows against dark-paneled walls. A quiet murmur of conversation filled the space, punctuated by the clinking of glasses. It smelled of wine, firewood, and something rich and savory, something that made her mouth water.

And at the very center of it all, leaning casually against the polished bar, was Draco Malfoy.

Hermione froze.

She hadn’t seen him in years—not since he’d disappeared from the public eye after the war. There had been whispers, of course. That he’d fled the country. That he was running some illicit business in Eastern Europe. That he had been seen at the most exclusive wizarding gatherings, charming the elite with something only he could provide.

But none of the rumors had prepared her for this.

Gone was the sharp, wiry boy she remembered from school. The man before her was older, taller, his once-pointed features now refined with an effortless sort of elegance. His platinum hair was slightly longer, tousled in an artful way that suggested he didn’t care—or that he cared just enough to make it look that way. He was dressed in all black, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with faint scars. He held a glass of something dark and amber in one hand, his fingers lazily tracing the rim.

And he was watching her.

Their eyes met across the room, and for the briefest moment, something flickered across his face—recognition, amusement, and something else. Then, slowly, he smiled.

It unsettled her more than anything else.

Before she could decide whether to flee or march forward, he pushed off the bar and strode toward her, his movements unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world.

“Hermione Granger,” he drawled, his voice smoother than she remembered, touched with something deeper, richer. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I’m looking for someone.”

He arched a pale eyebrow. “How fortunate. You’ve found me.”

A sharp retort sat on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the small velvet box, the last remaining chocolates inside. She flipped it open, revealing the delicate truffles nestled within.

Draco’s gaze flicked down to them, something dark and knowing passing behind his eyes before he looked back up at her.

“I received these anonymously,” she said, studying his reaction. “I want to know who sent them.”

A slow smile curled at the edges of his lips.

“And what makes you think I would know?”

Hermione exhaled sharply. “Because they aren’t just chocolates. I’ve searched everywhere. There’s nothing like them in any shop, any market. They’re unique. And given your… reputation, I figured if anyone could help me trace them, it would be you.”

He hummed, considering her. “And what, exactly, do you think my reputation is?”

She hesitated. “Exclusive.”

That made him laugh—low and genuine. “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

Her patience was thinning. “Do you know where they came from or not?”

Draco tilted his head, watching her with quiet amusement. Then, to her surprise, he plucked one of the chocolates from the box, holding it up between two fingers.

“These,” he murmured, rolling the truffle between his fingertips, “are not something you simply find, Granger.” He met her gaze, something unreadable in his expression. “They’re something you earn.”

A chill ran through her, though she wasn’t sure why.

Draco exhaled, as if coming to a decision. Then he placed the chocolate back in the box and slid his hands into his pockets.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, his voice low, velvet-smooth. “Come to dinner with me.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“You want answers, don’t you?” His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Then come to Nocturne tomorrow night.” He smirked. “I’ll even cook for you.”

His words and what lay behind them sent a shiver down her spine.

But the hunger inside her—the one that had been gnawing at her ever since she first tasted those chocolates—only sharpened.

Against her better judgment, she nodded.

“Fine.”

Draco’s smirk widened.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re going to love what I have planned.”

—

Hermione arrived at Nocturne precisely at eight.

The entrance was hidden within a narrow, candlelit corridor at the back of Knockturn Alley, tucked behind an iron-wrought gate that only opened for those meant to find it. Draco had sent no formal invitation, but the moment she approached, the gate creaked open as if welcoming her inside.

She stepped into a world of low-burning chandeliers, flickering candelabras, and an air thick with something indulgent—spiced wine, charred rosemary, and something deeper, darker, that made the hunger in her belly twist with anticipation.

At the very center of the intimate dining hall, at a long mahogany table set for two, sat Draco Malfoy.

He looked utterly at ease, clad in a tailored black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the strong lines of his forearms. A crystal decanter of deep red wine sat between them, its contents glistening in the candlelight as he slowly swirled his glass. His pale fingers were lazy against the rim, but his gaze—his gaze—was sharp, assessing, waiting.

“Hermione.” He didn’t stand, but his lips curled in something resembling amusement. “Punctual, as expected.”

She slid into the chair across from him, her eyes sweeping over the decadent table setting. The silverware was charmed to gleam unnaturally, the wine glasses were so fine they were nearly translucent, and the plates—each one made of black porcelain—held no food. Not yet.

“You said you would cook,” she remarked.

Draco leaned forward, resting his chin lightly against his fingers. “I did. And I have.” He nodded toward the far end of the room, where a pair of silent servers stood, waiting. At his cue, they moved with synchronized precision, placing the first course in front of them.

Hermione stared down at her plate.

A single, delicate bite of something deep red—seared at the edges, glistening with a glaze of dark honey and something thicker. The scent was intoxicating. It smelled rich, powerful, something that made the hunger inside her tighten with an intensity she didn’t understand.

“What is it?” she asked.

Draco’s lips curled. “Taste it.”

She hesitated—but not for long. The first bite melted against her tongue, impossibly tender, the balance of sweet and savory so perfectly aligned that it sent a shiver down her spine. A slow warmth spread through her, pooling in the pit of her stomach.

She swallowed. Licked her lips. Looked at him.

Draco was watching her with a knowing smirk. “Good?”

She exhaled. “Incredible.”

“Food is the oldest form of intimacy, you know.” He leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine. “Before there was magic, before there was even language, there was hunger. Sharing food is one of the first ways humans connected. It’s instinct.”

Hermione tilted her head. “I’d beg to differ.”

Draco laughed. “But tell me, Granger—what’s more revealing than the way someone eats?” His voice was smooth, like the wine in his glass. “You can tell everything about a person by how they approach a meal.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And what have you gathered about me so far?”

Draco studied her, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “You hesitate at first. You analyze, try to decipher what’s in front of you before committing. But once you surrender to indulgence…” His voice dropped slightly. “You don’t hold back.”

Heat crawled up her spine.

She took a slow sip of her wine to distract herself, only to find it paired perfectly with the lingering flavors on her tongue. She should have felt uneasy—this was Draco Malfoy, after all. And yet, the conversation flowed easily between them, their usual sharp wit honed into something almost playful.

Course after course appeared before them—each one more decadent than the last. Velvety soup infused with something floral and intoxicating. A slow-roasted cut of meat so tender it barely needed a knife. Dark chocolate ganache laced with the same essence as the truffles that had started this entire obsession.

Everything was exquisite. And everything made her feel something—a slow, curling heat in her stomach, a quiet but undeniable craving that only intensified with every bite.

Finally, as the last plate was cleared, Hermione sat back in her chair, exhaling. “Alright, Malfoy,” she said, pressing her fingers to her temples. “That was, without question, one of the best meals I’ve ever had.”

Draco smirked. “I know.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her lips. “Now tell me—what is Nocturne, really?”

Draco tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “A place for those who understand that indulgence is not a sin.” He lifted his glass, watching the deep red liquid swirl. “A place where hunger is celebrated.”

Something in his tone made her pulse quicken.

“Hunger for what?” she asked carefully.

Draco’s gaze flickered to hers, something dark and knowing settling in his silver eyes.

He just smiled.

—

Hermione hadn’t meant to keep coming back.

But she did.

At first, she told herself it was curiosity. A mystery to be solved. Draco Malfoy had vanished for years, only to resurface here, of all places—running an illicit, underground supper club where the food was intoxicating, the guests secretive, the rules unspoken. If nothing else, she wanted to understand it.

But that explanation unraveled quickly.

Because it wasn’t just the intrigue that pulled her back.

It was him.

It was the way he spoke—low, smooth, teasing—always with the perfect balance of charm and provocation. It was the way his hands worked in the kitchen, precise and deliberate, turning ingredients into something sinful with an artistry she couldn’t look away from.

It was the way he looked at her.

Like he had known, from the moment she first walked into his world, that she belonged there.

Weeks turned into months, and Hermione lost count of the nights spent at Nocturne. What began as dinners turned into late-night conversations over candlelit tables. Conversations turned into stolen moments in the kitchen, watching as Draco worked, his sleeves rolled up, his focus razor-sharp as he plated something just for her.

She learned his patterns, his rhythms.

He was always composed, but his hands betrayed him—always moving, always restless. He drank his coffee black, took his whiskey neat, never rushed a meal. He hated idle chatter but loved a good argument. He smirked when he was amused, rolled his eyes when she said something too self-righteous, tilted his head ever so slightly when he was genuinely listening.

She had never known Malfoy like this.

She wasn’t sure anyone had.

And somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

One night, after a particularly indulgent meal—a slow-roasted dish laced with cloves and something darker, something she still couldn’t place—she had leaned back in her chair, a little light-headed from the wine, her skin warm.

Draco had watched her, his silver eyes unreadable.

“You’re comfortable here,” he murmured, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

She had smiled lazily, not bothering to argue. “I suppose I am.”

He exhaled, swirling the last of his wine. “That should probably concern you.”

“Why?”

His gaze flickered to hers. “Because being comfortable by my side is not really something you’re capable of.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Says who?”

“I do.”

“Well, maybe I changed.”

Maybe she had changed.

Because Hermione Granger—the woman who never let herself get swept away, who always followed logic, who never surrendered to impulse—was now spending most of her nights in a hidden corner of Knockturn Alley, drinking expensive wine and letting Draco Malfoy feed her things that made her knees weak.

The night she realized she was in love, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand moment, no sudden revelation.

It was simple. Subtle.

They had been in the kitchen together, long after Nocturne had closed for the night. Hermione had insisted she wanted to learn—wanted to understand the magic of the food, the way he crafted flavors that sent warmth curling in her stomach.

So Draco let her watch. Let her stand beside him as he worked, his sleeves pushed up, his fingers moving deftly over the cutting board as he taught her how to slice something just so.

She had teased him about being a perfectionist. He had smirked, flicked a bit of sauce at her wrist. She had rolled her eyes, but she had smiled too.

And then, at some point, without thinking, she had reached for a bowl at the same time as him—her fingers grazing against his.

A simple touch.

But when she looked up, Draco was watching her.

Something shifted.

The air between them stretched thin, tight, electric.

Hermione felt her pulse against her skin, sharp and insistent. Felt the heat of his body standing too close. Felt the pull—the quiet, undeniable pull—that she had been ignoring for weeks.

Her breath caught.

And that was when it hit her.

What set her loins on fire.

It wasn’t just the food.

It was him.

—

It started with a feeling.

A slow, creeping sense of unease that settled in Hermione’s bones long after the meals were finished, long after the wine was drunk, long after she had let herself believe that this—whatever this was—was real.

Draco Malfoy had made her feel alive.

But something was wrong.

It wasn’t immediate. The realization did not crash down all at once. Instead, it dripped in—slowly, subtly, like the honeyed glaze he used to coat the tender cuts of meat he served her. It seeped into her mind in the quiet moments, in the spaces between bites, in the hunger that never seemed to fade, no matter how much she ate.

She had never craved food like this before.

Not just the flavor, but the feeling of it. The warmth that spread through her veins, the way it settled deep in her belly, the way it left her skin flushed and her thoughts hazy. She would wake in the middle of the night, mouth dry, body aching with a need she didn’t understand.

And then there were the dreams.

Dark, twisting things.

She dreamt of teeth sinking into flesh. Of hands slick with something warm. Of voices whispering words she couldn’t remember in the morning.

At first, she told herself it was nothing. A side effect of indulgence. Her body adjusting to the rich, spiced meals she had been consuming for months.

But then she started noticing the absences.

People disappeared from Nocturne.

Not all at once, not enough to raise alarm—just one guest at a time, names she barely remembered, faces that blurred together in the candlelight. A woman who had once dined beside her, a man who had toasted Draco over wine, a quiet figure who had occupied the same corner booth every week—gone.

She asked Draco once, in passing, where they had gone.

He had only smirked, sipped his wine, and said, “People lose their appetites sometimes.”

A joke. A meaningless answer.

But it didn’t feel meaningless.

And then, one night, she made a mistake.

She had lingered after closing again, watching as Draco moved through the kitchen, his hands steady, his expression calm. She had watched him work so many times, had admired the precision in which he prepared every dish, had let herself believe in the magic of it.

But this time, she noticed something different.

A locked cabinet at the far end of the kitchen.

She had never seen him open it before. Never seen him retrieve anything from inside. It was black, reinforced with iron, humming with protective spells. A chill curled down her spine the moment she saw it—an instinctual, primal sort of dread that made no sense.

Draco caught her looking.

His movements didn’t falter, but for the first time, his expression shifted.

Subtle. A flicker of something behind his eyes—warning, perhaps. Or regret.

“You’re curious about the wrong things, Granger.” His voice was smooth, too smooth. A distraction.

Hermione forced a smile. “I thought I was supposed to be learning.”

Draco’s lips curled, but it wasn’t quite a smile.

“There are some recipes,” he murmured, “that are better left untasted.”

Hermione couldn’t let it go.

The locked cabinet, the disappearances, the lingering taste of something too rich, too intoxicating, too wrong on her tongue—each piece gnawed at her mind, twisting her thoughts into something dark and restless.

She should have walked away.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she started watching. Really watching.

She paid attention to the way Draco worked, the way his hands moved over the food with reverence, like it was something sacred. She noted how certain dishes were only served to certain people, how some meals came with a quiet exchange of glances between him and the servers, how he always ensured she had the most exquisite, the most delicate, the most carefully prepared plates.

And then there was the hunger.

It wasn’t just hers anymore.

She started noticing it in the others—the way the guests at Nocturne ate like they were starving, how they devoured each bite with something bordering on desperation. How their skin was always a little too warm, their eyes a little too bright, their movements a little too sharp.

Something was wrong.

And she needed to know what.

One night, when Draco was preoccupied in the dining hall, she acted.

The kitchen was empty, the low candlelight flickering against the iron cabinet that had haunted her thoughts for weeks.

She hesitated for only a moment before drawing her wand.

“Alohomora.”

The spell fizzled uselessly against the locks. Wards. Strong ones.

She bit her lip. Of course Malfoy wouldn’t make it that easy.

Glancing over her shoulder, she pressed her fingers against the cool metal, feeling the faint pulse of magic beneath her touch. This was not just a storage cabinet. This was something else.

A heartbeat of silence.

Hermione turned sharply, expecting Draco, expecting a reprimand, a smirk, a warning—

But she was alone.

Alone, except for the scent.

A thick, cloying scent that she had somehow ignored until now, masked by the richness of the other ingredients, by the perfumes of wine and spice and roasted herbs.

Something coppery.

Acidic.

Her stomach twisted. She knew this smell.

Blood.

Hermione staggered back from the cabinet, her breath coming too fast, too sharp. No. No, no, it couldn’t be—

“Looking for something?”

The voice was smooth, calm.

Draco.

She spun to find him standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his silver eyes fixed on her like he had been expecting this moment all along.

Her throat was dry. Her heart pounded.

“I—” She forced herself to swallow, to breathe. “What’s in the cabinet, Draco?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward—unhurried, composed, as if they were simply discussing the weather.

When he reached her, he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear.

“You already know,” he murmured.

A shiver crawled down her spine.

She pulled back, shaking her head. “No,” she whispered. “Tell me.”

Draco studied her, his gaze flickering over her face, assessing. And then, with slow, deliberate movements, he reached into his pocket.

A key.

Hermione’s breath hitched as he turned to the cabinet and—without flourish, without hesitation—unlocked it.

The door creaked open.

The scent hit her first—thicker now, undeniable—and then, the sight.

Rows of glass containers, filled with preserved ingredients that shimmered in the candlelight. Some were familiar—spices, oils, aged wines—but some—

Some were not.

She felt bile rise in her throat.

Because she had spent months letting Draco feed her.

And now, staring at the carefully labeled jars, at the cuts of flesh, at the preserved pieces of something once human—

She realized she had been eating people.

A sharp breath. A step backwards.

Draco was watching her with quiet, patient amusement.

Her knees nearly buckled.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

Her stomach twisted violently, a flood of memories slamming into her all at once—the decadent meals, the rich, dark glazes, the soft, tender bites that had melted on her tongue. The hunger that had never truly gone away.

She had wanted it.

She had loved it.

And Draco—Draco knew.

His smirk was slow, deliberate. Pleased.

“Hermione,” he murmured, stepping closer, his voice nothing but velvet and ruin.

Her breath was ragged. “How long?”

He reached out, gently brushing his thumb against her lower lip. Like he had done so many times before.

A soft, knowing smile.

“From the very first bite.”

Hermione ran.

Not immediately—not driven by instinctual panic as she should have, not in a blur of panicked gasps and splintered glass. She should have screamed. Should have turned on her heel and fled from Nocturne, from Draco, from the dark, seething hunger that curled inside her stomach like a thing alive.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she walked out in measured steps, her face blank, her hands steady, her breathing slow and calculated—because she knew, she knew, that if she let even a single crack show, he would see it.

And Draco Malfoy did not miss a thing.

So she left quietly.

And then, she did not sleep for three nights.

Because the truth had rooted itself in her mind like a disease.

She had eaten them. She had eaten them.

The nameless, faceless strangers who had dined at Nocturne before disappearing without a trace—the ones she had barely noticed, the ones who had smiled and laughed and raised their glasses to Draco, just as she had, never suspecting that their last toast would be to their own flesh.

She had devoured them.

And worse—worse—

She had loved it.

The fear did not drive her away.

It drove her deeper.

She should have burned Nocturne from her memory. She should have buried the name, buried the taste, buried the way Draco had looked at her when she finally knew.

Instead, she became obsessed.

She scoured the Daily Prophet for missing persons, tracing the names, the dates, the places where they were last seen. She studied the menus at Nocturne, memorizing each course, each ingredient, each delicate, exquisite cut of meat. She replayed the conversations in her mind—the things Draco had said, the way he spoke of food, of hunger, of indulgence.

She knew what he was.

[fantom-as]

I’ve officially finished writing the last chapter of “The Sun, The Moon, The Truth” and I don’t really know what to do with myself…

[fantom-as]

Just gonna drop this here and say that leaving a comment on a fic is a powerful thing.

I wrote two Sandman fics ages ago (like several months at least) and just got a very thoughtful comment on both of them, and it was enough to encourage me to start writing again.

So if you love a fic, folks, go share that with the author! You for sure will make their day.

[fantom-as]

November 13 | WIP Wesnesday

file name: Crimson Lining (dramione fanfic)

“Dragons can live for hundreds of years, you know. Stella will be something that I leave for my children and children’s children.”

Hermione hummed, her arm wrapping around his middle unconsciously. “Your mother said something similar. About family legacy, and how important it was. I wish there will come a day when she sees you for what you truly are. Her son.” When he didn’t answer, she lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were glazed and distant. He was looking into his past, into his future, somewhere where she wanted to make space for herself. “I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,” she continued. “You and your mother are quite similar, if only you—"

Draco’s fingers unexpectedly dug into her jaw, forcing her mouth open as he kissed her, a rough, almost violent movement that took Hermione by surprise. The words died on her tongue, replaced by the shock of his touch and the heat between them. He gripped onto the back of her neck, pulling her closer, as if he needed her, needed this, to silence whatever pain or confession lingered in the unspoken gaps between his breath and hers. He kissed her like he was searching for something in her, something that only she could give—a grounding, a comfort, an answer. The burn of his lips, the harshness of the grip on her neck—almost the point of pain. She didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. And for once, she had no words. Nothing to say.

Nothing.

But him.

Draco.

[fantom-as]

Dear readers, for some reason I cannot answer any of your comments on ao3 today. Just so everybody who commented knows, I really appreciate your comments.

[fantom-as]

"you should be at the club" I should be working on my fanfic

[fantom-as]

Draco looked out of the window at the maze ahead.

“I destroyed myself for nothing.”

Hermione shivered. “I destroyed myself for you,” she said quietly.

He turned to her, eyes dark, two onyx stars. “You did not save me.”

[fantom-as]

“writing is fun,” i whisper, after rewriting the same sentence for the past 27 minutes

[fantom-as]

cover for my fic “The Sun, The Moon, The Truth” by me.

“Stranger” by Joseph Feely

[fantom-as]

"But you already wrote that trope."

[fantom-as]

i just obsessively wrote 5k words for The Sun, The Moon, The Truth

[fantom-as]

A sneak peak into Chapter 34 of The Sun, The Moon, The Truth

She turned to the door, but Malfoy came to stand in front of her.

“What?” she heaved.

“We’re not done,” he said.

“What else do you want?”

He took a step closer, but there was still enough space between them so that she could hex him if she wished to. “Have dinner with me,” he said.

Hermione blinked. Her head was spinning from anxiety, her back was hurting from Harry and her dragon’s weight, and she did not have the patience for this. “Excuse me?”

Another step. “I said, have dinner with me.”

A million scenarios of having dinner with Draco Malfoy crossed her mind. Ones that involved human torture as entertainment, others where she was the one serving the meals, and some where she was the meal.

Surely what he had in mind must be more terrible than her wildest ideas.

“I wouldn’t wish to have dinner with you even if I had the time to spare, which I do not,” she told him sharply.

“It’s not about what you wish, Granger. It’s about what you can offer me, since your fallen chess pieces are in my hands. And if you were smart, which I know you are, you’d want to appease me. I’ve offered you plenty so far, but of course,” his sharp teeth flashed, “you don’t have to say yes. You can decline and leave the Manor completely unharmed. Then again, you’d do so empty handed, since Potter is still a war prisoner, my prisoner, and the dragon you’re holding is mine as well.”

“What kind of dinner will it be?”

Malfoy smirked in an obnoxious self-satisfactory way. “The most basic sense of the word. A three-course meal, some good wine and, hopefully, stimulating conversations. No hidden motives, I swear.”

[fantom-as]

Faux Fangs, True Bite | Dramione

pairing: Dramione

description: After Hermione's boyfriend went missing and a frantic search began, she received a letter from said boyfriend, demanding for the search to be called off. Two weeks later, he shows up at their friends' Halloween party, looking eerily different.

word count: 4,5k

warnings!: halloween party, spooky, vampire!draco, blood drinking, mentions of break up, established relationship, sex, vampire bites, marriage proposal, love confessions.

Moonlight spilled through the window and onto Hermione‘s flesh as she listened to Ginny getting ready in the bathroom. She stared into the dark of the night with unseeing eyes, without feeling the icy wind that blew into her face, twisting the witch’s hat of her costume. She didn’t want to go, not without him. So, Ginny came to take her by force.

It had been two weeks since he went missing. A week of not knowing whether he was dead or alive, then another week of wondering that maybe something worse than death had crossed his path. Two weeks of having little to no idea of what happened that fateful night when Draco Malfoy set on one of his Auror missions, never to return to her again.

Hermione brushed her fingers over the striped, black-and-purple tights that showed when her black velvet skirt gathered around her middle as she sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor. Their bedroom. In their home. Where she spent each night waiting for him to come back. Or to be returned to her any way possible.

She kept replaying that last morning in their kitchen over and over again, until the details of the room and the people were washed out. Draco had spent more than a month trying to talk to a vampire who lived in a secluded castle because the Ministry had sent him on this mission. A wand ended up in the vampire‘s possession, and it was Draco‘s job to figure it out. If it were anyone but her boyfriend, the vampire would‘ve been dealt with in no time; but Draco understood what it was like to be considered a monster undeserving of magic, as many claimed to this day that he and all the other former Death Eaters should not be allowed to possess wands or conjure magic. Draco wanted to take it easy with the vampire, he wanted to convince him that such a magnificent creature didn‘t need a wand, that being a vampire was magical enough. Even if he didn’t truly believe it himself.

Until one day he had just disappeared.

Hermione called Harry that very night to ask about Draco when he didn‘t come back for dinner. Harry told her that he hadn‘t seen Draco that day at all. Hermione‘s anxiety grew with every hour of no-show. In the morning, she called Harry again, and so, the search for Draco Malfoy began. But it was fruitless. A week later, Hermione received a letter with a single sentence:

Quit searching for me, I have found my path, and I am not coming back to you.

D. M.

The search was called off, but Hermione never stopped. She even found the vampire‘s castle where Draco was headed to that morning, but she only got to the iron gate, then she began feeling dizzy, until eventually she lost consciousness. She woke up tucked in her bed, and would‘ve believed the journey to the castle to be a dream if she hadn‘t found dirt underneath her fingernails. And—two barely visible red dots atop her jugular. She didn’t go back to the vampire in the castle.

That was three days ago. Hermione spent them in their bedroom, without sleeping, or eating, or talking to anyone. At night, just as she was about to pass from exhaustion, she hallucinated that he was standing there, at the end of her bed, watching her sleep. His presence was cold, mesmerizing, terrifying. But of course, he wasn’t truly there. He wouldn’t be just watching. He would be with her, if he could.

The Halloween party that Draco had been so excited about was around the corner, but Hermione had no intention of attending it without him. Ginny and Harry had other ideas, they wanted her to forget her sorrow, even if for a short while. That‘s how Ginny ended up in her bathroom. Her head now ducked out of the doorway, “Hermione, you’re ready?”

Hermione nodded, still staring outside. She saw a black figure standing there in the dark amongst the trees, but it was probably only her imagination.

Loud music and flashy purple, red, and orange lights thundered through Hermione’s brain as she stood in the corner of Harry and Ginny’s living room where the party’s heart was. She was nursing a glass of red wine, taking small sips from it, when Harry found her.

“Hey, you’re here!”

“Don’t act so surprised. Your wife forced me to be here, and not without your knowledge.”

Harry’s smile dimmed a bit, and although he was quite drunk already, his face grew serious. “We are very worried about you, Hermione. You’ve isolated yourself from everybody, and that’s just not healthy.”

Hermione stared at the wine in her glass, swirling it distractedly.

“My boyfriend is missing. I’m sorry that I’m not all sunshine and rainbows tonight,” she said quietly and coldly.

“He left you!” Harry yelled through the music. “He left you and he ran away because he was too much of a coward to break up with you!”

Her lower lip trembled. “That’s not what happened…”

“He doesn’t want you to find him, that what he said himself…”

“We don’t know if it was him who wrote it…”

Harry gave her a you-know-that’s-not-true look.

Hermione shook her head and downed the rest of her wine, turning around Harry and leaving her safe corner. She walked quickly, her head spinning from the alcohol she had consumed. Harry, thankfully, did not follow her.

She turned around the corner and noticed Ginny and Lavender talking, all secretive about it. She hid behind a wall because she did not want to see either of them, but heard snippets of their conversation:

“I can’t believe he couldn’t even properly break up with her…”

“Probably just didn’t have the balls for it.”

“I always knew he was a snidey ferret. No good for Hermione…”

“What else could you want from a Death Eater?”

“Do you know what Harry told me? Right before Malfoy took off?”

“No, what?”

“He was going to propose to her! He had a ring. Had asked Hermione’s father’s blessing and all. Told Harry so.”

“No way!”

A single sob tore out of Hermione’s chest, and she ran to the bathroom of the second floor.

The music died a little, and her sobs grew worse. She saw herself in the mirror, the tears had ruined her makeup, and the sight of her crying made her cry even more.

He was going to propose… he had a ring… she would’ve been his fiancée by now, if not—

She put her hands on both sides of the sink, leaning in, and crying, crying, for all the things she lost, for all the love she could’ve had but never will again. And for not knowing why she deserved to be left alone like this. Draco loved her, she was sure of it. They never fought, at least not horribly, he was always attentive, and he had long sworn off his past prejudices. Why did he abandon her then, how could this happen? How could he not want her anymore? How could he leave their home without saying anything? This didn’t make any sense…

Hermione flinched after an aggressive knock on the bathroom disturbed her train of thought. She brushed off the tears on her face with the back of her hand, smudging her red lipstick.

“Just a second!” she called out. The grabbed some toilet paper and wiped her teary eyes—only a hint of her green eyeshadow left.

She opened the door, expecting somebody to be waiting behind them, but there was nobody there. The corridor was dark and empty, pale light coming from one of the ends. Even the music got oddly quiet, she couldn’t even make out the lyrics.

Behind her, she heard a rustle of fabric and in her ear—a promise of a whisper.

“Hello?” she said, feeling the hairs on her skin stand on end. No one answered. Again—rustling, whispering, there, in the red darkness of the corridor. Hermione turned around abruptly, giving herself an unnecessary fright as her heart thundered in her ears with fear, overtaking all and any other sound.

She didn’t even know what she was scared of. This was Harry and Ginny’s home. She had drunk a glass of wine and had been living in complete silence for the last week. It made sense that she experienced auditory hallucinations after breaking the fast of isolation.

Only then did her eyes also became witnesses of her madness. Because she saw him. A black figure at the end of the corridor. Hermione frowned, swallowing thickly. Her throat went dry.

“Draco?” she whispered into the darkness.

The figure took a single step toward her, into the red hue coming from the heart of the party. The soft light illuminated his features, but the harshness of the color twisted them into something predatory.

One thing was certain: it was Draco, her Draco. She ran to where Draco stood, ready to hug him, to pull him lose and never let him get away from her again.

But just as she was about to reach his body, he disappeared. Hermione looked around in panic—and he was right behind her.

“Draco?” she said in a small voice. “What are you doing here?”

He was so very close, but she didn’t reach out for him this time, scared that he might disappear.

“I came here to see you. One last time,” he spoke finally. His voice sounded familiar, yet different: beyond the usual notes of deep baritone, careful diction, and developed rhythm was something dark, sensual, dangerous.

She blinked, as if waking up from a trance, finally registering the meaning behind his words.

“No, Draco, no, it doesn’t have to be the last time—” In this light, Draco’s eyes were red, his hair was red, his flesh was red. And he looked down at her with such hatred that Hermione hadn’t witnessed in him even during their Hogwarts years. She felt her carefully schooled features twist into a grimace of pain, and the tears came back full force. “Please, just tell me, did I do something wrong that made you leave? Have I upset you somehow?”

“It wasn’t your fault, Hermione. But you must stop thinking that I might come back. I won’t. You need to move on, live life, you cannot wallow in self-pity any longer. What happened is irreversible. All because of my good heart…” he spat out the last two words as if they were poison.

Hermione looked down at his robes. He wore all-black, his cloak reminded her of bat wings. As he spoke, she noticed how sharp his teeth were. Was he wearing a vampire costume? But no, it didn’t look like a costume. Hers witch outfit was a costume, she had found it at a thrift store a month ago, and it was made mostly of polyester and nylon. But his clothes had an aura of authenticity, like they themselves were a living, breathing thing.

Her eyes went back to his face.

“What happened to you? Whatever it was, we can fix—”

He towered over her, snarling, his teeth shining in the dark like knives of pearl. “We cannot fix anything, Hermione. I need you to stay out of my business, as I’ll stay out of yours…”

Hermione shook her head. “No, I won’t let you leave, don’t you understand, I don’t care what happened to you, I still want you in my life, because I love you—”

Suddenly, they both heard somebody climb up the stairs to the second floor, where they were, but before Hermione could see who it was, Draco grabbed her by the waist and—

Another moment later, she found herself in one of Harry and Ginny’s guestrooms. Draco didn’t let go of her immediately, his face lingered in the crook of her neck, but when he forced himself off her, he made sure to leave a lot of space between them.

“I wanted to see you at the party where I was sure you’d be surrounded by plenty of people… So I’d be forced to control my urges and not harm you any further… This is not what I had planned…”

Hermione turned on the light to see better. The room lit up—and all that was in it.

She gasped when she saw Draco in better lighting.

His skin was paler than usual, ghostly, almost translucent, black veins shone underneath it. His face seemed the same—sharp and angular, with high cheekbones, but severely so, making him look gauntly. His blond hair was now painfully white, with a silver sheen on it, reminding her of an angel. He stood very still, his body was statue-like perfection—it made her want to get close to him, it made her want to run away. But his eyes—his eyes—they made her knees weak. The irises were startingly crimson, liquid-like, and if he were to cry, she was sure his tears would be blood. Hermione could barely recognize him as she took it all in.

She gasped, softly this time, and covered her lips with her hand, inspecting him from head to toe.

“You were turned… That vampire turned you…”

A hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips. “Clever as ever, my girl.”

She shuddered with silent sobs. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be. I knew it was dangerous.”

“You just wanted to help…”

“And look where that got me.” He stepped closer as if beyond his own volition, eating the distance he made himself. As if he were as hypnotized by her as she was by him. “And now—” he towered over her again, repeating their previous position, “—all I want is to eat you…”

Hermione breathed in shakily. Fear wasn’t the only reason for her reactions.

“Go on,” she whispered. “It’s okay… I love you… You won’t hurt me…”

Draco snarled again—but didn’t move away. He couldn’t, even if he wished to.

And all he wanted was her. He’d said so.

“You don’t understand what you’re offering. I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’d kill you. I came here only to talk to you.” His voice was husky, and he tilted his head, getting closer, closer.

She shuddered at their proximity. She’d missed him so much, her body reacted wildly even when he wasn’t touching her yet.

“I’d rather be killed by you that have to live without you,” she mumbled, breathing in his intoxicating scent—leather, mint, apples, and… blood.

His eyes flashed—two rubies, glinting and alive. He grabbed her by the back of her head, pulling her closer, inhaling her—an unruly, animalistic gesture.

“I’ve tasted you before, you know,” he spoke into her skin, voice muffled by her flesh. “When you came to the castle, looking for me… I’d hypnotized you and brought you back home… I swore to myself I’d leave you be… But I couldn’t control myself, I had to have a taste… And I bit you… Your blood, it tasted divine, like god himself had sent you to me… I thought I won’t be able to stop, that I’d suck you try… But somehow, somewhere deep inside myself I found the strength that night, to get away from you, to leave you… You’ve no idea how much it cost me, how badly I wanted to stay by your side, nursing your wounds that I’d inflicted….”

His vicious words sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine, but not the bad type, not the fearful type.

“I don’t remember… any of it…” she muttered, arching her spine and tilting her head to give him better access to her neck.

He chuckled darkly, his cold breath ghosting over her sensitive skin. “Of course you don’t. I made sure you wouldn’t. Only I didn’t heal the marks I left on you. There was a part of me that wanted you to know, at least subconsciously. A part of me that knew you’d be on your knees before me despite being aware of the monster I’ve become.” He drew languid circles on her carotid with the tip of his nose.

“I would… You can bite me, you can do anything you want… I won’t fight back, I won’t struggle… I want you to bite me…” She knew she had to prove to him that not only could he control himself, but also that she was worth that control.

“Alright,” he whispered, so, so quietly.

She closed her eyes tightly, waiting. He sighed, and she felt a strong gust of his breath on her neck. He wondered what it will feel like. Sharp pain. Warm blood running down her side. Draco’s body crushing her into the wall behind, his hunger ruling over his senses…

But instead of sharp fangs, it was his cool lips she felt on her skin. A kiss so sweet and tender. Hermione trembled.

“Please…” she whimpered.

Not a second later, Draco bit her, truly this time. The bite was sharp and swift, sending a wave of electrifying show through Hermione’s body. The sensation was both excruciating and oddly hypnotic. The connection that they had when they were both human seemed like nothing more than a child’s play compared to this. She envisioned a red thread between them, pulling the together. It was so intimate that it felt almost violating.

As Draco savored the liquid life running through her veins, Hermione’s vision turned blurry. His grip on her tightened… and then, instead of continuing with renewed ferocity, he tore his face away from her flesh. By the time he straightened himself, looking down at her, a trickle of crimson running down the side of his slightly open mouth, they were both heaving in tandem.

“This was—” he began.

“Extraordinary…” she finished. She reached out her hand to touch his cheek. “Draco, I need you—I need more…”

A frown etched itself on his forehead, as if there was nothing more worrying to him than her wishes left unfulfilled. God, he was so beautiful.

“Anything you want, love…”

She brought herself closer to him until their bodies were touching everywhere. Her belly grazed his crotch, she felt his hardness poking through his robes. She reached down there and palmed him through his trousers. Draco hissed.

“Please…” she whispered.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Draco lifted her up and, after she hooked her legs over his torso, he transported them to the bed, and put Hermione on top of the duvet while he stood over her, his hands running over her body. Hermione could see it from his eyes—now that his basic urges were satisfied, others came to life. Or both—him craving her blood and her body—were simultaneous.

Draco waisted no more time, grabbing her thighs and pulling them up until her skirt rode up. He tore her striped tights until her knickers were exposed, and then he tore those too, with a single swift movement.

He hissed again when her pussy came into view. “Time for a different kind of taste,” he mumbled more to himself then to her and knelt in front of her.

She heard the fabric of her tights rip further until it was barely covering her legs, then felt him pepper kisses on her inner thighs. His thumb found her clit and began flicking that sensitive nub in tandem with his kisses. Zips of pleasure flashed through Hermione, and she was so caught up in it that she registered too late when his fangs pierced the skin of her inner thighs. She squealed, trying to get away driven by instinct, but he held her in place, his grip vicious. He turned his head and bit the other thigh, so both of them got the same treatment. The second bite was less sudden, eliciting only a pained and dazed moan out of Hermione. She could come only from this.

But then Draco retreated, getting on top of her and briskly tearing her clothes off as she hurriedly tried to do the same, but he was quicker, undressing both of them until they were naked on the bed.

Draco grabbed his hard and leaking cock, rubbing it against her seeping folds while Hermione followed his movements. He grabbed her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his.

“I’ve missed fucking you so much…” he gritted through his teeth, still rubbing himself into her.

Hermione swallowed thickly. “Uh-huh…” she mumbled incoherently, making Draco smirk devilishly before he sank into her in one harsh thrust.

Hermione screamed, her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and Draco put his hand over her mouth to silence the sounds coming from her as he fucked her violently into the mattress, so deep, so hard that she could feel him in her throat.

He fucked her through the initial shock of his intrusion, and when he made sure she wouldn’t be screaming any more, he released her mouth, his hand resting around her throat, putting just enough pressure to make her see stars.

“Please, Draco, don’t ever leave me…” she begged him, shaking from his hard thrusts with each word she spoke.

He leaned down, keeping up with his rhythm, and kissed her on the lips, ignoring her words.

“You’re so good to me, love…” he spoke into her mouth. “Taking me so well…”

Hermione felt tears gathering in her eyes from all the overwhelming emotions—the joy of having him back, the pleasure of feeling him inside of her, the relief of knowing he’s alive and the fear of him leaving her, for good. He licked those tears away before biting into the other side of her neck. The moment his fangs pierced her, a tsunami of pleasure washed over her, and she came all over his cock, her body shaking in his arms. But Draco did not pull out, he kept fucking her, he drank her blood, although this time he wasn’t caught up in the animalistic side of it, no, this time he was savoring her blood, savoring her cunt, savoring everything she gave him. Until mere seconds later she felt his seed inside of herself and, a few more thrusts later, he pulled out.

Hermione felt boneless and powerless, but she was too scared for him to leave and from now on, she couldn’t imagine a scenario where she wasn’t touching him, so she found his hand and wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, her voice raw as a wound.

Draco gave her a single nod, positioning himself on the bed and bringing her body into his while she put her head on his chest, sadly realizing that she won’t be able to fall asleep listening to his heartbeat any longer.

As Draco brushed his fingers through her hair, Hermione mumbled sleepily, “See, when it comes to me, you’re in perfect control.”

“I might lose it at any moment.”

Hermione opened her eyes and raised her head to look into his eyes. “I trust you. I love you, Draco. And I can’t imagine the horrors you experienced.” She paused, searching his face. “How did—how did it happen?”

He looked down at their intertwined fingers—his body was miles and hours away from here.

“I tried to convince that vampire that he didn’t need a wand to do magic. He disagreed. He was angry that wizards are constantly treating him like a lowlife. I tried to tell him that I understand him and that I feel the same way, even though I’m a wizard. He said that I could only understand his feelings if I were in his position, if I were a vampire. And—I think he’d planned it for weeks. I believed we were making progress, that morning, I thought he was going to hand me his wand over, and we’d be done with it. But he’d done this. And now I—now I truly understand how he’s feeling.”

Hermione took his face between her palms and kissed his lips softly.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

He grabbed her hands and, just as softly, brought them down.

“There’s nothing to figure out, Hermione. We can’t be together.”

She frowned. “But why not? You bit me tonight, not one and not twice, and you controlled yourself.”

He shook his head. “You’re a human and I’m a vampire. Your family, your friends, they would never understand…”

She grabbed his face again, determined not to let him get his way.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks. All I care about is that I love you. And you love me. That’s all that matters.” She ran her fingers through his startingly white hair. “And my answer to the question you wanted to ask me is yes.”

He frowned. “What question?”

She smiled tenderly. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He bowed his head down. “I’m not asking that anymore. Our situation’s changed.”

She kissed his forehead, and he looked back at her. “we’re still the same people we were. This night made me certain of that.”

Draco sighed heavily, then bent down and grabbed his cloak that had ended up on the floor. He fished a small box from one of the pockets and when he opened it, Hermione saw a golden ring with the eye of red ruby. She gasped.

“It’s beautiful…”

Draco took it out of the box and held it between his pale cold fingers.

“Then right now I’m not only asking you to marry me. I’m asking you to love a monster. I’m asking you to make a deal with the devil. To do what no other woman would.

Hermione noticed that she was crying again only when host tears began running down her cheeks. She jumped slightly and hugged him as hard as she could. “Oh, Draco… Of course, I’ll marry you, I’ll love you, I’ll spent my eternity with you…”

She pulled away slightly while Draco put the ring on her finger—it fit perfectly.

“I love you, Hermione,” he whispered into her lips, into her happy smile.

This time, their kiss was sweet, and slow, and tender.

It was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. As if electrocuted, Draco shielded her body with his from the eyes of the intruder.

Who was Harry. A flustered, embarrassed, and very drunk Harry, covering his eyes.

“I have so many questions, firstly, Malfoy, what are you doing here, but secondly, why the hell is this the second time I catch you two like this in my house?”

Draco snarled, his eyes flashing red. “Get out of here, Potter, or I swear to Merlin I’ll rip your head off.” Hermione was half-certain he wasn’t kidding.”

Still covering his eyes, Harry said, “Alright, alright, I’m leaving…” and he closed the door behind him.

Draco and Hermione looked at each other and laughed.

“You know, everyone tried to convince me that you left me but I knew you would never do that to me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Am I allowed to kill those who spoke ill of me?”

She pretended to consider his proposition. “That would leave us with a lot of dead bodies…”

“I’m still an Auror. I can get rid of them easily, no questions asked.”

Hermione couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She kissed the tip of his nose. “I’ll think about it…"

[fantom-as]

teaser

Faux Fangs, Real Bite

Dramione

vampire, blood, smut, halloween party

summary: After Hermione’s boyfriend went missing and a frantic search began, she received a letter from said boyfriend, demanding for the search to be called off. Two weeks later, he shows up at their friends’ Halloween party, looking eerily different.

It had been two weeks since he went missing. A week of not knowing whether he was dead or alive, then another week of wondering that maybe something worse than death had crossed his path. Two weeks of having little to no idea of what happened that fateful night when Draco Malfoy set on one of his Auror missions, never to return to her again.

She kept replaying that last morning in their kitchen over and over again, until the details twsited and coiled. Draco had spent more than a month trying to talk to a vampire who lived in a secluded castle because the Ministry sent him there. A wand ended up in the vampire‘s possession, and it was Draco‘s job to figure it out. If it were anyone but her boyfriend, the vampire would‘ve been dealt with in no time; but Draco understood what it was like to be considered a monster undeserving of magic, as many claimed to this day that he and all the other former Death Eaters whould not be allowed to have wands. Draco wanted to take it easy with the vampire, he wanted to convince him that he didn‘t need a wand, that being a vampire was magical enough.

Until one day he had just disappeared.

And so, the search for Draco Malfoy began. But it was fruitless. A week later, Hermione received a letter with a single sentence:

Quit searching for me, I have found my path, and I am not coming back to you.

D. M.

TO BE CONTINUED

[fantom-as]

sometimes u just gotta write the most cliche self indulgent fanfic u can think of. for your health