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skywailer · 7 years

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Universes Collide p.3 // [p.4] [p.2] [p.1]

“What are we flipping for?” Hermione composed herself, remained calm in the midst of the inferno.

“Everything,” her nemesis - her lover - kissed into her earlobe. Knowing it repulsed her to want him, Malfoy’s arms coiled around her, fingers dancing rings of fire onto her hips. “Don’t you find it odd? It’s a flip of a coin, how we ended up like this: Demons or saints. Torment or happiness. Enemies or lovers. Rage or,” he definitely licked her this time, “lust.”

Suddenly, his hands were snares at her waist. His mouth feral at her ear, hissing. “We’re not them, Hermione.”

“We could be.” She wasn’t sure where she’d gathered the breath to speak.

“No, we couldn’t,” he sighed, making a mockery of the tragedy. “But, I’ll let you believe for a while. Hence, the game. We flip for our fate. Heads, I let you go and I,” she could hear him flinching, “go with you.”

“And tails?”

His hands dragged up her stomach, scratching at her innards.

“Tails, we see just how far we can diverge from that little dream of yours,” Malfoy murmured darkly, his own sinister dreams penetrating her ears and violating her mind. His breath was no longer smoke, but dragon’s fire at her cheek. “We already know who we could be. Wouldn’t it be fun to find out who we really are: demons or saints?”

“Happy 22nd Birthday, Hermione.”

What a cosmic joke.

Nagging pain of various origins stirred Hermione back into consciousness. She opened her eyes, and was greeted into reality by dirt. She was distantly aware that her body was haphazardly horizontal, and that there was the smell of gardenias and all things green. Her eyes scoured the ground for clues, her head to heavy to lift, and spotted two pairs of black derby shoes to either side of her. Hermione’s mind tried to remind her of something, why those derby shoes meant something, but then her body demanded full attention.

Each step they took gave a tug at her body, which she realized was ridiculously slack with exhaustion- and something else. She suspected a paralysis of some sort. Her jeans scraped against uneven cobblestone, the skin on her knees torn raw. Rough hands yanked at her arms, dragging her further and straining sore muscles. She bit back nasty curses.

Something about the pain jogged her memory, just as smoother marble steps took form and stabbed into her shins.

She flinched, closed her eyes, and her chest filled with euphoria. A blinding, sly smile flashed across her mind’s eye.

“You shouldn’t have.” She grinned, beside herself. Her fingers were clutching onto a photo of her parents, much older than she’d last seen them four years ago. But happy. They waved in the picture, as though they knew their daughter to be peering through the film.

Overwhelmed, Hermione abandoned her place on the bed and clutched at the man beside her, squeezing him tight. He kissed her forehead, and warmth trickled over her like the sweetest sunshower. She tilted her head up, and there was Draco Malfoy, beaming with pride at another successful birthday present.

“Visiting them was extremely risky. You really shouldn’t have,” she said again, sighing against his lips when he stole a kiss. His hands roamed low, wanting to steal even more.

“I’d risk anything for you.”

With an unnecessarily brutal slam, Hermione was thrown into a cell. She barely had time to acknowledge the sleek limestone floor and walls or the one, peculiar sheet of mirrors reflecting her, before one of her Deatheater captors yanked her up again and tossed onto one of two steel chairs. Her teeth gnawed on smartass comments about how stupid it was to throw someone on the floor, only to throw them into a chair.

Hermione’s last slick remark had warranted quite the bruising on her cheek. Her right eye was slowly swelling from where it had smashed against a rather crude stone edge.

Hands seized her wrists and held them down while the other ghoul latched them to the chair with a particularly infamous pair of chains. Once the butthead one and two had left the room, sealing it shut behind them, Hermione’s curiosity got the best of her. She pulled her arms up from the wrists.

The cuffs immediately constricted around her hands, little needle-like hairs shooting out to stab at her skin.

“Ow,” she muttered in frustration, and laid her hands down on the armrests. She glared at her hostile surroundings; obnoxiously pearl white, polished, and imprisoning.

The rumors were true, then, about this place.

Hermione Granger hadn’t ever felt the need to visit the Malfoy’s Manor after her last visit nearly four years ago. She hadn’t cared for the gritty, claustrophobic walls, rusty chains and screaming cell door. She still didn’t care for it, even with the upgrades that made it look like a posh, Gringotts storage room. There was a reason why the walls were sealed and polished stone now; easier to wipe clean of blood and other foul body excrements. There was a reason for the lone metal table and chairs; easier to coax information from a prisoner. There was a reason for the wall of mirrors to Hermione’s right; easier to trick a prisoner’s mind, to drive them to insanity. Now there was no more need for undignified shows in the middle of the Malfoys’ foyer. It was all done now within these four, despicable walls.

To think, Hermione had never intended to visit these walls. Had sworn she’d rather be killed on the toilet than be dragged here.

Yet, here she was. And all because she’d forgotten to take her fucking vitamins. Well, a special type of vitamin -to be exact.

Hermione dropped her head back and stared at the bleak ceiling. Blood slipped up her nostrils and dripped down her throat. A throbbing headache knocked on her skull.

All she’d had to do was take Luna’s blockers. That’s all. But Hermione had been careless, stressed the hell out, and had left the dainty little elixir bottle on her nightstand. The last time she’d taken it was nearly a week ago. And the visions were coming back, full throttle, and royally screwing things up. Again.

Hermione closed her eyes, and was graced by a memory from her own life.

“Two drops. No more. No less,” Luna instructed as she placed an innocent-enough-looking purple vial in Hermione’s palm. She held it, tilted it, watched the liquid swirl around. Her head groaned at even that meager movement.

“And it’ll get rid of the vertigo?” Even though the concoction had been partially of her own making, and at her own request, Hermione was dubious. She shifted nervously on the bed.

“Of course,” Luna stated calmly, even though she’d just performed a pretty primitive form of brain surgery. “The vertigo, the visions, and the hemorrhaging. Take it now, and every day.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Neville and I haven’t agreed on what might happen the next time you have a full immersion. He says brain damage, and paralysis. I’m pretty sure you’ll die.”

Hermione stared for a good long second at her friend, Luna Lovegood, in all her tranquility. If she was bothered by the possibility of Hermione croaking over at the age of 19, she surely didn’t show it. It was all very technical. Just a matter of fact.

“Thanks, Luna,” she grumbled as she opened the vial and used the dropper to plop two drops - no more and no less - onto her tongue. It tasted tart, and her tongue seemed to instantly dry and numb from the contact.

Someone sighed heavily from her left.

“This sucks. The visions were helping,” Ginny grumbled from her perch on a nearby desk. Hermione glanced over at her rather callously.

“Did they help when Harry died?” She drawled, and instantly a boulder of guilt and shame dropped in her stomach. Ginny’s tormented expression immediately turned hot.

“Fuck you, too, Hermione.” There were fresh tears, boiling just at the rim of Ginny’s flame-licked eyes.

“Forgive me if I’d rather not bleed my brains out on the off-chance that my game of peek-a-boo with an alternate universe saves our asses.”

“You know,” Ginny spat, gaze glassy. “You’ve turned into a real ass hole.” With that, Ginny leapt off the desk and stormed out of the medical tent.

Hermione’s head throbbed still, but she had a feeling it had nothing to do with her alternate self. It had everything to do with her, here and now. She sighed and rubbed at her forehead.

“I’m splitting apart, Luna. Those useless visions are splitting me apart. Am I such a monster for wanting them gone?”

“We did save Fred with one of those useless visions,” Luna reminded Hermione quietly.

“Yes, we did,” Hermione groaned, raising her head a little too quickly. Luna’s beet earrings stretched and jiggled oddly in Hermione’s vision. She blinked, and everything stilled. “But that was a year ago. Since then, when their Harry survived and ours didn’t… things are just too different. Their war is different. There’s nothing to predict.”

Luna smiled, surprising Hermione yet again with the unexpected reaction. “But you enjoy seeing him, don’t you?”

Hermione’s eyes stung suddenly, burning with tears she refused to shed. Whether Luna meant Harry, or him, the answer was the same: “Yes.”

She took a sharp, deep breath, and shifted closer to the edge of the bed; eager to get back to work. Even as Luna’s leg inched out, as if to trip Hermione if she even dared try leave.

“But that’s not worth the side effects, as you’ve reminded me time and time again.”

Suddenly, Luna’s inner tranquility was disturbed, and ripples formed on her face. Concern. “That reminds me. Hermione,” she stepped in front of Hermione then, completely blocking off exit. “As much as I recommend this treatment, there are a few things you should know. One, after a few doses food might not taste the same to you.”

Hermione snorted. “Not like the food at this camp is any culinary masterpiece.”

“That’s just taste,” Luna continued on, unaffected, “but other sensations will be dulled, too. You and I both know that this is an inhibitor, to block what we can only really treat as hallucinations. Since they’re triggered by strong emotion-”

“You’ve had to dull sensation.”

Luna frowned. It didn’t look right on her. “Yes.”

“Well then,” Hermione huffed, shoving the vial into her shirt pocket. “That’ll help with the raging ass hole tendencies I’ve been having.”

“In a way,” Luna shrugged. “You might become an apathetic ass hole instead.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione stood up from the bed and dodged Luna’s advances to put her back down.

“Let me know at least a week ahead of time when you’re running low so Neville can prepare a new dosage,” Luna continued on, her voice reaching Hermione at the tent flaps despite how quiet she always was. Like she was being respectful of the air around her. Meanwhile, Hermione kept stomping around. She was done paying respect to a cosmos that obviously cared little about her.

“Of course,” she replied with a nod back at Luna. “Wouldn’t want to experience a withdrawal from this type of drug.”

The withdrawal was a raging ass hole.

She ground her face into cool metal, but the inferno still raged under her skin- cheeks flushed and cells melting. Every little touch of fabric against her flesh - every soft brush of hair against her ear and forehead - the most apologetic bead of sweat on her brow - all of it was at once too much and not enough. Flickers of rough hands on her thighs, rubbing her - a knee between her legs, pressing her. Then, gone, leaving her with jeans that were too hot, too constricting, too indifferent to her needs. She squeezed her thighs together to relieve the pressure. Heaven. Hell. Absolute fucking hell.

With the clink of a door, another level of hell was unlocked.

Hermione sat up, and tried best to compose her face. It was bad enough how she’d been caught in this ungodly place. She refused to have a full-on episode here, of all places.

The first thing she saw was the new Deatheater mask that had been circulating since Voldemort’s victory at the Battle of Hogwarts; a twisted onyx demon’s head rumored to grin or snarl depending on the lighting. The demon’s head belonged to a slender, elegant man whose suit was fine-pressed and tailored to enhance already sharp, sculpted edges.

Her gut whispered the name hidden behind the disguise. The incandescent silver hair, tousled and dangling as it was over the corners of his mask, was the final piece of the puzzle.

Her gut’s whispers morphed into shouts.

Her demon stood at the doorway, body angled in a way that presented the utmost disbelief. After a moment’s consideration, his shoulders shook with a surprised chuckle, and his idle hands shrugged out of his trouser pockets to cross at the waist.

“It truly is she: Lioness of The Order,” the demon breathed in equal parts admiration and amusement.

The voice was singularly satin and shameless. It was singularly him. Draco Malfoy, in the flesh. After years of waltzing around each other on the battlefield, they had finally come to the knife’s edge.

For a reason Hermione did not care to give voice to even in her thoughts, she relaxed at the sight of him. Only to strain against her chains, tense the second one of those Derby-wearing jerks advanced, gearing to enter. Malfoy’s hand shot up, and she caught a glimmer of his family’s crest heavy on his ring finger. ��Something about it churned Hermione’s stomach. And then she realized:

It was his father’s ring.

“Don’t insult her intelligence. I’m the one to deal with her,” Malfoy casually remarked, dismissing his subordinate.

The masked henchman wavered at the doorway. “Lord Malfoy, the guests-”

“-are dull,” Malfoy droned. The other Deatheater began to leave, but then Malfoy snapped his fingers, crippling the other man instantly. “Do not speak a word of this to anyone, not even him - but tell me immediately when he arrives. I’ll inform the Dark Lord myself.”

With that, the Deatheater dipped a bow and left, locking the cell door behind him. Malfoy’s hands resumed their place in his pockets. After another painstakingly long pause, he sauntered over to the table; the only sound being the briefest contact of dragonhide Oxfords to stone, and her calculated, deep breaths. Hermione’s eyes diligently followed his moves like a cornered predator, frustrated she couldn’t strike out and tear off that hideous mask.

Her vision contracted and contorted; grotesquely the mask melted off and Draco was there, stripped raw and sweet and smiling. He was naked for her to see, and steel chains softened to sheets and pillows. His hand was on her cheek, stroking it so gently it didn’t even sting the bruise there. His other hand was somewhere south, between them-

“Beautiful.”

Oh, with searing clarity, Hermione knew exactly where Draco’s hand had gone. She tasted blood in her mouth; the effect of biting down hard. Her nostrils flared, and Hermione blinked rapidly, tugged at the chains just to feel the sharp reality of knives at her skin - trying her damnedest to focus. This was how she’d gotten in trouble the first time around.

Malfoy brushed aside the designated seat he traditionally sat in. Instead, he approached closer to his prey, and sat on the edge of the table. His knee brushed against her leg. Hermione’s thigh twitched. She ignored the much more bothersome muscle spasms in… other regions of her body.

“What a serendipitous meeting,” Malfoy sighed happily, finally pulling off the mask- but not the disguise. He placed the demon’s head on the table, and turned his true form to her. The face of Narcissus grinned smugly.

“To think, my Lord will be here in less than a few minutes to dine, and here you are. A darling little gift.”

“Still a kiss-ass, I see,” Hermione sneered, determined to still her heart as he laughed. This wasn’t Draco, her husband. This wasn’t Draco, rummaging around in her head, caressing skin and thoughts only he knew. This was Malfoy, her enemy. This was Malfoy, the rising Deatheater whose torture methods were precise and vile.

“The rumors are false, then,” he had calmed the riot, and was back to staring at her. His gaze was falsely omniscient, stoic face parting slightly to reveal nostalgia. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“I wouldn’t test that theory.”

“I have a better theory to test out,” Malfoy stated languidly, and crossed his legs between hers. Hermione shifted uncomfortably, receiving a positively gloating expression from her nemesis.

“Say, how about we construct a hypothesis together,” he continued. “If you’re here at Malfoy Manor, then…”

His eyebrows rose expectantly at her. Hermione gave him her best presentation of absolute boredom. “...I must be here for the festivities.”

“Null hypothesis.” He rejected her briskly with a wave of the hand. That same hand, smooth by an absolute disregard for work, slithered to her chained wrist. Carefully, inquisitively, he ran his finger through a small pearl of blood that poked out from her shackle. It took just that momentary touch to send nerves on overdrive, sparks in her vision making her glitch. The shackles exchanged for human hands - his hands - wrapped tightly around her wrists, pressing them down into the sheets, knuckles banging against the headboard.

Hermione clenched her jaw, dug her nails into her own palms. The pain brought her back to her unfortunate reality.

“Data says you hate parties, especially of the distinguished variety. So, let’s try again: if you’re here at Malfoy Manor, then…”

Hermione offered Malfoy only her glare as answer. She wasn’t going to play his games.

He smirked, as though thoroughly enjoying the thoughts in her head. “...then you must have known that the Dark Lord would be here. Are you alone?”

“No,” Hermione bit out, and then cried out; the chains constricted with python accuracy around her wrists, crushing bone. It was then that she thought to really look at the cuffs that held her captive. Just in time, she saw a snake’s form slither across her wrist, before settling down into a less animated, steel form. Its eyes were the locks, glinting at her.

“Alone, then,” Malfoy boasted while she ogled her restraints. She pursed her lips, aggravated.

“Upgrades have taken place, I see,” she commented coolly, trying to keep herself together. Her head was still so very much on fire. Hermione was certain she wouldn’t have screamed out so before, if not for the ridiculous overload of neurons firing off in all directions. They didn’t know what to do with themselves, after so long a slumber. It seemed they’d decided to punish her.

“Oh, yes,” Malfoy replied with a nod. “We’ve noticed an increase in truth serum immunity. Your work, I suppose.”

“And this is your work, I suppose,” Hermione retorted tartly. Conceited, and far too ready to brag about his achievements, Malfoy beamed at her.

“Yes, it constricts whenever you lie. It’s simplified matters greatly.” Malfoy sighed, leaning into her space- as if to confide in her some deep, dark secret he was ashamed of. Absurd. The glint in his eyes was filled with darkness- but it was no secret. It was all laid out there, for all to see. It was his light he hid. It was his light that kissed her mouth and whispered love onto her throat and chest. It was love he hid.

“You see, I don’t like jumping into torture. Lacks finesse.”

Hermione swallowed hard against all the things she wanted to yell at this man, to claw into his wretched face- all in hopes of clawing through to the man he could be. To the man whose body was not afraid to touch hers, to love hers, to be beside hers.

When Hermione did not say anything, a very uncharacteristic behavior that nearly rattled Malfoy, he prattled on.

“So, you’re alone. No weapons found on you,” Malfoy listed, waiting for something to flash to the surface of Hermione’s eyes. She refused to satisfy him. He snickered. “Peculiar, as having the pureblood families and the Dark Lord himself here seems the ideal opportunity for assassination.”

“It would seem that way,” Hermione replied monotonously. Her body, however, refused to remain unmoved. Beads of sweat were licking the sides of her face, and down the nape of her neck. She could feel a tongue chasing after them, a mouth drinking her up. Hermione resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, to disappear completely into that other world- just out of reach. Just-

Instead, Hermione held Malfoy’s dissecting gaze steadily, challenging it to find fault in her.

“To think,” he murmured, the corner of his lip twisted upwards in something he must’ve thought was a smile. His right leg unhooked from his left, and drifted closer to her. “Your unknown plans were thwarted by... what was it again?” Malfoy’s shoe brushed against the side of her bare foot, successfully distracting her from the real danger- his hands. In the split second it took for Hermione to look down at their legs, Malfoy’s palms were electric on her knees. Fingers dug into the beginnings of her thigh, beginning a lightstorm beneath her skin.

“Ah, yes,” Malfoy breathed heavily onto her cheek as she jerked in her chair, teeth snapping down on her lip. “Cries of pleasure.”

His hands stroked upwards and everything burst; Draco was sliding over her body. Hands at her thighs, firm and tugging, pressing them around his waist. She was all loose limbs, curling and hugging him; as was he. He was everywhere, except the one place she desperately wanted him most. His breath pressed hot on her neck. His tongue pressed soft on her collarbone. His teeth pressed hard on her shoulder. He pressed bold into her-

Hermione threw her head back and moaned unwillingly. White ceiling stared down at her, a great smile in the sky- laughing at her.

Successful in his endeavors, Malfoy’s body retracted from hers. “How interesting,” he marveled with eyes wide as he observed Hermione’s writhing. She took deep breaths, counting to ten, trying to calm herself.

“I’d heard you were blocking your visions,” he mused, leaning back casually as Hermione struggled for control of her own mind and senses. Even the slight shuffle of fabric as he moved was jarring and crude to her ears and eyes.

“Of course, you shouldn’t be talking about those things to people, Granger,” Malfoy reprimanded her as though she were a child. “Puts an incredibly large target on your back, and makes you seem rather mad. I’ve kept my visions quite under lock and key. Probably too late for you to do the same.”

Those words cut through the noise quite efficiently. Hermione stilled in her struggles and eyed Draco. She was still panting, feverish, but she knew what she’d heard. “What- you?- How did you hear that?”

Then, as the withdrawal went into a short, blissful remission, reason explained it all. That demon head on the table leered at her, jogging her thought process back to life. Those masks were being employed again not just for intimidation, but for anonymity.

“You planted a spy in my camp.” Why did she sound so offended?

Malfoy’s lips twitched and he leaned in, winking. “Spies, darling. Plural. And we have spies in every camp we’ve found, so don’t feel too special. Can’t have this rebellion overstaying its welcome, now can we?”

It was clear he enjoyed his effect on her. It was like watching a cocoon rattle and crack. Something beautiful and fragile was guaranteed to come out. Neither of them seemed sure if he wanted her to rise, or to crush her under his shoe.

“Have you no heart?”

Malfoy’s chest puffed up, and the way he filled in his suit was far too pleasing. Hermione pressed her nails down into the freshly dried cuts on her palms.

“Heart is weakness, and I’ve strived hard to gut it out.”

Draco’s eyes, full of love, overwhelmed her vision for a moment. In the next, it was struck down by Malfoy’s cruelty.

“Narcissa Malfoy would be so proud.” She hadn’t meant to say it. Had been biting down on it. But something had to be let go. So, out it came. No malice. Pity.

It had the effect of a knife to the back. Malfoy shot up from his lethargic position, and claws dug into her arms as he leaned over her. “You have no right to that name,” he spat. So close, Hermione saw something shimmer just beneath the collar of his shirt. A necklace. The fine imprint of a ring just to the side of one of his buttons, blanketed like something cherished. She felt the warmth of sheets around her, and Draco’s hands soothed where Malfoy’s claws stung.

“You must miss her,” she breathed, her voice thick and throat tight. The image of his face - Malfoy’s face - flooded her mind, from four years prior, as his mother was in a blink, alive and pleading on the steps of Hogwarts and, in the next, a falling ragdoll. Lifeless on the floor. He’d looked so broken in that moment; fine porcelain shattered, as though he’d been thrown to the ground with her. This was a face she’d never seen on Draco before, nor had she since. His mother was alive and well, protected by the Order.

Malfoy’s mother wasn’t even buried in the Malfoy’s mausoleum.

“She was a traitor,” Malfoy answered coldly, and promptly recoiled from her.

“She was your mother,” Hermione asserted, refusing the polished mask he still kept on to hide his shattered pieces.

“And for that, she was executed. Her love for me blinded her, made her rash. She should have known lying on Harry Potter’s behalf was absolute folly. Between her and what you did to my father,” the last words spat venom in Hermione’s face. In her defense, it had been her alter-ego who’d put Lucius Malfoy into a - well-deserved - coma. “I’ve learned quickly. I’ve done my damnedest to climb this filthy ladder, swearing my allegiance in every cursed way. This is a game of survival, and I am thriving. Thriving! I have everything I could dream of.”

His arms were spread out wide, as though the room surrounding him would be the best example of a healthy life. His pupils were dilated, wild and hungry black holes, a Malfoy’s lustful ambition apparent in their disastrous depths. He was as much his father as he was his mother, and that is what tore and splintered his spirit. He had yet to learn the balance, as Draco had. Because of this, he was quickly consuming everything in his wake, and would continue to cave in on himself.

She eyed him carefully. “Power?”

The black holes shuddered in ecstasy, his hands crunched into knuckles- seizing something from the air. “Yes,” he hissed vehemently. It collided with the exquisite moaned yes of Draco. Hermione let out a stuttering breath, in awe and in fear of the stark contrast in sound.

“How can you be this way, when you’ve seen what I’ve seen?” She whispered, truly mystified. Malfoy’s face twisted, arms lowered to his sides. He seemed almost insulted.

“How can you?” He retorted bluntly. “You collected quite the nasty kill tally over the last three years.” Malfoy was practically purring praise at her, and his hand idly pushed a wet curl from her face, tucked it behind her ear. Grinned when her ear flushed at the touch. “Yet... by some twist of fate, she’s a bit of a saint, isn’t she? And you’ve got the makings of a demon.”

His hand still lingered at her hair. Hermione fumed and twisted her neck away from him. Unfazed, fingers floated down to her shoulder, and squeezed. A reassuring massage. A warning.

“War makes nightmares of us all,” Hermione grit out, pushing back the waves of emotion pounding at her skull and spine. Contact made it all so much worse. “I’m fighting my demons.”

His thumb trailed down her collarbone, up her throat; scattered lightning across her skin. Even if she didn’t scream, Malfoy felt the tremors beneath his fingertips. His hold on her tightened possessively.

“But wouldn’t it be more fun to befriend them, as I have?”

The words slithered into her ears, snakes hissing reckless thoughts into existence. Thoughts of both his hands on her - his, not Draco’s. Not the sweet, broken saint of a man who fought beside her alter-ego in another life; whose hands were calloused by hard work and sacrifice; whose words were filled with more kindness than malice; who drank in her kisses and her body like a fine wine. She wanted to know first-hand the jolting difference between that man and this one; whose hands were soft and greedily strong; whose words could charm the devil into submission; who would swallow her down like shots of firewhiskey.

“You know,” Malfoy murmured, his thumb pressing down at the roof of her throat, “you could befriend the demons, if you just gave me information willingly about why you’re here, about your camp… without the unnecessary torture to both you, physically, and me emotionally-”

His words had inadvertently woken Hermione up to her wits. She snorted as his request.

“-You might find yourself with a comfortable place within these walls.”

Hermione cackled, but it came out rough with Malfoy’s thumb still confining her airways. “These exact walls? I don’t think so.”

“You know what I meant, Granger.”

With strength she’d been reserving, Hermione jerked her head back, pulling away from his grasp. That one motion had her brain rattling around in her skull. She sturdied her expression to remain aloof. “And you obviously don’t know how wretched your master is to mudbloods.”

Malfoy’s nose spasmed. He was starting to get annoyed. Good. “Things can be overlooked. After all, we have a werewolf-”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, a sinister smirk on her face. The demon Malfoy so adored stirred in her belly. “Had.”

There was a spark of respect, and the figment of a smile. “I see. They didn’t report that to me.”

She rolled her eyes, and leaned back in her seat. To her pleasure, this unsettled Malfoy. “Why would they? He was, after all, a werewolf. Your kind don’t care much for his kind. He had a name, you know. Fenrir Greyback. Another tally.”

“You could easily fill his place.” Malfoy was still trying to convince her. He was better off torturing her.

“And easily die in his place?” She scoffed. “Disposable? I don’t think so. Besides, I’d rather die a martyr than a rancid Deatheater.”

That nose of his twitched again, and twisted. A nasty wrinkle formed between his brows. She was getting under his skin. It was absolutely delightful.

“Just answer the questions I have for you.”

She didn’t respond well to demands.

“Kill me, and then I’ll talk.”

“I’ll call your bluff, dear,” Malfoy seethed.

Hermione went completely slack, at ease. When Malfoy so clearly was not.

“Come closer, and see if I’m bluffing.”

As expected, Malfoy let his petulance get in the way. He stood up and stepped between her legs, thighs crudely pushing against each other until hers were spread apart enough for him to tower over her. His arms shot out to either side of her head, grabbing the chair hard enough to make already pale knuckles bleach completely of color. At this angle, he was staring straight down into the soul of her, long strands of silver tickling at her forehead. He’d meant to intimidate her. He’d meant to terrify her with an invasion of the most personal sense, of mind and body. He’d meant to say:

“Don’t test me, Granger.”

Except, Hermione had other plans.

She sprang up at him. Her lips collided with his in a kiss that slammed him into her world- the one that was splintered glass of all other worlds besides this one, in each shard an image of what they could’ve been: allies, friends, lovers, incorrigibly happy and free of this nonsense. She kissed him onto a bed, with springs that knew just where to fall and rise from years of use. She kissed him under sheets, and there he was Draco. He was all hands and lips and hips. Hands pulled her body to his whenever the world threatened to move her away, bruised fingerprints onto every part of her, lathered in her affection and squeezed out more and more of it. Lips swallowed moans and tattooed adoration on her skin, leaving marks and trails of ashes where blood once was. Hips rocked through waves, thrashed against hers without fear of losing himself in her depths.

And she was warmth and love, wrapped around him, shielding and bathing him in hope.

She’d meant to pull away, but Malfoy grabbed at her shoulders. He deepened the kiss hungrily, tongue invading her and searching out more of the pleasure she was miraculously giving him. He pressed into her, his knee a blunt hiss of pressure between her legs. Her fingers brushed against the his coat, felt the outline of a wand-

Malfoy tore away from her, nearly knocked the table over with the force of it. Hermione’s fingers clutched angrily at the air.

“Perhaps the rumors have some merit after all,” Malfoy murmured, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand. Hermione noted the flare of red in his cheeks, the swollen ruby of his lips. She wanted to see that color spill out of him, for her. “That was quite Slytherin of you, Granger.”

She grinned, and something about it made Malfoy snarl.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Unconsciously, Malfoy leaned in again, lust and… something else in his eyes. Hermione arched forward in her seat, egging him on. His lips were just there, inching closer to hers; kissable, bitable. She wanted to make him scream.

His breath fell like smoke. Even though it was bad for her, Hermione breathed him in.

And then she breathed him out.

“Let me go, Draco.” the words were soft, tender. Hopeful. They had no place in this hostile room, where shrill cries lived in the walls and blood was hidden in the floors. They had no place in this gruelling world of hers. They belonged elsewhere, in a kinder world. One she and Malfoy were only ever welcome to in the briefest of moments. A dream, nearing illusion.

Complete delusion.

“Let you go?” Malfoy said just as softly, tenderly, salivating from the hope of it; there was a tinge of sadness in there somewhere, too. Just beneath want. This close, Hermione could see when he took a turn for the worse, his eyes turning at once from water to ice.

“Let you go? If that little tryst assured me of anything, is that I’m never letting you go.”

Swiftly, Draco was slipping out of reach. Hermione’s body felt like it was spinning in place.

“Please-”

Malfoy removed himself from the situation, stepping away from Hermione. Allowing her to seethe alone. “Don’t beg. It’s beneath you and I both.”

The price she had to pay for that small trip to heaven was worse than hell. Her skin howled at her, enraged and aflame. Her skull might as well have been completely splitting down the middle. She reckoned it was, peeling from the forehead down to the end of her spine. She needed the elixir.

Hostile energy drove her to insane measures. She thrashed in the chair, yanking at the chains- not caring when the needles sprang out and stabbed into her.

“LET ME GO!” She screeched, the demand bloodcurdling to anyone but Malfoy.

He was at the side of the table now, toying with his mask; it was snarling now. He spoke to it, rather than her. “But then we’d lose our guest of honor. My Lord has been waiting to hear of this alternate universe of yours.”

“Don’t you do that,” Hermione hissed, her hair clinging to her skin now. The sweat accumulating on her did nothing to tranquilize the heat. She felt ready to burst into flames. Still, her eyes locked onto Malfoy, demanding he look at her. “Don’t you shut yourself off again. If you wanted him to know, you’d tell him yourself.”

Malfoy sighed. “But you see, I can’t. I locked that wretched door a long time ago, Granger. It’s been at least two years since my last vision, excluding that rather... stimulating one just now.”

“Elixirs?” She guessed, frustrated but at once intrigued. Perhaps he’d have one on him, one she could snatch. She’d take it now, over his wand.

He shook his head, and remained neutral. He might as well have put the demon’s head back on.

“You might not have control over your own mind, but I do, Granger. I cannot be forced to see anything, nor do I care to see it.”

How could he lie to himself so fully? How, when his mother was pressed to his chest and his kiss had left traces of longing and desperation on her lips? How could he be so opposite the man who denied himself nothing, loved with all he could, and refused to give into darkness?

Hermione howled with rage, and slammed her fists against the armrests. Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up at that.

“You do care! Damn it, you can’t hide under that mask. You don’t have to be this person! You don’t have to pretend you’re heartless! You loved your family fiercely, your friends, you have a heart as strong as mi-”

Her body convulsed. Luna’s warnings wrapped around her skull and squeezed. She tried to focus on the wrapping of arms around her; the shudder of emptiness and depth of filling over and over; the press of a firm body on hers; the tightness in her belly as ecstasy mount to a euphoric level Hermione had not yet experienced in this life; the clamoring of nails against skin and cries of pleasure.

Her body and mind was being torn apart, but a piece of her moaned in rapture of the divine mess her life had become. She caved in on herself, felt blood drip down her nose and kiss her lips in Draco’s place.

Malfoy was on her immediately, hands ice on her shoulders as he pulled her up and examined her. Was that concern on his face, or just wishful thinking?

“How full of feeling you are,” he remarked quietly, in reverence and wonder.

Hermione wanted to sneer at him, but lacked the control of muscles. She didn’t bother fighting it when he placed a handkerchief to her nose, and wiped the blood away.

“And you, devoid,” she muttered bitterly. His responding laughter pulsed through her like calm waves. Deceptively calm. Hermione knew better; there was a rip current in there.

“You’re about to make me blush with such compliments,” he replied imperviously. “Alas, I have not succeeded just yet in that endeavor. I simply have control over my emotions. And you,” Malfoy finished cleaning the blood and poked a finger at her nose, “not.”

Now, Hermione had the strength to grimace. “It’s you who’s about to make me blush.”

Malfoy barked out a much harsher laugh then, before carefully placing her into pristine condition again, properly seated. He placed that same finger that touched her to his lips, and grinned something wistful. “What a fascinating creature you are,” he mumbled. “To not have gone completely mad with all the mess in your head.”

She fought hard to keep her head from rolling back; exhaustion was now the one hitting her in waves. “I’ve been told I’m good at compartmentalizing,” she grunted snidely. “Example: my feelings for him, versus my feelings for you. My greatest accomplishment.”

Those bright, mischievous eyes of his turned dark then, with envy. She had yet to see this color on him, a tarnishing of silver that left it looking green and rusted with filthy intentions. He gave curt huff of breath, meant to be something of a laugh, and his lips twitched up just enough to warrant the title of a smile. A ragged sigh escaped his lips and then Malfoy wrangled his mussed hair, placed it back into place.

She watched him, her alarms ringing and warning her not to drift off, as he walked predatorily, pensively around the room. He was reminding her that she was not the apex predator here. This was not her den. This was his. And while she was here, she was his.

A chill ran down her spine; an unwanted reminder that she was not in fact paralyzed or dead from the visions.

Malfoy had made it a quarter a way around the room, and paused in front of the mirrors. His image reflected around her an infinite amount of times; each one a more menacing, tempting enhancement of the last. To think, there could be as many worlds out there, with each of these reflections cast upon them. At least she knew of one where Draco Malfoy was good, and kind, and hers.

“It is your birthday, isn’t it?” Malfoy asked, drawing her back from longing reveries.

“Yes,” she responded, highly suspicious of the question. Malfoy nodded, and continued his path around the room. She fought the urge to turn her head; that would show fear, intrigue. Hermione felt both, but refused to display either.

Suddenly, Malfoy’s lips were at her ears, his arms dripping like tar down her chest. Languidly, he pressed a round, cold and heavy object into her palm with such care Hermione suspected foolishly for a moment it was his heart. When Malfoy’s hand crept away, dragging fingers up her lower arm and curling around the bend of her elbow, a galleon presented itself to Hermione.

“A birthday present,” he murmured low and lecherous. She swore she felt the flicker of a tongue at the rim of her ear.

“It’s a coin,” she said, though he must’ve known. Another game, and she the toy.

“A deal,” Malfoy corrected with a hum in his voice; it promised wonders and terrors, believed them both to be the same. “A deal in the form of a little game of chance.”

Hermione’s body rejected such a notion, and Malfoy chuckled at the tension in her neck; at how her pulse quickened with anger; how her hand twitched to throttle the coin at the opposite side of the room.

“Ah, there she is. The Hermione Granger who despises leaving things up to chance, to fate. Divination was always such a sore spot with you. Quite ironic, your situation then. Do you ever stop to laugh at it, darling? Hmm?”

Hermione formed a fist around the coin, her palm hot rage against the cool, indifferent metal. A perfect analogy for her relationship with Fate. She, who struggled against Fate’s strings and unwitting tied herself a noose. And Fate, who gladly yanked and hung her victim every time.

“What are we flipping for?” Hermione composed herself, remained calm in the midst of the inferno.

Suddenly, his hands were snares at her waist. His mouth feral at her ear, hissing. “We’re not them, Hermione.”

“We could be.” She wasn’t sure where she’d gathered the breath to speak.

“And tails?”

His hands dragged up her stomach, scratching at her innards.

An old curiosity of hers bubbled to the surface. It was the hunger to learn more about good and evil, about the human condition. How long into the night, and early morning, had she stayed awake reading of demons and saints? How often had she wrestled with the notions of primitive evil versus its evolution, and possible regression?

Could Malfoy be nurtured back to the Draco she’d seen the day his mother had died, still so full of flaws but still so full of humanity? Could she sculpt him into the man who cried out her name so devotedly in the moments of bliss? Could he do it on his own, with time?

And how often did she lay awake, fear’s chills running down her spine and sweat suffocating her pores, wondering if she was capable of darkness; if the elixirs had turn her far too apathetic to pain and death; if the visions had torn her limb from limb and rearranged her innards, twisting her into madness; if perhaps she was born to be this creature- raging and inflaming. If fate was truly her enemy, or if she herself was.

“Flip it, Granger,” he dowsed her thoughts in gasoline, his hands more like shackles than the ones she wore. Her heart was in her throat, and Malfoy knew it; teeth bared and ready to bite down the moment he’d won.

He couldn’t win.

She flipped the coin and caught it in her hand. Hermione peered down at her fate.

“Heads,” she announced inaudibly.

The snakes at her wrists tightened. They were nothing to the hold Malfoy had on her.

“Tails, it is.”

#again due to deletion and url rerouting hell i had to repost #sigh.jpg #dhredit

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