Chapter 9. I'd know that sent anywhere.
Draco could not believe his mother, had he not made it
abundantly clear to her that Grainger wasn't to be trusted.
Yet here the audacious little Gryffindor was, rifling through
his private works, hurried and determined and looking like
she'd just been caught mid. Fuck.
He cracked his jaw. I, well, I was.
Granger searched for an explanation while Draco followed
his shadow further into the room, engulfing her in his void.
I know just what you were thinking.
He menaced, coming around the desk to loom right over her.
She was a head shorter than him, minus the mane.
Her cheeks were red as apples, full and round.
The vague thought of biting into them was shuttered away quickly.
You were thinking that while the cat's away, the mouse would
play. Find anything interesting?
She lifted her chin to him defiantly, and Salazar, all he
wanted to do was punish her for defying him, hold her by the
chin and bring her to her knees. Nope, no, none of that.
She's your fucking ward for Merlin's sake, and is not in her
right mind. Her chocolate eyes were molten
as she glared at him with her crossed arms, unwavering.
Such a brat. I found nothing pertaining to
our work here, which I'm sure we should be getting on with,
right, Malfoy? Granger hesitated, her cords
quivering. She was testing him.
Our work. He sneered.
Granger, all you need to concern yourself with is staying alive
and enjoying the finery that I have so graciously bestowed upon
you. Her chest was heaving, she was
riled up, and his mind flashed with thoughts of her atop him,
that blouse completely undone, panting, grinding, moaning his
name. Oh, fuck off.
Draco stored that vision away for safekeeping.
So what? She said as her voice rose.
You make a deal with the Order of the Phoenix to have me here,
just to, to turn me into your little pet.
She was searching, seeking, needing more from him, but
Mcgonigal had been clear when Granger suddenly disappeared
from the safe house they'd been holed up in, luggage left
behind. No note.
Concern bloomed. The evening before she had been
clear headed and had been revising the plans.
He could imagine her now studying her research documents
in the same unbelievably sexy way she would in Hogwarts
library with her intense brow furrowed expression.
She had convinced the Weasleys for the 10th time why she needed
to stay at Malfoy Manor while they worked undisturbed on the
new spell and the amount of her lives they could save by doing
so. The back and forth teleportation
had been complicated, and the death of his father had only
increased the level of scrutiny he was under, both from fellow
Death Eaters and from the Dark Lord himself.
Yes, he had been made Dark Commander, but Draco wasn't
naive enough to think that this wasn't more than him being kept
on a tight leash. Draco knew more than he should
about the Dark Lord's weaknesses, had seen him sipping
the Unicorn blood revitalization concoctions he'd had Sloughhorn
make for him, even having Avery torture the poor bloke for
stronger stuff before the light had left his eyes for good.
Need I remind you that this whole ceasefire was your idea in
the 1st place? As you should recall, I was
deeply against it. Hermione chewed her lip at this
information, and it took all of his control not to steal the
plump delight from between her teeth.
He continued teasingly toeing the line.
You even used the elves against me, got them all excited about
having a daily houseguest that they could feed and make the bed
for. Don't go making out now like I
ever wanted this. Then what is it that you want,
Draco? Hermione broke composure, her
hands flying up in surrender. He could taste Poppy's apple pie
on her ragged breath as she practically yelled his given
name, and fuck if it didn't just make him want to drag his tongue
against hers. Before he could stop himself, he
brought a hand to her throat and pushed her backwards.
In less than a second, he had her pinned against the
bookshelves lining the walls. Her breath hitched, eyes of
surprise and desire. She hadn't even tried to stop
him. Another button had burst from
her blouse, a lace white bra peeking through.
Salazar, give me strength. Holding firm but with care, he
pressed his thumb right into the soft flesh of a collarbone
crook. He brought his mouth down to
hers, silver and chocolate eyes locked in a delectable swirl,
and whispered hoarsely. I want you, Grainger.
Here, where I can keep an eye on you.
You are mine now. Beneath his thumb, he felt her
pulse quicken at the commanding words.
The energy between them sparked and cracked like a potion
reaction, and his cock had grown so solid she could almost
certainly be able to feel it against her core while he
pressed into her. It was intoxicating, being so
close to her while her heartbeat sung out to him like a wardrum.
She swallowed, drew her intense glare from his and looked down.
I'd like to leave, please. She said through tight lips as
quiet as a mouse, heart rate still pounding.
He had frightened her. The spell was broken and he
stepped back, trying to bring as much distance between her and
his throbbing cock as he could manage.
I'm glad we finally understand each other.
He intoned coldly, and without looking her in the eye again, he
escorted her silently out of the room.
Drako Malfoy is a cruel, heartless, mean fucking bully,
Hermione fumed as she stormed the corridor toward her bedroom,
trying to blow off some of the steam she felt brewing inside
her. Draco Malfoy is the most
infuriating, the most entitled, the most demanding, fucking
stupid Slytherin aristocrat I've ever met.
Hermione slammed the bedroom door behind her, the sound
echoing down the corridor, and she threw herself down on the
bed. Draco Malfoy is, her inner voice
trailed off, something else that had been building up inside her
taking control. Trico is.
Hermione felt her core pulse. Her nipples were hard and
scraping against her bra. Her sex was soaking wet from the
way he'd just handled her. This was all his fault and the
pressure was too great. She surrendered and quickly
popped open her blouse, unclasped her bra, and unleashed
her tender breasts from their cage.
Grabbing a large silk pillow and drawing it into her face, she
slipped one hand down her pants and circled her drenched clit.
Oh gods. She moaned into the pillow as
she lathered her wetness all over her sex.
She felt so sensitive, so needy, so desperate.
The way he'd looked at her. Yes.
She rubbed slowly up and down her wet folds, then increased
her speed, focusing on her engorged nub, the way he'd held
her in his grasp. I.
Fuck Malfoy, fuck. She let go of the pillow and
held fast to her own throat, just like he had done.
He'd held her there, so softly yet so firmly, strong, long arms
securing her. Hermione traced a line down from
her throat to her tight, dark nipple and squeezed.
Her cunt clenched in delight, the way he'd commanded her, the
way he told her that she was his.
Please. Fuck, Draco, she panted as she
writhed all over the bed, the pillow now gone, one hand
twisting her nipple, eliciting a delicious pain, the other hand
rubbing her clip with complete abandoned.
She was lost in the desire. He'd set a blaze between them.
It had felt so good for someone else to take the reins, even for
a moment, even when she couldn't stand them.
She was always the one with the plan, the one who had to decide.
He was in charge now, and she felt her release bubbling under
the surface. She placed two fingers by her
entrance, teasing the rim as her thumb grazed her clit, then
pushed them deep within, curling them toward her perfect spot,
the way his hard cock would feel inside her.
Oh fuck, Draco, she cried aloud as she fell off the edge of her
climax coming undone in her hand, visions of a school bully
pumping into her still rabid in her mind.
Her cunt contracted around her fingers in rhythmic steps, like
descending a stairway from heaven.
With each beat, each step towards earth or hell, she felt
more and more ashamed. Her chin began to quiver as the
pleasure subsided. She curled up into a ball on the
bed, guilt ridden, tears leaking into her pillow.
Draco Malfoy is the Death Eater that murdered my best friend.
Draco Malfoy must die. August 1st, 1998.
Dawn Nocturne Alley. Why, why, why did I say that to
Grainger? All possessive and dark.
For fuck's sake, Malfoy, he swore it himself, not for the
first time since their altercation last night as he
strode along Nocturne Alley's cobblestones.
He wanted to put her in her place, sure, had wanted to make
sure that anyone looking into her mind wouldn't be able to
question his loyalty to the regime.
But with Grainger acting the part of the imprisoned war hero
and he her malevolent captor, Fuck if it didn't make him feel
like they were playing the greatest game of role play ever.
But this wasn't a game. She isn't playing the game.
Looking into her eyes in the study, she really seemed lost,
too willing to cave underneath him.
The dawn light shone down in patches through the alley's
crooked awnings, and the muggy summer air was thick with the
scent of damp stone. The usual murmur of hush
transactions had yet to begin, leaving the alley eerily silent
save for the occasional creak of a shutter or the rustle of a
stray rat. Draco crossed the broken doorway
of Borgin and Burke's magical renovations still under way.
Ah, look who it is, a wolfish grin remarked.
Caught off guard and pulled from his internal scoldings, Draco
found Greyback by the counter of the front shop.
The prolific werewolf with a punchiant for grizzly drawn out
executions and a taste for the young had filled the small room
with his oppressive form, his musty, unwashed wet dog aroma
sitting heavy in the air. Draco didn't consider himself a
short man, far from it really, but when Fenrir Grayback towered
over him, he felt like a first year watching the giant squid
emerge from the lake for the first time.
Beside him were three equally rough looking men, not too much
older than Draco, who at least had the sense to look sheepish
in his presence. He had to admit, in his Dark
Commander regalia he could cut an imposing figure.
Sometimes even he forgot that one year ago he was a Hogwarts
student of 17 years. Not that his last year at school
had provided much by the way of academic education, but it had
bestowed upon him some other rather valuable lessons.
Voldemort had wanted direct reports of the happenings and
whisperings from inside Hogwarts, not only from the
Headmaster and his lackeys, the Carrows, but also from Draco,
any signs of Potter, insights from torturing his fellow
students or even any potential descent of so-called allies.
After his hesitation in the Astronomy Tower to fell his old
headmaster, Draco's father had impressed upon him with equal
parts desperation and fury the seriousness of their tremulous
position in the Dark Lord's graces.
In the end, it had been Snape who had saved him from
Voldemort's wrath, who had expressed the continued benefit
of having a student at Hogwarts to gain information on his peers
and their families, especially 1, so esteemed by the Dark Lord
himself. One week in November, he had
arrived home by flu powder for a congregation with nothing to
share. It hadn't concerned him too
greatly at the time. The Order, along with their
offspring still foolish enough to be at Hogwarts, had gone
quiet after their inept attempt to steal the Sword of
Gryffindor, during which time Draco couldn't glean any useful
information for the Dark Lord short of fabricating something.
He should have fabricated something, anything.
The Dark Lord had chosen to publicly punish Draco for this
transgression, and he had braced himself for the Crucio.
Yet the sting did not come. Instead, his own mother was
taken as his proxy, and the brute Greyback, who had been
working rather loudly and bloodily to climb the ranks of
Voldemort's court, was given the honour of enacting the penalty.
Ave. poor friends, Greyback had howled through gleefully bad
teeth. For the remainder of the
assembly, Draco's mother had been tortured under the
imperious Curse. He had watched as the beautiful,
refined and dignified Lady Malfoy divested herself of the
majority of her fine garments and was passed around every
Death Eater in her ballroom. The same room only five months
later, Granger lay screaming for her life on its blood stained
floor. Voldemort had hardly been
present to the vile machinations of his supporters.
He simply sat there, staring at his old wand as he stroked his
giant snake Nagini on the raised musician's bandstand.
Aunt Bellatrix had been in mirth, fuelled hysterics right
by his side, and Snape had stood by his other, his expression an
impenetrable mask of cold detachment.
The men and women of the rabble excitedly fondled and groped at
his mother's flesh. He watched as Theo took hold of
his mother in an embrace, whispering something into her
ear and stroking her hair for as long as the crowd would allow.
Draco couldn't react, couldn't continue watching the dregs of
society pour at the woman who had given him life.
All he could do was stare glacial shards at his father,
willing him to do something, anything.
Lucius Malfoy had just looked to the floor, a pathetic excuse for
a man. The Dark Lord had tired of the
gratuitous display the moment he was pulled from his own reverie
and had allowed Narcissa to vacate her ballroom alone, fine
clothes still strewn across the black and white tiled floor.
When Draco next saw his mother the morning after, she was as
put together as she had ever been.
But when she smiled at him, it was only with the muscles of her
face. The warmth and the light in her
eyes had been extinguished. Draco had failed his mother that
night. He would not do so again.
For all future assemblies. He came armed with the only
weapon he had. Information.
Some coerced, some tortured, some even planted in the minds
of his fellow Slytherins and entirely of his own imagination.
Legilimency lessons from Headmaster Snape had helped him
weedle out fact from fiction, and it was that same school year
that his favorite teacher had offered to share with him his
own method of occlamacy, one even the Dark Lord had been
unable to penetrate. Returning to the present, Drako
responded curtly. Gray back, what brings you and
your pups to Nocturne Alley? And so early in the day.
Oh, this and that, he replied, toying with a broken bauble from
a dusty shelf. Run along you 3, Malfoy and me
have something to discuss, The yobs hunched past Draco, tails
between their legs. I see you've got your new
recruits well trained, intoned Draco.
Ha, he grunted gruffly. Not in a show of dominance an
acclaiming can't achieve. Oh, Draco had heard all about
these claiming events. Barbaric werewolf raw dogging
under the full moon, Fight back and die a gruesome death.
Be ripped apart limb from limb as your blood was used as a
lubricant. Graybach's mind was as unguarded
as he was vocal about his particular predilections.
Draco made a conscious effort to not delve into it too often.
I'll pick something up when you came in.
What's there on you arse knell? Well, fuck.
Graybach took a humongous sniff of the air around him.
Then, as if to feast on more, he came right up to Draco's chest
and grabbed his cloak, rubbing his grubby nose all over his
robes. I am not a handkerchief.
He scowled at the brute, attempting to pull his cloak
from the man's grasp while slipping his hand into his wand
pocket. Oh, oh, oh.
The werewolf shuddered with pleasure.
I'd know that scent anywhere, Been dreaming of it ever since
we clucked him from the forest. You got her then?
I haven't a clue what you're talking about, and if you don't
unhand me now, you'll be leaving here without your hands.
Draco seethed. Now now, you little rat, you
can't be keeping her to yourself, not telling the Dark
Lord. We all want a taste of her, and
I'm first in line for that tasty fucking cunt.
There was a flash of white light and a hastily muttered
Obliviate. Graybach ceased his drooling
diatribe. A dreamy expression fell across
his canine visage, and Draco vanished from the shop with a
crack. He hoped his frequent practice
of the Memory Charm would serve him well on this occasion.
Dricker's feet planted smoothly in a gust of black smoke.
In the familiar broken courtyard of his old school.
They'd been playing the most dangerous game of all, and he
had almost been caught out. He needed to tell the Dark Lord
that at last he had the Golden girl.
Granger was his, and nobody else would lay claim to her.