Don't Look Back

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/26453452.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M, M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Neville Longbottom/Adrian Pucey
Character: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Adrian Pucey
Additional Tags: Hogwarts Sixth Year, Creature Fic, Werewolf Draco Malfoy, Loss of
Virginity, Secret Relationship, Consensual Non-Consent, jekyll and
hyde vibes, Voyeurism, Dominant Hermione, Explicit Sexual Content,
Mating Rituals, Gore, drugs as foreplay, seriously, Bad BDSM Etiquette,
Moral Ambiguity, Mind Games, Blood Play, Consensual Underage Sex,
Curiosity killed the cat, Dark Hermione Granger, Mildly Dubious
Consent, Masochism, Forced Proximity, Graphic Violence, Bloodlust,
Slow Burn (Sort Of), Torture, Veritaserum, Consensual Use of the
Imperius Curse, Multi-Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat,
hermione granger is going to do so much out of character shit just
prepare yourself okay?
Collections: DM & HG, Dramione Works, hp fics i could read endlessly, Dramione,
chapter updates on these WIPs are why I breathe air, Got me in my
feelings <3, Dramione Fics That Live In My Head Rent Free, Dramione
I'm Obsessed With, dramione fics, dramione wips i need to read, About
to re-read these 15446 times, dramione to read, The High Ground,
Dramione Treasure Trove, Dramione, Draco Malfoy, Best Fics Make
Brain Go Brrr, DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY!, Work in Progress Fics I
Religiously Read, Favorite WIP Dramione, Dramione__Stuff, dramione
wips, The Best Damn Fics Ever Written, Best of Hermione's, Come
hither, Dramione Fics I Go Feral For, Elite Dramione, Hermione's Secret
Stash, Lions_Among_Men, Please Keep Updating ily, My very favorite
dramione, Dramione Fics That Are Ongoing or Current Reads, I read
Dramione now I guess, Subs_active, dramione favorites , godtier
dramione fics (and oneshots), need to close tabs, Pastels fics, Citrine
Favorites EVER, Dramione Fics - Yeah I'm that person what about it?,
Harry Potter, Goddess Tier Dramione
Stats: Published: 2020-09-21 Updated: 2021-10-30 Chapters: 37/? Words:
153525

Don't Look Back

by Onyx_and_Elm

Summary

It’s the smell of it. Chemical. Bitter and sharp as a raw edge on metal. Just a hint of it as she
passes him at breakfast — but enough to stop her dead, mid-step.

There is Wolfsbane in his tea.

- ON INDEFINITE HIATUS -
 Bitterness / Bruises
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

What should’ve been evident from the first day of term — from the moment Draco Malfoy
appeared in the Great Hall, late for the feast and visibly disheveled — actually takes her more than
a month to riddle out.

There was a wildness in his eyes when he sat down to dinner that night, flaring up at the sight of
Harry and the freshly broken nose he’d given him. Hermione might’ve noticed if she were
accustomed to paying him any attention at all.

As it is, she’s not. And it’s only Harry’s dogged obsession with him over the following weeks that
gets her to blink and pull Malfoy into focus.

Something is very wrong.

“What’s wrong is he’s a Death Eater,” Harry says, more than once. Adamant. “He’s one of them.”

But it’s more than that. She’s sure of it.

Certainly, he’s more withdrawn. Always leaving meals early. Skipping classes once or twice a
week. But Harry has no proof beyond what they saw at Borgin and Burkes. No Dark Mark to
solidify his suspicions. Malfoy’s sleeves are never rolled up.

His wrists, however — they tell another story entirely.

Hermione catches a glimpse one morning in Potions. They’re brewing the Draught of Living
Death. Attempting to, anyhow. And Malfoy has always been better at cutting his herbs than she is,
though she’d never admit it out loud. She glances his way to see how he’s slicing the Valerian
Sprigs and instead finds her gaze drawn to bruises.

Dark and mottled smears of violet and blue, splashed upon his wrists like he’s dipped them in
spoiled wine. They stop just above his pulse point. A sharp cut off. She takes one look and thinks
— Lucius.

Harry’s not really listening when she tells him this theory; he and Ron are distracted by his prize
— Liquid Luck. How he’s managed to lunge from the bottom third of their Potions class to
Slughorn’s star pupil, she has no idea.

It doesn’t matter anyhow. Her theory proves incorrect less than two weeks later. Malfoy raises a
hand in class and the bruises are fresh, color ripe as a plum. They’re more than a month into term.
Lucius can’t have done it.

She considers self-harm, for a short while. But it seems an ill-fit for Malfoy.

And in the end, the answer presents itself by pure coincidence, on a Friday in October.

It’s the smell of it. Chemical. Bitter and sharp as a raw edge on metal. Just a hint of it as she passes
him at breakfast — but enough to stop her dead, mid-step.

There is Wolfsbane in his tea.

Hermione does her best to recover herself quickly, the scuff of her shoes on the flagstone
apparently not enough to rouse much attention. She manages to make her way to the Gryffindor
table and tuck herself in beside Neville, but her eyes are unfocused as she spreads marmalade onto
her toast.

The scent of aconite is so distinctive — she’s certain she can’t have mistaken it. But to take it in
tea. She’s never heard of such a thing, and even for Malfoy it seems like an awfully bold choice.
How does he expect to keep it from the other Slytherins? Certainly, some of them will notice —

She gives herself a small shake, realizing she’s been scraping a dry knife across the worn-down
slice for far too long. How is it this that she’s wondering? Of all things? Of all the other
connotations that come with adding Wolfsbane to a cup of Earl Grey like it’s cream?

Malfoy is a werewolf. That’s the gist of it.

Taking mercy on the toast, she sets it back on the corner of her plate and clears her throat, running
a hand through her curls with what she hopes is some measure of subtlety in order to clear her view
of him.

If she wasn’t sure before, she certainly is now as she watches him drink it.

Earl Grey doesn’t typically make one’s face scrunch up that way. Malfoy looks like he’s drinking
paint thinner, sharp jaw working overtime just to manage each swallow.

How long has he been like this? She thinks it can’t have been going on for more than a few months
— wants to believe she would’ve certainly noticed otherwise. Lycanthropy wears on the skin and
bones, often visibly affecting one’s appearance. Lupin, for instance. While his condition might not
have been immediately clear to the naked eye, he had a frailty about him. A look of illness and
exhaustion.

Malfoy’s clearly not far enough in to be wearing such side effects—

A hand waves in front of her face. Ron. She leans back quickly and diverts her attention to her
water goblet.

“Yes?”

“Said we’re going to Hagrid’s after classes. Are you coming, or do you—”

“I have a paper to write.”

Ron nods like he heard the words in his head before she said them, but she bites down on the lick
of anger she feels because he follows it up with that sweet, disarming smile of his. “I swear,
Hermione — one of these days, those books are going to swallow you whole.”

“At least then I’ll be surrounded by big words.”

Seamus guffaws at that, jabbing Ron in the side with an elbow, but Hermione takes care to smile
back at him when she sees the blush fan out across his face.

As it is, she doesn’t have a paper to write; she finished it last night. She’s not even sure why she
said it, and it takes the rest of the day and several classes spent only half-focused to realize what
she’s carving out the time for.

But then Malfoy stands up from his usual seat in front of her in Charms as the class ends, and she
catches herself tracking his movements — watching the subtle shift in his weight as he reaches the
door to determine whether he’ll turn left or right. She herself waits until Harry and Ron have left,
taking her time sliding her books back into her bag.

And then — when she’s sure no one’s watching — she follows him.

This goes on for two weeks.

Hermione manages to keep a modicum of control over herself and only follows him on certain days
of the week. Only when they share a final class of the day. She doesn’t do much other than
observe, the way Harry’s been — although for an entirely different reason. She studies where he
goes, often finding he secludes himself in an alcove somewhere to read. She’s curious what he’s
reading.

She’s curious why Crabbe and Goyle no longer follow him around.

More than anything, she tells herself she’s watching for some sort of change in behavior. She keeps
track of the moon’s phases, taking note of the way his coloring seems to grow paler the more it
waxes, eyes becoming sunken and shadowed. His gait shifts to something tense and slow, almost
defensive, as the full moon draws near. His hair grows more unkempt. She watches and takes note
of all of this for reasons she’s not quite certain of, and all the while she tries to convince herself
she’s not being obsessive.

She thinks she’s getting away with it, too. Always so careful to duck back behind whichever pillar
she’s tucked against when she thinks he’s about to glance in her direction.

But there’s something she doesn’t account for. Something she should’ve considered early on.

And on the evening before the full moon — a Thursday — as she’s tailing him at what she thinks
is a reasonable distance on his way back to the Dungeons, he rounds a corner and she loses sight of
him for half a second. Casually, she turns that same corner — and abruptly finds a wand in her
face.

“Granger,” Malfoy spits, voice bleeding with frustration and malice. “What are you playing at?”

She takes a measured step back, trying to calm her racing pulse and gather her senses — trying to
put a few more inches between the dark tip of his wand and the skin of her throat.

“Malfoy,” she replies when she can manage it. Makes her best effort to sound confused and even a
bit affronted. “You’d do well to lower your wand.”

He does no such thing. He fills that space she made between them and actively digs the tip of it
into her flesh. “Why are you crowding me?”

“I have no idea what you’re—”

“Don’t play dumb,” he seethes, shifting his stance so she’s forced to back against the wall. “You
know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Malfoy, I don’t—”
“I can smell you,” he growls, and that shuts her mouth in an instant.

Because of course he can. For the sole reason she’s been analyzing him so closely. And she
realizes how stupid she is not to’ve considered it.

They stare at one another in the harsh silence, his eyes boring into hers. A strange, clinical side of
her is thrilled at the opportunity to study them up close, despite the precariousness of the situation.
What she can see of his irises are dark rimmed and tinged with spots of black, like ink has
splattered across their usual faded grey, but his pupils are enormous. So enlarged they block the
majority of his irises out. Deep red stains the sunken flesh of his lower lids, as though brought on
by severe exhaustion. It’s the look in his eyes above all, though — deadly.

It reminds her to speak.

“What do you m—”

He cuts her off again, “You’re still playing dumb. It doesn’t suit you.” He presses his wand in a
little harder for emphasis. “I know you know.”

It takes a great deal of restraint not to spit out the word ‘what?’

The viciousness in Malfoy’s gaze warns her not to.

So instead she asks, “How?”

He sneers at her, upper lip curling. “What, did Potter train you in the art of subtlety, Granger? The
both of you are rotten at it. It’s been obvious for weeks. Would’ve been even if you weren’t
stalking me—”

“I am not stalking you,” she splutters, finding her sense all at once and screwing up the courage to
shove him back with both hands. Her throat aches where his wand was, and she rubs at it
defensively, stepping aside to put a couple more feet between them.

“No? What would you call it, then?” He jolts up his eyebrows. “Following me from classes?
Shadowing my every move? Prying into my affairs like a—”

“Does Dumbledore know?” she blurts out, if only to stop him from saying whatever horrible word
he had poised on his tongue.

Malfoy falters at the question, expression in his eyes flickering — a little surprised.

“Of course he knows,” he says a moment later, dismissive. The sneer makes its way back onto his
face. “What do you care?”

She starts to twist the strap of her book bag around her fingers, if only to give them something to
do. She hardly notices she’s cutting off her circulation. “I suppose I’m just curious.”

Malfoy stares at her for an extended second, gaze flat. “Don’t be,” is his response — just a hiss of
breath.

She shakes her head, and the words are instinctive. “That’s not how curiosity works.”

Malfoy steps back. Scoffs and rearranges his bag on his shoulder. “I’m not one of your fucking
books, Granger.” He slides his wand back into his pocket, and she only realizes then — as her
shoulders finally drop — how tense she’s been at the sight of it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have
 something important to brew.”

She knows it’s not a figure of speech — just as she knows exactly what it is he’s referring to. She’s
never seen it successfully brewed before. She has the recipe committed to memory, having studied
it and its ingredients a hundred times over. She even attempted it herself once, obtaining disastrous
results. Wolfsbane is an inordinately challenging potion.

And the words are out before she can stop them, halting Malfoy in his tracks halfway down the
Dungeons staircase.

“Can I — would you…would you let me watch?”

Chapter End Notes

Who's ready for another ride? ;)

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?
si=wWr6pOqISomRb_X2OZLc5w
 Exhales / Answers
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

He is meticulous.

Every slice of his knife across the cutting board is quick and deliberate; every ingredient enters the
cauldron from an immaculate, practiced distance. His elbows never deviate from their careful angle
at his sides, and she doesn’t think he blinks even once as he measures out the liquids.

Obsessive might be a better word for it, but perhaps there’s no other way to be when it comes to a
potion like this.

She sits silently on one of the Potions Classroom’s stools, at least a table’s length away from him.
When she first followed him in, she tried to take the seat directly on his left — but the look he gave
her at that was sharp and arrogant and absolutely without compromise.

So she moved. Albeit reluctantly, and not without throwing her best glare back at him first. She
might’ve refused if she weren’t so bloody curious.

As it is, she has no idea why he allowed her to follow him in the first place.

She’d been almost certain in the moments after the words tumbled out of her mouth that he’d sneer.
Curl his lip up. Mock her. Hex her, even. She had locked her limbs and stared him down, bracing
for it.

And yet, miraculously, something else had happened.

His dark blond brows had danced across his forehead for a moment, up and down in short intervals
— confused and suspicious and even a little caught off guard. She could see him actively fighting
his standard response to her. Could see him physically swallow back something vicious he
might’ve thought up instinctively. And even he didn’t seem sure why he was resisting.

Then his eyes had grown shadowed, seeping further into confusion, and in a voice that seemed
tense and unsure he’d said, “Do what you want.”

The whole situation is inexplicable. Fascinating. And whatever the reason, she refuses to do
anything to jeopardize it. Apparently, that now includes breathing.

“Do you have to exhale like that?”

Her chin slides off its perch on her knuckles, startled by his voice. “What?”

He doesn’t look up from the flask of boiled sheep’s blood he’s leveling out, even as he releases a
high-pitched, greatly exaggerated sigh. “Like that,” he says. “Every fucking time.”

“I don’t do that,” she insists, sitting up a little straighter.

“Don’t you, though?”

“Absolutely not.”

But she loses her train of thought, any further indignation sliding back off her tongue and down her
throat as Malfoy starts to tip the aconite out of a small obsidian jar. Spreads it slowly — so
carefully — out across the cutting board.

This is the part she mangled on her own.

“Oh,” she whispers aloud by accident, watching him slide his fingers one by one into a pair of
black dragon-hide gloves.

“Touch it with your bare hands, did you?” he asks in a superior tone. She never told him she
attempted it before. But that’s not the question he’s asking, and she wonders how it’s so painfully
obvious that she can’t handle failure.

Chewing on the inside of her lip, she admits, “I…may have. Only a little. I tried to be cautious.”

Malfoy scoffs and rolls his eyes, starting to sharpen a different knife — this one smaller and more
lethal in its curve. “Probably contaminated the lot.” He runs his gloved fingers delicately across
the bright purple flowers, spreading them out. “Aconite is very temperamental. The slightest touch
of human skin can spoil it. It refuses to grow in sunlight. It poisons other plants that grow near it.
And it doesn’t keep. Has to be harvested fresh for every brew.”

She glances up when she feels his gaze on her, and she’s not sure if he realizes he’s gesturing with
the knife.

“Was yours fresh, Granger? Did you learn how to grow it yourself? Coax it to thrive in your care
— a plant that dies if the temperature changes even half a degree beyond its liking?”

It’s an insult, the way he asks it.

She stiffens and tilts up her chin, but Malfoy speaks over her when she opens her mouth.

“For a girl so self-righteous about her studies, one would think you’d have tried a little harder.”

“I’d at least know not to take it in tea.”

He huffs again, derisive, as he looks back to the cutting board. “You don’t know anything.” But
the bite of his words is somewhat subdued by the distracting motions of his hands. Even as he says,
“It’s quite clear you have no idea what you’re talking about,” she finds she’s too enamored with the
way he draws the blade through the stems — a smooth cut across, wrist loose and relaxed. He
glides the knife like a paintbrush over canvas.

The flowers start to bleed, cleaved in two. Hermione watches transfixed as he takes each petal and
stem in gentle hands, dipping them about half an inch into the potion and holding them there a
moment before he lets them sink to the bottom.

“Why do you do it like that?” she asks without thinking.

“So it doesn’t accumulate at the bottom.” He says it like it’s obvious.

“Why not just stir it?”

Another sharp glance in her direction. “I’m curious how much you actually studied before you
attempted it.”

She bristles, sitting up straight again. She studied quite a bit, as it happens. It was Fourth Year, and
the school’s preoccupation with the Tournament had given her quite a bit of free time and privacy.
She certainly didn’t enter into the experiment blind; she read every entry on Wolfsbane available in
the Hogwarts Library, except for—

“I didn’t have access to the Restricted Section.”

Malfoy sweeps a hand through the air — a sort of 'there you have it.’ But when he doesn’t
elaborate, she’s forced to ask him. It’s an unpleasant thing — asking Malfoy questions. Makes her
feel remarkably vulnerable and exposed.

“Why? What did I miss?”

He makes a sound like a laugh in the back of his throat. “Quite a bit, clearly.” He tugs off his
gloves and promptly sets them ablaze with his wand — an action so startling, she nearly falls off
her stool. But Malfoy’s tone is still calm as ever as he sweeps up the ashes and vanishes them with
a flourish. “You don’t stir Wolfsbane. Never. Once the aconite is added, it’s to be left alone for as
long as it needs.”

In tandem with his words, he steps away from the cauldron and leans back against the stone wall,
folding his arms.

“As long as it needs to what?”

“To settle. Acclimate.”

“And…how long does that take?”

He bobs a shoulder, tired eyes half-lidded and bored. “Sometimes hours. Sometimes minutes. It
depends.” His sleeve rides up his arm when he lifts it to massage the back of his neck, and she
finds her eyes drawn to the movement unexpectedly. Those bruises are still there — faded and
yellowing — but that’s not what holds her focus. It’s the texture of his skin. The smooth, pale
expanse of that forearm, now lined with foreign muscle. Corded. Tense. Different than she
remembers.

Malfoy is much changed.

She doesn’t know how long she stares. Doesn’t know how long he pretends not to notice. It’s
nearly impossible to pull her gaze away, and it takes a sudden hiss from the cauldron to help her
along.

Malfoy lurches back off the wall as the potion starts to bubble and writhe, pure white steam rising
from its surface. It smells of salt and earth and something sour she can’t quite place.

“Quick today,” Malfoy muses, taking out his wand.

“It’s finished?”

“Mm.” And as he charms a portion of it — less than an eighth of the cauldron’s contents, if she had
to guess — sending an arc of glittering silver liquid gliding through the air, he seems to forget his
commitment to being unpleasant. “You can tell from the color,” he says, guiding the potion into an
unstoppered flask in his other hand. His tone is educational. Mild. “It should have a sheen to it.
And it should smell—” He stops and gestures to her with his wand, waving her over. “Well, come
here. Smell it.”

She’s shocked at the invitation. Does her best to hide it as she meanders over to where she wasn’t
allowed to sit before.
Malfoy holds out the flask to her, and cautiously she dips her head to take a whiff. It takes a lot of
effort not to cough. Up close, the Wolfsbane’s scent is noxious — smoky and chemical and
entirely too much. Too sweet. Too bitter. Too soft and too sharp. Too everything.

Malfoy must see her struggling. He hums — a low, vibrating sound. “And that’s why I take it in
tea, Granger.”

She glances up, still halfway bent over, looking at him through the shadow of her lashes.

“Oh,” she says like she did before, and she’s not certain in that moment if it’s a reply or a reaction.
A subconscious response to the look in his eyes, suddenly dark and disoriented. She can actually
see his pupils expand — just a fraction wider.

She doesn’t have the chance to riddle it out. Only a few seconds later, he seems to come to his
senses.

He jerks the flask away from her, and all at once their impromptu lesson is over.

Who?

It’s the question that swims laps in the shallows of her mind for days after the brew.

Who bit him?

The transformation had to have happened over the Summer holiday. Malfoy wasn’t like this in
Fifth Year. She likes to believe she would’ve noticed instantly.

Perhaps, with Lucius locked away, he became more exposed to the wrong sorts of people.

Though, in truth, Malfoy’s always been exposed to the wrong sorts of people.

She watches him closely in the days that follow the full moon — it’s easier now that she doesn’t
have to hide it from him. He sees her eyes on him, and the crease of his forehead tells her he
resents it. But there isn’t exactly anything he can do to stop her. They both know that.

Dumbledore must’ve given him access to the Shrieking Shack, just like Lupin. She figures it’s the
only way his fellow Slytherins haven’t noticed. Though they must’ve noticed something. Must
think he’s sick, or perhaps depressed, what with his face so bloodless and his eyes so glazed.

Either way, from what she’s seen, none of them really appear to care.

Since she confronted him, he’s been more careful to keep his sleeves buttoned at the wrists, but
Hermione feels certain those bruises are fresh again. It’s an odd secret to know. That once a month
the arrogant, sophisticated, Pureblood boy who sits in front of her in Charms has to chain himself
up to a wall somewhere. She assumes that’s what happens, anyhow.

And yet her curiosity is far from sated. She’s not satisfied. Wants to know more. Learn more. See
and hear more. Peel back the layers.

She does it more than once.

When the opportunity presents itself during class, if she has to stand near him — pass by him to
fetch ingredients or wait behind him in a line to perform spells — she’s unable to resist.

“Does it hurt?” she asks the first time, strangely pleased at the way he goes stiff.

For a long while, he lets her think he’s not going to answer — he pauses like this every time she
asks from then on — but then eventually he says, “Yes,” in a quiet voice, not moving his lips.

It goes on from there. Any chance she gets.

“Do you always transform?”

“No.”

“Do you remember what happens?”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you ever killed anything?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone?”

“No.”

“Does your family know?”

“No.”

That one surprises her quite a bit — answered as she passes him in a corridor — but before she can
follow it up, he’s gone.

“Does the Wolfsbane always work?”

“No.”

“Do you ever get injured?”

“Yes.”

“Who bit you?”

This — this question. Of all of them, it’s the first one he doesn’t answer. The one that makes him
turn around in his seat and face her, in the middle of a class, and tighten his eyes. No response. No
angry words. Just that look.

“What?” she asks quietly, bewildered by the fury in his eyes and hoping Dean doesn’t notice sitting
next to her.

Malfoy only turns back around to face the front, and after that he stops answering questions
altogether.

So she stops asking.

But instead of letting it go, the way she knows she should, she finds herself telling him things
instead. Strange, concerning, altogether unimaginable things. Things like —
 “I can talk to Professor Lupin.”

Things like —

“I can brew the Wolfsbane for you.”

Things like —

“I can help you.”

With these, it doesn’t seem like he chooses not to answer. It seems like he doesn’t know how.

Chapter End Notes

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?
si=Wd8nQvt2SIGgd2FR4T63OQ
 Paper Cuts / Paramours

Harry becomes a problem.

His certainty of Malfoy’s seduction to the Dark Arts metastasizes like an infection, and he’s
suddenly always there when Hermione goes looking for him.

It never remotely occurs to her that her own motivations have begun to sway out of the range of
normalcy. It never occurs to her to question her sudden interest in the slightest. But Harry’s is
clearly misguided.

Malfoy, for his part, begins to behave as though he’s been corralled into an impossibly tight corner.
Even when he’s not being watched, he acts like he’s being watched — but then again, she is
always watching. She finds him constantly looking over his shoulder. Constantly pausing in his
step before he rounds a corner. The double dose of attention is so obviously wearing on him, and
yet she can’t seem to find it in herself to back away.

With Lupin, the barrier of the word ‘Professor’ stood between her and everything she wanted to
ask in Third Year. Everything she wanted to know. Certainly, she could write to him with
questions. She plans to do that even now. But she could never observe. She could never pry, the
way she so desperately wants to.

With Malfoy, the playing field is level — the only barrier a sort of stale, mutual distaste. And
furthermore, in the face of all her poking and prodding and all her questions, he’s yet to tell her
‘no.’ At least not a real ‘no.’ A hard ‘no.’ The sort of ‘no’ she’s been expecting ever since she
followed him into the Potions Classroom.

But Harry — it’s entirely possible he could mess everything up. Even when she’s not completely
sure what this everything in question is. She can’t follow Malfoy when he follows Malfoy, and she
becomes increasingly irritated by his obvious and flat-footed approach to stalking. Harry doesn’t
follow from a casual distance whenever Malfoy leaves the Great Hall early from dinner, or when
he slips out of a class the moment they’re dismissed. He sort of charges after him with this intent
and purpose in his stride, as though he’s clearly doing the right thing. As though he’s certain at any
moment he’ll discover Malfoy in some broom cupboard, busy draining the blood of an innocent.

Blood. That’s an interesting thought.

She keeps picturing it all over Malfoy’s hands, a stark contrast to his pale skin, even after he told
her he’s never killed anyone. She pictures it dripping down his chin. Staining torn shirtsleeves.
Pooling on the ground. And the effect the mental image has on her is altogether unexpected.

Malfoy is not…unattractive. Though, she finds it difficult to put it any other way. He’s hardly her
type, all pointy and sharp at every edge, with his stiff posture and his upturned nose and that
constant look of disgust in his eyes. This, notwithstanding his behavior.

No, she finds she’s never even liked blonds.

Someone like Ron, though — it makes her sigh just to think of it. Looking at Ron is like slipping
into a bath, what with his delicate smattering of freckles and his gentle, sleepy eyes and all the
color and warmth that comes with him. There is something infinitely more pleasant about looking
at Ron than there is about looking at Malfoy. Malfoy, who can make you feel as though an ice
shard has sliced its way through your stomach with a glance.
And yet thinking of Malfoy, even covered in blood — why in god’s name can’t she stop picturing
all the blood? — is somehow disarming. There’s a vulnerability to it. A certain helplessness and a
lack of control that she’s finding it hard not to think about. She wants to see that look on him.
Malfoy — at nature’s mercy. Part of it would be gratifying. Validating, after all of his torments
these many years.

But it’s true, there’s also a large side of her that desperately wants to help.

And why on Earth does she want to help? Why on Earth has she already offered?

Why — dear god, why — why hasn’t he said no?

Things stop making sense altogether about halfway through October.

The next full moon is only a week away, and she’s been wondering for days how to approach him
— because it’s one thing to ask him to show her how he brews the Wolfsbane. It’s another thing
entirely to ask him to let her watch again. It already took an obscene amount of courage to offer to
help him brew it, and considering his lack of response, she’s certain the answer is no.

But if he let her watch once, why not twice?

She’s driving herself mad trying to decide how to word the question when it happens. They’re
brewing Sleeping Draught in Potions today — relatively simple and perhaps part of the reason
she’s allowing her mind to wander. In her distraction, her hand slips over the edge of the cauldron
as she’s adding the lavender, and scalding, half-brewed Draught scorches the sensitive flesh of her
inner wrist.

With a gasp and a little shriek, she stumbles back, shaking it out and clutching at the abused flesh.
Slughorn immediately meanders over to help, prattling on about ‘focus,’ and ‘no harm done,
really,’ as he performs a cooling charm, but Slughorn holds none of Hermione’s attention.

She’s certain she saw it. Maybe a few seconds after the pain sent the breath hissing out through her
teeth, Malfoy — the very object of her distraction — had made a similar sound from across the
classroom. Quieter than hers, almost so quiet she’s not sure how she heard it. But she definitely
saw it. Saw him drop the long-stemmed spoon he’d been stirring with and yank down his sleeve.
Saw him clutch his wrist and massage the pad of his thumb into it, brows drawn together.
Confused. Startled.

Zabini had noticed too, nudging him and asking something inaudible. Malfoy just shook his head,
face still tight and creased — but then he’d turned a fraction and caught her gaze, and there was
something in that look that told her this wasn’t a coincidence.

They’re still staring at each other now, even as Slughorn gives Hermione a good-natured shove
towards her cauldron.

“Back to it, Granger. No sleeping on the brew!”

“Yes, Professor. Thank you,” she murmurs quietly, almost dazed.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow when she doesn’t look away first — and there’s no attitude behind it. It’s
not a challenge, it’s a question.

What just happened? That’s what his expression seems to say.

She doesn’t have an answer. She clears her throat and glances back down at the Sleeping Draught,
still an echo of that sting throbbing in her wrist. She has no explanation for it — no valid excuse to
gloss over Malfoy experiencing the exact same sensation in the exact same moment from across
the room.

But what is she if not scientific?

And there’s only one way to weed out the possibility of a coincidence.

Shortly before the end of the lesson, as everyone packs up their books, Hermione allows her eyes to
settle on Malfoy again. He’s busily adjusting the strap on his bag, nodding at something Parkinson
is saying, and as she watches, Hermione allows the tip of her finger to graze the corner of a page in
Advanced Potion Making. The slice is quick and clinical — only a mild paper cut.

And yet, lo and behold, Malfoy gives a little jerk of surprise, hand faltering around that leather
strap. Instinctively, he lifts his finger — the same finger she’s just cut — and puts it in his mouth,
sucking away blood she has a gut feeling isn’t there.

He seems to realize this a moment later too, when he doesn’t taste it — when his eyes snap to hers,
that finger still poised between his lips. Those lips part a little wider when she holds up her own
finger so he can see, allowing a small trickle of warm blood to glide down it towards her palm.

She’s not sure what the look on her face is — what he sees in her expression — but she’s never
seen Malfoy leave a room so fast. Harry is after him in an instant, no doubt expecting to catch him
committing cold-blooded murder.

Today, she doesn’t follow. She has some reading to do.

Madam Pince is Heaven-sent. Without her, she would never have found it.

But the librarian has apparently been developing this rather crafty spell over the past several years
— one which can locate fragments of text amongst the entirety of the Hogwarts Library collection.
It’s one of the cleverest spells Hermione’s ever had the pleasure to witness, and Madam Pince is
only too happy to demonstrate when she asks after the words ‘shared sensation.’

She leaves the Library that evening with no less than seven heavy tomes, two of which she’s
already weeded out.

“Please tell me you’re not planning on reading all of those tonight,” Ron snorts from the sofa
opposite. He’s been flipping through the same special edition article on the Chudley Cannons for
the past hour, and at this point Hermione’s not certain whether he’s actually reading or just looking
at the pictures.

“I’m only skimming,” she says.

He snorts again — “Yeah. Skimming,” — before leaning over to show Harry a broom.
She sighs and glances down again, but she should thank him, really. The brief distraction makes
her lose her place, and now as she orients herself amidst the passages, her eyes land right on it.

Nocturnal Instinct: Mythos & Fact

The common misconceptions with regard to nocturnal beasts and their instincts are widespread
and centuries old. Many beasts, particularly the werewolf and the ghoul, are often misjudged
under the assumption that they are at the complete mercy of their base instincts. Ghouls are said to
make such excessive noise purely due to a lack of evolved consciousness, just as werewolves are
often reduced to characterizations of mindless, bloodthirsty predators in most literature.

These misconceptions are important to address, as it has been proven that ghouls use noise as an
instinctive form of communication, and werewolves develop numerous hyperactive sensitivities in
order to protect themselves and those in their packs—

Hermione’s eyes stumble and backtrack at the word.

Packs?

In every book she’s ever read, werewolves are said to be solitary creatures, with certain texts even
going so far as describing them as reclusive. She turns the page in a rush, skipping over the section
that elaborates on ghouls.

Werewolf instincts are a fine-tuned and well-oiled machine. To call them creatures of instinct
would only be incorrect if one were to assume this reduced them to a status of predator and
nothing more. Werewolves are creatures of scent and sight; creatures of sound and detail;
creatures so evolved to their environments that the phases of the moon alter their physical state.
These creatures are known to attach themselves to others whose auras and pheromones align with
their own. Though not common knowledge in the Wizarding World, werewolves almost always try
to mark these individuals as their own — known to the few of us who study it as paramours. Many
are familiar with this term and its connotations. The chosen mate of a werewolf is known as a
paramour because of the precariousness of such a position. Though no werewolf would ever seek
to kill its paramour, it is more often than not the inevitable outcome of such a bond.

And yet overtime as their instincts evolve, werewolves seem to equip themselves with tools to
prevent such harm. Many werewolves we have studied alongside their paramours begin to
experience what we have formally named ‘symbiotic sensation.’ This side effect of the bond is
characterized by shared physical sensation amongst both werewolf and para—

She slams the book shut a little too quickly and with a little too much fervor. Harry raises his
eyebrows at her over the edge of that weathered copy of Advanced Potion Making.

“Alright there, Hermione?”

She clears her throat and sinks back a little into the sofa. “Yes. Fine. I — my eyes are tired, that’s
all.” And she clears her throat again without meaning to, overcompensating. “Bit of a boring book,
really. Nothing I haven’t read about before.”

She shrugs and smiles outwardly.

Inside, she's screaming.
 Hands / Faces
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

She is unusually adept at doing things the wrong way around. Dessert before dinner. Showering
before a jog. Essays on the weekends, leisure reads during the week.

She’s always been the type to suck the wound after cleaning it. And this is no exception.

There are a number of things she should absolutely do first, knowing what she knows now.
Chiefly, more reading. She should already be in the Library. Should find out everything there is to
know about paramours and werewolves alike. But since forcing herself to finish the passage last
night, she hasn’t touched the book again, and now she only knows the term for it.

Symbiotic sensation.

The book feels impossibly heavy in her bag this morning, burning a hole into her side where it
rests. But even if she can’t bring herself to reread it, she has another option. She can go to Professor
McGonagall. Professor Dumbledore, even. Malfoy said it himself — Dumbledore’s aware of the
situation.

But odds are he’s certainly not aware of this, and approaching him about it seems like the
responsible thing to do. The smart thing. The way the book put it, if this situation is in fact what it
says it is, both she and Malfoy could be in danger. And it’s Professor Dumbledore’s sworn oath to
protect his students.

But of course she doesn’t go to Dumbledore. That would be the logical next step, and evidently she
no longer follows logical steps.

No, instead she wakes early, putting very little thought into the state of her appearance as she
collects her books — dreaded tome included — and slings her tie around her neck. She’s on her
way out of the dormitory before any of the other girls are awake and, judging by the empty halls,
before a great deal of the student body as well.

At a quarter past seven, Hermione settles herself on a stone bench just around the corner from the
staircase leading to the Dungeons. She doesn’t read. Doesn’t practice charms. Hardly even thinks,
really. She only stares across the corridor at the opposite wall, memorizing the pattern of the bricks
until the Slytherins start to emerge. One by one, the earliest to rise pass her on their way up to the
Great Hall for breakfast.

Some don’t notice her presence. Others spare her a side glance or a sneer over their shoulders.

Malfoy — the inconvenient bastard — apparently sleeps rather late. It’s nearly eight before his
shock of blond rounds the corner, and she considers herself lucky she’s only lost a small portion of
her nerve by then.

“Malfoy,” she calls out, louder than she expected — too loud — as she lurches to her feet.

The level of obvious frustration he emits at the sound of her voice is hardly surprising, and yet she
still manages to take offense. With a huff that’s more of a growl, Malfoy stops in his tracks
halfway past her bench and spins to face her.
“Granger.”

His jaw is tight, voice tighter.

She has to clear her throat to get the words out right. “I — I have to speak with you.”

A twitch of that jaw. “You already are.”

She can feel her nostrils flare. “Privately.”

The way Malfoy glances around at that makes it quite clear he hopes no one’s seen or heard, and
she does her best not to overtly grind her teeth.

“That is, if you can fit it into your busy schedule.”

His gaze snaps back to hers, eyes narrowing to slits. “Ten minutes,” he hisses. And then, “Go.
Lead the way.”

She’s lucky she remembers which classroom is vacant on the Dungeons level. Doesn’t really doubt
that he’ll hold her to those ten minutes and can’t afford to waste time searching for a quiet spot.

Malfoy slams the door behind him with more aggression than necessary, yanking the bag off his
shoulder and slinging it onto a desk.

“What?” he snaps, arms crossing so easily over his chest it’s like it’s their natural state. He slumps
back against the door and appears to put every effort into looking uncommonly bored.

And suddenly she wants nothing more than to knock that expression right off of his face. Watch it
slide away like hot butter and die somewhere on the floor.

Turns out it’s rather easy.

“Do you know what a paramour is?”

There’s a pause — stark. Heavy.

“Yes,” he says finally, and his tone tells her it’s a casual knowledge. Something he knows offhand.
His body tells her something else. The moment the word crossed her lips, he got tense, shoulders
bunching up and the smooth slant of his lips slipping downward. That expression died a painful,
satisfying death. Now, even from her distance, she can see his fingernails digging into his biceps
through the thin white cotton of his shirt.

“Good,” she says, stepping to the side once she’s looked her fill and taking a seat on the edge of
one of the desks. “Then you probably know what symbiotic sensation is, too.”

Malfoy really doesn’t appear to have control over his own face. That subtle downward curve of his
mouth turns into an outright scowl, top lip curling up a fraction.

“Is this another one of your fucking inquisitions?” he demands, and the simpering tone that follows
is apparently meant to be her own. “Does it hurt? Are you lonely? Do you wear a collar and a
leash?”

“Do you?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Malfoy reaches for his book bag.

“Alright, stop. Wait.” She hops off the desk and holds out a hand, quickly wiping the wry smile off
her face. “This is important.”

“Hardly seems like it.” He yanks the bag over his shoulder and reaches for the door. “Maybe one
of these days you’ll learn to mind your own fucking business—”

He’s barely twisted the knob when she slams the palm of her hand down on the table. Loud. Hard.
Enough to sting. Malfoy’s own hand jerks away from the knob, clenching instinctively into a fist.

He goes very still, an audible hiss of breath leaving his nose. And when he doesn’t turn to face her,
she speaks to the broad, rigid expanse of his back.

“As it happens, Malfoy…this is our business.”

He just breathes out again, loud and aggressive. She thinks she sees him press his forehead against
the door for the briefest moment.

“What do I have to do to get you to admit it?” she asks, risking a step in his direction. “Slap myself
in the face? Hold my hand over a flame?”

Malfoy whirls around. “Try it.” And all at once he’s storming towards her, book bag flying off his
shoulder yet again — only this time he doesn’t toss it on the desk, he sends it catapulting across the
room. It hits the wall on the opposite end, and she can hear something shatter.

She doesn’t turn to look, though. Can’t look away as he comes to a stiff halt about two feet from
her, lording his height and size and just panting angrily down into her face.

She’s never seen anyone lose their temper so quickly.

“Try it,” he hisses again. “I dare you.”

His pupils are enormous, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile. Something about the
sight of it is invigorating. She realizes that perhaps she should feel threatened. Even a little
frightened, what with him looming over her like this.

But instead she’s somehow confident enough to push her luck.

Quick as a flash, she raises her hand, fingers locked tight — poised for a slap just centimeters from
her own face — and the way he flinches…

It’s all she’d ever need to know and more.

Utterly damning evidence.

Perhaps a normal person would accept this as a victory and put their hand down. Accept the furious
and embarrassed look in his eyes and move forward.

She doesn’t feel normal in this moment. She feels — strange. Sort of lulled, as though by a draught,
and the longer she stares back into his eyes, the more lax her muscles feel. The sharp angle of her
hand fades, fingers curling inward. She doesn’t blink as she moves her palm slowly towards her
face.

“How much of it do you feel?” she asks in a quiet voice. Nearly a whisper. Her fingertips spread
across her own cheek — just the faintest caress. “Only the pain?”

Malfoy’s chest stops heaving, panting breaths cutting off abruptly.

She moves as though drugged, sliding her palm down the side of her jaw. “Only intense
sensations?”

He twitches. A movement so slight, she would’ve missed it without her eyes locked on him the
way they are. Would’ve missed the barely-there flutter of his eyelashes. An instantaneous urge to
close his eyes that he seems to fight back against with every molecule.

She releases a shuddering breath at the sight of it, forefinger starting a path upward from her chin
towards her lips. “Or do you—”

His reflexes are startling.

In a movement so quick it’s a blur, his hand darts out and shackles her wrist, yanking hers away
from her face. Holding it there, about an inch between them both, and giving it a shake.

“Don’t fuck around,” he whispers. At least, on the surface it’s a whisper. When combined with the
look on his face — lethal, feral — it’s a great deal more like a threat. “This isn’t funny.”

That’s her question answered.

But it’s difficult to focus with his fist wrapped around her wrist. As of yet, she hasn’t felt anything
she couldn’t attribute to her own self. Hasn’t experienced any sensation that might’ve been in any
way not her own. In any way his.

Now, though, with that bruising grip growing warmer and heavier by the second, she swears she
feels the faintest twinge of…something. The very slightest sense of holding something small and
breakable in her own fist.

It’s uncanny.

It’s enough to make her yank away.

“I don’t think it’s funny,” she forces out, stepping back and trying to gather her composure. She
cradles her hand to her chest like he’s burned it, massaging the blood back into her wrist. “It’s not
funny at all. That’s why I had to speak with you.”

Malfoy seems to recover in his own right. Though — whether consciously or not — she does see
him rub the back of his hand roughly across the side of his face. The same side she touched herself.
The right.

“So,” she says, clearing her throat, “if that’s out of the way, we can move forwa—”

“This is a fucking disaster.” Malfoy throws up his hands and spins away from her, threading
fingers into that white blond hair.

“I know,” she says, more to herself than him — but at least he’s acknowledging it. That’s a relief
all its own.

“How the fuck did this happen?” He’s started to pace, mashing those fists into his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t fucking—” He breaks off and twists to face her again, this time jabbing a finger in her face.
“No, actually I do know. It was you. You. Fucking — fucking following me around. Fucking
stalking me. This is — this is you. This is on y—”
“Please,” she scoffs, feeling the furious color flood to her cheeks. “Don’t stand there and pretend
you know everything about werewolves one moment and then absolutely nothing the next.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself—”

She’s already yanking her bag off her shoulder and digging around in it for the book. “Read this
one?” she snaps, tossing it at him. It’s nice to watch him scrabble for it, the sudden heavy weight
clearly unexpected.

“Yes,” he snaps back as soon as he can read the title. He looks about ready to toss it back at her
before he thinks better of it and throws it down on the desk at his side.

“Good.” She folds her arms. “Then you’ll remember at least a bit of what it says about paramours
and how they’re chosen.”

Malfoy lurches toward her, finger in her face again. “Let’s get one thing straight, Granger — right
now. Let’s make this crystal fucking clear. I did not choose you.”

She narrows her eyes. Does her best to hold her ground. “Consciously? Maybe not. Butinstinctively
—”

He’s hardly listening. Too busy rattling off every offensive thing he can think of. “Why in Merlin’s
fucking name would I choose you? Fucking look at you! Look at me. Look at us, Merlin’s fucking
tit. Give me one good reason I’d make a fucking paramour out of a Mudblood like—”

Her wand is out in an instant, and she points it back at him the way he pointed his finger at her.
“Say it again,” she demands, channeling all the menace into her tone she can manage. “Go on. Do
it. Say it again.”

Malfoy hesitates for only a moment before taking an aggressive step toward her — and then he
hesitates again, less than a foot away.

There’s no telling what he means to do with that rage she sees swimming in his gaze — in the
clench of his fists at his sides — but Hermione barks out a laugh none the less.

“Even better.” She waves her wand. “Do it.”

Malfoy draws his lip up over his teeth. Almost intentionally, she thinks, so she can see one of those
razor sharp canines. And for a moment she wonders what it would feel like — to have that ripping
through your skin. Tearing open your flesh. She wonders why she wonders that.

“Oh, but you can’t, can you?” she asks, regaining focus. She brandishes her wand again. “It’s
almost as if you know it’ll hurt you…to hurt me.”

It must be the sarcasm in her tone that sets him off.

He closes that last foot between them — quick, like a rush of wind — and even though he’s very,
very careful not to touch her, he is also very, very close. Her expression bleeds into something
altogether less powerful in the face of it, and she hates that she lowers her wand.

“You think I won’t hurt you?” he asks, tone low, breath warm against the skin of her forehead.

She doesn’t answer. Just looks up into his face and exhales as slowly as she can.

“I could hurt you,” he says, blinking methodically as he stares at her. As though he’s running
 through all the ways he could do it in his head. “I could hurt you so badly.” His breath comes in a
short rush at the end of the sentence. Like the idea is tantalizing.

She swallows the saliva pooling on her tongue.

“Would it be worth it?”

His jaw tightens. At their distance, she can hear the way he grinds his teeth. And the bravado of
moments ago seems to fade all too quickly back into that fury she’s familiar with.

“It can’t be you,” he spits. “You — you’re fucking unbearable. I can’t stand you.” His knuckles
crack at his sides, clenched into even tighter fists.

It feels like it takes every ounce of courage, but she lifts herself up onto her tiptoes — pushes
herself up into his face. Glares and hisses out the word, “Tough,” with their noses less than a
centimeter apart.

Malfoy breathes out again — sharply. The opposite of a gasp if there was one. And for a fraction of
a second, she sees his gaze flit down to the lower half of her face.

Then he loses it.

“Fuck this. Fuck this.” He’s ten feet away from her in an instant, storming back towards the door
— only he doesn’t go through it. “No,” he practically shouts, and to punctuate it, he puts his fist
through the corner of the wall.

Just punches a fragment the size of a grapefruit clean off of it.

She can’t help her gasp. It’s loud and unexpected and the bright scarlet she sees painting his
knuckles when he turns back to face her is shocking.

The dust settles slowly behind him.

“Did you feel that?” he asks, voice suddenly quiet and calm.

A long silence spreads between them, and her gaze flits from the brand new slice taken out of the
wall to his suddenly unreadable eyes.

“No,” she lies.

“Good,” he says and wrenches open the door. “Then maybe there’s hope.”

He never retrieves his book bag.

And she waits until the door slams shut to shake out her stinging hand.

Chapter End Notes

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?
si=yq4L_SqYTU2gz5bgvRL73A
 Ghosts / Mirror Images
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Hermione?”

The voice startles her awake, skin of her forehead cold and clammy as she separates it from the
glass of the windowpane.

“What are you doing?”

Ginny is standing a few feet away in the dark, robe clutched around herself, tired eyes squinted.

Hermione jerks upright where she sits on the windowsill. Rubs her face and blinks aggressively
until she’s somewhat alert. She can hardly believe she was stupid enough to fall asleep.

“I — I, erm — nothing. I was charting — charting stars, and I must’ve…gotten drowsy.” She
plasters a sheepish smile onto her face. The imprint of her cheek is still evident on the glass, but
she resists the urge to wipe it away as she slips down off the sill instead, moving quickly back
towards her four-poster.

Ginny hesitates by the corner of her bed for a moment, brows drawn together. “…Alright,” she
says finally and steps away, disappearing into the darkness of the dormitory. “Sleep well, then.”

Hermione waits until she hears her get into bed before slumping back against her pillows. She
heaves a quiet sigh and covers her face.

Charting stars.

Of course she wasn’t charting stars — the cloud cover’s too thick. And Ginny must know that.
Must’ve seen the rather obvious lack of astronomy books and constellation charts around her. But
she didn’t have time to come up with a better lie.

The stars didn’t get her out of bed, he did.

She’d been sleeping fairly well until the sound woke her up — perhaps meaningless to others, but
unmistakable to her.

A howl. Low-pitched and lasting, launched above all other noises of the night from somewhere
just outside the Grounds. A sound like no other. Desperate and pained and just the slightest, most
ineffable bit familiar.

She could hear his voice in it.

And her feet left the bed before her mind did. Drew her over to the window, where her gaze fixed
on the bright glow of the full moon and her hand met the glass without thinking.

She felt no pain. Feels none now.

But in place of pain, she does feel something. A sort of emotional discomfort. Something like panic
or anticipation. Something not quite right.

The pain comes eventually too, but it’s of her own making. Pain that springs up unexpectedly, like
a mallet to the chest, when she thinks of him alone — probably confined to the Shrieking Shack —
yanking on chains and howling to no one.

“It’s Malfoy,” she whispers aloud against her pillow — her best effort to crush her own thoughts.
“Let him rot.”

Eventually, she manages to fall back asleep, but it’s not without thinking how incredibly,
disconcertingly bitter those words taste in her mouth.

Over the course of the next week, new problems appear to emerge from every crack in the
flagstone.

Ever since that disaster of a discussion with Malfoy, even the simplest things have become
complicated. Things like getting dressed in the morning.

She can no longer tug on her dress shirt and lazily do up the buttons. Can no longer drag that red
and gold tie around her collar or yank on her shoes with such reckless abandon. No, now sliding the
sleeves up over her arms is an exercise in confusion, because automatically she wonders if he can
feel that starched cotton moving across his own skin. If he can feel the drag of her fingernails
against his shins as she pulls her stockings up her legs.

Showers become…troublesome. She rushes through what used to be a languid lather, careful not to
let her hands linger anywhere. Careful to let the water do most of the work.

But it becomes difficult just to move around like she used to.

And more than ever she wants to go to Dumbledore, even as a strange side of her insists that she
needs to gather more evidence first.

How much more evidence does she need? When every breath she takes appears to infuriate Malfoy
beyond belief?

It’s hardly a criminal offense to accidentally burn yourself with your own tea, but the look Malfoy
gives her from across the Great Hall on the morning she takes a too-hot sip says she ought to be
tried, convicted and sentenced to death.

And it’s unhealthy — this habit she’s developed of egging him on. She feels like a parasite,
crawling around at all hours under his skin, and she should be far more ashamed of how much she
likes it.

But could anyone really blame her?

It’s the ultimate antidote to Malfoy. The simplest way to wipe a dirty look off that pale, bony face.
He sees fit to glare at her? Fine then. She’ll drop a shard of ice down her shirt. Watching him jump
up so fast he slams both knees on the underside of the table is first class entertainment.

But somehow — impossibly — Malfoy becomes only one of her problems.

Cormac Fucking McLaggen, a boy she’s spared about as much thought for as a garden gnome
since First Year, has apparently taken a rather keen interest in her. How and when, she has no idea.
All she knows is no. No way. Not a chance.
If there were ever an antithesis to her type, this is it. His overly seductive smirks, overly white
teeth, overly muscular physique — all of it makes her nose scrunch up. He’s taken to following her
out of the Pitch after Quidditch practices, and she hates herself for that little slip up with the
Confundus Charm. He has much more time to invade her personal space as an alternate than any
starting player would.

But if anything positive could be gleaned from McLaggen’s misplaced affections, it would be a bit
of well-earned jealousy in Ron. The sort she so desperately fed off of in Fourth Year, when it came
to Viktor. And yet, to make matters worse, Ron seems distant and distracted — still intoxicated by
whatever high winning the position of Keeper brought on. She’s lucky if he has a glance to spare
for her over the course of an entire day, and all he seems able to talk about are the new set of
leather pads Mrs. Weasley saved up for and owled to him and that godforsaken missed block of
Cormac’s — which was her doing.

If she’s honest, she’s the real Keeper here.

And on top of all that, she has this overwhelming, unending sensation of being watched. It takes
her days of glancing over her own shoulder to realize that it’s Harry’s fault. But not because he’s
watching her.

Another one for her list of symbiotic side effects.

At the very least, when the first Quidditch match of the season begins that Friday, she feels she
may close out the week on a high note.

Ron looks so alive on his broom, emboldened and glowing with the confidence of Harry’s Liquid
Luck. She doesn’t approve in the slightest, but she can’t fight the smile spreading across her face
with each cocky and downright ostentatious block — the effect of which is doubled when Harry
reveals a still-full bottle amidst the chaos of the victory party.

So it was all Ron. Ron’s talent. Ron’s skill.

Warmth bubbles up in her chest as she looks back at him, dead center in the common room, awash
with streamers and red glitter, a grin splitting ear to ear. She knows what it feels like for him, living
in Harry’s shadow. The importance of this moment cannot be overstated. He needs this. Deserves
this. He—

Lavender Brown steps out of nowhere, curls her arms around Ron’s neck and smashes her lips to
his.

Hermione feels like the floor collapses underneath her.

A gasp catches in her throat, and she can only stare. Stare as Ron starts to kiss her back, so
enthusiastic. So desirous. Stare as every moment and every glance that’s set her heart on fire these
last six years gets extinguished right before her eyes. She imagines it would feel better to be
stabbed with a dull knife.

And the memory that fills her head is the worst she can think of — Ron’s words echoing between
her ears.

“She’s a nightmare. Honestly.”

No. No, no.

This is a nightmare.

She turns slowly — knows if she moves too fast, she’ll throw up all over Harry. But she escapes
his questioning hand when he reaches for her and manages to somehow push her way out of the
crowd before the first tear falls.

Once it does, the rest come crashing through like a dam’s broken. Just flooding down her cheeks,
hot and endless and utterly humiliating.

She has no notion of where she’s going — no idea which corridor she’s in. Everything is blurry and
tinged red with a fury she can’t put into words. Those nights she spent under her covers, curled up
tight imagining all the details of what her first kiss with him would be like — they fly to the
forefront like vengeful ghosts. She always imagined it’d be different than all the other kisses she’d
had. Different than the ones with Viktor. It would mean more. And for whatever else Ron might
want from her — and by god, she’d planned to let him have it — she wouldn’t be inexperienced.

A spur-of-the-moment decision last summer had seen to that.

But with Ron it was always going to mean more. It was always supposed to mean more. Even
while saving nothing, she’d been saving everything for him. Everything that really mattered.
Everything.

The alcove just ahead is the first thing she’s able to pull into focus, and with a strangled, relieved
sort of sob, she moves to throw herself into it. To collapse against the wall and drag her knees up to
her chest and just cry. Cry until it hurts. Cry until she forgets how to.

There is only one flaw in this plan.

It’s self-important, infuriating and blond, and it’s already taking up the other half of the alcove she
couldn’t see to begin with.

“Fuck,” she chokes out before she can stop herself, going all tense and defensive at the sight of
him and immediately struggling to get back to her feet. More words tumble out unfiltered amidst
another sob. “Not right now. God, why?” She covers her face with both hands, knowing he’s
already seen her crying but hoping not to give him any more fuel to fan the flames.

Malfoy makes a breathy, affronted sound. “The fuck do you mean, ‘not right now?’ I was here
first.”

Leave, demands the voice in her head. And she even turns on her heel to obey, because she does
have some basic survival skills. But then he says,

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

And she can’t even begin to explain why her legs give out the way they do. Why she collapses
back down across from him and just sobs into her palms for a good thirty seconds.

Malfoy wears an expression of horror when she eventually forces herself to look at him through the
cracks between her fingers.

“Are you barking?” he asks with his brows at his hairline, and she actually sees him scoot a little
further back towards his own wall, book falling shut in his lap.

“I don’t need you to make this any worse,” she splutters, sniffling and trying to wipe away some of
the mess with the sleeve of her jumper. “Alright? Just for once, just — just don’t make it any
worse.”

Malfoy snorts. Scoffs. Wedges his book under his arm and moves to extricate himself from the
alcove. “Yeah, well — as it happens, I feel a bit sick, so have it your—”

“That’s probably me.” She isn’t thinking at this point. Her filter has simply evaporated, and the
first words she can come up with are apparently also the first ones out. “Making you feel sick,” she
clarifies when she finds him paused, one leg slung over towards the floor and an eyebrow raised.

“Oh, really?” is his reply, voice ripe with sarcasm.

Let him leave.

She should. She absolutely should. But when he doesn’t continue to get up, she finds herself
nodding and wiping her eyes with the other sleeve, and a moment later she says a stupid, stupid
thing.

“Sorry.”

The noise he makes at that is abrupt and incredulous — a puff of breath that seems to make his
entire posture deflate and sends him sinking back into that languid pose against the wall. “Well,
that’s a first.”

She drops her arm onto her knee and her chin onto her arm, pointedly looking at his shiny black
shoes rather than at him. “What is?”

“You. Apologizing.”

She squints and spares him a glance through the tears to scrunch her nose up. “I’ve never had a
reason to apologize to you.”

Malfoy just swaps one raised eyebrow for the other. “I didn’t say to me.”

She squeezes her own brows together and huffs against the wet fabric of her sleeve. “I apologize
when I’m wrong.”

Malfoy laughs outright. “And when do you ever think you’re wrong?”

She drops her forehead a little so her mess of curls will hide her face. Decides she won’t answer
that. But this makes way for a long and echoing expanse of silence between them, and for a while
all she can think about is how he never stops tapping his foot.

Then he says, “So — what? Trip and skin your knee or something?”

It’s rude but it’s also ridiculous, and she feels a deeper need to point out the latter. “You’d know if
I did.”

Malfoy looks only mildly displeased when she glances back up, curls still halfway covering her
eyes.

“Well, then what? What’s got your stomach in literal fucking knots? Because I feel fucking terrible,
Granger.”

At least he admits it.

She, though — she’s fairly certain she doesn’t want to admit it. Would honestly rather eat newts
than admit to Malfoy that Ron’s gone and stomped all over her heart again. Revealing any sort of
weakness to him seems like a suicide attempt.

But here she is already, crying all over herself. And if Malfoy’s going to be walking around with a
trampled heart for a few weeks too — and without good reason — she figures she owes him at
least a partial explanation.

She rubs roughly at the corners of her eyes and digs her chin into her knee, speaking to his shoes
again. “It’s Ron.”

Malfoy gives a twitch and she instantly wonders whether he’s rolling his eyes. Continues either
way.

“He...I — I suppose I was under the impression that he...” God, saying it to him makes her itch. “I
thought he felt something for me.” She clears her throat. “Thought he might — do something about
it after all these years. But tonight sort of squashed that to bits.”

Malfoy is unexpectedly quiet at first.

Steeling herself, she slides her chin forward to look up at him through damp, tangled lashes.

“Weasley,” is all he says, with his face flat and his eyes hooded. It’s like the name has sucked all
the life out of him. “This is about Weasley.” Not a question.

She nods anyhow.

And there’s that roll of the eyes she was waiting for. He lets his head thunk back against the stone
wall behind him and shakes it slowly, gaze on the ceiling. “You can’t be serious.”

Hermione finds herself tugging her knees in tighter to her chest, like a shield. “I am.”

“You’re telling me I feel I might vomit because of Weasley.”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He laughs. Just a breath of a laugh, but from the angle his chin is at, she finds herself watching his
throat constrict around it. Watching the muscles move. “That’s a sick joke,” he says.

“Well, it isn’t my fault.” She goes to dab at her eyes with her sleeve again but finds the tears mostly
dry. “If these were normal circumstances, you wouldn’t be feeling any of it.”

Malfoy tips his head back down and fixes her with a look she doesn’t quite understand. “But these
aren’t normal circumstances.” He juts that pointed chin towards her, propping one arm lazily on
his knee. “Go on, then. What’d Weasley do?”

She relaxes her shoulders a bit, letting her legs spread out and cross in front of her. “It isn’t what he
did, it’s what she did. What he let her do.”

“She?”

“Lavender.”
If she could take any small comfort from this night, it’d be the way Malfoy’s face screws up at her
name. “Brown?” he clarifies, making a disgusted noise in the back of his throat when she nods.

And maybe it’s that she feels this may be the first time they’ve felt the same way about someone.
About something. Anything. The words come freely.

“You know, she’s really not a good kisser. I thought someone like Lavender would’ve mastered the
art of kissing by now, but she’s actually rather rotten at it.”

“And how would you know?” asks Malfoy. “Have you kissed her?”

She pulls a face. “No.” Then, crossing her arms, “Have you?”

He pulls the same face. “No.”

“Well then.” She gestures limply in front of her. “There you go. Anyhow, I don’t need to kiss her to
know that. I can tell just by watching. It’s apparent in her persona.”

Malfoy snorts. “By that logic, I could say that you’re probably a rotten kisser too.”

She feels her eyes go wide and furious in an instant, and she tries to keep her nostrils from flaring.
She hates when her nostrils flare.

“As if you’d know.”

Malfoy shrugs. “It’s like you said. It’s apparent in your persona.”

She splutters, lurching off the wall to lean across the alcove towards him. “In what possible way?”

He smiles a little wickedly — he’s laughing at her. “So touchy. No need to get offended, Granger.
We are using your logic after all.”

“How is it apparent in my persona?”

He laughs. “Merlin, I can already feel your blood boiling. Calm dow—”

“How is it apparent in my persona?”

She only knows she’s yelling when her voice comes echoing back at her, harsh — livid.

Malfoy appears unfazed. Takes a moment to study her, head cocking to one side. It’s an infuriating
little movement. But then all at once he’s leaning forward too, and suddenly they’re both cross-
legged. Mirror images. He puts his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers together — like he’s
deciding his next move in a chess game.

“You really want to know?”

She puts her elbows on her knees too, narrowing her eyes. “Yes, I really do.”

Do you? the voice in her head warns.

It’s too late. Malfoy’s already talking. “Look at you. Look at your hair. Look at your clothes. Look
at the way you sit and speak. Everything about you screams ‘frigid.’ It’s like you spend an hour
every morning deciding how best to make yourself unapproachable. And look at the way you act.
Always correcting people. Always tripping over yourself to raise that hand first in class.”
She breathes in sharply through her nose, gathering her hands into fists over her ankles. Digging her
fingernails into her palms and hoping he’ll feel the sting.

Even if he does, he keeps going.

“Look at that fit you threw in Divination. Third Year. Oh yeah, I still remember. Couldn’t stand to
be anything less than first. It’s unbelievably apparent in your persona, Granger. It’s on your fucking
sleeve. It doesn’t take a Seer to know you’d rather not try at all than fail. And based on that logic
— your logic — I’d say yeah. Yeah, you’re probably a rotten kisser. You’d probably spend the
entire time overthinking and over-correcting and probably fucking judging the poor, unlucky
bastard who—”

She makes a conscious choice in that moment. Knows full well how stupid it is, but she’s just —
just absolutely blinded by rage.

She seizes him by the loose collar of his shirt and forces their lips together.

It hurts. Their teeth clash and their foreheads collide and she feels the hot ache from both ends.
Feels Malfoy go rigid in her hold and catches his grunt of pain and surprise in her mouth.

To her credit, she lets him go instantly.

Shocked and horrified, she yanks herself away and shoves him back hard — just slams her palm
against his chest like he’s the one who did it. Her heart is racing. Thudding like horse hooves, loud
in her ears.

Malfoy looks about the same, eyes wide and furious, hand flying up almost instinctively to wipe at
his mouth.

“What the fuck?” he demands.

She forces her tongue to function. “You — you wouldn’t stop.”

“That was a horrible fucking kiss!”

“—wouldn’t be quiet. I — you—”

“I think you cut my fucking lip, you fucking lunatic—”

“—didn’t know what else to—”

“—is that really the best you’ve got?”

She stops her mindless blabbering at once, the alcove plunging into harsh silence. Her pulse
doesn’t slow by so much as a beat, and all she can do is stare. Stare dead on into those eyes as
though they’re a pair of headlights, on their way to take her life.

“What?” she breathes, watching his pupils dilate. Why — why do they always have to do that?

Malfoy breathes out slowly for a long moment, unblinking.

“I said,” he manages at last, voice low — still furious. But he emphasizes each piece in turn,
somehow utterly unapologetic. “Is that — the best — you’ve got?”

Now it feels like her pulse just stops. Like she goes deaf for a moment, nothing but a ringing in her
ears.
 “No,” she feels herself say. Can’t really hear it. Everything is muffled. Out of focus.

Malfoy’s eyes narrow until all she can see is the black of those pupils. “No?” he echoes, and she
can only feel the vibration of it.

Her senses are consumed by something else. Something outside of her. Something thick and dark
and inverse. Something that tingles in the backs of her knees and in her fingertips. Something that
begs her to lean forward.

She exhales and swears she can feel her own breath gusting against her lips — his lips. Her head
feels heavy. Forehead feels magnetized, sinking slowly forward.

The tip of her nose brushes against his. The warmth of his silent gasp seeps through her skin. She
lets her eyes fall shut—

“Hermione?”

Harry’s voice. A loud echo from the stairs leading down into the alcove. Less than a wall away.

She barely has time to open her eyes and Malfoy’s gone — tearing himself back from her and
snatching up his book like a lifeline. He’s out of there so fast, his own scent doesn’t have time to
catch up.

It lingers in the air around her like a ghost.

Chapter End Notes

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?si=3kas-
WH_Q76TYXhL5wkTWA

Trailer. https://youtu.be/h04tKBC_ggw
 Disgust / Vengeance

She stares at the canopy of her four-poster that night and thinks of nothing but his face.

His face. Once a harbinger of such disgust and hatred in her mind. Once so excessively sharp and
displeasing, creased with disdain. She used to believe he slept in that scowl — that it had become
natural for him. She used to find him so utterly forgettable. Unworthy of her time.

And yet now, in these past few days — past few weeks, if she’s honest — his face is the one she
sees behind her eyelids. With every blink, she sees those cold gray eyes. Those bottomless, sable
pupils. She finds herself considering the angle of his jaw as something less than lethal. Something
smooth and refined and carefully carved. Finds herself wondering if his hair is as soft as it looks,
now that he no longer slicks it back.

He is not what she prefers. That’s undeniable. There is nothing warm or inviting about him, not in
the slightest. She has always preferred freckles and kind eyes and soft, uneven smiles. Malfoy’s
skin is pale — almost threatening in its flawlessness. His eyes don’t deal in kindness. No, they
calculate. Assess. Strategize. And his grin is the cruelest thing she’s ever seen.

But tonight, after such an impossibly stupid mistake, she finds she cannot chase his image away.
He lingers there in her mind until she falls asleep, staring at her as though he knows something she
doesn’t.

She can no longer waste time.

Dear Professor Lupin,

It was lovely to see you at the Burrow this past summer. I hope this letter finds you well, and that
you and Tonks are settling in nicely at your new home. I’m sorry not to be writing under better
circumstances.

I’ve found myself in a somewhat complicated situation, and I don’t see who else I can turn to.

There is a student here at Hogwarts who suffers from your same affliction. I am not certain when
he was bitten, but I know he has undergone several transformations and that he’s working to treat
himself with Wolfsbane. I’m writing because I believe we may have inadvertently formed some kind
of bond. I am aware of the term paramour and have researched it some, but I’m hesitant to assume
such a classification so early.

At present, we are experiencing some shared sensations, more so on his end than mine. As I believe
we are still in the early stages of whatever this is, I hoped you might be able to help. Is there any
way to reverse it? To prevent it from going any further?

Of course I understand if this is not a subject you feel comfortable discussing, or if there is nothing
you can do, but I figured it was worth trying.

Thank you so much. I hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,
Hermione

She prays she’ll hear back within a week, but considering her luck it’s entirely possible the owl
will drop dead trying to deliver it.

How long is it supposed to take to fall out of love?

She’s certain there’s meant to be a formula. Figures it must have something to do with however
long you’ve been in love with that person to begin with — which is the problem. Because she’s
sure she’s been in love with Ron for at least four years.

And yet it takes less than a week to fall straight out of it. Like a clean dive. A week divided into
two distinct stages.

Disgust and vengeance.

The disgust only lasts a few days. The morning she sends her letter to Lupin, she makes it as far as
the breakfast table before being assaulted by the colossal eyesore that is Lavender and Ron
together. Lavender has abandoned Parvati and Romilda at their usual side of the table in favor of
draping herself all over him, hardly a square inch of their bodies not connected in one way or
another. She’s practically sitting on his lap.

It would appear they are an item now. Marvelous.

Hermione has to squeeze her eyes shut when Lavender lets loose a high-pitched peal of laughter,
feeling the instant beginnings of a tension headache. She reaches for the teapot in front of Harry,
then thinks better of it and conjures a cup of straight espresso.

Harry glances sideways at her, leaning tiredly on his hand. He gives her a subtle nudge with his
other elbow, rolling his eyes when Ron’s not looking. She gives him a tucked smile back.

He did find her last night, shortly after Malfoy evaporated into thin air. And she had to pretend she
hadn’t just kissed his worst enemy. Was it really a kiss? No, more of an attack really.

Either way, she’d been blushing something furious, and when Harry found her she had to force
more tears. Had to tuck her face into his shoulder and mumble nonsense about Ron, even when
Ron was suddenly the last thing on her mind.

But Harry was incredibly kind. Blessedly silent, for the most part. And she realized then what a
poor friend she’s been to him.

For weeks he’s had to watch Dean with Ginny. But he doesn’t go running off crying every time
they kiss. Harry is much better at bottling things up.

Still, she makes herself a promise to check on him more often.

Lavender laughs again — honestly, it’s a brain-numbing sort of a sound. Hermione takes another
sip of espresso to counteract it, but then she says, “Oh, Won-Won, you are too funny—” and she
just chokes. Bucks forward and covers her nose, eyes watering.

Just what exactly is a Won-Won?

Harry thumps her on the back. “Too hot?”

She nods into her hand, silently thanking god for him as she tries to swallow it down without
spitting anything out. By the time she’s somewhat recovered, Ron and Lavender are back to
snogging. She has to swallow an extra time just to make sure nothing comes back up, glancing
away only to accidentally lock eyes with Malfoy at the next table over.

Her pulse gives a little panicked flutter, thinking of last night, but then she realizes he’s making
faces at her. His cheeks are bright red and his eyes are too. ‘What the fuck?’ he mouths
aggressively as he wipes away the tears with a napkin, still coughing a little.

Zabini slaps his back too, less gently than Harry. “Chew your food, mate.”

“Fuck you.”

She looks away quickly. Ends up having to look straight down at the table because apparently the
options are Ron and Lavender attempting to eat one another — or Malfoy, and neither are bearable
at the moment.

By lunch, Ron’s lips are so swollen it looks as though he’s contracted a disease, and it takes a
concentrated effort not to scrunch her nose up. They haven’t spoken since the Quidditch match, but
she doubts he’s even noticed. He can’t seem to get a word out to anyone before Lavender sucks his
tongue back into her mouth.

Harry serves as her rock for the majority of the day, always managing to distract her with
something new he’s found in that decimated copy of Advanced Potion Making the moment
Lavender comes skipping into sight.

It’s an effective distraction, too. The book makes her nervous. He’s already shown her a handful of
spells scribbled into the margins that she doesn’t recognize, and there’s something about the angry
slant of that handwriting that sets her on edge.

She bites back on asking him to turn it in more than once. Can’t really blame him for being
curious.

That would be hypocritical to a fault.

The disgust fades by Wednesday — a relief, considering Tuesday she saw Malfoy charge into the
boy’s lavatory twice in between classes, both times after she let her eyes linger on Ron and
Lavender a few seconds too long. Her stomach would lurch, and a moment later there’d be a flash
of blond across the corridor as he shoved his way through the crowd. The second time, she lingered
outside that lavatory, waiting until he came back out wiping his mouth. The sight of her actually
made him bare his teeth.

“Merlin, Granger — get the fuck over him already,” he spat and then stormed off down the hall to
the class they were both late for, very careful not to let her get a word out.
If one thing’s clear, they’re apparently not going to discuss what happened between them.

But by Wednesday, her focus is diverted. After waking from a nightmare filled with Lavender’s
simpering face, she can’t fall back asleep. And she becomes consumed by fury. And by an idea.

She realizes as she lies there that she’s allowed Ron to make an egregious error. She’s allowed him
to take her for granted. Allowed him to see her as the bookish prude. The know-it-all. The friend.

And it’s entirely her own fault.

She shoots up off her back. It’s as though the epiphany injects adrenaline directly into her
bloodstream. Because the solution’s been staring her in the face.

How exactly had Malfoy put it?

“Everything about you screams ‘frigid.’”

She growls under her breath, yanking aside her bed curtains before she remembers to be quiet.

“It’s like you spend an hour every morning deciding how best to make yourself unapproachable.”

No. No.

Not anymore.

She kneels in front of her trunk at the foot of the bed, glancing over her shoulder to check that the
other girls are still asleep. Her gaze lingers on Lavender’s four-poster and her jaw tightens. She
whips back around and wrenches open the lid.

No more.

If she has anything to say about it, Ron will trip and break his teeth on the flagstone the next time
he sees her.

She’s the last one out of the dormitory, waiting cross-legged on her bed for all the other girls to
leave. And as she waits, she wonders — wonders whether Malfoy woke up this morning consumed
by a sense of inexplicable, furious determination. Wonders if he feels this thirst for vengeance
she’s got boiling in her stomach.

Perhaps she’s overreacting. Perhaps this is a terrible idea.

Perhaps she doesn’t care.

She clears her throat and pulls her curls down in front of her shoulders, slipping off the bed to take
a final look in the mirror.

She’s never bothered with make-up before. Has never been against it, and yet never felt it was
worth it. She’s thinking now that perhaps it was everyone else making her feel that. Leaning
forward, she draws her fingers beneath her lower lashes, wiping away wayward flecks of mascara.
It needs to be perfect.

Her eyes look larger like this. Darker. Her lips look fuller coated in the deep shade of crimson she’s
used. She’s charmed her hair into submission — but not the way she did in Fourth Year. She’s not
taming it — she’s training it. Coaxing it to be wild in the way she wants. The way she feels.

As for her clothes, well — she can only hope McGonagall doesn’t catch a glimpse of her today.
She’s the Professor this little stunt is most likely to alarm.

The top two buttons of her dress shirt are left undone, her tie slung loose where it’s usually so
uniform. She’s charmed an inch off the hem of her pleated skirt and opted for the black knee socks
— the ones she never had the confidence to wear before. The ones Pansy Parkinson always flaunts.

To top it off, she's done her nails in black and squeezed a blush into her cheeks and she’s just —
she’s never felt so powerful.

Staring at her body, she huffs to herself and smiles. “Nice legs, Granger.”

She turns on her heel.

On second thought, perhaps this isn’t a clean dive out of love at all. This is screaming for a
lifeguard. This is becoming the shark.

It feels lovely.

She knows well enough not to overplay this. Knows the fine line between what she wants to
achieve and what might be considered desperate.

So she doesn’t swing her hips and she doesn’t change her behavior. She carries that same extra
stack of books that won’t fit in her bag out of the portrait hole and all the way down the Grand
Staircase. Smiles at Justin Finch-Fletchley as she passes him on his way back up.

But she’ll admit it goes to her head a little when she hears his feet scuff as he misses the next step.

Similar reactions follow her down the remaining flights, and by the time she reaches the bottom,
she’s drunk on courage. Courage she desperately needs, because Ron is there, just ahead of the
gold doors to the Great Hall, Lavender dangling off his arm.

“Morning,” she says brightly, and she’s never felt better than she does walking right past him, with
his jaw dragging on the floor.

“What is she wearing?” Lavender hisses in her wake, and hearing the panic in her voice feels like
scratching a week-old itch.

Ginny sweeps in beside her a moment later, linking an arm through hers. “Well, well, well,” she
says, grinning when Hermione turns to look at her. “Give him hell, then.”

She can’t help the laugh that bursts from her chest.

This must be what it feels like. Standing in front of the rest. Walking into the room first. Speaking
first. Taking instead of giving. Taking up space.

It feels bloody fantastic.

But as it turns out, she’s not expecting the reaction she enjoys the most.
Granted, there a number of front-runners. Harry spits out his pumpkin juice when she reaches their
section of the table and then tries to blame it on ‘swallowing wrong.’ Neville turns the color of a
bushel of apples. And Seamus, the bastard, actually voices his thoughts for all to hear. “Fuck me,
Hermione — where’ve you been hiding all that?”

She just opens her book and pretends to read, smiling to herself when Ginny says, “Get your eyes
checked, Seamus.”

Still, it’s none of these.

It’s what happens at the tail end of breakfast, as the lot of them are getting up to leave for their first
class — when Malfoy comes rushing around the corner. He’s clearly overslept, from the state of
him, his hair askew and his eyes full of that sort of crazed alertness that comes with rushing
straight out of bed. He looks to be on his way to snag a spot of breakfast before the House Elves
clear the tables.

His eyes skate past her in his haste as he crosses in front of their pack of Gryffindors, but then he
does a double-take and she feels the most peculiar sensation of free fall in her chest when their eyes
meet. Out of nowhere. She almost trips, managing just in time to save herself by latching onto
Ginny’s arm.

Malfoy has no one to save him. He walks face-first into one of those massive gold doors and
becomes the punchline of a joke for the rest of the afternoon.

She thinks she should’ve done this ages ago.

Friday is Halloween, and her vengeance wouldn’t be complete without the worst decision she
makes that week.

Let it be clear, if it wasn’t already, that she absolutely detests Cormac McLaggen. The problem is
that Ron does too, which makes accepting him as her date to the annual Hallow’s Eve Soirée a
necessary evil.

She takes one for her own team.

The Great Hall is awash with the orange glow of jack-o-lanterns, all other sources of light dimmed
and the sky above dark and stormy. All the tables have been vanished to allow students to mingle
and dance, and trays of cider float around on clouds of thick white smoke.

Hermione’s come prepared. She managed to transform a bottle of Butterbeer into something a great
deal stronger the night before, and now she’s using it to generously spike every glass of cider she
drinks.

She hasn’t bothered with a costume — and thank heavens neither has Cormac. She’s in a simple
black dress that’s easy to move around in, albeit a great deal shorter than she would’ve ever worn
before.

She wishes she could smell the notes of cinnamon and pumpkin she remembers from the years
previous, but all she can smell is Cormac. He reeks like someone set an immense amount of
sandalwood on fire, and she finds herself constantly having to put an extra foot between them the
entire night just to stave off a migraine.
But it’s worth it to see Ron’s face redden every time he catches sight of them. Lavender has him
dressed as a vampire to match her own ridiculously risqué costume, and she seems to be dancing
against him with the sole objective of making him pitch a tent.

Ron, though — it appears he can’t help glancing towards her and Cormac every other minute —
and it’s for this reason and this reason alone that she allows Cormac to lean over and whisper
seductively in her ear. Allows herself to smile and giggle like hearing him say, “Let’s find
someplace quiet,” is the most endearing thing in the world.

She doesn’t let him tow her out of the Hall until she’s certain Ron’s eyes are locked on them. But
even the obscene amount of alcohol in her system doesn’t excuse what she’s about to do.

She makes terrible decisions when she’s drunk.

Still, in her defense, Cormac’s face is more of a blur now — and this level of intoxication has her
growing numb to his stench. She lets him tow her through several dark corridors, feet tripping over
themselves to keep up, flask never far from her lips.

She laughs at his bad jokes and pretends to be just as wanton as he is when he eventually drags her
into a hall free of Prefects. He wastes no time pushing her up against the cold stone and smashing
his lips to hers.

He’s a much too aggressive kisser, she thinks — but what better time to practice her own form? She
kisses back, working with angles and testing out tricks with her teeth and tongue. Experimenting.

Unfortunately, this enthusiasm makes Cormac say a lot of embarrassing things.

“Merlin, Granger.”

“You really are a naughty one, aren’t you?”

“Do you like it when I—”

Right, that’s enough of that.

She figures she may as well get something out of this, and if that something has the added bonus of
making him silent, then all the better for it.

Mustering her strength and screwing up her courage, she pretends he isn’t Cormac Bloody
McLaggen for a moment so she can splay her hands out on his stupidly broad shoulders and guide
him downward.

His utter delight is so palpable she has to roll her eyes at the opposite wall.

He drops to his knees and starts to gather up the hem of her skirt, laughing under his breath.
“Who’d have guessed you were such a—”

“Please stop talking.”

He chuckles again as he takes her knickers down — clearly has no idea how literally she means it.
She unstoppers her flask and takes a healthy swig, praying he has even a moderate level of skill
when it comes to this.

She’s disappointed.

Because she’s numb. Feels next to nothing as Cormac McLaggen proceeds to go down on her.
Viktor did this much better, she thinks.

It’s not that he’s bad, per se. It’s that she has absolutely no emotional attachment whatsoever. Not
even a physical one, if she’s honest. So while there’s nothing overtly displeasing in the way his
tongue traces over her, there’s nothing overtly pleasing about it either.

She’s bored. That’s what it is.

She has to remind herself to moan every now and again. Knows if she doesn’t give him some form
of encouragement, he might stop and start speaking again. She shifts against him and exaggerates
with a few thrusts of her hips, all the while staring at the ceiling and wishing the night was already
over.

At the very least, maybe she can use this against Ron some day. Maybe Cormac’s a gossip.

She tilts her head down for another sip at exactly the wrong moment, and their eyes lock across the
corridor.

Her lips part and she gasps. Tenses up, flask slipping out from between her fingers and clattering
on the stone floor.

Malfoy is at the other end of the hall. Ten — maybe fifteen meters away. He wasn’t at the party.
She’s not sure where he was, but that hardly matters because he’s here now. Staring at her.

Like this.

Her first instinct is to immediately shove Cormac away and drag her skirt back down. She reaches
out to do it, eyes wide and horrified.

But it’s in that same moment that she senses it.

She’s gotten better at differentiating which feelings are her own and which are his, rare as the
occasion may be, and this is — this is his. This is definitely his.

But how can it be?

How? How is it possible?

How, when it feels so similar to want?

He stands there frozen at the other end of the corridor, just past the corner, caught off guard. Just
stands there watching as Cormac McLaggen eats her out — and somehow the only thing she’s
feeling from him is this dangerous and thick, all-consuming ache.

An ache like need. Like something repressed he doesn’t want to let through.

Like something unspoken.

And whatever it is, it wakes her up to the sensations below her waist. Suddenly, she’s anything but
numb. Anything but bored. Cormac’s tongue is abruptly lithe and effective and the next moan that
wrenches out of her throat is a real one. Breathy. Instinctive. Accidental.

She can’t take her eyes off of him. And he won’t look away.

Why? Why won’t he look away?

Rivulets of pleasure and heat start to explode across the nerve-endings in her thighs — up along
her spine, down into her toes, and Malfoy, he—

He leans back against the wall behind him.

He settles in to watch.

She chokes on a gasp at the realization, suddenly sober. Awake. Aware.

And then it’s only the two of them. The two of them exchanging something visceral across this
invisible connection — these electrical currents in the air — while Cormac McLaggen does all the
work, utterly forgotten.

Malfoy breathes out slowly. She can feel him do it. Can feel it like the warmth actually whispers
across the back of her neck. His eyes are clouded. Heady. She swears it’s his own pulse throbbing
in her veins.

And when he bites down on his lower lip and leans his head back, she can’t hold it in any longer.
Can’t hold the gates.

The orgasm takes hold and she shatters. Just absolutely shatters. Grasps desperately for the wall
behind her and bites her tongue as her legs shake and her blood sings and Malfoy’s rough gasp cuts
across the silence.

Cormac laughs like he’s won some sort of game.

But it’s not his victory.

No.

Panting, she watches Malfoy drag himself up from his slant against the wall and slip back around
the corner, eyes half-lidded and locked on hers until the last possible moment.

She knows exactly whose victory it is.

 Aches / Allies
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The moment she wakes up, she knows she’s being punished.

A laundry list of symptoms — cottonmouth, splitting headache, stomach in knots and blood on the
sheets.

Her cycle is early.

With a groan, she drags herself out of bed, struggling to balance for a moment before she can turn
around and vanish the mess. Her skull feels like it weighs ten stone; it’s nearly impossible to keep
her eyes open.

At the very least, it’s Saturday. She’ll have the washroom to herself, with the others still asleep —
as well as the rest of the day to recover.

The sun pesters her all the way across the dormitory, bright and assaulting. She holds a hand in
front of her eyes until she can stagger into the washroom. A shower sounds like a godsend.

She does her best not to think about last night as the hot water washes over her, palms splayed out
on the tile wall, forehead pressed against it. She could stay in here for hours. Soaking away the
remnants of Cormac McLaggen.

But her stomach is a battleground — wrenching and twisting. If she wants to have any hope of
getting through the day, she’ll need to pay Madam Pomfrey a visit.

She’s probably lucky she didn’t look at herself before scalding away most of the evidence, but
even out of the shower, her reflection leaves something to be desired.

Eyes bloodshot, lips chapped and swollen, skin sallow. She behaved like a fool.

And with Cormac McLaggen, of all bloody people.

Not just him.

It’s that teasing voice in her head — rotten and sadistic — and she watches her cheeks go bright red
in the steam-streaked mirror.

Cormac isn’t the problem, after all. Not two seconds after she managed to pry him off of her, she
made a snap decision and reached for her wand.

“Obliviate.”

If she did it correctly, he’ll have no memory of Halloween night whatsoever. Something he’ll likely
chalk up to drinking too much.

No, he’s not the problem.

Malfoy — Malfoy is the problem.

There’s no sense in it. In what happened. None whatsoever. Not only is it utterly absurd that she
allowed herself to engage in something so lewd in a public place, but she also did absolutely
nothing to stop him from watching.

And he did watch. For reasons she can’t fathom.

Because he’s Malfoy, and he’s vile and he thinks she’s vile, and it’s all just —

Lavender’s ridiculous morning yawn sounds from the dormitory. She jerks into motion, yanking
off her towel and casting an Accio for clean clothes. She’d rather not speak to anyone this morning,
if she can help it.

Least of all Lavender Brown.

Madam Pomfrey, in direct line for sainthood, gives her shoulder a squeeze and supplies her with a
generous dose of pain-relieving draught. She has every intention of downing the entire vial in one
go and then finding a comfortable spot amongst those massive pumpkins of Hagrid’s to read for
the rest of the afternoon.

Naturally, this plan falls to pieces within minutes.

She’s only just rounding the corner out of the Hospital Wing when she comes face to face with
Malfoy. And her heart would be in her throat were it not for the state of him.

He looks absolutely haggard.

His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes wide and rimmed red. The tension in his
jaw looks as though it could rival the string of a bow, and his face is pale as death.

She’s only seen him this bad the day before a full moon. But that’s over a week from now.

“Granger,” he hisses the moment he sees her. “This is your fault.”

If she was expecting him to say anything, it wasn’t that.

She hasn’t given any thought to how a conversation might go after what happened last night —
mostly by way of avoidance — but if she had to, she would’ve pictured something less aggressive.

Utterly confused, she can only stare at him for a moment. But then all at once he doubles over,
grunting something foul she can’t quite make out as he clutches his stomach. His features twist,
more blood draining from his cheeks even when it doesn’t seem possible.

“Fucking hell,” he spits, grasping for the wall at his side to steady himself and glaring up at her
through a few sweat-soaked strands. “How long is this going to take?”

Hermione blinks vacantly. “How long is…what?”

“He’s just a fucking Weasley,” Malfoy seethes through clenched teeth. “Ugly red hair, simple-
minded — he’s not fucking worth this. Not even for you.”

She has absolutely no idea what’s going on. “What?”

“The nerve of you,” he continues, brandishing the hand not braced on the wall. “Getting so bloody
wound up in your own feelings. So fucking dramatic. Oh, woe is me. Weasley’s smashed my heart
again. Best make myself physically fucking ill!"

He’s not only offensive, he’s much too loud. Madam Pomfrey is less than a wall away, and with
her headache far from gone, it’s simply unacceptable.

“You’re the one being dramatic,” she demands in a heated whisper. “Quiet down.”

“Oh, why don’t you make m—”

She seizes him by the arm before she really thinks about it, turning on her heel and charging down
the short flight of stairs that leads to the courtyard at a breakneck pace. Malfoy whinges and curses
the whole way, yanking against her grasp straight up to the moment she pulls him behind one of
those stone archways that guards the fountain.

“You’re not making any sense!”

Malfoy puts an extra foot between them immediately, face drawn up in disgust as he yanks
nonexistent wrinkles out of his shirt. “Don’t ever fucking manhandle me again—”

“What do you mean, wound up in my feelings?” she hisses, glancing sideways to check for
onlookers.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know!”

“I don’t!”

Malfoy scoffs and turns away, rubbing roughly at his temples. “Brilliant. Fucking brilliant,” he
mutters, almost more to himself than her. “Fucking head’s on fire, fucking stomach’s about to
explode, and you’re going to fucking deny it—”

“Oh,” she says abruptly. Suddenly makes sense of it.

By the time he turns back to face her, she’s certain she’s gone candy-apple red.

“What?” he demands.

“I — erm…”

“What?”

She clears her throat, itching at the back of her neck and glancing away. “It — well, it has nothing
to do with Ron. I’ll put it that way.”

Malfoy takes a step forward, casting a shadow over her — blocking out the morning sun. “Care to
clarify?” he says in a low voice, teeth gritted with pain.

Idly, she thinks of the chaos the school would collapse into if all the girls were allowed to behave
this way once a month.

“Certainly,” she says, squaring her shoulders. A small part of her is embarrassed to say it, but the
more she thinks about it, the more the rest of her starts to find the situation somewhat poetic.
Poetic and even a bit funny. “I began my cycle this morning. You’re experiencing menstrual
cramps.”

Malfoy goes white as a sheet. Reaches out to brace a hand on the fountain archway. “…What?”
“Hurts quite a bit, doesn’t it?”

He opens his mouth and closes it again, eyes wide — gaze flitting rapidly back and forth, searching
her face as though waiting for the punchline. Praying there is one.

“They’ll come and go. So will the headaches. And you’ll be in a foul mood the rest of the day —
the rest of the week, probably — though I suppose that won’t be abnormal for you.” Hermione
flashes him a coy smile.

“Granger—” he hisses.

“Best ask Madam Pomfrey for some of this.” She pulls the vial of pain-relieving draught from the
pocket of her skirt and waves it in front of him.

“This is — no, this is obscene—”

She only scoffs. “You’ll live.”

His hand threads its way into his hair again, sweeping back those sweat-soaked strands. “You're
lying,” he insists suddenly, though his tone is more desperate than anything else. “You — you look
fine. You’re not even sick. This can’t be —”

“What?” Now she’s the one stepping forward, and she’s not sure where exactly the bitterness
comes from. Five years of hell, most likely. “Does it bother you that I can handle it better?”

His nose scrunches up and his lip curls over his teeth — a snarl she’s growing familiar with. “Fuck
you,” he spits and then pushes off the archway, shoulder knocking against hers as he makes to
leave.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

The scuff of his shoes on the cobblestone is loud in the empty courtyard, and then it’s only the soft
sounds of the fountain filling the silence for a moment.

“About what?” he snaps.

She can’t see him; he’s already stepped past her. They’re back to back now.

Tilting her head sideways, she speaks over her shoulder. “You know perfectly well what.”

Another impossibly long pause. Then, “There’s nothing to say.”

And a moment later, his footsteps retreat.

She huffs to herself, left standing alone in the courtyard. Of course. He’s going to deny it. She
assumed as much, knowing his character.

Malfoy is nothing if not consistent.

And if she’s right, he has no idea the symbiotic sensations work both ways. Has no idea she’s felt
what he feels. So why wouldn’t he deny it? It’s the logical choice. The easy way out. Malfoy
always takes the easy way out.

Still, even if she was expecting it, she can’t really account for the sudden hollow pulse in her gut.
Only knows it has nothing to do with the time of the month.
She’s all but given up on the prospect of receiving a response from Professor Lupin.

Perhaps that owl really did drop dead.

Another full moon comes and goes, the November chill making its way over the Grounds. When
the transformation occurs this time around, she neither hears nor feels a thing from her dormitory.
Doesn’t care to admit to the connotations that come with staying awake well into the early hours of
the morning, waiting. Listening. Wondering.

She thinks the Wolfsbane must’ve been more effective. Thinks perhaps that he didn’t transform.
Thinks about what it must feel like, to sit there in those chains and wonder when it’ll happen. If it’ll
happen.

She imagines it must be torture.

Halfway through the month, just when she’s starting to think she’s no longer sensing anything
from him, it feels like a pit suddenly opens up in her stomach. She’s in the middle of
Transfiguration, abruptly awash with dread, and when she approaches McGonagall to ask
permission to leave, it takes little to no convincing.

“Miss Granger, you’ve gone gray. Are you quite alright?”

Hermione clutches at her stomach, feeling her pulse start to race, thudding like a hammer in her
ears. “I’m sorry, Professor. I think I might be sick. May I—”

“Of course, yes. Off you go.” McGonagall swishes a hand towards the door. "Mr. Weasley will—”
She stops. Thinks better of it. "Mr. Potter will take notes for you."

Hermione leaves quickly. Thinks perhaps she might make a run for the lavatory, in case she really
is about to be sick. That or she’ll head to the Hospital Wing. Or maybe just straight to bed. It’s the
last class of the day, and she’s in no danger of falling behind.

Except her feet lead her elsewhere.

She has no idea how it is she finds him. He wasn’t in class and she hasn’t seen him in the corridors
since yesterday. And yet somehow, ill as she feels and with nothing but pure, subconscious instinct
guiding her, she ends up in front of a very familiar blank stretch of stone.

The Room of Requirement.

For quite some time, nothing happens. She only stands there, staring at it, all the while feeling as
though the walls of her stomach are caving in. He must be in there. The sensations grow stronger
when they’re in close proximity — she’s put that much together on her own.

But she’d never once have thought they could be used as a guide. A method of tracking. Like a
homing beacon.
The longer she stands there, the more she expects she’ll have to wait around for him to leave. Wait
and hope this pain subsides.

He’s at least a week from a transformation — that can’t be the cause. But whatever’s gone wrong,
it’s driving him absolutely mad. On top of the dread, she feels an acute sense of panic. He’s
anxious. There’s something he can’t figure out.

Fool, she thinks. Here she’s offered her help more than once, and Malfoy would rather just curl
into himself and stew in it—

Dust rains down from the top of the wall. A gasp falls from her mouth as those intricate iron curls
begin to materialize, slowly forming the doorway.

It’s letting her in.

She doesn’t hesitate when the handles appear, pressing a palm flat against the iron and pushing the
massive doors apart.

This version of the room is dark. Seems to completely revolve around the orientation of the
windows. The stone ceiling she remembers from the time she spent here in Dumbledore’s Army
has been replaced with glass — but the sky that shows through doesn’t match the time of day.

This is a night sky. Stars shine from above, the glow of a crescent moon the greatest source of
illumination.

Every wall is glass, she realizes. And all she needs to do is breathe in to deduce what he’s created
here.

It’s a greenhouse.

A very empty greenhouse. The air is humid. Controlled. The glass seems to carefully reflect the
moon’s glow down upon a solitary row of flowers in the center of the room. They’re raised off the
ground, planted in a long, obsidian box a bit like a trough. A thin sheen of mist falls towards the
soil, conjured from above.

It takes a step closer to recognize the flowers.

Wolfsbane. She’d know that shade of violet anywhere.

But with a few steps more, she realizes they’re dying. The ends of the petals are shriveled and
darkened, their stems limp and drooping.

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

His voice is sharp — startles her, erupting from one of the pitch black corners — and yet it’s not so
unlike those flowers. Wilted. Torn.

She twists towards the sound, squinting into the dark. Her gut wrenches as her eyes adjust, pulling
him into focus.

He is quite literally curled into himself, sitting tucked against the wall with his elbows on his knees
and his head braced in his hands. And she’s suddenly trying to remember the last time she saw him
looking well — because he looks utterly wrecked. His blond hair sticks up at all angles — the
handiwork of those nervous fingers, no doubt — and his face is gaunt. Lined. Exhausted. At least
as well as she can see in the artificial moonlight.
“What happened?” she asks, surprised when her voice echoes back off all the glass.

He lets out a huff that’s more like a hiss. “I asked first.” And now he sounds dull. Empty.

She moves away from the doors. Closer to him, his shape growing clearer amidst the dark. “I’m…
not sure,” she says, and it’s the truth. “The doors just appeared for me.”

His head thunks back against the wall. “They shouldn’t do that,” he whispers, as though to no one.

“What happened?” she asks again.

Malfoy thrusts a limp arm in the direction of the flowers. “Use those powers of observation.”

The swell of indignation is brief. She’s able to tamp it down, glancing sideways at the dejected
plants and then back at him. “I thought you’d sorted them out.”

Even in the dim light, his glare is fierce. “Evidently not,” he growls, sounding out each syllable
like an individual threat.

The sudden urge to roll her eyes is almost uncontrollable. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Malfoy —
you’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think? You said it yourself, the plant is sensitive. I’m sure
there’s something—”

Malfoy launches up from the floor in an instant, hands flying out in front of him and clenching into
fists. “I swear I could fucking strangle you right now.” He charges forward several steps. “Of all
times to play the fucking know-it-all, you choose this moment? What’s the matter with you?”

For almost half a minute, she can’t find it in herself to react beyond a blink. Just watches him
standing there, panting — waits for steam to start streaming out of his mouth.

It’s as good a time as any to throw gas on the flame.

“I suppose it’s my turn to accuse you of getting wound up in your feelings.”

Malfoy closes their distance so quickly, she actually thinks he might hit her — albeit for about half
a second.

But he stops a foot away, seemingly content to do little more than glare down at her for a long
while.

Then, all at once, a shadow crosses over his face. She watches him put it together, the pieces
connecting behind his eyes.

“How did you find me?” he demands suddenly, voice rough as gravel.

She hesitates. Only for a moment, just to savor that feeling of holding the cards.

“I felt you.”

Malfoy’s breath hitches.

She tilts her chin up. “I felt your panic.”

“How?” he snaps, and that nervousness she’s been feeling from him seems to momentarily spike.

“The symbiotic sensations,” she says, careful to keep a neutral tone. “Apparently they work both
ways.”

She doesn’t have to say more. She can see him backtracking — tracing his steps and realizing what
she knows. It’s evident in the way his furious expression falters.

In his state, though — she knows it’s not a good idea to push it. She turns away from him abruptly,
approaching the flowers at the center of the room. The moonlight slides over her in fragments as
she stops in front of the planter’s edge. “When did it happen?”

It takes Malfoy a long time to answer. A long time to collect himself.

“This morning,” he says finally, barely audible.

“Did anything—”

“Nothing changed. Not one bloody thing. Not the temperature. Not the light. Nothing.” He’s at her
side before she realizes, and when she glances to the left she finds him glaring at the flowers like
he intends to set them ablaze. “They’re evil,” he spits. “And I hate them.”

The sudden ache of sadness she feels she has to stamp out like a flame. Quickly, before he feels it
through her.
She clears her throat. “Perhaps Professor Sprout could—”

“No.” It’s immediate. “No. Are you out of your mind? If the teachers think I can’t handle this on
my own, they’ll take things into their own hands. I had enough trouble convincing Dumbledore to
give me space.”

“We have to do something.”

“We?” His eyes snap to her. “Who the fuck is we?”

She can’t help but grit her teeth. “Like it or not, this affects the both of us. And if all you’re going
to do is sit here and sulk, then I suppose I’ll have to…” She trails off, realizing it halfway through
the sentence.

Malfoy’s surge of panic is ridiculously intense.

“You’ll what?”

She’s already turned on her heel, heading back towards the doors.

“Granger!” His shout is anxious. “What are you—”

She twists around at the threshold and holds up a hand. “Just trust me, will you? I have an idea.”

“Trust you?”

“Yes.”

He opens his mouth but looks as though he can’t think of what to say. And it’s the desperation in
his wide-eyed gaze that makes her say it.

“Malfoy — think about it. Why would I do something to hurt you if it’s going to hurt me?”

He stares at her for a moment, then huffs, expression settling into disdain. “What, like drop ice
down your shirt?”
 She does roll her eyes now. “Ice is ice, Malfoy. I know which lines aren’t meant to be crossed.”
And she yanks the door open. “Wait here.”

For what it’s worth, he doesn’t follow her.

She spots him leaving Transfiguration with the rest. Has to dodge Harry and Ron’s concern before
she can get to him.

“Yes, I’m fine — just fine. Something I ate, I think. Thank you.”

She smiles and slips past them, speeding up a little so she can reach out and tap him on the
shoulder.

“Neville?”

He stops and turns. “Hermione? You alright? Feeling any—”

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you. Better now. I — sorry, could I borrow you for a moment? It’s just, I
think Trevor may’ve escaped again.”

Neville’s eyes widen. “Again?” He slumps and sighs. “Right. Yeah.” Waving a haphazard goodbye
to Seamus and Dean, he follows her down the corridor and around the corner. “Where did you last
—”

“I’m sorry,” she says as soon as they’re out of earshot. “It’s not Trevor. I just — I need your help.”

Chapter End Notes

Come yell at me: https://www.facebook.com/groups/313342693333861/

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEW5Eu2D4GyMigMSn87Bz?si=3kas-
WH_Q76TYXhL5wkTWA

Trailer. https://youtu.be/h04tKBC_ggw
 Effusion / Deflection

The last thing Neville deserves is a wand in his face, but that’s exactly what he gets. Not half a
second after the doors shut behind them.

“—the fuck did you bring him here?”

Neville jerks to a halt, going wide-eyed and stiff. His hands raise from his sides somewhat
instinctively.

“No. Don’t put your hands up,” Hermione snaps, stepping in front of him. She tries to reach for
Malfoy’s wand but he yanks it out of the way, aiming the tip over her shoulder at Neville again.

“Are you out of your mind? Longbottom?”

She steps to the side, blocking him again. “Lower your wand. Now.”

“What’s going on?” asks Neville in a quiet, timid voice.

“Lower your wand.”

“Longbottom?” he demands again. “Of all fucking people?”

She snatches for his wand once more, this time managing to grasp hold of it and yank it out of his
hand. Malfoy gives a startled scoff of disbelief.

“How dare—”

“You’re lucky he’s here,” she hisses, tossing his wand off to the side. It clatters to the floor and
rolls away into darkness. “Neville is the best Herbology student in the school. Maybe even in the
history of the school.”

“Oh…” Neville starts to say from behind her, sounding shy. “Erm…thank you, Hermione—”

“No. Don’t thank her,” growls Malfoy, jabbing a finger at him over her shoulder. “No. No, no.
Leave. That’s what you should be—”

“Silencio.”

Malfoy appears to continue to shout for a moment before his jaw goes slack and his eyes slide to
her, flooding with rage as he watches her slip her wand back into the pocket of her skirt. She’s
never been good at reading lips, but she’s certain the word ‘fuck’ is uttered more than once.

“You can speak again when you realize how grateful you should be.”

Malfoy takes a step towards her. A step that must look aggressive enough, Neville has a gut
reaction. He reverses their positions, stepping in front of Hermione again and saying, “Wait. Wait.
Stop. I — I don’t want to cause any trouble, okay? I—”

Malfoy makes a very rude gesture.

“That is it.” She steps around Neville yet again, this time to seize Malfoy by the sleeve of his shirt.
“Neville, I’m sorry — can you wait here for just a moment? I’m sorry.”
“Erm…yeah. I — yeah.” He turns in a slow semicircle, a little nonplussed as he watches her drag
Malfoy towards the doors. She shoves them open and tows Malfoy out into the hallway, waiting
for them to seal up behind her before releasing his sleeve.

“You — look at me. Look at me.” She prods him hard in the chest with her finger. “You have two
options. That’s it. Two. You either go to Dumbledore, or you accept Neville’s help. You don’t get
to sit in there on the floor and brood about your dead plants, because I refuse to be put through that.
So decide.” She crosses her arms in front of her, ignoring the rage she knows is his as it simmers to
a boil in her stomach. “Quickly.”

Malfoy lets out a rough, audible breath — the only sound he can make — his jaw tightening and
his hands balling into fists.

“Well?”

He appears to fight against whatever muscle makes his lip curl up in that way it does, taking
several long, silent seconds to gather deep breaths and blink methodically. Then, just barely — and
done in such a halting way it looks as though it causes him physical pain — he nods.

“Finite.”

“Fuck you, Gra—”

“Silencio.”

She lets him stew in that for another thirty seconds or so, watching his face darken with fury.
Then,

“Care to try again?”

He inhales sharply through the nose. Nods once.

“Finite.”

Malfoy doesn’t immediately speak this time, but he does step in close, all at once becoming a long,
looming shadow. She clears her throat and tilts her chin up in answer to the movement, trying not
to think about the last time he was this close to her.

“You should take extra care, Granger,” Malfoy says, voice low and dark. “I don’t appreciate being
backed into corners.” His eyes glimmer as though he’s just thought of something particularly
vicious.

“Unfortunately for you, all your threats are meaningless,” is her response. She works to keep her
tone light, even if that look in his eyes unsettles her beyond belief. “We’ve established you can’t
hurt me.”

Malfoy huffs at that — a sudden, quiet laugh. “You’re mistaken,” he says, taking that one final
step that has the toes of their shoes meeting in the middle. “We’ve established why I shouldn’t hurt
you. Never that I can’t.”

Her breath hitches — she can’t stop it. Not when he reaches out suddenly, placing deft, barely-
there fingertips over the flesh of her collarbone.

“And if you ask me,” he murmurs — a distracted sound now, with his eyes unfocused as he
watches the movements of his hand, “we’ve never fully addressed just how much I would like to.”
By the end of the sentence, his fingers have trailed upward, dangerously skimming across the
expanse of her throat.

She doesn’t want to think about why she lets him. He’s saying horrible, ugly things, just as he
always does. And yet there’s an ache, someplace low in her stomach. Something raw and uncertain.
Something that sends the most reckless, unbidden curiosity flying through her head.

She wonders what it might feel like if he grasped hold.

Malfoy goes rigid, glazed eyes abruptly flooding with panic. He drops his hand — takes a massive
step back, and it’s abundantly clear that he felt that unspoken curiosity. That he knows exactly what
she would’ve let him do.

He makes a quarter-turn away from her, facing the wall, and for a while neither says a word.

She hopes he’s as desperate to put the moment behind them as she is, clearing her throat when she
can manage it and forcing out, “I trust Neville. Possibly more than anyone.”

And Malfoy seems somehow both relieved and irritated. He scoffs and crosses his arms, glancing
sideways at her.

“I do,” she presses. “He’d never tell anyone. And I haven’t even told him myself. I was going to
leave that to you—”

Another scoff, along with a roll of those gray eyes. “As if he hasn’t already made the connection.”
He gestures to one side, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh — let’s see. Wolfsbane.” He gestures to
the other side. “Wolf. Amazing!” He snaps his fingers, dealing her a savage, plastic sort of grin.

“Neither of us owe you anything,” she bites out. “Especially not after last year.”

Malfoy’s expression screws up and he makes a sound low in his chest, once again closing a bit of
that distance between them to seethe and jab a finger into her face. “Do not bring up last year.
Don’t. You don’t get to.”

“Then don’t make me.”

He growls and shakes both hands in front of her face, as though he’s imagining squeezing her head
between them. He’s done this twice today. And she forces herself to remain perfectly still — to
raise an eyebrow and nothing more.

“Make a decision, Malfoy.”

“It’s not a decision at all, is it? You’ve forced my hand.”

She smiles sharply. “I’m glad you understand the situation.”

Eyes narrowing to slits, he backs away — moves towards those iron doors, hissing all the while
under his breath, “—you. Why did it have to be you? Can’t fucking stand you...”

“If you’re rude to Neville, that’s the end of it,” she warns.

He shoves the doors apart.

“Amazing…” comes Neville’s voice from within. He’s no longer by the doors, he’s in the middle
of the room, leaning over the terrarium.
Hermione sees Draco’s body jolt, preparing to make a run for it, and she reaches out quickly to
snatch his sleeve again, stopping him.

“I can promise you he’s not hurting your plants,” she huffs when he turns to glare at her.

“Amazing...” Neville coos again. Glancing back his way, she finds him delicately adjusting the
Wolfsbane’s petals, hands already clad in conjured gloves.

“See?” she says to Malfoy quietly.

“This is an impressive cultivation you’ve got here, Malfoy,” calls Neville excitedly over his
shoulder.

Malfoy appears momentarily stunned, but then she watches his face sink slowly back into disdain.
“Impressive? They’re fucking dying, Longbottom. Use your eyes.”

“Malfoy—”

“Oh, no. They’re not dying.”

“What?”

She and Malfoy say it at the same time, and Neville turns around to face them. “They’re not
dying,” he repeats. “They’re in the effusion stage.”

“Effusion?” Malfoy spits the word out like a curse. “There’s nothing about effusion in the texts.”

“Malfoy—”

Again, Neville takes his arrogance in stride, unaffected. “It’s not widely known. Most growths of
Wolfsbane don’t live long enough to enter the stage at all.”

“Effusion as in…releasing fluid?” Hermione asks.

Neville nods excitedly, turning back to examine the plants again. “Species composed of toxins do it
every few months. Almost like a pressure release. It prevents it from poisoning itself.”

Malfoy sighs and drags his hands tiredly down the expanse of his face. “I fucking hate this plant,”
he mutters, then strides off into the room’s dark corner to hunt for his wand. “Go ahead,
Longbottom,” comes his bitter voice from the shadows. “Say whatever it is you want to say about
my condition. Let’s get it out in the open.”

Neville looks back from the terrarium and meets Hermione’s gaze, confused. She can only offer an
apologetic shrug, massaging her temple.

“I…erm,” he says, going a little red in the face. “I didn’t really think it mattered. It’s not my
business.”

Malfoy emerges from the shadows slowly, eyes tight and suspicious.

“Pretty Gryffindor sentiments,” he scoffs after a long while. “As usual.”

Hermione shakes her head at him. “You really aren’t making a case for yourself.”

“I’m not trying to make a case for myself.”

“I could help,” says Neville, despite it all, faltering a little when Malfoy’s sharp eyes shoot to him.
“Just — just with the plants, I mean. If anything goes wrong.”

“And why would you want to help me?” Malfoy spits.

“I…I’d like to study them.”

Malfoy makes a face — something between disbelief and annoyance, his gaze jutting back towards
Hermione. She just raises her brows at him. A challenge.

Long silence ensues, Malfoy’s narrowed eyes bouncing back and forth between her and Neville all
the while. Then, teeth bared, and not without a threatening swish of his wand, he grits out, “If
either of you do anything to jeopardize me or those fucking plants, I swear to Merlin, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” she demands sharply, unabashed, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her
head to the side.

Malfoy sneers. “Use your imagination.”

A moment later he storms from the room, tall doors slamming behind him — and she somehow
feels he’s acutely aware that he’s getting far better than he deserves.

Hermione,

I’m sorry to make you wait — I couldn’t risk writing in front of Remus. He and I have never seen
eye to eye when it comes to this, and I can only say I’m glad your letter reached me first.

I want to help you. No one should go through this alone. As a paramour myself, there are things I
can tell you that Remus can’t. Important things.

We should meet in person. Can you get yourself to the Three Broomsticks this Saturday? Evening
would be best.

You did the right thing, reaching out.

Tonks

A strange, mottled sort of hope fills her as she reads it. She’s torn. Because she’s fairly certain it
means Professor Lupin has a negative outlook on paramours.

And yet, still —

Help is help. And she never really considered the possibility of meeting another paramour.

You’re not a paramour, her subconscious reminds her. This is all a mistake.

It doesn’t matter either way. She’ll be there.

Tonks is a loud splash of color in the otherwise drab, muted tones of the Three Broomsticks. A
couple empty glasses are spread out in front of her, and she’s halfway through the third one when
she catches sight of Hermione. Hops out of her seat, smile bright, pink hair brighter.

“Hey, sweetheart — how are you?” She wraps her in a tight hug, smelling like Butterbeer and a bit
like Lupin’s old office, from what she remembers.

“Hi, hi. Good to see you. I’m alright, thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”

Tonks kisses both cheeks and gives her chin a squeeze before letting her drop into the seat
opposite.

“Butterbeer?” she offers, signaling the barkeep over her shoulder.

“Please.”

They make small talk until it arrives. Discuss classes and Auror missions and the new shade of teal
she’s learned how to make her eyelashes.

But as soon as that weak nip of alcohol gets set down in front of her, Tonks becomes all business.

“How are you holding up?”

Hermione sips deeply before answering, wiping her lip and shaking her head. “Not — erm, not too
well.”

Tonks nods knowingly. “It’s incredibly hard in the beginning. Like phantom pains. No idea where
any of it’s coming from.”

“It’s not quite pain, exactly. Not for the most part. It’s — it’s more emotion, somehow. I’m not
even sure if I am a paramour, to be honest. I don’t want to call it something it’s not. I could be
overreacti—”

“Hermione?” Tonks raises a purple brow.

She swallows another deep swig, trying not to seem as nervous as she is. “Mm?”

“If you’re feeling anything that doesn’t belong to you, you’re a paramour.”

A heavy weight sinks into her stomach. Tonks must know, from the way she reaches out and rests
a hand over hers.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s not the sort of thing that should happen during your school years.”

It's not the sort of thing that should happen at all, she thinks bitterly to herself.

Still, she squeezes her hand back, going in for another sip but finding the glass empty. “I don’t
even know how it happened.”

Tonks signals again for the barkeep. “It’s not always clear. I didn’t know, if that helps. Not when it
happened with Remus. Took us weeks to riddle it out."

And once Hermione’s halfway through the second glass, she asks the question she seems to’ve
been holding back.
“Who is it? Who was bitten?”

Hermione chews on the inside of her lip, averting her eyes and staring down into her drink. “I
swore I wouldn’t say.”

She didn’t. Not explicitly.

But it’s easier this way.

Tonks eyes her carefully for a moment when she looks back up, then seems to swallow whatever
her next question might’ve been. Nods. “Right, well,” she says, tone lighter as she twists and starts
to rummage through a bag sitting on the bench at her side. “I come bearing gifts.”

They’re books. Heavy and dense. A stack.

They look like old friends to Hermione’s slightly tipsy eyes.

“I’m betting the Hogwarts Library isn’t going to tell you anything you don’t already know. These,
though — they should help you through. This one especially.” She taps the pale blue cover of the
book on top. “All about paramours. Written by one, too.”

She can’t help it. It slips right out, more desperate than she ever intended.

“Is there any way to stop it? Reverse it?”

A brief flash of sympathy flickers in Tonks' dark eyes. “I understand…why you might want that
now. Really, I do.”

“Tonks, I—”

“I do, Hermione. I promise. I know it feels wrong at first. And I know it isn’t fair. But — you have
to understand. This is an evolutionary phenomenon. A force of nature. To go against it is—”

“I have to,” she says, words jamming together in her rush. “I have to. It can’t — I can’t be attached
to this person. Neither of us want this. I have to try. At least try.”

Tonks stares at her for a few long seconds. A small, fond smile crosses her lips. “You sound like
Remus.”

“But you’re in love with Remus,” Hermione presses, desperately — desperately needing her to
understand. “And he loves you. This is different. It’s — it’s wrong. It’s so wrong.”

Tonks purses her lips. “I take it you don’t like each other?”

“We hate each other.”

Her sad sigh does little by way of comfort. Even so, she pulls the top two books off the stack to
pick up the one bound in burgundy. “Before I show you,” she says, bright pink of her hair fading to
a pale, conflicted shade, “I want to make sure you understand that this should be an absolute last
resort. For the worst case scenario only. Please — promise me you’ll try to work through it with
whoever it is first.”

“I promise.”
Promises are made to be broken.

That’s the way she sees it. But even then, she isn’t breaking her promise. She firmly believes, with
every fiber of her being, that this is already the worst case scenario.

By the time she gets back from the Three Broomsticks, it’s half past midnight. Tonks left her with
another kiss on the cheek and a private address.

“Write me anytime.”

Logically, she should rest. Think. Deal with it come morning.

But she doesn’t want to wait.

And she sits against the wall in that corridor leading to the Room of Requirement for at least thirty
minutes, trying to think of the best way to wake him. At the very least, it’s enough time to sober up
from the faint effects of the Butterbeer. She needs to be completely lucid.

Her best idea is a simple one. So simple, she’s not certain it will work.

Burgundy tome clutched in her lap, she fixes her eyes on the opposite wall, inhales deeply and
holds her breath.

The first several times, her lungs give out after about forty seconds, and by her sixth or seventh
attempt, she’s lightheaded, heart thudding in her chest.

It’s entirely possible that Malfoy feels none of it. That she can’t manifest sensation in him. That
he’s sleeping soundly somewhere down in the Dungeons, oblivious—

She doesn’t expect him to round the corner at such a breakneck pace. He’s dressed haphazardly —
like he threw on the first things in sight — shoes unlaced and blond hair askew, his face all
flushed.

It’s surprising enough that she’s managed to wake him. More surprising still is the way he comes
at her. His hands find both her arms before she’s even fully let that last deep breath out.

Her head swims a little at the rush of oxygen. Or maybe it’s the way he yanks her to her feet.

“What are you doing? What are you doing?” he demands, giving her a rough shake. “Are you —
are you hurt? Are you sick?” His palm flattens against her forehead suddenly, and she’s so shocked
by the movement that it takes her a while to manage a response.

“I…I was just trying to wake you up.”

Malfoy goes very still as the words register, that one hand still pressed to her head. He yanks it
away a moment later, grip on her arm tightening. “Are you mad?”

“Did you just…check my temperature?”

“Are you out of your mind?!” He takes her other arm in hand and shakes her again. “What were
you trying to do? Suffocate the both of us?”

“I needed to get you out of bed.”

“Why?” It’s the roughest shake yet, and the back of her head strikes the wall unexpectedly.
“Fuck!” Malfoy winces. “Fuck. Merlin, I’m sor—” He cuts himself off abruptly, releasing her and
backing away. Rubbing compulsively at the back of his head. “What? What was so important?
Fucking hell. I thought I was going into cardiac arrest.”

She’s fairly certain he almost just apologized, and a part of her desperately wants to press him
about it, if only to watch him squirm.

Instead she takes a moment to massage the back of her own head, then bends to pick up the book
he made her drop.

“I may have found a way to stop it.”

“Stop what?”

She gives him a look as she straightens up — one she hopes conveys the ridiculousness of the
question.

Malfoy narrows his eyes.

“Look,” she says, flipping to the page she dog-eared and twisting to stand next to him. “It’s a
ritual. One that might be able to reverse the process.”

“Where did you get this?”

“Does it really matter?” she asks, frustrated. Chooses to lie if only to move forward more quickly.
“The Restricted Section, alright? That’s hardly the point. If we perform this soon enough, we could
undo it. All of it. Unseat me as your paramour, in a sense.”

Malfoy takes the book out of her hands without asking, turning his back to her so she can’t read it
while he does.

“Malfoy.”

“How do we know if this book is even legitimate?”

She scoffs loudly. “I’m not an idiot.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised at an infuriating angle. She grits her teeth — thinks
better of it and bites down hard on her own tongue.

Malfoy jerks and almost drops the book. “Fuck! What’s the matter with you?” He rolls his tongue
around in his mouth, grimacing. “Fucking lunatic.”

“I’ll miss being able to do that if we can actually get this right. But the sooner we do it, the better
chance we have.”

His glare lingers on her a moment longer before he looks back to the text. He starts to pace the
corridor, reading through it, brows furrowed.

“I don’t need you to approve it, Malfoy. I already checked everything. It’s legitimate.”

“Yes, but your opinion of what’s legitimate doesn’t count for much, now does it?”

She wonders if she can bite her tongue in the exact same spot twice, but Malfoy speaks again
before she can attempt it.
“Do we even have all these things? Black candles and cyclamen? An obsidian blade?”

She gestures to the doors of the Room of Requirement.

“Everything’s ready. All we’re waiting for is you.”

Malfoy meets her eyes, haughty and arrogant. “I’m ready when you are, then. Let’s get this over
with.”

She’s not sure if that’s uncertainty she sees flicker in his eyes. Or just a trick of the light.

“You have to unbutton your shirt,” she says, trying to focus intently on the cyclamen she’s
grinding up.

They sit across from one another on the floor of the Room of Requirement, encircled by the lines
of the Dividing Rune she’s drawn in white chalk.

“Why?” demands Malfoy, indignant as he lights the candles with his wand.

She doesn’t bother to check her tone. Doesn’t hide the roll of her eyes. “Because the Runes have to
be drawn on your chest.”

“So, what — you’re going to strip too, then?”

Her eyes flit to him, sharp and hopefully full of warning. “Your Runes go on your chest. My Runes
go on my face. Did you even actually read it?”

“I skimmed,” he says plainly, then proceeds to lean forward on his hands so he can watch her do all
the work. “By the way, Granger — I’ve been meaning to ask. Why the sudden change?”

“Change?” she echoes, voice clipped as she reaches for the knife.

“Yes. Why start dressing like a whore?”

She chokes on her own breath, pinning him with wide eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Was it for Weaselby?”

Her jaw tightens, and she makes quick work of the incision across her palm, the slice a brief,
painful distraction. She squeezes that palm into a fist, letting the blood drip down into the bowl of
cyclamen. “So that’s the way of it, then?” she asks tightly. “When I start dressing well, it makes
me a whore. But Parkinson? Lavender? Penelope Clearwater? Not them?”

Malfoy only smiles — a dark, malicious sort of smile. “Precisely.”

She mends the wound with a flick of her wand, cleaning the blood from her skin and then reaching
out for him. “Give me your hand.”

“I don’t want you to do it.”

She snatches hold of his wrist too quickly though, dragging his hand towards her and making a
vengefully messy incision with the knife before he can yank it away. It doesn’t matter that the sting
of it burns across her own palm too. It’s worth it.

“OW! Merlin, Granger — that was way fucking deeper than yours!”

She ignores him, reaching for the bowl and holding it out beneath his dripping hand. “As I recall,”
she says mildly, “you walked face first into a door when you saw me.”

“I tripped.”

She nods. “Yes, right. Of course you did. Mend your wound. I’m not doing it for you.”

Malfoy scrunches up his nose at her, taking back the abused hand and cradling it like she set it
ablaze. He heals the cut with wandless magic, and she’d be infinitely more impressed by that if he
weren’t such a prick.

“Now unbutton your shirt.”

“Ask nicely.”

“No.” She reaches for the candles, starting to arrange them in the triangular formation the book
depicts. “Do you know, from the way you’re behaving, it seems almost as though you don’t want
to go through with this.”

Malfoy sits up straight, going rigid and casting her a venomous look. “I want to be rid of you more
than anything. And you know it.” He reaches for the collar of his shirt, aggressively freeing the top
four buttons. “Now what?” he demands.

She takes the bowl in hand, casting a spell to mix their blood with the crushed cyclamen. “Now I
draw the Dividing Rune on you. And then you on me.”

He appears to put serious effort into looking disgusted, but he still leans forward when she dips her
fingers into the bowl and reaches for him.

The skin of his chest is pale and smooth. She has to pull the fabric of his shirt out of the way with
her other hand to keep from staining it, trying to draw the symbol as quickly and accurately as
possible. Malfoy, for his part, stays very still. Almost like he’s holding his breath.

Maybe he is.

“There,” she says, sitting back on her heels when finished. “Now you.”

Malfoy makes that same overly-disgusted expression when he runs his fingers through the blood
mixture, crawling forward a few inches on his knees and reaching out. “Move your hair.”

She sweeps it back off her forehead, trying not to jump when his cold fingertips meet her skin.
“Careful with those slash marks. Make sure they’re precise.”

“I know what I’m doing, Granger.”

“You’ve never done this before.”

“Well, neither have you!” he hisses. “Bloody hell. Tilt your chin up.” And he draws his fingers
down across her jaw, over her chin and up the other side.

“How does it look?”

“Ridiculous.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls away at the same time he does.

“Now what?” he demands again, rather like a child.

“Now we grab hands — and heaven help me, if you don’t wipe that look off your face. We’re
doing this to help you.”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He thrusts out his arm like he’s condemning it to death.

She grits her teeth and meets him in the middle, interlocking their fingers. Malfoy hisses out a
breath like it hurts, but she’d know if it did and it certainly doesn’t. “Focus,” she commands. “This
is the part we can’t mess up.”

“I am focused.”

“Repeat after me. Conteram seorsum.”

“Conteram seorsum.” His Latin is flawless. She should’ve expected nothing less.

“We say it three times once the Runes start to glow, and while we say it, I trail the wax over our
arms and we slide our hands up towards each other’s elbows. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m not a fucking idiot, Granger.”

She narrows her eyes at him, lifting the center candle and spitting out, “Incipere.”

The Rune surrounding them on the floor glows a deep blue, and the Runes on their skin illuminate
in tandem, shining as though beneath a blacklight.

“Conteram seorsum,” they say in unison, and as their palms slide apart, finding each other’s wrists,
she begins to drip the hot wax of the black candle over them.

It’s only wax.

And they’ve only said it once.

But the moment that black, viscous liquid meets their skin, Malfoy cries out. Not in the way he did
when she cut his palm. Not for show.

It’s a horrible, agonized cry, and it startles her so much that her hand falters, splashing more wax
down over their arms.

Malfoy jerks like he’s been stabbed, screaming and writhing and trying to yank free of her grip.
“Stop! Make it stop!” The Runes around them glow red in an instant, washing them out in the
color of blood. She feels agony, suddenly. Ripping, bottomless, inconceivable agony that’s not her
own.

And all at once he knocks the candle out of her grip with his free hand.

The ritual disbands. The glow of the Runes dies off.

Malfoy scrambles to his feet like the floor is white hot, tears glistening in his eyes and pain strewn
across his face. “We—” he pants, voice in shreds. “We’re never trying that again. Never. Never.”

And he keeps repeating that word, all the way to the door, clutching his chest where the Rune is
drawn like it’s burning him.

“Never. Never, never, never.”

The doors fall shut behind him.

Deflection

That’s what the book calls it. She finds the term several pages after the ritual, in a section devoted
to side effects.

A refusal to disband. Occurs when one half of the symbiotic connection is too entwined with the
other to reverse its effects. Pain is inflicted to prevent the completion of the ritual which would, in
this instance, inevitably result in death.
 Fractures / Fragments

It’s not that she’s refusing to read it.

Or, well — perhaps she is. She tells herself she wants to make her way through the more scientific
texts first. Though, if she’s honest, she feels a fairly overwhelming sense of dread every time she
looks at that pale blue cover.

A book written by a paramour isn’t likely to contain the best advice when it comes to undoing it.

But that’s just it.

With each passing day, it feels more and more as if there is no undoing it.

Malfoy’s reaction to the ritual keeps replaying itself in her head like some dark, tireless omen.
Never in a million years would she’ve expected it to backfire so ferociously. Not when there’s
nothing to hold them together. Not when he is the very antithesis of her. Not when she is built out
of everything he hates.

They should’ve split apart as easily as glass shatters. Should’ve snapped clean, like a bone.

This isn’t clean. This is a compound fracture.

And, for perhaps the first time in her life, she hates that all she can do is read.

Known Anomalies, continued:

Dedicated nocturnal scholars have come across certain lycanthropic subjects who undergo a
process called ‘bisection.’ This occurs when a mental rift has formed between the portion of the
subject which is human and that which is wolf. A subject who aggressively attempts to resist
lycanthropic instincts, particularly when a transformation is near, can ‘bisect’ — or shift into a
consciousness very unlike their own. Loved ones and acquaintances of these subjects describe
coming into contact with massively altered personalities and foreign mannerisms. Some even
compare it to interacting with a stranger.

These bisections occur when the subject is still in human form, often closer to the full moon.
Certain experts suggest avoiding all interaction with a bisect, believing it to be dangerous. Others
suggest bisection is merely a coping mechanism — a way to safely prepare one’s consciousness for
transformation. They believe these bisects to be relatively harmless when compared to other side
effects of the lycanthropic condition.

She’s far from sure what this entry is really describing.

Still — she bookmarks it.

Neville is trying to explain something to her about the medicinal properties of Wolfsbane when the
sharp pain explodes across her gut.
At first, she only stumbles. Gives a short cough and covers it up by clearing her throat, working to
retrain her focus. They’re on their way to the Great Hall for the lunch break between classes.
Neville leans closer to show her the sketch of Malfoy’s terrarium he’s done. It’s an impressive
likeness. She opens her mouth to tell him so—

Something hits her full on in the face with the force of a battering ram, and she’s knocked clean off
her feet.
“Hermione! Hermione, are you okay?”

Neville swims into view above her, a little fuzzy thanks to the way the back of her skull smacked
the flagstone — but that pain is nothing compared to the throbbing ache in her cheekbone.

“What happened? Are you — you hit your head, are you okay?” He grabs her by both elbows,
helping her up off her back.

“I…I’m fine, I think. I — I tripped,” she fumbles lamely, clasping for his offered hand to get to her
feet. A few other students in the corridor are looking on, confused. Millicent Bulstrode giggles into
her palm.

“Are you sure?” Neville searches her face.

“Yeah. Yes, I’m—”

The pain hits again, sharp and out of nowhere, this time just beneath her ribs. She doubles over,
nearly collapsing against him with a choked gasp.

“Hermione—”

It’s in that same instant that the sound starts to echo through the hallway, faint at first but slowly
growing clearer. A chant most school walls are all too familiar with.

“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

And her knuckles suddenly burn, hand spasming into a fist where it’s wedged against Neville, still
holding her up.

No. Oh, no.

She forces herself to straighten up, grasping Neville’s arm for support.

“What’s going on?”

But she can’t explain. Can only stumble forward, rushing towards the sound, arm belted around her
stomach. Neville hurries to keep up, quick to steady her when another phantom blow to the gut
knocks her breath away.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

They round the corner, and Hermione breaks free of Neville, grasping the wall in his place and
watching the next strike as it happens.

Well.

Now she knows what it feels like to be punched in the face by Theodore Nott.

She sees stars. Her hand flies to her mouth, pressing hard where the pain explodes — where the
blood should be — vision going for a spin and taking a while to refocus.

A small crowd of students has gathered around the commotion, mostly Fourth and Fifth Years
from a myriad of Houses — and they’re chanting that damnable word over and over again. She can
only stare over their shoulders, watching Nott and Malfoy land blow after blow.

At the moment, it looks as though Malfoy’s losing. Certainly feels like it.

Nott is on top of him — has him pinned to the stone floor, elbow jabbing into his collarbone. The
sharp pressure of it has her throat closing up. But it’s that fist more than anything, just slamming
into his face — again and again and again.

At this rate, she might pass out before he does.

Students holler and groan with each collision, egging them on. Malfoy coughs blood up into Nott’s
face, spluttering out, “F-Fuck you,” in a drunken sort of voice.

“Get a Professor,” she blurts to Neville, thinking her voice doesn’t sound so different. “Please.
Hurry.”

“I — okay. Okay.” He hesitates only a moment before disappearing from her side.

The jab of Nott’s elbow eases off in the next instant, only for him to sit up and drag Malfoy with
him by the shirt collar, lifting his back from the ground. “Say it again,” he spits, giving Malfoy a
rough jerk as his fist aims to strike again. “Say that shit again!”

It looks like Malfoy might not be capable of saying anything, the way he’s gone lax in the other
boy’s hold, blood seeping from his nose and out the corner of his mouth. But his eyes aren’t quite
shut, and at the angle Nott holds him now, his gaze slips sideways and lands on hers.

The look in his eyes says he forgot all about it. The way they pop wide and come to life, brows
meeting in the middle as he takes in her slumped posture against the wall — the hand she has
pressed to her mouth.

Something shifts.

It happens so quickly, she almost doesn’t catch it. One moment Nott has the upper hand, and the
next he’s flat on his back and her knuckles are burning. Malfoy reverses their positions like he’s
caught the most intense second wind imaginable, and suddenly Nott is the one getting beaten to a
pulp.

Her hand falls from her face to cradle the right one against her chest, warding off the growing ache
as Malfoy lays into him, fist cracking across his cheek more times than she can count.

“Stop! Stop!” she cries out, at first not even realizing she’s the one who says it. “Enough!”

A few heads swivel to stare at her, expressions like she’s spoiled their fun.

But Malfoy’s next punch doesn’t follow through, and instead he lets Nott drop from his grip,
barely conscious. “Yeah,” he huffs, spitting blood out onto the stone next to him and lurching to his
feet. “Enough.”

He’s quicker than she is, all things considered. He shoves his way out of the crowd and slips
through the side entrance to the courtyard before she even manages to push off of the wall. This
time, though — well, she really doesn’t care how obvious her pursuit is.
She steps gingerly past the crumpled form of Nott and tails him out into the courtyard, jaw still
aching, ribs still tender.

Malfoy doesn’t turn around. Not as she follows him all the way across the bridge and down past
the stone circle, even when she’s sure he hears her footsteps. Not when she picks up her pace to try
to match his stride as he veers off to the right, towards the tree line.

Their shoes crunch in the frozen grass, breath rising in front of them in steaming clouds every few
seconds.

“How far are you planning to go?” she demands at last, gathering the thin cardigan of her uniform
in tight around her.

Malfoy’s even pace falters, but he doesn't stop, chin jutting slightly to the side to say, “That
depends. How far are you planning to follow?”

She can see the dark bruises slowly developing across the plane of his face from that angle. The
sight stops her short.

He must hear her feet scuff in the grass — continues about three more steps before he stops too,
turning to face her just at the edge of the tree line. “What do you want, Granger?” he huffs. “I’d
prefer to walk this one off in peace.”

She breathes in and out in silence for a moment, arms crossed in front of her, both to keep the heat
in and the pain at bay. “You’re not the only one walking it off — in case you forgot.”

Malfoy’s expression flickers. Just slightly. And the snark in his tone sounds forced when he
manages to respond. “Think I did worse than you, yeah?” He gestures to his blood-spattered face.

“I don’t know about that.” She lifts her chin, but the movement makes her wince, ache in her jaw
returning full force. She sucks the air in through her teeth. Murmurs, “He punches hard,” as an
afterthought, massaging the expanse just beneath her ear.

“He didn’t know he was punching you.” Malfoy spins back around, taking a couple more steps
towards the tree line and collapsing down on a large rock.

“You’re defending him?”

He scoffs, letting his head hang down and rubbing the back of his neck. “Hardly.”

“What…” she takes a curious step toward him, not wanting to upset whatever precarious sort of
balance this is. They rarely manage to have a normal conversation. She'll take what fragments she
can get. “What were you fighting about?”

“Not really any of your business, is it?”

“Well.” The next step toward him is indignant. “Seeing as I got punched in the face for it, I think
it’s only fair. Don’t you?”

Malfoy lifts his head, hand dropping out from around his neck to rest limply over his knee. The
knuckles are split open, stained a brilliant red like they’ve been smudged with lipstick. He flexes
his fingers, sending fresh blood rushing to the surface. “I punched him first.”

Faint echoes of that livid sting scamper across the nerve endings in her own hand, and she heaves a
sigh, closing the last bit of distance.
“Give me that,” she says, holding out her hand for his.

Malfoy leans back a little, looking confused and suspicious to an extent that’s almost ridiculous.

She scoffs, making no effort to hide the roll of her eyes. Her fingers jolt at him expectantly. “My
hand hurts too. Give me yours.”

Malfoy’s gaze twitches, eyes narrowing a fraction even as he slowly lifts his arm to set his palm
down in hers. His skin is cold — slightly rough with dried blood. A little jolt whispers through her
at the contact, gliding up the length of her arm.

Evidently, they’re both content to pretend they don’t feel it.

“Why did you punch him?” she asks, taking out her wand.

Malfoy’s silent for a long time — watches as she casts the first of the healing charms, sealing the
skin on the knuckle of his index finger.

“He made a comment about my father.”

His tone makes it clear she’s not getting any further details.

“And?”

“And I didn’t like it,” he says. A hiss.

She glides her wand across the middle knuckles, trying not to let her eyes follow the veins lining
the top of his hand as they tense and shift.

“So you punched him?”

“No. I made a comment about his mother.”

The next swish of her wand falters a bit. “Isn’t his mother—”

“Dead. Yeah. I'm aware, Granger.”

She clears her throat, quickly moving on to the last knuckle.

“Which is probably why he decided to bring up my mother.” He flexes the newly healed digits in
her grip, twisting to offer up his still-bleeding thumb. “And that’s when I punched him.”

“So it was your fault.”

He scoffs again. “Maybe if you see the world in black and white, yeah.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put my face through that again,” she murmurs, guiding the tip of her
wand along the abused tendon leading up to his wrist. Her gaze stutters then, flickering across the
skin faintly exposed beneath the cuff of his sleeve. “Rather selfish of you,” she says, and now her
voice sounds distracted, and she doesn’t even notice she’s lifting the edge of his sleeve with her
wand until the fading bruise on his wrist comes into full view. The one she knows has nothing to
do with Theodore Nott.

Without thinking, she lets the hand propping his up slip down and around, grazing the darkened
flesh.
Malfoy yanks away the moment he realizes.

She clears her throat again, straightening up a little and brushing a stray curl out of her face.
Playing oblivious.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he tells her, in a voice that says he won’t.

Suddenly, looking into his tired eyes, she wants to bring up the ritual. Wants to ask—

“How hurt are you?”

His question wipes her mind clean like a slate. There’s no affection to it. No kindness in his tone.
No overt concern.

And yet, the way he’s looking at her — head slightly cocked, eyes tracing her features — it’s as
though he’s searching for evidence.

She shakes her head, glancing sideways. Away. “I’m — no. I’m fine. It’s fading. I’ll be fine.”

But when a long silence follows, she’s forced to look back. His face hasn’t changed. Gaze hasn’t
moved.

She bites her lip, rubbing warmth back into her arms to give her hands something to do. “I
could…” she trails off, eyes drawn to the smears of blood beneath his nose and mouth, “I could
heal your face, too. If — if you want.”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything in response to that. Just juts up one solitary, blond eyebrow and leans
back slightly against the rock, bracing himself with his palms.

It’s not a ‘no.’

Carefully, she steps up to the edge of the rock, raising her wand again and slowly reaching out for
his face. He tilts his chin up for her, still wearing that guarded look, but when the edge of her palm
gently slides beneath the line of his jaw, it fades into something a great deal more uncertain. She
guides his chin up a little further, tilting his head back to better align her wand at his lips.

She’s grateful for the violently bright color of the blood. It gives her something to focus on.
Something that’s not his eyes, locked on hers.

She heals the split in his lower lip. Soothes the swelling, casting numbing charms and feeling the
tension in her own jaw relax a bit. Malfoy breathes out slowly while she works — like he’s trying
to be careful about it.

When she tilts his head sideways to attend to the bruises on his cheekbone — the slowly forming
black eye — meeting his gaze becomes unavoidable.

The question is there. Plain across his face. She’s just the one who says it out loud.

“What are we going to do?”

He blinks, gaze flitting down and then back to her again.

“I don’t know.”

She steps back then.

Steps back even though she isn’t finished. Even though his nose is still bleeding, his jaw still
bruised. Steps back because something in her wanted to step closer. Lean closer. Lean in.

And the look in his eyes says he knows that.

“You —” She clears her suddenly dry throat. “You should apologize to Nott.”

He leans forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees — watching her like he’s studying her.
Trying to riddle her out.

“I won’t,” he says.

She nods. “I know.” And after a few more steps backwards, she manages to turn around, pocketing
her wand and heading back up the hill towards the castle.

It takes a surprising amount of restraint not to look back.

 Give / Take

Dear Tonks,

Thank you so much for meeting with me and for the books you lent. I’ve been making my way
through them over the past week and it’s been eye-opening, to say the least.

I wanted to write you because I’ve come across something — experienced something, rather —
that I’ve yet to read about.

The symbiotic sensations I know and understand, but I was wondering if you ever heard thoughts
that weren’t your own? Perhaps not thoughts, but words and fragments that seem to come from
nowhere?

I’m a bit concerned. Anything you might know would be immensely helpful.

Thank you, and please give my best to Remus.

Hermione

She sends it first thing in the morning, because it’s kept her up all night. Something that started an
hour — possibly two? — after midnight.

A voice in her head.

By now, she’s stopped holding out hope for coincidence, because she knows the difference
between her own wayward thoughts and something else. Something foreign. An intruder.

The first time she hears it, she springs up off her back like she’s been hit with an electric shock,
certain that it’s come from right beside her. That there’s someone there with her, hidden in the
shadows of her bed curtains.

“Homenum Revelio,” she forces out in a cut whisper the moment she finds her wand.

The spell reveals nothing.

But she knows what she heard. A clear voice. A word — carved out and vivid amongst the
nebulous array of her own thoughts.

Take.

Just that. One single, unmistakable syllable.

Take.

The voice that utters it is nothing like hers. Its timbre is deep and rough, and she’s forced to
consider it might be Malfoy.

And yet, she’s fairly certain she knows the sound of his voice — and this? This isn’t it.

Take, it says, all night long. Every time she closes her eyes. Take. Take.
Take what?

Take.

By morning, she’s heard the word so many times it no longer feels like a word at all. Just white
noise.

There are bags under her eyes and tangles in her hair she can’t seem to work a brush through. Her
neck aches. Her feet drag as she makes her way down to breakfast.

Every ounce of her wants to just lay her head down on the table and fall asleep to the familiar
sounds of Gryffindor morning conversation. Trouble is, by the time she drags herself onto the
bench and reaches for the teapot, a conversation is already underway.

“I think he’s going to the Room of Requirement,” says Harry, voice hushed. He’s talking to Ron,
who seems to have somehow temporarily extricated himself from Lavender’s clutches.

“What makes you think—”

“The map.” Harry taps the side of his book bag on the bench next to him. “He keeps disappearing
into thin air in that corridor. It’s the only explanation.”

A steady panic boils into a simmer in Hermione’s stomach. “Who keeps disappearing?” she asks,
working to keep her tone mild.

Harry glances at her, then juts his chin towards the Slytherin table. “Malfoy.”

“Oh?” She diverts her gaze to her tea in favor of looking. Swallows thickly. Nowhere in her
scrambled brain did she leave room for the harsh reality of the Marauder’s Map, and she’s
suddenly realizing who else Harry might notice, wandering where she shouldn’t be.

Following who she shouldn’t be.

And the panic has her desperately coughing up an excuse. “He might just be going there to study.
You know, without distractions. I’ve done that before.”

Three sets of eyes lock on her, Ron’s and Harry’s puzzled, and Neville’s — from the side, where
he hadn’t appeared to be listening. He flashes her a nervous expression before quickly going back
to trimming his bonsai, the picture of innocence.

“What?” she demands, straightening her back and trying to sound defensive — though not too
defensive. “It’s just a thought.”

“I don’t think Malfoy’s skulking off every afternoon to study, Hermione,” Ron snorts, and all it
does is abruptly remind her how furious she is with him. She makes a point of ignoring him,
examining her tea leaves instead.

“I think he’s practicing dark magic,” says Harry. “I’m almost sure of it.”

She runs a hand through her wayward curls, surreptitiously massaging the ache in her temple as she
does it, and her eyes accidentally flit across the Hall.

Malfoy’s hunched over his own cup of tea, looking possibly more exhausted than she does. And
she knows even before he takes a sip that there’s Wolfsbane in it. Even before his eyes squeeze
shut and his face tenses up.
Tonight’s the full moon.

But it isn’t the thought of this that holds her gaze. It’s the boy sitting next to him — the one she’s
only just noticed. The one who’s got his eyes trained on that same teacup.

He’s a year above them. She knows that much. And she rakes her memory until the name Adrian
floats to the forefront. Adrian Pucey. Vaguely, she remembers he used to play on the Slytherin
Quidditch team. A tall, thin shadow, always standing in the back, dirty blond hair constantly
hanging in his eyes.

Up until now, she’s never seen him anywhere near Malfoy. But from the way he stares at that
teacup — from the way he leans over and says something under his breath that makes Malfoy nod
— it’s clear there’s some connection she doesn’t know about.

And then, suddenly, Malfoy says something back and Adrian looks up. Looks directly at her.

She glances away quickly, scrambling to focus on her plate and hide her surprise.

Even Neville doesn’t know about the bond. It’s likely he suspects, but he’s far too polite to ask.
He’s made every effort to keep his attention solely on the plants.

Up until now, it’s been between herself and Malfoy.

And yet, from the look she just got, it would appear Adrian Pucey makes three.

Friday evenings are always lively and warm in Gryffindor.

Seamus and Dean will usually break out whatever Weasley products they have left on hand,
ultimately culminating in chaos and a trip to the Hospital Wing for an unlucky someone. But the
atmosphere is cozy, and she likes to tuck herself away in one of the corner sofas to read amongst
the revelry, every now and again setting the book down to watch Harry and Ron play Wizard’s
Chess.

She’s trying to do that now — trying to let the warmth of the fireplace at her side relax the tension
in her body. Trying to watch the game, despite Lavender’s highly unnecessary cheerleading on
Ron’s behalf. But she’s been itchy and uncomfortable all day, wondering about that voice she
hasn’t heard since this morning and feeling on edge.

And just now, as she’s thinking of going to bed — thinking it might’ve been a one-time occurrence,
a fluke — it decides to make a reappearance.

From nowhere, it crawls its way out of the back of her mind. A deep hum. A purr.

Come.

She jumps where she sits and drops her book. Harry’s head snaps to the side.

“Alright?” he asks.

She nods quickly. Blurts out, “A spark from the fire. Hit my arm, that’s all.” And she rubs at the
false spot above her wrist.
Harry’s answering nod gets interrupted when Ron suddenly takes his bishop.

“How?” he demands.

“You were too busy watching your rook.”

“No! How did you get there? Your pawn was on the other side of the board!”

“No it wasn’t!”

Their voices fade away to background noise and the warmth of the room slips out of focus.

Come, the dark voice says again, insistent.

Her hand balls into a tense fist on the sofa’s armrest. Not a fluke, then.

Come, it demands, so sharply she almost jumps again.

She hasn’t tried to respond. Doesn’t want to, and yet she feels almost certain this won’t stop until
she does.

Fingernails digging into the upholstery, she murmurs under her breath, “Come where?”

The voice is almost joyous when it speaks again — elated.

Yes. Come.

“Where?” she breathes.

Find, it hisses. Come. Find.

Slowly, she gets to her feet.

The Hogwarts Grounds are frozen over, her breath steaming in front of her when she steps out onto
the grass from the bridge. She had to dodge several Prefects on the way out, and all the while that
voice in her head kept encouraging her.

Yes. Come. Find.

She realizes she should’ve brought a coat, but she had no idea this sensation — the same
gravitational pull that led her to the Room of Requirement that day — would take her outside of
the castle. She lets her hands slip inside the sleeves of her jumper and gathers her arms in tight
about herself, not certain where she’s going until she reaches the bottom of the hill. The entrance to
Hogsmeade.

She stops to gather a steadying breath, realizing what she’s really doing. What she’s about to do.
Her gaze slips sideways and up, finding the bright glow of the full moon, a pale smear of white
amongst the sparse clouds in the dark sky.

Come, commands the voice suddenly, as though it senses her trepidation.

Alarm bells are ringing inside her head, telling her this is dangerous. Wrong. A step across the line.
But that voice does all it can to drown them out.

Find. Come. Find.

And all of a sudden it says a word it hasn’t before, in a tone it’s never used.

Please.

The sound is anxious. Suddenly ragged and weak, and for a fraction of a second she thinks it
sounds like Malfoy.

She steps across the border into Hogsmeade.

Yes, urges the voice, back to its usual purr, and she can’t help but wonder if it’s guiding her
towards disaster. Has to accept the possibility. The probability.

The streets of the village are nearly empty, all of the crowds drawn indoors by the cold. She can
see their shadows passing back and forth behind warmly lit windows, and every time she glances
back at her path straight ahead, it seems darker.

Her shoes crunch in the thin layer of snow, her face flushed and fingers numb. She considers
casting a warming charm, but that would require letting go of the faint warmth she has gathered
against her body to reach for her wand.

All at once, the Shrieking Shack comes into view, high up on the hill at the edge of the village. She
stops again at the sight of it, another prickle of uncertainty making its way up the length of her.

Come.

Her feet move on their own, starting up the hill, and the whole way up she imagines what she’ll see
when she opens that door. Knows now without a doubt that she’s going to. The curiosity has
toppled over the fear like a crashing wave.

Will he look the way Lupin did? All stretched skin and bones, fangs dripping?

She shivers at the thought. Or perhaps the cold.

The Shrieking Shack sways even in the barely-there breeze, creaking eerily back and forth as she
stops in front of the door. For a moment, she thinks it might be locked. But then she remembers all
those stories.

The most haunted building in Britain.

There’d be no need to lock it. No one would be stupid enough to break in. No one would want to.

No one, except for her.

She lifts the rusted latch, presses on the wood and steps across the threshold.

To her dismay, it’s no warmer inside, but the cold is hardly her focus when all she can think about
is holding her breath.

“Lumos.”

The dilapidated sitting room is empty, the only sound that of the walls tilting. She moves as slowly
as possible after shutting the door, making an effort to avoid floorboards that squeak as she makes
her way to the foot of the stairs.

She tries to see the silence as a good sign — fully transformed werewolves aren’t exactly the quiet
type — but by the time she reaches the first landing, her wand hand is shaking. It makes the light
flash across the walls like a strobe.

She takes one or two steps down the corridor at the top of the stairs when she hears the faintest
clink. Like keys jangling. Her head jerks to the side, following it — finding the door to a room
that’s open just a sliver.

Her heart rate picks up, starting to thud in her chest.

The sound comes again, more pronounced as her wand light draws closer, shining through the gap.
She gathers a final deep breath and forbids herself to draw it out any longer, taking hold of the knob
and pushing it open.

It’s not what she expects.

Not any of it.

Malfoy is sitting on the far end of the empty room, most of the furniture cleared away or pushed
off to the side. He’s seated calmly on the floor, legs crossed in front of him and his back against
the wall, a lit candle at his side glowing faintly.

And he’s reading.

Or, he was — shortly before she appeared.

She feels her brows draw together as his gaze jerks up and he meets her eyes, because this — it
seems so normal. So the opposite of anything she ever expected. Nothing would feel off about it
whatsoever were it not for the chains.

They’re the only thing.

Malfoy’s got a shackle on each wrist, iron links strewn across the floor where there’s slack and
leading to reinforced hooks on opposite walls.

It’s—

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

She startles. Blinks and refocuses her wand light on him, trying to remind herself of the situation.
She hadn’t counted on needing to say anything.

Part of her wonders if it would be better for him to be fully transformed right now.

“I—”

“Bleeding fuck!” Whatever book he was reading is suddenly launched at the wall about a meter to
her left, and she swears she can hear its binding crack.

“Calm down,” forces its way out instinctively.

“Are you blind, Granger?” Malfoy lurches to his feet and gestures angrily towards one of the
boarded-up windows. The chains jangle with the movement. “Or did you somehow miss that
enormous bright thing up in the sky?”
She scoffs. Splutters. “Excuse me?”

“The fucking moon, Granger! You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“I’m—”

“Who said you could come here? Who even told you where to look?”

“No one!” she shouts. “I — no one had to tell me, I—”

“You’re going to get yourself killed—”

“Malfoy,” she snaps, loud enough she can hear her voice echo down through the thin walls of the
house. “Stop. I’m sick to death of you overreacting. Treating me like—”

“An idiot?” he demands, taking a step forward. There’s still some slack on the chains. “A fool with
a death wish?”

“I came here because you asked me to!”

This one echoes for longer, with nothing from Malfoy to overshadow it, and once it fades she’s left
listening to the shack whistle and creak for far too many seconds.

“Nox,” she murmurs, because the bright of her wand is blinding and she can no longer see his
expression. Her eyes take a while to adjust to the dimness, the glow of his candle far gentler by
comparison. She’s only just beginning to make out the look of confusion on his face when he
speaks.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She steps forward and lets the door fall shut behind her, finally resting her wand arm against her
side. All she can think to do is say it again. “I came because you asked me to.”

“I never—”

“Not out loud,” she murmurs, eyes drawn downward to the shackles again. “I heard the voice
inside my head.”

Malfoy’s face works through a myriad of expressions before landing on one he appears to be
comfortable with. He jolts up an eyebrow. “You’re hearing voices?”

“I’m not insane,” she snaps, feeling a prick of anger at his tone. “I think it’s part of the bond.”

Malfoy stiffens. “It’s not a bond.”

“Link. Connection. Prison sentence. Whatever you want to call it, Malfoy, I heard it.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why would I lie?” she hisses, eyes tracing over his face. The bruises from the fight are fading, his
split lip mostly healed. “Besides,” she says, taking another step. “It led me to you. So how could I
be making it up?”

“What did it say?” Malfoy demands, almost cutting her off.

“Come.” She casts a wordless warming charm around herself, unable to stand the chill any longer.
“Come and find and even please, once, when I thought about turning back.”

Malfoy remains silent for a moment, then seems to force out a snort. “You should know it wasn’t
me, then. I never say please.”

“Who was it if it wasn’t you?”

He looks her over, gaze scraping its way across her outline before sliding down and to the side.
Looking at his shackles. He lifts one so she can see it better, dangling from his wrist. “The wolf,”
he offers.

It nearly makes her breath catch, the way he refers to it. So casually. “The wolf?” she echoes,
working to coat her tone in doubt.

“Yes.”

“You’re implying the two of you are separate?” She raises an eyebrow to match his, even as that
entry from one of the books flashes behind her eyes. The one about ‘bisection.’

Malfoy’s face twists, then — almost into a smile, though there’s nothing pleasant about it. “Oh, we
are absolutely separate. There’s me.” He gestures down at himself. “And then there’s the instinct.”

It’s something about the way he says it. His voice doesn’t change, and yet it does. Somehow,
everything about it shifts, just below the surface, and there’s all manner of darkness and new,
unfamiliar intent behind it. It’s in his eyes, too. Just the briefest flash of what looks to her like pure
violence.

She tenses up at the sight, speaking without thinking.

“Are you going to change?”

All at once, Malfoy is Malfoy again, expression drawn in tight with bitterness — mocking her.
“No, Granger.” And his little laugh is unfriendly. “My brew was particularly good this month, so it
looks like I won’t get to tear you apart just yet.” He backs away then, slumping down into his seat
against the wall once more and adding as an afterthought, “But you still shouldn’t be here.”

She forces her muscles to relax, waiting almost half a minute before she says, “It wanted me
here.”

“Well, I don’t.” Malfoy tips his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes. A dismissal if there
ever was one.

She lets out a short huff, an unbidden sense of disappointment flooding through her.
Disappointment at what, she can't fathom, but her fingers tighten around her wand, jaw clenching
as she takes a step back towards the door.

Clearly, this was a mistake—

Stay.

The voice fills her head, so sharp and so abrupt that she almost misses it when she squeezes her
eyes shut.

But she sees Malfoy jump. Sees him jerk upright against the wall and then try to hide it. She sees it
and she knows.

“You hear it too.”

Malfoy’s defense is weak, eyes downcast. He seems to wince even as he says it. “Fuck you,
Granger—”

She’s already striding towards him — elated that she wasn’t wrong, driven forward by it — and
before she knows it she’s taking a seat on the floor in front of him. A few centimeters from his
feet. “It’s not just me. You hear it too.”

She realizes she probably shouldn’t sound so excited.

“What does it matter?” Malfoy hisses.

“At this point, anything we can learn about this matters. Don’t you see that? We have to do
whatever we can to understand this. Get a handle on this.”

Malfoy scoffs. “There is no ‘getting a handle on this.’ We can’t control this, Granger, in case you
hadn’t noticed.”

“But maybe we can prepare for it. Learn to work around it—”

Take.

She stifles a gasp, the voice louder and more clear than it’s ever been before. Malfoy grimaces, jaw
clenching the same way his fist does.

And it’s that reaction, more than anything, that stokes her curiosity.

“What does that mean?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“Fuck if I—”

Take.

Malfoy makes a noise in his throat — something frustrated and pained, his head slamming back
against the wall. He does it twice more, and she starts to feel the dull ache at the base of her own
skull.

He knows, she realizes. He knows what it means.

Take.

“I heard that before,” she says, leaning forward. “Early this morning.”

Take.

Malfoy groans and drags his hands down his face, pressing his fingers hard into the skin until she
feels it too.

“Malfoy…” she reaches out to touch one of his hands. Maybe to draw it away from his face so she
can look at him. “What does it—”

He grabs hold of her wrist so fast it steals the breath from her lungs. Shackles it, not unlike his own
chains, and his eyes when they meet hers are venomous. Pupils massive. Bottomless voids of
black.

“It means take, Granger,” he growls, giving her a shake, his voice as tense as his grip.

“I don’t—”

Take.

“Take.” He says it at the same time, his voice layered darkly over the one inside her head.

She fumbles, heart pounding. She’s sure he can feel the pulse in her wrist. “T-Take what?”

Take.

“Take what I want,” he hisses, dragging her closer. Getting in her face. “What it wants.”

“What — what does it want?” her voice is barely a whisper. Trembling, though she’s not sure from
fear. “What…do you want?”

Take.

The chains rattle and suddenly the hand not shackling her wrist has her by the chin.

She stops breathing.

And Malfoy holds her there, less than an inch from his face, as he says it. “I want to take it.” His
breath is warm, ghosting across her lips. “But I don’t want to want that.”

Something is burning low in her stomach. Something’s coiling up and tightening. Her lungs can’t
take in air.

Her lips tremble as she speaks. “You want to—

Take.

“Take,” he echoes, grip tightening on her chin — drawing her closer still, until the tip of his nose
brushes against hers. “I want to take.”

A shattered breath escapes her, and with it words she can’t believe she’s saying.

“Then take.”

His own exhale is cut. Sharp. Surprised. “What?” he breathes, just a hiss.

She screws up her courage, even when it doesn’t feel like she’s really in control anymore. “I said
take.”

Take.

Her eyes fall shut, and she can feel her bottom lip graze his. Just the faintest brush of skin against
skin—

Malfoy shoves her away so fast she almost doesn’t catch herself with her hands. Almost falls flat
on her back.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” he shouts, voice in shreds. “Are you — you want to make this
worse? Get out! Get out!”
She’s speechless. Can only stare at him, sprawled back and braced on her elbows.

“GO! Get out!”

No, growls the voice in her head in the same moment. Take.

Malfoy slams his palms against his temples. “I swear to Merlin if you don’t shut the fuck up!”

And then he starts yanking on the chains. Ripping at them and making the walls creak and groan
even more than usual.

Blind fear forces her to her feet.

“Get out!” he roars.

She runs.
 Breach / Bend

The wolf is silent.

For the rest of the week following the full moon, she hears nothing but her own distracted
thoughts.

Thoughts about things she shouldn’t be thinking about. Thoughts about him.

Thoughts about the look in his eyes as he held her chin in his hand. Everything she saw hiding in
those blackened depths.

A great deal of it looked like hatred. Hatred and disgust and, above all, dissatisfaction.

How awful it must feel, she thinks, to be so dissatisfied with her — the one his instinct chose. The
one nature chose. How disappointing.

She wonders if he would’ve been happier with someone like Parkinson. Or one of the Greengrass
sisters.

Anyone would be better than Hermione Mudblood Granger. Right?

Which — that makes sense. It fits together in her mind. She’s dissatisfied too, after all.

As if Malfoy would ever be her first choice for a desk partner, let alone a mythical bonded
cellmate.

Dissatisfaction is the overarching theme.

And yet — that’s not all she saw.

Not all she felt.

In that moment, with his face mere inches from hers and his grip near bruising, there’d been a
flicker. Not so unlike the one she felt staring at him from across that corridor, while he watched.

She can’t pin it down for certain. But it looked and felt quite a bit like exhilaration. Like the thrill
of doing something you shouldn’t.

She knows that feeling well.

Even if it doesn’t make sense.

Hermione,

I know you’re avoiding it, and I understand why. Trust me, I do.

But the book I suggested first — that’s the one you should be reading. That’s the one that’ll help.

Give it a try, yeah? Please.

Tonks

It’s Monday afternoon. Christmas decorations float into place all around the halls as she heads for
the Library to borrow reference texts for an essay.

Were she at a school far smaller and less crowded than Hogwarts, she might’ve noticed someone
following her.

But he’s able to tail her a good amount of the way from her last class without being found out, and
it’s not until she rounds the corner into a vacant corridor that he speaks.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Startled, she whips around. His voice is unfamiliar, but his face —

“Adrian,” she announces flatly. Almost unintentionally. She’s realizing just now that she’s been
waiting for this to happen. Ever since they made eye contact across the Great Hall.

“Granger,” he echoes. He’s a lanky shadow a few feet away, hair carelessly hanging in his eyes
again. He’s got one hand in his trouser pocket, the other laced around his bag strap, and he looks
calm despite his rather abrupt accusation.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know what you’re referring to.” She forces herself to straighten out of
a defensive posture. “Have we ever officially met?”

Adrian lifts an eyebrow, and then a moment later he takes a measured step forward, offering out his
hand.

She raises a brow too, even as she takes it.

“Adrian Pucey.”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Good, we’ve officially met.” He drops his arm and doesn’t skip a beat. “Like I said, you shouldn’t
have done that.”

“Done what?”

“Gone to the Shrieking Shack.”

She didn’t think he’d come right out and say it. Admit straight away that he knows. It surprises her
into momentary silence.

Adrian studies her face as though he’s looking for something in particular, olive green eyes a little
narrowed in concentration.

“Let’s take a walk,” he says.

“I don’t know you.”

“Yes you do. We shook hands.”

She holds firm, digging her heels in for good measure and lifting an eyebrow.

He sighs loudly. “Fine, then. I’m Adrian. Eighteen years old. Slytherin. Halfblood. I like long
walks on the beach and eating gingersnaps, and I got kicked off the Quidditch team for making a
positive comment about Oliver Wood. I hate shellfish. There. Now you know me.”

Her eyes are a little wide, she can feel it.

Adrian steps aside and gestures casually to the empty corridor behind him. “Let’s take a walk.”

She probably shouldn’t, all things considered. But she’s curious why and how much he knows.

And after all, she has her wand — feels for it in the pocket of her robes even as she steps toward
him.

She knows enough hexes offhand to turn Adrian Pucey into a blind Pygmy Puff, should the need
arise.

This is...

Well — it’s certainly not what she expected.

Anyone passing by might think they’re taking a leisurely stroll about the Castle.

But in reality, she’s getting a lecture.

“— can not just waltz around this situation like it’s a classroom experiment, Granger. These sorts
of things have consequences.”

As it turns out, Adrian Pucey not only knows her as a paramour, but he‘s got all sorts of opinions
about it as well. And his face remains calm — placid, even — as he rips into her.

“It’s abundantly clear you haven’t grasped the point of any of it yet, but I’m here to remind you
that you do actually serve a purpose here, yeah? And from what I’ve seen and heard, you’re taking
every opportunity to do exactly what you shouldn’t—“

“What you’ve seen and heard...” she echoes, because it’s all she can think to say. She can’t wrap
her head around why he seems to believe he’s involved, and yet—

“Malfoy told me.”

She glances sideways and upward to see his face in profile as they walk.

“Why would he tell you?”

“No need to sound so put out, Granger — it’s not like he wanted to. But it doesn’t take an expert to
notice one of you dancing a jig every time the other stubs their toe. Just takes someone with
eyes...and a little experience.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I asked how long you’ve been his
paramour and the next day he was coming to me for advice.”
Experience. Advice.

“Are you saying that you’re—“

Adrian scoffs a laugh, cutting her off. “Not me, no.” And he meets her curious gaze as they
meander around the corner leading to the Grand Staircase. “My mother.”

Her brows jolt up of their own accord.

“She was a Healer at St. Mungo’s. Got bit by a patient maybe a year or two after I was born.”
Another laugh as they start to descend. “Story’s infamous amongst the Wizarding elite. Pureblood
families like to gossip about it at tea — a perfectly satisfactory Halfblood family wasted.”

The slight twinge she feels in her chest makes very little sense. This morning she woke up knowing
next to nothing about Adrian Pucey, and now here she is well on her way to sympathizing.

It’s as if he senses it.

“This isn’t a sob story, Granger,” he says, jumping abruptly across the small gap onto a flight of
stairs that’s already moving.

She almost loses her footing trying to keep up, grasping for the stone banister.

“I could give a fuck what Purebloods think. And I’m only telling you all this so you‘ll recognize
me as the voice of reason here.” He stops abruptly and pivots to face her on the landing. “I know
more than you do, and I can tell you now that you’re doing it all wrong.”

She can’t help a scoff, affronted. “I’m doing it all wrong?” And she gestures down over the railing,
in the vague direction of the Dungeons. “Malfoy’s the one—“

“Wasn’t it your idea to attempt that ritual?”

Her throat closes on her words.

Adrian shakes his head and huffs another laugh, “I thought you were the type to do research. At
least enough to know that attempting a breach should always be a last resort.”

Her cheeks flush with blood. “A what?”

“A breach. Ripping the bond apart. That’s what it’s called.”

“Malfoy wanted to do it too.”

Adrian turns to lean back against the railing, letting a pair of Ravenclaws pass them by. “Malfoy
puts up fronts. It’s all he knows how to do.” He folds his arms across his chest and sizes her up
almost clinically. “If he thinks he’s supposed to hate you, then he’ll cling to that until it drags him
over a cliff somewhere.”

“You’re saying he doesn't want to break the bond?”

“Mentally, maybe he does. Biologically? Not a chance.”

She struggles for words. “I don’t—“

“Point is, Granger — this whole paramour thing’s not meant to be fucked around with.”
“I’m not trying to fuck around with it.”

He arches a brow. “Following him to the Shrieking Shack? Yeah, great idea. Doesn’t like you,
even as a human. Why not see how the wolf behaves?”

She bites back on the defense that tries to leap from her throat. Takes care to remember that she
doesn’t need to defend herself to Adrian Pucey, of all people.

The wolf asked her to come. All that matters is she knows it.

And so does Malfoy.

“Why do you care?” she demands instead. “About any of this?”

Adrian leans back a little. Seems to consider his answer.

“My mother would want me to. You and Malfoy are well on your way to making this ugly, and
I’ve seen ugly.”

A flicker of curiosity sparks to life in her.

“If you want my advice—”

“I don’t know if I do, actually,” she says.

“You’re getting it none the less.” He leans down a bit to match her eye line, expression a challenge.
“This might seem like an exciting little learning opportunity for you, the way things are now, but
you won’t feel the same when it starts to get gruesome. And it will, Granger — if you keep on like
this.”

“That’s hardly advice—”

“Stop trying to wish it away. Stop toeing the boundaries. If you want to get through this even
moderately unscathed, you’d best start making him like you.”

An incredulous scoff bursts from her mouth. “Excuse me?”

“Paramours are meant to ease the pain. To relieve stress, not cause it. If I were you — and thank
fuck I’m not — I’d start thinking of ways to make myself valuable. I thought you had the right idea
for a moment there, dolling yourself up the way you did. But now that I know that was for Weasley
—”

She straightens up like a rod’s been driven through her spine. “That was for me. No one else.”

Adrian huffs. “Alright. Sure, Granger.”

“You know, I really don’t think I like you.”

“Good. Don’t. I don’t need to be liked. But you’ve got a reputation for being smart, and it’d be
very smart to listen to me.”

“And what if I—”

“Hermione, I’ve been looking for you. Look!”

It’s Neville’s voice, just behind her, and a moment later he appears at her side. He’s got a wilted
stem of Wolfsbane laid out gently across his gloved palm.

“Look at these clippings! Aren’t they…”

He trails off the moment he realizes they’re not alone, his excited gaze morphing into something
more akin to a deer in headlights as it finds Adrian.

“Oh,” he mumbles, going red in the face and quickly hiding the Wolfsbane behind his back.
“Sorry.”

Adrian blinks sleepily at him, an eyebrow raised. “Right. He told me Longbottom was involved.”
He pushes off the railing, adjusting the strap of his bag as he takes a step towards them. And
Neville, by no means short, looks somehow small juxtaposed with Adrian’s lanky frame.

His wide eyes drop to the floor, ears going pink to match his face.

“Well,” says Adrian, cocking his head to the side. She can’t tell if it’s a smirk on his face or
something else as he sizes Neville up. “At least someone here knows what they’re doing.”

And with that, he brushes past Neville’s shoulder and disappears down the stairs.

Neville clears his throat awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck with his ungloved hand and
glancing her way. “What was that about?”

She shakes her head. “Just another thing I don’t understand.”

It takes half an hour staring at it on her nightstand to work up the nerve.

Part of it feels like surrendering to something — and above all she hates to surrender. But with
Tonks pushing at one end and now Adrian Pucey at the other, she’s beginning to think it’s no
longer a choice.

With a sharp exhale, she tugs the pale blue volume onto her lap and draws her bed curtains.

A Treatise on the Paramour

It’s written on the cover in sleek gold, looking a great deal more welcoming than it should. She
bites down on the inside of her cheek as she flips to the index, running the pad of her finger along
the page in search of a good place to start.

It’s an instinct to gravitate towards the familiar.

Symbiotic Sensation

Strange, the faint sense of comfort she feels finding it in first-person.

 When I first encountered symbiotic sensation, research was minimal. The small portion of the
Wizarding community paying it any attention at all seemed content with their simple, surface-level
conclusion. A fail-safe to prevent paramour death.

In my own experience, I’ve found nothing could be further from the truth. Most forget the most
important aspect of the bond — that it is shared. I am not just paramour to the wolf. The wolf is
paramour to me. Why, if symbiotic sensation is a safety precaution, would the paramour
experience the wolf’s pain as well? Surely the wolf is in no danger of being killed by its paramour.

That in mind, myself and other paramours I’ve encountered support a different conclusion. We
believe symbiotic sensation is intended for therapeutic purposes. The bond between lycanthropic
paramours needs to maintain its strength. It must be constantly nurtured, with both halves relying
on the ability to feel one another in order to keep close — in heart and in mind.

When one considers the instability and pain inherent to the werewolf condition, the paramour’s
ability to share sensation makes perfect sense. When one half experiences exhaustion, the other
half might then encourage them to rest. When one half experiences pain, the other will feel an
intense urge to treat them.

It is nature’s gift to the wolf. A constant link to the human form they can no longer confine
themselves to. A bonded mate whose sole desires revolve around their well-being.

“Oh,” she whispers aloud without realizing, Adrian’s words rushing back to her.

“Paramours are meant to ease the pain.”

Slowly, she closes the book and sets it aside, staring ahead at her bed curtains.

It’s disturbing that it’s not something she ever thought to try. All this time, she’s used the
sensations to inflict petty wounds, receiving nothing but the same from Malfoy in return. Because
that’s what she thought it revolved around. Pain.

“Nox,” she murmurs, because she needs the darkness to focus.

What’s the harm in trying it? Just once? Bending her one little rule when it comes to Malfoy?

Tantalizing as it is to make him squirm, she’s curious how their bond might react to something
different. And if Adrian wants her to make herself useful, then to hell with him. She’ll try it.

All the better for it if it turns out he’s wrong.

She loves telling people they’re wrong.

Lying back in the dark, she shuts her eyes and breathes out slowly. She’s noticed she can feel more
of him when she focuses intently on it. Like meditation.

It takes a few minutes. She lays in silence, trying to ignore small outward sounds and distractions.

But it’s not long before she feels his pulse. A slow, even thud in the chest — a phantom offbeat to
her own. She can feel his lungs expand when hers deflate — can feel the faint, throbbing
beginnings of a headache.

She chases that sensation, narrowing her focus to what feels out of place. The aches and pains that
normally fade to background noise when she goes about her day.

Malfoy is sore.

She hadn’t noticed before. Possible remnants of the full moon. She’s read that even weeks without
a transformation still wear on the body.

His joints feel stiff, the expanse of his shoulders tight and strained. She grimaces as it all comes to
the forefront.

He’s sleeping or resting, at least, she thinks. She doesn’t feel him moving.

But the aches persist.

Just try.

She sits up carefully, twisting to part the curtains. At such a late hour, there’s very little risk of
surprising him in the middle of something. And also very little risk of being disturbed.

Silently, she pads across the dormitory to the washroom and shuts the door behind her.

“Lumos.”

Light from her wand reflects off the porcelain sinks and mirrors. She makes her way to the
showers, thinking of what Malfoy wouldn’t think to do for himself.

It’s quick work — transfiguring the shower into a small, private bath. The magic forms a tiled wall
around the claw-foot tub, hiding it from view.

She locks the door to the washroom anyhow. She’ll try not to be long.

“Aguamenti,” she casts, and the tub begins to fill with hot water, steam wafting up.

There’s very little that can’t be cured with a hot bath. Her mother always says that.

Gathering a deep breath, she sheds her clothes and steps in, hoping to death she’s right.
 Needles / Coils

Warmth crawls across the tether between them.

She can feel it leaching its way through his senses as she sinks down into the tub. Can feel the faint
flicker of surprise that is the catch in his pulse.

She’s felt him shower across the bond before; she remembers the way those fine hairs on her arms
stood up as the heat spread over her. A brief but not unpleasant warmth, like passing by a fire in the
cold.

This, though — she thinks it will feel different. More potent. More intentional. Lasting.

He shifts where he lies. In bed but not asleep, she can tell. She can almost feel the gears turning in
his head as he riddles out what she’s doing. Can sense his suspicion.

“It’s just a bath,” she says aloud for no one’s benefit, watching the steam rise and settling back
against the porcelain.

Her eyes fall shut as she works to clear her head, focusing once more on the pain she felt in him.
Her shoulders throb with it, muscles strained as though she’s made the same uncomfortable
movement over and over again.

She pictures him yanking against those chains and doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

Slowly, after warming her hands in the water, she reaches up and presses the pads of her fingers
into the tense flesh between her shoulder and neck. Starts smoothing her way across the tendons,
inch by inch.

Through the bond, his breath hitches yet again — a flutter in her chest.

She adds more pressure, finding a spot wrought with tension just above her left shoulder blade.
Malfoy stiffens.

Breathe, she thinks, even knowing he can’t hear. She works at the soreness with the flat of her
thumb, gentle but firm until it gives way, uncoiling like a snake.

It’s the first of many, and Malfoy seems to squirm under her distant touch — a phantom discomfort
she can feel in the hard set of his jaw, the whisper of what might be satin against her palms. She
pictures him balling Slytherin green sheets into fists.

Still, she doesn’t let his uncertainty dissuade her, working through each and every knot of tension
across the expanse of her shoulders until she feels the thudding of his pulse start to even out. Until
the headache at the base of her skull begins to fade.

It takes nearly half an hour.

“There you have it, Malfoy,” she says to herself, letting her tired hands slip back into the hot water
and sinking down a little deeper. “I’m not all bad.”

It feels like he’s waiting for something, the way he lies so still. Waiting for her to hex the water to
boil or inflict some sort of pain.

She swirls her fingers through the bubbles while he stews in his suspicion, creating little patterns
until it feels like he allows himself to fall asleep.

With a sigh, she relaxes further, leaning her head back and shutting her eyes. She supposes she’s
never truly alone anymore, but at the very least she feels a sense of privacy when he’s sleeping.

Turns out it’s a much-needed bath for her as well. She’s been driving herself half-mad with all this
research, trying to keep up with her studies on top of it and struggling to maintain an air of
normalcy around her friends.

She realizes she’s barely been sleeping at all.

Stop thinking of Malfoy, then, her subconscious demands.

It’s easier said than done, what with his senses all tangled up in hers. Still, she tries. Casts a charm
to reheat the bath and skirts around the subject of Malfoy in her mind, focusing on everything he’s
overshadowed these past weeks.

A doomed endeavor, as it turns out, because what Malfoy’s overshadowed — what he’s somehow
miraculously distracted her from — is Ron.

And now she’s left wondering what he’s doing this very moment. Wondering if he’s with her.

Yes, she’s decided she’s no longer in love with him. That ship hasn’t sailed, it’s sunk.

And yet, knowing that does very little to diminish the ache. Like she’s been slapped across the face
not five seconds ago, and the sting just won’t go away.

It feels like she’s wasted so many moments thinking of him. Important moments. Her first kiss.
Her first time.

Viktor was both, albeit almost a year and a half apart. He kissed her the night of the Yule Ball, and
she’d been thinking of Ron. Wondering if he liked her dress or thought she looked ridiculous.
Wondering why he hadn’t asked her to go with him instead.

But Viktor was sweet in his somewhat clumsy, brusque way. They kept in touch, sending owls
back and forth throughout the summer and well into Fifth Year.

He kept it all very proper, her being only sixteen.

But she saw Sixth Year closing in ahead — the year she’d decided was her year. The year she’d
confront Ron about her feelings.

And the thought of heading into that inexperienced terrified her.

This past June, she wrote her first letter to Viktor in months — a heinously brief missive about
meeting her for a date in London that probably felt more like a command than an invitation.

He arrived, none the less, and she blindsided him with a hotel room.

It’s hard to think about now, knowing it was wasted in pursuit of Ron. She realizes she was unfair
to Viktor — all the tenderness he showed her, when she spent the whole night thinking of someone
else.

But if her memory serves her right, it was good.

Not great, but by no means bad — and her distraction could easily be to blame for any diminished
spark.

Viktor was gentle. Aware of her inexperience. Willing to go slow, willing to laugh with her
through any awkwardness.

All in all, for her first time, she’ll always feel incredibly fortunate. Someone kind. Someone gentle.

Malfoy would not be gentle.

Her eyes fly open at the unwelcome thought — a rogue stream of consciousness seemingly
bursting in from nowhere.

There he goes again. Overshadowing everything. Appearing in places he has no business appearing
in.

She’s — that’s...that’s not even something she’s considered. Not even something she’d want to
consider, what with him being him and her being her.

Even in — even in moments like the one they shared inside the Shrieking Shack, she feels certain
nothing would’ve come of it. They’re meant to repel one another.

Yes. Exactly.

She tries to relax again, letting her wide eyes sink shut.

But he wouldn’t, her thoughts continue, gone astray.

“That’s just common sense,” she says aloud.

Of course he wouldn’t be gentle. The word ‘gentle’ doesn’t exist in Malfoy’s dimension. His
family probably taught him to think of it as a synonym for weakness.

No, he wouldn’t be gentle.

He would be selfish, not that it matters. He would probably think only of himself. Nothing of her.
Nothing of what hurts, what’s too much. He wouldn’t start with a kiss. Wouldn’t run his thumb
across her cheek or hold her close.

He would hurt her, the way he keeps saying he wants to.

She can almost feel it now. The ghost of his hand wrapping around her throat. Squeezing until she
fights for breath. No tenderness. Only pressure. Pressure and those eyes. Gray and heartless,
glaring down at her — relishing in her desperation and panic — as he takes what he wants.

Take.

An echo of that voice from before. Not loud, like it was. She’s not certain whether it’s really
spoken again, or if it’s just a remnant from her memory.

Either way, it’s enough to snap her eyes open again.

Just her. Alone in the bath.

Only she doesn’t remember allowing her hand to slip between her legs.

Both the sight and the sensation have her biting back a gasp. She can’t pinpoint when exactly in the
last thirty seconds her nerve-endings caught on fire — when her own body turned against her —
but she’s forced to consider that it happened while she was thinking about Malfoy.

She tries to take her hand away. Fully intends to clench it into a fist at her side and cross her legs as
tightly as possible. To physically restrain herself.

But just the slightest movement of her fingers is enough to make her breath catch, a spike of
pleasure shooting up her spine — the water threshing as her body jolts.

And it’s enough to wake Malfoy.

She feels him startle to consciousness, his heart rate a muted thud in her own chest.

There’s a long moment of silence, only the quiet laps of the water against the edges of the bath to
disturb it. She doesn’t move and it seems neither does Malfoy — as though he’s not certain what
he’s just felt, and he’s waiting to determine how to react.

The wolf is not so indecisive.

Take, it says, clear as a bell. Unmistakable.

She feels Malfoy suck in a sharp breath at the sound, sitting up in bed. Now he knows what he felt.
Now he knows, and he’s nervous.

She senses it as clearly as she knows her own mind.

It’s strange. Feeling him so confused and helpless. She remains still, letting it sink in even as she
knows she should take her hand away. Should drain the bath and be done with this. A strange
mistake. An accident.

But then again, she’s never felt a shockwave quite like that.

She takes a moment. Actually allows herself to consider it.

Adrian said paramours were meant to ease the pain. If she had to define the opposite of pain, what
she just felt wouldn’t be so far off.

And, if she admits it, there’s something inherently pleasant about making Malfoy nervous.

She feels very much in control, for once.

Take, the wolf repeats, sounding impatient.

“Take what?” she asks.

Take what you want.

She gathers a slow, steadying breath, watching the water lap at her toes. “I’m not sure it’s what I
want.”

The wolf doesn’t hesitate.

You want it.

A growl. A demand.
You want it.

Malfoy panics through all of this — reduced to pinpricks of nervousness exploding sporadically
across her senses. She can feel him threading his fingers into his hair.

Almost instinctively, she asks, “Does he want it?”

Strange, the way she can almost picture the wolf’s grin. Fangs exposed. Leering.

Yes.

She feels bold.

“Show me.”

Take, is its reply, insistent. Take, and you will know.

With a deep exhale, she leans her head back once more. Shuts her eyes and urges herself to take a
risk. Good things come from risks.

As do dangerous things...

But she resolves not to think on those in this moment.

She lets her hand relax, allowing the tips of her fingers to graze that concentrated collection of
nerves.

Heat surges through her bloodstream at the touch, making her gasp, and Malfoy tenses up across
the bond.

She hasn’t done this in ages. Hasn’t felt the need to, so distracted by everything else. And yet, with
just this faint touch, she feels the consequences of neglect. The urgent coil of need low in her
stomach.

Impatient, she curls her fingers again, and it’s like stretching a muscle the way the warmth
blossoms, spreading and bleeding out.

Malfoy’s fists have curled into the sheets again. His teeth are gritted, his brow heavy with tension
— fighting it.

Why are you fighting it?

She’s far from sure whether the voice is hers or the wolf’s.

It intensifies the need, and she can’t control it when the thought of Malfoy’s hand around her throat
comes seeping back to the forefront. She doesn’t care if he senses it. If the bond allows him to
know the depravity of her thoughts.

She only knows the way it makes the fire between her thighs burn brighter, sparks exploding
across her nerve-endings as her fingers slide lower. Circle her entrance.

Malfoy’s panic spikes, and he seems to do the only thing he can think of.

A sharp pressure encircles her wrist, as though he’s taken hold of his own with the other hand in a
desperate attempt to stop her. She feels the force of it as he tries to pry her fingers away.
But it’s not strong enough.

She tugs free of it and allows one finger to slip inside.

Malfoy all but seizes up at the sensation — she feels the brief lapse in gravity as he falls back
against his mattress, still fighting it. Turning sideways and curling into himself in an effort to drive
it away.

She thinks about stopping. Thinks it’s possible she’s hurting him, and for the first time finds the
idea of it wholly unappealing.

Take, the wolf commands, sensing her hesitation.

“He doesn’t want it.”

He wants it. A growl. I want it.

And that’s when her senses feel like they break apart — open up and out, spreading to encompass
what they couldn’t before. Suddenly she feels more of him than she’s ever felt. An acute sense of
each breath. Each thud of his pulse. The cold of the sweat beading on his brow and the coil of his
muscles as he tenses further.

That isn’t all she feels though.

There’s a foreign, deep sort of ache she’s not sure how to place, twisting in her gut. A need that
isn’t inward as she knows it, but outward. A craving to fill. To thrust. To take.

A want that’s unlike anything she’s ever experienced.

It doesn’t burn, it cuts. Punctures like a needle, injecting desire thick as ink into her veins.

Whatever it is, it snaps her control in half, and her toes curl against the edge of the bath as she
slides that finger in deeper. Pulls it out only to thrust in two. Starts to pump them in and out without
hesitation. Without thoughts of consequences. No holds barred.

Malfoy writhes where he lays, flipping over to bury his face into the pillows, fists digging into the
mattress on either side.

Please.

Is that him? Is it the wolf?

She has no way to tell.

Please. Please.

She curls her fingers inside, sliding deeper into the bath with a gasp and gripping the rim to steady
herself.

Stop fighting it, she thinks, wishing for once beyond all else that he can hear.

It feels like a lightning strike when Malfoy gives in. She knows the exact moment he lets go — the
exact moment he takes himself in hand.

Unknown, inconceivable sensations — a boiling, explosive brand of pleasure she’s never known.
He grips hard. Strokes upward once. The hair at the back of her neck stands on end, a moan ripping
out of her throat.

She struggles to sit up, water thrashing as she grapples desperately for her wand on the floor. Tries
to cast a Silencing Charm without losing the contact of her other hand. Without losing her grip on
the electricity running through her. Through them both.

Malfoy has risen up onto his knees, one hand braced on the mattress, the other unable to stop.
Pumping up and down as his labored breathing echoes in her ears.

Images fly across the backs of her eyelids. Flashes of her own face, cheeks flushed — her own
curls, wild and scattered. Herself, leaning back against a wall, fingers tangled into the hair of
someone he doesn’t care for enough to flesh out in detail. Just a blur on its knees.

It’s what he’s imagining, she realizes. What he’s thinking of.

The night he saw her across the corridor.

She pulls her fingers out, focusing on tracing lines up and down across that epicenter of nerves.
Malfoy’s gaze reappears in her mind, that phantom grip a growing warmth around her throat, and
with every stroke of his, she imagines what it might feel like to have him inside of her. To be
pinned down as he fills her. Stretching, caving. Driving deeper.

It feels wrong.

So incredibly wrong, and yet it's all she wants in the world in this moment.

Malfoy. Fucking her.

Just thinking the word brings color to cheeks. She’s never considered it in those terms before.
Never thought she’d want it in those terms before.

But the mere concept of it brings her so close to the edge she can barely breathe, and she swears
she can hear Malfoy’s cut groan in her ears as he’s forced to consider it too.

What it would be like.

What it could be like.

“Fuck,” she gasps out, and it takes her by surprise — the way the orgasm rips through every
tendon, every ligament, like a wildfire.

Malfoy collapses with his, the tense press of his hand against the mattress trembling before giving
way, and the sensation whites out her vision. Makes her spasm and shake, thighs clenching around
her hand as the water crashes over the edges of the bath onto the floor.

Every inch of her skin feels raw and exposed as she comes down from it, her chest heaving, heart
thudding like a hammer just beneath.

It takes great care to draw her hand away without accidentally grazing some flayed nerve. She lets
it float to her side like it’s weightless, staring up at the ceiling of the washroom and trying to wrap
her head around what she’s just done.

What they’ve done.

The wolf’s voice trickles in like a dark reminder.

You wanted it.

She did.

It’s a punch in the gut to admit it to herself, but at this point there’s no ignoring it. No more
pretending.
She wanted it.

And it would seem so did he.

She knows it’s coming.

Catches herself almost deliberately walking slower — walking by herself — because she knows.

And like clockwork, the next morning as Hermione emerges from around the corner to the Great
Hall, he’s there. Leaning against the adjacent wall, arms crossed. Waiting.

The hall is mostly empty, the majority of the student body already at breakfast.

So no one sees the way he comes at her, pushing off the flagstone to charge across the distance
between them. He takes hold of her arm before she can get a word out, dragging her back around
that same corner and down the corridor a ways until he can pull her into the shadows beneath the
Grand Staircase.

He wastes no time shoving her against the wall, never freeing her wrist from his almost painful
grip.

“I told you not to fuck around.”

She keeps her calm — expected this and prepared for it. She’s steeled herself and decided not to
allow him to rile her.

“I wasn’t.”

Malfoy squeezes harder, crowding her and dipping his head to growl in her face. “You’re going to
deny it?”

This close, she can smell the soap he showers with. Something like pine. She tilts her chin up. “I’m
not denying what we did. But I wasn’t fucking around.”

“What would you call it, then?”

She quirks a brow. “Some people call it masturbating. But if you prefer, there’s always self care?
Autoeroticism? Touching—”

He drops her wrist and takes her face in hand — a movement quick and jarring, his fingers digging
into the hollows of her cheeks not so unlike that night in the Shrieking Shack.

“Shut your mouth.”

“What instinct is it that makes you grab me this way?” she asks, working to keep her voice even
despite the way her pulse spikes. “You’re out of your mind if you think I won’t hex you for it.”

Malfoy’s sharp eyes flit between hers. The pressure of his hand doesn’t diminish so much as a
fraction. “Why did you do it?”

“For myself.”

He gives her a jerk, and she uses the movement to snatch her wand from her pocket, quick to hold
it up to his chin.

His eyes just tighten.

“You’re lying,” he hisses.

“It’s my body. I’ll do what I want with it.”

Malfoy’s face dips closer to hers, chin pressing into the tip of her wand — a threat. “If you knew it
was a way to torture me, you’d have done it much sooner. You’re lying.”

She searches for the words she knows will frustrate him most.

“It felt good.”

His fingers dig deeper, well and truly bruising. “What makes you think you have the right?”

Her jaw aches. She presses hard on her wand in retaliation. “I was only taking Adrian’s advice.”

“Adrian?” he snaps, surprised by the name but by no means retreating.

“Yes.” She dares to smile up at him. “After all, you told him about me, didn’t you? He suggested I
make myself useful.”

“And you think that was useful?”

She fights against any and all reservations to tilt her face closer to his. “You certainly seemed to
enjoy yourself.”

His eyes flood with rage.

“I feel everything you feel.” She can’t help but drive the knife in deeper. Wants to see what’ll
happen. “I know what excites you. I felt it.”

Something glows behind that rage. Something he’s trying to hold back.

“Do you know what excites you, Malfoy?”

His heart starts to pound. A staccato beat in stark contrast to her own languid pulse. She’s in her
element when she’s in control.

“Do you know what makes you come?”

Malfoy’s breath hitches, not expecting her to speak in such terms. The fury in his gaze diminishes
to make way for something else. Something dark and conflicted. Full of an intent that makes the
muscles in her stomach clench the way they did last night.

“Do you know what you think about?” she asks, voice dropping to a whisper. It takes a
concentrated effort not to glance down at his lips, only centimeters from hers the way he looms
over her. “Want me to tell you?”

Malfoy’s looking at her lips and not even bothering to hide it. “Yes,” he says in a voice much
changed. Distracted and dazed.

She lets the tip of her wand slide out from under his chin — slide up the line of his jaw towards his
temple. She taps it there once, accentuating her words. Words it takes a great deal of courage to
force out.

“You think about fucking me.”

It’s almost drunken, the way he sways towards her. Like he’s magnetized.

“Don’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathes, and she can feel it against her lips, he’s so close.

“I think about it, too.”

Malfoy breathes in. Holds it. His gaze is fixed on her mouth, bruising pressure fading until he
cradles her face in a grip that’s almost delicate.

“Sometimes, I think it might not be such a bad idea.”

“Yeah?” he forces out, and his nose grazes hers.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think I—”

“Hey.”

It’s a nervous, familiar voice, built up to sound tough. They break apart with a gasp and find
Neville with his wand aimed, a few feet away in the lonesome corridor.

He’s pointing it at Malfoy, and she realizes that all he sees is Malfoy’s hand on her chin and her
wand pressed against him. All he thinks is he's helping.

“Let go of her,” he commands, his stance strong even as his voice falters.

Malfoy, having realized exactly who’s stumbled upon them, sinks back into his own arrogant
confidence. He releases her chin, pivoting to face Neville and straightening up to his full height.

“Really, Longbottom?” he sneers. “Here to save the day for Granger? A fucking knight in shining
armor?”

She doesn’t like the way it makes Neville stutter — the way he flushes cherry red.

So she steps out from the shadows of the staircase towards him, looping her arm through the one
not pointing a wand. “I think I did need saving, actually.”

Malfoy’s lip curls up as he watches her, fists gathering at his sides.

“Thank you, Neville,” she says, staring directly at him. Seeing him fight to swallow back all the
rage and frustration she’s stirred up, all the while proving her point. “He might’ve eaten me alive.”

They walk away together, Neville’s wand still out at his side, leaving Malfoy under the stairs.
*Below art is NSFW*

by _mignonchignon on Instagram
 Run / Hide

Notes on the Infection

There are very few werewolves in existence who were bitten by choice; engaging in such an act
voluntarily is considered illegal.

Therefore, it is not uncommon for those bitten to feel a deep sense of resentment towards their
infector, however accidental the event may have been. In my own experience, my bonded half
eventually came to make peace with the one who infected him; something I did not agree with
myself. Paramours, by nature, are meant to hate what their bonded half hates, and I very much
hated the one responsible for this affliction. The forgiving nature of my mate is incredibly rare and
should not be regarded as a baseline.

Indeed, most other subjects I encountered in my research wished death upon their infectors.

That being said, there is only one instance in which a werewolf may kill the one by whom they
were bitten. Natural and magical laws render it otherwise impossible. But should an infector ever
pose a threat to a wolf’s paramour, the wolf will be compelled — as well as legally permitted — to
take their life.

Nature demands it.

She’s disguised the cover so she can read it in public — a charm that makes it look like an
Arithmancy text. Her facial expressions, on the other hand, are not so easily hidden.

“I don’t like Arithmancy much myself,” says Ron across the train compartment. “But bloody hell,
Hermione, you look terrified.”

She schools her expression immediately, shutting the book and dropping it onto her lap. “Just a
confusing section.”

Ron fights a laugh, only to tense up suddenly when a shadow appears outside the glass
compartment door.

Lavender.

Harry clears his throat a bit louder than he should, adjusting where he sits next to her. Hermione
can only stare, watching the awkwardly elaborate depiction of a heart with an arrow through it get
traced onto the glass.

Lavender breathes hot air against it, as if it needed to be any clearer. Then, with a simpering glance
at Ron, she prances away.

Hermione can’t hold it in.

“Charming.”

Harry snorts as Ron flushes red.

“It’s only a few weeks,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t think she’ll explode or
something, do you?”
“Hard to say,” is Harry’s sage advice. “Suppose we’ll find out.”

It’s a statement to encompass everything, really. This will likely prove to be the most interesting —
if not the most uncomfortable — holiday she’s ever had.

Mrs. Weasley invited her to spend it at the Burrow many months back in the summer, and
arrangements were made. Who could’ve seen far enough ahead to know the state of things now?

She can’t invent some excuse, though. Her parents have already made plans to travel the week of
Christmas.

Which means she’ll just have to cling to Harry for the majority of her stay.

The Trolley Witch stops by their compartment, and as Harry and Ron scramble to buy sweets, she
lets her head rest against the cold window. Watches the bare winter trees fly past.

Somehow, she managed to get through the last week of classes leading up to the holiday without
crossing paths with Malfoy.

She feels the color rush to her cheeks just thinking of him. Of that moment under the stairs.
Thinking about what she said — so filthy and unlike herself. Thinking about what he said — so
unexpected.

Her fingers absently trace the charmed letters on the book cover.

She’s not sure where they go from here.

Not two seconds off the train, Mrs. Weasley has a hand on either cheek and demands to know
what’s changed.

“Something’s different, love. What is it? You look different.” Her warm eyes pass quizzically over
Hermione’s face. Over the light makeup she’s applied — her slightly more uniform curls.

Hermione manages a nervous smile. “Just, erm — just been putting in a bit more effort, that’s all.”

“It shows,” Mrs. Weasley announces brightly. “Ron? Ron, don’t you think she looks absolutely
lovely?”

Freezing up mid-struggle with his trunk, Ron looks like a caged animal, eyes darting anywhere but
her direction. Blood rushes to his cheeks. “I — er, yeah. Sure, mum. Yeah.”

Mrs. Weasley only scoffs, moving on to fuss over Harry and leaving Hermione staring at Ron. He
flashes an awkward smile, quick to divert his focus back to his trunk.

Maybe a month ago, his response would’ve stung. She considers it as she gathers up her own
luggage, suddenly feeling a bit lighter on her feet. Ron’s opinion no longer weighs what it used to.

Mrs. Weasley, on the other hand, doesn’t miss an opportunity to address the elephant in the room
throughout the holiday.
The first night, at dinner, she somehow veers conversation onto the subject of Lavender Brown’s
marks — “Nowhere near top of the class, is she Ron? Nowhere near Hermione.”

The following morning, as Hermione helps her with dishes, she makes the not-so-subtle suggestion
to dress in orange more often. Ron’s favorite color.

And the monogrammed jumper she unwraps Christmas morning is the brightest shade of orange
she’s ever seen.

Still, it’s hardly as awkward as it could be. Harry and Ron teach her to play Exploding Snap when
they aren’t flying around on brooms, and she and Ginny manage to pull off an elaborate prank on
the twins.

She feels very little by way of Malfoy. It occurs to her that perhaps the sensations diminish the
further they are apart. A much needed respite for both of them.

It isn't until Christmas night that things begin to slip downhill.

Tonks and Professor Lupin visit for dinner.

Immediately, she’s forced to recognize the similarities. Professor Lupin’s hunched, exhausted
demeanor is all too familiar, his weary eyes rimmed red. No one needs to remind her it’s the week
of the full moon.

Still, the subject inevitably comes up when Tonks pulls her aside at the first opportunity. Privacy is
hard to come by in the Weasley home. They don’t get the chance until about an hour after dinner.

Just around the corner from the kitchen, they speak in hushed tones. Tonks asks if she’s sorted out
the voices yet.

“I — it’s the wolf’s voice, isn’t it?”

Tonks nods in a manner almost grave. “Yeah. Sort of the string latching you two together. A
shared consciousness even if you don’t control it.”

Hermione frowns. “Then it isn’t the wolf?”

“No — it is, it is. It’s — well, it’s sort of hard to explain, really. The books do a better job of it than
I can. The voice is the wolf, but the wolf can be influenced by both of you. Its consciousness is an
amalgam of both of you.” She offers an apologetic smile. “Does that make sense?”

“No.”

“It will soon enough. I promise.” She squeezes her shoulder.

“How is Professor Lupin? I know this week isn’t the best.”

“As good as can be expected. Gets a bit skittish around me the closer he is to a transformation, but
he’ll be alright.” And she hesitates before asking, “How is, erm — how is your…”

“Fine. He’s fine. I — well, I think. I couldn’t really say.” There’ve been hardly any sensations to
go off of.

“Are you learning to get along?”

“Not at all.”
Tonks’ hair glows a gleeful yellow shade as she grins. “I’m not surprised. Sure you’re as
headstrong as I was.”

“Was?” Hermione echoes and can’t help smiling back.

“Yeah, alright.” Tonks swats her arm and gives her a good-natured shove back into the kitchen.

It’s only then that they hear the raised voices. Just a room away.

Lupin’s tone is strict. “You’re blinded by hatred.”

“I’m not —” Harry’s voice, trying to argue.

“Yes you are.”

Hermione doesn’t even notice herself crossing the kitchen. Doesn’t notice she’s moved until she’s
looming in the doorway to the sitting room.

Lupin leans towards Harry across the center table from his armchair. “The odds that Voldemort has
chosen Draco Malfoy for a mission are slim to none.”

Hearing his name sends an unexpected jolt through her. An odd blend of anticipation and
defensiveness.

Though, whether she wants to defend him or herself, she isn’t sure.

Harry leans forward where he sits too, emphatic. “I’ve seen him. I know him,” he insists.

“A boy, Harry. A boy. Not even a man. Voldemort does not put his faith in such hands.”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

Lupin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Harry…”

In all honesty, she thinks she might’ve actually said something. Had things gone differently, she
very well might’ve made an alarmingly stupid decision and opened her mouth.

As it is, she never gets the chance.

It feels like lightning strikes the side of the house. A massive crash, seemingly from nowhere.
Glass shatters as objects fall from shelves, the haphazardly stacked floors above them creaking as
the whole structure sways on impact.

Lupin and Harry jump to their feet, and Tonks is right behind her in an instant. Footsteps scramble
down the stairs at the commotion, but the four of them have already flocked to the front door,
filing out onto the porch.

The glow is bright — unexpected and almost blinding. A ring of flames cutting through the field
around the Burrow. Encircling it.

Professor Lupin steps off the porch, wand drawn and Tonks flanking him.

Hermione draws her own wand as an afterthought, confused as her eyes search the dark field
beyond.

“What’s happening?” Tonks asks, voice hushed and tense. But a few moments more and she
needn’t have bothered.

A black, swirling apparition cloud plummets to the earth from above, and from its darkness
emerges Bellatrix Lestrange.

Everything happens so fast. Hermione nearly loses her footing, Harry bursts past her at such a
breakneck pace. Outlined by the flames, Bellatrix flashes him a blackened grin before turning on
her heel and disappearing into the weeds.

“Harry, no!” shouts Lupin, but Harry’s already gone, charging after her.

“Ginny! Ginny!”

Molly's voice, and moments later Ginny’s scarlet hair has vanished into the field behind him. And
perhaps it’s that — seeing both of them give chase without a second thought — which spurs her
onward.

Tonks tries to grab for her, briefly catching the sleeve of her jumper but nothing more. Hermione
casts a charm to cut her way through the flames, racing into the field after them as Lupin’s shouts
fade away.

Harry is reckless with his emotions. She’s known him long enough to know that. He will not be
careful.

He’ll think only of revenge.

She runs through all her best spells in her head as she follows the sounds of their feet sloshing
through the marshes — considers the ones she can cast the quickest and the ones that’ll do the most
damage.

Soon enough, the cold, murky water seeps its way through her shoes, sending a chill up through
her toes. Her hand cramps around her wand, gripped too tight at her side.

And all at once, she loses track of the footsteps.

She's fallen behind.

“Harry?” she calls out, breathless as she comes to a stop. Steam clouds in front of her. “Ginny?”

The field has gone silent, only insects humming in the thick dark.

“Lumos,” she casts, beginning to turn in a slow circle. Trying to orient herself.

She must’ve veered in another direction, she thinks — chasing the wrong sound.

“Harry?” she tries again, raising her wand high to spread out the light.

Her pulse still races from running. The weeds play tricks on her eyes, every direction she turns
looking similar. She's lost sight of the Burrow in the distance.

“Harry?”

A strange, low sound ripples towards her, as though on the wind. A deep, rumbling growl.

She tenses up, aiming her wand at the source — hidden in the shadows of the tall weeds just ahead.
The figure approaches slowly, bit by bit moving into the light. Enormous.
Her breath escapes her in a rush, rattling through the silence.

She's seen this man — recognizes him from those Ministry Undesirable postings. Though, seeing
him up close, she’s not so sure he’s a man at all. A beast, more like.

Fenrir Greyback. Escaped from Azkaban. One of the most lethal werewolves in existence.

His matted braids dangle down over the shoulders of his open coat, his grin wide and leering as he
steps closer. His fangs look sharper than any blade.

It's shameful, the way the spells she'd been running over slide right out of her head in the face of
him. She stumbles backward, sloshing through the water — desperately trying to recall a single
hex.

“Immobulus,” he grunts. She's made this far too easy for him.

And the way her limbs lock up like a statue’s — her heart nearly stops.

“All alone out here, little one?” Greyback teases. His voice is like sandpaper.

She can’t speak. Her tongue is unresponsive. Her eyes refuse to blink.

“Oh, I know you, don’t I?” he says after a moment’s consideration, fully emerging from the weeds.
His obscene height casts a dark shadow over her this close.

He reeks of blood.

“You’re Potter’s mudblood, aren’t you?” He starts to circle her, the water lapping at her ankles
with each movement.

It’s only when he disappears behind her that her pulse really starts to thud. She feels the tip of his
wand sweep the hair off her neck, brushing it aside. A gasp gets trapped in her lungs.

Greyback inhales deeply, then out again, and the way it warms her skin makes her stomach churn.
He growls again — this one darker. More sustained than the last. And when he speaks, there’s a
twisted sort of satisfaction in his tone. “Oh, but that’s not all you are, is it?”

Her wand is hot in her grip, useless.

Greyback’s black eyes glisten with interest when he reappears in front of her. “Paramour.” The
word is hissed like a curse.

And it’s the first time she hears the wolf’s voice in weeks.

Run.

It sounds strained. Panicked.

Greyback cocks his head to the side, pointed tongue passing over his fangs as he studies her.

Run. Hide.

Her heart is a hammer.

I can’t.
“You must belong to the Malfoy whelp,” says Greyback.

The sensation that writhes up inside of her is strange — a fury mixed with helplessness. One that
isn’t just hers.

Greyback reaches out then, hand not gripping his wand taking hold of one of her curls. “I had a
paramour once.” He tugs it towards him, straightening the coil, and all the while his empty eyes
bore into hers, watching them water — desperate to blink. “And do you know what I did to her?”

Sparks fly off in the distance, accompanied by the sharp cracks of hexes. Lighting up the field not
far away.

Harry, she thinks, his name like a lifeline.

Greyback seems only mildly bothered by this, head tilting towards the lights for only a moment
before his focus returns. He draws ever closer, foul breath ghosting across her face as he twists that
curl into a painful fist.

“I killed her,” he purrs. “And then I ate her.”

She wants to be sick. Her lungs ache. Tears roll down her cheeks from her burning eyes.

“And one day, little mudblood…I’ll do the same to you.”

A noise blares inside her head. Like screaming.

The furious roar of the wolf.

Greyback laughs as though he hears it too. Or perhaps it’s her weakness that amuses him.

But before he can make good on his promise, Harry’s voice splits through the darkness.

“Hermione? Hermione, where are you?”

Greyback steps back, releasing her curl. A grin drags up one side of his face as he gives a
disappointed sniff. A moment later he disapparates, and the spell breaks.

She collapses in the weeds.

 Miasma / Redolence

She pretends it was nothing.

Pretends she was only caught off guard. Frightened. The last thing she needs to deal with is an
overreaction.

Molly wraps her in a blanket and makes her a cup of tea. The Order arrives to set up stronger wards
around the Burrow. Harry broods over another stolen chance at revenge.

And from the corner by the fireplace, she just sits in silence, staring into her lap.

Greyback barely touched her. And yet she's never felt so violated.

She returns from the Burrow the very next day — early, and a surprise to her parents. They’ve only
just gotten back. She makes excuses about not feeling well, and her mother sends her up to bed
with yet another cup of tea.

But the last thing she wants to do is sleep.

She paces the small confines of her room, nervous and itchy, stomach still in knots. Can’t stop
picturing Greyback’s empty eyes, tracing her like wounded prey.

She did nothing. She did nothing.

She never wants to feel helpless like that again.

The afternoon fades into evening, then into the darkness of night, and all the while she sits
jackknifed against her headboard, unable to relax. Her tea is long cold, sitting lonesome on her
dresser.

It’s occurred to her that there are other things to worry about. Greyback knows more than he
should. And a Death Eater knowing the weakness of one of Harry’s closest friends is a great deal
more concerning than her own disappointment in herself.

But she can’t let go of the way she froze up. Useless. Pathetic. Her hands curl into bloodless fists at
her sides, going numb with fury.

It consumes her for hours — until nearly half-past one in the morning, when the familiar crack of
apparition rattles across her quiet neighborhood. It jolts her like an electric shock, all of her
defenses racing to the forefront.

She's out of bed in an instant, reaching for her wand on the nightstand and rushing to the window.

The street below is empty. Lonesome in the dark, one solitary streetlight glowing to light the way.
But she knows what she heard. It's not a sound one easily mistakes.

She should put up defenses around this house too, she realizes. Like the ones at the Burrow.

It never occurred to her how exposed it is.

Her eyes trace the sidewalks — all the shadows beneath the trees, seeking even the slightest
movement.
No one outside of the Order should know where she lives. No one should —

“Granger.”

She nearly jumps a mile, whipping around and backing into the dresser with enough force to knock
the teacup off the edge. Her wand is out, shaking in her grip and aimed at the pitch black doorway
leading to the hall.

“Lumos,” she breathes, heart pounding in her ears.

Bright light washes over the form of Draco Malfoy, inexplicably standing in her childhood
bedroom.

If she was in her right mind, she’d scream. He’s broken into her house. Somehow knew how to find
her. He’s here, uninvited, in the middle of the night.

And his eyes are black. Completely, utterly black.

It nearly knocks the breath out of her.

“Granger,” he says again. His voice doesn’t sound right. Too low. Too rough, even with just one
word.

Her wand hand shakes, making the light washing over him flicker.

“Malfoy?” she breathes.

And all at once, everything changes. The color and light floods back into his eyes, his strange,
looming posture sinking into something a great deal more exhausted. He lets out a heavy breath,
like he’s been running, gaze dazed as it falls to the floor.

It’s a shift so quick and drastic, she wonders if what she saw before was just a trick of the light.

And her defenses drop without her say so.

She knows she should be terrified. But she has no control over the way the tension in her muscles
dissolves — the way her wand lowers.

In the sudden absence of direct light, she can only see his outline as he turns and shuts the door.

“How did you —”

“I don’t know,” he says, voice quiet. It’s the one she recognizes. “I apparated to where I thought I
felt you, and it brought me here.”

For a moment, she says nothing, staring straight ahead at his shadow.

“Your eyes were black…” she breathes when she can manage it.

Malfoy doesn’t respond, the dark outline of his form shifting its weight from one leg to the other.

The light from her lowered wand starts to sting her eyes.

“Nox,” she murmurs, plunging them into darkness before she turns and switches on the lamp
behind her.
Its light is dim by comparison, much like a candle’s, but it’s enough to see his face. To take him in
as a whole.

The full moon is two days away, and it shows. He looks even more exhausted than Lupin, his hair
unkempt — hanging in his eyes. There’s little color in his cheeks and very little calm in his stance.
Tense and uncomfortable, his arms crossed. In a black sweatshirt and jeans, he looks the least like
the Malfoy heir she’s ever seen.

Quietly, she clears her throat. “Did my parents—”

Malfoy scoffs under his breath, sounding more like himself as he takes a step further into the room,
glancing around. “You think I can’t slip past a pair of Muggles undetected? Really, Granger.” He
reaches out at his side, running his finger curiously over one of the brass bed knobs.

The word ‘Muggles’ is spoken without any effort to hide his distaste, and for a moment she
struggles to bottle up a flare of anger.

“Why are you here?”

His gaze flits back to hers — a sharp little movement. He seems to consider his answer for a long
while. Then, with another step forward, he speaks in a tone more like the other one. Rough as
gravel.

“He smelled like you.”

A small breath hitches in her throat.

“He was at the Manor, maybe an hour ago, and he smelled like you. I panicked.”

She’s shocked to hear him admit something like that, especially when it comes to her — but the
shock is overshadowed by a weird and warm sort of satisfaction she can’t tamp down.

“You panicked?” she echoes, just to hear the words again.

“The wolf panicked,” he amends, moving closer still. About three feet from her, still pressed back
against the dresser, he stops — and she watches his nose wrinkle up as he draws in a deep breath.
“You reek of him, too.”

Her stomach twists at the thought.

“I...” She draws her arms in tight around herself, suddenly cold. “I did shower. Tried to wash it all
off.”

She also cut the strand of hair Greyback tangled up, but she doesn’t tell him that.

Malfoy huffs bitterly. “A shower’s not going to fix anything.”

And all at once, those missing sensations come flooding back — resuscitated by their proximity.
She feels his rage, hot and jarring. Fit to boil over.

The words come instinctively. “Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Malfoy snaps, reaching out to grip the footboard again. “But that stench is fucking
vile.”

She has the good sense to cast a muffling charm on the bedroom at that point. His voice is no
longer quiet.

Malfoy rolls his eyes at her efforts. “I’m not going to wake them up.” He turns away to pace the
area between the bed and her desk.

She asks without thinking. “Did you know about the attack?” Something she’s been wondering
since yesterday.

“No,” he mutters.

“Really?” And there’s more doubt in her tone than she intended.

Malfoy shoots her a glare that could boil water, lip curling up over his teeth. “Yes, really,” he
seethes. “What, you think that’s the sort of thing they’d tell me?”

They.

She wonders if he means his family, or — well, something else.

It’s a subject she doesn’t know how to broach, so instead she asks, “Why are you pacing?”

Malfoy scoffs but doesn’t stop, hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides. “I’m stressed.”

“I’ve more reason to be stressed than you, don’t you think?”

He stops only briefly to brandish a hand in her direction. “Then I’m stressed because you’re
stressed! Fucking hell. Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”

“You’re the one who came here,” she says quietly, crossing her arms again.

He stops by her desk now, gaze jutting around as he sort of angrily studies the books and picture
frames spread out across its surface. “I didn’t have much choice. My vision was blacking out
around the edges.”

“What does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer — instead gathers another deep breath, letting it hiss back out through his teeth.
Taking hold of her desk chair, he grips hard and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “It’s fucking
unbearable.” And he yanks one hand free to gesture at her without looking. “He’s all over you.”

She stiffens. The concept makes her itch. “He barely touched me.”

“Shouldn’t have touched you at all,” says Malfoy under his breath — only, like the moment he
arrived, it doesn’t sound anything like him. The tone is off, the words spoken in what seems like a
completely different register.

Hearing it distracts her so much that for a moment she can’t think of anything to say.

“I…” she murmurs, glancing away to gather her thoughts. Her eyes land on the books Tonks
loaned to her, stacked up on the floor by her nightstand. “Let me check,” she says, clearing her
throat and crossing over to them.

Malfoy’s voice is back to normal when he speaks. “Check what?”

She picks up the red book — vaguely remembers seeing the word ‘miasma’ in the index.
“I’m sure there’s something we can do,” she says, taking a seat on the foot of the bed and flipping
to the back.

Malfoy makes a noise of discomfort. “I don’t trust that book.”

She glances sideways at him, working to keep her face blank. “I know. No more rituals. I
promise.”

“Then what good is it?”

She traces her finger down the list, searching for it. “There are more than just rituals in here. There
are stories. Spells. Lots of historical research on your condition. All sorts of things.”

“My condition…” Malfoy huffs, mostly to himself.

“Here. Yes. Knew I saw it.” She taps the entry, then flips to the page, somewhere in the middle of
the thick tome.

Redolence & Miasma

“Loathe as I am to admit it, I don’t know what either of those words mean.” Malfoy’s voice
surprises her, so close — he’s moved to loom over her shoulder.

She glances up at him. “A miasma is a really foul scent. Sort of what you’re describing. And a
redolence is the opposite.”

“Something that smells good?”

She nods. “Yes, exactly—”

Like you.

She nearly drops the book, the wolf’s deep growl is such a shock. Malfoy jumps too, hand flying
out to grab hold of the footboard and steady himself.

“Bleeding fuck! Stop,” he grits out. “Why doesn’t it ever stop?”

“I don’t know.” Hermione shifts a bit to the right, slightly unnerved by his anger. He wasn’t calm
to begin with, but she’s not certain what pure rage will do this close to the full moon.

She allows a moment for his furious breathing to settle down, then starts to read.

“...warning scents ... in the day as opposed to night — no .... used to deter other predators — no,
no.”

“Granger...”

“Wait — here. Here, I’ve got it.” She taps the page fervently. “Miasma, in this sense, refers to the
aromatic residue left by other wolves. It is designed by nature to smell extremely unpleasant, thus
alerting the wolf to potential threats.”

“Gathered that on my own, thanks.”

She continues over him, undeterred. “The olfactory glands of werewolves are much different from
humans. A common misconception suggests that wolves maintain a hyperactive sense of smell,
when in fact the opposite is true. Their olfactory senses operate on a spectrum with only two
extremes — that of the highly unappealing, or the enemy as it were, and that of the familiar, these
being the members of their pack. Family will often have a slightly pleasant aroma, but no scent is
stronger or more appealing to the werewolf than that of its paramour...” She trails off, feeling
color flood her cheeks. Has to clear her throat to finish off the paragraph. “This is known as the
redolence. A werewolf, especially when transformed, can catch this scent from miles away. To
their senses, all else in between is dulled and unremarkable.”

Malfoy doesn’t speak for a few long moments, and she doesn’t let herself look up from the book
while she waits.

Then, finally, “And this helps how?”

She turns the page, further skimming the text that follows.

When she finds it, she doesn’t read it aloud. Malfoy shifts where he stands in the ensuing silence,
and she can feel his discomfort growing.

The same way he must feel the sudden, uncertain flutter in her chest.

“What is it?” he demands, running out of patience.

“I...” Hermione fumbles for words. “It’s — well...”

“Granger.”

“It says that you have your own scent as well.”

She can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Imagine that.”

“It says...” There must be a way to word it differently, but nothing comes to mind. Eventually, she
just has to force it out. “It says you can... mark me with it.”

Malfoy goes very still next to her.

When he speaks, his voice is clipped. Highly controlled. It’s like he forgets she can feel the way
his heart is pounding.

“And what exactly does that mean?”

She lets the book fall shut in her lap. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t elaborate.”

Malfoy lets go of the bedpost, moving away from her again.

“Maybe...” she offers, nervously tracing the cover’s edge, her eyes fixed dead ahead on the wall.
“Maybe it means with your presence. Maybe just being near me might be enough to overpower it.”

“This room still reeks of him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She can’t help a scoff. “I’m sure it takes longer than five minutes.”

A low rumble of thunder rolls across the sky outside the window, filling the silence that ensues.
Sporadic droplets of rain start striking the glass.

Malfoy sighs. “It doesn’t even matter. All it wanted was for me to make sure you’re still
breathing.”
She tries to immediately suffocate the bizarre little flare of disappointment she feels, hoping to god
he doesn’t feel it too. “Yeah,” she says quietly, still not looking at him. “Still breathing.”

“Then I should go.”

Stay.

It’s not a suggestion, it’s a threat. Ripping through both their minds the instant Malfoy takes a step
towards the door.

He stops dead, hissing out a sharp breath.

“I don’t think it will let you.”

“Let me?” he practically growls, losing any calm he managed to work up. “No — no, no, this thing
doesn’t get to let me do anything. It may own a night of my life every month, but it does not own
me—”

“You can stay. I don’t mind,” she says plainly, finding no use in pretending. Standing, she sets the
book down on the dresser. “I’m just going to change. I can’t sleep in jeans.”

Malfoy stares at her, caught off guard, his eyes following as she crosses the room to her wardrobe.

“What?” he asks, like he thinks he heard wrong.

“Jeans. They’re uncomfortable — I can’t sleep in them.” She works to keep her tone nonchalant as
she sifts through her clothes. “Did you want to change too? I could probably find something for
you.”

When she looks back at him, his mouth is slightly ajar. He’s just standing there in the middle of the
room, looking suddenly lost and out of place.

“No?” she prompts.

He blinks and seems to come back to himself. “No.”

“Alright. I’ll just be a minute.”

Once in the bathroom, she realizes she didn’t really think her choices through — an old t-shirt of
her dad’s and a pair of shorts. Not exactly modest, but also not exactly appealing.

She stops to wonder why she really cares about being either.

Malfoy hasn’t moved so much as an inch by the time she returns, arms crossed again — stiff as a
statue. She feels her cheeks grow hot when his eyes widen a little at the sight of her, one brow
arching up.

“Here,” she says, moving quickly to the bed and starting to gather up pillows. “I can get you some
blankets as well.”

But when she tosses a pillow in his direction, Malfoy reaches out and catches it in his fist —
reflexes quick as a flash.

For a moment, they stare at one another. She can’t read his expression.

“What?”
“I don’t sleep on floors.”

It’s something she should’ve expected him to say, given who he is. She’s not sure why it puts her
off so much, but her tone comes out sour as a lemon. “Would you rather sleep outside?”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow, glancing sideways at the window. The rain is falling hard now, a perfect
punctuation to her sarcasm.

“No,” he says simply.

“Then the floor will have to be good enough for you.”

He tosses the pillow back against the headboard. “Granger, your bed is enormous.”

“So?” she demands, ignoring the little flare of curiosity his implication coaxes to life.

“So learn to share.”

It’s a statement that’s somehow both thrilling and unbelievable, because —

“You?” She can’t help a scoff. “You’re telling me to share? When have you ever shared anything?”

Malfoy smirks — the first time she’s seen the familiar expression all night. It must be some sort of
record.

“I don’t share,” he concedes, even as he stalks around to the other side of the bed. “But no one
expects me to. I’m not the type.”

She stares as he toes off his shoes, yanking aside the covers and slipping into the bed like he owns
it.

“You, on the other hand,” he says, rolling his shoulders around until he’s comfortable. “Well, it’s
almost required, isn’t it?”

For a long moment, she can only gawk at him. Malfoy, laying in her bed and telling her to be
gracious about it.

Malfoy. Laying in her bed…

She swallows the sudden knot that forms in her throat, dropping the argument and turning to switch
off the lamp. But when she slides in next to him, she takes care to lay as far to the edge as she can,
leaving almost a full foot gap between them.

The silence is deafening.

It feels endless, the amount of minutes she spends staring at the ceiling, listening to every breath
he takes.

She’s far too conscious of the way his pulse overlaps hers inside her head — the trepidation she
feels in the pit of her stomach, some of it his, some her own. Malfoy talks a good game, but he’s as
nervous as she is, and at least she knows it.

There’s no logical explanation for asking him to stay. Nothing that isn’t drastically outweighed by
reasons she shouldn’t have.

She shifts beneath the sheets, careful about the angle of her legs — so, so careful not to touch him
by mistake.

Sleep is evidently out of the question.

For Malfoy, too. She can sense his restlessness. Can feel the way he’s forcing each breath to come
and go at an even pace.

It isn’t long before the silence becomes too much.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” she asks the ceiling.

“What?”

“Greyback.” She doesn’t phrase it like a question. It no longer feels like one. “He’s the one who bit
you.”

Malfoy turns away from her to face the wall, the movement tugging on the covers. “What does it
matter?” he mutters — the closest thing to a confirmation she thinks she’ll ever get.

“I guess it doesn’t. It’s just the only reason I can imagine his scent would bother you so much.”

Malfoy makes a sound like a hiss. “It bothers me because it’s disgusting.”

“Is it getting any better?” She toys with the zipper on the duvet cover, just to give her fingers
something to do. “With you being near me? Has it helped at all?”

Malfoy hesitates for a moment before answering, his tone clipped. “Not that I can tell.”

“Maybe...” The words find their way up her throat before she has even the slightest chance to think
them through. By pure instinct. “Maybe...if you held me?”

She feels the way Malfoy’s lungs spasm around his next breath. Feels it stop him short, scattering
his thoughts like a Confundus Charm.

“What?” he breathes, sounding incredulous.

Her cheeks flush with blood, and for a moment she can’t speak, she’s so mortified.

“I...” she fumbles, rushing to pick up the pieces. “I just mean that — well, if...if it’s based on
proximity — maybe it would go faster.” And she turns to face the opposite direction, curling into
herself as though she can hide from her own words. “Just forget it.”

Malfoy lets her stew in the silence a long while, merciless.

Then, in a voice wrought with disbelief and implications, he says it again. Just to solidify her
humiliation.

“You want me to hold you?”

She’s grateful for the surge of defensiveness. It makes it easier to speak. “No, Malfoy. I don’t want
you to hold me — I want to know that I’m not walking around wearing the scent of a mass-
murderer. Surely you can understand the difference.”

Every moment that follows is completely unexpected.

One minute she’s lying there, bright scarlet with shame, and the next the covers are shifting again
as Malfoy starts to turn around.

She holds her breath, refusing to glance his way — expecting all manner of teasing and torment.

Instead, she feels the sudden warmth of his hand, inexplicably snaking around her waist.

She barely has the chance to take a breath of surprise — it’s quickly forced into a gasp as Malfoy
tightens his hold and drags her sharply back against him.

Heat fans out across her skin where they’re suddenly connected, the large, warm expanse of his
chest searing her shoulder blades through the fabric between them.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Malfoy grits out, arrogant tone totally at odds with the position he’s
put them in. His breath ghosts across the nape of her neck as he speaks. “But it’s hard to know the
difference after what you said two weeks ago.”

Her heart is already pounding. His words just shift it into overdrive.

She doesn’t ask stupid questions. Knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“I...” she stutters, swallowing thickly. “I was just testing something.”

“Testing what, exactly?” His arm is heavy, belted across her. Every breath she takes makes her rib
cage expand and press against it.

Lying seems far too dangerous in this moment. “How much control I have.”

Malfoy huffs quietly, warming her skin. “Over me?”

She doesn’t answer.

“There’s no point,” he says. Bitterness drips from every word. “I don’t believe either one of us has
any control whatsoever. Not over this.”

It’s taking all of her concentration to ignore the way his body molds against hers. Angles that
shouldn’t fit but do.

She’s desperate to change the subject.

“He knew I was a paramour.”

Malfoy’s thrown by this, if his silence is anything to go by.

“Greyback,” she adds, very aware of the way he tenses up at the name. “He knew about you and I.”

Malfoy just breathes out.

“He said he had a paramour once, too.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper — she wonders if he
can feel the way she’s shaking. Just barely. “He told me he...”

“What?” he demands after seconds go by.

“He told me he killed her and — and ate her.” There’s a tremor in her voice too, much to her
shame.

Malfoy’s gone so still behind her she thinks he might be holding his breath.
“He said that?” he asks, voice quiet and even. Carefully controlled.

She nods before she considers how close together they are, the back of her head grazing his chin.

“Is that...something I need to worry about?”

Evidently, this is a question she should never have asked.

All at once, Malfoy tenses up, the arm coiled around her constricting like a python. She hears and
feels his cut gasp just before he goes still again, the strange spasm making her pulse race.

She senses fear and helplessness bleeding through the bond and doesn’t understand.

“Malfoy?” she whispers, timid.

It isn’t Malfoy who answers.

“If you think for one second...” the low voice growls, and she swears her pulse stops dead —
“...that I would ever...”

The arm around her waist suddenly shifts, twisting her sharply onto her back — and she knows
what she’s going to see even before his dark shadow looms over her, hands braced beside her
shoulders, caging her in.

His eyes are black as ink.

“You are sorely mistaken.”

A chill races down her spine as she stares up into those dark depths. Even the expression on his
face doesn’t look like him. Everything’s changed.

Bisect...

The word echoes inside her head like a warning.

She forces herself to speak.

“You’re — you’re the wolf, aren’t you?” It’s almost pathetic, how meek she sounds.

That foreign voice gives a low hum of approval, black eyes searching hers. “I’ve wanted to meet
you for a long time.”

She exhales sharply, nervous lungs suddenly fighting for air. The way she’s trapped beneath him
— it’s the same helplessness she felt with Greyback. The same uselessness.

And yet, in a movement almost shocking, the wolf shifts, bracing his weight on one arm in order to
rest his palm on her chest.

She gasps and holds her breath.

“You’re shaking,” he says, tone suddenly almost tender, and slowly he adds pressure, palm bearing
down until she’s forced to exhale. “Breathe,” he coaxes. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her whisper is a nervous rush. “Where’s Malfoy?”

“I’ve pushed him aside,” he says, almost casual. “This close to a full moon, it’s relatively easy.
And he was doing everything wrong.”

She opens her mouth only to shut it again, at a loss. The wolf takes that opportunity to lift his hand
from her chest, delicately sweeping the hair off her forehead and tucking it behind her ear.

The affection confounds her.

He gathers a deep breath, hissing on the exhale as those black eyes fall shut. “I can’t stand the
smell of that thing on you.”

And it’s then that she feels it, crawling across the bond to her. The clearest sentiment she’s
encountered yet.

It’s possessive and feral and somewhat frightening, but she knows it for what it is. Devotion.

It manifests low in her stomach — a steady, pulsing warmth — and she doesn’t even notice her
heartbeat evening out. Slowing to a drowsy thud deep in her chest.

The wolf does.

“There, now,” he murmurs, leaning down those last critical inches to rest his forehead against hers.
“So much better.”

She breathes out slowly, the way her eyes fall shut taking her by surprise.

“You’re not going to hurt me.” It was meant as a question but it doesn’t sound like one.

The wolf gives that satisfied hum again, thumb brushing across her cheek. “No.”

Her senses betray her slowly — little walls that fall one by one. At first it’s just acknowledging the
pleasant warmth of his forehead against hers. Then, feeling the pull — a craving she can’t quite
place. Then it’s pressing her forehead back against his, and all too soon she’s reaching for him.

Like her body’s been taken over by something else.

The wolf stops her halfway, hands wrapping around her wrists and pressing them softly back
against the pillows. A dark, teasing laugh ghosts across her skin as he pulls his head back and
opens those bottomless eyes. “Oh, you’re so good. Very good.” And he releases one wrist to trace
her jaw with his thumb. “But I’m afraid your Malfoy’s made some very silly rules about what I can
and can’t do.”

She feels dazed. Almost drunk. “What?”

“You give in to your instincts beautifully. But for now they’ll have to wait. He wants back in.”

“I — but Malfoy...” She’s not even sure what she’s trying to say at this point.

The wolf’s smile is almost fond. “Don’t let him rile you. He’s just afraid of what he doesn’t
understand.” One more brush of that thumb across her cheek. “You should know, though — he
knows exactly how to get rid of it.”

She blinks up at him, confused and grappling with this strange and sudden fear of letting him leave.
“What?”

“Your Malfoy — he knows how to cut through the stench of that mongrel. He’s just afraid.”
“How?”

He smiles again, indulgent. “Ask him.”

Not seconds later, the darkness bleeds from his eyes and she’s looking up at Malfoy.

Malfoy, whose face is stricken — horrified.

He yanks himself away, throwing the covers off and sitting back. Sweeping desperate hands
through his hair. “Fucking hell, I can’t do this. Fucking Merlin. Fuck. It isn’t fair.”

She watches in silence, frozen where she lays for several long moments before she can gather her
wits enough to rise up onto her elbows.

Malfoy’s head is in his hands, fingers massaging bruises into his brow bone.

“I thought...” she whispers, slowly slipping out of the delirium. “I thought he would be violent.
Cruel.”

He seems to let her words sink in for a moment before yanking his hands away to glare at her.
“Well, isn’t it wonderful that my fucking parasite exceeded your expectations?”

“You’re blaming me for this?”

He sweeps a furious hand out wide. “You didn’t do anything! You were just going to let it happen.”

She sits up fully now, anger clearing what’s left of the fog from her mind. “Don’t presume to know
what I would and would not have let happen.”

“You gave in like it was nothing,” Malfoy spits, sweeping his legs aside to sit at the foot of the
bed, facing away from her. He drops his head back into his hands, elbows braced on his knees. “I
thought you wanted to be rid of this.”

Some of her anger fades in the wake of his tone — so defeated.

“I thought we’d both come to the conclusion that there’s no escaping it.”

“So you’re just giving up?” he grits out, refusing to look at her.

She hesitates, turning it over in her mind.

“I can’t give up when there’s nothing to fight.”

Malfoy’s jaw tightens, and when he shakes his head it’s like he’s shaking it at the world.

“It’s only logical,” she murmurs — an afterthought.

“Fuck your logic.”

A long silence passes between them after that, only the rain hitting the roof to disturb it. Studying
his slumped form, she debates whether or not to push him further.

It takes a moment to remind herself that she is not in the business of pitying Malfoy.

And she’s far too curious about the truth.

“He said you knew.” She sits forward. “How to get rid of Greyback’s scent.”
Malfoy huffs darkly. “It was lying.”

“Somehow I don’t think so.”

He tenses up. “It was. I don’t know how.”

“I think you do.”

“I don’t,” he hisses.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not fucking lying!”

“What are you afraid of, Malfoy?” She can feel him start to boil over.

“Granger, if you don’t shut your mouth—”

“So you are afraid.”

“Granger—”

“Too afraid to fix it even though you know how.” She scoffs. “My god, that’s—“

A glass on her desk shatters — unintentional wandless magic in his rage — and suddenly Malfoy
whips around to face her, lunging forward onto his hands. “You want to see?” he demands,
crawling across the bed towards her until she’s crowded up against the headboard. “You really
want to know how?”

“Yes,” she says, grateful she’s able to keep her voice steady for once. Even with his face inches
from hers, twisted by fury.

Malfoy narrows his eyes and bears his teeth, shaking his head again like he can’t fathom her
stupidity. A moment later one of his hands fists into the curls at the back of her skull, hard and
shocking enough to make her eyes water. A gasp wrenches out of her throat.

“This is on you, then,” he seethes, yanking her head back — tipping her chin toward the ceiling
and exposing her neck. “Hold fucking still.”

She couldn’t move if she wanted to.

Malfoy hesitates only a moment, puffing out a furious breath as though to steady himself. “Such a
bitch...” he murmurs, grip tightening, and seconds later he surges forward.

His lips find the flesh of her throat angrily — parting against her skin and dragging down towards
her collarbone with a vengeance.

Her gasp gets caught. Strangled. Her eyes widen at the ceiling.

But then Malfoy finds the spot where her pulse hammers, wildly pumping blood through her veins,
and he tugs it between his teeth.

It’s not her fault.

No one in their right mind could fight something that feels so good.
Her eyes fall shut and a moan tumbles off her lips, her hand a mirror image of his as it snakes
around his neck to tangle in his hair.

Malfoy hisses against her, and she feels the heat as it flares up in his gut, twisting and tangling with
hers. He presses forward, her body flush with the headboard now, his mouth hot as it traces a line
up along her jugular.

A dark laugh echoes through their minds. Satisfied.

But Malfoy doesn’t stop. She feels and knows that he can’t — has no ability to pull himself away.
No resistance left.

She tries to guide her fingers through his hair in a way that’s reassuring.

He groans into her skin, free hand slipping around her lower back to drag her up against him as his
lips part just beneath her jaw. The first swipe of his tongue is cautious. Uncertain.

And yet somehow, in that moment, she tastes what he tastes. Tastes something indescribable and
addictive. Malfoy gasps and has to taste it again, laving his tongue along her jaw. It sends an
electric pulse through her, every muscle between her thighs clenching as she chokes on another
gasp.

“Please...”

For a moment, she doesn’t even realize she’s said it.

Malfoy doesn’t hesitate. He frees her hair from his punishing grip, both hands sliding down to the
backs of her thighs and dragging her away from the headboard. He pulls her with him while he
crawls backward, lips never once leaving her skin as he lies her down on her back.

“This is wrong,” he says, even as he kisses his way from collarbone to chin. “This is wrong.”

She lets her eyes slip open, sleepy and drugged as they focus on him — hovering over her, his gaze
fixed on her mouth.

“I agree,” she breathes.

He nods and so does she, his nose brushing against hers, panting breaths warming her skin.

Then, with a growl — “Fuck it,” — his mouth lands on hers.

Something ruptures in her brain. That’s what it feels like. The synapses rip apart, misfiring and all
but melting down to nothing in the wake of this sensation.

It feels like breathing for the first time. Like she’s been holding her breath for seventeen years.

And she’s hungry. So hungry for this air. For the way it fills her lungs.

She lets him press her down into the mattress — lets his hips slide between her thighs, gasping into
his mouth at the friction.

“Just for a second,” he whispers, breathless, his tongue flicking against hers.

“Yeah.” She nods against him.

“Then we have to stop.”

“Yes.”

He takes her bottom lip between his teeth, dragging it out slowly — torturously — before diving
back in. Sucking on her tongue. Bruising her mouth.

She feels it — the way he gets hard. But not just against her. She feels the inexplicable sensation
between her own legs, fighting with her own empty sort of throb.

He swallows her sharp gasp, and then he’s yanking himself away. A feeling like ripping muscle
away from bone. Painful. Abrupt.

“We’re fucked,” he whispers, panting. His face is flushed and his eyes wide, lips swollen. “We’re
so fucked.”

She nods, fighting to control her own breathing. “Yeah.”

Malfoy sits there in silence for a moment, trying to gather himself before he gets up off the bed,
yanking his shoes on.

There’s no question. He’s leaving. He has to, or they both know they’ll do something stupid.

But just as he reaches the door, the question fights free, making him pause.

“Is it gone?”

His eyes meet hers across the darkness.

“Greyback?” she whispers.

Malfoy huffs and pulls the door open.

“The only thing on you right now is me.”

 Curses / Creeds

The full moon comes and goes, and she waits all night to feel something. Anything.

Her theory proves correct after a deeper dive into the literature.

Physical sensations are commonly known to fade with distance. Only incredibly fortified bonds
between wolf and paramour have shown evidence of shared pain from kilometers apart.

Emotional sensations, on the other hand, have a far greater proverbial wingspan.

At the very least, this explains why she abruptly bursts into tears at the breakfast table the
following morning. For the rest of the holiday, the only thing she senses from Malfoy is misery.

It isn’t until the car ride to London that she feels the first physical twinge — halfway to King’s
Cross Station.

Having gone so many days without it, the itch feels commonplace at first. She scratches casually at
her forearm through her sleeve, watching traffic out the window.

But every stoplight, every tunnel — every lane change that brings her closer to him teases that itch
into something that twists and stings. A burning like a rash she can’t see.

Twice, her mother glances back through the rear view and catches the distraught look on her face.
Has to ask if everything’s alright.

“Just fine,” she says, even as her fingernails dig into her flesh.

It’s the left arm.

Malfoy’s done something incredibly stupid.

She avoids him at all costs on the train, because she doesn't know what to say. She's still
processing what she now knows to be a fact.

The burning beneath her skin is so concentrated she could trace the form of that skeletal snake with
her eyes closed, just by following the pain.

He's taken the Mark.

He's so much worse than what he was now. No longer just the spoiled son of a Death Eater. Now
he doesn't speak their colors, he wears them.
She has a million more reasons to hate him.

Which makes it hard to reconcile the feeling in her gut. It's not hate. There's anger, certainly — but
there's also something else. Something far more frightening — something with consequences.

Betrayal. That's what it is.

And how does she make sense of that?

Harry and Ron try to talk through the attack on the Burrows, but she has no head for it. She's far
too aware of Malfoy's drowsy pulse, just a few cars away. It feels like it's the first sleep he's had in
days.

Well, she thinks. Then he'd best make the most of it.

She plans to confront him first chance she gets.

And she's not about to be polite.

She and a few other Gryffindors elect to unpack their trunks before the welcome-back feast, and
when she gets to the dormitory there's a book she doesn't recognize lying on her bed.

Unwrapping her scarf from around her neck, she steps up to the four-poster, gingerly running a
hand over its faded black cover.

The Will & The Way

The off-red, glossy sheen of the letters makes them look like muscle exposed under flesh. And
when she lifts the thick tome, a note slips free.

“Something to consider…" it reads. Handwriting that looks to belong to Tonks. It must've been
delivered over the holiday.

She strokes a thumb over the spine, thinking aloud. “What makes you different from the others?”

Some books have been known to answer, but this one doesn't. It just stares up at her, black cover,
black pages — curiously heavy.

The feast isn't for an hour.

She sheds her coat and shoes, curling up against the headboard with it. The pages are old, crinkling
as she opens to what looks like a dedication.

For the will to tie yourself,

and the way to lace the bonds.

Beyond that page is an index comprised of only two sections.

I. Black Rituals
 to bind the flesh.

II. Red Rituals

to bind the soul.

She doesn't realize she's biting down on the inside of her cheek until it starts to bleed.

The book gets swiftly tucked under her mattress, but its words echo in her head all the way down
the Grand Staircase, and all through dinner.

She avoids his eyes from across the Great Hall, feeling their weight but intending to choose her
own battlefield. This — here — isn't it.

But what an experience it is to feel his mounting frustration. With every passing minute she avoids
his gaze, a prickling discomfort grows in the pit of her stomach. It’s the first time they’ve been in
the same room since that night, and he can’t stand it.

Good, she thinks. He should be uncomfortable. He knows what he's done.

Look at me, she imagines him saying, over and over again as she sips her pumpkin juice. Look at
me. Look at me!

She can picture his voice so clearly, it almost feels real.

Look at me.

She doesn't. She heads off to bed early without a glance in his direction, making it all the way
across the Hall to the doors before his confused panic reaches a level jarring enough to make her
trip over her own feet. She's lucky she's out of eyeshot by the time it does. No one sees.

No one but—

“Hermione, hi!” Neville looks to be just arriving for the feast. “You alright there?” He helps her
steady herself.

“Thanks, yeah. Two left feet.” She forces a smile. “How was your holiday? I missed you at the
feast.”

Neville’s own smile is sheepish as he gestures behind himself towards the stairs.

“Was checking on the Wolfsbane. You — you should see it. Really, you should.” He stumbles
over words in his excitement. “It’s —”

“Amazing?” she offers, and now her grin is genuine.

He blushes and nods. “Yeah. Amazing.”

“Well, enjoy your dinner. Harry and Ron are still in the thick of it — you'll have company. I'm just
a bit tired.” She moves to step past him.

“Hermione?’" And now, suddenly, he sounds very uncertain.

“Mm?" When she glances over her shoulder, she finds him fiddling with the too-long sleeves of his
jumper.
“Are... I — it’s just…”

"What's wrong?”

He glances up at her quickly before looking to the ground again. "I — I know I said it wasn't my
business, but I…”

She takes a deep breath.

“Well, I did some reading over the holiday. Just because I was curious. And I…”

"Neville, what is it?"

He appears to force himself to meet her eyes, wincing as he speaks. “Are — are you a paramour?”

She lets that word linger in the air between them for a long moment.

It was only a matter of time.

But Neville's blush darkens every second she waits to speak, so she puffs out a breath and puts it in
simple terms.

“Quite a mess, isn't it?”

A sad look passes over his face, as though he didn't expect to be right. He shuffles his feet,
uncertain. “What — what can I do?”

The words soften the tension in her shoulders. If she had to choose anyone to know the full truth,
it'd be Neville.

She offers him a solemn smile and reaches out to squeeze his arm. “You don't need to do anything.
You've already helped so much with the Wolfsbane.”

“But…it’s Malfoy—”

“I'll be alright.” She squeezes again, then lets go. “Thank you, though. I'm glad you know.”

“Does anyone else?”

She huffs and shrugs. “Adrian Pucey, if you can believe it.”

Neville's ears turn a little pink even as his brows scrunch together. “What does he have to do with
it?”

“I've no idea.” She shrugs again, turning back towards the stairs. “Goodnight, Neville.”

His voice drips with concern from behind her. “Goodnight.”

A few hours bleed by, and she lies in bed restless.

That black book is still under the mattress, somehow more frightening than any of the others —
and she wonders when she started to fear knowledge over craving it.
Malfoy is keeping her awake. She can feel him tossing and turning, utterly tense. Something has
him wired, and though she apparently can’t read his thoughts, she can read the ache in her own jaw
from the way he's grinding his teeth.

What? she demands inside her head, wondering if the wolf might answer instead.

The wolf…

Strange, the part of her that just might welcome the dark rasp of his voice right now.

Malfoy shifts positions again, rolling onto his stomach and clenching his fists. He's going to keep
her up all night.

“Fine,” she whispers aloud, throwing off the covers.

She'll confront him right now. Get this over with.

She changes back out of her pajamas, tugging on her shoes and grabbing her wand off the
nightstand. At the very least, she knows exactly how to get him out of bed.

Silently, she leaves Gryffindor Tower and heads down the stairs in the dark. She avoids Prefect
routes and sleeping portraits as best she can, intending to make her way towards the Room of
Requirement. Once there, she figures she'll hold her breath again until he—

A hand shoots out from the pitch black, taking hold of her arm.

She bites back on a scream as it pulls her around the corner into an empty corridor. The dim,
flickering light of a distant torch barely illuminates Malfoy's form, evidently already out of bed.

Her first instinct is to shove him away, putting a few offended feet of distance between them.
“You’re lucky I didn't hex you!’" she hisses. “Sneaking up like that."

Malfoy huffs, rolling those tired eyes. “I felt you walking. You should've felt me. Be more
observant.”

“I don't sense every step you take.” Her heart rate starts sinking slowly to a calmer level, and she
crosses her arms, leaning back against the wall beside one of those large tapestries that drapes over
the window alcove. “That would be absurd.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms like he’s mirroring her. “As if any of this isn't absurd.”

She bites her tongue, glancing over his shoulder at the opposite wall because he's not wrong.

Malfoy steps to the side, putting himself back in her line of sight. Forcing her to look at him. “You
ignored me at dinner.”

Her brows lift to her hairline. “Oh? I'm sorry, what was it you wanted? A few coy smiles? A wave?
Maybe even a wink?”

He ignores her sarcasm. “You're angry about something.”

“Ten points to Slytherin.”

Malfoy shakes his head, eyes narrowing with derision. “You're always angry about something,
aren't you?”
“Don't act like you don't know.”

“Know what?” he asks, because evidently he has the nerve.

But he doesn't get to play with her. She is not a toy.

Reaching out, quick as a flash, she takes hold of his left arm and yanks it towards her. Hisses, “This
is why I'm angry,” as she forces up his sleeve before he can stop her.

Even in the dim light, the Dark Mark's inky outlines are clear, faded snake's body writhing beneath
his skin. Malfoy’s breath hitches. Her eyes dart back to his.

“Coward,” she spits, shoving it back towards him.

He drags the sleeve down immediately, his fury surging across the bond. “Oh, don't even try to
play that card.”

“It's not a—”

“The saint. The better half. The good girl,” he seethes, furious fingers re-buttoning the cuff at his
wrist. “You're no fucking better than me. You don't know my situation. My life—”

“I know you're a Death Eater,” she fires back, pushing off the wall. “What more is there to know
than that?” And she stretches onto her tiptoes to get in his face. “Frankly, I’m disgusted to be tied
to you.”

Malfoy's eyes flit back and forth between hers, lit like a furnace with rage as he considers which
response might sting the most.

“You didn't seem disgusted," he says after a long moment, just a whisper. “You let me put my
mouth all over you, and you didn't seem disgusted.” His eyes tighten. “You fucking liked it.”

She knows he can feel the spark of humiliation in her — rushes to cover it up. “You have the wolf
to thank for that. And do you know?" She bares her teeth to deliver a sting of her own. “I think I
prefer him to you.”

Malfoy never gets the chance to respond. There's only the briefest flicker in his eyes — fury mixed
with panic — before they flood with black. Like ink has spilled. Quickly. Easily.

His panic gets smeared over by a strange, dark joy. And the wolf steps towards her in earnest.

“Really?” asks that low voice, suddenly breathless and exhilarated as he backs her up against the
wall.

Her heart starts pounding in her ears. “I—” she gasps and stammers, cowering in his shadow as he
crowds her, palms flattening against the flagstone on either side of her head. “I thought you could
only do this before the full moon.”

The wolf smiles — a grin more feral than Malfoy's. Raw. “I can do a lot of things when it comes to
you.”

She tries to slow her breathing. In no way expected to come face to face with him again so soon.

“You're not afraid of me, are you?” He sounds breathless. Excited. One hand separates from the
wall to run its fingers through her hair. “You prefer me, don't you?” he coaxes, like he's desperate
to hear her say it again.
Hermione gathers an unsteady breath, trying to calm her nerves. Trying to think straight. “I—”

“Don't think too much,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “Say what you said instinctively, yes?” He
nods and strokes her curls. “Instinct is honesty.”

Her instincts aren't even coherent. Can't tell her whether to be afraid or not. And yet, there's life in
the glossy black depths of the wolf's eyes if she looks closely enough. Something familiar and
warm.

Something that helps her find her words.

“I — I think I do, yes.”

The wolf hums the way one does after stepping into a bath, eyes falling shut. His warm breath
ghosts across her face as he presses his forehead to hers like he did before. “I prefer you,” he
breathes. “I prefer you to everything. To the world. To the breath in my lungs.”

Her pulse starts to thud again, confused. She's never heard words like those before. Words that
should terrify her.

And yet, the response they trigger is nothing like fear. It's curiosity. Wonder. Hunger. Any number
of things, but not fear.

She speaks without meaning to — the only thing she can think to say.

“Thank you.”

Light suddenly fans out across the wall from the corner of the corridor. The wand of a Prefect
patrolling the halls.

But the wolf is quicker to react then she is, sweeping aside the tapestry to her left. He takes her
swiftly by the waist and drags her behind it, stepping back into the alcove until the tapestry falls
into place.

Pulled against him, her shoulders to his chest, she watches the light grow brighter through the gap
between the floor and the tapestry's edge. Watches the shadows of the Prefect's feet pass by.

"Shh..." the wolf whispers in her ear without needing to.

In truth, she's more nervous being pressed against him this way than she is about getting caught out
of bed by a Prefect.

"They'll patrol these corridors for half an hour," she whispers once the light passes them by.

"Then I suppose we're stuck," he murmurs, a grin in his voice. "Wouldn't want to get you in any
trouble."

Her pulse accelerates, no doubt giving away the uncertain flicker of curious anticipation she feels.
Much like she felt with him before.

"Is Malfoy trying to get back in?"

It's a strange question — difficult to phrase.

"Always," purrs the wolf. "He thinks he has more right to this body than I do." A soft laugh
whispers past her ear. "And he said it himself, didn't he — he doesn't share." His hand shifts where
it rests on her waist. Almost a caress. "But you made such a sweet invitation."

Her breath hitches. Nervous questions flood her brain like a fail-safe.

"Are you — are you really... separate? The two of you?"

Footsteps approach again as the Prefect makes their first pass in the other direction. The wolf waits
to answer, chest rising and falling against her with each steady breath. "That depends on what you
mean by separate,'' he whispers once the light fades.

"Are you completely different beings? Is there any of him in you?"

He hums in thought. "I'm a part of him. And he is a part of me. In soul, we are not separate. But in
creed?" He pauses, huffing another dark laugh. "We are worlds apart."

Her brows draw together, and she doesn't notice the way she relaxes against him — too intrigued.
"Creed? How so?"

"He wants to run away. From me, from you. From everything. I would come closer if I could." He
tightens his hold on her with the words, pulling her flush against him.

Something flutters in her chest.

"He's afraid to touch you."

She swallows, trying not to trip over her tongue. "And you're not?"

A long silence eclipses them. He breathes out, hot against the back of her neck. And then he leans
forward, resting the hard plane of his chin on the curve of her shoulder. "No. I'm not."

His voice vibrates through the thin layer of her shirt, and she has absolutely no choice in that
moment but to be honest.

"I'm glad."

She feels the satisfaction spread through him like a wildfire and continues, unable to stop herself.

"I — I don't know why, but I trust you."

He laughs and tucks his nose into the crook of her neck, nuzzling her. "You're smart, that's why.
You know what's good for you.''

The words feel like a reward somehow, fanning out inside her head and lighting up her nerve
endings. She leans her head back against his chest and doesn't fight it.

Her voice comes out a sigh. "I thought Malfoy had rules."

He nods against her, smiling into her skin. "Vague, meaningless rules."

"Like what?"

"He's forbidden me to kiss you."

She doesn't even have the chance to analyze everything wrong with the sudden disappointment she
feels. The wolf's hand starts to slide down the curve of her waist and over her hip.
"Surely you see the same loopholes that I do?"

The blood starts to race through her veins. His hand glides lower, tracing her thigh through the
fabric of her skirt. The light passes again, footsteps launching her heart into her throat.

Now she's nervous to be caught. Now this is something else entirely...

The wolf's voice drops to barely a whisper. "You see them don't you?" His fingers toy with the hem
of her skirt, and she suddenly has only a few seconds to grapple with what she's doing.

"I — I think so, yes.''

He hums his approval, the warmth of it sending chills down the length of her. And as the light
disappears from behind the tapestry again, his hand slips beneath her skirt. "I knew you'd see it my
way." A dark chuckle as he caresses the bare expanse of her inner thigh. "Your mind is beautiful."

Her eyes fall shut, exhale trembling through the silence.

"Malfoy's going to be furious."

His growl is quiet but sharp. "Let him take it out on me, then."

And his hand slides up between her legs — a swift, deliberate sweep across the fabric of her
underwear before his fingers find the edge and tug them aside.

Her gasp is louder than it should be at the first touch — the sensation like a spark. He doesn't
hesitate, free hand reaching up to cover her mouth.

"Shh..." he whispers again, but those few minutes feel like centuries ago as his fingers stroke
down, grazing that epicenter of nerves. She jerks against him, a hot shock of pleasure rocketing up
her spine.

His body is there to steady her — keeping her balance as his thumb teases it again, other fingers
dipping lower. She can feel the heat of herself through his skin.

"Oh, I'm in trouble, aren't I?" he growls into her neck, growing hard against her backside. "Feel
how sensitive you are..."

Every stroke of his fingers is twofold, sensation shooting through her and then through him. And
he knows exactly where to touch — where to put pressure, where to ease off. He builds a steady,
swirling rhythm, every hitch in his breath matching hers.

The Prefect's footsteps move past again, and she can't even fathom it. She's lost.

She feels nothing like herself.

Minutes pass, and his patience never wanes — a steady, considerate build-up, guiding her towards
the edge. No experimenting. Only what he knows feels good. Better than good.

But just as she's approaching the peak, hands clenched into fists at her sides, his body gives a sharp
jerk.

Her eyes open and she turns against the hand over her mouth to look at him.

Blue eyes glare back at her.

"Fucking unbelievable," he hisses, and she can barely comprehend her own panic before his hand
slips from her mouth down to her throat, taking hold.

A sharp breath blasts through her lips. She opens her mouth to speak—

"How could you let that happen?" he demands, grip tightening. But just when she expects him to
yank his other hand away, he slips a finger inside of her.

Her gasp is choked. Soundless. Heat flares through her bloodstream.

"Why didn't you stop it?'' he grits out, even as he starts to pump it in and out — even as her legs
start to tremble.

"Malfoy—" she breathes.

"Why didn't you stop it?"

"Why aren't you?"

His hand tightens again around her throat, and all at once a second finger joins the first as he tucks
his face back into her shoulder. "I can't."

It's a growl. A plea. An admission and a confession all at once. And it tips her swiftly over the
edge.

Her eyes squeeze shut as she jolts against him, white spots exploding across the backs of her lids.
His groan is muffled, phantom orgasm passing through him like an echo.

There's nothing she can do to stop herself. The electricity in her veins hasn't even halfway
diminished and every instinct has her twisting in his grip.

His hand slips out from between her legs, her skirt falling back into place as he takes her face in his
hands. Like his instincts have betrayed him too.

Like, in that moment, neither of them know to do anything other than meet in the middle.

She crushes her lips to his, hands shaking as they fist in the fabric of his shirt. His grasp desperately
at the small of her back, mouth opening to her —

The tapestry gets swept aside, bright wand light exploding into the alcove.

They jerk apart, gasping, and Hermione spins to find the shocked and horrified face of Katie Bell.

No.

Katie takes two steps back, Prefect's badge glimmering like a threat. "I... " she stammers in
disbelief. "I — I'm sorry, I have to report this."

Panic seizes up in every muscle and tendon.

No. No.

Eyes wide, Katie turns on her heel and starts off down the corridor.

And it all happens so fast.

Malfoy’s questing hand misses her as she rushes forward, unable to stop herself. Unable to think.

She fumbles in her pocket for her wand, yanks it free and takes aim.

A wordless, nameless curse she has no knowledge of bursts forth and strikes Katie in the back.
Only, she doesn’t fall. Doesn’t stiffen or trip or turn colors. Doesn’t suffer any of the known
consequences of a simple hex.

One moment she’s there, and the next she’s twenty feet in the air above them, dangling without
gravity — her mouth open in a soundless scream.
 White Lies / Happy Accidents

It takes three professors over an hour to get Katie Bell down from the ceiling, and she screams in
silence like she's being torn apart straight up to the moment she passes out.

Hermione had no choice.

She couldn't fix it herself — she's still not even sure what she did. And after staring at Katie's slow-
turning body for less than a minute, all other options dried up.

"What did you do?" Malfoy asked more than once, voice sort of dazed and horrified. "What the
fuck did you do?"

She had no answer for him. Could only head straight for the nearest portrait — a few corridors
away — and ask the watercolor depiction of a lady by a stream to wake Dumbledore.

Dumbledore, who still hasn't spoken a word to her. He stands off to the side of the corridor, hands
gently folded over his evening robes, watching Katie Bell as she’s slowly lowered onto a floating
cot.

Madam Pomfrey fusses over her immediately, lifting one of her eyelids and shining the light of her
wand back and forth. Professor McGonagall murmurs things in hushed tones to Professor Snape.

And all the while, she and Malfoy are made to stand there and wait.

She can't think of anything to say. Has no words to address the situation — not after the curse, and
certainly not before. No, she finds she can't even look at him.

But she feels the state he's in. Unsteady, unsure. Utterly thrown off. By her. By what they did.
What she did.

Some idiotic instinct has her glancing down at his right hand, just a foot or so away where he
stands next to her.

There's no evidence to the naked eye of what that hand has done. But she knows it. And so does he.

He clenches it into a fist when he catches her staring, and her eyes flit only briefly to his before
locking back on Katie Bell.

They're taking her away now. To the Hospital Wing, if not St. Mungo's. She wonders if it really
might be bad enough.

Professor Dumbledore approaches, flocked by McGonagall and Snape. She can't read the serene
expression on his face — rather like a mask.

"Miss Granger," he says, voice calm. "Would you and Mr. Malfoy kindly accompany me to my
office?"

No one sits.
Dumbledore takes a calm stance in front of his desk. McGonagall and Snape hover behind them on
opposite sides. Malfoy leans a hip against one of the chairs facing the desk, arms crossed —
looking tired and a little bewildered. Which leaves her feeling like she's standing in the center of it
all, nothing to do but flex her fingers at her sides.

"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore prompts at last. It feels like it's been silent for ages.

"I'm sorry," is the only thing she can think to say. "I don't know what curse it was. I reacted
instinctively."

"To what, may I ask?" Dumbledore's voice is far too calm, considering she's almost just killed one
of his students. It grates on her nerves.

She flexes her fingers again and thinks very carefully about telling the truth.

But she can feel Malfoy's eyes on her, and the words — real words, with real consequences —
lodge in her throat.

The lie, on the other hand — it slides out like butter.

"Katie overheard Malfoy and I discussing his condition.”

Malfoy goes stiff in her periphery.

"His condition?" Professor McGonagall echoes.

Hermione keeps her eyes on Dumbledore as she speaks. "I'm not sure if you know, Professor — but
Malfoy is—”

“I can speak for myself, thanks Granger," Malfoy cuts in suddenly, tone biting.

She glances sideways at him, meeting his furious stare. Makes a gesture that says, ‘go on, then.’

His eyes tighten. "A werewolf," he spits after a long pause. "Since evidently it’s everyone's
business.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to count the ticks of the clock on Dumbledore’s desk.

“Albus?” McGonagall murmurs when she can manage it, aghast.

Dumbledore’s face remains as passive as ever, and Hermione doesn’t fail to notice that he’s still
looking at her. “Mr. Malfoy informed me at the start of term.”

Another long pause — and then McGonagall does something unexpected. The look on Malfoy’s
face as she suddenly crosses to him suggests she’s transfigured herself into some sort of enormous,
feral bird. Her gaze is wrought with concern, hands tender as they take hold of his shoulders.

“Good heavens,” she breathes, searching his eyes — so clearly trying to think of a way to approach
it with tact. “How has this happened? Are you — how are you coping? Are you alright?”

Hermione can feel Malfoy’s incredulity. Feel the strange twinge of confusion — like he’s never
been approached this way in his life and he doesn’t know how to respond.

And despite everything, it makes her chest ache.

“I’m fine,” he mutters at last, stiff with discomfort. It’s clear he intends to ignore the other
question.

McGonagall lets him go, taking a step back and folding her hands. She hovers for a moment,
looking at him as though there’s more she wants to say or do. Then, with a breath, she nods gravely
and returns to the corner behind Hermione.

Snape, through all of this, is notably silent.

And Dumbledore’s eyes are still fixed on her when she glances back. He twists a finger around and
around the edge of his beard, curling the long strands as he considers something. Finally, he asks
what she thinks he’s been planning to ask from the moment they entered his office.

“And how did you get yourself tangled up in this, Miss Granger?”

It’s surprising how quickly the urge to lie again swells up inside of her. Her mind starts to rapidly
skim through possibilities, searching for something he might believe.

But Malfoy — with quite a surge of indignation — decides to take back the reins she stole from
him. “She’s a paramour.”

And when her gaze whips to the side, eyes wide, he’s already looking at her.

“My paramour,” he amends after a moment, expression complicated.

Professor McGonagall sucks in a sharp breath. Murmurs, “Good heavens,” once again in a hush.

Dumbledore hums in thought, and looking back to him, Hermione gets the feeling he already
knew.

“Fascinating,” he says.

“Headmaster,” Snape speaks up suddenly, deep voice jarring. “Might it be prudent to make
adjustments to Miss Bell’s memory in light of this? Assuming, of course, she recovers.”

She resists the urge to glance over her shoulder at him, surprised his first suggestion doesn’t have
something to do with punishment.

“This is not the sort of information we’d want spreading about the school.”

Dumbledore lifts an eyebrow.

“And you are certain, Miss Granger, that Miss Bell overheard you?”

She feels a flicker of relief. Never expected an outcome to present itself in which no one learns the
real truth. But she takes care not to spring at it with too much fervor.

“Yes,” she says evenly. “She seemed shocked. Even a little frightened. I wouldn’t have reacted the
way I did otherwise.”

She’s surprised to see Malfoy nodding out the corner of her eye.

“She heard everything,” he says when Dumbledore’s gaze shifts to him. “It’s impossible she
missed it.”

Encouraged, the lies flow freely now. White lies in her eyes. “And I have to say...” Hermione
works an edge of reluctant admission into her tone, “I’ve known Katie for many years.
Unfortunately, she’s something of a gossip.”

“Everyone would know,” Malfoy adds, like a punctuation.

She looks sideways at him again, trying to get a handle on the strange appreciation she feels.

Lying together. What a bonding experience.

Dumbledore somehow manages to look trusting and unconvinced at the same time, but
nevertheless he says, “Very well,” echoing Snape’s words with a potent gaze, “assuming she
recovers.” He takes a seat in that tall, gilded chair, adjusting his spectacles. “But given the
sensitive nature of these circumstances, this does beg the question…” He sits back. “Is there
anyone else involved?”

Malfoy scoffs and doesn’t miss a beat. “Longbottom somehow managed to shove his nose into
things.”

Hermione flashes him a warning gaze, nostrils flaring.

He only deigns to shrug.

So she blurts, “Adrian Pucey knows too,” as though it somehow equates to getting even.

McGonagall sighs from behind them. “This is out of hand…”

After studying the two of them for what seems an unbearably long time, Dumbledore twists where
he sits to look over his shoulder. “Phineas,” he addresses the sleeping portrait of the old
Headmaster, rousing him. “Would you be so kind as to fetch Mr. Pucey from his House?”

Hermione meets Malfoy’s sideways glance, matching that expression of ‘now you’ve done it' brow
for brow. It’s his fault and he knows it.

If she’s honest, she wishes she could pin all of this on him.

“Phyllida,” says Dumbledore, turning the other direction to the painting of the Headmistress.
“Would you please do the same for Mr. Longbottom?”

"Albus, what exactly do you plan to do with the boys?" Professor McGonagall hedges.
"Obliviation? Surely, you don't intend—”

"I believe the window for such action has passed, in this instance,” he says calmly. "We cannot
hope to erase weeks worth of knowledge, now can we?"

"What, then?"

Dumbledore's reply is cryptic as ever, eyes half-lidded behind his spectacles. "Sometimes, I find
that fortune sends us happy accidents."

Snape does not care to dwell on it. "And what of Miss Granger?" he asks.

Dumbledore lifts a brow at him.

"Should there not be consequences?"

Hermione lets out a slow breath. She's been waiting for this.
"Ah." The Headmaster sits back. "I'm afraid Professor Snape is right." There's no malice in his
gaze.

Hermione tries not to scrunch her fists in the fabric of her skirt. “I understand, Sir."

"However," Dumbledore adds, holding up a hand, "with Miss Bell's condition as of yet uncertain, it
will have to wait."

Professor Snape makes a sound of disapproval behind her, but nothing further is said. Minutes
pass, and Dumbledore offers everyone lemon drops while they wait.

Then, eventually, a small knock sounds at the office door.

"Please come in," says Dumbledore, and they all turn to watch as Neville nervously closes it
behind him, a plaid robe hastily thrown over his pajamas.

Hermione tries to apologize with her eyes, but his gaze is fixed on Dumbledore.

"Mr. Longbottom, you've done nothing wrong," says Professor McGonagall.

Neville turns to her, red-faced. Swallows and nods.

Dumbledore offers him a gentle smile. "My apologies for waking you at this hour—”

There's no knock the second time — the door just swings open and in strides Adrian Pucey. His
dirty blond hair sticks up at all angles and his gait is lazy, hands thrust into the pockets of his
joggers.

"Mr. Pucey,” announces Dumbledore. "Thank you for joining us."

Adrian spares a glance at Neville, seeming to assess the situation, then steps up between her and
Malfoy, expression closed off. The old Quidditch tee he's wearing looks to've been charmed, and
now it reads ‘Ex-Slytherin Chaser, 06.’

"What's going on?" he asks flatly.

Dumbledore's explanation is smooth and somehow reassuring, even with the words 'werewolf' and
'dark curse' casually tossed into the mix. He thanks them both for their discretion thus far, and then
starts talking about those happy accidents again.

"I've been known to utter the phrase — ‘help will always be given at Hogwarts...to those who ask
for it.’”

When Hermione glances sideways, she finds both Adrian and Malfoy rolling their eyes. But
Dumbledore is looking at Neville, his smile brighter now.

"In this instance, the cry for help was not so straightforward. And yet you rose to the occasion."
Dumbledore leans his chin on folded hands. "Am I correct, Mr. Longbottom, in assuming you have
assisted with the Wolfsbane?"

Neville blinks and nods, then seems to jolt himself into speaking. “Y-Yes. Yes, Sir.”

Dumbledore's eyes twinkle. "A tricky plant, that. I think twenty points to Gryffindor are in order."

Neville glances shyly at the floor, flushing deeper red.

"And Mr. Pucey..." says Dumbledore.

It's like night and day, looking from Neville to him. Neville's head is practically bowed in respect
— but Adrian looks so bored he might fall back asleep.

"How has this come to involve you?"

Adrian rubs one of his eyes, fighting back a yawn. "I've dealt with my fair share of werewolves. I
saw these two acting like idiots and gave some much-needed advice."

"Ah," Dumbledore nods, indulging him despite his tone. "And will you continue to give such
advice when needed?"

He shrugs so lazily it only moves one shoulder. "If I can, yeah."

"Very well." Dumbledore smiles and gets to his feet.

"What, no twenty points to Slytherin?"

"Mr. Pucey, " Snape drawls in warning, but Dumbledore only chuckles, his smile wry as he holds
Adrian's gaze.

"Twenty-one points to Slytherin."

Adrian and Neville are made to sign a magical contract, ensuring neither will reveal what they
know — and then, much to everyone's surprise, Dumbledore dismisses them.

"Fucking perfect," Malfoy hisses the moment they reach the bottom of the griffin's curling
staircase. "I start term hoping to be left alone and instead end up with someone's fucked idea of an
emotional support system."

Adrian breaks away first, striding off ahead of them down the corridor. "Who said anything about
support?"

Hermione reaches for Neville's arm before he can break away too.

"Neville, I'm — I'm really sorry about all of this."

His eyes dart between her and Malfoy as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Is Katie going to
be alright?"

The first twinge of guilt she's felt about it all night makes itself known in her gut — disgustingly
late.

"I — I don't know. I hope so—”

"Mind shoving off now, Longbottom?" Malfoy interrupts, suddenly looming behind her. "Granger
and I have things to discuss."

Neville's gaze locks on him, and all at once that timidness seems to drain away. He stretches up to
his full height, brows furrowing. "You might not have support, Malfoy," he says, and then his eyes
flit down to Hermione. "But she does."

"Ooh, very brave.” Malfoy's voice bleeds sarcasm, but when she turns to glare at him, Neville slips
away.

"Neville..." she calls after his retreating shadow.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

When she looks back to Malfoy, he's smirking. And it's never been easier to turn on her heel and
walk away from him.

"Oh no, Granger. You don't get to just sweep this under the rug.”

He catches up quick, matching her stride to walk beside her.

"You don't get to treat him that way." She keeps her eyes forward.

"Why do you care so much about Longbottom?"

"I like Neville. He's like family." She shoots a glance at him to point in the direction he’s gone,
then at her chest, picking up the pace. “He actually cares what happens to me.''

Malfoy scoffs. "Oh, so you prefer him too, then?"

The words almost make her trip, shoes scuffing on the flagstone as she comes to a stop.

Malfoy takes the opportunity to step in front of her, filling her sight. His expression isn't what she
expects. All the sarcasm is gone.

“Go on, then."

"What?"

His eyes tighten, "If it's true, then say it again. You don't get to pretend it never happened."

And suddenly she gets a handle on what she's felt simmering inside of him for the last hour.

"Are you... " Her brows furrow. “Are you jealous?"

Malfoy's lip curls up.

"Of the wolf?"

"Say it again if it's true," he snaps.

She shakes her head in disbelief. "I..."

"Go on."

That jealousy makes way for insecurity, and Malfoy tries to compensate by stepping closer. A
threat.

"Speak up.'' Just a whisper now.

"Malfoy..." she's still shaking her head, at a loss. "Anyone would know I said what I said in anger.
That — that side of you is a stranger to me."
Malfoy waits, unblinking. Almost bracing for whatever she's about to say.

She tells the truth for once.

"I can't prefer a stranger."

The reaction in him isn't immediate. A slow sort of tension release, like a strained muscle
uncoiling.

He doesn't speak, and she takes her chance to escape, stepping around him.

But maybe it's the uncertainty she feels, still crawling across the bond to her. A sort of
displacement. Like he's lost his footing.

Whatever it is, it makes her stop a few feet away and look back at him. "Malfoy."

He only turns halfway, showing her his profile.

It's probably a terrible idea to say it — won't do anything but fan the flames. She says it anyway.

"You're good with your hands, you know. When you try."

She leaves him with that.

And the sensation that follows her around the corner through the bond isn't jealousy, it's something
else.
 Breathe / Bleed
Chapter Summary

Warning: This chapter contains a potential trigger that I take very seriously. Please
scroll to the end to see it, and if you feel at all uncomfortable, please do not feel
obligated to read. xx

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The night feels endless.

Once again, she’s back in the same bed, staring at the same ceiling, and once again she can’t sleep.

Every time she blinks, she sees Katie’s horror-stricken face behind her eyelids — and now that
she’s really started thinking about it, she can’t make herself stop.

She’s terrified of things she can’t classify — and the dark curse her subconscious cooked up in that
moment has no name. No label. No definition.

She’s no closer to making sense of it than she is of Malfoy.

Malfoy, whose expression has been ricocheting off the corners of her mind ever since he made it.
Ever since she said it.

And bleeding hell, what a stupid thing to say. Ridiculously risky and self-serving. She’d done it to
sate her own curiosity about how he might react, and lo and behold — she’s more confused than
ever.

Sensing Malfoy in that moment felt like watching an elastic snap. Pulled so far one way — cold,
detached, disgusted — only to tear from the tension and suddenly come flying back in the other
direction.

He felt consumed and invigorated by her words. Enlightened and awakened. Too many powerful
things at once for her to contemplate without going mad.

Which is why she put as much distance between them as possible the moment after she said it,
racing back to Gryffindor.

She feels like she’s playing with chemicals. Mixing them together until she gets a reaction, no
matter how dangerous. And while she can lecture herself about it all she wants, she’s not sure she’s
going to be able to stop.

The mattress sits at a slightly uneven angle beneath her, offset by the book. Somehow, she’s even
more conscious of it than she was before. Almost like she can feel it through the many layers of
cotton and wire springs between them — which is ridiculous, of course.

Still. After another five minutes, she can’t resist the temptation to reach for it, drawing her curtains
and casting ‘Lumos.’
The pages are stained according to the index, she realizes. Half the edges have been dipped in
black to correspond with the black rituals, and the other half in crimson.

She steels herself and opens to a page directly in the center. The last of the flesh rituals.

Her wand light spills over the darkly-inked words, bordered by sketches of ingredients and a
depiction of an altar.

The Descent

The book describes it as the penultimate ritual to achieving a fully fortified bond, and her eyes are
immediately drawn to a note scrawled in the margins — handwritten.

Not to be undone.

Something about the look of the book itself had her assuming everything within its pages was
meant to be permanent, and yet someone felt the need to inscribe an additional warning.

Her eyes pass over the words cautiously.

Recitation:

Here, I press my skin to earth

Here, I yield

I forfeit

In your shadow, I kneel to all things

Here, in flesh

In certainty

For this blood is my blood and my offering

This blood is my blood and is yours

The hair stands up on the back of her neck, fingers almost instinctively backing away from the
page.
Reading for pleasure?

The wolf’s voice makes her drop her wand, rich tone spilling out across her mind without warning.
She sucks in a breath and clutches at her chest, trying to calm her pulse.

The book had her nerves ripe for a shock.

“You’re…” she whispers, gathering a breath to cast a muffling charm before continuing. “You’re
back again, then?”

He tisks at her, sound fluttering between one ear and the other.

Already bored of me?

She’s terrified of how quickly the word ‘never’ races to the front of her thoughts — pure instinct
— but she’s lucky enough to stop herself before she says it out loud.

“No. I’m not bored.”

The wolf waits a long time to respond, leaving her eyes searching fruitlessly in the dark for a face
she knows isn’t there with her.

When he does speak, there’s a vulnerability to his tone she’s never heard before.

But you don’t prefer me after all…

A pang in her chest. The wolf — somehow jealous as well. It seems surreal.

“I don’t prefer either of you,” she answers, and at the very least it feels like the truth.

Speak freely. Your Malfoy can’t hear you.

The words make her sit up straighter, book falling shut in her lap. This isn’t something she
considered.

But if she concentrates, she can clearly sense Malfoy sleeping.

“You aren’t in Malfoy’s head?”

Not at the moment.

“How is that possible?”

A musing pause.

One of your books can surely tell you.

“And you won’t?”

He laughs faintly. Not the patient sort, are you?

“No, not at all.” She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

It’s a natural progression, says the wolf. The longer we’re bonded, the stronger it gets. If you
remember, there was a time when I could hardly speak to you at all.

She remembers. Those desperate syllables, over and over. Nothing but take, take, take.
I am strong enough now to speak when I please, to whom I please, he continues. And I dearly love
speaking to you.

A blush spreads across her cheeks, and she wonders whether he’s aware of it. She can’t sense him
the way she senses Malfoy, but she can somehow feel him breathing.

Are you going to speak freely now? he prompts.

“I — I told you the truth.”

And yet you call me a stranger.

The words are wounded, turning the confident, debonair edge she’s always seen him wear on its
head.

“But you are a stranger,” she murmurs, suddenly catching herself trying to be gentle.

After what you let me do to you…

The blush deepens, staining her cheeks with heat.

“It wasn’t meant as an insult.”

Oh? His voice deepens. How was it meant?

“I’m…” She tries to choose her words carefully. “Well, I’m still trying to sort you out. Learning
you as I go. Until I do, you’re a stranger to me.” After a moment, she adds, “But a good sort of
stranger...I think.”

The wolf hums in thought.

A good stranger, he echoes, like he’s testing out the words on an invisible tongue.

“Yes.”

Another moment’s pause, and then —

Very well.

His tone is teasing. More like it was before.

I can be your stranger.

She feels his weightless presence vanish in the words’ wake, leaving her alone in the darkness of
her four-poster. The book still rests against her thigh, heavy in more ways than one — and she
decides she’d rather stare at the ceiling than read another one of its pages tonight.

It doesn’t surprise her that she’s the first of the girls out of bed the following morning. What little
sleep she does manage to get is fitful and restless, and by the time the sun creeps up over the
mountains, she gives up trying for any more.

Neville, though — he does surprise her. Already awake and sitting in the common room, a pot of
miniature dirigible plums resting in his lap. He stops sifting the soil when he notices her, throat
bobbing as he swallows.

They’re alone. A rare opportunity to speak.

“Good morning,” she says, coming to sit in the armchair opposite. She decides to get it over with
before he even has the chance to respond. “I’m sorry again about last night — all of it. You
shouldn’t have to be involved. I know the whole thing’s a mess, and I know you were only trying to
help—”

“Hermione?” Neville sets the plant down on the table so he can see her better, eyebrows lifted. “It’s
alright. Okay? Really, it is.”

The relief wants to wash over her immediately, but she realizes she might have to cut through a
veneer of chivalry to get at the truth.

“Neville, you can be honest with me.” She leans forward in her chair. “I can go to Dumbledore.
Tell him you don’t want anything to do with this. I know how you feel about Malfoy. And Adrian
is—”

“Adrian’s not all bad.”

Her mouth falls shut, brows furrowing.

It’s not the first reaction she expected from him. Not a reaction she expected from him at all,
actually.

Neville scratches awkwardly at his elbow, gaze suddenly fixed on his dirigible plums. “He, erm —
I sort of...well, I sort of know him.”

She bites back on her questions, waiting for him to elaborate at his own pace.

“I spend a lot of the summer at St. Mungo’s,” he says, going a little pink. “My parents are there —
I don’t know if you reme—”

“No, right. Of course,” she nods, feeling her chest sink.

“Anyway, erm…” He scratches at the back of his head now. “He’s there a lot, too. Adrian. To see
his mother.” A shy half-shrug. “Sometimes we sit in the waiting room together.”

“Oh.” She nods again, trying to hide her surprise. “Of course. His mother’s a Healer, isn’t she?”

Neville’s eyes find hers, expression suddenly grim. He winces. “Not anymore.”

“Oh.”

“I — well, I mean, I really shouldn’t say. It’s not my story to tell.”

She just keeps nodding — the only appropriate response, it seems — all the while wondering if it’s
the truth she already knows, or something more.

“He’s alright, though, Adrian,” Neville says, huffing a laugh. “As Slytherins go, at least.”
She echoes his laugh, seeing an expression in his eyes that has all those strange interactions
between the two of them making sense.

“So...you don’t mind, then? Being involved?”

He shrugs again, and his smile is brighter now. “Wouldn’t be the first mess we walked into
together.”

The words send a warmth through her veins that remains the rest of the day.

A week passes, and Katie Bell remains in a magically-induced coma — this one not her doing, but
Madam Pomfrey’s.

“To give her mind space to heal,” she says when Hermione works up the courage to visit, terrified
of the damage she might see.

But Katie only looks like she’s sleeping, no physical evidence of a dark curse marring her features.

Madam Pomfrey tells her more than once that they’re very, very lucky.

But she doesn’t feel lucky at all.

Especially considering the absolute catastrophe that is the end of the week.

She’s been doing her best to keep her distance from Malfoy, if only to give both of them a bit of
respite. She brushes off strange sensations when they come and focuses her attention on her
studies, the occasional wayward glance notwithstanding.

But it’s possible in putting so much effort into avoiding him, she’s turned a blind eye to almost
everyone else — which is exactly how McLaggen manages to catch her off guard.

Halfway to the Great Hall for dinner on Friday evening, she turns a corner and walks directly into
an immobilizing jinx. Her limbs lock and her eyes freeze wide, and before she can comprehend it, a
sweaty pair of hands drags her into a broom cupboard.

“Hello, Granger,” Cormac’s lazy voice sounds just beside her ear before he steps into her field of
vision, and her stomach promptly starts to tie itself in knots.

One hand training his wand on her, he uses the other to brush the hair out of her face. She’s only
had someone do that one other time in her life. And this feels entirely different.

Entirely unclean.

“Funny story,” says Cormac, and he smirks, eyes a little wild. “I was in Herbology today when a
memory I seemed to be missing hit me out of nowhere.”

Her stomach feels like it launches into her throat.

“Memory charms are tricky that way.” He starts to trace the length of her arm with his wand. “If
you don’t perform them correctly, sometimes they wear off.”

She can’t swallow the saliva pooling on her tongue. Can’t blink to hide him from her sight. She
feels exactly how she felt with Greyback — a way she swore she’d never feel again.

“Not a very nice thing you did to me, is it?” And now it’s his hand traveling lower, dropping from
her forehead to her collarbone and starting to trace sickly circles into her skin. “Especially after I
treated you so well…”

Where are you?

The wolf’s voice suddenly drowns Cormac out, and it’s the most welcome sound in the world in
this moment.

Where are you? What’s happening?

Her lips can’t part to speak, tears welling up in her eyes — she’s not sure if it’s from the sting or
from the look on Cormac’s face.

She can hardly focus her thoughts, racing wild and panicked, and it takes every ounce of
concentration just to manage one word.

Help.

Barely a moment passes and Malfoy’s running. She can feel it.

But Cormac’s already got his hand on her thigh, clammy fingers feeling at the hem of her skirt. “I
think it’s only fair I get a repeat performance,” he’s saying, voice starting to tremble with
anticipation. “Maybe even a little extra. What do you think?”

He’s so excited.

She wants to be sick.

Help me.

She wants to help herself. Wants to gouge his eyes out. Wants to cut out his tongue with a dull
knife and then ask him what he thinks.

But she can’t even wipe away the drool trickling down her chin.

Cormac steps back, hand dropping from her thigh to work at unzipping his trousers, and it’s like
God sees her out the corner of his eye.

He miscalculates his footing and trips over a broom.

Spell compromised, as he falls, so does the enchantment — and the moment the life explodes back
into her limbs, she’s reaching for her wand.

Cormac sees it, scrambling to disentangle himself from the pile of brooms, face suddenly white
with panic.

And if she weren’t shaking so badly, she’d have hexed him in a millisecond.

As it is, she’s barely able to train her wand on him before he’s lurching to his feet and bursting out
the door, her stinging jinx striking the flagstone next to one of his ankles before he vanishes from
sight.

Vaguely, she hears his rapid footfalls as he escapes down the corridor, but they’re soon drowned
out by her own gasps for air.

She can’t catch her breath, lungs closed up — practically shriveled. Her hand fists in her shirt over
her chest, pressing hard and trying to force herself to take in oxygen. The little room around her
spins, and she slides down to the floor, wand clattering against stone.

The air feels hot and suffocating, sweat beading on her forehead, vision swimming. For a moment,
she wonders if she might actually pass out.

But just when everything starts to tint black, the door to the broom cupboard gets thrown open —
and Malfoy’s there.

It’s like a splash of water to the face.

Suddenly her lungs inflate and her vision clears, and at the very least she’s able to turn her head
and glance up at him.

He’s panting — breathless, his tie still slung over his shoulder from what must’ve been a
breakneck pace.

“What happened?”

A thick silence follows, only their staggered breathing to fill it. And as she stares up at him, all the
pain and all the fear feels like it ferments in her stomach.

She will not cry.

The tears already streaming down her face are from having them forced open, she’s sure of it. And
she is not going to cry in front of him.

“What happened?” Malfoy asks again, because she still hasn’t answered. Only this time, his voice
is softer — and with an attentiveness she didn’t know he was capable of, he sinks into a crouch at
her side. Evens out their eye level.

She opens her mouth to speak but the words get trapped in her throat.

She knows what Malfoy will say.

He’ll say they need to report him. He’ll say it was a close call and maybe even that he’s sorry he
didn’t get to her sooner.

But in this moment she’s realizing she needs more than that.

The sickness in her gut is rapidly morphing into something else. Something poisonous and white-
hot. Something that boils and writhes.

She doesn’t want to report him.

She wants…

She wants—

Operating on pure instinct, she abruptly rocks forward onto her knees and leans towards him.
Malfoy’s expression of concern melts into confusion as, all at once, she takes his face in her
hands.

“Granger…” he says, eyes a little wide beneath furrowed brows. He sinks down onto one knee —
whether to fix his balance or to accommodate her, she isn’t certain. “What are you—”

“I need your help,” she says, searching his eyes. Knowing she’s already made up her mind. “And
you’re not going to like it.”

“What—”

“Stranger?” she breathes, knowing no other name to call him by. “Where are you?”

Malfoy has only a moment to stare at her, realization flooding into his gaze far too late. And then
his pupils bleed out their black onto his irises, and she’s looking at the wolf.

Immediately, his hands reach up to cover hers, taking them away from his face to clasp in front of
him. His grip is warm. Safe.

“What happened to you?”

Tears prick at her eyes, and she resolutely forces them back, swallowing before she speaks.
“Cormac McLaggen.” Her voice is as steady as she can manage. “He jinxed me, and then he tried
to—”

The wolf lets out a sharp breath, hands suddenly tightening around hers. She feels the fury explode
inside of him like a controlled demolition. No warning. No build-up. Just there. Instantly.

His voice is a hiss. “Did he?”

“No.” She shakes her head sharply. “No. He didn’t get the chance. But I — I need your help.”

The rage falters in his gaze, somehow making way for tenderness. “Anything,” he says. One of his
hands slips free to brush the curls out of her face, and the reminder of it — the comparison of it —
solidifies the urge in her gut beyond anything else.

“I don’t want to report him,” she says, and now her voice is firm.

A brush of his thumb across her lips. “What do you want?”

She releases a steady breath, sure of it. Needing it.

“I want him to bleed.”

A flicker in those dark eyes grows steadily into a wildfire as he processes her words. For a long
moment, he searches her gaze, as though he’s waiting for her to take it back.

But when she holds firm, unblinking — unwavering — the hard set of his lips lifts into a grin both
faint and somehow vicious. She doesn’t really get the chance to analyze it.

A few seconds more, and he leans forward to kiss her.

A different sort of kiss. Soft. Unmoving. A promise.

He speaks against her lips.

“Take me to him.”

They wait at the entrance to the Great Hall as students slowly trickle out, leaving dinner, and all
the while the anticipation simmers right beneath her skin. She flexes her fingers, unable to keep
still.

The wolf is much the same, only for an entirely different reason.

When she first notices the tension in his jaw, she thinks it’s more of that rage she’d seen before. It’s
only when she sees his fingernails digging into his palms that she realizes he’s fighting against
something.

“Malfoy?”

The wolf nods, voice tense but reassuring. “I can hold him off as long as I need to—”

“There,” she cuts in, seeing Cormac’s overlarge frame step into the Entrance Hall. The wolf
doesn’t recognize him as Malfoy would, but once she’s certain he’s fixed those blackened depths
on the right person, she slips back into the shadows — out of sight.

“Hey, McLaggen!” the wolf calls out, and she’s impressed by the casual edge he’s worked into his
tone.

Cormac’s head jerks to the side, brows furrowing at the sight of Malfoy. She can tell that he’s
nervous. Waiting for consequences.

He knows what he’s done.

But he’d never expect consequences from Malfoy.

“Can I have a word?” the wolf asks, voice as calm and even as the still water of the Black Lake. He
jolts his head in the direction of the Courtyard, still accessible to students for the next hour or so.

But it’s doubtful anyone would venture out into the cold.

“...Sure?” Cormac hedges, meandering away from the crowd to follow him. He looks suspicious,
but not suspicious enough.

Hermione waits until they’ve both disappeared around the corner before she follows.

She wants to see it.

She promised herself she’d never feel helpless like that again, and he broke that promise for her.
She wants him in agony.

Stepping out into the icy night air, she turns in the direction of the torchlight, finding the wolf
standing a foot or so from Cormac, hands in his trouser pockets.

He’s waiting for her.

“Well?” Cormac demands, tone back to its usual arrogance. The way they’re situated, he can’t see
her behind him.

But the wolf meets her eyes, gaze soft and indulgent for just a moment.

Then he points casually to the stone wall behind Cormac’s shoulder and says, “Look.”

Cormac looks, fool that he is, and in that split second it takes him to turn towards the wall, the
wolf gnarls a brutal fist into his hair and slams his face into the stone.

The crunch of his nose as it breaks isn’t sickening to her ears — no, it’s almost soothing. His high-
pitched yelp of pain works wonders on the knots in her stomach, untying them one by one.

And as his bright scarlet blood starts to spill down the length of the wall, she takes a step closer.

The wolf has his face pressed up against it so hard, it appears he can’t breathe. The blood gushing
from his nose starts to spill into his open mouth, and his body jerks as he starts to choke on it,
palms slapping desperately against the stone on either side.

“Look at her,” the wolf demands, somehow managing to angle Cormac’s head enough to the side
that one of his watering eyes fixes on her.

Fear and panic washes over the look of pain in an instant.

“Do you see her?”

It looks like his eyes can barely focus. He’s starting to spasm, drowning in his own blood, and it
sprays everywhere as he desperately tries to spit it out.

She stares at him and feels nothing but satisfaction.

“She is everything,” the wolf growls, leaning forward — right up to his ear, ensuring Cormac
doesn’t miss a word over his own squealing. “You owe your life to her. If she’d asked me to, I
would’ve ripped the lungs out of your chest and lain them at her feet.”

A pulse of something intense and raw rides up her spine. Something indescribable.

Cormac splutters and gags, starting to seize up without the air to breathe.

So the wolf yanks him back, spinning him around only to force the palm of his hand against that
freshly broken nose and shove the back of his skull against the wall. “Now look at me.”

Cormac screams, clawing at his arm to no avail, thick blood leaking out through the gaps between
the wolf’s fingers.

“Consider me the fucking executioner.” A deadly hiss. “And if you breathe a word of this to
anyone — if you come anywhere near her again — I will burn you alive.”

He lets go all at once, and Cormac somehow manages to stay upright for a few seconds.

“Do you understand?”

He falls straight forward with the weight of an anvil, sprawling out unconscious on the flagstone.
The wet patch on his jeans is visible even from the back.

The wolf turns to look at her, blood all over his right hand — splattered across his shirtfront. He
smiles sweetly as he rolls up the soaked sleeve. “I think he understands.”

And for the first time since she was dragged into that broom cupboard, she gathers a full, satisfying
breath.

Only, it’s just then that the wolf’s body gives a jerk — and she knows what’s coming.

The repercussions she expected but didn’t plan for.

Black leaches away to grey, and all at once that casual posture turns feral.

Malfoy comes at her fast. Her feet can’t keep up, scuffing on the stone as he abruptly crowds her
into the adjacent wall. That blood-soaked hand takes her by the face, pinning her there and stealing
the breath she regained right back.

“How could you do that to me?” he demands, gaze livid. “How dare you?”

She opens her mouth, but evidently he doesn’t intend to let her speak.

“I felt what was in your head.” A jerk of that hand, forcing her eyes to focus on him. “You
disregarded me. Discounted me. As if you know fucking anything about me.”

“I—”

“Why didn’t you let me do it?”

Her mouth hangs slightly ajar, words on her tongue evaporating.

“I.... what?” is all she can manage after far too many seconds of silence.

“I would’ve gladly knocked his fucking teeth out,” Malfoy seethes, grip tightening. “I would’ve
done it in front of the whole fucking school. Why did you take that away from me?”

Blindsided, she can only blink at him. “I…”

“Fucking hell,” he rips his hand away, forgetting the blood and wiping that palm down his face.
Smearing it everywhere. “You trust him more than me.”

She tries to shake her head. Tries to form a response.

He huffs. A disappointment. A dismissal.

“You can’t trust him more than me.”

He brushes past her shoulder and disappears into the Castle — leaves her there with the
unconscious, soiled mess that used to be Cormac McLaggen.
 art by @_mignonchignon on Instagram

Chapter End Notes

TW: attempted sexual assault, graphic violence

 Knives / Chemicals

Dear Tonks,

Was there ever a point when you felt you weren't really yourself anymore? That the things you
were doing and the things you were thinking — especially the things you were thinking — didn't
add up?

I'm starting to feel like I don't know up from down. I've been reading, like you asked — and thank
you for the new book you sent. It's just that it feels like every door I open leads to a million more.
Every answer only introduces more questions.

I don't know what I want anymore, and to be honest I—

She crumples the letter into a fist and never sends it. She doesn't send anything.

Friday night feels like a fever dream. Left in the courtyard alone, she'd been forced to levitate
Cormac McLaggen's bleeding body into a collection of tall bushes — hiding him, lest a Prefect
stumble upon him before he could regain consciousness.

There was no consideration of another memory charm.

And yet it would genuinely surprise her if McLaggen said anything. She's never seen anyone look
at someone the way the wolf looked at him.

But the way Malfoy looked at her…

She spends all of Saturday on her own, pretending she's reading when really she's thinking about
what he said.

Why didn't you let me do it?

Why would he want to do it?

What could he possibly stand to gain by offering something like that — and, by extension,
exposing their situation to the entire school?

Logic wants her to believe he said it in the heat of the moment. A haphazard excuse for his anger
at being forced to bisect.

The other possibility is far too daunting to consider, and she tries very hard not to.

Still — those words lingering in her brain start to eat at her, and more and more she's realizing she
may have crossed a very dangerous line.

It can't stay like this.

On a Sunday so close to the full moon, it isn't hard to guess where he'll be. Shortly after breakfast,
she makes excuses about studying and detaches herself from Harry and Ron.
Her eyes unintentionally search for Cormac amongst the groups of students she passes, but he's yet
to show that extensively damaged face. And it's highly unlikely he'd be hanging around the
Dungeons.

The Potions Classroom is free for student use on weekends — ‘a fantastic opportunity to hone
one’s skills,’ Slughorn likes to say. Thus, it’s predictably empty this morning. She takes a seat at
one of the many tables and settles in to wait, that pale blue book of paramours serving as her
companion.

She’s not afraid of it as she once was. Not when she has something to compare it to — and that
book of rituals makes it feel like a bedtime story.

This is not to say that everything within its pages feels approachable. Hardly. She’s just reached a
section devoted to what to expect on the night of the full moon.

In one instance above all others, you as a paramour must learn to battle your own instincts.

Put away all notions of care and concern when the full moon rises and make yourself scarce. This
will test you. You may feel that you are leaving your other half to fend for themselves. May believe
that you know them better than anyone in the world — better than you know yourself. But come
transformation, they will not know you.

A paramour in the eyes of a fully transformed werewolf is little more than prey. Do not tempt fate.

The creak of the door startles her, spine straightening at the sight of Malfoy standing just beyond
the threshold.

He looks surprised to see her, lingering for a moment as the door falls shut behind him. That pre-
transformation weariness is draped over him like a shroud, posture hunched and face wan. She
tries to pretend it’s not suspicion she sees in his gaze.

“Granger.”

“Malfoy.”

Slowly, he makes his way towards one of the cauldrons and sets his bag on the table, never quite
turning his back.

“I…figured I’d find you here,” she says, shutting the book in her lap.

“Well, you have.” His eyes are fixed on the parcel he takes from the bag, bound with twine.
Carefully, he unwraps layers of brown parchment, revealing sprigs of aconite he’s brought from the
Room of Requirement. She can understand being cautious with them.

But arranging the other ingredients so obsessively on the table — the bottles and vials and tools?
There’s no need for such acute focus.

He’s avoiding her eyes.

“Malfoy,” she says, quieter now.

Aggressively, he begins to sharpen that curved knife, the scrape of it jarring.

So she makes herself say what she came here to say.

“Malfoy, I’m sorry.”

A strange feeling in his gut, bleeding through the bond. Like he’s prepared for this not to mean
anything. He keeps sharpening, eyes down, and she’s forced to slide off the stool and move closer
to him, book disappearing into her bag.

“Really, I am,” she says, trying to temper her voice as she stops at his table, the cauldron he’s
started to heat bubbling between them.

“For what?” He still doesn’t look at her, and his tone is too blank to analyze. But he knows exactly
what, and she gets the feeling he just wants to hear her say it. Wants her to fully comprehend how
out of line she was.

Instead, she takes a seat, awkwardly folding her hands on the table and tugging on the sleeve of her
jumper. “I was afraid.”

A long silence.

“I was afraid and I was panicking, and I thought if the — if...” She struggles to word it. “I thought
if it wasn’t you who did it, there wouldn’t be consequences if you were — if we were caught.”

Malfoy hums in the back of his throat. Unfriendly. Cold. “That’s a pretty lie.”

She’d defend herself if she didn’t feel the bitter disappointment flooding through him like a tidal
wave.

“I was selfish,” she amends after almost half a minute. “I wanted McLaggen to hurt and I wanted it
done as quickly as possible. I thought he — I thought that side of you would be more willing.”

Finally, as he begins adding the herbs to the cauldron, Malfoy glances up at her. His eyes are tired.
Almost sad.

Or perhaps that’s just the dim lighting of the Potions classroom.

“Because you trust him more than me.”

She’s a little surprised how quick she is to shake her head. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A flick of his wand, and the potion starts to bubble in earnest, super-heated. He yanks the lid from
the flask of sheep’s blood and tips it in unceremoniously.

“Malfoy, this isn’t — it wasn’t about trust. It was a shortcut. It was about—“

“I’m starting to black out. Did you know that?”

She falls silent, fidgeting hands going still.

“Yeah.” There’s a humorless laugh in his tone. His eyes flit to her, then back to the cauldron.
“Now when the wolf drags me aside, I see nothing. Feel nothing. It’s like falling into a fucking
abyss.” Another glance — this one sharper. Lasting. “Then again, I didn’t really fall, did I? I was
pushed.”
The fury she feels simmering in his chest mixes oddly with the sinking guilt in her own. “I…I
didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

This time, when he rips his gaze away, it’s like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. As though, in his
anger, he’s lost his place. His brow furrows as he studies the ingredients laid out in front of him,
hands gathering into tight fists where they rest on the table.

She can’t think of anything to say. Only watches him, feeling his confusion. He’s almost
disoriented somehow.

Then, with a muffled grunt, he seems to come to his senses, pushing off the table and stalking over
to one of the supply cabinets. He returns with a vial of something dark, eyes low as he adds it in
and stirs.

And then another moment of pause. He steps back, studying the cauldron again. Blinks and steps
forward, reaching for the knife. When he slips on those gloves and begins to slice the aconite, it’s
with that practiced precision she remembers.

“I won’t do it again,” she murmurs when the silence grows too thick. Feels it needs to be said.

“Heaven help you if you try.”

It’s hard to tell empty threats from truth with him. His tone is mild, focus still on his knife. And yet
she thinks he’s beyond caring that what hurts her hurts him too. He’s probably perfectly serious.

And maybe that’s why she asks.

“Did you mean it?”

He starts to dip the stems into the brew, not answering. Perhaps not sure what she’s asking.

“When you said you would’ve done it for me?”

A noticeable hesitation as he reaches for the sliced petals. All at once she can feel the uncertainty
and panic swell up inside of him, like he’s been caught in a trap. She sees his throat bob as he
swallows — sees him forget, once again, where he is in the brewing process.

She’s knocked him off kilter.

“If you did, I think that’s…” The word isn’t hard to find. “That’s lovely.”

Malfoy’s chin jolts up, gaze locking on hers. He searches her eyes for the slightest trace of a lie.
She can almost feel him searching the bond for it.

And when he finds none, he tips his head back. More relaxed, lids lowering. Not happy, by any
means. Not satisfied. Just — soothed.

He finishes off with the petals, letting the silence eclipse them, and the heady scent of the
Wolfsbane starts to flood the classroom. It smells a little different than she remembers from the
first time. Less sharp. Slightly less noxious.

She leans her chin on her hand, watching the steam billow up from the cauldron as Malfoy leaves it
to settle and starts to clean off the knife. After a moment, she finds herself scooting her stool a little
closer so she can lean forward and see inside.
It doesn’t look any different than it did before. The color’s the same. But the smell — it’s…

She inhales deeply and all at once her mouth starts to water.

“Don’t fall in, Granger,” Malfoy huffs, sarcasm momentarily tearing away her focus. He’s still
clearing away ingredients. But as he removes his gloves and sets them to burn, the potion gives a
hiss, starting to bubble violently.

She leans back.

It smells divine.

Relieved to have a quick brew, Malfoy’s tense shoulders slump as he reaches for his flask. Her
eyes fix on the silvery liquid as he guides it into the bottle with his wand, that scent curling
towards her the way a finger beckons.

Of course she knows she doesn’t suffer from his condition. She knows what Wolfsbane is intended
for.

And yet, considering its purpose — preventative — she finds it hard to imagine any dangerous
outcomes. Not for what she’s about to do.

It’s inevitable.

The moment he turns away, she reaches for the ladle sitting off to the side. Dips it in and takes a
sip straight from the cauldron.

Everything happens so fast.

“Granger—”

Malfoy’s sharp shout is cut off by the sound of the ladle clattering to the floor. He’s hexed it
straight out of her hand — before she’s even swallowed a full spoonful. And yet all she can think
as he appears in front of her, taking her wrists and yanking her away from the cauldron, is how
wonderful it tastes. Like nectar and citrus. Like pine. Like the best sip of gin she’s ever had.

Fitting, it tastes like alcohol. The last sober thought she has is the sound of the wolf, laughing
inside her head.

“Granger, what the fuck?” Malfoy demands, giving her a shake. “What were you — what the
fuck?” He seems torn between staring wide-eyed at her and back at the cauldron, and when he
catches a good whiff of it he seems to do a double take.

Letting go of only one of her wrists, he takes a step towards the Wolfsbane and inhales deeply.

“Fuck,” he breathes, but he’s sort of out of focus now. She’s not sure if he’s the one who vanishes
the cauldron or if that’s just her imagination. But he just keeps hissing out that word, over and over
again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

And suddenly he’s got her by both wrists once more, guiding her towards the classroom door.
That’s very silly of him. She doesn’t want to leave.

“Where are you taking me?”

Malfoy tows her out into the Dungeons corridor. “I need to find Adrian.”
“But it smells wonderful.”

“Fuck,” he mutters again, slamming the Potions door behind them and dragging her in close as he
starts to lead her down the hallway. He seems to think she’s going to try to escape from him. How
stupid. He smells even better than the classroom did.

She leans a little closer to the shoulder of the arm towing her along, breathing him in. “You smell
wonderful too. Do you know — Malfoy, are you listening to me?”

He’s got his eyes fixed straight ahead, jaw set tight and brows meeting in the middle.

“Don’t talk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes I do.” She stumbles a little, trying to keep up with his strenuous pace. “Do you know how
certain people like the smell of chemicals? Like ammonia and gasoline? I love the smell of
chemicals.” She wraps her free hand around his arm, pulling herself closer as they walk. Well,
she’s walking. He’s sort of running, and she’s not sure why. “You smell like chemicals.”

Under his breath, he mutters, “You can’t be fucking serious,” and a moment later they lurch to a
halt and he lets go of her hand, prying himself free of her grip.

“Where are you—”

He’s gone.

Again, it’s possible her eyes are playing tricks on her, but she’s fairly certain he’s completely
vanished.

She blinks to clear her vision, slowly turning in a circle — searching the otherwise vacant corridor.
The glimmer of the torches is somewhat distracting, momentarily mesmerizing her. But the
thought of Malfoy quickly restores her focus.

He smells so lovely. Where is he? She needs—

“Just look! Look at her. Look.”

His voice is lovely too — a deep, rich vibration in her ears — and she turns eagerly towards the
sound, only to find him not alone. Adrian is with him, looking like he’s just been dragged out of
bed, despite how late it is in the day.

She doesn’t need Adrian.

“How much of it did she take?”

His voice is almost jarring by comparison, and Hermione recoils from it, eyes narrowing in
disgust. She’s quick to take a step towards Malfoy, the proximity soothing. Reassuring.

“I don’t know,” he says, tone like a lullaby. “Just a sip, I think. But look at her, she’s gone
completely mad. Saying I smell like chemicals and tripping all over—”

“You smell like heaven,” she corrects him, reaching out for his hand. Why hasn’t he pulled her
closer to him yet?

“See?” Malfoy demands, batting her hand away. It feels like being burned.

She gasps and flinches, shrinking against the wall.

“Careful,” Adrian says, tone sharp. He waves a warning hand. “Don’t — you don’t want to do that.
Don’t reject her.”

“What?”

“You asked for my help — I’m giving it to you. This can get really dangerous if you’re not careful.
Give her back your hand.”

Why would he need to be forced to take her hand? She feels tears well up in her eyes at the
thought, pulling away from him when he reaches out. Sinking further down against the wall until
she’s sitting on the floor.

A strange look passes over Malfoy’s face. “I can…” he murmurs. “She feels like she’s hurt. Why
does she feel like she’s hurt?”

Adrian says it again. “You need to be careful.” His eyes are fixed on her — studying her every
move. But he’s not the one she wants to be studied by. “Paramours take Wolfsbane as a part of
certain rituals. It’s not something you play around with. This is going to get worse.”

“Worse how?” asks Malfoy, and her gaze jerks to his, searching desperately for kindness in those
beautiful grey eyes.

Adrian takes a step towards him, leaning to the side to murmur something in his ear.

She glares up at him from the floor.

He’s in her way.

Whatever he’s saying to Malfoy, it makes his eyes widen. He looks like he’s horrified, and she
can’t imagine what could make him so afraid of her. She just wants to be closer to him.

The last thing Adrian says before he leans away is audible — just barely. “Be gentle.”

And Malfoy, as he steps towards her, seems timid. Cautious. As though she might attack — but he
should know she’d never attack. Never. Never.

Slowly, he sinks into a crouch at her side, incredulous gaze softening just a fraction as he reaches
out. She reaches out too, thinking he means to take her hand, but instead she finds his palm sliding
over her cheek. It’s lovely. Marvelous. Feels like being caressed by sunlight.

Her eyes fall shut at the sensation, and that intoxicating scent of him draws closer as he leans in to
whisper to her. “You’re going to come with me, alright?”

“Mm.” She nods against his palm, pressing into it.

“Go quickly,” Adrian urges from behind, voice cutting through the moment like a razor blade. She
fixes a vicious glare on him as Malfoy helps her to her feet.

“Where?” Malfoy asks, and it’s his hand entwining with hers that melts the anger from her face.

“Anywhere but here.” Adrian takes out his wand and casts the charm so quickly she doesn’t quite
catch it.

“A Glamour?”

“You don’t want anyone to see her like this. Go. Now. The effects will last over an hour, and like I
said — they’re getting worse.”

She’s grateful when Adrian’s presence fades away, and suddenly all she knows is Malfoy, leading
her along. She loses track of corridors and staircases. There’s only him. His scent. His steady,
gentle grip. The curves and lines that make up the muscles of his arm. The angle of his jaw she can
see from where she trails along behind him.

She doesn’t know where he’s taking her until they’re already inside the Room of Requirement, but
once she pulls it into focus she can’t think of a better place in the world. No one to find them. No
one to stop them.

The Wolfsbane is still there, violet flowers glinting in the artificial moonlight from above. The
room is still awash with heat from the humidity. It’s almost exactly the same as always. Only, now
there’s a long, midnight blue sofa in the corner that wasn’t there before.

Malfoy guides her over to it, seeming very careful about where his hands touch her skin as he
maneuvers her to sit.

“Try…” he says, sounding almost nervous. “Try and relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

She is. She’s never felt better than she does with him so close. She tries to reach up towards his
face — maybe glide her fingers across his lips, just to show him — but suddenly he moves away.
Steps back and quickly takes a seat at the far end of the sofa on the other side.

Leaves a gap of at least a meter between them.

“I’ll — I’ll be right here.” He crosses his arms, turning to lean back against the armrest so he’s
facing her, legs stretching out across that space in the middle. “Just try to relax. We’ll get through
this.”

“Get through this?” She’s astounded. “Malfoy, don’t you see how lucky we are?”

His brows draw in tight. She can see the thin sheen of sweat spreading across his forehead from the
heat — wonders how it tastes. “Lucky?” he echoes, like the word is foreign.

How can he not understand?

She shakes her head at him in disbelief, twisting onto her palms so she can crawl across that
ridiculous space between them.

Malfoy goes tense immediately, jerking out both hands like he’s warding her off. “Granger, don’t.
Don’t — stay on that side.”

How can he not see?

“Malfoy…” She pauses in the middle near his feet, on her hands and knees.

“Listen to me. Listen.” He’s still got his palms out flat. “Something got added to the Wolfsbane.
Something to entice you. It made you want to take it. It’s not your fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know how it happened. Granger — look, just listen to me. Listen to me. You’re not in
control right now. This isn’t what you actually want.”
“You’re wrong.”

“Granger—”

She can’t stand any more of these lies. He can’t see, so he needs to be shown.

Swiftly, she closes the rest of that distance, crawling into his lap before he can begin to push her
away. And even when his hands take to her arms, trying to hold her back, and his mouth opens,
spewing meaningless warnings, the potent scent of him cascades over her like a wave breaking
against rock — too much to withstand.

“Don’t you see?” she whispers, unable to stop herself from leaning forward — burying her face in
the crook of his neck. The flesh of his throat against her lips feels as right as breathing. “We’re so
lucky.”

The vibration of her words makes him groan, and that in turn makes her fall into him, resting all of
her weight against his chest, thighs tightening where they bracket his. She opens her mouth,
sucking that supple flesh between her teeth, having tasted nothing better. Nothing in existence.

“Granger…” he says, breath catching halfway through. “Don’t. You don’t want this.”

His words are just colors and pretty lights inside her head. She rocks her hips against his and tells
the truth.

“I feel empty.”

He groans again. “Stop.”

“Help me.”

“Please stop,” said even as his arms wind around her.

“Why won’t you help me?”

Malfoy practically whimpers — she’s never heard him make a sound like that. Wants to hear it
again.

I’ll take care of her.

The wolf’s voice is thick as velvet inside their heads as she takes his earlobe between her teeth.
Malfoy goes rigid.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hisses.

She rocks her hips again, seeking relief. Trying to quench thirst that’s only growing.

Let me help her. I know what she wants.

“She doesn’t want it. You know she doesn’t want it.”

“I want it,” she insists, nodding against him — a breathless plea into his ear.

His grip on her tightens, one hand fisting in the curls that fall down her back, and he whispers back
in a voice fierce, “You don’t. Trust me, you don’t. You would never want this with me.”

She wants it.

“Get out of my head.”

What sort of monster would deny his paramour?

“Please…” She writhes against him, trying to twist her head so she can capture his mouth. Wants
and needs to taste him.

But Malfoy holds her too tightly, keeping her pressed to his shoulder like an embrace. He twitches
and fights back soft moans with every movement of her lips against his throat, hard between her
thighs and yet doing nothing to help himself.

His words are tense. Furious. Spoken through gritted teeth.

“I’m not a monster.”

He holds her against him all through that hour — relentless. Steadfast. Sweat dripping down his
temples and neck. Salty on her tongue as she licks it away. He holds her until the euphoria dies its
slow death, all the while fighting that voice in his head as it rings out every minute.

Let me in.

Let me in.

He never does.

And only when the last of it wears away and that heady fog leeches out of her mind — only when
reality comes crashing down with the weight of an anvil does she feel his exhaustion.
 Instinct / Honesty

Waking up feels like peeling away from something sticky — like dragging herself out of wet
cement. Her eyelashes are tangled together, vision thick with sleep, body and clothes damp with
cold sweat.

She stretches and immediately feels velvet against her skin. The sofa.

She’s still in the Room of Requirement.

Her eyes have to adjust to the dark as she pushes up off a feather pillow. She doesn’t remember it
being there before.

No, what was there before was—

“Malfoy?” she calls out. Her voice is rough.

Nothing replies from the darkness.

Fully upright, Hermione hunts for her wand in the wrinkled pocket of her skirt.

Her memory’s not nearly as impaired as she might’ve expected. Might’ve even preferred. She
remembers ridiculous words like ‘heaven’ and ‘lucky’ and — perhaps worst of all — ‘empty.’

And what’s more, she remembers wanting to say those words, which makes pretending it never
happened quite literally impossible.

It must've been an enticing agent. She's heard of additives used to make potions irresistible, though
most have been designed with medicinal purposes in mind. This was hardly medicinal.

And hardly an accident.

It was the wolf. She's certain of it.

But her fury at the realization is subsumed by confusion, and piecing together the present moment
becomes somehow more important.

Malfoy — where is Malfoy?

She casts a charm for the time, shocked to find the whole of Sunday gone. Her muscles tense.

It’s two in the morning.

Which means there’s only one place Malfoy can be.

Slowly, the more she concentrates, faint sensations of him reach her across the bond. Cold and
loneliness and pain. So much pain.

It’s mild in the physical sense. They’re too far apart. But mentally, he feels like he’s tearing at the
seams. Confused. Ravenous.

Tears well up in her eyes without warning, and she pictures the crooked walls of the Shrieking
Shack around him — those cold chains biting into his wrists.
It’s exactly like the book said. Every instinct tells her to go to him.

She gathers an unsteady breath, dropping her head into her hands. It’s far from irresistible, but it is
strong. Magnetizing. She finds herself wondering if he’s hurt himself. If he’s lost. If maybe she
could—

She stops herself, because the next word in her mind is ‘comfort,’ and it’s completely absurd in this
context.

There is nothing she can do for Malfoy. No, not now.

Not now, but — in the aftermath?

She stands from the sofa, joints stiff and legs unsteady. Her mouth tastes sour and her head is
throbbing, but she can’t go back to Gryffindor at this hour. Another run-in with a Prefect is the last
thing she needs.

However, as luck would have it, this is the Room of Requirement.

She shuts her eyes, inhaling deeply and imagining a place more suited to her needs. There’s a
noticeable shift in the atmosphere around her, the humidity of the greenhouse instantly dissipating.
Faint notes of jasmine manifest from all sides, and when she opens her eyes the room is much
changed.

Candles now line the long, stone walls, joining in with the illusion of the night sky above to
illuminate her surroundings. A shower cubicle made of marble and glass stands in the far corner,
folded towels and a change of clothes arranged on a table beside it.

But she wasn’t only thinking of herself.

In the room’s center, a large, frameless bed has been conjured — and not far from it, an apothecary
table, lined with all the ingredients needed for a healing salve. She has a sense he’s injured. Knows
without a doubt he’s exhausted.

And if she can get him to come back here when he’s — when it’s over…

If she can call him to her, somehow, then maybe he’ll let her help.

She feels responsible, after all. If he’s been unable to prepare the way he usually does for a
transformation, she’s sure it’s her fault.

Right now, though, nothing seems more appealing than a shower.

She spends at least an hour in it, thinking and overthinking, and the water never goes cold. Her
fingers prune and her mind wanders, faint sensations of Malfoy making her gut twist every now
and then.

And when she’s clean and dry, she forces herself to sleep a little more. She’ll be no help to him if
she can hardly keep her eyes open, and the remnants of the Wolfsbane lingering in her veins have
her practically sleepwalking.

By four, she’s awake again, and she sets to work on the healing salves.

Malfoy’s transformation must be nearly over by now. She wonders if it's not too early to try
reaching out to him.
Come to me, she urges, for whatever it might be worth. When it’s over, come to me. I’ll help you.
Come to me.

She knows they can’t speak across minds. Not in the way the wolf can. But she feels certain, with
enough focus — enough emphasis — he’ll feel that sense of urgency. He’ll feel it and come to find
her.

It’s nearly six in the morning before he does.

Dawn has already broken, she’s sure, even if the false night of the room prevents her from seeing
it.

She’s busy mixing together herbs when the doors finally open, candles flickering from the sudden
shift in the air.

She turns to face the threshold and nearly drops the bowl.

Malfoy is barely upright.

He clings to one of the iron door handles as it falls shut behind him, crumpled against it for
support. His hair is matted and filthy, pieces of leaves tangled in. His white shirt is torn — soaked
through.

And there’s blood smeared all over him. He must’ve fully transformed.

“Malfoy...”

She does drop the bowl. Doesn’t think, just follows her feet, rushing to his side and taking hold of
one of his arms before he can topple over.

“Bad one this time,” he murmurs, voice absolutely shredded. When he speaks, it sends a fresh bead
of blood leaking from his torn lips.

She starts to tow him away from the doors, feeling an immense soreness — countless aches and so
much exhaustion — wash over her through the bond. “This way. Come on. We should — we
should get you cleaned up.”

For once, Malfoy doesn’t resist.

He’s shaking in her grip, steps unsteady as she slowly works him across the room towards the
shower.

“What…happened to the aconite?” he rasps in fragments, bloodshot eyes sweeping tiredly over the
room.

“This is the Room of Requirement.” She drags open the shower door with her free hand. “And
right now, it’s not required.” Trying to prop him up against one of the shower walls proves
fruitless. He sinks to the floor the moment she lets go, sitting in a crumpled heap by the drain.

He’s not going to be able to do this on his own.

“Malfoy—”

“It’s so bright.”

The room is barely lit. She stands there and stares down at him for a moment, weighing her
options. He doesn’t seem fully conscious. Can’t be. Malfoy in his right mind would never let her
see him like this. Not with all his pride.

But then she remembers all the ways he’s seen her. The way he saw her yesterday.

Perhaps they’re beyond keeping up appearances.

She puffs out a breath — “Okay,” — then stretches up onto her toes to adjust the angle of the
shower head. When she turns it on, Malfoy doesn’t even seem to notice the warm water hitting the
tile around his bare feet. They’re cut up and bloody — she can feel the sting of it herself. He
must’ve lost his shoes.

“Malfoy?” she tries again. “I’m — I’m going to help you, alright?”

“Mm.” He’s slumped, forehead pressed to his knee.

“Okay.”

With another steadying breath, she crouches down beside him, water soaking into the fabric of her
leggings. So much for a fresh set of clothes.

She’s perhaps overly cautious to begin with, cupping her hands to catch the water before leaning
over him and letting it wet his hair. He barely reacts, shifting only slightly, face still pressed to his
leg.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” she says as she plucks twigs and leaves free of tangles, sifting her
fingers through the strands to loosen all the dried mud.

It takes a good fifteen minutes to rinse it all out.

“Malfoy, are you awake?”

“Mm.”

She pours a generous amount of shampoo into her palm. “Can you tilt your head back for me?”

He hesitates for a moment, and she wonders if he’s realizing what’s really going on. But then his
forehead detaches from his knee, head thunking back against the tile wall a little too roughly.

“Careful,” she winces, reaching out before she can look him in the eye and lose her nerve. She
massages the shampoo into his scalp as gently as she can, waiting until the lather is thick enough to
rinse.

“Look at you,” Malfoy murmurs when she leans back to get more water. There’s a strange, sleepy
sarcasm in his voice, and he looks surprisingly vulnerable with soap running down the sides of his
face. “Giving a dog a bath.”

She huffs, meeting his eyes for just a moment before telling him to shut them. “I don’t want it to
sting.”

He does as she says. Miraculously follows all her instructions as she finishes with his hair and
moves on to his blood-streaked face and torn up hands. There’s nothing to be done about the stains
in his shirt, but at the very least all the soap is leeching into the fabric.

By the time the water spilling into the drain runs clear, she’s as soaked through as he is, and he
seems to be coming to his senses. Bit by bit.
She towels off his hair the way one does a child's. Casts a drying charm on his clothes. And all the
while the strangest part about any of it is how not strange it feels.

Natural.

Even in his state, Malfoy seems to notice.

“Why are you okay with this?”

“What?” she grunts, taking on a great deal of his weight as she helps him to his feet. It’s an odd
way to phrase the question.

He just asks another one. “Why doesn’t it bother you?”

“Why doesn’t what bother me?”

He leans against her as she leads him towards the bed, her own wet clothes still dripping all over
the floor. “Helping me. Being kind to me.”

She huffs, trying not to think too hard about it. “Even you don’t deserve to be antagonized right
now, Malfoy.”

“Very Gryffindor of you,” he muses sleepily, tilting as she starts to lean him down over the
mattress. “No. Actually, that’s not Gryffindor. That’s almost—” He falls hard to the bed with a
muffled grunt, “Hufflepuff of you.”

He falls asleep less than ten seconds later, and she does what she can for him without once asking
herself why.

Her classes are forgotten. Eight o’clock comes and goes and she stays with him, applying salve to
each cut and bruise as she discovers them. The illusion of night in the room helps her pretend.

Pretend she’s not doing this for Malfoy. Pretend she’s not also somehow doing this for herself.

She pretends the night is endless and the morning brings no consequences.

“Granger?” his quiet rasp has her spinning on her heel to face the bed. It’s the first time he’s
woken up, purple-ringed eyes blinking sleepily at the ceiling.

“How are you feeling?”

He squints hard suddenly, hands dragging up from his sides to shield his eyes. “It’s so bright.” A
muffled groan. “Too bright.”

She glances around at the dimly flickering candles. Perhaps his senses are heightened.

“Nox,” she casts, and the flame of every candle dies instantly, leaving only the moon’s faint glow
from above.

It’s darker than she expected. She can barely see the outline of him.

“Better?”
His shadow shifts around, more grunts and groans to accompany it. “Fucking hell. Feel like a giant
used me for target practice.”

“I know.”

Her fingers ache just trying to apply the salve, carrying his pain and then some. She’s been on her
feet for hours.

More grunting and shifting. Her eyes slowly adjust to the dark, and she can faintly make out the
sudden look of incredulity on his face. “Did you…wash me?”

She fights an instinctive blush. “I had to. You were covered in dirt and blood.”

“What did you see?”

She scoffs hard at that. “I never took your clothes off, Malfoy. Give me a little credit.” Turning
back to the apothecary table, she struggles to tell the ingredients apart, leaning close to each bottle
and squinting.

Malfoy waits a long time before he speaks again, and this time all the sarcasm is gone.

“The blood was mine, right?”

A sinking feeling in her chest.

“It was mine, wasn’t it?” There’s just the faintest undercurrent in his voice. True fear.

She straightens, staring ahead at the wall. “I — I think so. It seemed like it.”

At this, he sighs, and when she turns back his eyes are closed again.

“Malfoy, I can’t work in the dark like this.”

“Then stop working,” he says. “I’m not on my deathbed here. I’ll be fine.”

Her stomach clenches and she falters, taking a small step back. “Are you…asking me to leave?”

He never answers that. Then again, she supposes he doesn’t have to. After a moment’s hesitation,
she sees the vague shadow of his arm smack at the empty space on the bed beside him.

That clenching shrinks away to nothing, leaving surprise in its wake.

“Why?” she asks in a breathy voice. A stupid question, but the only one she can think of.

Malfoy doesn’t appear to be overthinking it the way she is. “Sharing is caring, Granger. I’ve told
you that before.”

It would be smart to say no. To consider him healed enough at this point to be left alone and to take
her leave. To make simple excuses to professors for her absence and live the rest of the day like
normal.

But the soles of her feet are throbbing, and she already knows how comfortable the bed is.
Regardless of whether or not he’s in it.

She swallows back her inhibitions and sets the healing salve aside, gingerly slipping into the sheets
beside him. It’s difficult to repress the memory of the last time they laid like this, back home.
But this is different, isn’t it?

This is shared exhaustion and nothing more. She gathers a deep breath and lays her head back,
trying in vain to keep her thoughts from racing.

The darkness sinks in low and heavy, and for a good ten minutes she’s able to hold back from
saying anything.

But it’s inevitable. She can’t help it.

“We — we need to talk, don’t you think?”

From the sound of it, Malfoy’s rolled over onto his side, voice partially muffled by the pillow.
“About what?”

“About everything,” she says, like it’s obvious. It should be obvious. “About what’s happening to
us. We can’t keep stumbling around in the dark like this.”

A teasing lilt makes its way into his voice. “Are you being literal, or is that a metaphor?”

“Malfoy, you know what I’m talking about.”

He sighs heavily. “Go ahead, then, if you’re so talkative. Talk.”

“I — ” He makes it so difficult. Somehow always has her forgetting what she’s trying to say.
“Well, the wolf. I think we need to talk about it. Have you — how much have you studied about
bisects?”

Malfoy laughs, and it’s not exactly bitter. Almost as though he finds it truly funny. “That thing is
not a bisect, Granger.”

“What?”

He shifts almost angrily where he lays and the sheets tug underneath her. “I know what a bisect is,
and that is not a bisect.”

“But…” She’s tempted to sit up. “I thought—”

Malfoy cuts in sharply. “Bisects are supposed to be a part of your own consciousness, aren’t they?
A piece of you that you’re trying to repress? That thing is not a piece of me. It’s not me at all.”

“Malfoy…” She turns on her side to face him, finding his back to her. “Have you considered that
— that maybe this is exactly why it’s gotten so bad? Because you think of it that way?”

“It’s not me.” A dismissal.

“He said he was.” She thinks back to the wolf’s words in the corridor that night and tries not to
think any further. “He said you shared a soul.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond, leaving her watching the steady rise and fall of his shoulder with each
breath.

“I just — I think maybe… maybe if you weren’t trying to fight so hard against him, he wouldn’t be
trying so hard to take control.”

“Of course you’d say that.” There’s more anger packed into that single sentence than any of the
others he’s spoken to her. Sharp. Biting.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His voice is bitter as vinegar. “You want him. And he wants you. Everything would be so much
easier if I wasn’t in the way.”

Her brows furrow hard, mind scrambling to figure out just how exactly she’s made him so furious
so quickly.

Malfoy keeps at it. “If I stopped fighting, he could be with you all the time. Could do whatever he
wants with you. Could kiss you. Fuck you—”

She springs up onto her elbows, glaring at the hard angle of his side in the dark. “What is the
matter with you?”

He shifts again, outline of his shoulder adjusting. A rough shrug, possibly.

“What, you think I’d let it go that far?” she demands. “That I just want to throw myself at this
entity I know nothing about?”

“Aren’t you on a first name basis?” he snaps, and she can almost picture the twisted expression on
his face. “Have a sweet little nickname for him, don’t you? Stranger.”

“Malfoy—"

“Is that the name you’d call out when he fucks you? Stranger. Stranger.”

She lurches fully upright, twisting to face him. “Stop it! Stop. You’re talking about things you
don’t understand. Saying things you don’t even mean.” Her voice echoes back at her, loud and
harsh — and when she takes a breath, she’s forced to consider that this is hardly a fair time to
argue with him. “I…I know you’re hurt — I know the night’s been awful to you.” The words spill
out, increasingly rushed and instinctive. “But you have no right to take it out on me. Not when I’m
trying to help you, and not when you know the only person I’d let—”

It’s like skidding to a halt inches from a fatal drop. She just barely manages to rein herself in, not
even quite sure what she might’ve intended to say. Certainly nothing good.

“What?” Malfoy whispers, more a breath than anything.

She’s quick to lie back down, twisting to face the opposite wall and gathering the sheets in close.
“Nothing. Just —” She swallows thickly. “Just don’t take it out on me. I don’t think you
understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“I was going to thank you — eventually.” It’s a sharp turn down a safer street, but it is true, at the
very least. “I guess I should’ve done it sooner.”

“Thank me for what?”

“For — holding me off, I suppose. Restraining me. I clearly wasn’t in my right mind, and I can’t
imagine how much I would’ve hated myself if I’d been allowed to go any further. Thank you for
that.”

If she were telling the whole truth, she’d tell him she never expected such kindness from him.
Compassion like that. But it’s not what he needs to hear in this moment.

“I know now — how you must feel,” she says instead. “When you black out. When he takes over. I
don’t want that for you, and I don’t want it for me.” She tries to make her own feelings as
transparent as possible, just for a second, if only to ensure he knows she’s not lying. “So thank you.
For having enough self control for the both of us.”

A thick silence elapses, and there’s nothing between them but the uneven rhythms of their
breathing. Then, at long last, a huff from him.

“Self control?” The sheets tug again as he moves. “If we’re being honest here, Granger, mine is
practically spent.”

She feels a strange sensation leeching towards her from him. A nervous anticipation — the way
one feels before they jump from a cliff into water.

“What do you mean?”

The next breath he lets out is like a shudder. Disjointed. “I barely made it through that hour.”

She goes very still.

“I think the only thing that saved me was knowing how long it was supposed to last. There was an
end in sight. I just had to make it there.”

Hurt blossoms in her chest, unexpected. Is she really so unbearable? She throws herself at him, and
the only thing keeping him sane is the promise of an end to it? Her hand curls over her stomach,
warding off a sudden stabbing pain.

But what he says next doesn’t align. Doesn’t twist the knife.

It sends a wholly different sensation coursing through her veins.

“You were so wet, I could smell it.” The words are spoken through gritted teeth. A groan.
Something he doesn’t want to admit, but has to. “I could feel it on my thigh, soaking through.”

Color races to her cheeks, and she finds she’s never been so grateful for darkness.

“I knew it wasn’t real. I knew you were high out of your mind.”

She can feel pressure in her fingers — he must’ve gathered his into a fist.

“But the way you put your mouth on me and the way you fucking smelled, I—” He hisses out a
breath, forcing himself to say it. “I’ve never wanted to taste something so badly in my life.”

Sparks explode low in her stomach, and in the same moment her mouth starts to water. It’s not her
— she’s not thirsty. It’s him. Through the bond, she can feel him imagining it. Can feel him
craving it like he’s starving — a sensation so strong, it’s almost impossible to believe it’s real.

“Malfoy…” she blurts out, practically a gasp.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, still facing away. His tone is difficult to read. “Not what you wanted to
hear, I’m sure. But it’s the truth.”

She opens her mouth and finds no words to use.

In her silence, he continues. “We’ve said filthy things to each other before, haven't we? And yeah
— we’ve messed around a bit. But I know what reality is. I know what can happen and what can
never, never fucking happen. I know the difference.”

“Malfoy—”

“I can feel you doubting yourself, though. Thinking stupid things about what I want and what I
don’t want, and you should just know that you have no fucking idea how much I want certain
things.” He sounds so determined. So sure of himself for once that he’s almost infuriated by it.

Her pulse is thrown — staggered and struggling to right itself. She breathes out the first words she
can think of.

“What can never happen?"

“What?”

She swallows, blinking slowly at the wall and trying to comprehend. Trying to assess when and
how exactly they ended up here. “You said there are things that can never happen.”

Malfoy’s next breath sounds like a hiss. “Do you get some kind of sick pleasure from making me
say these things out loud?”

“No.” The hand on her stomach moves to her chest, trying to calm her pounding heart, and she
shakes her head even when she knows he can’t see it. “I just want to know what you mean.”

He scoffs. Rough. Furious. Like every word that follows should be inherently known to her. “I
mean that I can’t let go of my self control. I can’t drop my guard. No matter how much I feel like I
need to, I can’t have you. I can’t. I can’t kiss you without thinking I’m going to black out and lose
myself. I can’t let go. Can’t — can’t know what it’s like to fuck you. And I know — I fucking
know I’m not supposed to want to know what that’s like, but I do. I want to know what you feel
like on the inside. I want to know what you look like when you come. I want to hear you. And
sweet fucking Merlin, I want to taste you. I want it more than anything. And the joke’s on me,
because I don’t even know when I really started to want any of it.”

All sane thoughts vanish, dying one by one with each word he speaks. Replaced instead by a throb,
low in her stomach. Demanding and painful. Her toes curl, knees rubbing together. She feels like
she's under a spell.

“But none of that is safe,” Malfoy mutters furiously. “None of that can fucking happen. And please
trust me when I say I’ve accepted it. I know it can’t happen.”

Instinct is honesty.

Isn’t that what the wolf said?

And her instinct well and truly betrays her in this moment.

“According to who?”

Malfoy’s nerves seem to jolt at the words, and she can actively feel him trying to a quell a sense of
hope he doesn’t believe he should be having. “According to reality. To self-preservation.” There’s
a forced casualness to his tone. “We both know how dangerous it would be to give in to any of it.”

She’s leapt off the cliff now. Isn’t quite sure when she jumped, but knows for certain she’s in free
fall. There’s absolutely nothing to do but fall further. “Any of it?”

“Yeah,” he says, confused and uncertain. Wondering why she’d ever question it. “Any of it.”

“Even…just a taste?”

There are no second thoughts about it. With his words in her head and his presence just inches
away, it feels more right than anything she’s done in the last year of her life.

Her hand slides from her chest down to her stomach, hesitating only a moment before dipping
beneath her waistband and finding the heat between her legs.

Malfoy goes absolutely rigid behind her, body jerking against the mattress. He speaks through a
cut gasp. “What — what are you doing?”

“There’s always — ah — ” She’s more sensitive than she expected, ripples of warmth spreading
out across her nerve-endings with the slightest brush of her fingers. “There’s always a way to — to
bend certain rules.”

“Granger.” His voice is tight now. A warning. The sheets rustle as he turns around, facing her
back. “What are you doing?” But she feels every second of it as the blood flows through him,
tightening and hardening.

She’s somehow both in control and completely lost, every instinct urging her to turn and face him
— he’s right there — but every ounce of her conviction keeping her rooted to the spot.

“I think you have more self control than you realize,” she whispers in a shaky voice, trying to
maintain some modicum of restraint as she allows a finger to dip inside — just for a moment —
before retreating.

“Granger—”

She turns then, finally, screwing up her courage to look him in the eye. His gaze is searing — torn
between staring wide-eyed at her and shifting down between her legs.

“One taste can’t hurt,” she says in a quiet, steady voice, and with him watching every move, she
slides her hand carefully free of the waistband. Her finger glistens in the faint moonlight, air cold
against it as she raises her hand between them.

Malfoy releases a shuddering gasp of a breath, a surge of that thirst coursing across the tether
between them.

It takes every ounce of courage to say it, and when she does she keeps her eyes on his.

“Open your mouth.”

His lungs cave in around his next breath, pupils dilating. For a fraction of a second, she thinks it’s
the wolf, clawing his way through.

But she can see that grey beneath the black. Knows exactly who she’s looking at, somehow
without a doubt.

He opens his mouth without question. And that painful, all-encompassing throb grips at both of
them as she slides her finger across the warmth of his tongue.

It takes seconds.
Seconds after he closes his mouth around it, eyes falling shut — a groan vibrating deep in his
throat.

Seconds, and a blinding light explodes between them.

 Gifts / Consequences

The force of it knocks her onto her back, and for several long moments, there is nothing but light.
Glaring, pure white radiance that overtakes everything.

She struggles up onto her elbows somewhere near the foot of the bed, a hand thrust in front of her
eyes to guard against it.

“Granger?”

Malfoy’s voice, from somewhere beyond the light. Behind it. Perhaps consumed by it. In the
moment, it’s impossible to tell. Not until her eyes can adjust.

It gleams like the moon on a cloudless night — a beacon seemingly spawned from nowhere. And
little by little, the shape of it grows clear.

Then again, perhaps ‘shape’ is the wrong word entirely. It’s far too nebulous — this moving,
pulsating thing floating in front of her. Composed of a pure glow, curling wisps stretch out from the
apparition like countless arms. It expands and collapses as though it’s breathing, not so unlike a
sort of sea creature. Something she might expect to discover in the Black Lake’s deep.

And when her eyes follow one of the wisps, she finds it tethered to her. An arm of light, branching
out from the source to flow seamlessly into the palm of her hand.

The more seconds she wastes staring, the more she begins to wonder whether she is the source.

“What is this?” she breathes — a barely-there whisper meant for Malfoy, though he’s not the one
who answers.

Isn’t it beautiful?

She tenses at the sound of the wolf’s voice, sucking back a gasp, but in the same moment Malfoy
shifts. The sheets tug beneath her, and she can faintly see the outline of him beyond the brightness.

“Granger?” He calls it out now, as though she might be very far away.

“I’m here.”

“What...” He stops and starts again. “Did — did you do this?”

“No,” she breathes. And perhaps, in the absence of such all-consuming light, she might’ve
scrunched her nose up at the accusation.

But before it can cross her mind, Malfoy speaks again — and even if she couldn’t hear his fear, she
can certainly feel it.

“It’s attached to me.”

A sinking realization floods her. “And to me,” she whispers.

Don’t be frightened.

She feels Malfoy’s body go tense in tandem with hers. Now when the wolf speaks, his voice is
amplified. Echoing. Malfoy hears him too.
“You’re doing this?” he spits, shadow shifting again behind the light.

A little, curling peel of laughter. The wolf’s next words are an answer in more ways than one.

I am this.

With each syllable, the light pulses, cloudy wisps flexing like a muscle.

Look. Look and see what you’ve done. Look at the strength you’ve given me.

Hermione’s mouth runs dry, eyes growing numb to the sting the longer she stares. She feels
Malfoy’s stomach twist, piecing it together.

He is the light. The wolf. Though, she's not sure she can call him that anymore.

Nothing she's read on bisection has ever described something like this.

She feels the smooth brush of wood against her palm as Malfoy grabs hold of his wand. Feels him
take aim.

“Leave,” he demands in a stiff voice, trying to mask his fear.

Another laugh bleeds out of the light, low and almost disappointed.

One day, we shall understand each other. The brightness expands, as though taking a deep breath.
Until then—

And she has the distinct impression that, even without eyes, he's looking at her.

—it was lovely to taste a little life.

As though sucked into a black hole, the light abruptly collapses on itself, plunging them into
darkness.

Remnants of its nebulous shape are tattooed on her eyelids, flashing with every desperate blink as
she tries to drag the room back into focus.

Slowly — though it seems to take ages — Malfoy’s face grows more defined against the dark. She
can see his eyes, wide and staring, his lips slightly parted. His wand is still clutched in his left
hand, the right resting weak and open on his thigh, and the flesh of that palm is a flushed, angry
red. The place where the light connected.

Absently, Hermione glances down at her own hand, finding something similar. The skin tingles
and throbs like a faint reminder.

For nearly a full minute, they're eclipsed by silence.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely disturbs it, Malfoy says, “You were wrong.”

Her eyes flit up to find his gaze, half-lidded and heavy. “What?”

“One taste can hurt.”

A flush fans out across her face. “I—”

“It's getting stronger.” Malfoy slips his wand back into his pocket, starting to extricate himself
from the bed sheets. “We made it stronger.” And now there’s an angry stiffness to his voice. “A
consequence for our carelessness.”

“Carelessness…” she echoes quietly as he gets to his feet. “I wouldn't call it that.”

“What would you call it?” Phrased like a threat.

She doesn't answer — instead asks her own question, eyes fixed on her still-throbbing palm. “Have
you ever considered that we might be going about this the wrong way?”

“Is there a right way to go about a curse?” He's roughly yanking down the cuffs of his shirt, taking
the time to button them as though it somehow masks the way it's been torn to shreds.

She tries not to think too hard about what she says next — knows that otherwise she might not
manage to say it at all.

“Maybe this isn't a curse.”

When she glances sideways at him, he's stopped moving, pale eyes fixed on her. She swallows and
continues, despite the way her stomach flutters with nerves.

“If I’m honest, Malfoy…the longer I’m forced to exist around you, the less I find you so
intolerable.”

A sharp quirk of a blond brow at this. Nothing more.

Hermione clears her throat and decides to go about it like some sort of thesis. Argument and
counterargument. “Certainly, you’re rude and disagreeable, and it’s painfully clear you’ve been
spoon-fed all your life. What you’ve done to your arm is — repulsive.”

Malfoy’s nose scrunches up the way it always has when Harry manages to get under his skin, but
she charges forth.

“But you’re also brilliant.”

Something tips upside down in his stomach, as though he’s just fallen several stories. She feels his
breath catch and his brows twitch, and she looks away quickly so as not to be distracted.

“I’ve never seen anyone brew a potion like you. With so much reverence. I’d never really thought
about your hands before — but then I watched you with the Wolfsbane, and now I can’t stop
thinking about them. The way you cut so instinctively. Inherently gentle.” She huffs an almost
laugh. “A few months ago, if anyone had told me you could be gentle, I would’ve told them to visit
Madam Pomfrey.”

His foot scuffs on the floor — possibly taking a step towards her. Or a step away. She doesn’t want
to look.

“And here’s the funny thing.” Her fingers start to toy with the hem of the sheets, knowing she’s too
deep in to stop speaking, and yet simultaneously wishing she could. “Back in Second Year, when
Ron tried to hex you for what you called me, I thought that was the best anything could feel.
Someone willing to put themselves in harm’s way for me. Fight for me. I was walking on air.” She
stops and takes a breath, trying to phrase it correctly. “But then you said what you said — about
McLaggen. You were…” She almost laughs again. “You were so angry that you didn’t get to do
that. And for me, of all people. I’d lie if anyone asked, but the truth is that’s the closest I think I’ve
ever come to romance.”
Malfoy feels like he’s weighted down to the earth. Like he couldn’t move or speak if he wanted to.

“And you didn’t touch me yesterday. Not even with every opportunity. I figure that’s a sort of
decency you have to been born with — and imagine my surprise, finding it in you.” She clears her
throat again and forces herself at last to look up at him, his face pale, expression almost winded. “I
don’t know, Malfoy. The truth of it is I don’t really think I mind being your paramour.”

He breathes in and says nothing for far too long. All she feels is the pulse in his chest, climbing
slowly from the tick of a clock to a thundering like the hooves of a cavalry.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he manages finally.

“Why?”

“Because I might believe you.”

Her own pulse jumps like she’s tripped and missed a step.

“Well. I’ve said it,” she murmurs, trying to sound matter-of-fact. She rises up off the foot of the
bed, smoothing her skirt. “And so far the world hasn't come crashing down at our feet.” It takes
quite a bit of it, but somehow she musters the courage to step in close, drenching herself in his tall
shadow. “At this point Malfoy, you have a choice to make. You say pretty things in the heat of the
moment — instinctive things that part of me believes you mean. But if we're to sort this out
together, I'll need to know where you stand. I'll need to know—”

She stops herself — one last chance to backtrack. One she doesn't take.

“I suppose I'll need to know whether you think that taste was worth it.”

Malfoy breathes out slowly — a gust of warmth against her face.

“If you decide that it was, I won't be hard to find. We can study the books I have. Try to learn this
together.” She turns from him then, heading towards the door, pausing only once to speak over her
shoulder. “I've given up resisting just for the sake of it. But I'm only half the equation.”

When the doors seal away the room behind her, she feels like she takes her first deep breath in
days.

Katie Bell wakes up halfway through the week, but her punishment never comes.

She waits for days, expecting to be tapped on the shoulder every time she steps past McGonagall’s
desk on the way out of class. Expects an owl from Dumbledore at the very least.

And yet, it seems her punishment will be the self-inflicted sort.

She can’t help glancing Katie’s way each morning at breakfast, and every now and again, Katie
glances back at her. Each time, there’s a moment of confused recognition in her gaze — just a
flicker of uncertainty before Hermione averts her eyes and Katie seems to shake herself out of it.
And each time, it sets her nerves alight.

Memory charms, as she’s proven herself, are anything but foolproof.

To make matters worse, Harry can’t seem to stop himself from asking her if she remembers who
cursed her — each and every morning, without fail. Katie's eyes go a little unfocused, brows
furrowing — once they even flitted to Hermione — but by the grace of god, she never seems able
to dredge anything up.

On Wednesday morning, though, Harry well and truly pulls the rug out from under her.

“Hermione?” he asks, tone mild enough as he sips pumpkin juice — but it’s fairly clear he’s waited
for most of the other Gryffindors to vacate the table. For Lavender to tow Ron away, just a few
moments ago.

There’s only Neville left now, reading the Daily Prophet to her left.

“Mm?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you…” And he pulls the Marauder’s Map out of his pocket.

It takes every ounce of self control not to drop her fork. To raise her eyebrows and play dumb. She
can feel Neville’s gaze straying to them at her side.

“It’s just that I’ve noticed you disappearing off the map. All of Sunday you were gone.” He lowers
his voice. “I wasn’t sure how to ask, but — well, are you following Malfoy?”

There’s nothing she can do to prevent the color from flying to her cheeks, heart starting to pound.
Her eyes almost instinctively attempt to jolt towards the Slytherin table, but she pins them to Harry
by sheer force of will. “I—”

“Oh, that’s my fault, Harry,” says Neville suddenly, coughing out a shy laugh. She whips her head
to look at him — a desperate grasp for a lifeline — and he’s setting the Prophet down. “I asked her
to tutor me. Defensive spells and such. A bit of a Dumbledore’s Army extension course, really.”

For a moment, she can only stare at him, and when he glances away from Harry to look at her,
there’s a deep set of confidence in his eyes. A glance imbued with trust.

She blinks and looks to Harry, who blinks in turn and looks to her, brows lifting high over the rims
of his glasses.

“Oh?” he says, genuinely surprised.

It takes a moment, but she gets herself to shrug. “I have the time.”

Harry clears his throat, leaning back a little and reconsidering the map in his hands. “Oh. I —
alright. I just thought—”

She defaults to the safety of being branded as a know-it-all. “More than one Room of Requirement
can be in use at a time, Harry. Just because Malfoy isn’t on the map doesn’t mean I’m with him.
Why on earth would I be?”

Harry goes a little pink to match her own burning cheeks, quickly tucking the map away. “I’m
sorry. You’re right. I — Malfoy’s got me over-analyzing things. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

Shortly after that, he starts making excuses about a Transfiguration essay that needs finishing, and
within minutes he’s gone too.
She doesn’t hesitate, twisting to face Neville head-on and reaching for his hand. “Thank you.”

He smiles a little sheepishly, squeezing back. “Don’t mention it.”

“I — god, you’ve just saved me.” She sweeps her free hand through her curls, dragging them out of
her face. “How did you know he hadn’t seen you somewhere else on the map?”

He only shrugs, noncommittal. “I didn’t. But I figured. No one looks for me.”

The smile slips off her face. “That’s not true.”

Another shrug. His own smile hasn’t faded, but it’s tipped a bit at the corners. “I don’t mind. But
— maybe in the future, if you’re planning to meet Malfoy…” He trails off, as though realizing the
connotation, and his face darkens a bit. “Well, just — erm — maybe let me know? I can try to look
after the Wolfsbane at the same time.”

She huffs and squeezes his hand once more before letting go. “I promise I’ll tell you if he ever
makes up his mind.”

One week from the moment that blinding light unfurled, perhaps down to the minute, the wolf
claws his way back inside her head.

In the middle of an exam.

Your handwriting is beautiful.

The quill zigzags across the page, striking out an answer with a messy splotch of ink. She glances
up quickly at Professor Binns, but his ghostly form is snoozing where he hovers a few inches
above his desk.

It’s still far too risky to speak aloud.

Sliding her exam to the side, she takes a blank sheet of parchment from her bag.

I have nothing to say to you, she scribbles in that handwriting he likes so much.

A sad little click of the tongue amongst her wayward thoughts. Have I done something?

She scoffs a little too loudly, and when Seamus glances sideways at her she has to play it off as
irritation at another ink splotch.

Don’t pretend you don’t know, she scratches out, hoping her tone is evident in the angry slant of
the words.

Oh, tell me you’re not upset about my little trick with the Wolfsbane…

Little trick? The tip of her quill nearly snaps, she presses so hard.

I didn’t mean to upset you. I was trying to help. Somehow, he sounds surprised at her anger.

By taking away my free will?

Now he sounds insulted. I did no such thing.

You practically poisoned me! You tried to drug me into submi—

He doesn’t let her finish writing the sentence, low voice suddenly charged and biting. I added
nothing but enticement to the Wolfsbane. To encourage you to drink it. Its effects on you are its
own. Your own. Or did no one tell you?

She stares down at the page for a long moment, tossing the words around in her head and trying to
understand.

Tell me what?

He softens. Wolfsbane, when taken by a paramour, is nothing but liquid courage.

The quill gets twisted between her fingers as she waits for him to elaborate.

It encourages you to chase what you already want.

A lump forms in her throat.

Hearing the words somehow makes their truth unavoidable, and the longer she stares at the empty
space on the parchment, the more she realizes that no amount of furious, scrawled denials will
make it any less true.

And so, in desperation, her mind leaps for the next available accusation it can find.

You tried to push him aside.

Who? asks the wolf softly. Almost indulgent.

Malfoy. It doesn’t matter if I wanted it or not. He didn’t.

A rough, derisive laugh spans the space between her ears, making the hair on the back of her neck
stand up. You’re defending the way he resists you? Like a fool. Hermione, surely you can see the
disrespect. The wretched thanklessness. You are a paramour. A gift he refuses to accept. It turns
my stomach.

She tries not to allow herself to the linger on the sound of her name. It isn’t Malfoy’s voice. Not
really. And yet it’s distracting all the same. As is the word ‘gift.’

I think he’s only resisting you.

The wolf mulls this over for a long moment. Long enough that she’s forced to glance back at the
exam she’s forgotten about, jotting down an answer to quell her racing thoughts.

Then, finally —

I have tried to earn his trust. But how can I when he refuses to listen?

She blinks and takes a slow breath, momentarily stunned by the passive tone. The near gentleness
of it. It's the closest she thinks any of them have come yet to getting somewhere.

“I — I’ll ask him to,” she whispers aloud without thinking, forgetting where she is. She hunches
over and disguises it quickly with a cough, writing down the rest.
I could ask him for you. Try, at least. I think it would be a good thing.

A moment’s pause.

You would do that for me? He sounds enchanted by the prospect. How lovely you are, Hermione.

I’ll try, she stresses, struggling to ignore the way her spine curls at the sound. And she’s forced to
say it again, this time on paper. If he makes up his mind.

He will, the wolf practically purrs. I promise you he will.

 Risks / Wagers

Nearly a week passes in relative silence.

She devotes herself to her studies the way she used to — her only means of distraction as the days
slip by. But trying not to overthink it is an uphill battle, and by the morning of February 1st, she’s
decided Malfoy wants nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with her.

Except it’s also the morning when — as she stretches and yawns, watching the early light creep
through the gap in her bed curtains — she feels the warmth of a hand glide across her own.

She goes very still, glancing down at it. The same hand the light scorched what now feels like ages
ago.

By this point, the occasional brush of a hand has become commonplace. She’s used to feeling
Malfoy run his fingers through his hair — scratch an itch or knead the tension in the back of his
neck. Mundane little movements that can’t be helped and don’t mean anything.

This is...not like that.

The press of warm flesh doesn’t fade the way it usually does after a moment. She can feel the
weight of his hand against her palm, unmistakable.

And when his fingers slip between hers — interlocking, lacing through — the breath catches in her
throat.

She waits several long moments for him to snatch it away. To come to his senses and change his
mind, realizing the gravity of such a decision. After all, she's still having trouble digesting it
herself.

But the weight remains.

And as the warmth of his skin slowly leeches into hers, somehow anything but imaginary, she
twists carefully onto her side. Enough to reach over with her other arm, free hand slipping into the
space where she feels his. Interlocking with her own fingers.

Across the bond, Malfoy's pulse stutters with a sinking certainty — and collectively, though they
lie in separate beds, they seem to accept this as their first step over a threshold. One they can't turn
back from.

It's not so bad, she thinks. His hand in hers.

She assumes he'll be waiting for her in the Room of Requirement.

It doesn't seem like a coincidence that he's chosen a Saturday to make her aware of his decision.

Bag charmed with an Undetectable Extension, she's packed every book that's remotely relevant —
even The Will & The Way — and she'll admit she's dressed a bit nicer than usual. But to avoid any
further suspicion from Harry, she lingers in the Gryffindor common room for most of the morning.
Ron is attempting to teach Lavender how to play chess, though she appears far more interested in
draping herself across his lap. Strange how it doesn't bother her to look anymore. Next to her, in
the armchair, Harry is predictably caught up in that copy of Advanced Potion Making. She thinks
this might be one of the few instances in which he's reading and she's not. She only sips her tea,
surveying the common room.

Neville is nowhere to be found.

"Harry — is Neville still asleep?" she asks. If he's offering, she'll happily let him serve as her
excuse.

But Harry shakes his head, eyes narrowed at the page — distracted. "Mm-mm."

"Any idea where he is?"

"No." He tears his gaze away to look at her. "Why?"

A forced yawn for casualness. "We're supposed to have another lesson today." She waits until he
becomes distracted by the book again before asking. "Could I borrow the Marauder's Map? Save
me a trip searching the Castle."

"Mm?"

"The Marauder's Map — could I borrow it?"

"Sure. Yeah. 'S in my trunk."

She hides a smile against her teacup, finishing it off before heading upstairs to the boys' dormitory.
But it's almost staggering how strong the urge is to steal it once it's in her hands. Kneeling by his
trunk, she runs her fingertips over the blank, weathered parchment, stunned that she actually
spends a moment considering it.

He'd know it was you, she tells herself. Practically a scolding.

She'll check for Neville and put it back, end of story.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The ink bleeds onto the map in its delicate patterns, and she spreads it out on the foot of Harry's
bed.

Turns out it's a bit of a wasted effort. She finds Neville in a matter of seconds, out in the
Greenhouses — wonders why she bothered checking at all. But just before folding it up again, she
thinks to check for Malfoy.

And after five minutes, her eyes tired of searching, she decides she was right. He's already vanished
off the map.

"Mischief managed."

She forces herself to tuck it back exactly where she got it.

"Find him?" asks Harry as she passes him on her way out, nose still buried in the book.

She shrugs, "Greenhouses."

He glances up to toss her a wry smile. "Well I could've told you that."

"I know. Figures. See you later, Harry."

Ron doesn't look up from the chessboard.

It's warmer than expected for February on the Grounds. Birds flee from their perches above the
stone archway as she steps out onto the path, and she stops when the breeze brushes up against her.
Allows herself a moment to take in the fresh air.

This year's been strange to her. She hasn't had the chance to experience Hogwarts the way she did
in previous terms. Wander the Grounds. Study on the hillside by the Black Lake.

The thought of it almost makes her laugh, because somehow this whole ordeal with Malfoy has
taken more out of her than any of Harry's past predicaments.

Perhaps this is what it feels like to be a chosen one.

She huffs and continues forward, breeze suddenly feeling colder than before. The map showed
Neville in Greenhouse Four. Its door creaks as she rounds the corner, and she thinks for a moment
that he's on his way out. But in turning that corner, she finds someone on their way in instead.

Adrian is dressed appropriately for a Saturday morning — joggers and a long sleeve, once more
looking as though he's just tumbled out of bed. She recognizes him from the back purely by the
way those dark blond locks stick up, his pace sleepy and languid as he steps through the
Greenhouse door.

Her foolish mind doesn't put it together as quickly as it ought to. At least not quickly enough to
prevent her from stepping up to the window after the door closes behind him.

Through the thin film of dust on the glass, she can see Neville leaning over a matured growth of
Venomous Tentacula, one gloved finger lifting a lone, writhing stem.

"Longbottom," murmurs Adrian, voice floating through the open roof ventilators above.

Neville jumps — startled — and spins to face him. Shortly thereafter, his eyes flood with relief and
his cheeks flush with blood, a faint smile curving at his lips. "Hi," he says, bracing his hands on the
edge of the Tentacula enclosure behind him.

"I think you've studied that plant enough to sketch it with your eyes closed."

Neville looks down and then up again, sort of tripping over his words. "Well, that's — that's the
thing about plants. They're always changing." He shrugs, shoulders drowning in his oversized
jumper. "That's why I like them."

It's occurring to her — slowly, the way a kettle rolls to a boil. And then all at once as Adrian closes
the distance between them in just a few long strides.

She's never seen something so contradictory. So much fervor in such a gentle touch. Adrian takes
Neville's face in both hands, long fingers spanning across his cheeks — and for a moment he does
nothing more than graze the tip of Neville's nose with his own.

Neville's eyes flutter shut, cheeks flaming, and she knows without a doubt that she should not be
watching. Can feel the color rising in her own cheeks just seeing the way Adrian looks at him.

And yet she can't find it in her to look away.

"Where have you been?" Adrian asks, just a low murmur — their lips inches apart. His thumbs
draw slow lines down Neville's face, hands slipping away until they bracket his chin instead. "I can
never seem to find you.''

Neville shrugs again, but his hands are shaking where they grip the enclosure behind him. "I —
I'm right here."

A hum at the back of Adrian's throat. With his nose, he caresses him again, and then — as his eyes
fall shut — he tilts up Neville's chin and takes his bottom lip in his mouth.

Neville gasps — and damn her, so does she.

All at once, two pairs of wide eyes snap sideways and lock on her, long before she has the chance
to duck away. She gasps again — and some instinct has her trying to make a run for it, fleeing to
the gravel path that leads back to the Castle. Her heart pounds, cheeks flaming as she hears the
Greenhouse door fly open behind her.

"Granger!" Adrian. "Granger, what the fuck?" His shoes crunch in the gravel, catching up quickly.

When she forces herself to turn and face him, she's got her hands up like she's at wand point. "I'm
sorry. I'm so sorry."

Neville is there, just past Adrian's tall shoulder, looking nervous and embarrassed.

Adrian only looks angry. "I didn't know voyeurism was your thing," he snaps, and before she can
open her mouth — "Why the fuck are you following us?"

"I swear I wasn't following you. I — look, I didn't even know about... " One hand gestures limply
towards the Greenhouse.

"Oh?" Adrian scoffs. "So then this is just some massive coincidence?"

"No, it's not a coincidence. I came looking for Neville. I saw him on the —" All too late, she
realizes she can't properly explain it to him. Not without—

"He knows about the map, Hermione," Neville speaks up at last, awkwardly rubbing at his arm.
Her eyes pop a little wide with surprise, flitting quickly to him and then back.

Adrian's brows jolt up in a very Slytherin sort of way. A challenge.

She tries to mask her surprise with defensiveness. "Well. Then you know why I came to find him."
She crosses her arms and forms a stronger stance. "Harry's suspicious. I can't vanish off the map
without some excuse."

"And Longbottom's your excuse?" he demands, doubtful. More than once, she sees his hand twitch
towards his pocket where his wand is.

"He offered."
Neville steps up behind him, timid hand reaching out to grasp at Adrian's sleeve. "I did," he says.

It's a gradual softening — mild, and only really noticeable in the way Adrian's shoulders slump.
But seeing it has a similar effect on her own tension, and she drops her arms back at her sides. One
touch from Neville, and it would seem Adrian is tamed.

She glances over Adrian's shoulder at him and sees a writhing uncertainty in his eyes. Lingering on
the subject will only make him more nervous.

She clears her throat. "I was planning to study with Malfoy this morning, but I understand if the
timing isn't ideal."

"I—" His fingers twist in the fabric of Adrian's sleeve, perhaps unconsciously. "No, it's — that
should be fine. I wanted to check on the Wolfsbane today."

"Thank you." Her smile is meant to reassure him, though she's not certain it works. But when she
turns on her heel to leave them be, it occurs to her. "Oh." And she turns back to look at Adrian, his
eyes still tight. Wary. "You should probably be careful." She points once more towards the
Greenhouses. "Harry can see you on the map too."

Whatever slack worked its way into his posture snaps tight like a coil. "Why should I care what
Potter thinks?"

She raises an eyebrow at him. "You seem to care what I think."

Adrian opens his mouth and shuts it, eyes flickering.

"Not that you should," she murmurs. Then, with a final glance at Neville's stricken face, she makes
her way back into the Castle, realizing with every step how evident this should've been to her.

Be good to him, she thinks, wishing she had the courage to say it to Adrian's face. Please, please be
good to him.

She stares at the blank wall entrance to the Room of Requirement for a good ten minutes, trying to
sort out exactly what she wants.

In the past, it was simpler. Back when she thought they both wanted the same things. Now she's
not sure whether her intentions might mix up the contents of the room, and god — she can't even
imagine her humiliation should a bed appear where a table ought to be. Malfoy taking her hand
means nothing more than a willingness to move forward. To learn. She continues to remind herself
of that.

In the end, she settles on wanting to speak to him. Mundane — and true enough to grant her
entrance.

Swirls of iron seep through the dust, forming that tall set of doors, and she takes one steadying
breath before allowing herself to step inside.

It's brighter than she expected. Wall sconces have replaced the makeshift candlelight she
remembers from before, and the bed is notably missing. In its place, the room centers around a
long, polished cherry wood study table. Books are spread open all across its length, rolls of
parchment splayed out with notes scrawled top to bottom.

Malfoy is — well, very busy by the looks of it.

Out of his chair, he leans intently over the parchment he's currently working on, gaze jutting back
and forth from the text he's reading to his quill. It's a distracting image. His hair hangs low over his
eyes, mussed like he's run his fingers through it. Both sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, the black
edge of the Dark Mark flashing like a threat when he reaches out to turn the page.

She studies the angle of his jaw for the near half-minute it takes him to notice her presence.

"Oh," is all he says, abruptly straightening up. Ink drips from the quill in his hand onto the edge of
the table.

A sudden wash of nerves hits her in the face of eye contact. She clears her throat and gestures to the
books. "I see you're already in the thick of it."

"Yes, well — you were taking ages." He drops the quill back into the well, shoving stained hands
into his pockets.

She approaches the table, letting her bag slip from her shoulder onto the chair opposite. Malfoy
knows nothing about the Marauders' Map, but she figures it's only the first of many secrets she'll
have to reveal to him. "Harry has a charmed map of Hogwarts. It shows him where people are in
the Castle."

Malfoy's brows pinch together, and she busies herself pulling the books from her bag and stacking
them on the table as she continues.

"When you're in the Room of Requirement, you vanish from the map — and he happened to notice
me disappearing at all the same times as you."

His face blanches, a cut breath bursting from his lips. "Fuck."

"Lucky for us, Neville was willing to cover for me. Harry now believes I'm tutoring him, and
somehow the timing's just a coincidence."

Malfoy's nose scrunches up the longer he thinks about it. "No, hang on." He yanks a hand out of
his pocket to gesture in front of him. "What — why the fuck is Potter watching me on his
enchanted stalking map?"

At this, she purses her lips and raises an eyebrow, tugging the last book from the bottom of the bag.
"Harry's suspicious of you on a good day. And I don't think this entire year has been particularly
good for your behavioral patterns, has it?"

His eyes narrow like he doesn't want to accept that answer, but after a moment he slumps down into
the chair and puffs out a sigh. "Perfect. Add it to my trove of problems, then."

"Your trove?"

He gives her a sour look, but there's a strange sensation — something almost like solace — that
rushes to accompany it beneath the surface. "Our trove," he amends in a quieter voice, glancing
down at the table.

She tries not to let her anticipation flare up to match. "So." Collapsing into the other chair, she
surveys the table. "You've accepted it, then?"

Malfoy leans back and folds his arms. "Accepted is a strong word."

"You want to move forward. Learn about this, rather than fight it. Yes?"

A long pause before he answers. "Yes."

She figures it's best to confront all the possibilities at once. "And you realize what that means?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

Malfoy scoffs. "Yes, I'm sure. Are you?"

"I—"

"Do you realize what it means?" He crosses his leg lazily, ankle on the knee.

In favor of speaking, she raises both eyebrows. She's fairly certain she has a better idea of it than he
does.

"Going forward with this means no future for you that doesn't involve me," he says, and briefly his
tone reminds her of the way he used to speak in younger years. The way he would threaten Harry,
warping the words to sound as awful as possible. "No lovers. No children. No husband."

"How can you be so sure?" It's a slip of the tongue. An unconscious response to the sudden,
inexplicable image that pops into her head.

Of herself in a white dress, and someone with the most vicious smirk she's ever known standing at
the other end of the aisle.

Except, lucky for her, Malfoy doesn't take it that way, and the image fades to nothing as he huffs a
dark laugh. "Adrian never told you what happened to his mother, did he?"

Her brow furrows. "I know she was bitten by a patient when she worked at—"

"No." Another harsh laugh. "Not the story they spoon-fed to the Daily Prophet, trying to spare
their family reputation. The truth. The one with all the gory details. He told me once."

Trepidation weaves its way through her gut at the look on his face. "No," she admits. "No, I don't
know it."

Malfoy leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. "Well, curl up
nice and cozy then, Granger. I'll tell you a scary story."

She hedges. "Shouldn't Adrian be the one to—"

"No, you should know. After all, he only told me so I wouldn't do anything stupid, and I think
we've established we're both capable of doing stupid things." He doesn't give her a choice before
he launches into it. "Adrian was two, I think he said. Maybe three years old when she was bitten.
And evidently the transformations were never the problem. His mother would stay at St. Mungo's
in a padded cell for the full moon. The flesh and blood wolf wasn't the danger. No." He scoffs.
"The problem, as it turned out, was that her paramour wasn't her husband."
Hermione's eyes widen a little, and Malfoy appears egged on by it.

"It was some other man. A doctor at the hospital, maybe. I don't remember. And that instinct —
wolf, bisect, whatever you want to call it — well, it didn't like that very much. It saw Adrian's
father as an obstacle. Something keeping it from the other half of its soul. Barely a year passed
before it couldn't take it anymore. Poor little Adrian was at the dinner table when the instinct took
over — and his mother slit his father's throat over the kitchen sink. Clinically, the way he puts it.
Nice and neat. Hardly any mess at all."

Her breath catches, stomach twisting, but Malfoy shrugs like it's the most casual thing in the world.

"When his mother came to her senses, she was horrified. She took Adrian and fled, meeting with
her paramour in secret. Evidently, they tried to rip apart the bond. Same way you and I did. Only
Adrian says they actually succeeded — if you can call it that."

She can't help herself. "What happened?"

"Well, let's just say Adrian witnessed two deaths in the same night. The ritual ripped the poor
bastard to pieces."

Hermione opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

Malfoy's tone is much more sober now. No longer playful. "But this was her paramour. She didn't
want him gone, she only wanted to separate them. And seeing her other half bleeding out all over
the floor drove her mad." He shrugs again, limply. "She's been in the permanent ward ever since."
There's a moment of shrill silence, and then his eyes meet hers. Sharp. "So yeah, Granger. I think I
know the risks better than you. Both of moving forward and continuing to resist.”

She tries to curb the way her pulse accelerates, knowing he can feel it. Rushes to find her own
angle — something less vulnerable.

“Then you know what a risk you’re taking by avoiding him.”

A spark of uncertainty from Malfoy’s side of the bond. “What?”

“It’s dangerous to try to push away the instinct entirely." She traces the spine of one of the books in
the stack, just to give her fingers something to do. "He says you've been fighting him from the
moment he came into existence. It's a risk."

Malfoy takes a long moment to process her words, then abruptly lurches to his feet, leaning over
the table towards her. "He says?"

She gathers a deep breath, bracing herself for the impending storm. "Yes. He speaks to me on his
own sometimes."

There's only a few seconds between her words and the loud slam of his palms hitting the table.
"Excellent!" he shouts. "That's perfect — my own subconscious conspiring against me and I'm not
even there to witness it."

She jumps at the chance. "So you accept that he's a part of you?"

In one fell swoop, Malfoy knocks her stack of books from the table, angrily spinning on his heel
and threading his fingers into his hair. "Should've fucking known he'd find a way inside your head.
Sooner or later it was bound to—"
"But he wants to talk to you." She leaps to her feet in earnest. "He doesn't want to shut you out.
Everything he's done, I think he's done to try to bring us closer together."

"You're as naive as a child if you think that's all he wants," Malfoy seethes, starting to pace.

A gentle purr echoes at the back of her mind. Shall I intervene?

"Yes," she says instantly. "Yes, talk to both of us. Don't leave him in the dark."

Malfoy's furious eyes lock on her, incredulous. "You can't be serious—"

I'm not conspiring against you.

His whole body jerks as though he's been shocked. "Get away," he demands.

I'm not. I simply disapprove of your methods.

"My methods? My fucking methods?" Malfoy is still pacing, his gaze now directed somewhere
towards the ceiling, as though the wolf is hovering above him. "Methods of what? Existing?"

Of pursuing your paramour.

He splutters and brandishes a hand in the air. "Oh, forgive me for not drugging her on day one."

Hermione sinks slowly back down into her chair, wanting to interject and yet simultaneously
finding this moment to be necessary. For the sake of progress.

I merely made the Wolfsbane more appealing. The rest was natural.

"Natural?" Malfoy spits.

Yes. As I explained to Hermione, Wolfsbane only illuminates the desired path.

He goes rigid, eyes zeroing in on her the way a wand finds its target. "On a first name basis now,
are you?"

She opens her mouth, but the wolf speaks first.

Don't you see? Such possessiveness. Your jealousy should be all the proof you need. You covet her.
But you're too frightened to act.

Malfoy scoffs, and yet despite that, she can feel the warmth blooming in his cheeks. "There's a
difference between jealousy and suspicion."

There is, the wolf concedes. But not in your case.

"Damn you, just stay out of my head." With a growl of frustration, Malfoy buries his face in his
palms and collapses back into his chair. She can feel the heat of his breath against his own skin.
Can feel his violent uncertainty in the way his fingers shake.

"Malfoy..." she says in a quiet, cautious voice. "I don't think he means to hurt you."

He huffs and peels his hands back from his face, not looking at her. Staring past her at the wall,
something like exhaustion in his eyes. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one he wants to remove
from the equation."
The sound the wolf makes is almost a sigh. We are one in the same. I cannot remove myself from
the equation. What will it take for you to trust me?

Malfoy blinks tiredly at the wall. "I'd sooner trust Weasley."

"Malfoy—"

The wolf's deep voice drowns her out. What would you say to a wager?

Very little by way of reaction from Malfoy. Only a quirked brow.

I can prove to you that our needs are the same. That our aspirations align. Follow my guidance —
only this once — and reap the benefits.

Malfoy laughs darkly. "The moment you have me where you want me, you'll shut me out."

I won't be involved.

She feels the flicker of suspicion — sees it reflected in those gray eyes.

I swear it. Just this once, Malfoy, I'll give over everything to you.

That suspicion bleeds and spreads, his eyes narrowing. "In exchange for what?"

You perform a ritual of my choosing.

Malfoy scoffs again, loudly. "Right."

I won't interfere. The bond must be nurtured, and I am willing to forfeit my own involvement to see
to it. Just this once.

"As if I could—"

"Which ritual?" Hermione blurts, surprised by the sound of her own voice. Malfoy shoots her an
incredulous look.

You'll find it on the floor.

She glances down at her side. Her stack of scattered books.

Page 14, The Will & The Way. A black ritual entitled Reverence.
 Velvet / Glass

Malfoy watches wordlessly for the half-minute it takes her to lift the book from the floor, turn to
page 14 and read through the ritual — twice, just to be sure her eyes aren’t playing tricks.

With each word, color bleeds into her cheeks, and she knows he can see.

Reverence

- A ritual to honor the flesh -

Incantation

By night’s sure light

Neath gods and stars
Lay waste to walls
Of cloth and stone

With blade of glass

Cleave flesh’s gate
And rest thine hand
Where you are known

Blood to beat
And beat to blood
Eye to eye
A feast, a flood

“What is it?” Malfoy demands at last, his gaze sharp.

“I’m not sure.” It’s the truth. She has a hunch when it comes to ‘walls of cloth’ — the reason for
her blush — but as a whole, it’s far too cryptic.

A gentle ritual, really, explains the wolf. Almost a meditation. The aim is to find solace in one
another. To see through each other's eyes.

In her periphery, Hermione watches Malfoy’s face scrunch up with doubt.

It encourages you to feel safe — and familiar, thus strengthening the bond.

“Familiar?” Malfoy scoffs. “We’ve been in classes together for six years.”

This is familiarity of another sort.

Hermione’s stomach flutters, her hunch confirmed, and Malfoy must feel the shift in her through
the bond. “Give it to me,” he snaps, holding out an expectant hand — but when she passes the
book to him, he shuts it. Turns it over and squints at its binding. “What book is this?”

“The Will & The Way.”

“Yes, thank you, I know how to read. Where did you get it?”

She hesitates. “A…friend gave it to me.”

If the look on his face is anything to go by, this answer will not suffice. She sighs. Is there really a
point in keeping secrets from here on out? Half of him is already in her head.

“Tonks.”

A flicker of what looks like forced distaste. A habit, maybe. “My cousin?” Then he huffs and
shakes his head. “Of course.”

“She’s been very helpful.”

His gaze flits down, tracing the letters of the title one more time before he yanks it back open to
page 14 — and his tone reeks of bitterness. “Funny how she never reached out to me.”

“I never told her it was you.”

At first, she thinks his eyes widen at her words, brows lifting to his hairline. But then she sees the
way his pupils jolt back and forth — feels embarrassment creep across their tethered senses — and
she knows he’s reading.

A moment later, he tosses the book onto the table — sharply, like it’s tainted with disease — and
looks straight up at the ceiling. “You can’t be serious.”

Quite serious, murmurs the wolf.

Another scoff, and Malfoy's gaze finds her. "You can read between the lines, can't you? You know
what it's asking."

She swallows the sudden, nervous knot in her throat. "I think so, yes."

"And you're — what? Fine with that?" He leans forward, abruptly grasping a handful of his own
scattered notes. "I've been reading for hours, Granger. And everything I've found on bisects tells
me they're dangerous. They're like parasites. They want control, and nothing—"

"That's not what I've read." She sits forward to match him. "I've read that they're an extension of
you. Maybe even a piece of me as well. A bisect is created when the host resists their own
instincts. It's a disconnect, Malfoy. It's—"

"And you got this where? From that?" He juts his chin towards The Will & The Way. "I've not seen
that book referenced even once. And all of these fucking books reference each other. Take a
moment and consider how fucking suspicious that is."

She doesn't appreciate his tone. Like she's a child in need of discipline. "As a matter of fact,
Malfoy, it didn't come from that book. I've done quite a bit of reading myself — probably more
than you. I'm not a fool. I know what I'm—"

"He's using you," he snaps, and she forgets what she meant to say. "Don't you see? He wants
power. He wants to be the host. Right now, you're his means to an end, but once he gets rid of me,
who's to say he won't get rid of you too?"

He's barely finished the sentence when a white-hot lick of rage explodes across the bond. So sharp
and so full of hate that she sucks the breath in through her teeth.
Stupid, thankless boy. You ought to swallow your own tongue.

She's never heard the wolf's voice sink into such a register. A livid, grinding hiss like the sound of
a blade leaving its sheath. It cuts swiftly through Malfoy's arrogance, and she watches his face
grow pale.

You sit there, staring at my world — my lifeblood, my paramour — and you have the nerve to
question my intentions? When you have not yet memorized her face? When you do not know the
rhythm of her pulse as I do? Have not counted each breath as I have? I would sooner carve my
eyes out than harm her.

The chill that races through her is one of fear, and yet it's diluted with something else. Something
she doesn't want to admit to.

Malfoy exhales slowly, every muscle tensed. "I told you," he whispers into the ringing silence. "He
wants me gone."

"He is you."

"No." Malfoy shakes his head, emphatic. "No. Those aren't my words. That's — that isn't me. I
don't think those things. I don't feel..." He trails off, eyes suddenly flitting downward.

Something brief and painful throbs in her gut. "You don't feel that way. About me."

He nods, gaze fixed on the table. "Right."

A bitter laugh ripples through their minds. A trait he learned from his father. He cannot look you
in the eye when he lies.

She barely has the chance to process the implications. Malfoy bites down on his own tongue so
hard it makes her jump, his hands gathering into bloodless fists on the chair's arms. "I hate you," he
seethes, barely audible. And when he looks to the ceiling, his glare is glassy. Obscured by tears
he's doing all he can to repress. A wash of humiliation — of confusion and self-doubt and so much
shame — hits her like a tidal wave from his side of the bond.

"Please," she breathes without thinking, and now her eyes are on the ceiling too. She knows he sees
her through Malfoy's eyes, but she wants to make it clear who she's talking to. "Don't torment him."

The wolf's voice is softer when he speaks again. Still, by no means relenting. I torment him with
the truth.

One of those tears escapes, streaking down Malfoy's face. She only notices because he's so quick to
swipe it away. So aggressive. "I don't need you to defend me, Granger," he mutters.

"Please," she says again regardless, glancing up once more and trying to channel everything she
feels into her gaze. To beg the wolf not to throw away this chance. "Please."

A long while passes in silence.

And then a strange sensation passes through her. It's almost as though she can feel the wolf sigh.

This is my olive branch, Malfoy, he says, chastened. I urge you to take this step for your own good.
The bond is fraying. Soon enough, you’ll grow sick. Both of you.

Malfoy huffs, looking suddenly small where he sits. Curled into himself with shame. "And what
about you?" he demands, practically scrubbing at his face with his sleeve, the tear long gone by
now.

Me especially. For all our sakes, this cannot continue. Complete this ritual — nurture the bond —
and I promise you will feel whole again.

Malfoy's state of chaos is not assuaged. She can feel the doubt boiling over. The fear and distrust.

"Can you swear to it?" she asks, suddenly quite sure of herself. "Swear this ritual will do no harm."

There's a smile in the wolf's voice. I swear.

"Swear on me," she insists. "Swear on my life."

And she's pleased by the stunned silence that follows. To the wolf, this means something — and to
Malfoy too, it would seem. His eyes widen a little, posture straightening. It's clear to him that — in
this moment — she's choosing his side.

The wolf takes a great deal of time mulling it over. When at last he forces the words out, there's
discomfort in them. As though the taste is foul.

I swear on your life.

Malfoy doesn't respond to this. At least not in words. But after staring across the table at her for
several long seconds, something unreadable in his eyes, she feels the storm inside his head begin to
calm. And when he reaches for the book — drags it into his lap and flips to page 14 — they have
his answer.

She expects to feel a sense of victory from the wolf. Some sort of satisfaction or pleasure. Even she
herself feels something along the lines of relief.

But instead, he seeks a private audience in her head, whispering words she knows Malfoy can't
hear.

I do not like to gamble with you. Don't make me do it again.

She gathers a slow breath. Only manages to nod once, faintly, before Malfoy speaks.

"So what is this, then? What are the rules?" It seems his attitude has returned. He leans back,
flipping the page. "There are no instructions. Are we expected to make our own interpretation
here, or..."

Use your eyes, growls the wolf, irritated. You have everything you need.

Malfoy raises a doubtful eyebrow and begins to read. "By night's sure light—"

"Moonlight," Hermione blurts, thinking out loud. She waves a hand for Malfoy to continue.

"Neath gods and stars—"

"It has to be done outside, then. Somewhere on the Grounds."

"Lay waste to walls of cloth and stone."

She's not particularly excited to analyze this one, and her eyes flit away from Malfoy when he fixes
her with a knowing glance.
The wolf scoffs. You'll both of you need to rid yourselves of such shyness. You've done far worse
than this.

Hermione swallows and clears her throat. "Walls of cloth is...our clothes, I'm assuming. We'll need
to be..."

Naked, says the wolf when she can't finish, his voice rich with confidence. This is a flesh ritual,
after all.

When she can manage to look Malfoy in the eye, she tries to will the color out of her cheeks. But
Malfoy doesn't blush — only grits his teeth and forces his gaze back onto the page. Masks his own
embarrassment with insolence. "And just what the fuck are we cleaving with a glass blade?"

A palm each. A scratch, nothing more. 'Blood to beat and beat to blood,' just as it says. She will
place her hand above your heart, and you above hers.

"And what then?" Malfoy demands, impatient.

Recite the incantation. Blood magic will see to the rest.

"What's the fucking rest?"

Do this, Malfoy, the wolf commands, refusing to answer. For yourself, not for me. Perhaps then
we'll see eye to eye.

Malfoy's eyes narrow, but just as he opens his mouth, every scrap of paper on the table in front of
them vanishes. Every book, every note. In their place, laid out on dark blue velvet — a long shard
of glass, shaped to a point. It looks like a fragment of a mirror.

Malfoy takes one look at it and blurts out, "I thought you said a scratch."

If you're afraid, let Hermione do it. No one needs hands that shake.

"I'm not fucking afraid."

Good. And it's then that she feels that satisfaction in him. That sense of victory. Revel in these —
your first steps into the light.

She wraps that lethal shard of glass in the velvet, and they agree to meet after nightfall. At the
border of the Forbidden Forest.

For her, the remainder of the day is spent pacing an empty dormitory, trying and failing not to
overthink every word of the ritual. And every word said in between.

In all her years knowing Malfoy, even from a distance, she's never seen him stripped so swiftly of
that cynical veneer.

He cannot look you in the eye when he lies.

A lie that brought him to tears.

It becomes impossible not to wonder. Not to consider whether there's even the slightest chance that
he feels what the wolf feels for her. Even so much as an ounce of it.

Has Malfoy memorized her face?

For the rest of the day, she can't get the thought out of her head. And perhaps that's a kindness.
Because otherwise, she'd be thinking of nothing but taking off her clothes.

She's never been on display for someone in all her life. Even with Viktor, the lights had been off.

Once upon a time, she thought the first person to see her like that would be a nice boy. A funny
boy who liked Quidditch and sweets and who she knew would never, never look at her with
judgment.

And yet, here she is, sneaking out of the Castle at half-past midnight with every intention of being
seen. But by the cruelest boy she's ever known. By a boy who might look at her and see only flaws.
See too much of this, and not enough of that. See dirty blood and a worthless name.

More than once on the way out she thinks she might be sick from the nerves.

But somehow she makes it all the way down the hill, cardigan drawn in tight around her, book
clutched to her chest. It's a cold night to be doing this. Almost too cold. But the moon's waning
crescent is bright, and — as the wolf said — they can't put this off any longer.

Best to have done with it before Malfoy changes his mind.

She doesn't see him straight away when she reaches the forest's edge. He's hidden in the shadow of
the trees, waiting. But when he sees her, he steps out into the moonlight, arms crossed and
expression tense.

He does not look pleased to be here.

But he's here, she tells herself, puffing out a shaky breath. That's what matters.

"Ready, then?" he asks stiffly, stepping aside to clear her view of the forest behind him.

She nods. "You?"

He nods too, glancing skeptically up at the trees. "Let's get it over with."

The nerves in her stomach triple.

For the first few minutes, they trudge their way into the forest in silence, Malfoy's wand light
guiding their steps over brambles and fallen trees. Then, as the woods close in, growing darker and
more dense, he asks, "How far in do we really have to go?"

She shrugs, clutching the book tighter for warmth. "Far enough in that we don't risk being seen."

Malfoy scoffs, more to himself than her it seems, and as he skirts around a suspicious looking hole
in the ground, he starts mumbling things. "Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. This is how it's going to go.
A flawless end to the Malfoy name, if you ask me. Mauled to death by some vicious creature
whilst naked."

It's not what she expected him to be worried about — and it's so disarming, she can't help the laugh
that bubbles out of her throat.
"What?" he snaps, casting accusatory light in her face.

"Nothing."

"What?" He stops short, making it clear she'll be walking alone if she doesn't answer.

"Well, it's just..." She shrugs again, turning to face him and huffing another laugh. "Forgive me,
Malfoy — but I'm fairly certain you're the most vicious creature in these woods."

Without the bond, she'd never have known how the words make him feel. His mask is impressive
— nothing but a quirked brow and a snort. But beneath it, she senses something in the vein of
pride, which is surprising. She thought it might've offended him a little, and instead she's somehow
stroked his ego.

"Here's far enough," he says after a few more steps. They've reached a clearing that complies with
the ritual, a thin strip of moonlight shining down through the trees above.

She's glad he's the one to stop them. She probably would've walked forever, if only to keep putting
it off by a few more minutes.

Turning from him, she sets the book on a nearby rock and opens it to Reverence, clutching her
hand into a fist when she catches it shaking.

"Give me that," Malfoy demands, waving his wand at it when she pulls the bundled up velvet from
her cardigan pocket.

"You want the knife?"

"No, the wrappings."

"Oh." She unrolls it, gingerly taking hold of the shard and handing the velvet to him. The
moonlight catches the glass, flashing across her face.

"Engorgio," Malfoy casts, and suddenly there's a great deal more velvet. Setting his wand aside, he
shakes it out, unfurling it like a carpet over the forest floor. "I'm assuming we get to sit down for
however long this ritual takes," he says when he sees her staring.

"Right. Yes. That's — smart."

He steps onto the velvet and crosses his arms, looking expectant. "So."

"So," she echoes, barely audible.

"Now what? We just strip?"

Saliva pools on her tongue, and she swallows twice so she won't trip over her words. "You first."

A flicker of surprise crosses the bond to her, like he didn't expect her to challenge him. "Have it
your way," he huffs, starting to unbutton his cuffs. "Though I don't see the point in putting it off."

He's right, of course. But she finds herself rooted to the spot, unable to move. Only to stare as his
fingers begin working at the buttons over his chest. His movements are jerky. Intensely aggressive,
as though to drive all possible intimacy out of the moment.

With one sharp yank, he drags the shirt off his shoulders and tosses it aside, and for the first time
she sees what she's only guessed at.
All the evidence was there. In the way his chest felt, pressed against her back in that alcove. In the
veins her eyes have traced, gliding up from his wrists and disappearing beneath his sleeves.

Of course he's fit. She knew he was fit. Years of playing Quidditch — not to mention that sudden
growth spurt in Fifth Year — have seen to it. Only a fool would expect anything different.

But the smooth curves and angles that make up Draco Malfoy are still a shock.

And to make matters worse, he can probably feel the rush of instinctive appreciation that makes
her lips part. Why else would he glance up at her the way he does, halfway bent and unlacing his
shoes?

She's lucky her eyes find something else to focus on.

When his shoulders dip just far enough, muscles tensing as he yanks his shoes off, she catches
sight of the edge of it. And her gasp is loud. Horrified. Impossible to hold back.

"What?" He straightens up, confused and surprised — perhaps even a little panicked. But she's
already rushing forward. Stepping up to and around him, just so she can see it in full. Completely
exposed to the moonlight.

"Granger, what are you—" Malfoy tries to turn around but her hands take to his shoulders, holding
him in place.

And when her fingers find his skin, tracing feather-light over the length of one of them, he goes
very still. Stops trying to talk.

"My god..." she breathes.

She knew he had scars somewhere. The inevitable mark of a werewolf. But these are—

"They're just scars, Granger," he says. Almost a sigh.

"These are not just scars." She's surprised by the fury in her own voice, but how is she expected to
help it? His back is a battleground. Beginning at the top of his spine and spanning all the way
down to the waistband of his trousers, there's not a spare inch of skin left alone. Deep, gouging
claw marks carved into him from every imaginable angle. Thick and deformed indentations of
teeth. "How..." Her stomach twists. "How many times has he done this to you?"

"Granger—"

"This is Greyback, isn't it? Why?" She traces one long, badly-healed laceration up from the middle
of his back to his shoulder. "How does he—"

Malfoy catches her hand, twisting to face her and hiding them from sight. "Stop," he says, eyes
low. Not meeting hers. "Stop."

"I just want to—"

"It doesn't matter." He squeezes the hand he's captured — with emphasis, she thinks, not affection.
"This is just the bond. It's making you worry about things you shouldn't. Let it go."

"I—"

"Let it go." He squeezes harder, finally making eye contact, and it's only then that she realizes he
has the hem of her sleeve in his grip. "We have other things to deal with right now."
Her pulse abruptly skyrockets, because he's tugging on her cardigan. Dragging the sleeve down
over her arm and freeing her from it.

It takes everything in her not to hyperventilate.

"Why are you panicking?" Malfoy asks, exchanging one arm for the other — and that's not
tenderness in his voice. No, it can't be.

"I'm—"

"Breathe." He tosses the cardigan away to join his shirt, and now there's one less layer between
them. "We'll do this and be done with it. Just breathe."

She opens her mouth and shuts it, somehow unable to stop him as he reaches boldly for the hem of
her shirt. He can feel her heart hammering — so prominent, so loud that she can't even feel his.
And suddenly she's blinded by pale blue cotton as he peels the shirt up over her head.

She's got nothing on underneath. At the time, that had seemed like a practical decision, but now she
hates herself for it.

Malfoy catches her arms on their way to cover herself up. A reflex he must've been expecting.
"That won't get us anywhere," he says, eyes still fixed on hers, and she's breathing hard now.
Trying not to completely unravel.

The cold air washes up against her like a vicious tide.

"Breathe."

She nods compulsively. "I'm breathing."

"Keep doing it."

"Okay."

And she's trying. She is. But just as her pulse begins to slow, a fraction at best, his eyes slide
downward and take her in. She freezes. Seizes up like a wild animal in headlights.

"Fuck." It's low. Just a breath, and it seems to slip out of him by accident.

Her own voice is high-pitched and foreign. Nothing like herself. "What?"

Malfoy doesn't answer. Just takes a step back, releasing her arms and raising his palms, almost in
surrender. "You should...do the rest."

He's disgusted. It's the only explanation.

A rush of molten shame bleeds across her cheeks, her arms folding around herself, and she can
hardly bear to look at him. Can hardly—

"Fucking hell, Granger," Malfoy scoffs, shaking his head at her — a jarring shift in tone. "You're
unbelievable. Look at you. You lose your shirt, and you lose your spine."

Tears prick at her eyes, unbidden. "W-What?"

He rolls his eyes, and she thinks this can't possibly get any worse. Has to brace herself for
whatever's about to come out of his mouth.
"Use your head," he snaps, spreading his arms wide. "Our senses are bonded. I'm an open fucking
book to you, so read me."

"What?" Why is it all she can say?

"Take a breath and pay attention. It's all right there in front of you."

"I—"

"Breathe," he demands, practically shouting at her.

She takes a massive gulp of air, nodding. Trying to get a hold of herself.

"Aren't you the girl who told me to open my mouth?" he asks — an accusation that does nothing
for her nerves. "You felt what I wanted then. Why can't you feel it now? Do you need me to spell it
out for you?"

She shuts her eyes. She's never felt so weak. Not even with Greyback at her throat. "Yes."

"Fucking hell, Granger. It should be obvious to you." Malfoy sweeps both hands through his hair,
like she's somehow managed to frustrate him beyond belief. "That wasn't a fucking rejection. I say
you should do the rest and you decide that means I'm disgusted by you?"

Her pulse stutters, confused.

Malfoy forces out a humorless laugh. "I'm fucking enamored. I feel drunk looking at you. And if
you could pull yourself together and act like a Gryffindor, you'd know I said you should do the rest
because I'm nervous. I have no idea what I'm doing." He throws his hands up like the whole thing
is some really bad joke, turning away — giving her just a flash of those awful scars before he turns
back.

And when his eyes meet hers again, there's a look in them that makes her mouth run dry. A hunger
seeped in vulnerability.

"You should do the rest because my fucking virgin hands are shaking."
 Safe / Lovely

“Say something.”

She’s let the silence lapse between them for far too long, and Malfoy’s on edge. He can’t stand
still, fingers flexing at his sides — staring at her with his brows raised and his eyes braced for
judgment.

But she feels like she’s lagging, thoughts forming at a glacial pace. Struggling to process — to
align what she thought she knew with what she knows now.

She forgets momentarily that she’s bare from the waist up. That there’s a ritual waiting for them.
That it’s the middle of the night and they’re standing somewhere in the depths of the Forbidden
Forest. All she can think about are the hands she’s staring at.

And they are shaking. Just the slightest bit — barely visible to the naked eye.

The longer she stares, the more she sees their innocence.

“Say something.” It’s a plea now, harsh and desperate. “Mock me — I don’t care. But don’t stand
there in silence.”

Hermione tears her eyes away, finally meeting his gaze.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Something,” he demands, forced confidence in his voice at war with the violent flush in his
cheeks. “Anything.”

What exactly does he expect? She’s the one completely exposed here — and yet somehow he’s
made himself even more vulnerable.

If it’s pity he’s after, she won’t be giving it.

But — enamored. That was the word he used. She’s never heard that word used with respect to her
in her entire life, and certainly there were a number of others he could’ve chosen from. Confused by
you. Irritated by you. Out of sorts.

He didn’t though. And she has no idea how to deal with that.

But at the very least, the distraction of it all soothes her pulse. She glances again at those hands,
now clenched at his sides, and says the first thing that comes to mind — before she can overthink
it.

“I still think you’re good with them.”

Malfoy’s brows draw in tight, his own nervous pulse staggering across the bond. “What?”

She shrugs her shoulders, arms still clutched over her chest. The cold air prickles along her bare
skin. “Your hands.”

But Malfoy’s only just beginning to connect the dots — a hot flicker of surprise and anticipation
it’s probably best not to analyze — when she changes the subject.
“Could you cast a warming charm, please? My wand is...” She flexes her fingers in the direction he
threw her cardigan, shivering.

For a moment, Malfoy blinks at her wordlessly. Then, “Oh.” And after another moment’s pause, he
pivots and picks his wand up off the rock, casting the charm with an effortless flourish.

It’s an instinct, really — when the warmth spills over her. To sigh. To relax her muscles and drop
her arms.

But Malfoy’s rough little exhale is all it takes to remind her of their situation.

Her heart starts to pound once more, hands twitching — desperate to cover herself up again. She’s
not quite sure why she doesn’t.

Maybe it’s something in the way he’s looking at her. In the way the blood rushes through his veins
— a sensation she missed the first time.

She swallows thickly and pretends she feels even a semblance of control. Pretends she isn’t
wondering whether he’s comparing her body to others. To the witches in those dirty magazines
she’s seen passed around. Wondering whether he's disappointed.

“You’re staring.”

Malfoy huffs, but his eyes don’t deviate. “Do you expect me not to?”

It's a fair question. Even in the heat of the moment, she has to admit that. "I—" She breaks off, eyes
fixing somewhere on the forest floor, and a nervous laugh bubbles up from nowhere. "This whole
situation is ridiculous, I — I have no idea what I should expect."

Malfoy continues to stare for at least another ten seconds, and her naked skin itches under his gaze.
She doesn't dare hide now. That would equal surrender. Defeat, even. And she showed enough
weakness struggling to catch her breath.

Moments later, though — as if something's spurred him to life — Malfoy reaches for his belt
buckle. Angrily. Without any of the shyness she might've glimpsed. His hands are no longer
shaking, they're tearing. Yanking the belt free of his trousers as he mutters under his breath.

Not quite quietly enough.

"—fuck's sake, Weasley. Fucking brainless and blind, Merlin's beard."

"What?"

"Nothing," he snaps, sort of a growl really, and all too soon he's going for his zipper.

Hermione sucks in a deep breath and tries to be subtle about it — a wasted effort, surely, because
she's certain he can feel the way her lungs expand. It's just... well, she can handle a lot of things. It
takes a great deal to truly scare her. But, if she's honest, there's nothing quite so unsettling as the
male anatomy.

Something she's only dealt with once. In the dark.

"Malfoy—"

"It's a cock, Granger," he scoffs, suddenly all confidence as he yanks off his trousers. Only one
layer left between them. "I can promise it's more afraid of you than you are of it."
"I—"

"The longer we put this off, the longer we have to be here." He hooks his thumbs into the
waistband of his pants — a pair of plain black boxer-briefs — and gives her a look of
commiseration, puffing the breath out through his cheeks. And then he—

"Wait! Wait!" She thrusts out a hand, suddenly panicking.

"Granger..." Malfoy sighs.

"No, just — let me do it with you. I want..." She reaches for the fasten on her own jeans, fingers
trembling. "I want to do it with you. Otherwise, I'll never go through with it." Peeling her jeans
down her legs, she uses them to drag her shoes off and tosses the tangled mess away.

At the very least, having advanced warning allowed her to spare herself some additional
humiliation.

It's her belief that everyone owns at least one truly terrible pair of underwear. She owns quite a
few. Drab nudes and childish patterns. Things not meant to see the light of day — or the eyes of
Draco Malfoy, for that matter.

This pair, though, is one of the good ones.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at them. A delicate, dark blue scrap of lace, really.

"What?" she demands, defensive.

He just shakes his head.

"Not everything I own is boring, Malfoy."

"Evidently."

She doesn't want to analyze his gaze. Not if she's to have any hope of a backbone. "Let's get this
over with."

"Ready when you are."

"I am."

Is she?

"Fine, then."

It happens quickly. Following a sort of telepathic count to three, they bury their nerves and do it.
Obliterate those 'walls of cloth.'

Her fingernails scrape the outsides of her thighs on the way down, and her heart launches into her
throat. For a long time, she doesn't even realize she's closed her eyes.

But then Malfoy says, "If I'm looking, you should be too."

His voice is almost breathless. She searches it desperately for arrogance and finds none. But still,
she—

"Look at me, Granger."

Her eyes open of their own accord.

Oh.

At first, it's all her mind can conjure up.

Because he's standing there, and it's not at all what she expected. Not the jolt — the rough shock
she'd been clenching every muscle preparing for.

She doesn't quite know how to put it into words, but it's as though her senses welcome him. His
shape, his height, the smooth, cold look of his skin. It's all as it should be, and it's like she's seeing
him for the first time.

She never expected to look at Draco Malfoy and feel safe. Least of all, Draco Malfoy completely
naked.

It doesn't even occur to her that she's just as exposed. Hardly important right now.

Her eyes drift downward. They have to. It’s inevitable. They trace the natural indentations of
muscle — the hard and yet unaggressive planes of his abdomen — watching them flex with each
nervous breath he takes. Like a guided path, she follows the slanted shadows starting from either
hipbone. The ones that lead down towards—

Her eyes widen just a fraction, breath catching in her throat.

She’s felt the outline of him against her before. Never expected anything unimpressive, to say the
least. But this...

Clearing her throat, Hermione blinks and urges herself to think like a scholar — not a nervous
wreck. To study him clinically, if at all possible.

His cock, as he so gently put it, is thick and hard, branching out from dark blond curls, its head
resting against his lower stomach. She wonders if it’s really as thick as her wrist, or if her eyes are
playing tricks on her.

She wonders if his condition has enhanced him in any way.

“Now look who’s staring,” says Malfoy suddenly, and her eyes snap back to his face. Startled.
Caught.

His gaze is downcast too, taking her in with lips slightly parted — and she hates that she’s too
afraid to search the bond for what he’s feeling.

But she thinks even the faintest twinge of disappointment would ruin her.

This needs to be over.

Swiftly, she takes a seat on the velvet and tucks her knees up to her chest. Works an expectant
expression onto her face and nods her chin towards the book, still on the rock at his side, the shard
of glass resting on its cover.

Malfoy seems a little slow on the uptake — a little dazed as he retrieves them, coming to sit across
from her. He sets the book within her reach and angles his knees to block her view — not that she
was looking.

“This the part where we cut ourselves?”

Clearing her throat, she nods and picks up the shard, flipping back to page 14. “We don’t have to
do it like he said.” And she offers the shard to him, trying to foster some semblance of trust. “You
can cut your own hand, if you want.”

Malfoy’s idea of trust is different, it seems. He surprises her by offering his own open palm in
exchange. Holds it out to her, moonlight catching his skin.

“Don’t try to mutilate me like last time.”

Gently, she takes his hand in hers, bracing it as she lifts the shard. His petulant tone sends the first
real smile to her lips all night.

“Last time you weren’t nearly so well-behaved.”

The slice is quick and shallow; she can feel exactly how mild through the bond. Dark ruby blood
rushes to the surface, momentarily distracting in its vibrance.

Malfoy leaves it resting open on his knee as she moves to take care of her own hand. But just when
she presses the edge of the shard to her flesh, he asks,

“Do you think he’ll keep his promise?”

Hermione glances up at him — quirks a brow.

“The wolf. Do you really think he won’t interfere?” There’s a mixture of doubt and trepidation in
his eyes.

“He’s been silent so far,” she says. “I think that’s as good a sign as any.” And before he can stop
her again, she draws the shard across her palm.

A brief sting, nothing more.

“Right.” She huffs, watching her own blood leak from the fresh cut. “So, now we...”

“You need to come closer,” says Malfoy when she trails off. “I can’t reach you from here.”

She swallows. Reluctantly drops her knees and slides forward a bit, her shin grazing his. Her eyes
fix on the bare expanse at the left of his chest, watching it rise and fall with each breath.

Malfoy takes advantage of her distraction, abruptly reaching out and brushing the hair away from
her shoulder. Without preamble, he presses the damp warmth of his palm to the flesh above her
pulse. "That's what it said to do, right?"

She exhales and nods, fighting back a shiver at the contact. A lone drop of blood slides down to the
base of her palm as she lifts it to his chest in turn. Now all that's left is—

"The incantation."

With her free hand, she drags the book closer, glancing down at the words.

"Do we say it together?"

"I don't know." She shrugs, and the movement makes his hand slip just a fraction lower. "I think
so. He said it was like a meditation."

Malfoy scoffs under his breath. "I don't believe that for a second."
"Let's just—“ She sighs. “I'll say the first line, and then you the next, and we'll go from there."

"Fine."

"Fine."

She enunciates as clearly as she can, projecting each word up into the night. Slicing through the
silence of the forest. Malfoy follows, deep voice such a contrast, and they alternate until they reach
the end.

The last word is his — 'flood' — and his tongue seems to falter, bracing for an impact. For blood
magic to see to the rest, just as the wolf said.

She knows next to nothing about blood magic, and from the look on Malfoy's face, neither does he.

Collectively, they hold their breath and wait.

It's quiet for a long while. No birds. No breeze. Hermione holds Malfoy's gaze, and in unison, their
panic fades into confusion.

Her arm starts to ache. His discomfort rises across the bond.

"Did we do it wrong?"

"I don't—"

All at once, the focus bleeds out of her vision. Sharp edges, depth, clarity — gone. Melted away,
leaving the world around her a blur, like a mirage. Even her gasp is muffled. Hand slipping from
Malfoy's chest, she grasps blindly in front of her. Calls out his name but feels only the vibration of
it in her own throat.

And that's when it hits.

A threshing rush of sound. A voice flooding her senses. Echoing and talking over itself.

...never seen anything like...

...and he wouldn't fucking know what to do with...

...waste. What a fucking waste.

It's Malfoy's voice, she realizes. Shattered into fragments — so many different tones and
inflections.

...this what I deserve? Am I supposed to...

...oh, look at her. Look at her. Fuck.

...please...

...a fucking grip on yourself, Malfoy. She's a...

...tastes like...

...can't I have her? What if I...

...not his to touch.

...never was.

...fuck, what is this? What is this?

...for Granger...

...probably feels so fucking good on the inside...

...and why is she lovely? She's not allowed to be lovely.

...hate her...

...want to...

...wish I...

...just to look in her eyes.

...and let her ruin me. She can ruin me. I don't fucking care. I want...

Her senses return in a wash so intense, it physically knocks her back. She can hear her own gasping
breaths become clear again. Can feel the velvet beneath her palms. But the world is still a smear of
colors and shadow. Still faded.

The only thing in focus is—

"What was that?" Malfoy is panting. Breathless and wide-eyed. He practically glows in his clarity,
so sharply defined against the haze. She's not sure when that blood-streaked hand fell away from
her own chest, but now he's got it raised in front of him as though he's trying to ward something
off.

"Did you—" Her voice cracks. "You heard it too?"

"I—I heard you. So much of you. What the hell was—"

"Me?"

She'd know the sound of her own voice, and those words were clearly his.

"No — it wasn't me, it was—"

"You feel safe?" he blurts out suddenly.

For a moment, she can only blink at him. "What?"

"That's what you said," he breathes, dazed and incredulous. "That's the one I heard over and over
again. You said looking at me...made you feel safe."

The pulse in her chest hesitates at that. Withholds a beat or two before allowing itself to continue.

She never said that. Not out loud.

No, she thought it.

Her throat runs dry, and it feels like the warming charm dies off, chill sweeping through her
bloodstream. Wheels start turning in her head — and words that seemed like hallucinations
moments ago suddenly take on new meaning.
There's only one way to be sure.

"You..." She clears her throat, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "You'd let me ruin you?"

Malfoy pales and stiffens.

All the answer she'd ever need.

"Those were your thoughts I heard?"

He shakes his head, mouth agape. Desperate. "No. No, I — I heard you."

"Yes. And I heard you."

Malfoy grapples for words. Scrambles for a safer explanation. "You can't have—"

"I did."

The calm seeps into her slowly after she accepts that.

It all happened in a matter of seconds, and yet she feels as though she’s just spent a month inside
his mind.

Because it wasn’t just thoughts. She’s realizing that now. It was cravings and aches. Needs and
beaten down urges. It was a window into a part of him he’d never let her see otherwise, with or
without the bond.

The wolf’s words echo, louder than ever in her memory.

See through each other’s eyes.

And looking at Malfoy now, she’s suddenly resolute, the pounding of her heart slowing to a steady
thrum.

A hunger bursts to life somewhere deep inside. Or perhaps it’s only just awakened — alive and
hidden for a long while, resting dormant until now.

She wants to close the distance. Feels magnetized to him. She wants to run her fingers through his
hair and drag her lips across his skin.

Close, in this moment, doesn’t feel close enough.

Her skin looks so soft.

Malfoy’s voice returns, drifting through her head like a fog. She thought it was over — stifles a
gasp at the possibility that these are his thoughts right now. Even as he—

“—trick of some sort. Probably. It has to be. There’s no way that we could—“

Outwardly, he’s been cramming the silence with nervous excuses, and she has to say his name
twice to get him to stop.

“What?” he demands, still out of breath. She’s momentarily distracted by the handprint of blood
she’s left on his chest, rising and falling as he sucks down air.

“Breathe,” she murmurs. Softly, but with intent — like he did.

Malfoy gapes at her, brows meeting in the middle, and more of those thoughts bleed through.

...calm? How is she calm? This whole thing’s so fucking—

“Listen to me.” She cuts him off gently. “I know that you’re panicking. I know exactly how you
feel, believe me. I’m sure you heard things from my head that I’d never want you to know. You
might even still be hearing them now.”

Slowly, she shifts her weight, folding her legs under herself so she’s on her knees. Being exposed in
front of him suddenly doesn’t matter at all. She watches his eyes flit between hers and feels his
pulse race, and she’s left to say the one thing she can think of to put his mind at ease.

“But I do feel safe with you.”

A rough exhale cuts his staggered breaths short.

—fuck. Merlin, help me—

“Those thoughts of mine you heard were true.” It’s hard to focus on her own words and not his, so
loud inside her head. “At least most of them, I’m sure.”

His throat bobs as he swallows, and she allows herself to lean forward. Incrementally. Just an inch
at a time.

“But what about yours?”

“What?” he breathes.

“What about yours? Your thoughts?” Ever so gently, she rests one hand on his knee. “Was what I
just heard true?”

He swallows again, frantically trying to find a place to fix his gaze. Can’t hold her eyes. “I — I
don’t know. What did you hear?”

—can’t have heard everything. Not all of it. There’s no way she—

Her other hand is bolder, settling on his bare thigh. “That I’m lovely.”

Malfoy inhales and stares at the ground, wayward thoughts at war.

Oh, you are. You are.

He nods mutely a moment later.

Warmth blooms in her chest. She leans closer — so close they’re nearly nose to nose. “That you’d
like to have me...”

—fucking hell. What’s happening to me?

His eyes squeeze shut — ashamed or terrified, she isn’t sure. But then he says, “Yes,” in a barely-
there whisper, and it sounds like a white flag rising on a battlefield.

It’s never been easier to tell the truth.

“You can, you know. If...” Her nose grazes his. “If that’s something you want.”
—can’t fucking breathe. Fuck. Fuck, she smells so—

His next words sound like a nervous mistake. Something he didn’t mean to say out loud. “I want a
lot of things.”

They send a spark rippling through her. “Show me.”

And that’s it. That’s the total collapse.

His wall crumbles like there’s been nothing holding it together for centuries, and the hand not
bracing his weight takes a fistful of her hair, dragging her mouth to his.

Fuck—

She gasps against his lips. He tastes like a fine wine. Like warmth. Like power. Her tongue slips
through, chasing more of it.

Skin on skin wasn’t something she knew she needed so badly. A missing ingredient — a tonic for
the pain. She lets her arms tangle around his shoulders, reveling in their strength as her wrists lock
behind his head.

And the blood rushing in her ears is so loud, she almost doesn’t hear him. The desperate words he
utters aloud as he bites and suckles at her bottom lip.

“Shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.”

They make her break away, a little surge of indignation riding up her spine. She drops an arm from
around his shoulder, palm coming to rest once more at the bloodstain over his heart.

He doesn’t even seem to notice the way he tries to chase her mouth, diving forward when she pulls
back.

“According to who?” she asks, searching half-lidded eyes when he can manage to open them.

—can’t even fucking think, she’s so fucking beautiful—

This will take courage, but those thoughts of his are flooding her with more of it than she knows
how to handle. She takes that hand and starts to slide it downward. Down over his chest. Over the
hard ridges of his abdomen. Down past his navel, grazing his hipbone along the way.

—fuck, is she—

“According to you?” she asks, even as Malfoy starts to tremble. As his cut breaths ghost up against
her.

—please, please, oh fuck, please—

She lets her fingers hesitate just where those coarse blond curls begin and waits for him to answer.

Malfoy bites down on his own lip, eyes squeezing shut as he shakes his head.

“No?” she asks, mouth gravitating towards his ear. “Not you?”

“N-Not me,” he stutters. “No.”

—please, Granger. Fucking please—

“Then what does it matter?” She smiles against his temple — exhales and allows herself to do what
she thinks she may’ve been wanting to do for a long, long time.

Her fingers dip low and take him in hand.

Malfoy sucks a searing breath in through his teeth, going so tense he almost knocks her off
balance. “Fuck.”

Fuck. Oh, fuck—

She nearly gasps herself, feeling the heat of her own fingers through the bond. He’s smooth and
warm — hard as marble in her grip. Ages worth of repressed need throbs in him at the touch alone.

—feels like—

She adjusts her grip and strokes downward once.

“Fuck. Fuck — stop. Y-You — you should stop.”

It’s hard to take him at his word when the shockwave it sends through her proves better than any
orgasm she’s known. When she can hear those desperate, gasping thoughts every other second.

—can’t feel like this. There’s no way it can feel so—

“Why?” she whispers, and now she’s breathless too.

His voice is shaking. “Because I can’t — I won’t last. I can’t. I’ll—“

“Malfoy?”

—yes? Yes? Anything. I’ll do anything—

He goes very still. She can feel his pulse through her grip.

“Lie back and let me give you this.”

A groan is the only response she gets. He surrenders easily, like he never cared to fight it in the
first place, weight shifting beneath her as he falls back against the velvet.

And from there, she lets the bond set her pace. Starts to slowly work her hand over him, twisting
and squeezing until her toes curl at the sensation. Until Malfoy thrusts an arm out at his side,
fisting his hand in the damp earth.

—Granger, fuck. Oh—

He looks beautiful like that, she thinks. No cruelty in his face. No sarcasm on his lips. Just the
flush in his cheeks and the tension in his brow. Just the throb they can both feel that makes it
nearly impossible to keep silent.

He can’t. Not for long.

Those thoughts break free.

“Don’t — please don’t stop,” he pants, catching her as she slows her pace. She sensed he was only
moments away, but she’s finding it hard to care now that she hears him beg out loud. “Please.
Please.”
Her thumb sweeps across the head, gathering moisture, and a whine sounds in the back of his
throat.

God. She wants to hear it again. Tightens her grip and starts to pump fast, thrilled when she can see
his muscles coil. See the whites of his eyes as they roll back.

—lose my fucking mind, she’s so fucking—

“If you...” he gasps, spine arching against the ground. “If — I...” A cut cry, and the words start
tumbling out. “Fuck, I’m — Granger, if you don’t stop, I’ll—“

—come. Fuck, I’m gonna come all over her—

She knows. She can feel it, building like a storm in the pit of her stomach. “Breathe,” is all she
says, pace unwavering. “I want you to.”

“I’m going to—“

“Please.”

He comes. Crashes over that edge like nothing she’s ever seen. Ever felt. His hips buck and his
chest heaves, a hoarse moan torn from his throat.

And as it spills over her fingers, hot and thick, she feels the aftershock. A shattering wave that rips
through her veins and has her bearing down on him for support.

God, she thinks, wondering if he can hear her too. You could die of this. Easily. Oh, God.

They spend several minutes trying to catch their breath in the aftermath. Speaking in gasps and
nothing more as the world slowly reappears around them.

Those thoughts of his grow quiet.

When she can manage it, Hermione sits back on her heels, flushed and still freshly throbbing.
Malfoy watches her through sleepy eyes, reaching up in a daze to push the hair out of his face and
unintentionally smearing a bit of blood across his forehead. His own, from before.

She nearly forgot about the ritual. It feels like ages ago, now.

Glancing down, she studies her fingers, generously coated with a thick, translucent shine. This is
new to her. She’s curious and can’t help it.

But Malfoy must sense her intentions through the bond, because before she’s moved so much as an
inch, he reaches out and shackles that wrist.

“Don’t you dare put those in your mouth,” he hisses.

It’s only then she realizes how much she wants to.

“Why not?”

His answer is immediate. Thoughtless.

“Because I’ll never get the image out of my head.”

 Gentle / Starving

She lets him clean her fingers, strangely meticulous and gentle.

He doesn't bother with his wand. Uses his bare hands to wipe away the evidence, twisting her wrist
this way and that to ensure he's been thorough — and all the while, she's distracted by the flush
still lingering in his cheeks. Concentrated. Unavoidable.

When he's through, he wipes his own hands rather carelessly on the velvet — a contrast.

"Are you shy?" she asks without thinking, voice a little dazed.

Malfoy meets her gaze for a fraction of a second before making himself busy reaching for his
clothes. "No." He shakes leaves roughly from his shirt. "Just want to keep my head on straight."

...probably knows it's already fucking spinning...

She feels a strange pulse of warmth at that. Leans back and slides away to give him space, twisting
to find her own clothes. Her cardigan's somehow become hopelessly tangled with Malfoy's belt. He
hands it to her with his eyes downcast once he can manage to separate them, and they dress in
silence. Relative silence.

His thoughts are very loud.

...lace. I hate lace. No one should be allowed to wear lace, least of all...

...what she thinks. That I have no self control? No stamina? I have fucking stamina, I can...

...probably fucking cold. Should offer her my shirt, but then I'll be fucking cold. But if I don't, then
I'm an ass and she'll—

"I don't need your shirt, Malfoy," she says, glancing up at him as she laces her shoes. A fresh blush
colors his face, and she pretends she doesn't see, reaching for her wand and giving it a flick. "A
warming charm will suffice."

"Right," he says tightly. Clears his throat and finishes doing up his buttons.

"Do you think this is permanent?"

A muscle works in his jaw. He knows what she's asking. "Better not be."

Wordlessly, they decide to return to the Castle. With the ritual complete, there's nothing left for
them here. And Hermione wonders at the foolish twinge of disappointment she feels, because what
else was she really expecting?

Malfoy vanishes the soiled velvet, picking the glass shard up off the ground as she tucks the book
against her chest. She watches him study it for a moment, their mixed blood still drying along its
sharp edge.

...her blood...

...and mine...

...just as red...
Quickly, he seems to ascertain that he should be guarding these thoughts, and moments later he
tucks the shard away in his trouser pocket. Still, she can't help the way she's looking at him when
he meets her eyes. Can't hold back.

"Realize something?"

There's only one way to describe Malfoy's expression. That of a soldier with no weapon — and
someone's just pried away his shield. Fear. Exposure. Vulnerability. But it shifts almost
immediately, sinking beneath his cruel mask. His eyes narrow and his lip curls up, and without a
word he turns from her and charges into the dark.

It's another sleepless night in the making.

With sunrise only a few hours away, she's left to lie awake in bed and relive it. Over and over
again. Part of her can't believe her own audacity. Another can hardly fathom that Malfoy's now
seen everything. Every last inch.

And he thought she was lovely.

That's the hardest to accept of all. She keeps hearing his voice in her head, even when she's sure it
isn't there. Thinking things that don't make any sense. Things that make her fingers clench against
the sheets.

But she can tell the difference between memories and reality — and when the wolf's silky warmth
creeps into her mind, perhaps an hour or so after she's settled in, she's sure she isn't imagining it.

"I know you're there," she murmurs, quickly casting a muffling charm.

Wouldn't dream of hiding from you.

His voice is rich and relaxed, smoother and more clear than she thinks it's ever been before.

"You kept your promise." He doesn't need to be told, but she feels the need to say it none the less.
"You didn't interfere. Thank you."

I keep all my promises, the wolf muses. Did I not promise you would feel stronger? Invigorated?
How do you feel now, Hermione?

She takes a moment to truly consider it, and she can't deny there's a vibrance in the way the blood
flows through her veins. Something she doesn't remember feeling before. But, if she's honest—

"More confused than ever."

A laugh. I see. Perhaps I can shed some light?

The image of that explosive glow from the Room of Requirement floats across her mind at his
words, and for a moment she can't think of a single question to ask. There are almost too many to
choose from.

"I can...hear his thoughts now, yes?" she manages at last. "And he can hear mine?"
In a sense. The ritual is very precise. Reverence. You will hear only that which concerns you, and
even then only what is most powerful.

Oh.

It would explain the way they ebb and flow like a tide — only fragments at a time.

"What about distance? Does that affect it? The symbiotic sensations—"

I assure you, Hermione...if he wants you to hear him, you will hear him. And the same goes for you.

She slides back against her pillows, sitting up slightly. "He can choose what I hear?"

Oh, far from it. His voice takes on a humorous edge. In moments of weakness, when control is lost,
he will not be able to hide from you. But, to another end, should you wish to speak to one another
— from any distance, at any time — you will find nothing stands in your way. He may speak with
you just as I do now.

The thrill that rides up her spine at the thought of it is highly unexpected. The idea of speaking
with Malfoy, in any capacity, has never been thrilling. Not until now.

"How...would I do it?"

She's not sure how she knows he's raising a brow at this.

So eager.

"I won't try it now. I just—" She flushes. "I just want to know."

It should be as natural as breathing. Will him to hear you, and he will.

"In my head?"

Or aloud, if you prefer. She can sense his wry smile too. I suppose it depends on what you're
saying.

Ignoring the implication, she leans back and shuts her eyes, releasing a breath. She isn't sure
whether she needs to clear her mind first. Isn't sure how careful she needs to be. But if she makes a
mistake, perhaps Malfoy won't be awake to hear it.

Like this? she thinks, focusing all her intent on the wolf. Willing herself to speak only to him.

The wolf's purr is appreciative. È stato perfetto.

She huffs quietly, a little surprised. "Italian?"

Malfoy speaks many languages.

A distracting piece of information. "And...therefore so do you?"

Claro, meu amor.

Her eyes open to the darkness, face going hot. His pronunciation alone is somewhat hypnotic —
and she doesn't need to speak the language to have a fair sense of what he said.

What do you speak? he asks, stopping her before she can really chase that train of thought.
"Some very poor French."

I would love to hear it someday.

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

His laugh is warm and indulgent — infectious to the point she has to fight a smile. Charming, you
are, he says. In every possible way. And, if I may be so bold — quite skilled with your hands as
well.

She's certain her cheeks turn a brighter red than blood itself.

“I thought...” She clears her throat. “But you said that you—"

I promised not to interfere. I never promised not to attend.

She isn’t sure what about it makes her so nervous. Makes her groan and run her hands down her
face. Perhaps it’s that the wolf seems so much more experienced than either of them.

Don’t hide, he murmurs sweetly. No, no. You were an awakening. Utterly marvelous. So gentle,
but also bold. So cautious, and yet so sure of yourself. And to look at you...

She almost flinches.

Malfoy will see it behind his eyes every night when he tries to sleep. He will remember the way you
looked tonight for the rest of his life.

Strange how it sounds like a threat.

"Is it true?" she asks, if only to change the subject. "That he's..."

A virgin?

She nods to the darkness.

Of course.

It's not that she doubted it, really. Malfoy would never admit something like that if it weren't true.
It's just—

"Not even with Parkinson?"

She was always on his arm, after all. Always only one or two steps behind him. And beautiful, in
the sharpest sense. She always assumed they were dating.

The wolf laughs, though — a mocking sort of pity. Malfoy is far more skilled at making enemies
than friends. He would sooner trample a flower than acknowledge its beauty.

That's quite an image. She pictures him kneeling in a field, tearing every pretty flower he sees out
of the ground because he can't think of anything else to do with them.

Pathetic, isn't it?

"He's not pathetic."

It's a knee-jerk response, but she's surprised how sharp her tone is. So abrupt that the wolf goes
silent for a long moment. She can almost feel him assessing her. Mulling over the reaction.

Another change of subject.

"All of this would make you a virgin as well, wouldn't it?"

You sound doubtful.

"You're just—" She tries to phrase it right. "The two of you seem so different. You're not shy at all.
It seems incongruous."

I assure you, Hermione, I have had no one. But it hardly matters. Virgin, by definition, means
untouched. Unchanged. I could take a thousand lovers to my bed and still be a virgin until I have
you.

Her next breath lodges in her throat.

The thought of anyone else turns my stomach. The world is black and white, and you are the only
thing in color.

God.

She forces the breath out. It's hard to process it when he speaks like that. No hesitation, no
uncertainty. Like it should be obvious to her.

She's never felt like an obvious choice.

You are, says the wolf, her thoughts betraying her. Even Malfoy cannot deny it any longer. And this
ritual has made it nearly impossible for him to try.

"For me, as well," she murmurs, the trepidation bleeding into her voice. The more she dwells on it,
the more frightening it seems — Malfoy, able to hear what she can't control. Whatever thoughts
escape in the heat of the moment.

Do not fear your instincts. The wolf's voice soothes like a balm. There is no shame in yearning for
your paramour.

Yearning? she echoes inwardly, rolling the syllables over in her head.

It is so easy to mistake for hatred.

I don't hate him.

A soft hum. And me?

I don't hate you.

And she can feel the joy as it ripples through him. Relieved. Satiated.

What do you feel, then?

"I..." Her heart starts to pound as she considers it, the ceiling feeling like it's sinking lower. Sinking
towards her. "I can't put it into words yet. Give — give me time."

The next sound he makes is one of surrender. As much as you need.

And she begins to feel his presence easing off. Releasing her and dissipating the way water
evaporates. But just before he's gone, he seems to stop in the doorway. Turns back to offer a final
thought.

I should warn you. There is one more aspect of the ritual. A latent effect that will make itself
known in the coming days.

She goes very still.

It will be stronger for Malfoy than it is for you — but you may find his presence more...potent than
you remember.

Potent?

"In what sense?"

It may prove challenging to stay away from one another.

She huffs out a rough breath, pushing the hair back from her forehead. Excellent. She can only
imagine all the terrible ways in which that could manifest.

"Did you warn Malfoy?"

The wolf's tone bears a grin. Oh, I am certain he already knows.

Weeks. Weeks of what she can only describe as pure, undiluted hell on earth.

This is not what she'd consider a challenge.

A challenge was balancing all of her studies in Third Year. A challenge is a corporeal Patronus.

This is a natural disaster.

On the Monday following the ritual, she steps into Transfiguration and sees him again for the first
time — and it's like being struck with a mallet. He's across the classroom, sitting next to Zabini.
And there's nothing special about what he's doing. Just taking the books out of his bag. But her
eyes zero-in on his hands, and watching them slide across the leather binding is somehow no
different from being caressed by them. She's never been caressed by them. Not really. But she's
suddenly able to imagine exactly what it would feel like.

Malfoy's eyes snap to her — must sense how abruptly flustered she is through the bond. And it just
gets worse from there.

The eye contact strips the balance from her legs. She careens almost drunkenly into the nearest
table, only able to steady herself when Dean reaches out to help.

"Alright, Hermione?"

No. No. She most certainly is not.

Her mouth's run dry and Malfoy's started to sweat. She can't just tell from the way he suddenly
yanks at his tie to loosen it — not just from the sheen she sees where the light catches his skin. She
can literally smell it. An animalic wash of salt and musk. There's nothing in it that isn't strictly
Malfoy. No fragrance. No soaps or perfumes. Just him with nothing to water it down. Her knees
crave the floor at the scent of it. She wants to curl up into it and die.

Her eyes squeeze shut, hands fisting against the desk holding her up. Dean gets to his feet,
concerned voice muffled, grip on her arm a distant and forgotten sensation. But she hears a chair
across the room get thrust back quite clearly.

Breathe, commands the wolf, voice bursting in from nowhere. Both of you. Don't make a scene.

How can she not? Her legs are shaking, heart suddenly running a marathon in her chest, and she
can feel the walls of Malfoy's stomach caving in. Constricting like he hasn't eaten in days. Starved.
Ravenous.

Say you're alright.

"I'm alright," she rasps.

You're lightheaded.

"Just lightheaded."

Open your eyes and smile at him.

She forces her heavy lids to rise — forces her lips to curve up at Dean as she murmurs thanks.

Good girl. Take another breath.

Inhaling deeply, she pushes back off the desk and steadies herself on her own two feet, trying with
everything in her to ignore the many pairs of eyes she's attracted.

Malfoy, sit down.

The wolf's voice is far less gentle when he speaks to him. A moment's hesitation, and then Malfoy
slumps back into his seat. She can hear him muttering some excuse to Zabini.

The closer you are together, the more control you'll have. Sit at the table in front of him. Walk like
you're still dizzy.

She is still dizzy. Malfoy's heady scent swirls around her like it's replaced the oxygen in the air.

Neville is the one at the desk in front of Malfoy, thank god. The only small mercy in this nightmare
of a moment. She collapses into the chair next to him, pretending she doesn't notice his worried
stare, and only when Professor McGonagall steps into the classroom, drawing attention away, does
she lean to the side and whisper an explanation.

Neville's eyes widen at the mention of a ritual. Clearly, he thinks it's causing her some sort of pain,
and she's happy to let him believe that.

This is a sort of pain, after all. In its own way. For half the lesson, she can focus on nothing but the
ache in both their guts. On Malfoy's jumbled thoughts. Nothing but—

...fuck...

...smells like the fucking ocean...

...fuck, fuck, fuck...

She can feel his fingernails digging into the polished wood of the table. Her own are busy cutting
into the flesh of her palms — painful, little half-moon indentations that feel like the only things
grounding her. Sweat slides down her temples, her mind completely gone. Not a single word of
McGonagall's lesson commits itself to memory.

She'll never know what might've happened had she gone the entire class that way. A tipping point
was imminent.

But around three-quarters through, Neville nudges her with an elbow.

Her eyes flit to him — probably wide and wild like some crazed animal — and she finds he's
gesturing to something with his chin. Just a subtle nod towards the floor between them.

She glances down.

Malfoy's got one of his long legs outstretched. Lazily, one might think. But the tip of his foot is
only a few inches behind her chair. As far as he can reach — too far to be an accident.

The realization spills over her like warm water over ice, and without a moment's hesitation she
slides her own foot backwards. Just enough that the edge of one of those shiny black shoes can
graze her bare ankle.

It's like a tortured muscle finally going slack. She sighs audibly, and so does Malfoy — more of a
groan, really. He has to mask it with a cough, clearing his throat.

Vaguely, in her periphery, she's aware of Neville going a bit pink.

This is disastrous. Never in her life has she felt so utterly out of control. Mild interest has fallen off
the precipice and plunged down into frenzied obsession.

She lets her head fall into her hand, attempting it for the first time without really thinking about it
at all.

We're fucked.

Malfoy's voice echoes back only a few seconds later — different from the wolf's. Sharper. Less
delicate. But in complete agreement all the same.

So fucked.

And like that, they stumble headfirst into weeks of torment.

 Perfume / Poetry

The further apart they stay, the easier it is.

The problems arise when proximity is unavoidable.

And she starts to consider writing a letter to Professor McGonagall. What does it matter how
humiliating it is? Asking to switch class schedules is hardly worse than the circus act they're forced
to perform every time they enter the same room. She's made a fool of herself far too many times in
a matter of weeks.

There's the time she accidentally sits at the Slytherin table, for instance.

It's a Monday, and after two full days completely separated, she's unprepared for the onslaught that
is Malfoy's presence. She makes her way to his side of the Great Hall as though magnetized — in a
stupor — and takes a seat at the empty space between Millicent Bulstrode and Adrian Pucey
without any idea what she's thinking.

Adrian's the one to pull her out of the daze, forcing his head into her eye-line, brows raised so high
they're barely visible. He must have at least a vague sense of what's going on.

"What?" she asks, somehow not putting together the sea of forest green ties or the slack-jawed
stares. She's too distracted by the relief she feels now that they're only a few feet apart.

Malfoy gapes at her from across the table, every muscle tensed and his fork gripped in a vise.

"Are you lost?" Adrian's tone is a mixture of sarcasm and warning.

It dawns on her far slower than it should, and she ends up having to play it off like she stopped to
tie her shoe, returning to the Gryffindor table with cheeks flaming. Neville's the only one whose
look of horror bears some measure of sympathy, so she sits next to him. Spends the rest of
breakfast dodging questions — "Hermione, have you been...feeling well lately?" — and wishing
she still had a Time Turner.

Passing him in the corridors is almost worse.

Fleeting though these moments may be, they feel like fighting a gravitational pull, and she can
always hear him urging himself not to look at her.

...won't be able to look away if you do...

...don't. Don't. Fuck, don't...

...brilliant. Well fucking done...

Once, his fingertips actually graze her outer thigh as he brushes past, toying with the hem of her
skirt for a fraction of a second before the moment vanishes and he's gone again.

They rarely utilize the mental connection. In fact, since the ritual, Malfoy's only taken advantage of
it once — during Charms. From across the classroom, she feels his eyes on her. Feels a knot of
tension tightening in his gut. And then, out of nowhere—

Could you stop wearing that fucking perfume?

There's a fair amount of petulance in his tone, but also an unmistakable desperation. His posture
stiffens at her answer, as though struck by an icy breeze.

I'm not wearing perfume.

Fuck, he declares in his eloquence, and nothing else is said.

She thinks it sums it up flawlessly.

The owl she's been expecting for more than a month arrives in the middle of the week, perhaps two
or three days before the next full moon.

Miss Granger,

I hope all is well with your studies. If you might find some time this afternoon to visit my office, I
would very much like to speak with you. Most
sincerely,

Professor Dumbledore

Straight up to the moment she steps over the threshold, she's certain this has to do with Katie Bell.
But Dumbledore's smile is far too docile for a man about to deliver punishment.

"Wonderful to see you, Miss Granger." His eyes twinkle behind his glasses, and he gestures for her
to take the chair opposite.

Her gasp is involuntary. "Professor, your hand... "

It's black — shriveled like some poisoned branch, the discoloration traveling up towards his wrist
before tapering off.

"Ah." His smile brightens even as he tucks it away. "My apologies, it can be quite a shock. Merely
a spell mishap. Nothing to be concerned about, I assure you."

She doesn't realize she's still gaping until he gestures once more with the other hand.

"Please, sit."

She sits.

"Lemon drop?"

"No thank you, Professor.''

Dumbledore sits back comfortably in his chair, assessing her with cheerful, yet somehow
unreadable eyes. "How have you been faring?"

"Fine, Sir." She knows full well it's a loaded question, but she's not quite sure to what extent.

"Keeping up with your studies?"

"Of course, Sir."

He chuckles and gets to his feet. "Silly of me to ask." His violet robe swishes as he steps up to one
of the large bookshelves spanning his office walls. "Well, I shan't beat around the proverbial bush,
Miss Granger. I have been doing some reading on paramours."

Her lungs deflate. Perhaps she would've preferred to talk about Katie Bell.

"It's not a subject I would consider myself particularly well-versed in, and I felt I had an obligation
to broaden my knowledge in order to better assist you.''

"I'm..." She wrings her hands, uncomfortable. "I'm not certain there is a way to assist me,
Professor."

His smile grows gentle. "Certainly, there is no undoing what's been done. You are a paramour, and
a paramour you shall remain."

Somehow, hearing these words from him makes it feel more permanent than ever.

"However, this does not mean I cannot lend my support." He adjusts his glasses. "I trust Mr. Pucey
and Mr. Longbottom have already proved helpful. It can be difficult enduring something like this
alone. I do not want you to feel alone, Miss Granger."

She isn't sure what to make of that. "Thank you, Sir."

He plucks a book from his shelf, sifting through it casually as he speaks. One of the same books
Tonks loaned to her. She recognizes the cover.

"I think what concerns me most," he says, dog-earing a page, "is the conflicting information
present in the literature. It is my understanding that natural magic should be respected and admired,
rather than feared."

"Natural magic, Sir?"

"Magical phenomena not caused by any spell, but by magical physiology. Paramours are,
inherently, natural beings. Their bond is something we as witches and wizards cannot fully
understand."

"But..." Her brow furrows. "Are werewolves truly considered natural, Sir? Their condition is
caused when they're bitten, not by nature."

"Too right you are." His eyes gleam, pleased with her summation. "Though, somewhere down the
line there must've been a first. Nature wanted the werewolf to exist, I believe. Just as it wants you,
Miss Granger — the paramour — to exist."

"I'm not sure I understand, Professor."

"Forgive me." He chuckles again humbly as he returns to his seat. "I often take the roundabout way
of saying things. My point is only this: natural magic is the most pure form of magic. It should not
be questioned. Paramours, as I understand it, have lived in infamy for quite a long time. I do not
want you to make the same mistake as many of these books — to believe you are some sort of
abomination. This is not a mistake."

It seems all at once very unnecessary and very characteristic of Professor Dumbledore. To take
time out of his day just to ensure she accepts her own fate.
"I don't really think of it like a curse anymore," she says, glancing down at her lap — and it's the
truth. "It was less about the condition itself and more about who I've been bonded to."

"Ah, yes." When she looks back up at him, there's sympathy in his gaze. "Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps it's
in poor taste, but I have always had a soft spot for irony."

An easy thing to say from an outside perspective. She does her very best not to huff.

"However, I do truly believe there is more to Mr. Malfoy than meets the eye. I would suggest only
that you take it one day at a time, and perhaps that you leave room for him to change your mind."

"He already has," she says without thinking, and Dumbledore's answering smile practically
overflows.

"Splendid." He claps his hands together softly, drawing her eyes once more to those disease-ridden
fingers. "I am very pleased to hear it. As far as I know, there is no one better equipped to handle a
situation like this than you. Do then as you have been doing, and know that I am always here
should you need a helping hand — or simply someone to talk to."

That's it?

His words are a clear dismissal, and her brows lift to her hairline as she cautiously rises to her feet.
He doesn't stop her until she reaches the door.

"Oh, Miss Granger..."

"Yes, Sir?"

"One final piece of advice, if I could trouble you with it."

She glances back at him, and his expression seems to have sobered a great deal in a matter of
moments. That overly-pleasant veneer has faded, his eyes serious.

"You have a long road ahead of you, undoubtedly full of difficult choices. Favor the bond over all
else. Do what you must to protect and nurture it, for it cannot steer you wrong."

It's the night before the full moon. She's been tracking them in her notebook, somewhat hyper-
aware of this one in particular — their first since performing a ritual.

Will it be different? Better? Worse? She lies in bed and wonders, losing track of time.

Malfoy doesn't fail to notice.

You're awake, aren't you?

She's accustomed to hearing the wolf's voice at this point, but not his. The sound of it startles her,
muscles tensing beneath the sheets.

Yes.

You do realize when you overthink things, it's my stomach you're tying in knots?
She scoffs, relaxing once more into the mattress. Well, my apologies for existing.

Appreciate it.

Her eyes roll back into her head, and she doesn't really notice the way she shifts onto her side,
suddenly no longer restless.

Malfoy waits a few moments before speaking again.

What did Dumbledore want with you?

How did you—

I saw you going to his office.

And probably heard her loud and confused thoughts, she's guessing.

He wanted to check on me.

Why? Malfoy's tone is dry. Do you turn into a mindless beast on the full moon?

She sighs. He was giving me advice. Telling me not to think of the bond as a curse. Not
everything is an intentional slight to you, Malfoy.

He ignores this. Still no attempted murder charge?

Katie's fine. You can't call it attempted murder.

Attempted whatever-the-fuck-you-were-trying-to-do then. That Gryffindor privilege still alive and

well?

She scoffs again into her pillow. Go to sleep, Malfoy.

A long pause this time. It's somehow very easy to tell he's still lingering in her mind, mulling over
his next words — whether or not he wants to say them.

We should do something about this.

She'd ask what he means, the way she normally does, but it's uncommonly easy to sense the timbre
of his thoughts.

The way we're behaving, someone's bound to figure it out.

That's not necessarily true. Yes, their behavior's been ridiculous, but she's fairly certain no one's
catching on. From what she's overheard — Harry and Ron whisper very loudly — most people
think she's caught a variant of the Black Cat Flu. It would explain the way she keeps losing her
balance in the corridors.

You already know what happens if we try to break the bond.

Malfoy's tone is almost insulted. I don't want to break the bond.

Then what do you expect us to do about it?

He hesitates, and she starts to unravel the loose hem of her pillowcase as she waits.
The wolf says only one thing will fix it.

Malfoy almost never references the wolf if he can help it. This must truly be worse for him than it
is for her, though she can't really imagine how that's possible.

And what's that?

Symbiotic embarrassment floods through her, hot like the onset of a fever. Malfoy tries to drown it
out with contempt.

You know exactly what.

It's much more difficult to play it cool when she knows her innermost thoughts might float through
his head at any given moment. Still, she makes her best attempt at nonchalance.

Sex.

Malfoy's palms are sweating, but he's schooled his tone as well. An itch gets worse if all you do is
think about it.

The concept of it consuming his mind is intoxicating, she can't deny it. An involuntary shiver
coasts down her spine.

Some itches get worse when you scratch them.

He can't seem to think of a response to this.

And what would we do then?

She feels him roll over onto his stomach, pressing his face sort of angrily into his pillow.

I can't breathe when you do that.

A stray thought breaks loose, apparently too instinctive for him to rein in. I can't breathe when you
exist.

She sucks in a quiet breath, and he starts making excuses.

That's not what I meant. You know what I meant. I just—

Would sleeping with me help you breathe, Malfoy?

Her own throat constricts as he swallows, and a heavy silence sets in. She can sense him twisting
her words. Taking them the wrong way.

I promise I'm not mocking you.

He goes on the offensive. What right would you have if you were? Coming from one virgin to
another?

She wonders if he can hear the startled laugh that slips out of her mouth.

I'm sorry to make this any worse for you, Malfoy, but I am not a virgin.

Deafening silence.
His knuckles crack as he flexes his fingers.

You're lying.

Our minds are tangled together. You know I'm not lying.

Something acidic and unpleasant swells in her gut as she says it — something coming from his end.

Who? he demands.

Does it really matter?

Weasley? His body temperature is rising, fists clenching. Cutting off the circulation. Potter?
McLaggen?

She really didn't expect the concept to horrify him so much.

Just tell me, he snaps, and when she doesn't answer, his tone takes on an edge of desperation.
Please don't fucking do this to me.

Malfoy...

At least fucking tell me if it was one of them.

I really don't have to tell you anything.

Was it one of them?

His heart rate is frenzied, thudding so nervously in his chest that she herself begins to sweat.

No. She takes pity on him, if only to calm her own racing pulse. No, none of them.

It's like his fever breaks. She feels him gather a deep, steadying breath and release those white-
knuckled fists.

For a few minutes, they lay in the quiet that follows. A little shocked, she lets him recover from
whatever that was. Lets his heart find its normal rhythm.

Strange that she knows what that should be.

Virginity is sort of a meaningless concept, you know. She's not exactly sure how to think her own
thoughts gently, but she hopes they carry over that way. Every sexual experience is different. The
'first' doesn't have to be the most important.

Malfoy takes an additional second or two to gather his composure.

You weren't raised in my family. Purebloods would put a price on virginity if they could. Trade it
for favors.

The thought turns her stomach, and some bitterness leaches out of its own accord.

They would also eradicate me like a pest.

His response is like the crack of a whip. That fast and that shocking, because his voice isn't alone.
Layered over. He and the wolf, speaking as one.
Anyone who tries is as good as dead.

She's never heard them speak together before. Not that she's aware of. And judging by the startled
confusion she feels from across the bond in the wake of it, neither has Malfoy.

Part of her would like to tell him that the mark on his arm says otherwise. But she makes a snap
decision — doesn't allow him to overthink it, choosing to focus on the warmth blooming in her
chest and nothing else.

Thank you, Malfoy.

He's very keen to change the subject. Even when the alternative is almost equally treacherous.

Well? What do you want to do about this?

Her brows jolt up at his phrasing. She huffs. Is that really how you ask a girl to sleep with you?

What did you expect?

Oh, I don't know. She rolls over onto her other side, studying the pattern on the bed curtains. The
wolf has a way with words. Perhaps you should ask him.

His eyes are narrowed, she can feel it. A glare that must be vicious.

Poetry is not in my nature.

Try me.

It's the telepathic equivalent of meeting that glare head on. Of stretching up onto her tiptoes, the
way she did in that vacant classroom, and getting in his face.

Except Malfoy doesn't take the bait so easily.

What, so I can make a fool of myself? No. I'm not going to get on my knees and beg you, Granger.

I don't want you to beg me.

He's getting flustered again. Then what the fuck do you want?

I want you to ask me nicely. I want an offer that doesn't involve your usual snark.

Malfoy scoffs and starts massaging his forehead, like she's giving him a headache. She knows she's
not.

Why do you have to be so difficult?

I think you'll find you're still going in the wrong direction.

Oh, for fuck's sake—

Come on, Malfoy. Ask nicely. I know you can—

I fucking can't, he snaps suddenly, louder than he's ever been before. I literally can not ask you
nicely, do you understand? Because I'd be fucking lying if I said I wanted to be nice about it, and
like you said, you'd know I was fucking lying. I don't want to do nice, pretty, poetic things to you —
regardless of what the wolf says. I don't want to be polite, I honestly want to fuck you until it hurts.

A scalding flush spills across her cheeks, breathing suddenly shallow. It's hard to balance the sense
of victory she feels at having forced it out of him with the shock of actually hearing what he wants.

And see? he demands. Not what you were hoping for, is it?

She inhales as deeply as she can manage — shifts onto her back, suddenly very overheated. There's
no point in being anything but honest at this stage.

You feel what I feel, Malfoy. See for yourself.

That certainly shuts him up. Because there's no way he doesn't feel it. The way the blood races
through her veins. The way her stomach flutters and her thighs clench together.

I prefer it when you're blunt. And if — if that's what you want, I think I could give it to you.

When? he splutters, clearly an accident. It's too desperate and strained to be anything else.

She lets the smile spread across her face, blush somehow deepening.

Come find me after the full moon. We'll see if scratching the itch really does help.

Malfoy's anticipation is electric. She feels him suck in a sharp breath and hold it, equal parts
relieved and baffled — as though he didn't believe she'd ever actually say yes.

The wolf's rapturous approval chases the sensation like an echo.

Malfoy chooses to attend dinner the night of the full moon.

In the dead of winter, when it rose too early, she noticed he'd lock himself away sometime in the
late afternoon. But tonight he has an hour or so to spare before they can expect it to creep over the
edge of the mountains.

She's trying not to stare.

But the anticipation is having its way with her too, now, and she can't stop thinking about their
agreement. This situation is markedly different from the one with Viktor.

With him, there was no bond. No binding supernatural element. And certainly no history. Not like
theirs.

And even then, she was nervous with Viktor. She thinks she'll be absolutely catatonic when it
comes to Malfoy.

But it's strange — the euphoria of having a secret. Not like the one she's held over the past several
months, with all its complications and dangers. This secret feels somehow safe. Exciting.

And she's trying as best she can to keep all of this from bleeding straight over onto Malfoy.

At the very least, there's a significant distraction to keep her from hyper-fixating.
Cormac McLaggen actually shows up for a meal.

It's the first she sees of him since that night in the Courtyard. For the weeks that followed, he made
himself scarce — perhaps to allow his face to heal. Or perhaps to hide his shame.

But he's back now, a slightly crooked nose the only evidence of the wolf's handiwork. Looks as
though he must've fixed it himself. Madam Pomfrey would've asked questions.

He sits apart from most of his friends, far down at the end of the Gryffindor table, glaring down at
his plate. Malfoy notices too — and she doesn't miss the little spark of poisonous joy he feels. The
savage half-smile that cuts across his face from the other side of the Great Hall.

Wolf or not, he knows he's the one who almost drowned Cormac McLaggen in his own blood.

And she likes that he likes it.

At a quarter to six, Malfoy gets to his feet, just as expected. She's tempted to use the bond to ask if
he'd like some company on his way to the Shrieking Shack. But he seems relaxed enough, slinging
his bag over his shoulder and taking a sip from his flask on his way out of the Hall.

So she just thinks, Good luck, and lets him go.

There's almost a laugh in his voice. Not sure I like the implications, Granger.

And he's right.

Turns out she spoke too soon.

Cormac springs up from his seat the moment he sees Malfoy round the corner, and it becomes
abundantly clear he was waiting for him.

Her stomach drops, breath exiting in a wave as she watches him follow Malfoy out.

Like mirror images, she and Adrian jump to their feet from opposite sides of the Hall, but she
doesn't even have time to be relieved that he noticed too. She's already running — skirting around
the tables and racing through the gold doors, forgetting to care what anyone might think.

The first blow knocks her off balance, pain exploding across the left half of her face. She has to
stop and clutch the wall just beyond the exit, vaguely aware of Adrian's footfalls passing her by.
She grasps desperately for her wand, blinking away the sharp sting and stumbling towards the
corridor just ahead — where she hears the shouting.

From what she can feel, Cormac only gets in about one or two punches. Adrian hits him with a
Tempest Jinx only a few seconds later, and he collapses and starts to writhe, miniature lightning
bolts riding up his extremities.

But he's the furthest thing from her mind.

She has eyes only for Malfoy, down on his hands and knees, desperately groaning, "No, no, no,"
over and over again. His fingers are splayed out in a pool of shimmering silver liquid, and just
moments after she comprehends the flask — scattered a few meters away on the flagstone — she
smells it.

"Malfoy..." she breathes, aghast.

His gaze darts to her, lip bleeding though he doesn't seem to know it. And the fear in his eyes is
nothing compared to the terror she feels through the bond. Sinking back onto his knees, he lifts
those shaking hands so she can see, Wolfsbane dripping from them like tears onto the stone.

"How much did you take?" Adrian demands, snatching the flask from the ground. She can tell by
the way he holds it that it's empty.

"Not enough," Malfoy gasps out. "Not — not enough. Fuck."

By now, teachers have undoubtedly heard Cormac's screaming. She can sense the commotion
closing in behind them.

"Do you have more?"

"No, I — no."

All at once, Adrian takes Malfoy's arms and hauls him up to his feet. "We're going right now. Now.
Come on."

Malfoy struggles, dragging against his hold so he can look at her.

She's frozen up again. Stares helplessly after him as he gets pulled away.

"You — listen to me, Granger! Listen to me," he shouts, pointing at her even as Adrian shackles his
wrists. "Don't come near me. You stay away, do you hear me? Stay away from me! I don't care
what you feel. Fucking swear to me—"

Adrian yanks him through the set of tall doors leading into the Courtyard, and his voice fades away
to nothing.

A shuddering breath escapes her lips.

Cormac whimpers and moans. Teacher swarm the hall. The Wolfsbane dries steadily into the
stone's many cracks.

She takes one look at it and knows she has no choice.

 Sweeter / Stranger
Chapter Notes

Please see the notes at the end of the chapter for trigger warnings.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Every second counts.

She hears a professor call out her name. Maybe McGonagall, she isn't sure. She's already around
the corner, racing down the corridor towards the nearest set of stairs.

There's no time — none at all. She knows that. But she has to try.

Malfoy's blind fear is like a stimulant coursing through her veins, 100 proof. She's completely
consumed by it, and just as she knows there's not enough time, she knows there's no alternative. He
needs Wolfsbane. And her feet guide her by pure instinct. Straight to that blank wall hiding the
Room of Requirement.

Gathering a shaky breath, she shuts her eyes and forces herself to focus.

I need the Wolfsbane. I need it more than anything. Wolfsbane. Wolfsbane.

She urges these thoughts to supersede all else, so the room can make no mistake. But those black
iron swirls should already be carving their way into the stone.

Let me in. I need to come in. Let me in.

Her eyes fly open. The wall is unchanged.

"What are you doing?" she demands of it, raising her palms to the stone. "Let me in."

Nothing.

Her pulse starts to hammer, and a hot spark of pain flashes through her hand as she slams it against
the wall. "Let me in!"

"Hermione?"

She whips around, finding Neville jogging towards her from the opposite end of the corridor.

"I..." He staggers to a halt when he reaches her, winded. "I saw the Wolfsbane — in the Entrance
Hall. Smelled it. What's — what's going on?"

There's no time for the detailed explanation he wants. "I need to brew more. Right now." She turns
back to the wall, smacking it again. "But I can't get in. It won't let me in. I don't—"

"How much do you need?"

"What?"
"For the potion — how much Wolfsbane do you need?"

There's something in his voice that dares her to hope. She glances back at him, eyes a little wide.
"Three stems."

Neville digs in his trouser pocket suddenly, pulling out a drawstring burlap pouch that's much too
small. She's confused until he reaches inside and heaves out a two-foot potted ficus, setting it down
on the floor out of the way.

Undetectable Extension Charm.

"They aren't completely fresh," he explains, elbow-deep in the bag now as he hunts around for it.
At one point he appears to prick himself on something, face scrunching into a grimace. "I — ow —
I harvested them this morning, but I — oh, here. Here they are." He pulls out a glass jar and holds
it up between them, and seeing those violet petals is like catching her breath for the first time in
hours.

Neville twists the jar and counts the slowly-wilting stems. "I have...erm, four? Yes. Four."

She wants to kiss him.

She takes the jar and throws her arms around his shoulders instead, squeezing tightly. "Thank you."

"I could — I can help, if you—"

She's already taking off down the corridor, plotting a course for the Potions classroom that doesn't
involve passing the Great Hall. "You're safer here!" she calls, clutching the jar like a lifeline.

Every second counts.

The brew takes thirty minutes longer than it should, and by the time pure white smoke starts to rise
from the cauldron, she's bitten her lips bloody.

Malfoy is sweating — breathing hard and curled into himself against a wall somewhere in the
Shrieking Shack. She can feel every movement. Every panicked exhale. But his thoughts are so
jumbled they're almost incoherent.

...never...

...don't know...

...what if I...

The moon's cruel glow has already begun to creep across the mountains. She can see it through the
classroom windows, and it makes her hands shake as she tries to ladle the potion into an empty
flask, whispering to herself all the while, "I can make it. I can. I can make it."

Or perhaps she can't.

The moment she sets foot outside the classroom, ready to run — to truly put her stamina to the test
— she comes face to face with Adrian Pucey and two professors. Dumbledore and McGonagall.
"Miss Granger—" Professor McGonagall starts, reaching out with gentle hands, but the panic
seizes her instantly.

"No. No, you can't. Please don't. Please don't." She tries to back up, but Adrian has worked his
way behind her, forming something of a blockade.

"Miss Granger..." It's Dumbledore now, voice softer but hands raised in a very similar fashion.
"Please try to remain calm."

"I — no, you don't — you don't understand." Shaking her head, she backs into the Potions door and
clutches the flask against her chest, suddenly certain they're going to try to pry it away. "You don't
understand."

"I am well aware of the situation," says Dumbledore. "Mr. Pucey came to me straight away. Rest
assured, Mr. Malfoy is safely confined to the Shrieking Shack."

The concept is barbaric to her ears, and she feels the incredulity warp her features. "He has no
Wolfsbane. How can you—"

"Wolfsbane is an aid, Miss Granger," says Professor McGonagall. "Not a necessity. Mr. Malfoy
will simply transform as he has in the past."

"Simply?" she echoes, horrified. "Wolfsbane is a painkiller. A calming agent and a sedative. You
expect him to go through this without any form of anesthetic? What sort of—"

"You are incensed, child — and understandably so." Dumbledore takes a delicate step towards her.
"In my reading, I've learned of these symbiotic sensations between paramours. Though, it may
comfort you to know that there has never been an instance in which a paramour has felt the pain of
transformation. The bond is known to block it out—"

"You think I'm worried about myself?" she spits, taking an aggressive step towards him in turn.
She has no concept of her tone. Of who she's speaking to. There's only Malfoy, alone and
unprotected, taking up all the spaces in her mind. "I have to help him. I — I don't have a choice. I
—"

Adrian cuts in then, stepping closer on her other side. She feels like she's being corralled into a
cage.

"Malfoy told me himself. He'll be alright. It's nothing he can't handle."

"He's never done it before!" she hisses. "Not like this." But even as she speaks, she finds herself
desperately searching the bond for it. Any evidence to convince her he's not boiling alive in his
own fear.

She finds none.

No, in fact she can barely feel him at all now.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore raises his voice — enough to command attention. "Your distress is
justified. But as Headmaster, it is my duty to shield you from harm. I am afraid there is nothing you
can do for Mr. Malfoy at this time, save perhaps calming yourself down. The next several hours,
however painful for him, will eventually pass. Disciplinary action will be taken with regard to Mr.
McLaggen, and we will do everything in our power to ensure this never happens again. A reserve
of Wolfsbane will be set aside for—"
"Wolfsbane has to be brewed fresh," she blurts, but Dumbledore raises that gentle hand again,
silencing her.

"We shall make whatever preparations necessary, I assure you. Mr. Malfoy originally expressed a
desire to manage his condition independently, but I see now that may no longer be an option."

Every inch of her itches, overwhelmed by discomfort. Uncertainty. "I don't—"

"You'll make it worse for him," says Adrian, matter-of-fact, and their eyes connect sharply. "If you
go. You won't be able to help. You'll only make it worse."

You don't know that, she wants to say. You don't know our bond.

But the words never reach her throat.

Dumbledore's voice is softer when he speaks again. "I think a good night's rest would benefit the
both of you. I could have Madam Pomfrey prepare a Sleeping Draught, if you—"

"No." But the harsh tone of her voice finally registers, and she somehow manages to rein herself in.
"No, thank you."

Dumbledore appraises her with calm, unreadable eyes. "Very well. Come morning, I will be sure to
check in on you both." His gaze shifts to Adrian. "Would you be so kind as to escort Miss Granger
back to her common room?"

It makes her feel childish — out of control. Needing a chaperone. But she can think of nothing
further to say. Nothing that would change their minds.

And Malfoy's side of the bond has faded to white noise.

Professor McGonagall gives her arm a squeeze as she passes, following Adrian out of the
Dungeons corridor. She glances back once at Dumbledore over her shoulder, perhaps to catch a
glimpse of his true thoughts.

His face remains a mask.

And the flask feels heavy and useless in her hands.

"You're too obvious," says Adrian when they reach the top of the Dungeon stairs. He doesn't look
at her, gaze shifting around warily as they pass the Great Hall. "Your emotions, your anger. You
wear it all on your sleeve, and if you really want to keep this whole mess private, you'll have to
learn to stop doing that."

"I don't need another lecture from you."

"Then stop asking for them." He slows at the foot of the Grand Staircase — performs a somewhat
aggressive quarter-turn and brandishes an arm, forcing her to walk ahead of him. "If you think it's
bad now, you wait until rumors start spreading. Half-breeds and their ilk don't fare well in
Wizarding society."

"And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" she mutters under her breath. The tense silence that
follows suggests he heard it, and she'd probably feel guilty if her stomach weren't still churning.

For half the walk to Gryffindor, she wonders how she'll ever manage to sleep. And despite how
much she wants to, she refuses to ask Adrian any questions. Doesn't think she actually wants to
know how exactly Malfoy's chained up. How he was acting just before Adrian left. What the look
in his eyes was.

For half the walk to Gryffindor, she does what she can to resign herself to the inevitable.

But somewhere around the fourth floor, their dormant bond suddenly crackles back to life — and
out of nowhere, she hears him loud and clear.

Help me.

The toe of her shoe catches on the next step, and she has to steady herself with the railing. Adrian
comes into view at her side, brow quirked.

Granger...

It's a strangled whisper. Like nothing she's ever heard from him before. Desperate and terrified.

Granger, help me. Help me. Please.

Her grip tightens on the railing, lungs closing around her next breath.

"What?" Adrian demands. "What is it?"

For about ten seconds, she considers telling him, gaze searching his. But she finds far too much
uncertainty there, and with one glance at the flask clutched in her left hand, her mind is made up.

She releases the railing and scrambles to free her wand from the pocket of her skirt, unwavering as
she aims the tip between his eyes.

"Stupefy," she breathes, and Adrian crumples on the stairs like a marionette with its strings cut.

Help me. Fuck, please help me.

Malfoy's voice is quiet, but from the way it makes her stomach clench, he may as well be
screaming.

Without another thought, she steps over Adrian's body and races for the One-Eyed Witch Passage.

I'm coming.

It hurts. Please, it hurts. Please.

These words reach her just as she's climbing out of Honeydukes' cellar, and she trips over her feet
running through the darkened shop, forgetting the entire concept of magic for a moment. She cuts
her sleeve breaking the glass pane on the door to unlock it from the outside.

Hogsmeade is deserted at this hour — nearly nine, now. The moon shines bright and pitiless over
the rooftops as she carves a path through the thin layer of snow towards the Shrieking Shack.

Nearly there, I promise.

She can't feel him at all, now — only hears his pleading, the ache in her chest burrowing deeper
with each word. She's not too late. Not if he's still communicating. And she clings desperately to
the vision of herself tipping every last drop of Wolfsbane down his throat.

The dark shadow of the Shrieking Shack comes into view as she crests the hill — a cathedral to her
frantic eyes. One of her curls catches on a loose screw as she ducks between the rails of the
property's weathered gate, but the pain barely registers. It's a good a sign as any that she doesn't
hear anything. No agonized screams. No cry of the wolf. Only—

Please. Please, please. Help me.

I'm here.

The door isn't locked this time, and it only takes her a matter of seconds to cross the ground floor to
the stairs, wind whistling through the gaps in the walls. "Malfoy!" she calls out, taking the rickety
steps two at a time. "Malfoy, I'm here!"

No answer — but she remembers which door it is in that crooked hallway off the landing. Sucking
in a deep breath, she thrusts it open and tells herself she's prepared for anything.

He's there. Down on his knees in the center of the room, chains tethering him to opposite walls —
still human.

"Malfoy..." she breathes, more a sigh of relief than anything, and his head lifts to look at her,
sweat-soaked hair dangling in his face.

"Granger."

The moon hasn't made its way through the second story windows just yet, but his eyes are affected.
That pale blue-grey is gone, filled in by darkness that crawls out from the pupils, spiderwebbed
over the whites.

"Help me."

She scrambles forward and drops to her knees, trembling hands struggling to unscrew the lid of the
flask. "Open your mouth. Open," she coaxes, resting one hand on his jaw as he tilts his head back.
"There you go. Yes. Good." Not a drop is allowed to go to waste, and she shakes the empty flask
twice over his parted lips before she's satisfied he's gotten it all.

He doesn't even grimace at the taste. Barely reacts beyond a sigh, eyes falling shut, and for a long
while he stays like that. Face tipped towards the ceiling, chest heaving as he pants.

"You'll be alright. Just breathe. Breathe," she whispers, catching her own breath for the first time
since arriving.

"Thank you," he murmurs at long last, when everything has slowed and the room's descended into
silence. His voice is low and calm — nothing like that frenzied rasp she heard in her head — and
she huffs out another relieved sigh as she watches him crack his neck back and forth. Gradually, he
lowers his chin, eyes still closed. "Thank you," he says again, only this time he adds, "sweet girl,"
in a voice that's suddenly like velvet. "I knew you'd come."

She goes very still, brows drawing together — and Malfoy opens his eyes.

They aren't dark now. A line of glowing white splits each of them in two. Thin diamonds like the
pupils of a cat.
Her throat closes up at the sight, body tensing. She's seen his eyes change when the bisect took
control in the past, but they've never looked like this. And he's never called her that before.

"Stranger...?" she offers in a quiet, cautious voice. Perhaps he's different in the wake of the full
moon.

Malfoy's face contorts at the word, eyes squinting and mouth curving up on one side. "Strange..."
he echoes, as though he's never heard the word before. "This is certainly strange."

And then he laughs.

Hermione jerks back, falling off her knees only to scramble to her feet.

"No, no..." he coos, tilting his head to the side as he watches her. "Don't go."

More and more, she's realizing she doesn't recognize his voice at all.

"Malfoy," she snaps, hoping to force him out of it. "Stop. Stop — tell me what's happening."

He just gazes up at her from the floor, smiling oddly. Eyes empty. "I'm so glad you came."

"Malfoy."

"Imagine if you hadn't..."

Her heart starts to pound. She takes another step back, attempting to reach him inside her head.
Malfoy. Malfoy, listen to me—

"How sad I would be..." he continues, hands sliding from where they rested on his thighs to form
fists on the floor at either side. The chains rattle as he leans forward. "I wonder, sweet girl — what
does your muscle taste like?"

With one sharp breath, she turns on her heel and lunges for the door, but just as quickly it slams
and locks itself in her face. Wandless magic.

"Don't go. No, please don't go. I don't want you to miss it."

She claws for her wand, stammering out the unlocking spell over and over again. But each time the
door re-locks itself, and her hand starts to sweat yanking at the knob.

"Come, now...look at me," that thing in Malfoy's body is saying. "You don't want to miss it."

And just as a brilliant streak of moonlight slices through the room from one of the windows, she
hears the chains behind her start to groan, and all at once there's a great, sickening crack.

Whirling around, she presses back against the door, one hand still clutching the knob. Malfoy is
hunched over, spine bent at an unnatural angle, panting viciously. His palms are flattened against
the floor, veins protruding, and as the moonlight spills over him, his fingers curl inward. The wood
of the floorboards peels away under his fingernails. And when she blinks, they're no longer nails
— but claws. Curved, sable, knife-like claws, steadily growing longer. They cleave through the
wood like butter.

Another chilling crack echoes across the room, and Malfoy's body jerks again, chains groaning as
his shirtsleeves start to tear. The seams split, gaping holes forming at the shoulders and biceps as
his flesh fights its way through. Flesh that's rapidly darkening.
She's paralyzed. Every muscle freezes as she watches what can't be stopped.

In all, it only takes a matter of seconds.

Malfoy screams — just once. A choking, garbled scream that gets swallowed whole halfway
through, and then — quite suddenly — she's looking at a monster.

Clothes torn away, body deformed, it slowly raises its head to look at her. A long, silver-furred
snout peels back brutally over fangs that drip saliva onto the floor. Fangs as long as her fingers, she
swears. And with those glowing eyes locked on hers, it raises off its knees to its full height.

Her breath abandons her.

Lupin's wolf was the size of a man. Thin and, in a way, almost frail.

This wolf drowns her in its shadow, muscles of its legs coiling as it straightens off its haunches to
stand on its hind legs. Its arms are twice as long as they should be, dangling down at its sides, and
even standing, those claws still brush the floor.

Steaming clouds billow from that snout as it breathes, staring at her for a long moment in silence.

And suddenly that voice — the one that belongs to Malfoy, and yet not at all — floods through her
head.

I can smell your blood, little thing.

The hair stands up on the back of her neck, and the sight of the monster's long, dripping tongue
rolling across its teeth is all it takes to inject life back into her limbs.

She spins to face the door again and thrusts her wand towards the lock. "Bombarda!"

The door rips from its hinges, falling flat onto the ground, and all she hears as she dashes through
the opening is laughter in her head.

Her breath comes in short, uneven hitches, ankle twisting on the way down the stairs. She stumbles
and falls near the lowest step, shoving herself up onto all fours and back to her feet before she even
knows she tripped. But just as she reaches the front door, she hears them both at once.

The beast, its tone a lilting whisper — I'm coming for you.

And the chains ripping off their bolts on the walls.

A panicked cry lodges in the back of her throat, and she throws herself through the door out into
the cold. The hill leading down from the Shrieking Shack is unforgiving beneath her feet, snow
making her slip. She scrapes her arm on the fence crawling out from under it, splinters burying
themselves into her skin.

She'll run through Hogsmeade. Keep to the main road and get back to the Castle. She'll run until
her lungs burst.

She'll find a way to—

Out from the shadows of the first alleyway in her path, it crawls. Somehow ahead of her.
Impossibly. Undeniably. And the way it walks — a prowling, unsettling dance, shifting off and
onto its haunches again and again — makes her stomach roll.
Oh, little one...I am so much faster than you.

It's blocking her way, five meters between them at best — leaving only the path to her right. The
Forbidden Forest.

Do you want to run from me? the monster asks, razor blade claws drawing little spirals in the snow
as it assesses her. Oh, please. Please, say you'll run from me. Hunted prey tastes sweeter.

Her traitorous limbs freeze up again, rooting her to the spot. Forcing her to stare back at the beast
as it cocks its head from side to side. A wolf can't grin, but this one does.

"If..." she breathes, her voice a pathetic whimper. "If you — if you hurt me, it'll...hurt you too..."

That tongue traces its fangs again, eyes tightening like they're zeroing in on a specific target. Her
stomach. Her jugular. She can't be sure.

I dearly hope so. In fact, I long for it.

A wash of cold spills through her, and the beast careens forward suddenly — a false lunge. Toying
with her. When she gasps, that grin widens.

Now run.

Her feet twitch in the snow.

RUN!

The shout blares through her head in the same moment the beast rears its jaw and howls into the
wind, and she stumbles backward. Twists to the right with a cut scream, taking off into the waiting
woods.

This is what it wants. A surefire trap in the form of sprawling trees and no sense of direction.

She has no choice.

She darts into the shadows of the treeline with no idea whether she'll ever come back out. And she
hears the staggered, heavy footfalls of the beast immediately start closing in behind her.

The moonlight flashes between the trunks and bushes like a strobe, almost as fast as her heartbeat,
and all she can think as she charges into the brambles is that there's no one to save her this time. No
future version of herself there to burst out from the darkness and howl up at the moon.

This isn't the mindless monster she planned for.

This one knows what it's hunting.

Run, run, run...it hisses, laughing as her foot catches on a root and she falls face first to the wet
earth.

She scrunches her fists into the mixed snow and mud, forcing herself back to her feet even as her
lungs start to burn, pulse shallow and painful at the front of her chest. The forest is a labyrinth.

There are many places to hide.

Not when you smell so sweet, warns the beast. Oh, so sweet. Not when I hear the blood gushing
through your veins. But please...do try.
For the first several hours, she wonders if this is perhaps the most vivid nightmare she's ever had.
Wonders if, at any moment, she might gasp and sit up in bed, drenched in sweat — penance for
overthinking.

If it could happen soon, she'd never ask another favor of the universe. Never again.

But a few hours more, and she's sure she's not dreaming. The blood seeping down the backs of her
heels from the blisters is her own. The constrictions of her stomach as she dry heaves — unable to
stop to pull her hair back — aren't imaginary.

The wolf hunts her meticulously, spending precious hours — precious stamina — refusing to catch
her. It stalks her into thorn bushes and through spider-ridden caves, always close enough to be
heard. Close enough, sometimes, to be seen — the glint of an eye. The edge of a claw. It scrapes
marks into the tree bark and trains her never to trust left from right or up from down. Teaches her
its game, all the while never failing to tell her how much it's enjoying it.

This is my prize, little thing. My bounty. I've waited so long.

Harry once described the words of the Basilisk to her. Parseltongue threats she could never hear
with her own ears.

She imagines they sounded a great deal like this.

Let me peel the tendons from your bones, pretty girl. I'll be good. I'll be gentle.

I want to see your insides.

Don't you know it's dangerous to walk the woods alone?

Her lungs beg her to let them burst, the metallic taste of blood a constant reminder in the back of
her throat. She's skinned her knees more times than she can count, muscles in her legs worn away
to nothing.

Oh, don't give up. No — not yet. You won't scream the way I want you to.

Tears track clean streaks into the mud spattered all over her face. The monster tells her it can't wait
to taste them.

Countless times, she tries to scream for help. Her throat is torn raw. But these woods are not the
friendly sort, filled with creatures that would rather watch than intervene.

And Malfoy cannot hear her.

Please — please, wake up. Please, I'm begging you. Come back. Come back. Come back.

It's amidst one of these pleas, hours deep into the endless night, that the wolf decides it's hungry
enough.

Sad, little thing...tell me you don't really believe he's going to help you, it purrs, no doubt watching
as she staggers into a clearing she's passed a thousand times before.

She's found every rock and every tree, but never the edge of the forest.

This is meant to be. I was sired to hunt you, just as you were sired to be consumed.

She stumbles down a hill she knows leads to a creek. She's spit blood into it before.
Would you like to know what you taste like?

Perhaps she can drown herself.

I'll tell you as soon as I find out.

The moment she's been waiting for all night.

Out of the darkness, it lunges for her, roar like a man's dying scream, and she thinks she breaks her
ankle twisting around to face it. Crying out, she loses her footing and falls into the shallow, icy
water, bruising her spine on impact. Her wand ejects mindless spells. Light and sparks and
anything she can think to ward it off with, but the wolf takes one swipe at her with those vicious
claws and she can suddenly see the bone of her forearm.

Her wand is lost, and her vision tints red in the haze of pain.

Or perhaps that's just the blood.

Flesh dangling down around her wrist, she rolls onto her stomach and tries to crawl, but the wolf's
claws find the backs of her thighs, carving stripes into her flesh. Her scream is soundless, no voice
left to give way to it.

Don't go. Don't go. I've only just found you.

Its voice is so sweet, even as the grip of one of those massive, half-human hands tightens enough to
snap her femur.

That she does hear. A crack as loud as a Muggle shotgun. Her scream is just an afterthought.

If she blacks out, she dies. She knows that.

So she crawls, dragging her limp, crooked limbs away from its teasing grip as it stalks after her.
It'll go for the neck, she thinks — when it truly wants this over with.

M-Malfoy...please...

More laughter, slippery and poisonous inside her mind.

Please...

All at once, the wolf tangles its claws into her mud-crusted curls, using them as leverage to flip her
onto her back. The nerves in her leg cry out like knives are being driven through them. Blood
spurts from the open arteries in her arm.

The wolf gazes down on her, lips pulled back over its fangs, leering.

This is it, she thinks, staring back. No strength to scream. Not even to fight. She looks up into those
lifeless, glowing eyes and wonders what she did to earn a death like this.

I'm sorry, Malfoy.

The thought fills her mind instinctively. The last thing she can think to say to him.

I'm sorry. I — I tried. I did.

And that's when those wicked eyes flicker and blink — the first she's seen them blink all night. It's
 the only hesitation she's witnessed from this creature that hasn't seemed intentional.

Granger?

It isn't real. She knows she isn't hearing Malfoy's voice.

But the illusion spurs the last dregs of her will, driving her fingers to close around a rock. And she
spends the last of her strength forcing that arm to swing towards the beast, striking hard across the
jaw.

An animal whimper. A roar.

She flips onto her stomach and uses the screaming pain to find her feet, broken leg dragging behind
her as she limps through the water. Twice, she falls, hearing the beast closing in. Thorns and sharp
rocks split open her palms. Her body begs to fail.

The wolf howls, and she knows the sound of its feet leaving the earth. Of the lunge that will surely
take her life.

She closes her eyes, bracing for —

Warmth.

Warmth and something bright. Something that sears through the bruised flesh of her eyelids.

Warmth and silence.

When she opens her eyes again, she's certain she's dead. Nothing else could explain the sunrise.

But the trembling hand she raises to shield herself from it is soaked in blood. Carved and grotesque.

Staggering to balance on her one good leg, she turns, unable to fathom the sound of morning birds,
flying from branch to branch just above — the delicate, early light grazing the leaves.

She turns to face the beast and finds none.

Only a boy with horror in his eyes.

Chapter End Notes

TW: gore, disturbing imagery

 Lucky / Ruined

This is not how she imagined it.

When the whites fade to greys and the greys collapse into black — when the world falls out from
under her — she knows it's over. But this is not how she imagined death.

It looks right, in a way. Pure and bright, a thin layer of clean fog spanning the ground beneath her
feet. The light from above is dappled and gentle, and there's no sense of pain. No sense of hot or
cold. No discomfort.

But it doesn't feel right.

She doesn't feel peace.

Breathing in — can she still do that? — she takes a few steps forward, realizing quickly that she's
not standing on solid ground. Water threshes around her ankles, disturbing the fog. The shallows of
some serene, endless lake.

She bends, reaching out to sweep the fog away and see what's below.

But the hands aren't hers. And neither is the reflection looking up at her from the water.

It's Malfoy's.

Light explodes from behind just as the gasp leaves her throat, but when she whirls to face it, she's
swallowed once more by darkness. Darkness that becomes her only companion for time she cannot
measure.

Pain finds her before consciousness.

And the more she begins to feel each ache — the more every inch of her seems to throb with it —
the less she believes she’s actually dead.

She’s so riddled with discomfort by the time she’s able to peel her eyes open that when the light
bleeds through her lashes, she’s already expecting to see the Hospital Wing.

This is not it.

This is a room she’s only glimpsed once or twice in all her years at Hogwarts — pure luck and
good timing.

The Gryffindor Head Girl’s dormitory.

She knows because the bed curtains draped across the four-poster she’s laid out on are Gryffindor
colors, and yet made of a far nicer velvet.

And because the bed itself is twice the size of the one she’s used to sleeping in.
Her gaze sinks lower, tracing the outline of her legs covered by the sheets. Her left leg throbs and
reflexively tenses with each breath she takes. Her right arm burns.

She makes some sort of weak, unintelligible noise in the back of her throat, squinting into the
dappled morning light drifting in from the windows. Quick as a flash, Madam Pomfrey appears in
her periphery, face slowly coming into focus.

Hermione's woken up in her care before — ages ago, in Second Year. But even then, nearly killed
by a Basilisk, the matron's expression had been calm. Doubtless. And it was a comfort, residing in
such confident hands.

There is very little Madam Pomfrey can't mend.

But on this day, the matron's face is tense, gaze calculating and somewhat uncertain. And that's not
very comforting at all.

Neither are her words.

"Do you know who I am?"

Hermione drags her voice out of a sandpaper throat. "Madam Pomfrey."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Hogwarts."

"Any memory of what happened to you?"

There aren't words for that. None that she can come up with. So she just fixes her tired eyes on the
matron and nods.

Madam Pomfrey takes a seat next to her near the foot of the bed, a bottle of Dittany and a cloth in
hand. "Then I'll be frank with you." Movements curt, she pulls the sheet up from around
Hermione's feet and starts to apply it where she can't see. Her thighs, she thinks, though the
sensations are dull. "You are lucky to be alive — and even I am not quite sure how you managed
it."

The words seem to pass right through her, and instead she's left thinking of the last thing she can
remember.

Images of the forest flood her mind. The black, twisted outlines of the trees. The bright scarlet of
her own blood. And the look in Malfoy's eyes.

Everything after that is darkness.

"Recovery will take time," says Madam Pomfrey. "You're coming out of hypothermia. Excessive
blood loss. Several compound fractures and a concussion."

She doesn't even remember hitting her head. "How — how did I get back to the Castle?"

Madam Pomfrey's eyes flit up briefly before focusing back on their work. "You were carried."

Her chest swells with something painful. Something she can't attribute to her wounds.

"By Malfoy." It's not a question.

Madam Pomfrey nods, wetting the cloth with more Dittany. "Relentless boy. Pounded on my office
door until his hands were bloody, then practically dropped you at my feet without a word."

"So you know what he is."

A disapproving huff. "Wasn't hard to riddle out. After all my years in medicine, I know wounds
like yours only come from one thing—"

"It's not his fault."

Sharp eyes meet hers now, a shrewd brow raised. "Who said anything about fault?"

No one. But she could make an educated guess that it's hers.

Madam Pomfrey stoppers the Dittany and vanishes the cloth. "I checked you thoroughly for bite
wounds. It's hard to say for certain, considering the state you were in, but I feel fairly confident you
haven't been infected. I should think we'd know by now."

Hermione releases a heavy breath, trying to adjust herself so she can sit up. She has more questions
than she knows what to do with, one already poised on her tongue when Madam Pomfrey rushes to
push her shoulders back down.

"No. You need rest. Several more days worth, if I have anything to say about it. Right now, you're
to focus on nothing but healing."

She doesn't get the chance to ask what the matron means by several more days. A spoonful of
Dreamless Sleep Potion is promptly ladled into her mouth, and she's far too weak to resist.

Once more into the darkness.

The warmer tint of the light suggests it's early evening the next time she wakes — and not to find
Madam Pomfrey's stern presence at her side.

Neville is worrying over a stack of parchment in his lap, sifting through the pages. It takes him
almost a full minute to notice her gaze, and he drops a few sheets when he does.

"Oh — Hermione, hi. Hi..." He scrambles to set the papers aside, scooting his chair closer and
asking, "How are you? How are you feeling? Are you in a lot of pain?" in quick succession. But he
doesn't give her time to answer before the words start tumbling out. "Listen, I — let me just...I'm so
sorry. Before you say anything, just know that. I — I had no idea that paramours had a tendency to
— well, you know. I just — I would never've given you the Wolfsbane if I'd—"

"Neville..." She reaches out with her good hand, resting it on top of his. "Stop."

"I—"

"None of this is your fault." That, at the very least, she's certain of. Clearing her dry throat, she
struggles once more to sit up against the headboard. "It's — ah..." She sucks the air in through her
teeth as the pain flares up in her leg, speaking through a tight jaw. "It's my fault, I know."

Neville immediately reaches for the bottle of Dittany on the nightstand beside her, but she waves
him off.

"Can — can I help you? Should I get Madam—"

"Yes," she huffs out, finally dragging herself all the way upright even as Neville winces, hands
twitching like he wants to assist. "I mean no. No, don't get Madam Pomfrey. But yes, you can help
me."

“How?”

“Answer my questions? Help me piece all of this together, please — I have so much I can’t
account for.”

Neville nods emphatically, scooting closer still, and she plans to start with the most simple. Truly,
she does. The when and how of it all.

But some instinct tells her she won’t process a single word until she knows —

“Where is Malfoy?” And she doesn’t realize it's true until she says it out loud. “I can’t feel him at
all.”

Neville, to his credit, seems to understand the delicacy of this subject. His tone is gentle. Aimed to
soothe. “He’s...alright, I think. He’s here in the Castle. Professor Dumbledore offered to let him
take some time away, but I guess he thought — well, with the both of you gone, it would seem
strange.”

Alright.

She mulls the word over, trying to peel away its layers and uncover what it really means.

“Was he hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so. He—"

“Did he seem angry with me?”

Neville’s voice wavers, a little helpless. “I honestly don’t know, Hermione. I only saw him the one
time. When Dumbledore pulled us all aside to discuss what would come next.”

“Next...” she echoes, searching his eyes.

Neville only shrugs. “Get our story straight, I suppose. We all have to have the same one when
people ask questions.”

She blinks at him vacantly for a moment, then glances away. Finds herself actually studying the
room for the first time.

“And what is the story?” Her eyes trace the diamond-pane windows. The fireplace in the corner
and the ornate sofa beside it. All the lavish amenities meant for a Head of House, which she is
decidedly not. This year's Head Girl is a Ravenclaw, so the room must've been vacant.

"Erm...well." Neville itches at the back of his head. "It's sort of my fault, really, but we...uh —
well, we went with the Black Cat Flu. The rumors were already spreading, and when I brought it
up to Dumbledore, he thought it was a better idea than inventing something new. Story is you were
transferred to St. Mungo's for treatment. Which is why I sort of had to nick this from Harry." He
twists and rustles through those papers again, only to turn back and hand her the Marauder's Map.
Her brows raise of their own accord.

"He thinks he misplaced it. I just...didn't think it would work out so well for us if he saw you where
you shouldn't be. But once you're back on your feet, it can turn up under a sofa somewhere."

She traces one of its weathered corners absently with the tip of her finger.

Neville clears his throat. "Did you want to hang on to it?"

"Alright."

He smiles — one that's meant to be reassuring. But it doesn't reach his eyes, and she catches them
shifting towards the sheets covering her legs more than once.

"I haven’t looked yet," she says quietly. Resigned. "Is it horrible?"

He's a little too quick to shake his head, tripping over his words. "No — no, not really. Not — not
at all. Madam Pomfrey kept saying it should've been worse." He lurches forward when she starts to
tug on the sheets. "Oh — no, maybe you...maybe you shouldn't—"

His voice trails off with a defeated sigh as she drags them fully aside, and they collapse into a
white heap on the floor next to the bed.

"Oh."

There's a small part of her that wants to squirm at the sight — but it's somewhat overshadowed.
More than anything, she looks upon the damage and feels a sort of clinical detachment. Perhaps it's
the concussion.

Her left leg is stained a purplish-black, the darkness mostly concentrated at her thigh and tapering
off down towards her shin. She can see where the bone snapped. Did it snap or was it crushed?
Either way, there's swelling to prove it, and Madam Pomfrey has it set in a magical brace. She
flexes her toes experimentally, almost relieved by the wave of pain that rushes up to greet her.

"Try not to move it," says Neville gently.

"Just checking it still works."

The right leg is far better off, mostly scraped by brambles and spotted with bruises. But those
claws tore through the backs of her thighs, if her mottled memory serves her right. She wonders
what the scars will look like.

"I think Madam Pomfrey said the right ankle was only sprained."

Her eyes shift lazily to find the bandage. "Mm," is all she says. She wants to see her arm.

But Neville tenses up immediately when he notices her trying to move it, trapping what's left of the
sheets against the mattress so she can't pull it free. "Ah. Uh — Hermione, just...wait a minute,
alright? I need to—"

"Let me see it."

"You should just be—"

"Neville." It's the most strength she's been able to muster in her voice yet, and he goes very still,
eyes nervous. "Let me see it."
His weight eases off, and slowly he lets her draw it out from beneath the sheets.

Not what she was expecting.

Neville's reaction had her thinking it might not even still be attached — that the sensations she'd
been feeling were phantom pains. But her right arm is very much intact. It's just —

"What did Madam Pomfrey do?" she breathes, twisting it slowly to see all the way around.

These are not normal scars.

The deep gouges left by the monster's talons are not held together by stitches, nor by scabs. There's
no tell-tale sheen of healing salve or magical adhesive. Instead the flesh, as it struggles to heal, is
bonded together by something alien. A translucent, almost iridescent false skin fills the jagged
wounds, traveling up and down her arm in a similar pattern to her own veins.

She's never seen healing magic like this.

"Madam Pomfrey didn't do it," says Neville in a quiet, cautious voice. "From what she told
Dumbledore, it doesn't sound like she even knows what it is. When she cleaned the blood off of
you, your arm was already..." He gestures limply in its direction and doesn't finish. "Everyone's
guess is it's Malfoy's doing, but he won't say a word about it."

Her wide eyes meet his. "Malfoy did this?"

Neville shrugs apologetically. "No one really knows. I'm pretty sure...well, I think Professor
Dumbledore was sort of hoping you might remember. Once you were feeling better."

She shakes her head, wordless, her gaze drawn back to the scars.

"Hermione..." Neville's voice is shy, now. As though he's not sure he's allowed to ask. "Did you
really...run all night?"

Their eyes connect again sharply.

He swallows. "From Malfoy?"

A strange and immediate defensiveness makes her stiffen. "I ran from a werewolf," she says, lifting
her chin. "A creature that didn't recognize me."

Neville doesn't seem like the type to see the worst in people. She really doesn't expect him to push
back, and yet—

"Hermione, he..." A grimace warps his face. "Well, he sort of ripped you to pieces. I would think
you'd—"

"Who sewed me back together?" she snaps. "You said it yourself."

Neville's mouth falls shut, cheeks growing pink as his gaze drops to his lap.

It takes her a long moment to soften, clenched fists gradually relaxing against the mattress. She
remembers who she's talking to.

"Sorry...I'm sorry. I'm just—"

He shakes his head and forces a smile. "No, I understand. I do. It's alright. You've been through a
lot." Then he twists, reaching for that stack of parchment. "I brought you notes from class. A few
assignments you could work on if you wanted to while you're resting up. Professor McGonagall
says you're excused from everything over the past week, but I figured you might still like to—"

"The past week?"

He winces a little. "Yeah, erm...sorry, I thought you knew. It took a long time for you to wake up."
And he tucks his lips in like he doesn't want to say it. "I sort of worried you weren't going to."

So did she.

Puffing out a breath, she forces her own weak smile in turn. "Not so easy to get rid of me."

The days that follow start to wash together.

Both Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall come to visit her, but Malfoy remains
notably absent — as does any sense of him whatsoever.

She's never felt the bond so dormant.

Professor Dumbledore delivers something of a boilerplate speech. A lecture, really, warning her not
to take his words out of context. It would seem she was not supposed to favor the bond over all
else in this situation.

She nods along numbly and commits none of it to memory.

Professor McGonagall fusses over her. A miniaturized hurricane of concern and disapproval.
Slightly horrified and slightly impressed, as always.

And Madam Pomfrey comes and goes like a shadow.

Three days into consciousness, Hermione wakes to find a small parcel on her nightstand. The
accompanying letter contains such dreadful handwriting, it takes her well over half a minute to
decode just a few sentences.

Rude girls stun people on staircases. Put this on your scars.

Adrian

It must be the closest she's come to a real smile since the full moon, and she unwraps the parcel to
find a jar no larger than the palm of her hand. Some sort of special salve. It smells strange. Sharp
and earthy. Herbal in a sense that doesn't strike her as strictly legal.

So she hides it from Madam Pomfrey and only applies it at night.

The scars don't appear to be fading — but after a day or so, the aches start to dissipate.

As a whole, it's one of the loneliest periods of her life.

Neville visits when he's able but can never stay for long. And it reminds her of those first few
weeks she ever spent at Hogwarts, utterly friendless.
Her only dependable company is the Marauder's Map. She has to master a bit of wandless magic
just to get its ink to appear, what with her wand missing. And for days and days, she watches
students go about their schedules and envies their uncomplicated lives. Watches Ron practice on
the Quidditch Pitch. Watches Harry follow Professor Slughorn around. Watches Adrian and
Neville's elegant nameplates overlap in the Greenhouses more than once.

She never makes it more than a few minutes before inevitably searching for Malfoy. She's reached
out to him in her mind too many times to count, only to be greeted with silence. Like he's built a
wall across the bond, and all she can do is lean against it.

This is the closest she can get to him.

And before long, his routine becomes second nature. He sleeps through breakfast, goes to class,
rushes through lunch, goes to class, skips dinner and repeats. He talks to no one. She never sees
him linger in the Slytherin common room. Never sees him take a detour or disappear into the
Room of Requirement. The only times he deviates are to go to the Potions classroom.

Which is perhaps why it's so jarring to suddenly notice his nameplate drifting towards the edge of
the map, just as the sun begins to set on Friday. Only the border of the Forbidden Forest has been
included by the Marauders, and within seconds of noticing him, she watches him vanish into the
trees.

Why go back there?

She can't think of a reason she'd ever go back. Not if she could help it.

But Malfoy stays for at least an hour, and her eyes grow dry staring at that thin edge, pulse an
anxious rhythm in her chest.

Don't you know it's dangerous to walk the woods alone?

Her breath catches in her throat. She's done her best not to think of the monster, but its words come
back to her now. A chilling reminder, the memory so perfectly preserved even through the haze of
pain that she remembers its exact inflection.

A child's fear is to be chased by monsters. Something she outgrew a long time ago.

But now she wonders at her own arrogance, spurning a fear like that. As though it wasn't real.

She can't think of anything more real.

Malfoy reappears suddenly at the map's edge, and she almost misses him thanks to darkness, the
sun having dipped behind the mountains. His pace is brisk, nameplate gliding back towards the
Castle twice as fast as it did when he left. And she's so distracted watching him — wondering what
on Earth he could've possibly been doing — that she doesn't notice the steadily closing distance
between his name and her own.

Not until she sees him climbing the staircase to the Seventh Floor.

Only Gryffindors use that staircase. It leads to the Fat Lady's corridor, and — by extension — to
the hidden passage beneath the tapestry where the Head Dormitories reside.

The direction of Malfoy's ink-splotch footsteps suggests the latter, and her heart starts to pound
watching him veer off to the left long before the Fat Lady's portrait.
So he knows where she is.

There'd be no other reason to check behind that unassuming tapestry of a governess with her
boredom-ridden students. He knows where she is, and he's coming to see her. Finally. Finally.

The moment catches up with her — the limited amount of time she has before he reaches her door.
And instead of worrying over something reasonable, like the conversation they'll surely need to
have, she's thinking about how she looks.

It can't be good.

She's been avoiding mirrors for quite some time, and showering has been tedious. Rushed. Her face
is probably little more than a wash of dark circles and sallow skin. Her hair is a vulture's nest.

But there's nothing she can do now, except perhaps hope that the darkness conceals the worst of it.

She sits up against the headboard, palms starting to sweat where they grip the edges of the map.
Malfoy is three steps — two and then only one away.

Her gaze flies to the doorknob just ahead and she holds her breath.

...

Nothing.

His footprints shift slightly on the map, and his shadow moves beneath the door crease.

But then, inexplicably, she watches those same footprints turn away. Sees that shadow start
growing smaller as he heads back down the hidden passage.

There's no helping herself.

A panicked little sound launches out of her throat, and she tears away the sheets and covers,
scattering the map somewhere on the floor. The brace on her leg was removed two days ago, but
walking has become no less complicated. Madam Pomfrey gave her strict instructions not to put
any weight on it.

She learns why very quickly.

The ache is excruciating. Sharp — almost stabbing. She finds she can barely hold herself up.

But reaching that door is all she has room to think about, and somehow she makes it across the two
or three meters between them, nearly collapsing against it before she's able to throw it open.

Malfoy's tall form is already all the way at the opposite end of the passage, and in the few steps she
sees him take before turning back at the sound of the door, his limp is unmistakable. He's favoring
his right leg. Wall or not, he can still feel her pain.

But it isn't until the moment their gazes meet that the familiar sense of him bleeds across the
barrier — when hollow eyes lock on her and everything he's been holding back comes crashing
through.

There were things she expected to feel. Things she's been waiting to feel for days. Guilt and
anxiousness. Anger.

But she never expected to feel so much emptiness.

She stumbles over the threshold — the one she was strictly warned not to cross — one hand
bracing her weight against the wall. "What are you doing? Wait—" Another uneven step, and she
nearly trips over it, gaze dropping to the floor. To the wand she's almost just snapped in two.

He found it.

For half a moment, she's relieved to see the familiar shape of it again. Like having magic itself
returned to her. But that relief curdles in her stomach as she realizes, slowly tilting her chin up to
look at him again. Not saying anything. Only staring at her.

"This is why you came?"

A slow, lifeless blink and nothing more.

"You're just going to leave? You — you have no interest in seeing me?" Her wand gets kicked
aside as she steps past it, staggering towards him, every ounce of pressure on her leg like gripping
a razor blade. "I...I've been waiting for...for days—"

About halfway across the passage, her strength gives out, and she falls hard to the stone floor,
knees bruising. Pain explodes behind her eyes, teeth grinding as she tries to push herself back up.

When she does, Malfoy is there. Less than a foot away, sinking slowly down onto his haunches
until they're eye-level. Her pulse jumps, and the bond flares to life like an ember in pine needles.

She can suddenly feel the sweat beading on his brow. The unnatural heat in his blood and the dizzy
fog obscuring his mind.

Brows furrowing, she pushes up onto her knees and reaches out for him. "You...you're sick, aren't
you? What's wrong? Are you—"

He takes her by the wrist before she can touch his cheek, pulling that hand away. And her eyes fill
with horror as, staring into his — weak and vacant — the first and only word she's heard from him
since the full moon crosses the bridge between their minds.

Ruined.

Ruined, ruined, ruined, ruined, ruined...

It's nebulous. Endless. A broken, unhinged mantra.

"Malfoy..." she breathes, trying to reach for him again.

He moves too quickly, all at once taking hold and lifting her off the ground. One arm loops
beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders, holding her as she's never been held before.

And it's everything she craved and more. Everything, and yet nothing all the same.

Because his touch is as empty as his eyes, and wordlessly he begins to carry her back towards the
room. Even as she tries to fight him. Even as she tells him no, no, no and desperately winds her
arms around his neck. Even as she begs him not to let her go.

He lowers her down onto the bed as though her words fall on deaf ears. As though he can't see the
plea in her eyes or feel the desperate scrape of her fingernails against his skin as he starts to pull
away.

"Don't go."
Don't go.

"Don't..."

Please.

Neither her voice nor the bond can reach him. There's no softening. No response, save that single
word she's slowly realizing she never wants to hear again.

Ruined, ruined, ruined.

"Malfoy, please..."

He only stops once, in the doorway. Turns halfway, not quite looking at her.

His voice is low and soft and desolate.

"Don't follow me, Hermione."

 Pieces / Poison

Breach.

That’s what Adrian called it, all that time ago. The act of ripping the bond apart.

And she knows next to nothing about the concept — just that it sounds right. To be breached is to
be broken. Ruptured. Torn.

Ruined.

And she feels like a frayed edge, lying alone in that room. His scent clings to her skin for hours
after he leaves her — remnants of that sweet warmth he somehow chose to take away. Night falls,
and she doesn’t sleep, staring up at the painted ceiling with wet cheeks.

She keeps replaying those few short moments in her head, wondering if she could’ve done it
differently.

Maybe if she’d wrapped her legs around him — leveraged her weight to drag him down with her to
the bed — she could’ve burrowed in close. Could’ve buried her face in the crevice between his
neck and shoulder and proven herself.

Not afraid. Don’t you see? I’m not afraid.

She could have told him the truth, had he allowed it. The truth that she’d seen nothing of him in the
monster’s leering eyes. That she’s never been more sure of the difference.

That they can talk through this — work through this — so long as he’s willing to hold her in the
meantime.

She never used to crave things like that, least of all from someone like Malfoy. Wanting to be held
would’ve reeked of codependency to her old self.

But she’s been held by him before, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the warm press of his
chest against her shoulder blades. The tight embrace of his arm, not flippant and aggressive — as
perhaps he’d meant it to be — but strong. Unrelenting. Like a chain locked in place, keeping her
bound to him.

She’d give anything to feel that again right now. Just for a little while. It’d be stronger than any
stitches. More powerful than any healing salve.

But like an addict, she's forced instead to process her first withdrawal.

Her wand rests on the nightstand — a constant and painful reminder in her periphery. She doesn't
even remember seeing him put it there. Just remembers the look in his eyes as he left.

He used her name. Her real name.

It’s not clear when exactly she started waiting to hear it. But she realizes now that she’d been
hoping he’d slip up. Hoping that someday, in the heat of the moment, all four syllables would
come stumbling out.

But she never expected him to say it like that. Hollow and lifeless and cold.
And she doesn’t think she’s ever slept so poorly in her life.

It’s nearly the end of the week before she thinks to try it.

Or, perhaps she has thought of it — but she’s only just now working up the courage.

Perhaps she’s worried that the voice she’ll hear drifting back will be the same one that taunted her
those many hours in the darkness. The one that asked if she knew how it felt to be skinned alive.

It's hardly irrational.

But perhaps that’s not what worries her at all. Perhaps her true fear is the one realized in the
moments after she whispers the word aloud, reaching out to him.

“Stranger? Are you there?”

She’s afraid of the silence. That’s the bitter truth.

“Please, answer me. Please.”

And silence is all that she gets.

On her last night confined to the Head Girl’s dormitory, she has the dream again.

It’s the same ankle-deep water and the same clean, gentle fog. The same reflection that isn’t hers.

Only this time, she’s granted a few extra seconds when she turns to face that piercing light —
enough to see the bright outline of a human form. A living source of luminance. It offers a hand to
her, she thinks, just before the entire illusion collapses.

And then she wakes up. Cold and alone.

Madam Pomfrey’s discharge is tedious at best — and on the morning she’s to be set free, a small
crowd has amassed in the Head Girl’s room.

The matron is there to fret over her still-healing leg. The questionable state of her arm. She mutters
uncertainties to Dumbledore more than once as she watches Hermione pace in front of her, putting
as much weight on it as she dares.

“The Black Cat Flu doesn’t cause lameness of the leg,” Madam Pomfrey informs the room at one
point, stern gaze fixated on her noticeable limp. “You’ll have to pretend you’re weak all over.”
Hermione nods the same way she does when the matron prescribes a laundry list of draughts and
salves — this one twice a day, this one only at night… this one and this one and this one…

It’s dizzying.

Professor McGonagall offers her another week of bed rest more than once, purely out of kindness.
But Hermione can't convey the true depth of her loneliness in words. Can only shake her head with
wide eyes and mutter, "No. Please, no," every time it comes up.

So they run through her story, ironing out the details. She took violently ill the night of the full
moon. Ran from the Hall to the Hospital Wing, and from there she was taken to St. Mungo's. She
has no knowledge of McLaggen's academic suspension. No knowledge of an altercation with
Malfoy. Any overlap is purely coincidental.

Her scars are to be covered with advanced-level Glamour Charms. McGonagall teaches them to
her, and for the first time she's confronted with her own reflection as they practice in front of a full-
length mirror.

The dark purple slashes on the backs of her thighs look like hash marks. Tallies. As though
someone used her skin to count to ten.

But she's more stricken by the hollow expression in her own eyes. The complete absence of
vitality. She couldn't work life into her cheeks no matter how hard she pinched them, and Madam
Pomfrey is polite enough to call it weariness — but she's fairly certain this is the bond's doing.

Or lack thereof.

"Be patient with yourself," Professor McGonagall says — parting words before she and Madam
Pomfrey leave the room. "Recovery cannot be rushed."

She smiles as genuinely as she can manage. Says her thanks and then turns to face Dumbledore,
seated comfortably in an armchair by the hearth. He's been notably silent until now, waiting his
turn. And she approaches that hearth with all manner of possible outcomes in her head. Of new
rules and diatribes. Punishments or — somehow the least bearable — more sage advice on existing
as a paramour.

She no longer feels like a paramour.

But when she takes the seat opposite him and he fixes those calm eyes on her, she finds it's none of
the above.

He asks normal things at first. How she's feeling. Whether she has any concerns about returning to
her studies. If she received the box of Every Flavour Beans he sent. And then, suddenly, as though
he's been waiting for a certain amount of time to elapse, he smiles brightly and says, "I am
supposed to remind you once more of the serious risk you took, and to caution you against any
further transgressions."

Hermione feels her brows draw in tight.

"I have no intention of doing so." His smile doesn't falter. "I'm afraid you'll have to forgive me,
Miss Granger. It seems I haven't been perfectly honest with you."

"Sorry, Sir... about what, exactly?"

He produces something from a pocket in his robes around then. A drawstring velvet sack about the
size of his hand. He rests it in his lap as he speaks. "I had my reservations about allowing the
weight of this to rest on such young shoulders, but after the events of the last full moon, I feel it is
no longer fair to keep up the charade."

And from the sack, he pulls a small glass sphere.

It's possible, were it not for last year, that she wouldn't have recognized it immediately. But after
watching a thirty foot wall of them come crashing down in front of her, she knows a prophecy
when she sees one.

And the way Dumbledore holds it — cupped in that shriveled, dying hand — sends a chill riding
down her spine.

"A few weeks into term, I had the pleasure of witnessing the creation of this prophecy firsthand,"
he says. "Professor Trelawney, as you know, does not often display her talents to the public."

Perhaps even a month ago, she might have snorted at a comment like this. But she can't tear her
eyes away from that empty glass. All its implications, resting there in Dumbledore's palm.

"But as it just so happened, she went into a trance during our annual curriculum review, and for
that reason alone I know the contents of this particular prophecy." He extends it towards her
suddenly, and her eyes fly up to meet his, wide with disbelief. "As I expect you know, Miss
Granger...prophecies can only be seen by those for whom they are made." That arm extends
further, sealing her fate as he offers it to her. "And this one is for you."

In the end, she doesn't get a choice.

Professor Dumbledore lets the glass sphere slip from his hand into hers, and the moment it meets
her skin, impossibly heavy, that ethereal blue glow bursts to life.

Trelawney's voice is strained. Gasping for air, each word like the last spoken before an untimely
death.

"Look to the one in the shadow of he who was chosen. She, the unlikely, who henceforth holds the
Dark Lord's fate in her hands.

Bloodbound eternal to the weapon he created, she in turn is the knife in his back. A bond unbroken
is a bond to end wars."

She nearly drops it. Chokes on a gasp and presses it back into Dumbledore’s palm the moment its
glow fades, fingers trembling.

“What—"

“Miss Granger, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” says Dumbledore. “It is not my intention
to frighten you. But your role has changed.”

Trelawney’s words are still echoing inside her head. “My — my role?”

The Headmaster smiles gently, sitting back a bit as though to give her space. “Are you familiar
with the game of chess? I understand Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley are quite fond of it.”
“I’m...I don’t — not really. Sir, what did I just see? What's—"

He carefully slips the prophecy back into his pocket. “If this life were a game of chess, I believe it
would be fair to say that — for these many years — I have mistaken you for the wrong piece.”

Riddles. So many riddles. She’s hardly mentally equipped for this right now.

“Sir—"

Dumbledore continues, steadfast. “Harry, of course, was the piece we couldn’t afford to lose. The
king — and so he remains. But I thought perhaps that you were a bishop or a knight. Perhaps even
the queen, destined to protect him. I was wrong.”

“Professor—"

He sits forward again and fixes her with a gaze as heavy as she imagines the ceiling would be,
should it come crashing down. “You are not a piece at all, Miss Granger. You are the chessboard.”

And that look in his eyes strips the words from her throat.

“Without you, there can be no game. If Professor Trelawney’s prediction proves true, this war
begins and ends with you.”

There's that word again. War.

She's been through enough at Harry's side to know which war he's referring to. The war that's been
decades in the making. The war to determine the fate of the Wizarding World.

But in her mind, it had always been Harry's war. A war she would gladly fight with him, when the
time came — but a war that never centered around her. One that would wage with or without her
help.

Harry is the Chosen One.

"Perhaps," says Dumbledore, and it takes her a moment to realize she's said the last bit aloud, her
voice a stunned whisper. "His prophecy maintains that he must be the one to vanquish Lord
Voldemort." He says the name casually. Like it means nothing to him. "But you, in fate's eyes, are
the one who makes it possible. You, and Mr. Malfoy." His eyes glow, then — like a furnace lit
from within.

"Sir..." she manages at last, and her voice breaks as her reality turns on its head. "Please. I don't
understand what you're telling me."

Dumbledore takes her hand gently. To comfort her, she thinks at first. But no — he's turning it.
Coaxing her wrist to twist so he can get a better look at the skin. As though he can see those
strange, translucent scars, even Glamoured. "Forgive me," he says. "I often forget your youth in the
face of such a sharp mind. The essence of what I tell you is this: you are vital to the outcome of the
war. Great challenges lie ahead — choices you may not wish to make, but have to. Your bond to
Mr. Malfoy has somehow become the key to Lord Voldemort's demise, and that is why you must
do everything in your power to protect it. As I said to you once before — favor the bond over all
else."

Tears have welled in her eyes against her will. "But how, Sir? I don't understand any of this—"

"Nor do I, my dear." He pats her hand softly. "Nor do I. But I urge you not to dwell on what we
cannot yet understand, and instead to focus solely on the bond itself."

"The bond is broken." The words come out flat. Instinctive and emotionless, even as the tears roll
down her cheeks.

Dumbledore tisks, eyes twinkling as that knowing smile crosses his face. "Broken? I hardly believe
that's true."

She sniffs, pulling her hand free of his to wipe her face. "He's shut me out."

Smile unfaltering, the Headmaster rises to his feet and brushes the wrinkles from his robes. "Were
you not the first in your year to master the Unlocking Charm?"

Hermione blinks up at him, lashes damp and tangled. "Yes, Sir."

"Mm," he hums, stepping towards the door. "Then I have no doubt, Miss Granger, that you will
find a way back in."

Neville is waiting for her outside the secret passageway when she finally manages to make herself
leave, and his gentle smile is nothing like Dumbledore's. There's nothing hidden. Nothing false.

She realizes she was right about what she said before — all that time ago. She does trust him more
than anyone.

Which is why, when he asks what Dumbledore wanted, she tells him the truth. Doesn't hesitate,
recounting every word of the prophecy she can remember as they make their way to the Grand
Staircase.

Breakfast will be her reintroduction to everyone. But she finds she's hardly worried about that now.

"Prophecies can be wrong," is Neville's response to it all, though he says it through a grimace.
"They can make mistakes."

"I don't see how this could be a mistake."

"Mine was," he says, adjusting the strap of his bag as they reach the Third Floor landing, and her
eyes flit to him in surprise.

"Yours?"

"Well, Harry's really. I don't know if you know, but the prophecy that sent You Know Who after
Harry when he was a baby..." His voice falters, and he clears his throat, eyes on his shoes. "It was
the same prophecy that sent Bellatrix Lestrange after my parents. Born to those who have thrice
defied him. Born as the seventh month dies. It could've been either of us." He shrugs, playing at
strong even as she watches his eyes grow glassy. "But Harry's the Chosen One. Not me."

Her stomach twists the same way it did back in Fourth Year — watching that lesson on
Unforgiveables tear him to pieces. "I'm...Neville, I'm so sorry."

He waves her off. "It's alright, I'm alright. Just — prophecies can be wrong. That's my point."
They've reached the Entrance Hall, her leg aching from so many flights of stairs, and the nerves hit
her all at once as those gold doors come into view. Unconsciously, she reaches out and grasps
Neville's sleeve, going stiff and still.

He tucks his lips in. Tugs her forward a bit with a reassuring half-smile. "Try not to worry, okay?
Harry and Ron...I think they believe the story. At least most of it."

"It's not them I'm worried about."

She knows he's behind those doors as well. Saw him on the map just before she left the Head Girl's
room. But she hates that the map is the reason she knows.

Hates that she can't feel him, just one wall away.

A few weeks ago, his presence would've thrummed in her veins like some biological rhythm. His
life force would've come screaming through that wall like a battle cry. Now, there's nothing. A
numbness.

She's afraid to see it in his eyes.

"Just come sit by me, alright?" Neville guides her forward another couple steps. "We'll take it
slow."

"Yeah," she nods. "Yeah." But her voice is meek, and they pass through those doors before she
thinks she's ready.

It's a blur from there. All of it.

Every ounce of strength is spent keeping her eyes off the Slytherin table — keeping her focus on
her friends. Harry and Ron swarm her, asking questions she's rehearsed the answers to. When they
ask about the letters they sent, she tells them St. Mungo's misplaced them. When they ask how she
caught it, she says it must've been another student. When things calm down, and she's finally able
to take a seat, she pretends to be surprised about McLaggen's suspension.

It's easier to lie to them than she ever expected.

And up until the moment she inevitably fails, it's all going according to plan. But if those books
about paramours are right about any of it, the other half of her soul is sitting across the room, and
she can only fight the urge for so long.

When the conversation strays, and there's not enough to hold her focus, her gaze slips and finds
him.

His eyes are bloodshot, and from the way he jolts and averts them, she realizes he may've been
watching her for a long time.

It's a small comfort finding him so out of sorts. And yet excruciatingly painful all at once. He looks
weak and frail and not at all like he did only a few weeks ago. She doesn't think she's imagining the
sheen of sweat on his skin. The lifeless pallor of his face. Sick — he's very sick. And if she could
feel him, even the faintest echo of him, she'd be able to tell what it was.

But the bond is stagnant.

Looking at him feels as two-dimensional as it once did, before the world rotated on its axis. It feels
like something's flat-lined.
And she wants to scream.

Falling back into her old routine is an exercise in futility, because day by day she realizes —
somewhere along the line, thanks to the bond — her routine had become Malfoy.

To the point where it feels utterly strange without him in it.

She hates him for it.

And the regimen to treat and conceal her scars soon becomes the only thing she looks forward to,
because those scars are the only proof she has that any of it happened. That they were ever
connected.

The Marauder's Map should've turned up under a sofa somewhere ages ago, the way Neville
intended, but she can't bring herself to part with it.

She understands now how Harry became so obsessed.

Malfoy may have enough control over the bond to silence it, but he has no control over this. Can't
stop her from watching him, late at night when she can't sleep. Watching his nameplate hover over
the space where he lies in the Slytherin Boys' Dormitory.

It's the only contact she has with him for almost a week.

A part of her is too stubborn — too proud — to give in first, and another part far too frightened to
confront him. Not with the possibility of being rejected so favorable in the cards.

But Malfoy's only getting sicker, and her resolve is only growing weaker — and by the time Adrian
Pucey takes matters into his own hands, she thinks they've both gone half-mad.

It's a Friday afternoon. The first Friday following her release. And she's on her way back from the
Owlery, the letter she sent to Tonks more a plea than anything. She hasn't heard from her in ages,
and she's the only person she can think of who might understand this feeling.

Her leg has mostly healed — aches on occasion, usually after several flights of stairs. She's
stopped to rest against the wall just outside the Owlery when he finds her, hunched over and
massaging her thigh.

"So," Adrian says, appearing out of nowhere and leaning back against the wall opposite. No
greeting, not that she expected one. "Was it your idea?"

She's used to having to hide her pain, instinctively straightening up at the sound of another voice.
Her shoulders slump when she sees it's him, and her breath exits in a wave. "What?"

"The Wolfsbane." He rubs at the dark circles under his eyes. "I'm assuming it was your idea."

A moment’s pause, and then a huff. She’s tired of blaming herself. Hardly needs someone else
piling on.

“I did what I thought was right.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she fixes him with a steady
gaze. “You yourself told me it was my responsibility to ease his pain. As a paramour.”
“I also told you never to attempt a breach. What, do you have selective hearing?”

Her eyes narrow. “If you’re going to talk to anyone about a breach, talk to Malfoy. I didn’t want
this.”

“You’re enabling it with the Wolfsbane. No one should ever—"

“What on earth is so wrong with what I tried to do? No, I didn’t make it in time — but if I had, I
doubt anyone would question—"

Adrian scoffs suddenly, brows raising. “Merlin. You have no idea, do you?”

“What?”

He laughs and then glances up at the sky — shakes his head to the gods as though she’s some bad
joke. “You’re even less perceptive than I thought.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Malfoy’s been taking Wolfsbane. Not for the full moon. Every day — sometimes twice a day. It’s
possibly the most ridiculous and reckless approach to a breach I’ve ever heard of, so I figured it
was your idea.”

She physically feels the air vacate her lungs. Sucked away in an instant as every incongruous piece
of the past week suddenly makes perfect sense.

“W-What?” Her voice is barely audible.

“You have to've noticed. He looks like death. Can’t you feel it?”

She shakes her head sharply, leaning back against the wall for support. “I...I can’t feel anything.
Everything — everything’s gone numb.”

Adrian carefully schools the brief flicker of surprise as it crosses his face. “Then he’s using the
Wolfsbane to suppress the bond entirely,” he says. “It’ll kill him. And you, most likely — after a
while.”

To hell with her pride then. She doesn’t care if it means she’s giving in. “What do I do?”

“Oh, now you want to take my advice?”

A lick of anger. "Do you have any? Or are you only here to make it worse?"

Adrian doesn't react. "He needs to stop taking it. End of story. There's no other way forward for
either of you."

"What makes you think he'll listen if I ask him?"

He doesn't need to roll his eyes. His tone does it for him. "Who said anything about asking?"

Professor McGonagall said the Head Girl's dormitory was hers to use as she needed. If she couldn't
find the privacy to apply the Glamours and salves. Or if she needed a moment.

She goes there to wait. Spends most of Saturday sitting cross-legged on the bed, preparing for the
onslaught.

If Neville's succeeded, it could happen at any time. In hours or in seconds.

She wishes she didn't have to ask him. There's very little Neville won't do for a friend, and she
knows full well she used that kindness against him. But she couldn't risk doing it herself. Not with
Malfoy's sullen eyes following her across every room. At every meal.

And how could she be sure she'd done it right?

No, only Neville could be trusted with this. Neville, who at some time early this morning —
against his nature and against all gentleness — set out to kill the Wolfsbane.

If he did as she asked — practically begged — Malfoy will enter the Room of Requirement to find
his entire reserve lain to waste.

And then he'll go without a dose for the first time in weeks. And that wall he's built will crumble.
The instincts he's been suffocating will gasp for air. Their bond will break free of the cell he's
caged it in. And, perhaps then, the wolf will—

Paramour...

A shriek gets trapped in her throat, hand flying up to clutch at her chest as her pulse spikes.

It's nearly dark. She's been waiting all day to hear his voice, and yet nothing could've truly
prepared her for it.

He sounds so weak, that rich warmth ravaged. Strangled.

Are you safe?

The relief floods her so completely, there's no room for doubt. She'll never forget the monster's
voice. She can see it now for what it is — a stark contrast to the voice of the bisect. The voice she
knows. There is no monster here.

"I'm...I'm alright," she manages at last, working to slow her breathing. "I'm fine."

How badly are you hurt? I feel you so faintly.

"I'm fine, I promise." But his words prompt her to search her own senses. Seek what's been missing
for so long.

There's an echo of him. A whisper of fear and panic. A shred of desperation. None of it has any
strength.

I have been writhing for days, he rasps. Drowning. I was drowning and I could not reach you.

"Are — are you alright?"

Even frail, the stranger manages a bitter laugh. It hardly matters. I do not deserve your concern.

"It does matter—"

No. Not when I could not protect you.

"There was nothing—"

Your Malfoy has been poisoning me, he growls suddenly. Poisoning us both. Wasting precious time
when he should've been here with you.

"You're here now." She can hear him unraveling. Feels the vague tremble of hysteria through the
bond. "It's — it's over. I don't blame either of you."

You should.

"I don't, I—"

Hermione, I want nothing more than to spend hours talking with you. I want to beg you for
forgiveness. I want to answer every question. I want to tell you everything. I'll do whatever it takes,
I swear. But right now, I fear we only have minutes.

Panic crawls up her spine. "What?"

Your Malfoy will find another way to shut me out. Even now, he searches for alternatives. If he
succeeds, I will lose you again, and I cannot afford to.

"I..." She blinks helplessly into the darkness. "What can I do?"

I must ask too much of you.

Perhaps it should surprise her that she doesn't hesitate. "Anything."

Malfoy can lock me away so long as the bond is unsealed. So long as I am only bound to him. If
you are willing, you have the power to change that.

Her voice comes out a whisper. "How?"

You read about it, once. I found you. A ritual to fortify the bond. A ritual not to be undone.

Its words flash behind her eyes before he says them, and all the blood drains from her face.

The Descent.
 Child's Play / Gruesome Prayer

She has nothing with her.

No books, no potions. No fixings for an altar. Nothing but her own conviction — and she tells him
so.

I will guide you, says the stranger softly, and she swears for a moment that she can feel him at her
back. The warmth of a presence. Phantom hands gently caressing her hips — a phantom chin
resting against her shoulder from behind.

It's a small feat to maintain her focus in the face of it, but there are questions that need answering.

"What will this do?" She clears her throat and speaks firmly. "The truth, this time. No riddles."

She's grown to hate riddles.

As of now, we are two halves of a whole, he says. No hesitation. The bond between paramours is
eternal, and many choose to take it no further. In bonds less complex — less volatile — simple
rituals and mutual affection are all that is needed to feel fulfilled. Your Malfoy has made this
impossible. He strikes blows at the foundation of our bond every hour. Every minute. He cannot be
trusted with its fate.

"And what would this change?"

The Descent is an exchange of life force. An offering of flesh — of a piece of you — to prove your
devotion to your paramour. Once done, it cannot be undone. Once done, we are no longer two
halves of a whole. We are the same whole, and only whole together.

A slow, unsteady breath falls from her lips. "In...in what way? I'd — feel more of him? More of
you? Those sensations would be—"

No, Hermione.

She bites down on the tip of her tongue, staring into the darkness and waiting for words she's sure
she isn't ready for.

You will be stronger than ever before. You'll feel a vibrance — a vitality you've never known. As
will he. As will I. Your life force will transcend beyond that of simply human. But, to endure, this
life force must be fed.

“...Fed?” she echoes.

You will need to feed off of us. And we off of you.

Her stomach twists. “I don’t — what...what does that mean, exactly? Feed? You’ll have to...” She
swallows thickly. “What, drink my blood?”

The stranger hums gently. Almost a laugh. Of the many ways to feed, I would not call that my
favorite.

“Then what is your favorite?”

A part of her is terrified to hear the answer, but once more he doesn’t hesitate.
Oh, to be inside of you.

Her breath catches, a startled pulse of something warm sweeping across her nerve endings.

To feed off of every gasp and every cry. I’d wager we could survive for weeks off the sounds you
make when you come undone.

She forces herself to breathe out. Feigns calm, albeit poorly.

“Well. That..." Her throat runs dry. "That doesn’t sound so bad.”

No, it doesn’t. A faint smile in his voice. I can think of nothing better in the world.

Warmth fills her from his side of the bond, as though he allows himself to be consumed by the idea
for a moment. Then—

But there is no going back. Once complete, you will no longer breathe each breath alone.

Perhaps she should be more apprehensive in light of this. But she finds — even after taking a
moment to search herself — that she only has one overwhelming concern.

“Won’t Malfoy need to consent? To all of this?"

She finds it hard to believe he ever would. The thought of Malfoy agreeing to depend on her for the
rest of his life is almost laugh—

He already did.

Her thoughts cut short. “What?”

The Descent is only complete when performed by both halves of the bond. And your Malfoy has
already done it.

Everything unravels, confusion running rampant like a wildfire. “What? When? I don’t — when?”

Paramour, we are running out of time—

“Please," she splutters. "I have to know. Please.”

He pauses. Breathes a soft sigh. Have a look at your arm.

Her eyes widen — desperately try to adjust to the dark as she rushes to drag up her sleeve. She can
just barely see the glimmer of those scars, like muted light in dark water.

That is no standard magic, the stranger tells her. Your Malfoy demanded to know the price of
saving you, and that is what it cost.

“I don’t understand...” she breathes, absently tracing her fingers over the marks.

Together, we gave a piece of our life force to you. Sealed your wounds with it. Malfoy’s Descent is
complete, regardless of how determined he is to behave otherwise.

She can’t resist any longer, twisting where she sits to reach her wand.

“Incendio.”
The fireplace crackles to life in the corner of the room, casting enough amber light over the scars to
allow her to trace them accurately.

It seems impossible. Unbelievable. She can't even bring herself to picture it — Malfoy sacrificing
something like that.

Her voice is breathless. Dazed by the prospect. “You gave a piece of your life...to me?”

Happily, he murmurs.

"But Malfoy—"

I feel a great many things when it comes to your Malfoy, most of them unkind, the stranger admits.
But you should know that in that moment, he did not hesitate.

Her chest tightens, closing in around something raw and hollow.

The question remains, Hermione. Will you give a piece of your life? To save us?

With those scars gleaming back at her, she finds the word slips off her tongue as effortlessly as her
own name.

“Happily.”

Even in the Wizarding World, it's considered a bad omen to break a mirror.

But this ritual forbids the use of a wand.

Blood magic as sacred as this comes from within, not from any vessel, the stranger explains, voice
almost breathless with anticipation as he watches her take hold of a heavy, brass candelabra.

She steps up to the full-length mirror adjacent to the bed, her reflection's grip tightening around the
base. There's a feral look in her eyes. Desperation. It drives her to swing with all the strength she
possesses.

The glass shatters like nothing — loud and jarring as the pieces rain down to the floor. Kneeling
beside them, she wonders whether her seven years start now.

Nothing but good comes from this, he assures her.

Gathering a slow breath, she leans forward, spreading out the shards — separating them from one
another.

The sharper it is, the less it will hurt.

She finds a long, thin piece, shaped to a lethal point when it broke, and the stranger hums his
approval.

Now she just has to make the altar.

Evidently, they come in many forms. And this one requires no special herbs. No black candles or
ancient stones. Just offerings, as the stranger put it. Pieces of herself.

She understands, now, how Malfoy was able to perform it that night — naked and wandless.

Moving the chair and sofa out of the way, she clears a large space on the floor near the foot of the
bed. Enough to take a seat cross-legged with nothing at her back.

Your first offering, the stranger prompts. A piece of her clothes.

And the shard of glass makes for awkward scissors as she attempts to slice a strip from the hem of
her skirt. The cotton frays and fights her, but eventually she manages to separate a thin piece. Lays
it carefully out on the floor in front of her.

Very good, he murmurs. And your second?

A lock of hair.

She twists a curl free from the rest, pulling it taut and drawing the jagged edge across it without a
second thought. The stranger instructs her to lay it across the strip of her skirt, forming an 'X.'

Lovely.

Her next breath is nervous, and he gives her a moment to prepare herself before he speaks.

And now the third.

The third offering is blood.

And she's not sure whether she's more frightened of the pain, or of Malfoy's reaction. Minutes ago,
when she found him on the Marauder's Map, he was on the Grounds. No doubt searching for some
miracle growth of aconite. But once he feels the cut of glass, the clock starts ticking. They'll only
have a finite amount of time before he finds her.

It's this she's afraid of. She's certain of it, now.

Because she knows pain. Real pain. The scream of her lungs and the muted snap of bone. The
emptiness of watching him turn his back and walk out that door.

What's the bite of a knife to that? Child's play. A twinge. A paper cut.

She's not afraid of pain, she's afraid to be stopped.

Hermione...

The stranger's voice is suddenly anxious.

Are you—

"I'm not having second thoughts," she says, straightening her spine. "No. I'm just..." A deep breath.
"Just taking a moment to ground myself."

He seems to take a deep breath of his own. I'll never know how to thank you for this.

She rests her left hand on her knee, palm up and fingers spread. "Don't thank me." And she poises
the tip of the shard against her skin — some of the last she's got that doesn't already bear a scar.
"Just take the emptiness away."
I swear it.

The cutting edge meets her flesh, carving the first mark of a rune she's never heard of. A rune to
symbolize two souls intertwining — just a simple curved line, and then another crossing through it
in the middle. It reminds her of an hourglass, tipped on its side. And perhaps that's fitting, because
halfway through the second line, she feels the faint coil of muscles that aren't her own. Malfoy
going tense.

She feels him shake out that hand — and when he finds the pain doesn't fade, she feels the rage
and fear collide like two rogue waves meeting in the middle.

A moment later, he's on the move. Running, perhaps. She can't be sure. The bond is clouded.

He knows, the stranger warns. He's coming.

She can only nod, completing the second line as the blood starts to pool in the center of her palm.
Setting the shard aside, she gathers her hand into a careful fist, moving it to hover over the other
two offerings. "He'll never make it in time."

And with a sharp exhale, she squeezes that fist as tight as she can, tipping it sideways to let the
blood trickle out.

The sting is nothing to her. She finds she barely notices, so focused on the way that dark, ruby red
stains the fabric. Seeps into the brown of her hair.

Now, the recitation.

His voice pulls her from a sort of daze. She blinks and leans back a fraction, taking up the shard
once more. As the stranger explained it, she needs to carve the same rune into the other palm. Left-
handed.

And its lines are far more jagged — its cut more biting. She's sliced deeper thanks to an unsteady
grip.

Malfoy's pace seems to double.

"Remind me of the words..." she whispers, watching the blood rush to the surface as the stained
shard falls from her hand. She remembers what he told her to do, but one wrong syllable and the
ritual is broken. She can't afford to make a mistake.

Here, I press my skin to earth, he begins.

"Here, I press my skin to earth." Slowly, she joins her two hands in the middle, bleeding palms
open as though in offering. The blood from both runes starts to mix — a shallow pond cupped in
front of her.

Here, I yield. I forfeit.

"Here, I yield. I forfeit." With this, she bends forward, leaning across the altar to press her elbows
to the floor. A pose of supplication.

In your shadow, I kneel to all things. Here, in flesh. In certainty.

She echoes him, then proceeds without thinking. Somehow remembers the rest.

"For this blood is my blood and my offering. This blood is my blood and is yours."
And with the final word, she bows her head, brow resting against the floor's cool wood.

The stranger allows a long silence to elapse before he murmurs his praise, voice almost reverent in
its softness. Exquisite.

But from here, she has no notion of what comes next. The stranger's description was vague —
words with so many possible meanings — and there hadn't been time to question it.

Your Malfoy must accept your offering.

She wanted to ask him how. To ask him what she's expected to do should he refuse it, which seems
more likely than ever. And these questions rise in her throat again, now that she's down on her
knees, blood seeping through her fingers onto the floor below.

But she's terrified to speak. Terrified she might somehow disturb the recitation.

And as the carved runes start to throb for the first time, she's forced to grapple with the position
she's put herself in. Something that goes against everything she stands for and everything she is.
Kneeling — as though in gruesome prayer — to Malfoy. Malfoy, who believes she belongs there.
That she's less than. Unclean.

Malfoy, to whom she now offers her inferior blood.

She spends those many long seconds waiting to feel shame — the five or six minutes it takes him
to seek her out.

The shame never comes, but he does. With a tidal wave of fury at his back. She left the door
unlocked, though he doesn't bother to check, and it nearly tears off its hinges with the force of
whatever hex he throws.

Her body jolts at the noise. Can't help it, even when she felt him coming. And it takes an
unexpected reserve of strength to remain in her pose of supplication — to keep her head bowed.

A moment passes in shrill silence as Malfoy hesitates in the doorway. She both hears and feels it
when he breathes out. And then—

"What the fuck is this?"

The stranger soothes her before she has the chance to feel stung.

Pay that mouth no mind. Search for his pulse.

She swallows hard, exhaling against the cold floor.

Do you feel it?

Yes. Racing like a machine moments from failure.

"Granger," Malfoy snaps. "What is this?"

Look him in the eye.

The stranger says it like he's passing sentence. Like it'll somehow deliver the final blow.

When she drags her forehead up from the ground, she thinks perhaps it may. Her gaze meets his
through stray curls — through her lashes — and the rage warping his features vanishes in an
instant. Flattens out, as though something physically strikes it away and leaves him stunned.

His pulse stops. Just stops.

Either that, or she's lost touch with it through their bond.

And she watches his throat bob, lips parting and lids fluttering drunkenly. The wand clutched in the
hand at his side gives away its trembling.

Offer it to him.

When she lifts her palms towards him, they're shaking too; some of the blood escapes, spilling
down her wrists. She can't look away. "Here," she whispers, because she can think of nothing else
to say. No way to explain what she's offering.

But the shock in his gaze tells her he already knows — and a moment later, he confirms it.

"...Why?"

The word is a breath. Desperate and disbelieving.

To save your life, the stranger growls, and from the way Malfoy tenses up, it's clear he's speaking
to both of them. Ungrateful—

"To thank you," she interrupts, rising fully up onto her knees. Stretching her palms out further
towards him. "For saving mine."

His gaze flickers almost instinctively to the scars on her arm, now streaked with her blood as it
drips down. And his brows twitch — just for a fraction of a second, as though he's offended by the
idea. Can't fathom it.

He does not think he deserves to be thanked, says the stranger. Nor do I.

"I do," she insists, invigorated by the truth of it. Malfoy's wide eyes flit back to hers, and she nods,
lifting her palms higher. "I do."

He shakes his head like he's shaking away a stupor, jaw suddenly tightening. And then a bitter
scoff fights its way out. Forced. Unnatural.

“Oh, I see. What — did it lie to you?”

With each passing second, the pool of blood diminishes in her hands. Dries. Spills free. And the
panic manifests in her voice. "What?"

"That monster in our heads," Malfoy snaps. "Did it lie to you? Tell you this was another one of
those gentle rituals? Something meaningless and forgivable?"

“He is not the monster." She does her best to sound calm, even as the muscles in her arms begin to
strain. "You have to know that. And he didn't lie."

Malfoy steps forward, tense as he points to the ground. To the bloodstained altar. "Do you have
any idea what this means?"

”Yes.”

”What it will—”
“Yes.”

He goes very still, expression torn — a constant shift between fury and uncertainty.

"Yes," she whispers again. "I do. And I'm offering it to you."

Malfoy appears to grapple with his own conviction, desperately searching for outs. "Offering it to
me..." he echoes.

"Yes."

"You? The stubborn little know-it-all who never accepts help from anyone." He shakes his head.
"You expect me to believe you’d choose to rely on someone — on me — for the rest of your life?”

She says what comes naturally and nothing else.

“I'm your paramour."

And when she stretches out her palms one final time — as far as her body will allow — the breath
leaves him in a wave.

His shoulders sink, and it's almost rapturous to watch his resolve shatter. So easy. So easy.

He is hopeless to resist you — and well aware of it. Your blood smells like Amortentia.

She's not certain she believes this until he suddenly turns and shuts the door. For almost half a
minute, she's left staring at his back — watching it rise and fall with each slow breath. His palm
remains splayed out on the door's wood, and for the briefest moment she thinks she sees his
forehead press against it. Hears a final exhale blast across the surface.

Then, with a murmured locking charm, he turns to face her. The wand slips carelessly out of his
hand and clatters to the floor.

Her heart starts to pound, this time with something other than panic.

Accept.

This is where he accepts. How does he accept? Does he even know how to—

Malfoy sinks to his knees in front of her and her thoughts run dry.

His eyes come level with hers, full to the brim with anguish and doubt — but his hands feel so sure
of themselves when they take hold of her wrists. And that pained look softens to something almost
like concern as he stares at her. Stares like he's hoping to communicate thoughts he can't put into
words.

The words he does manage aren't what she expects.

"I swore I wouldn’t.” It's a whisper. Barely audible. Beseeching like his own form of prayer, and
an admission of defeat all the same. “I promised myself. Damn you for this.”

Before she can even begin to consider a response, he drags her palms towards him, forcing them
apart as they reach his face. The blood pours out — down over his cheeks and lips. Down his chin
and onto his chest, staining his shirt. She can't hold in her gasp, watching wide-eyed as he flattens
her palms against his jaw and draws them across his skin. Spreads red everywhere. Closes his eyes
and dips his head and accepts it.
Without flinching.

In the midst of her stunned silence, the stranger sighs — a rasp of relief, followed shortly by words
that make her pulse seize up.

Don't be frightened.

She has just enough time to suck in a sharp breath, and then it hits.

The world falls out from under her, and gravity ceases to exist.

All at once, Malfoy's grip on her wrists falls away, and shortly after she falls away too. Falls up. Or
is it down? She suddenly has no notion of direction. Only of the blinding, exquisite light that
explodes across the room and of the all-encompassing sensation of free fall. Her body arches,
weightless limbs grasping for nothing as whatever power this is takes hold.

The light emanates from her, if her bleary eyes have any truth to them. A glow beneath the skin.
And whatever it is, it floods her with warmth.

Warmth. Safety. Compassion. Strength. That feeling of looking into a lover's eyes for the first time.
Water to a parched throat. The tingling itch before a laugh and the electric pulse through the spine
before ecstasy. Sugar on her tongue and painkillers in her veins. A high to put all others to shame.

And in that moment, if offered a choice, she'd choose to never come down.

But the laws of nature insist.

Vaguely, she's aware of hands finding her waist, though she never gets the chance to perceive much
else. What goes up must come down, and gravity returns just as everything collapses into darkness.

It’s the first time in weeks — perhaps even months — that she wakes feeling rested.

There’s no soreness. No aches or discomforts. Just the room slowly coming into focus.

It's still the middle of the night, by the looks of it. Still the Gryffindor Head Girl's dormitory. The
broken mirror flickers in the corner, catching the firelight from the hearth, and the bed is soft
beneath her. She blinks until all the blurry edges are defined.

Malfoy is watching her.

Propped against one of the canopy posts at the foot of the bed, he sits on the mattress with both
knees pulled to his chest, unreadable eyes flitting between each of hers as she rises up onto her
elbows.

The blood has been cleaned from his face — unless she somehow imagined that piece of the ritual.

No, she couldn’t have. Moments later, her eyes land on the bowl at his side, half-full of water and
bearing a blood-soaked rag.

“What happened?” she asks, voice quiet. When she manages to sit up, she notices her hands are
clean as well. Only the sealed runes remain.
Malfoy takes a long while to answer. His face is wan, the consequences of the Wolfsbane still
evident in the sharp angle of his jaw. Gaunt. Starved.

"It's done," he murmurs at last.

And as the fog of sleep fades, she feels the full brunt of him for the first time in ages. Feels his
tension sweeping over her like a mist. Feels the ache in his chest and the doubt in his mind.

“We’re now flesh-bonded," he says, voice rough. "We require the presence of one another to
survive.”

Forever...

It's the first of his thoughts she's heard in ages, too. And though she can't quite riddle out his tone,
she can make an educated guess.

"You regret it."

His weary gaze fixes on her sharply, brutal in its honesty. "I'm terrified of it."

Hermione pushes herself back against the headboard, leveling out their eye lines. "You were going
to breach us. I did what I had to."

A tired, humorless laugh falls from his lips — more of a huff, really. "Do you leave the knife in a
wound, or do you pull it out?"

What a ridiculous metaphor. "What?" she scoffs. "You think you're the knife?"

He just shakes his head, gaze darkening a fraction.

No, he doesn't. He's saying she is.

Your paramour is a gift. Not a mortal wound.

Malfoy's eyes narrow at the sound of the stranger's voice.

And you are fortunate she's taken the reins of our bond out of your sad, fumbling hands—

"Don't," she cuts him off. "Please, don't. We — we need to move on from here. Move forward. Not
back."

Another bitter huff from Malfoy. "There is no back. Not anymore. Don't you remember?"

Those words scrawled on the page of the ritual flash behind her eyes.

Not to be undone.

"This is permanent. We're now fully symbiotic."

His own thoughts are an undercurrent, raw and much less in control.

—can hardly bear how far apart we—

—worse than ever—

—could reach out and touch her so easily, but then I'd—
"Malfoy..." she implores, just a breath. Can't help herself. "Are you ever going to stop?"

His eyes are downcast now. “Stop what?"

"Fighting it."

Yet another laugh, this one so forced it looks as though the effort actually causes him pain. "Love
the way you say that. Like it's some simple, petty thing I could just—" He pauses to demonstrate.
"— snap my fingers and be rid of. Just like that." His head thunks back against the bedpost, and he
lets a long silence elapse before he speaks again. "Try and remember that I was raised to hate you,
Granger. Everything about you. I grew up under the notion that losing to a Muggleborn —
anything, mind you... a contest, an argument, a fucking card game, anything — was a disgrace to
my family name. So, naturally, the brightest girl in our year had to be you. And you realized that
fear. I can't even describe to you the shame on my father's face when he learned I was second in my
class, and second to a Mudblood."

Her hands tense into fists at her sides, jaw clenching. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?"

The stranger laughs softly inside her head. She's not sure whether Malfoy can hear him.

"You're supposed to listen," he snaps, eyes tightening a fraction. "To someone other than yourself
for once." When he reaches up to massage the back of his neck, she can feel that he's sweating.
Feels the moisture against his palm. His gaze fixes on the canopy above them like he can't make
himself look at her. "I don't think you understand what it's like — hating you for so long and then
suddenly needing you. It used to mean nothing how you felt. I was expected not to care, and I
didn't. But it's a sick joke — reaching a point where I can literally feel it too. Reaching a point
where seeing you like that in the forest — ripped open..." The words catch in his throat, and he
forces them out like razor blades. "I just...I've never felt so fragile. It used to be so easy to hurt you,
and now I'm sick at the thought of it."

She can feel the anger slipping from her face.

"It's not some — some simple, trivial thing to stop fighting it." Malfoy shakes his head at the
ceiling. "I want you. My family and my breeding say I shouldn't. The bond says I should —
reminds me endlessly that I do. But that thing inside of me..." A muscle works in his jaw. "That
monster you met...what it can do to you — what it did..."

"Malfoy—"

"It tells me I can't. Not ever." He looks down then, eyes drained as they meet hers. "So I took the
Wolfsbane."

She swallows the knot in her throat. "It would've killed you. Would've killed us both, eventually. I
had to stop you."

He scoffs. "By eternally binding our flesh?"

"You did it to save my life. I did it to save yours. An eye for an eye."

Malfoy blinks slowly at her, lips curving up on one side — a bitter smile. "And now we're both
blind."

A curious urge flickers to life somewhere deep in her gut. Perhaps it's something to do with that
smirk. Those sleepy eyes. Or perhaps it's just been a long time coming.
Bearing down on her nerves, she carefully stretches out her leg, bare foot sliding across the scarlet
covers towards him. Bridging the gap between them. "I can see clearly enough."

He tenses up. Not visibly — she can feel it through the bond. And suddenly his thoughts grow
loud.

—is she—

—fuck—

—no, I—

—but what if the wolf—

—not like this, not like this—

They make her pause, heart joining his as it starts to race. And in a brief moment of clarity, she
thinks to ask.

Stranger?

A long silence, and Malfoy's breathing escalates all the while. If she's doing this correctly, he won't
be able to hear.

Why does your tone make me nervous?

There's a wry edge to the stranger's voice, but a great deal of uncertainty as well.

You said you'd never know how to thank me.

He seems to gather a deep breath inside her head, preparing for the inevitable.

I can think of a way.

Thick, conflicted uncertainty courses through her from his side. He knows what she's asking. Can
sense the direction of her thoughts.

You must think very highly of my restraint...

There's pain in his voice.

You want to fortify the bond. Heal the rift between the two of you. Earning his trust is half that
battle.

A pause.

And you would rather him than me.

Malfoy searches her eyes desperately — must see the flickers in her expression. "What are you
saying to it?" he demands, his anxiousness spiking across her own nerve endings.

Inhaling deeply, she searches for the right words.

I would rather the two of you were one.

I gave him Reverence. I let him have what was mine once already. The stranger's voice rises. You'd
ask me to—

Yes. Please. Just once more.

"What are you doing?" Malfoy's spine has straightened, tense as though poised for attack.

Please, she implores, struggling to maintain her focus.

"Granger," Malfoy snaps.

Please. For the sake of the bond.

"Granger."

Please...

Abruptly, she feels the stranger's presence shrink away. All at once, like a doused flame, leaving
behind nothing but the sharp bite of envy. Envy and pain. It forces the air from her lungs, her
shoulders slumping.

"What did you do?" Malfoy breathes, his fear boiling up in her chest — threatening to overwhelm
her own determination.

Steeling herself, she leans forward. Shifts up onto her knees and then, slowly, onto all fours.

Malfoy freezes, eyes widening a fraction as she walks her palms towards him across the mattress.
And despite whatever consequences this ritual may bring, it does nothing in this moment but
surround her with warmth. With every inch of distance she closes, her vision grows clearer. Body
stronger and resolve sharper.

"What are you—"

She stops when her arms bracket his thighs, their noses close enough to graze. Speaks gently, as
though to frightened prey. "I asked a favor."

She's seen it happen before, though she doesn't think she'll ever find it anything less than
exhilarating. Malfoy's cold exterior — his nonchalance — is only as strong as his weakest point.
And when caught off guard, that mask slips. The vicious veneer melts away, leaving something
vulnerable and thoroughly enticing in its place.

"What..." he stammers, blinking as he struggles to keep his gaze off her lips. "What favor?"

Some instinct drives her to shift her weight to one arm, movements slow — almost drugged — as
she raises the other hand to his face. "Just a favor," she murmurs, drawing her fingers down over
his mouth. Dragging his bottom lip down.

His breath hitches, nose brushing hers as he leans forward without really meaning to.

"I—" He swallows the words the first time. "I'm on this side of the bed for a reason." His eyelids
are drooping.

"Are you?"

Each exhale warms the pads of her fingers. "Yes."

—have to—
—fucking hell—

—literally beg for it if I—

His thoughts urge her forward, their foreheads meeting as her own eyes slip shut and a smile
spreads across her lips. But then, out of nowhere, they take a dark turn, and she no longer has the
luxury of time.

—can't—

—wrong. I know it's—

—ruined—

—ruined, ruined, I ruined—

Her hand falls away and her mouth takes its place.

She'll physically force that awful word from his mind — with her lips, with her tongue, with her
teeth. Whatever it takes. She never wants to hear it again.

Malfoy gasps into the kiss, stiffening — but his self-control is crippled. A mercy kill, at best. And
barely half a second fits between the moment their lips meet and the moment he takes her by the
thighs and drags her into his lap.

God...she thinks. That is a feeling.

She's never known a time when her muscles felt so content. When a position felt so right. When
something tasted so good.

Malfoy tastes like ripe fruit as it breaks and bleeds under the teeth. Like whatever medicine
Madam Pomfrey couldn't manage to brew for her — that final surge of healing that makes the ache
in her leg fade away. She forgets the sting of the carved runes on her palms as she presses them to
his jaw, pulling him closer. Begging for more pressure.

And the friction of him between her thighs is the first relief she's known in months. Years. Possibly
ever.

He's saying something, she thinks. Murmuring words against her tongue she can't hear, but she
feels the vibration of his throat.

"What?" she asks, breathless, pulling away only to guide his mouth down along the line of her jaw.
Further. Down to the crevice below her ear.

"Don't be stupid." That's what he's saying. Interspersed between kisses. Each time his teeth let go of
her flesh. "You — we — don't be stupid. We're being stupid."

Her fingernails scrape down his scalp, fist tangling in his hair, and she feels the chill race through
him. "No." She shakes her head and rocks her hips, and they both gasp in tandem. "This is right.
This is — we're — god, this is right."

Malfoy's words don't match the way he drags the collar of her shirt aside, bearing her shoulder to
his lips. "There are other ways to feed off of each other." His teeth must be leaving bruises. Christ,
she hopes there are bruises. "We don't have to do this. Shouldn't. I don't—"

It's then that she pushes him back, though it feels like separating roots from earth. Violent.
Their eyes meet, both panting. His gaze is frenzied, face flushed with blood — what looked so ill
moments ago suddenly full of life.

"You don't want this?" she asks, finishing his sentence. There's an edge to her voice she didn't
intend.

The panic overwhelms his senses in an instant, plain as day through the bond. "I—"

Her fist tightens, still tangled in his hair. "Say you don't want this."

Malfoy's lips part and the words fail him, chest heaving. And staring at him — feeling him hard
against her, so undeniably affected — suddenly dredges up the anger she thought she'd forgotten.

She leans in close, lips at his ear as her voice drops to a whisper. "Lie to me again."

Something convoluted spikes across the bond. A cocktail of arousal and fear.

Her free hand takes hold of his, pulling it from her waist. "Go on. Say it."

—fuck, what is she—

—shouldn't—

—why do I—

"Malfoy?" Her voice is expectant. Calmer than she could've ever hoped.

"I don't want this."

It's just a breath, nervous and rushed.

When she exhales against his ear, he shivers — and she lets his words sink in for a moment before
guiding his trapped hand downward. Not between her legs, but between his own. Guiding his
fingers to splay out, she forces him to feel his own outline through his trousers.

"And what is that?" she asks.

Malfoy gasps, hand trembling in her grip. Heat pulses through him.

"A lie," he breathes.

She sits back — lets their eyes meet and finds his full of torment. Hungry and terrified.

"Prove it."
 Pride / Fools

His breath hitches.

His body goes still and his fingers twitch beneath hers, almost as though he’s struggling to decide
whether to yank his hand back or grasp hold. Squeeze away some of that tension she can physically
feel pulsing between his thighs.

But it’s the look in his eyes that makes her sit back. Pleading and helpless and for a moment so
young — so impossibly young and inexperienced that it’s almost frightening.

This has to be his decision, she realizes.

She’s done everything in her power to line him up at the target. Sanded the bow. Positioned his
arm and stated his aim, all the while whispering her many encouragements. But he must be the one
to release the arrow.

And she thinks he knows it too.

Slowly, she extricates herself from his lap, lifting her hand from his and doing her best to ignore
the way his cut breath makes her heart race. She slides back on her palms, retreating to her side of
the bed amidst the quiet rustle of bed sheets and nothing else. The firelight flickers across his face
as he watches, wordless.

Wordless, but not thoughtless.

—what is she—

—wait—

—please—

—fucking ruining this—

—give up on me—

—don’t—

—fucking idiot, wake up and fucking do something—

Silently, he works himself into a frenzy, chest heaving with each breath. And when the silence
expands too far, she can't help but ask.

"Why are you so afraid of me?"

Malfoy's brow creases — a movement that's half pride, half uncertainty. "I'm not afraid..." he
murmurs.

—I'm terrified—

She takes a breath and holds it, trying to analyze the timbre of his thoughts. Trying to discern
whether these are nerves or whether he well and truly doesn't want this. But then something tense
and sickly sweet throbs through her — all at once, forcing the breath out. And her eyes flit down,
catching his hand as it flexes, groping himself for a fraction of a second before releasing again.
When her gaze snaps back to his, he groans — either because he's been caught or because it feels
good. A bit of both, she thinks.

It's enough.

Fingers trembling, she forces out one more deep breath before reaching for the top button of her
blouse. Knows as she frees it that she shouldn't be nervous. Not about this. No — they've already
done this. He's already seen everything.

But it's different now. Something more than a means to an end.

A choice, this time.

And they both recognize the significance of that button coming undone. She senses it through the
bond, making quick work of the rest if only not to lose her nerve.

He watches her slide the shirt off her shoulders like startled prey watches a hunter — or is it the
other way around? She's not sure she'll ever learn the difference between hunger and fear when it
comes to the look in Malfoy's eyes.

In the end, it doesn't matter. His thoughts give him away.

—happening now? Fuck—

—looks so soft—

—what do I—

—fuck...

Lifting the flimsy bralette over her head proves easier in the face of it, and Malfoy makes a quiet
sound in the back of his throat as she tosses it away. She can feel his fingers twitch.

Exhaling, she rests her palms at her sides, trying not to think about how she looks or what he
thinks. Trying not to think about how cold the air feels on her bare chest. There's less weight to her
voice when she speaks this time, chastened by the exposure.

"Are you sure you aren't afraid?"

—oh, Merlin—

His throat bobs as he swallows and nods, eyes fixed below her throat and doing nothing to hide it.

She steels herself. "Will you help me with my skirt, then?"

Heat washes through him, bond forcing a flush to her face to mirror his.

"What?" he breathes. He knows she's more than capable of removing it herself, but he also knows
that isn't the point she's making.

Shifting her feet against the sheets, she leans back a little on her palms and raises her eyebrows.
"Will you help me?"

—fucking rip it apart if I—

—control myself—
—keeps fucking testing me—

Against the rough current of his mind, he sits forward slowly. Shifts up onto his knees and then
leans carefully over her thighs to reach for the waistband.

"Sometimes..." Her voice falters, and she has to clear her throat. "Sometimes the zipper gets stuck."

—no it fucking doesn't—

"No it doesn't," he huffs, eyes downcast as trembling fingers find the zipper in question.

—torturing me—

—fucking hell—

—just stop fucking shaking—

Somehow, he manages to grip it tightly enough to pull down, separating the metal teeth along her
outer thigh at an excruciating pace — the loudest sound in the room. She breathes in and he
breathes out, both going deathly still in that moment after it reaches the bottom.

A fractious pause, and then Malfoy seems to give himself a jolt. Hooks his fingers under the hem
and starts to drag the fabric down along her thighs. Her heart pounds in her chest, seemingly faster
with every inch, and when the skirt reaches her knees and he's able to slip it free, she can't help but
search his thoughts for—

— please, no...

It makes her pulse stutter — the sudden, overwhelmingly despairing tone of it. And when she finds
his eyes, still fixed on her newly exposed skin, it's not hunger or fear she sees.

—Merlin, what did I—

—worse than—

—no. Fucking hell, no—

"Malfoy..." she stammers, one hand reaching for him instinctively, but it's like he doesn't hear her.
And without warning, he suddenly takes hold of her waist and leverages his strength, flipping her
onto her stomach.

She gasps against the pillow her face gets pressed into, immediately pushing up onto her elbows.

But he doesn't hold her down.

Doesn't do anything, really, despite what the excited spark in her gut might've suggested. Just
hovers there, staring at the backs of her thighs. And she forgets to feel self-conscious, even stripped
to nothing but her pants, once the tips of his fingers trail over the scars. Scars she's traced before —
she knows the angles.

Scars he hasn't seen yet.

Her Glamour must've faded.

"Malfoy," she murmurs again, tone cautious as she tries to look at him over her shoulder. "Don't—"
"They healed so badly." His voice is a rasp. Broken in more than one place. And even feeling the
way the rage in his gut curls inward — in towards himself — she can't help but wonder.

Swallowing thickly, she rests her chin on the pillow and fixes her eyes on the headboard, asking
the semi-darkness. "Do you think they're ugly?"

That fury burns hotter — something almost like hatred coiling in his stomach.

—Merlin fucking help me—

—no, I—

—sick in the head—

—monster—

Her fingers twist in the fabric of the pillowcase. “What is it?”

He breathes out slowly. Through his nose, like he’s trying to keep a handle on himself. “I don’t
want to say it out loud.”

All at once, she feels her trepidation give way to curiosity. Instinct takes over.

Then don’t.

They haven’t spoken like this in a long while, and the way he tenses up suggests he forgot they
could.

Tell me what you’re thinking.

His fingers hesitate halfway through their second trace of the scars.

It’s vile, comes his reply at last — and she wonders why she somehow finds it encouraging.

You’ve said vile things to me before. Many times.

Never like this.

She resists the urge to turn around and look at him.

Malfoy, I want to know.

Shakily, he exhales, and his fingers trace all the way down to the edges of the scars. Pause there,
warm where they rest.

It’s — it’s not me thinking it. It’s this fucking parasite, I know it is. It’s the wolf. But I...

She waits in the silence, struggling not to hold her breath.

I just — the first thing that fucking surfaced in my mind was pride.

Pride? she echoes, toneless.

Some deformed fucking instinct is trying to convince me that these scars mean you belong to me.

Her grip tightens against the pillow.

He’s right, she should be disgusted. She remembers the white-hot agony of those talons carving her
up like it was yesterday. Will probably never forget it. Her scars are marks of survival — of
freedom, at least from death. Not of ownership. And yet the first words out of her mouth are—

"Why would you need scars for that?"

Malfoy's touch disappears.

"What?" The word is barely audible.

She puts it in simple terms and tries not to overthink. "Like you said, I've just bonded our flesh.
You don't need scars to prove I belong to you."

It's like the needle of a turntable slips in his brain, sending the same two words spinning and
spinning.

—to me, to me, to me—

She wonders if he hears the same words swirling in her own head. Prays he doesn't and clears her
throat.

"If it were up to me, I would belong to no one. But this magic is beyond either of us." She can no
longer justify lying in a position so exposed, and she tries once more to rise up onto her elbows.
"This is the hand we were dealt—"

Malfoy's hand suddenly flattens against her lower back. Tense and strong. He presses hard and —
yes. Now he's holding her down.

A moment of unbearable silence. She can hear own blood pumping, pulse relentless in her temples.

"...Malfoy?" she whispers.

The pressure of his hand suddenly softens, palm smoothing out and spreading across the small of
her back. It's a curious touch now, not a barricade. Like he's trying to map something out on her
flesh with his fingertips.

What, she's not sure. As far as she knows, there are no scars there.

"You have freckles," Malfoy announces suddenly in a gruff voice. An answer to whatever question
he heard inside her head. "That's what I'm looking at. I didn't know you had freckles."

Neither did she. She doesn't normally stare at her lower back in the mirror.

"Do you—"

"I like them," he says quietly, cutting her off.

The blush still makes its way onto her face, but strangely enough she finds herself fighting back a
laugh. Because it's silly — bordering on ridiculous — that the first time he admits to liking
something about her, it's this. The first time without it slipping out in a blind rage. Or exploding
across the bond in scattered fragments.

A real compliment, for once, and it's this.

"Well." She does laugh. Can't help it. "At least that's one thing."
Malfoy doesn't laugh. His questing touch slows. Grows sleepy — almost drunken, fingers dragging
across her skin.

"There are other things."

"...Oh?" She doesn't sound as calm as she'd like, and when his fingertips suddenly trail across the
waistband of her underwear, bold palm caressing her backside, she only just manages to trap the
surprised squeak in the back of her throat.

His touch is warm. Vibrant. Tingles almost like an electric current runs through it.

But then he takes it away, the same way he always does, inhaling sharply and suddenly growing
flustered. She feels the panic seize him across the bond. Feels his hands tangle in his hair as he
sweeps it back off his forehead.

"I..." he stumbles, shame coursing through the words. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

His thoughts are a whirlwind. Indecision and self-abuse.

—good for nothing—

—thinks I'm pathetic—

—if I do it wrong—

In the face of it, she gathers a deep breath and closes her eyes. If he were using the bond the way
he should, he'd know the last word she'd use is 'pathetic.' Clearly, the communication is too one-
sided.

Tucking her chin into the pillow, she sets that breath free and concentrates.

It's easier to send thoughts than images — but she knows it's possible. She's done it before, by
mistake.

Determined, she opens her mind to the bond. Wide as she can. And she does her best to think of
nothing but what she wants in this moment. What would feel good. What she'd ask him to do, if she
could find the words.

She pictures him sweeping the hair over her shoulder, exposing the flesh between her shoulder
blades — imagines his fingernails might graze her skin as he does it. Pictures him leaning down,
the gust of his breath warm against her. Pictures his lips finding her pulse point. The way it would
make her gasp. The chill that would run through her.

Malfoy's silence — his stillness — suggests she's succeeded.

"That's what you want from me?" he whispers a moment later.

A strange shyness seizes her for a fraction of a second, and she nods against the pillow in favor of
admitting it aloud. She's admitted enough already.

He exhales roughly, as though he's come to some conclusion.

—fuck it—

"That's not me, Granger." The arm supporting his weight edges closer to the headboard, his
shadow falling over her as he leans forward. "It's not in my nature to be gentle."
The words register too slowly. Long after his hand sweeps up the length of her spine — not a
caress, but full of pressure — and his fingers tangle in her hair. He doesn't brush it over her
shoulder like she imagined. He gathers her curls into a fist against her skull, weight of his arm
pressing her face into the pillow, her gasp swallowed by the fabric. She has to breathe through her
nose. And even if he leans down the way she envisioned, tender lips don't find her pulse point.
Teeth do.

It's a bruising, punishing bite, and a small shriek of pain drowns in the pillow when she feels it
through his side of the bond too. The tension in his fist — the clamp of his jaw — they're a
summary of his frustration. Of having been pushed to his limits for far too long.

And she's sure the mark he leaves will last for weeks.

She does the only thing she can think to do and pushes up into it. Presses back against him, fighting
his greater weight to rise onto her elbows. And either he likes that, or he hates it, because the fist
tangled in her hair frees it to slide around and take her by the throat. Her head winds up resting
back against his shoulder, forced there by his grip, and she feels a strange burst of excitement flood
through him when he feels the muscles of her throat constrict against his palm as she swallows.

It sets off an alarm in the back of her mind. Because, as much as she's starting to believe she might
like it — if he gets a taste for causing pain straight away, she has a feeling she'll never know what
tenderness he might've been capable of.

And panic drives her to take back the reins.

She shifts her weight to one side and grabs his wrist with her free hand, squeezing as tight as she
can and dragging his fingers away from her throat. "I — I suppose that's easier for you, isn't it?"
she gasps out, catching her breath. And when she can manage it, she twists beneath him, shifting
onto her back so she can look up into his face. "Playing strong."

Confused and worked up, he stares down at her with a heated gaze.

"You're afraid to be seen as vulnerable," she continues, the heaving of her naked chest slowly
growing steady. Her neck throbs where he bit her. "But it's a cop out, Malfoy. No one's watching."

The muscles in his arms coil as he holds himself up above her, and she notices for the first time
how much his hair has grown, hanging down over his forehead. Longer than she thinks she's ever
seen it.

"Someone is always watching," he breathes, brows furrowed as he searches her eyes.

Hermione shakes her head, and a small smile makes its way onto her lips of its own accord. "Not
this time." She wonders if she has some sort of obsession with his mouth, once again finding her
fingers drawn to his lips. She traces them gently, whispering, "I asked a favor."

"What does that mean?"

"I sent him away. The stranger — the wolf. However you think of him."

Malfoy's brow creases further, and now his eyes search hers for a lie. "What?"

"We're alone." Her thumb sweeps across his bottom lip — not soft, but dry. Yet another
consequence of the Wolfsbane. "At least for now."

"How did you get it to leave?" His tone is incredulous. He doesn't even seem to notice the way she
touches him.

Perhaps he'll notice a kiss.

"I asked nicely," she breathes, softly taking hold of his chin and bringing his mouth to hers. And at
first, it's only her kissing him. He's gone stiff and cold again, as though he can only relax when he's
in control. But when her tongue insists, carving a space between his lips, his arms start to shake. A
few lashes of her tongue more and they give out completely, forcing him to sink down against her.
A muffled groan vibrates in the back of his throat, his body warm and sweetly heavy as he rests his
full weight, and she can only pray to whomever might be listening that he doesn't backpedal again.
She doesn't think she could bear it.

He's good at this. He's very good at kissing. Always has been, she decides as she takes his bottom
lip between her teeth. Even their first kiss — that disastrous, painful, premature kiss — wasn't bad
on his part. He could've pulled away and left her with the humiliation of missing his mouth
entirely. Could've bit her or shoved her back or possibly even gagged. Malfoy would've been the
type. But instead, he let her do the shoving. Let her pretend she'd been on the receiving end and
wore the face of a boy caught off guard. Not a boy disgusted.

It meant everything in that moment, she's realizing.

Malfoy speaks against her lips suddenly — she's been kissing him in a daze, lazy and thoughtless.
"That kiss?" he demands. "That's what you're thinking about right now?"

His mouth starts to trail down along her jawline, and she tries to bottle up the pleased, little sigh
she can feel rising in her throat. "I don't know, it just popped into my head."

He finds that abused pulse point once again, the soreness stinging through both of them, and he
hesitates. Breathes hotly against her skin for a few long seconds, leaving her staring up at the
strong curve of his shoulder.

"It's...he's really gone?" he murmurs, chest swelling against hers with each inhale.

"Yes."

Malfoy swallows. "For how long?"

"I don't know..." Her fingers start to trace instinctive little swirls across the fabric on his back.
"Probably just for tonight."

He sighs heavily into the crevice of her shoulder. "Fuck."

And feeling that trepidation swirl in him once more, she offers what she doesn't want to offer —
because it isn't worth doing it wrong. "We don't — we don't have to do anything, Malfoy. It's —
we don't, we can just..." She trails off and clears her throat, feeling herself deflate even as she says
it but doing what she can to hide it from him. "We can just lay here. You could get some sleep. I
know you haven't been—"

"I don't want to sleep."

Her chest flutters with anticipation, but even so, she finds herself giving him another out. "You also
don't have to stay. I'm not...I won't force you to stay. You can leave if you—"

"I don't want to leave." This time, he speaks against her skin, rough flesh of his lips grazing the
bruise he left. And physically, she feels how much strength it takes for him to admit what he does.
"But I don't know what I'm doing. I don't — I don't know where to start or what to do to you or
even how to do it. I don't want to—"

"Malfoy..." she whispers, letting her fingers slip into his hair as a gelatinous sort of joy fills her
veins. "Calm down." There's something charming and euphoric about him being afraid to displease
her. But as Malfoy's pulse accelerates and he starts to overthink, she's suddenly hit with an
onslaught of images through the bond. Memories, she thinks. Flashes of color and moving pictures.
A magazine with a lurid cover hastily vanished when his father knocks on his door. Depictions of
wildly ambitious positions and unrealistic expectations tattooing themselves onto young eyes as he
flips through the pages under his bed sheets by wandlight. A couple he saw in an alley once, the
woman with her face pressed against the dirty wall, crying out with false pleasure as the man took
her from behind with a rhythm so punishing and fast it couldn't have been anything less than
agonizing.

This is what he knows of sex.

"Malfoy?" she says again, fingertips sliding from the crown of his head down to his temple, his
face still buried against her neck. "All of that you're thinking about..." She massages a gentle circle
just above his ear. "It's worthless."

He exhales loudly against her.

"I am not lying here expecting you to have at me for hours from dozens of absurd, uncomfortable
angles, all the while showering me in orgasms."

He almost laughs. Almost.

"This is not a Quidditch game." The words flow freely. It's easy when they're true. "You don't win
or lose with this. And we..." Her fingers tangle back into his hair. "We have something different,
you and I. Different than any of those people you're thinking of, because we're paramours. If it
feels like rapture just holding your hand, then I can't even imagine..." She doesn't finish the
thought. Just lets it hover unspoken between them like a fantasy.

"Like rapture..." he echoes after a moment, voice muffled against her, and when she nods he lifts
one hand to hers. Pulls it out of his hair and presses it down against the pillow by her head, fingers
interlocking. "This?" he asks, and slowly the movements of his mouth against her shoulder become
more languid. A french kiss with every word. "You like this?" He squeezes her hand for emphasis.

"Y-Yes — yes, I do."

He unlocks them again, letting his fingertips trace down her open palm before sliding back
between her knuckles — a movement that's strangely carnal, as though he's proving her point. The
runes carved into her skin are still tender. Barely healed. And he must feel the pulse it sends
through her. Must feel the way her thighs clench, forgetting for a moment that his hips are between
them.

"What else do you like?" he asks, voice breathy now.

She squeezes his hand back, eyes trying to drift shut as his lips make their way towards her ear.
And her spinning mind spits out nonsense. "I — I like Greek mythology," she stammers. "And
dragonflies and still lifes. No one really likes still lifes, but I do. And I like books that are so old
the binding is falling ap—"

Malfoy groans loudly in her ear, annoyed. "Bleeding hell, Granger, I swear you'll take any chance
to make things harder for me. I'm not asking about paintings of fruit sitting in bowls, I'm asking
how you — the one with fucking experience — like to be treated in bed."

"Nicely," she answers without skipping a beat. Can't help herself, biting down on her lip to keep
from laughing. There's something terribly funny about all of this. Something surreal and ironic and
utterly lovely all the same.

"I swear on my mother's fucking life—"

I like to be encouraged, she tells him through the bond, because there's simply no chance of saying
it out loud. I...I like encouragement and I like to be complimented.

Malfoy pulls away from her neck at long last, rising up onto one elbow to gaze down at her. Then,
after an extended silence, he says, "Granger has a praise kink..." like it's fascinating, eyes shifting
between each of hers.

"I..." She clears her throat, feeling her face going pink. "Well, yes. Is it really so surprising?"

"It's almost too on-target, actually." He smirks — the first true smirk she's seen from him in a long
while. "Teacher's pet loves praise."

Indignation swells inside of her. "You might not know, but this teacher's pet almost never receives
compliments, even from her best friends." Her tongue runs away from her. "So forgive me if I'd
like the man fucking me to tell me nice things while he does it."

Malfoy rears back like she's blown smoke in his face, brows lifting and a laugh tumbling off his
lips. "Fucking hell, Granger." He shakes his head in wonder. "I think that might be my kink."

"What?" she demands.

"You. Saying awful words." His expression sinks into something slightly darker. "And with that
pretty mouth."

The excited little flutter she feels is hard to tamp down, especially considering he's never called any
part of her pretty before. Not out loud. But she tries not to let it lift her too high off the ground.
"Don't say it just because I told you I like hearing it."

Slowly, his smile straightens out.

"You like praise, but I'm not allowed to praise you?"

She exhales. "Not if you don't mean it."

One of those blond brows arches. "And how would you know what I do and don't mean?"

She has no answer. Can only blink steadily at him, clinging to her nerve.

Malfoy huffs. "We're never going to get anywhere, Granger. You're just as difficult as I am. What
would you have me do? Take Veritaserum and then fuck you?"

It's a knee-jerk reaction to scoff, but she catches herself halfway through as she actually considers
his words. "Come to think of it, that might be..."

A laundry list of everything about herself she finds physically unappealing starts writing itself
inside her head, and she swiftly changes her tune.
"No. No, actually, that wouldn't be good. What if you—"

Malfoy abruptly crushes his lips to hers and the rest of that sentence falls to its death. For once,
she's grateful to be silenced, because she thinks he tastes better than winning an argument ever
would — and god, she likes the way his tongue curls against hers.

"Tell me something else you like, then," he says when he comes up for air. "Something I'm
actually allowed to do to you."

It's almost a trap, because it drives her to think about the only other experience she's had — and she
has a gut feeling Malfoy won't take well to images of Viktor Krum materializing in his head.

No, she steers clear of it. Treads safer waters and thinks instead of what she's fantasized about
when alone. The faceless, nameless man she used to imagine.

Well, to begin with, he wasn't fully dressed.

"Take off your clothes," she demands, syllables slurred against his lips and tongue.

The first taste of eagerness from his end swells across the bond to her in fragments.

—good—

—yes—

—that I can actually—

—yes—

He yanks himself away from her to start tearing at his shirt, forgetting it has buttons and clawing
the whole thing off over his head. His belt breaks something when he sends it flying across the
room — something delicate and priceless by the sound of it. And moments later, he's back between
her thighs, now with only underwear between them. Thin, useless, unbearable scraps of material.

His hips shift against hers as he rests his weight back on his palms, and the friction feels like
stretching an overworked muscle.

"That," she announces around a gasp without thinking. "That — I...I like that."

Malfoy's brow furrows. "What, just...this?" He does it again, hipbones scraping against hers, and
this time the bond seems to wake to it. Halfway through the movement, his breath catches and his
eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenching. "Fuck. Okay."

She's growing desperate, now. Arms winding around his shoulders, she pulls him down and presses
her forehead to his. "Please, can we just — can we figure out how to do it perfectly later?" Her
breath hitches as she lifts one knee and he's suddenly able to come a great deal closer. "Please, I —
I feel..."

Empty.

She doesn't mean to say that word at all, let alone through the bond — and in the most ragged,
fanatical tone, full of so much panic and lust it's humiliating.

But it has a strange effect on Malfoy, who suddenly doesn't want to play games anymore either.
She feels his muscles coil, a powerful pulse of something she thinks she misinterprets flaring up in
him. It's — obligation, almost. A sort of responsibility. Like he's upholding his honor, which she
can't fathom in this context.

But then he says words she could never have expected. Low. Whispered with his eyes closed and
his nose brushing her cheek. A promise.

"I'll make it go away."

She's never been so comforted by something in her entire life. So relieved. And when his hand slips
between them and carves a path down the length of her stomach — down to the waistband of the
last thing she's wearing — she thinks the anticipation alone might stop her heart.

His fingers tremble as they dip beneath, and his breath hitches as he slides his palm those last
critical inches, patiently waiting for her to part her thighs just enough. She holds her breath as she
does, feeling like she's preparing to jump off a cliff. He may've touched her before, but not like
this. Not after a ritual like this.

She has no idea how she should expect it to feel, but when his fingers slip between her legs —
when she feels exactly how warm and wet she is because she can feel what he does against his skin
— the air gets stripped from her lungs. She gasps and tenses, and Malfoy sucks the air in through
his teeth.

"Fuck," he breathes, hesitating. "It — it didn't feel this way before—"

"Are you out of your mind?" she blurts, desperate. "Don't stop there."

Dutifully, Malfoy adds pressure, mouth falling shut like a boy chastised into line. His eyes are
fixed on her, watching as her back arches when the tip of his finger glides over the right spot. He
watches like he's fascinated, and as much as she wants to stare back, she can barely keep her eyes
open.

"Please just—"

He slides in three fingers at once. A stretch that's sharp and too sudden, forcing a mewl of pain
from her throat — but it's almost worth it, because she gets to watch him correct himself. Watches
him feel it through the bond, hiss a curse that's almost an apology, and then gently exchange three
for two.

He sighs when she does, clenching around his fingers — all at once too much and not enough. She
won't have the patience for much of this. They've waited too long, and she can feel him throbbing.
Somehow knows what it's like to be so painfully hard you don't even know what to do with
yourself.

"Not yet," Malfoy whispers, breathless, sensing the direction of her thoughts. She opens her eyes to
plead with him and finds his pupils the size of saucers.

They aren't the eyes of the stranger. Rather, they're the eyes of someone possessed. Someone
inches from overdose. Drugged and unfocused and—

"Your eyes look like that, too," he says, and in the same moment he curls his fingers inside of her.
Makes the muscles in her abdomen clench to the point of pain as a sound that's not quite human
pours out of her mouth.

"Please."

"You're too tight," he pants, lips brushing hers. "If my fingers hurt, then—"
I don't care, I don't care, please, please, I don't care—

She's forgotten how to speak.

And he's forgotten how to argue.

He doesn't bother removing his underwear, he just drags it out of the way, and when his fist closes
around himself it feels like the world tips sideways.

"I don't — my wand..." he starts to say. He's still thinking too clearly, which means he's thinking
too much, and she doesn't want to think at all anymore. "The contraceptive—"

"Paramours can't bear children."

Malfoy goes still, and she wants to scream. Hates herself for bringing it up, because honestly she
couldn't care less. She didn't care even when she first stumbled across it in the texts. To her, it's no
great loss, though perhaps it should be. She used to wonder whether something was wrong with her
because she never pictured herself as a mother.

But all in all, it's the last thing she wants to worry about right now.

"It's safe," she gasps out, fingernails scraping intricate designs into his shoulder blades. "It's safe.
Please, just—"

With a groan, Malfoy lets go of whatever's been holding him together, and the restraints snap.

It's like stepping on a tripwire.

He pushes inside of her — the feeling she's been craving for far too many months — and their
senses collectively explode. Combust. Fly apart beyond fixing.

Arteries and nerve-endings feel like they disconnect and rearrange themselves, a ripple of
something hot and sticky-sweet slipping down their spines in tandem. Malfoy chokes on the sound
he makes — something hoarse and animal and almost wounded in a way. She can't form sound at
all. Her mouth just falls open in a silent cry, arm around his shoulders dragging him closer so she
can bury her face in his neck. Can bite down on something, even if it's him.

Neither of them feel it, if there's any pain. They can only feel the pressure. The cup overflowing.
The sense of fulfillment they could never've achieved any other way.

And again, it's not enough.

—have to—

—please, more—

—closer—

Malfoy makes good on his thoughts and doesn't ask for permission, sweeping an arm beneath her
to lift her up. He sits back on his heels and doesn't let them disconnect for so much as a fraction of
a second, gathering her into his lap — dragging her thighs as far past his hips as she can physically
bear. Now, she does cry out, because her weight bearing down on them — forcing them closer —
is so impossibly good it's almost sickening.

She's not even seeing clearly anymore. Doesn't know whether the bright light around them is fact or
fiction. She only knows the slow, mechanical pace of him sliding in and out. Mechanical, because
clearly they were designed to do this. Fools not to've done it sooner. Fools, such fools.

Her mouth finds his — where the real oxygen is — and she drinks her fill of him. Drinks until she's
drunk, letting him guide her hips up and down with careful hands. His thoughts are static when she
tries to read them. Beautiful, technicolor static. Words that have no real meaning, over and over
again.

—inside of you—

—die this way—

—let me—

—I can't breathe—

—inside of you, inside of you, inside of you—

When the first orgasm hits, it's impossible to tell whose it is. It detonates from somewhere in the
middle — equally shared between them.

It's unfathomably beautiful for all of a few seconds.

Then, all at once, the blinding ecstasy becomes dangerous.

Because as it swells up in her — electrical and overwhelming, driving her eyes back into her head
— it then echoes again in him. And that echo rebounds back onto her, then back onto him, then
back again. Violent. Brutal. Again. And again. And again, until they both see black. See stars.
Until sweat starts to drip from his temples down onto her naked chest.

It's like a punishment. Like penance for having ever spurned their bond.

And for hours, they're slowly tortured with ecstasy. Unable to stop. Unable to pull away.

It doesn't stop until their muscles are ravaged to the point of numbness and the early morning light
is slipping through the windows. Tears stain her cheeks. His throat is raw from crying out — for
more and for mercy.

They curl into each other like dying flowers on those sweat-soaked sheets, chastened. Stripped of
their pride.

The bond has shown its bloody teeth.

 Glamours / Scars

It's early evening by the time she wakes up. And she feels like her limbs have been filled with sand,
weighted down to the bed beneath her.

Her curls are wayward and crooked — soaked with sweat that dried as she slept. Every movement
takes effort, every muscle sore and throbbing. It's several long minutes before she works up the
strength to twist off of her side onto her back. And then she spends several more just staring at the
canopy above, trying to decide whether any of it really happened.

The still-healing runes on her palms pulse like an answer. Yes. Yes. Yes.

But she doesn't want to turn her head.

Lingering pessimism tells her he's probably already gone. Why would he stay? He—

A broad shape catches her eye, impossible to ignore in her periphery. The way it rises and falls
slowly, breath by breath. Malfoy's shoulder.

He did stay.

Warmth blooms in her chest, unfettered, and she turns carefully onto her other side to face him,
wincing at the ache. He's still asleep, if the steady rhythm of his breathing is anything to go by.
He's got his back to her, awful scars catching the still-burning firelight.

Strange how she suddenly wants to trace them. The same way he traced hers. Just to feel their odd,
alien texture and sate some bizarre curiosity.

But her gaze stumbles across something entirely out of place before she has the chance.

Malfoy's wrists are tied to the bedpost.

Her brow wrinkles, a gasp getting trapped in her throat as she sits up, certain for a moment that
she's imagining things. But the image only grows clearer from this angle.

He's curled onto his side, almost in a fetal position, and his belt — the one he sent flying across the
room at one point — is tightly secured around his wrists, binding him to the four-poster. Hermione
can feel the ache of it in her own wrists. Like he's been fighting the restraints for hours.

She acts without thinking, immediately rising up onto unsteady knees so she can lean over and start
yanking at it.

Malfoy stirs, and a voice like gravel floats up to greet her, thick with sleep.

"Don't untie that."

"What is this?" she demands, grunting as she struggles to free the knot. How did he even tie a knot
so tight? And with leather? "Malfoy, what on earth—"

"No, it's for your..." He trails off with a groggy sigh as it comes loose from the bedpost, slack
dropping his wrists onto the mattress. "For your..." The last word sounds like 'benefit,' but it's
mumbled into the pillow as he tucks his face further into it, sigh devolving into a groan.

She stares down at him for a moment, incredulous, only to come to the abrupt realization that she's
naked a few seconds later. And while it's brutally obvious how little it matters at this point, she still
finds herself retreating to her side of the bed — seeking the safety of the sheets.

Her gaze reverts to the ceiling. "How is that for my benefit?"

The sheets rustle as he shifts. He still sounds half asleep, words slurred. "Kept waking up wrapped
around you..."

Oh.

Her pulse skips a little, and she gathers the covers in tighter against her chest, unable to stop herself
from picturing it. What it might be like — opening her eyes to find his arm draped across her side,
his chin resting on her shoulder. The thought is—

You always like the things you shouldn't.

Even in her head, Malfoy sounds exhausted, and perhaps that's why it doesn't startle her. The tone
is low. Soothing.

Eavesdropping? she counters, raising an eyebrow, though he can't see it.

I think we're past that.

He's right. They are. Long past that, considering the way things went.

She imagines it's akin to the way people grow closer after a traumatic event. A plane crash or a
shared loss. What they endured wasn't a near-death experience, per se, but it was traumatic to say
the least.

Pleasure becomes pain after too long, and for a while the pain was infinite. They reached a point in
the night where their embrace wasn't one of ecstasy — it was a desperate cling to sanity. And she
can't stop thinking about that word.

Penance.

They paid dearly. With sweat and tears and, yes, quite a bit of blood.

The ache between her legs is like nothing she's ever known, further magnified by the endless throb
she feels from his end — and when she lifts the covers, she catches a glimpse of all the bright
scarlet smeared across the white.

"Sorry..." Malfoy mumbles into his pillow, back still turned to her. He's fully awake now.

"It's fine," she says, glancing his way again. "Wasn't your fault." And with nothing to distract her,
it's the first time she notices.

Something she's never noticed before. Never had the opportunity to.

She shifts onto her side to see better.

"Your hair..."

Like hers, it was soaked with sweat in the night — and yet somehow when it dried, it did so in the
form of soft, white-blond curls. Loose and yet undeniable.

Malfoy tenses up the moment she mentions it, one hand slipping free of the binds she untied to run
his fingers through them. Almost like he's trying to cover them up.

"Where's my wand? Where's — I'll fix it, where's my—"

"No," she says without thinking. "No...don't touch them."

It's an instinct to reach out. To cover his hand with hers and pull it out of the way. She can't help
herself. After so many years seeing it straight as a pin — always as shrewd and inflexible as he was
— it's almost impossible to believe it's real. An element of him that's soft and imperfect.

He used to make fun of her curls.

"I know I did," Malfoy mutters, gaze fixed on the far wall. He doesn't pull away when her
fingertips inevitably brush against his scalp, but she feels him stiffen. "Just let me find my wand."

They're even softer than they look. "How have I never noticed?"

"Because I never let anyone see. I hate them." His hand gathers into a fist against the sheets, tone
guarded. Uncomfortable. "There's an enchantment to prevent it. I don't know why it isn't working."

She hesitates, one of the ringlets halfway twisted around her finger, and her eyes fall to that
grapevine of scars on her forearm. "My Glamours failed too, now that you mention it."

Malfoy nods against the pillow and raises his palm so she can see it past his shoulder. "So did
mine."

At first, her eyes are drawn to the Dark Mark. There's no avoiding it, so stark and ugly and
prominent on his left forearm. But it's not what he's showing her. And when she can tear her gaze
away and focus on the palm in question — there it is.

The rune to match hers, its hourglass shape plain as day in the firelight.

The breath catches in her lungs, lingering there for a moment — because it's one thing to know it,
but another entirely to see it.

Proof he saved her life.

Malfoy scoffs, closing his fist so she can't see it anymore. "I tried to take it first."

"You have to stop thinking like that." She slumps down against the pillow with a sigh, left staring
at the scars on his back. "It was my choice to follow you that night, and you warned me not to."

The scars seem to expand as he breathes, skin stretching to accommodate.

"Malfoy, look at me."

A pause.

"If I do, I'll touch you again."

Odd how differently they react to the concept. It glides along her nerve endings like an invitation,
whilst simultaneously flooding him with fear.

"And so what if you do?"

A brief but vibrant image splashes across the backs of his eyelids. One of their bodies interlocked
— heat and pleasure and pain and, worst of all, no room to breathe.

Don't you understand what that was? She banishes the image with her words, forcing herself into
his mind in its place. Malfoy, that was the culmination of months of repression and denial.
Everything we fought off getting released all at once. Floodgates. It's not going to happen like
that again.

"You don't know that."

"Malfoy," she insists. "Look at me."

He resists for as long as he can, shoulders tense. She can feel the way he almost wills himself to be
heavier, if only to weigh his body down and prevent it from turning over.

He does, though. Eventually. Inevitably.

And tired, half-lidded eyes find her in the dim firelight, blinking methodically as he settles in on
that opposite shoulder — leaves their faces about a foot apart. He's masked his expression well, she
thinks. If she didn't have a pathway into his mind, she'd glean nothing from that passive gaze.

As it is—

—what she looks like when she—

—lips are swollen—

—did I do that?

—looks fucking lush—

Her eyebrows raise of their own accord, and Malfoy's mask immediately crumbles — toppled by
humiliation.

"Don't listen to that shit," he huffs, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at them fiercely with the
back of his hand. His cheeks have flushed pink.

"It's hard not to."

"Just — please."

She takes advantage of the moment and inches closer while his eyes are still closed. Close enough
to rest her cheek on the corner of his own pillow. "I'll try," she says.

His eyes snap open, surprised by the proximity. He wants to lean back but can't seem to make
himself.

Reaching out, Hermione carefully rests her fingertips against his brow, smoothing out the creases.
"Did you sleep at all?"

His breathing grows shallow, eyes locked on her every move. Trying to assess. Strategize. Plan a
defense, if necessary. "Not really."

"Neither did I." Her fingers trail downward, operating independently as they trace the gentle slope
of his nose. She's a little surprised he lets her do it. "Or if I did, it certainly doesn't feel like it."

For a moment, silence expands between them. Malfoy seems to lose track of his thoughts as he
studies her features — they become static. Impossible to translate across the bond. Then, when he
realizes he's allowed his gaze to linger, he blinks and looks down.

"This is madness."

The words escape on an exhale — like they've been begging to come out. The gust of his breath
warms her palm.

"What is?"

"Everything. All of this. Last night. What we did was—"

Her fingers fall to his lips to silence him. She doesn't want to hear whatever he believes he's
supposed to say in this moment. Whatever their past tells him he should be feeling. She wants to
lock away that part of his mind like a forbidden wing in an old house, never to be visited again.

And the only way she can think to do that is with a question.

"How attuned are your senses to me right now?" she asks quietly. "In this moment?"

His brows meet in the middle, lips moving against her finger. "What?"

"Would you say you have a fair sense of what I'm feeling?"

"Physically?"

"Yes."

He mulls it over for a moment, looking up at her again. Trying to riddle out her intentions. "I — I'd
say so, yes. Why?"

"Tell me what I feel."

His eyes flicker. He's certain this is some sort of trap.

"No." She traces the soft swell of his chin now. "I'm not trying to trick you."

"I don't..." He shakes his head. "In what sense? What do you—"

"Am I warm or am I cold?"

Her fingertips have come to a stop just above his collarbone, and she can feel the muscles in his
throat constrict as he swallows.

"Warm," he says after a moment.

"And my runes..." She draws circles against his skin, watching the movements. "Which of them
stings more?"

No pause this time. "The left."

"Good." Her eyes flit up — a fraction of second in which their gazes collide before she glances
down again. "What about pain? Am I feeling any pain?"

Something ripples across his nerves as he assesses her for it; a shy and yet scintillating pulse of
satisfaction. It takes him a long while to speak.
"You're...sore."

Now she does meet his eyes, unable to hide the smile that tugs on the corner of her lips. "Yes," she
concedes. "I am. But I'd classify it as a good sort of pain — and I think you know that."

He swallows again, forgetting his words.

"Real pain, Malfoy. What can you find?"

"I..." He trails off as he searches her eyes, and after a long while he admits, "Nothing. There's
nothing."

"Strange, isn't it?" Her touch falls away. "I've had chronic pain for weeks — ever since that night.
There were times it hurt so badly to put weight on my leg I could barely breathe. Even sleeping
was painful."

The shame creeps into his mind quite quickly, and she can't afford to belabor the point.

"Now it's like that pain never existed. For the first time in a long time, I feel healthy."

Outwardly, his gaze is blank. Intentionally blank. As though he's refusing to connect the dots.

"Because of you."

Don't.

The thought is sharp, jabbing at her as his eyes tighten. A shift so swift and drastic it's almost
shocking.

"Malfoy, it's you," she insists. "It's being near you. Now that we've accepted the bond, we—"

"No." He sits up abruptly, disrupting the sheets. Both hands sweep through those curls as he rests
his elbows on his knees. "I don't want to hear it, Granger."

"Hear what?" she demands, sitting up to match.

"How everything's alright now," he snaps, and all at once he's bending over the side of the bed to
reach for something on the floor. "How it's suddenly fine that I was seconds away from ripping
you apart — what, because I gave in? Because I fucked you?" He throws aside the sheets and
yanks on his pants, eyes averted. "Suddenly that just all goes away?"

Something in her chest sinks.

Maybe a foolish part of her thought he'd no longer be able to say things like this. Not after a ritual
as powerful as The Descent.

Clutching the sheets to her naked chest, she shifts forward, forcing herself into his periphery. "Why
are you the only one who can't see the difference?"

He's dragging on his trousers now, jaw tight.

"It's very clear to me. I know that wasn't you chasing me through the woods that night. I see the
difference. Why can't you?"

A molten wash of fury lashes out at her across the bond, and Malfoy's suddenly on his feet.
Suddenly twisting to face her, palms flattening against the bed as he leans forward, getting in her
face. "Oh, I don't know," he hisses, and his eyes narrow until she can't see the grey anymore.
"Maybe because I heard those thoughts like they were my own. Maybe because I remember calling
you sweet girl." His chin juts forward with the words like a threat, and against her will she leans
back. "Pretty girl. I remember asking you what your muscle tastes like and I remember enjoying
the sound of your scream."

Her heart starts to hammer in her chest, breaths growing shallow.

"I remember feeling everything it felt as if those feelings belonged to me, and all the while being
able to do nothing. I remember that." And then, unexpectedly, his eyes soften — just a fraction.
She watches the muscle in his jaw release as he frees his gritted teeth, eyes trailing over her face.
"And I remember feeling you, too. How afraid of me you were. The way you are now, tenfold."

"I'm..." She struggles to find her voice. "I'm not afraid of you."

Malfoy exhales sharply — a huff. And in one swift movement, he pushes off the bed and
straightens up. "We can't really lie to each other anymore, can we?"

It's hard to fathom how this all fell apart so quickly. How, only minutes ago, he was beside her in
bed — and now he's throwing on his clothes in a rage.

"Malfoy..."

"We see it differently," he says as he buttons his collar. "In my eyes, we didn't fix anything — we
fed something."

"Malfoy." Her voice breaks. "Don't — don't leave..."

But as soon as he finds his wand, he makes for the door. And seeing him do that — seeing him
turn his back on her again —

Something snaps.

No, more than that. Something detonates.

All at once, that sinking in her gut metastasizes into a boiling wrath, and she loses all grip on
herself. Loses control for a fraction of a second. There's a pulse. A clench like a fist wraps around
her heart. And then her jaw tightens and her knuckles go white and—

Light surges from her the way smoke plumes from an explosion. A brief, blinding flash. And every
object in the room lifts into the air from the surface, hovering for a moment before crashing back
down. A great shudder that rocks the floor beneath. An earthquake.

It stops Malfoy in his tracks.

"I said stay," she murmurs from the epicenter, and her voice is different. Wrong. In that strange,
fleeting moment, she sounds like someone else.

Slowly, he turns to face her. The way he'd turn to face wandpoint. And his eyes are wide and
frightened, passing over her as though searching for evidence. Remnants of whatever magic
overcame her.

She refuses to think on it. To question it. Says only what she feels — what she felt when that
energy broke free.
"Just for a second...I want you to imagine what it might feel like to give yourself — not just your
body, but your life force — to someone who intends to leave without so much as a kiss goodbye."

Malfoy's voice is the one breaking now. "What did — what did you just do?"

"Nature doesn't lose battles." She speaks over him. "It won't bend its rules to accommodate your
silly prejudices. Your bigotry. Whatever it is you're holding onto to keep yourself at a safe
distance."

A shuddering breath exits his chest as he stares at her. She can't stop herself now.

"Don't forget those scars made you proud, Malfoy. There's a part of you that wants to claim me so
badly you'd pick up a branding iron. We both know it."

He closes his eyes — as though that'll somehow spare him from hearing the truth. And as he waits
in the silence, she turns and takes her wand from the nightstand. Performs a charm to dress herself
and gets to her feet, faltering only a moment when she sees the blood on the sheets.

The night before feels worlds away now.

"You're lying to yourself," she forces out once she's standing in front of him.

He doesn't open his eyes. Squeezes them shut even tighter, twisting his face away in something
torn between shame and agony.

"You're lying to both of us. And in a few days — when you're sick with need and the bond sends
you back to me..." A pause. "What then?"

Malfoy's gone so still he looks as though he's been petrified.

She leans in close, lowering her voice to a whisper and watching him flinch. "Will you come with
your tail between your legs?"

A grimace warps his features — and she leaves him in that hollow, ensuing silence, taking away
his chance to leave her first. Steps past the bloodstained remnants of her altar and tries to ignore
the bitter sting it leaves behind.

Tries to ignore the feeling of being used.

It doesn't take days for The Descent to exercise its power.

It takes minutes. Takes the distance between the Head Girl's Dormitory and the portrait of the Fat
Lady.

By the time she utters the password, her leg is aching — and by the time she reaches the common
room, she's fighting back tears.

She misses him. Misses his horrible, ungrateful, black cloud of a presence. Already, she wants to
turn back.

She could leave now and catch him before he's gone. Take his chin in her hand and force him to
look at her — not to apologize. Merely to insist that words are useless. They shouldn't speak, they
should only hold one another. Feed off one another, as the ritual intended. They shouldn't be—

"What happened to you?"

Lavender is staring at her from one of the sofas, face drawn up in a distasteful scowl.

Her voice shakes Hermione from her daze, and at first she thinks she's asking where she's been all
this time. But then she sees the angle of Lavender's gaze. Sees her eyes fixating on a spot near her
waist, and when she glances down she finds her un-Glamoured scar gleaming in the firelight.

"I—" She yanks down her sleeve. "No, nothing. That's — nothing."

The tremor in her voice is so telling it's almost laughable.

"Are you alright, Hermione?"

Parvati from the other sofa. She and Lavender are alone in the common room. Everyone else must
be at dinner—

Katie Bell appears at the foot of the dormitory stairs, and the way she flinches — almost
instinctively — at the sight of Hermione is...

It's too much.

Panicking, Hermione makes a beeline for the dormitory, brushing past Katie's shoulder on the way
and watching her recoil. She can hear Lavender's voice trailing after her from the common room,
unmistakable.

"Did you see? They're on her legs, too."

 Suffer / Feed

Dear Tonks,

I'm sorry to write again.

I'm sure something beyond your control has prevented you from getting in touch, but I'm desperate.
My situation grows more tedious by the day, and I'm terrified of what's to come. Please write me, I
have so many questions. So much to tell you.

With love,

Hermione

She writes it first thing the next morning, still in bed — spilling ink on her sheets more than once.
And the stranger makes himself known just as she dots the 'i' in her name.

The first time in days.

Ah, he muses. The cousin.

She's so startled, she drops her quill. Stupidly blurts, "You're back," aloud. And she sounds winded
and a little too excited for her liking.

Someone in the dormitory stirs behind their bed curtains. It's early. Maybe six.

Would you prefer me not to be?

There's an edge to his voice. A reluctance. Anger too, she thinks, if she digs deeply enough.

No, of course not. You know I wouldn't.

And when met with silence, she adds,

Please — stay.

A lingering pause. It's almost as though he readjusts himself in her mind, shifting to lean against
the wall of her thoughts. Then—

Why do you look to the cousin for help? What use is she, really?

The topic feels somewhat forced. She thought he'd be far more concerned with other things in this
moment. That he'd have more important questions to ask after the past forty-eight hours. It's not
what she expects.

I don't want to know, he says abruptly, because her thoughts are bare to him. Not about any of it.

A hollow sort of pain opens up in her chest. Even not knowing his true face, she can somehow
picture it in this moment — and the look in his eyes cuts like a knife.

I didn't do it to hurt you.

But you don't trust me.

No, you’re wrong. She shakes her head at the empty space in front of her. I do — I do trust you.
It's Malfoy who doesn't.

More silence now.

I thought it was the only way. I did it for the bond.

It takes him almost a full minute to ask what he does next, and the words are ravaged. Like they
agonize him.

Was he gentle with you?

She feels a physical twinge of pain.

Yes. He was, she thinks. Then, as an afterthought, The bond less so.

He changes his mind so quickly, he nearly cuts her off.

No. Talk to me about something else. Anything but this, he rasps. You know I adore the sound of
your voice, but not about this.

She blinks into the quiet for a few long moments. Catches herself massaging the spot on her chest
where that fresh, invisible ache throbs. She imagined it would hurt him, but never this badly.

I...

Please.

The silence envelops them, and she searches in vain for a change of subject. Struggles to clear her
thoughts of anything and everything to do with Malfoy. But beyond that, there's only one thing
pressing on her mind hard enough she can think to bring it up.

Last night, when I came back... She shifts uncomfortably where she sits. A few of the girls from
my House saw my scars. The Glamours had worn off.

The stranger considers this for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice has some of its strength
back.

This worries you?

She vanishes her quill, carefully sealing the letter in her lap. These girls tend to gossip.

I see. A prickle of distaste. Spare your effort, then. Gossips are often liars, and liars have
reputations. It will pass.

His tone aims to soothe, though she feels anything but.

"Will it?" she asks aloud without thinking.

...

Will it?
No.

No, she doesn't think it will.

Any semblance of peace gets left behind when she leaves the Owlery.

It's stupid of her, really, to think she could attend breakfast. Would've been wiser to stay in bed and
wait out the gap before her first class.

All things considered, she could've very well skipped the day entirely. She feels sick enough to
justify it, what with her leg throbbing and her muscles sore and that overwhelming emptiness
sitting in her gut. The one that reminds her she's no longer whole on her own. The one that's crying
out for Malfoy.

Still — with Glamours meticulously cast, she tries to enter the Great Hall as though nothing's
amiss. Plasters a smile on her face for the Gryffindor table and pointedly keeps her back to
Slytherin. It'll be fine. She can talk her way out of anything — or at least that's what she tells
herself.

But it's obvious even before she takes a seat that Lavender's had a busy morning.

The table goes quiet. The sort of quiet only a muffling charm could rival. And she finds an assorted
mix of worried glances and suspicious stares focused on her from all sides. Like a rare, dangerous
animal on display at the zoo.

Screwing up her courage, she glances down and away — starts to fix herself a cup of tea. But
before she can add the first spoonful of sugar, Harry goes for the jugular.

"Hermione..." He carefully tucks away Advanced Potion Making and leans in close across the
table. She's not sure there's really a need to whisper at this point — everyone is clearly listening —
but he attempts to nonetheless. "It isn't Black Cat Flu, is it?"

Instincts kick in before her brain does, and her brow furrows defensively. "What are you talking
about?"

Harry looks to Ron briefly, as though for help, but Ron's face is stuck in a wince — and with
Lavender leaning on his arm, pretending to butter a slice of toast even with her eyes fixed on
Hermione, he doesn't seem sure what he's allowed to say.

"What?" Hermione forces out, stirring the sugar in earnest. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Ginny opens her mouth on Harry's left but Seamus beats her to the punch from the other side of the
table.

"Lavender says you're in rag order. Worse than you let on. Got some nasty scars from somethin',
haven't you?"

Christ. Only Seamus could be so bold.

It's her first desperate thought to look to Neville, but after glancing both ways, she finds him
missing from the table. "I..." she fumbles, panicking and looking back to Harry. Clinging to her
nerve. "I really don't know what you're talking about." And she forces out an incredulous laugh.
"What scars?"

"You can tell us," says Ginny. "Whatever it is, you can tell us."

"I—" Her throat closes up, spoon clattering loudly against the saucer as she sets it down. "There's
nothing to tell. I don't understand. I haven't got any scars."

"I saw them." Lavender finally stops pretending to care about breakfast, squeezing Ron's arm and
cocking her head like she's talking to a child. "You might as well tell the truth."

Hermione scoffs in disbelief. Can think of nothing else to do but get to her feet. "This is
ridiculous," she splutters, opening her mouth only to shut it again.

"Don't leave—" Harry tries, but she speaks over him, hitching her bag back over her shoulder.

"I don't think I'm hungry, actually." And she clears her throat, stepping out from around the bench.
"I'll see you all in class."

She leaves feeling like a fool, but she has the good sense to walk slowly on her way out. Forces
herself to. Slowly enough that the backs of her thighs remain in plain view beneath the hem of her
skirt. For whatever it's worth, they'll find no scars there.

But this pace leaves the window open for her eyes to wander — accidentally gravitate to the left of
the Hall where she can sense Malfoy.

Their gazes meet. Brief and electric. Not long enough to mean something, not quickly enough to
mean nothing. And that emptiness clenches the way the walls of her stomach might after days
without food.

Grip tightening on the strap of her bag, she makes herself look away, holding her breath until the
gold doors shut behind her.

Either Neville has left the Grounds entirely, or he's spent the majority of his morning in the Room
of Requirement.

That's what the map tells her, at least.

She can't think of a good reason he'd be in there, what with Malfoy's Wolfsbane long dead. But
there's no one else she wants to talk to, and with her first class in the afternoon, she resolves to tuck
herself away in the alcove nearest that blank wall and wait.

This corridor doesn't tend to draw a large crowd, and Harry doesn't have the map. There's very little
chance she'll be found.

At least not physically.

Paramour...

He hasn't spoken since this morning, but now there's a note of disapproval in his voice.
Admonishment.
Yes?

She busies herself sifting through her bag — intends to read to pass the time, even if it's a text she's
already memorized. She doesn't want to be alone with her thoughts.

But her brow wrinkles at the sight of that familiar, tarnished-red cover. Glossy and smooth against
her fingertips. Squinting, she pulls out The Will & The Way and sets it in her lap. Doesn't remember
packing it this morning.

You should not skip meals, the stranger murmurs. You need your strength.

She huffs at this, opening the book to the table of contents. Better that than stay for an
inquisition.

I do not like to see you go hungry.

I'm not hungry. You don't need to worry.

That's a lie.

She's famished, though not for food. And she thinks they both know that.

The stranger sighs.

Loathe though I am to suggest it, perhaps you should seek out your Malfoy. You’re overdue to
feed.

The thought is so violently tempting, she can't be allowed to consider it.

No. She shakes her head and clears her throat, ignoring the flush that rushes to her cheeks as she
flips to a random page. If he's so certain he doesn't need me, he can suffer for it.

The stranger makes a sound she can't quite place. Something low and animal.

I'm not sure whether I'm pleased enough hearing that to forget you're suffering too. He hums. It's
enchanting.

What is?

Watching you exercise your power.

The praise feels like warm water on her shoulders, powerful and unexpected. She fights a shiver.
Fights the urge to thank him, not certain it's the sort of thing she should actually be thankful for.
The words fall out of focus in front of her, and she has to force her eyes to make sense of them.

Benefaction

- to heal -

It's a red ritual, she realizes. A soul ritual. The edges of the page have been dyed crimson.
 Incantation

Henceforth

Take that which is mine

What have you

I claim in grace

Burden me thus

I grant you solace

Burden me thus

I gift you strength

A beautiful ritual, the stranger murmurs, and it jostles her from an unexpected daze.

What does it do?

He takes a moment to think, as though trying to decide how best to phrase it.

It allows a paramour to trade for any wound. Any ailment.

Her brow furrows. Trade?

Yes. One could use it to relieve something as simple as a headache, or perhaps as grave as a
mortal wound. The practitioner agrees to claim this burden in their paramour's stead.

She glances up from the page, forgetting for a moment that she can't look him in the eye. How is
that any different from the Descent?

No new strength or power is offered here. Whatever health is given is also taken away. Nothing
can be gained, only lost.

I don't understand.

He speaks as though his patience for her is endless. As though he could explain for hours. The
Descent is a flesh ritual. Flesh rituals deal with physical barriers of the body and mind. Reverence,
for instance, erased the barrier between your thoughts. The Descent erased the barrier between
your hearts. Your muscles. Your veins and the blood within them. In each of these, something is to
be gained. Power. Understanding. Sustenance.

She shuts the book, confused. Something is gained even if we have to feed off one another to get
it?

It seems counterintuitive.
I understand how it might, he says, tracing her thoughts. But the act of feeding is inherently
symbiotic. When we feed off of you, we grow more powerful — and therefore so do you. Both sides
benefit.

Gradually, as he continues, his voice takes on an air of modesty. Softer, like prayer. As though he
speaks of something deeply sacred.

Soul rituals are less straightforward. They nurture the connection between paramours that
transcends beyond the physical. That which demands selflessness. Abnegation. Sacrifice. In rituals
such as these, something must always be lost.

Sacrifice? She echoes. How would that—

Shoes scuff on the flagstone, derailing her train of thought, and she’s quick to tuck herself more
tightly into the alcove’s shadows. Gathers the book against her chest and goes very still.

Voices emerge from the end of the corridor, near the entrance to the Room of Requirement.
Raised voices, flustered and talking over one another.

“—can’t expect me to—"

“Don’t. Don’t. You have to let me finish—"

“—accept this. Not when it’s you.”

Moments later, Neville appears just beyond the alcove’s stone curve, and she thinks for a moment
she’s been caught.

But he isn’t looking at her.

He’s looking down — straight at the floor. And his eyes are red and swollen, lashes flecked with
trapped tears. One falls away, plummeting to the flagstone between his feet just as Adrian appears
behind him.

“Listen to me,” he says, taking hold of Neville’s arm before he can step away. She doesn’t think
she’s ever heard Adrian sound desperate until this moment.

She’s certain she’s never seen him cry.

But his eyes are glassy, every aspect of that cool, self-assured expression she’s come to expect
stripped from his face.

“You don’t understand—"

“I do,” says Neville in a quiet voice, wiping his eyes on the overlong sleeve of his jumper. He’s
still got his back to him, refusing to look. “I do understand.”

Adrian tugs on his arm, forcing him to twist halfway around. “No you don’t. Listen to me.” He
takes Neville's face in both hands, tilting his chin up. “Listen to me. Look at me.”

Hermione holds her breath, deathly still now — refuses to let this be the second time she's intruded
on something so private. The stranger is silent too. Seems interested. She can feel his curiosity
swirling inside her head.

"Look at me," Adrian demands once more, giving him a gentle shake, and after a moment's
hesitation, Neville finally glances up.
"I should go," he says, red-rimmed eyes almost pleading now.

"No. No. You're not going. Not yet. Not until you've heard everything—"

"I've heard enough."

"You haven't." Another shake, this one rougher than before. Adrian seems to realize as much,
releasing him seconds later and threading his fingers into his own hair instead. Trying to compose
himself. "You don't — there's not..." He squeezes his eyes shut and gathers a breath. "You don't
understand the position I'm in."

Neville looks small in front of him. Vulnerable. Can't seem to decide whether to twist his fingers
together or tuck them away into his pockets.

"If I had a choice..." Adrian trails off again, and she thinks his voice actually breaks. Just barely.
"You know me. If I had a choice — any other choice — I'd take it. You know me."

"I want to believe I do." Neville's throat bobs as he swallows, the words almost inaudible.

"No." Adrian seems to panic. "No. Don't look at me like that. You do. You know you do."

Neville shuts his eyes, restless fingers clenching into fists at his sides. "Please," he whispers, a
stray tear catching on the corner of his lip as it falls. "Can I go now?"

Adrian stiffens. Straightens up, blinking as though the words don't make any sense to him. And
then — all at once — the weakness drains from his face, swiftly replaced by a cold, still mask.

"Yes," he says flatly. "Go."

Neville vanishes from sight, uneven footsteps echoing as he rushes from the corridor.

Which leaves only Adrian, standing there — staring after him with unfocused eyes. Like he's gone
blind. A shaky exhale falls from his lips.

And then he turns, and suddenly he's staring at her.

Never in her life has she wanted to be more invisible.

Cruelty leaches into that lifeless expression, Adrian’s jaw setting as his eyes narrow to slits. "You
again," he spits.

"I—"

"Why are you always where you shouldn't be?"

She never gets the chance to apologize. To say anything at all.

He sizes her up through the blur of his own furious tears and appears to search for whatever will
hurt the most. “Filthy fucking Mudblood," is his choice. Hissed in her face as he turns on his heel,
and only moments later he's gone.

She blinks at the empty corridor in front of her, lost for words.

The stranger finds them easily.

Shall I break his fingers?

It takes a moment to form a response.

"No," she says when she can manage it, blinking once more and swallowing hard.

It would be no trouble.

"No, I..." Quickly, she gets to her feet, tucking The Will & The Way back into her bag. "I know he
didn't mean it."

The stranger wants to argue. She can feel it. But she's grateful when he chooses instead to stay
silent, watching from within as she lifts her bag onto her shoulder and takes her leave.

In all likelihood, she thinks she would've spent the rest of the day thinking about it. Wondering
what exactly she just trespassed upon. What Adrian could've possibly done. Wondering if perhaps
Neville discovered him with someone else.

Would have, were it not for turning the corner and coming face to face with Malfoy.

The breath vacates her lungs as though sucked into a vacuum, and she nearly trips as she stumbles
backward.

He's breathing hard. Chest heaving, lips parted. The sheen of sweat on his forehead and collarbone
glistens in the nearby torchlight, top few buttons of his shirt yanked open and tie undone. As
though he's overheating.

He is. She can feel it across the bond. He's feverish.

"Malfoy, what—"

The stranger's low, rumbling laugh cuts her off, echoing between her ears.

Tail between his legs...

It's unclear whether Malfoy hears him or not. His mind is focused elsewhere, those bright,
bloodshot eyes searching hers. His thoughts tangle and overlap, desperate.

—found—

—too long—

—where has she—

—fucking misery—

—sure she's proud of herself—

—what I need—

—was right, of course she was—

—beg for it—

—fuck—

One thought she hears more than once, louder and far more out of control than the rest.

—feed—
—feed—

—fuck, please—

—just—

—feed—

—feed—

—feed me—

The stranger's laughter starts to echo over itself, ricocheting, and Malfoy looks ready to collapse.
Those heavy breaths have turned to pants, one hand flying out at his side to grip the wall for
support.

She realizes abruptly that she has no idea what to do.

Of those many ways to feed the stranger mentioned, she knows of only one — and she's terrified to
try it again.

"What do I—" she stumbles, pulse starting to race. Mirroring his. "I don't...how do I—"

You know, the stranger offers, entirely too calm.

"We can't."

And why not?

Malfoy is beyond words. Nearly beyond consciousness, if what she's feeling through the bond is
true — and when has it ever lied before?

"We can't," she splutters in a panic. "Not yet. We aren't—"

More of that dark laughter spills from the stranger's mouth, entirely at Malfoy's expense.

You'd best do something soon, paramour. Your boy is seeing double.

"What?” she demands. “What do I do? What do I—"

Malfoy's desperation starts to overtake all rational thought in her own head.

Trust your instincts, the stranger purrs.

She has no instincts. Nothing left in her mind but the searing heat of fever. No ideas but one, and
it's absolutely mad.

Vile.

Unnatural.

Do it.

At the stranger's command, her inhibitions die a painless death.

Without another thought, she takes her wand from the pocket of her skirt.
"Diffindo."

Fresh blood spills from the open wound she's sliced into her palm — and in a moment of startling
clarity, she offers it to him.

Malfoy doesn't hesitate.

His eyes flash with hunger and he takes her wrist in both hands, yanking the wound to his lips. A
sensation that makes her gasp and grip the wall herself — because the moment his tongue meets
her skin, the pain of the wound vanishes.

No, it doesn't just vanish.

That hand suddenly feels like the strongest part of her body. Pulsing, bleeding, gushing power. She
trembles in the face of it, watching on wide-eyed as Malfoy devours every available drop. Pauses
with his bloody lips against her flesh and inhales deeply as he waits for more to bloom to the
surface, eyes closed. Rapturous.

She can't even remove herself enough to consider the situation.

To consider what it means to watch Malfoy drink her filthy blood like the only water in a desert.

No, all she can focus on is the way it makes her toes curl — the way his tongue laves across her
skin. The way his teeth graze the gaps between her fingers. Can only focus on her bad leg growing
steady beneath her and her tired muscles waking to the day. That emptiness inside of her blossoms
like the spring, suddenly lush and green and full of life.

She can feel it in Malfoy, too.

Feels his own muscles coil, tensing with renewed strength — perhaps more than there was before.
Feels his blood sing.

"This way," she murmurs to him, coming to her senses enough to consider their exposure.

The Room of Requirement welcomes them like long-awaited guests, and Malfoy doesn't allow her
skin to part from his lips for even a fraction of a second. Not as she guides him backwards across
the corridor to those tall, open doors. Not as they close behind them. Not as she rests her weight
back against the nearest wall and resolves to let him drink his fill.

Through the haze of euphoria, she somehow manages to catch a glimpse of the room over his
shoulder.

She's been to the Room of Requirement more times than she can count, but never once has she seen
it empty. Not like it is now.

There's nothing. Not on the walls, not on the floor. No carpets. No windows. No other doors. Only
a solitary torch glowing in the far corner, sparing them from total darkness.

And though she realizes what this suggests, she chooses not to think on it.

Not right now.

They stay for an hour. Maybe a little longer.

When the blood stops coming and the wound runs dry, Malfoy's lips move on. Span the length of
her forearm, up along her sleeve to her shoulder, leaving bloodstains shaped like kisses on the
fabric.

She lets his mouth find her pulse point, not entirely lucid as her head falls back against the stone
and her eyes slip shut. With no more blood to feed on, she's not certain he gains anything from this.

But that swell of power in her veins doesn't dissipate.

Not until she peels herself away from him with only minutes to spare before Transfiguration.

And though she thinks she feels him reach for her, she doesn't allow herself to look back. Never
knows if he truly did.

It's quite possibly the hardest week of her life.

She can't spend more than a few minutes around Harry and Ron without getting poked and prodded
about her scars. Lavender and Parvati have branched out beyond Gryffindor, working all hours to
ensure the whole school knows. And Neville is so far removed from himself that she can't find it in
her to burden him with any of it. Can't even work up the courage to ask how he's faring.

And as the days pass, she learns to accept that there are now only two ways she can feel.

Frail. Starved. Sapped of all energy and light. The way she feels most evenings as she limps up the
stairs to Gryffindor Tower. The way she feels every morning when she wakes — anytime she
spends more than three or four hours away from him.

There's this, and then there's ecstasy.

Nothing in between.

She begins to feel like she only exists in those moments she spends in his presence. In the fractured
seconds between classes when he can trap her in an alcove and steal a kiss. Sometimes more than a
kiss. In those rare, late-night hours they're able to lock themselves away in the Room of
Requirement, never taking their clothes off. Never treading any deeper than the shallows.

Though he never admits to anything.

Never caves to the bond's will and confesses to craving her presence — never out loud.

No, he fights his way through those days like the person he becomes when he needs her is
someone else. A man possessed. Like their bond is some basic, primitive instinct he feeds for
survival and nothing more.

She doesn't have the strength to challenge him. She copes. They both do.

Blood is found to be the quickest fix. When the hours grow long and they seek each other out,
desperate — twitching like addicts — it's always easiest to slice a hand or a wrist to chase away the
emptiness.

The first time she tastes his, she thinks she'll never hunger for real food again.

But perhaps it's not just the taste — not just that tart, potent sweetness, like a ripe plum. It's the way
he changes in those moments. When he's high on the bond's effects and he almost...coddles her, in
a way. Pets her head and murmurs encouragements as she sips from the wound.

It's a warmth she's never known.

The stranger is largely silent in these shared moments. Surprisingly so. And more and more, she
begins to suspect that when they feed, they become one.

A routine forms quickly. They have no choice but to adapt, unable to stave off the exhaustion if
they neglect to feed on a regular basis.

In moments when there's no time at all, she might prick her finger as she passes him in the corridor,
smearing her blood across his open, waiting palm unbeknownst to their surrounding peers. And it's
never enough — that fleeting euphoria they share when he licks it away the moment he's out of
eye-shot. It's never enough, but it's something.

The days feel endless. Every moment that isn't reward is punishment. And too often she catches
herself imagining a life where they might not have to hide. Where she might spend all hours in his
presence and never have to feel that pleasure wane.

It's childish. A fantasy. She need only check the date to remind herself of that.

Everything is fragile. Temporary.

And come Friday, they face the next full moon.

 We / Us
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

That Friday morning, she has a dream.

It's not the one she's had before — not the one she's come to expect, with its blinding light and
strange reflections. No, there's no light here.

This dream is of a dark hall, its windows shuttered and its torches unlit. Only a pale strip of
moonlight illuminates the expanse, casting eerie, unfriendly light on an image she's not prepared to
see.

A figure kneels on the black marble floor, hunched — almost crumpled. And if it were even a
fraction darker, she might never've recognized it as Malfoy. But she can see the blond of his hair,
just barely. The same way she can see what he cradles in his arms.

Just barely.

A body. Hers, she thinks, though she's almost unrecognizable. Dark robes conceal the worst of
whatever wounds there may be, but blood spatters her pale, lifeless face. Flecks like scarlet ink
stains. Her empty eyes are frozen open, and she lies like a ragdoll against him. Vacant. Cold.

Malfoy weeps.

And she wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing hard — tears drying on her cheeks.

Somehow, she knows this was his dream.

And she thinks about reaching out. Spends a few long moments upright in bed considering it.

Instead, she resolves to let the impulse pass. Lets that hollow morning ache fill the void between
them, because what would she say really?

In the end, it's just a dream.

Still no letter from Tonks this morning.

She actually catches herself glaring at the owls as they circle above the Great Hall, blissfully
unaware and unhelpful — delivering parcels to what seems like everyone but her.

The silence is increasingly disconcerting. She can't help but feel abandoned, and to be abandoned
by the only person she can think of who knows exactly what she's going through is somehow ten
times worse.

She pushes the food around her plate, appetite lost. Malfoy is eyeing her from across the Hall —
she can feel it even with her gaze fixed on the table. He'll want to meet before classes, probably in
one of their usual spots. But thinking about it doesn't deliver the usual burst of excitement she's
come to expect.

No, all she can think about is the moon. The moon and the Earth's slow turning that will inevitably
lift its pale face into the sky tonight.

It feels like every time she blinks, she sees those thin white pupils leering back at her. Hears that
sickly sweet rasp — imagines it asking her if she's ready to run again.

"—as well just take it since everything else I've tried is going nowhere. Even if it's a waste."

Harry and Ron's conversations don't normally draw her ear, but in this instance Harry's muttering is
particularly exasperated.

"What's going nowhere?" she asks, leaning tiredly on her hand. It's a relief to talk about something
other than her scars. To think about something other than tonight.

Harry just sighs, stabbing a cooked tomato with his fork like it's the beating heart of an enemy.

"Slughorn," Ron offers in his stead, gesturing with his eyes to Harry's bag on the bench. "Told him
he should save his Liquid Luck for something more important but—"

Harry thrusts down his fork, drawing some eyes. "What could be more important?"

"Yeah, alright," says Ron in a cautious voice, trying to bring the temperature down. "Only a
thought."

"I just — I need this to work. Dumbledore wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, and I..." Harry trails
off, sighing and dropping his head into his hands. "I need this to work."

For once, she has no advice to offer. In fact, at the mere mention of Dumbledore, she finds herself
in total disarray — and it takes effort not to show it.

It's the first time she's thought of the prophecy since that day.

Some instinct — self-preservation, maybe — drove her to nearly forget it entirely, which had
been...peaceful, really. Right up until this moment.

She glances to Neville, the only one she's told, and finds his nose buried in a book. It's not
abnormal. He reads quite often during meals. But it's his posture — closed off in a way she can't
quite describe. Hunched so deeply into the text it's clear he doesn't wish to be disturbed. Not for
anything.

It's an instinct — the sudden desire to hate Adrian.

Not because he's hurt Neville. Not because he's somehow sapped the light from such a bright soul.
A good person might hate him for that.

Her reasons are entirely selfish.

And she wants to hate him because in one fell swoop, it seems he's lost her a confidant.
They don't discuss the date while he feeds.

Not verbally, at least.

His thoughts are riddled with it, spitting out fragments of panic amongst the mindless euphoria.

—wonder if she remembers—

—won't be like last time—

—better not—

— can't —

—expected to trust the fucking school with this—

—fucking Dumbledore—

—what if she—

—what if I—

She wants to say something — but just like this morning, she's left wondering what difference it
would make. What could she offer him?

Words of wisdom? Words of comfort?

Utterly useless. Meaningless in the face of what she saw swimming in his dreams.

She says nothing.

The night doesn't go the way that she expects. No, not in the slightest.

She knew the staff would be involved — knew Professor Sprout would have a growth of aconite
prepared which Madam Pomfrey would then brew and administer. That much was explained when
she was still bedridden.

What she didn't know was that at a quarter past six, halfway back to the Gryffindor common room,
she would be stopped by a portrait on the Grand Staircase.

"Miss Granger, I believe your shoe is untied," says the painting of an old duke.

She pauses mid-step, giving him a quizzical look and glancing down at her feet. Her shoes are very
much tied. Double-knotted, in fact.

But the duke is watching Harry and Ron outpace her just ahead, continuing up the stairs. He waits
until they're out of earshot to speak again. Clears his throat, suddenly all business.

"Professor Dumbledore requests an audience with you in the Hospital Wing."

"With me?"
It's an accident, really, to sound so incredulous. But she's not the one in dire need of Wolfsbane.

"Yes, with you," replies the duke primly. "His instructions were quite clear."

Her stomach sinks. She searches the bond for any sense of Malfoy but finds nothing unusual. Just
his heart beating. Just his steady breaths.

"Right. Of course..." she manages at last. "Thank you."

The journey back down the stairs to the Hospital Wing passes in a blur — and when she arrives,
she's stopped short by the sight.

It's quite crowded.

Malfoy is there, as perhaps she expected, along with Madam Pomfrey. Professor Dumbledore, of
course. But Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape are something of a surprise.

"I..." she trails off, at a loss. "Erm..."

"Miss Granger, good evening," says Dumbledore, stepping forward and giving her a full view of
Malfoy seated behind him on a cot. Under Madam Pomfrey's watchful eye, he's nursing a goblet of
smoking liquid she's all too familiar with, face drawn up in a grimace. And when their eyes meet,
his narrow.

Because of course he blames her for this.

"Professor Dumbledore." She forces her gaze back to the Headmaster, forgetting her tact for a
moment. "Why am I here?"

He smiles gently, adjusting his glasses on his nose. "As you might be aware, tonight brings the full
moon — and after last month's events, we want to be sure we're taking every possible precaution."

"Precaution?" she echoes. Something in her gut twists at the sound of it.

"Professor Snape?" Dumbledore turns to lift a brow at the former Potions Master, and Snape's dark
robes swish as he suddenly steps up between them.

"Miss Granger, face me," he snaps, and the unfriendly slice of his voice is quite the contrast.

She obeys without thinking, even as she starts to say, "I don't understand—"

"Eyes forward. Chin up. Be very still."

"Professor—"

He cuts her off again, this time with an incantation. Spellwork and words she's never heard before.
Wand movements she doesn't recognize.

And not a moment later, Professor McGonagall joins in from behind her. Cornered on two sides.

"What is this?"

"Please hold still, Miss Granger," says Dumbledore, calmly observing. "I shall explain once the
spell is complete."

Desperately, her gaze zeroes in on Malfoy. He's watching curiously from his cot, brow furrowed as
he sips the Wolfsbane. She thinks she feels the faintest twinge of concern from his side of the bond
— or perhaps that's just what she wants to believe. In the end, his irritation supersedes all.

The incantation comes to an abrupt halt, and for a moment her vision goes blurry. Some sort of film
seems to pass over her, temporarily shifting the world out of focus. By the time she reaches out to
touch it, it's gone. Things are clear again.

"What was that?"

Snape steps away, tersely tucking his wand back up his sleeve. "I presume you have no further
need of me, Professor," he says to Dumbledore.

"Many thanks." Dumbledore nods, and he's dismissed, stalking away in a blur of dark robes.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Albus." McGonagall reappears from behind her. "Will you keep the poor
girl in suspense?"

His answering, bemused smile suggests he forgot she asked anything at all.

"My apologies for the theatrics, Miss Granger. We've merely placed a Boundary Ward upon your
person. One that will expire come morning."

Boundary Wards are most often used to keep dangerous wizards under house arrest while they
await trial. Or so she read once.

Dumbledore must see it in her eyes.

"This is not a punishment, I assure you. You are simply confined to the Castle for the evening. The
Wards will prevent you from setting foot on the Grounds."

"For your own protection," Professor McGonagall adds, expression carefully structured to be
reassuring.

"After all," Dumbledore smiles fondly. "We've witnessed firsthand the strength of your bond. That
there is perhaps no limit to what a paramour might do for the sake of their other half..."

Malfoy scoffs loudly at his choice of words, masking it as a cough moments later when Hermione's
eyes meet his. Furious.

"Drink," Madam Pomfrey snaps, impatiently tapping the stem of his goblet with her wand.

Dumbledore continues as though he doesn't notice. "I'm sure you understand the necessity."

She glances back at him. "I..."

She does understand. To an extent. The endless routine of vanishing her scars each morning makes
it impossible not to.

And yet, in the same instant, she doesn't understand at all. Can't fathom a situation in which she
physically couldn't reach him if she needed to. If she wanted to. The concept feels like rocks
tumbling from the cliff of her throat to her stomach, weighing her down. Malfoy almost chokes on
the Wolfsbane when he feels it.

"I understand," she forces herself to say. "But what about—"

"Mr. Malfoy will be well looked after." Dumbledore lifts a calming hand. "Professor Sprout has
cultivated a fine growth of aconite, and I have the utmost faith in Madam Pomfrey's brew. Overall,
I am of the opinion that the evening will be rather uneventful."

Another scoff from Malfoy, this one unhidden.

"You do not agree?" Dumbledore turns to look at him, tone light. As though he welcomes his
opinion.

There's a brief moment of hesitation as Malfoy swallows the last few drops, handing the goblet to
Madam Pomfrey. Hermione can feel him nursing the temptation to lash out. To release the
floodgates of what he really thinks. But it's strange — the brief flash of Lucius she suddenly sees
behind her own eyelids.

For whatever reason, the thought of his father stills his tongue.

"It doesn't matter what I think," is all he says.

"But of course it does—"

"I'd like to go now, Sir." He's already standing. Heaving his book bag onto his shoulder. "Try to get
some rest before I need to be confined."

Dumbledore only smiles and nods, and without preamble, Malfoy takes his leave. Flinches
instinctively when Professor McGonagall gives his shoulder a pat.

He doesn't look at her at all.

"You are free to go as well, Miss Granger. Unless you have any questions for me."

"None, Sir."

"Then my best wishes for a calm and pleasant evening."

She charges from the Wing, not nearly fast enough to catch up to Malfoy but far too stubborn not to
try.

This coldness is nothing new on his part. She's well aware of that. But in tandem with the week
they've had, it simply adds insult to injury.

Far be it from him to turn down her many offerings of pricked fingers — the salt of her sweat. The
taste of her tongue. No qualms should she need to sink her teeth into him for an hour or so, but a
conversation? Evidently out of the question.

She abandons her pursuit, turning furiously on her heel to head back towards the Grand Staircase.

Don't bother with him. The stranger crosses into her mind gently, like a slow tide. Speak to me
instead.

Their conversations have been few and far between since the feedings began. It's as though he's
been distracted. Or perhaps he no longer believes she needs guidance when it comes to the bond.

We haven't talked about it at all, she tells him as she mounts the first flight of stairs. I was waiting
for him to bring it up. Figured he would at some point. But we haven't even discussed whether
or not he should be fed before—

He's too frightened to talk about it. He wants to pretend that none of this is happening. That tonight
isn't tonight.

But it is tonight. For me, as well. I'm frightened too, doesn't he understand—

Honestly, the least the two of you could do is wait until I'm unconscious to talk behind my back.

That isn't the stranger, that's Malfoy. Sharp and jarring — clear as a bell compared to the stranger's
soft baritone. She stops short on the third landing, and the Ravenclaw behind her gives an irritated
scoff as he's forced to go around.

She's never had both of them inside her head at once. Not that she can remember.

Well, well, hums the stranger. Look who's in the mood to talk after all.

I don't want to fucking talk—

How are you doing this? she demands. How could you hear our conversation?

A scoff. You two are louder than you think you are.

How about it then, Malfoy? There's a grin in the stranger's voice, but also quite a bit of malice if
she's not mistaken. Are you ready to talk strategy? Ready to tell our paramour how you plan to
control yourself this time around?

Control myself? What, you mean control you? You're the fucking monster, here — don't fucking
forget. Malfoy's practically shouting inside her head. She winces, stepping off to the side of the
landing to clear the pathway. Pinches the bridge of her nose and leans back against the wall.
Perhaps anyone who passes will think she's suffering a migraine.

The stranger's peel of laughter is cold and unfriendly. You ought to be careful, boy. His voice
deepens as he goes. I am no monster. Not to anyone. Not to my paramour. Not even to you. But if
you continue to test me, I might be forced to become one.

Malfoy doesn't skip a beat. Are you threatening us?

"Stop. Stop it, both of you." She speaks aloud in the heat of the moment, thankfully to an empty
staircase. Has to take a breath and gather herself. Please. There are more important things to
argue about.

Like what? Malfoy snaps. Your bloody Boundary Ward? It's not going to fucking kill you, Granger.

Her temper flares, and she has to remind herself that he likes that feeling. Getting a rise out of her.

This is the first full moon since we performed the Descent, she says, forcibly placating her tone.
There's a chance the symbiotic sensations could be vastly more intense—

Another scoff. I can guarantee this much, Granger. If I transform, it'll be worse for me than it is
for you. You'll live.

I almost didn't last time.

Silence. Long and hollow. No clear sensations through the bond, save the stranger's simmering
satisfaction.

Then, perhaps a full minute later—

Just — leave me alone. It'll be fine if you leave me alone.

And he doesn't allow room for a response, presence vanishing from her mind like a draft through a
window the moment the words are out.

She stands in the silence on that third floor landing for several long minutes, left retracing the
conversation in her head.

If it is any comfort, says the stranger at some point, I do believe the old ways still apply. Even after
the Descent, you should feel no pain if he transforms.

I'm not as selfish as he thinks... she murmurs, distracted. I don't care about the pain.

Another drawn out pause. He seems to sense the way the daze has overcome her.

Are you threatening us?

That's what Malfoy had said just then. She's only realizing it now.

An unexpected warmth surges through her as it falls into place, her pulse accelerating. Something
as subtle as that, and yet it makes all the difference. And she's suddenly determined. Possessed.
Consumed.

Paramour...the stranger chides. Do not be so easily swayed.

She turns abruptly, once more beginning to climb the stairs, only this time with purpose.

You know you cannot leave the castle.

I know.

A heavy sigh. Whatever you're thinking, he does not deserve it.

But she is thinking. Can't help thinking. Can't stop herself from thinking — just replaying it in her
head, overlapping like an endless loop.

Us.

He said us.

Through the process, she realizes how little she actually knows him.

If it were Harry, she'd need only talk of flying. Anything to do with Quidditch or a broomstick.
Some of those chocolates Professor Lupin used to give him wouldn't hurt either. If it were Ron,
sweets in general. Games of chess and Exploding Snap. Something that could make him laugh.
Even Ginny and Neville she thinks she'd know well enough if it came down to it.

But Malfoy — she knows next to nothing about what might calm him down. Bring him ease.
Nothing about what he actually likes.

Still.
By now, he's in the Shrieking Shack alone and he's probably cold and he used the word us.

Which means it is an us. And she'll treat it like an us, even in the face of his derision.

But having no notion of what he likes forces her instead to use what she likes, which — even she
has to admit it's unlikely they share the same taste.

It's the only idea she's got though, and for once it's relatively harmless.

I still don't understand why you're going to all the effort, the stranger remarks as he watches on.

She's busy lighting the candles that materialized when she entered the Room of Requirement. Her
bag of toiletries sits in the corner by the door, and she's changed out of her school things into an
oversized t-shirt, padding around the room in her socks. She plans to stay for the night.

"Werewolves don't always transform," she says, shaking out the match as it burns too close to her
fingertips. She's not sure why she wanted to do it by hand. "Some texts suggest that if they can
manage to relax, they can prevent it. Like meditation."

It feels like he raises an eyebrow.

Doesn't quite explain that.

The last word is pointed. Clearly focused on the enormous, gilded gramophone that sits in the
center of the room. The one she asked it for.

She also requested the sunken floor in the middle, dipping like a shallow valley and filled wall to
wall with massive pillows. It reminds her of childhood. As a girl, she never made pillow forts.
She'd just find every available blanket and cushion and turn the ground into a soft sea.

This pillow sea is far more opulent than the ones from childhood, cushions made from velvet and
chenille, some with tassels on the corners. They encircle the gramophone, lit by the candles and
the gleam of the fireplace off to the side.

"I've never been able to meditate. Couldn't lie still," she says, lighting the last wick. "So I always
used music."

Stepping down into the sunken pit, she takes a seat on the cushions in front of the gramophone and
reaches for the vinyl sleeve leaning against its base. Also her request.

What sort? the stranger asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

She lets her fingers pass over the cover fondly. The greatest hits album she remembers always
playing at home on the weekends — her dad's favorite.

"I doubt you've heard of Joy Division."

No, he says.

"Well." She smiles to herself, carefully sliding out the old LP and placing it on the turntable. "Here
you go, then."

The opening beats of "Disorder" start to bleed from the gramophone as the needle touches down.

She sits back on the pillows, hugging her knees to her chest and watching the record spin.
Mm, the stranger muses. Your Malfoy was never allowed to listen to Muggle music, much less
something of this genre. It would've been considered crass.

"Oh, I'm sure." She huffs a laugh. "But then again, Malfoy's always enjoyed breaking the rules.
Who's to say he won't like it?"

Who indeed, he concedes, his own laugh far deeper. A rumble.

If anything, it'll be a comfort to have him with her through the night. Even if her senses of Malfoy
remain as dull and indefinite as they are now.

At the very least, she won't spend the full moon alone.

But that train of thought hits a dead end soon enough. Halfway through the second song on the
album — a remastered version of "These Days" — she feels her senses awaken, branching out and
letting him in. Or perhaps it's the other way around.

She can feel the chill of the Shrieking Shack against his shoulders. The ache of the shackles around
his wrists. Feels something soft beneath him.

Dumbledore must've supplied a mattress.

What are you doing? he demands, tone sour. Irritated. She expected as much.

I'm playing music.

Why?

Because I want to. Can you hear it?

Unfortunately, yes. Then, a moment later — You call this music?

The stranger sounds as though he's rolling those dark eyes. There you have it.

Oh, good. You're here too. Don't you have people to rip apart?

Hands still shaking?

Actually, no. Haven't you heard?

Hermione drops her forehead onto the flat of her knee, huffing out a breath. If you're just going to
argue, do it elsewhere. I happen to like this song.

They both go silent, and she pictures them turning to face opposite directions, scowling with their
arms crossed.

One line of the chorus passes undisturbed before Malfoy speaks again.

This is just noise, really.

She scoffs. You know, there's more to life than classical music. More than just Schubert and
Liszt.

I prefer Vivaldi.

Of course you do.

He was a Slytherin.

I know.

Of course you do.

The song changes around then, and she almost winces — because it's her favorite, and this is
already going badly. She's not sure her temper can stand more of Malfoy's opinions. Not about this
one.

But of course, as with all things, her thoughts betray her.

This is your favorite?

Now she does wince.

I like it, the stranger announces proudly.

Of course you do.

Yes, it's my favorite, she speaks over them. And you're talking through it.

Silence falls again, allowing the music to fill the room. Cascade over her. "Love Will Tear Us
Apart."

She's heard it so many times, she knows every word. Every note. Her dad always said it was a sad
song, but she never thought of it that way. She used to secretly bump the needle on those Saturdays
at home, hoping to force it to play again.

I agree, says Malfoy halfway through, and she catches herself holding her breath. It isn't a sad
song.

Yes, exactly! A smile breaks across her face. It's about—

Hatred.

She blinks, brow furrowing. What?

It's about hating the person you're with. Aren't you listening to the words?

That's not what it's about, she splutters, voice louder and more intense inside her head than she
intended. It takes a moment to get a hold of herself. That's — it's not what it's about. Then after a
pause, But I suppose it makes sense that you'd see it that way.

What's that supposed to mean? His muscles coil across the bond, fists clenching, and she's
suddenly reminded why she's here. The purpose of it all.

Nothing, Malfoy. The thought is a sigh. Just...be quiet and listen to the music.

He grits his teeth and drops his chin into his palm, and from there it's silent for the song's
remaining minute. The candles flicker in time with the gramophone's gentle vibrations. She can
feel him trying to cling to his irritation — his irate posture, his wrinkled brow.

And yet, as it comes to a close, melody fading out, he surprises her.

 You can play that one again.

For a moment, she's frozen, left staring into the flame of the nearest candle. The stranger's quiet
laugh echoes in her head, making Malfoy tense up again.

But when the initial shock wears off, she just leans forward and resets the needle. Whispers,
"Alright," aloud.

Some things aren't meant to be questioned.

The night wears on, and when there's nothing left of Joy Division, the Room of Requirement
provides The Cocteau Twins and Slowdive. Endless hours of drowsy melodies that slow her pulse
and weigh down her eyelids. So many hours without feeding have her muscles growing weak.

Malfoy doesn't speak much. Just lies on his back under the same moon, still human. Blinking
slowly up at a different ceiling.

And the one question he does ask comes just before sunrise, as sleep is catching up with her.

Why'd you do this?

She's never sure if she responds, or if she just thinks she does. Her eyes are closed, the pillows
seductively soft beneath her. Strawberry Switchblade's "Go Away" plays quietly, likely to
accompany her dreams.

"You said us."

Chapter End Notes

The companion playlist to this chapter can be found here:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3HZVTEhz6D86bRniKqMjPb?
si=610a3670e2674f26
 Speak / Surrender

She wakes in time to hear the doors shut, though she doesn't show it.

It's perhaps half an hour until dawn, and the Room of Requirement's false windows allow that
dusty not-quite-light to creep through. She's sprawled across the floor pillows, curls tangled over
her face, and she hears those doors shut. Hears him enter. The only one who'd be able to find her
here.

It's an instinct to play at being asleep. She's not sure why she does it, but she lets her eyes fall
closed again, listening to his footsteps as he makes his way towards her.

Perhaps just curious to see what he'll do.

And it's funny, in a way — because a year ago, she couldn't have imagined being so vulnerable in
front of him. Couldn't have imagined allowing him to approach her with her eyes shut.

It would've seemed dangerous.

But that was a year ago, and now he's seen every inch of her. Touched and been inside of her. He
knows what lies beneath the Glamours — and so does she.

"I hope you don't think this much when you're really asleep," Malfoy says, voice drowsy and low.
Just a few feet behind her. A gentle reminder that it's useless to pretend in front of him.

Her words are muffled by the pillows. "You might be surprised."

She can feel him toeing off his shoes — kicking them away — and moments later the cushions
shift beneath her to accommodate his weight. He takes a seat at her side. Close enough that if she
opened her eyes, she'd probably see the upper half of his arm or the curve of his shoulder. The
shadow beneath his chin.

But she doesn't. Can't bring herself to move at all, really. Utterly exhausted.

And it takes a long minute of silence to realize why.

"You need to feed," she murmurs.

Malfoy doesn't respond at first, sitting there with his elbows resting on his knees. Contemplating.
His muscles are tender, even without a transformation. His neck aches.

She wants to knead away the tension with the heel of her hand.

"I don't really feel like slicing you open at the moment," is what he eventually says.

"Then what do you feel like doing?" She's not certain he can hear her at all this time. Her voice gets
swallowed by the fabric, sleepy and indistinct.

Malfoy huffs — not quite a laugh, but something similar. "You need to feed is the truth of it."

"No...'m fine."

"You can't even open your eyes."

"Hmm-mm."

The bond allows her to trace the wry smile as it spreads across his face — anticipate the breath of a
laugh that falls off his lips. And after a moment or two, she feels him reach for his wand, smooth,
polished hawthorn at home in his grip. He raises the tip towards the pad of his index finger and
hesitates there, severing charm poised on his tongue.

His thoughts are cloudy — like a fog — and she's far too tired to sift through them, but for
whatever reason he seems to think better of it.

All at once, his wand returns to his trouser pocket and the sudden, surprising sting of pain doesn't
come from his finger. It appears he's bitten his own lip. That soft, fragile flesh that rests against his
bottom teeth.

"Christ, Malfoy..." she grumbles, writhing a little. Curling into herself on the pillows with a
grimace as her mouth begins to throb.

But it's then — with an uncharacteristically gentle touch — that he brushes the hair out of her face.

She goes very still, frown slipping away. Doesn't dare open her eyes as he hooks a finger neath her
chin and tilts her face away from the pillows. Just a fraction. And her senses are so attuned to him
at this point that she thinks even without the bond, she'd still be able to feel the way he leans in.
Feel the magnetism that draws his mouth down to hers.

He doesn't like to kiss her. Not even when he feeds.

Inevitably, they almost always do — but he's never the one to initiate. No, he prefers the taste of
her throat. The slope of her shoulder. As though these parts of her body are somehow less intimate.

Which is why at first, this act — this choice — renders her motionless.

He's feeding her. That much is obvious. She can taste the lovely tang of blood in his mouth the
moment his lips close around hers. But he's never done it this way before. He always pricks his
finger. Cuts his hand. Once even sliced a clean, shallow line down the side of his neck. In that
specific instance, with her teeth latched to his throat and her eyes in the back of her head, she
started to wonder whether she ought to study vampirism as well.

This, though...

It's almost sweet.

Even without moving — without yet drinking her fill — she already likes it best. The blood from
his mouth tastes more like sugar. More exciting. More addictive. And all too soon, it has her
fighting for it.

She loops her arms around those broad shoulders and uses them to lift herself from the pillows. To
bring herself closer, adding pressure. To kiss him back, finding the source of the blood quickly
enough — the open wound on the inside of his bottom lip — and sucking hard. Malfoy gasps into
her mouth and she swallows it like oxygen, system waking up. Body growing strong again.

"Granger..." he speaks around his trapped bottom lip when she won't let go after a full minute.
"You're going to leave a bruise."

"Bruises heal."
He's not even bleeding anymore, but she can't seem to stop herself. Not until he takes her face in
his hands and presses down with his thumbs at the corners of her mouth, carefully prying her away.

He's right — his lips are already swollen. Soft and pink and glistening like she bit into a ripe peach.

Wiping her mouth, she sits up quickly, nursing a head rush that might be half embarrassment.
Malfoy leans away, once more resting his arms on his knees, and for a moment they don't look at
each other.

"That was...nice of you," she says quietly when she can manage it.

He's perhaps even quieter.

"You were nice to me. Last night." And he clears his throat, picking at a scab on his wrist to keep
his fingers busy. "Quid pro quo."

"Right." She nods, working to gather a steady breath. That scab starts to bleed soon enough — just
a little, but she can smell it. Vibrant and powerful. Except now she doesn't crave it the way she
might've a few days ago. She'd rather kiss him again.

"Merlin." The word is a nervous laugh, heat rising to his cheeks across the bond. "I'd no idea you
wanted to be kissed so badly."

Her cheeks heat to match, and she pointedly fixes her gaze on one of the pillows beneath her,
tracing its paisley pattern over and over again. "I like kissing you," she says, barely a whisper.

Malfoy's pulse loses its careful rhythm for a fraction of a second. "Why didn't you say so, then?"

"If I did, would you do it more often?"

"I..." He huffs, brows furrowing. "No." Then, seconds later — "Yes. Well — no. I don't know.
Maybe?" He reaches back to rub the sore spot between his shoulder blades. "Honestly, I'd probably
think you were up to something. Or lying to me. I always think you're lying to me."

This makes her look up again, and she finds him smearing that bead of blood around the cut like
he's trying to make a design.

"I always think you're lying to me too," she says.

A halfhearted laugh. "As if we haven't already established what a mess we are."

We.

She tries not to think it too loudly — knows it's pathetic and doesn't want him to hear — but she
loves the sound of it in her ears.

We.

"We're never going to get anywhere."

That, he's said before. Word for word. And she'll never forget it thanks to what he suggested after.
Something so ridiculous — so inconceivable — she could've laughed herself to tears. But also
something she hasn't been able to stop thinking about. In fact, she's had the bottle in her bag ever
since — just in case the opportunity presented itself, though she never expected it would.

Is it now, she wonders?

Malfoy looks up — meets her eyes with a furrowed brow and gestures with a fingertip towards her
forehead. "What the hell's going on up there?"

"Just...thinking," she says, pulse starting to accelerate the more she considers it. "About something
you said."

"What did I say?"

She doesn't answer. Plucks up her courage instead and straightens her spine. "Malfoy?"

"What?" He looks concerned, now. Eyes wide beneath heavy brows. Suspicious. Perhaps even a
little frightened.

—can't be good—

She ignores the alarms blaring inside his head and forces herself to ask.

"Would you like to play a game with me?"

He blinks once. Twice. And then his eyebrows tip the other way, shifting from suspicion into
downright bewilderment. "What?"

"Would you like to play a game with me?" She manages to say it more casually the second time
around. "After all, it's Saturday. I have time if you do."

I like games.

The stranger's voice is lazy and relaxed. As though he's just woken up. And Malfoy doesn't go
tense at the sound of it the way he normally does. Just sighs and shuts his eyes. Like it was
inevitable.

Good morning, sweet paramour, he purrs.

"Good morning."

Malfoy speaks just to prevent him from saying more. "What sort of game?"

She gets to her feet, tugging the hem of the t-shirt down over the tops of her thighs before she
heads to her bag in the corner. If she can get him to agree to this, she thinks it'll be the biggest step
forward they've taken without a ritual.

"It was your idea, really." The bottle is in a side pouch, unmarked and unlabeled. Discreet. "Well,
not really," she says, returning to the sunken floor. "But sort of."

Malfoy eyes the bottle like it's got the word POISON painted across the side in block letters. "What
is that?"

"Before I tell you, I just want you to know that you can say no. I'm not going to force you."

He twists to face her fully, restless and impatient. "Fine. What is it?"

"It's Veritaserum."

"No." Flat out. No hesitation.

"May I explain first?"

Please do, says the stranger, sounding intrigued.

Malfoy rolls his eyes and raises his voice to drown him out. "Why don't you explain why you have
it at all? It's Ministry regulated and I'm sure you know that."

"I've had it for a while," she says. "Brewed it Third Year, just to see if I could."

"Oh, so it's old Veritaserum. Even worse."

"Veritaserum doesn't expire once bottled. I'm sure you know that."

Malfoy's eyes narrow.

"May I please explain?"

I'd love you to.

"Oh, will you just shut up?" Malfoy hisses.

Here's a better idea. Why not take a page from my book and learn to be polite to her?

"Polite? You?"

More so than you — little virgin, once removed.

She clears her throat loudly, raising an eyebrow. Manages to stop whatever horrible response
Malfoy prepared halfway off his tongue. "Please?" she asks. "This might actually be good for us."

Malfoy says nothing. Just fumes in silence, leaning on his fists and flexing his fingers — a sort of
shrug.

"You suggested once — in the heat of the moment, I'll admit — that Veritaserum might be what it
takes to make us trust each other. And I actually think I agree with you."

He squints as he tries to remember it. Fascinating, that she can actually follow his thoughts as they
backtrack, honing in on the exact moment. It seems he, too, found it difficult to forget.

"We're never going to get anywhere, Granger. You're just as difficult as I am. What would you
have me do? Take Veritaserum and then fuck you?"

The stranger's sleepy presence suddenly snaps wide awake, more than intrigued. Now captivated.

Malfoy's flush returns, and he quickly glances away, fixing his gaze on the bottle in her hand. "I
should never've suggested that. I—" He swallows thickly. "I didn't think you'd take me seriously."

"I didn't," she says, sensing the direction of his thoughts. "Not word for word, at least. I mean — I
don't think we should..." She trails off, finding her mouth suddenly dry. "I'm not saying we should
have sex. I just think it's not such a terrible idea — removing the ability to lie from the equation.
For both of us. I think we could take the potion and then just...try to talk to each other. Ask
questions. Learn." She gets more nervous with every word. "It'd be a...trust exercise."

"Trust exercises don't work if you can't even trust each other enough to try them."

"I could trust you..." she offers quietly, an unfortunately obvious note of hope in her tone. "I think.
With some boundaries."
"Boundaries?"

"Yes." She tucks a stray curl behind her ear. "We could both have them. Subjects that are off
limits. Questions we promise not to ask."

Oh, this sounds like fun...the stranger hums.

She's not sure if Malfoy even realizes he's agreeing to play at this point — he just spits out his first
condition the moment he hears the stranger's voice.

"You can't ask him any questions. That's — you can't. He's not allowed to play."

White hot rage simmers to the surface on the stranger's side of the bond, sharp as a razor blade.

"Malfoy, if you're playing, he'll be playing anyway." She tempers her tone, hoping to sound
unbiased. "The two of you, you're — you're one in the same."

"I don't care." Malfoy is resolute. "You can't ask him questions, and he can't answer."

"Can he watch?"

A soft sense of approval cools the stranger's fury, as though he's touched she's arguing in his favor.

Malfoy's jaw tenses, a harsh breath escaping from his lips. "I can't stop him from watching."

"So you'll play, then?"

He hesitates, twisting his fingers together as though he's not sure how he's gotten himself tangled
into this. Not sure why he's even the slightest bit tempted. In the end, he decides he has to hedge
his bet. "I have more boundaries."

"That's — yes, that's fine." She tries not to sound too elated. Fights a smile, adjusting to sit more
comfortably on the pillows and crossing her legs. "That's fine. I do too."

Malfoy watches her carefully. "What are yours?"

She's thought about it more than once, if she's perfectly honest. Already has them in mind.

"You can't ask about Harry and Ron, and you can't ask about my parents."

"Why not?"

"Because you might be rude."

He scowls but doesn't disagree. "Anything else?"

"Nothing about past lovers."

A pause. Malfoy almost starts to nod, then flinches — a double take.

"Lovers?" His posture shifts quite abruptly into something that's almost hostile. "I thought there
was only one."

"Well, yes," she amends. "I was speaking generally, but yes. Just the one. And you can't ask about
him."

"Why not?"
"I think you just illustrated exactly why not."

The stranger laughs quietly to himself, and Malfoy's ensuing grimace suggests it's almost a deal-
breaker.

"Well?" She raises both eyebrows.

"Fine," he says.

"Good. What are yours?"

His irritation slowly vanishes as he thinks deeply on it. Spends at least half a minute staring at the
bottle, running over all the worst case scenarios in his head. In the end, he decides he has four
subjects that are out of bounds.

His family.

The stranger.

Anything to do with that ghastly Mark on his arm.

And Fenrir Greyback.

She tries to hide how much the last one surprises her. Struggles to tamp down her disappointment.
But even when these conditions eradicate more than half of the questions she wanted to ask, she
has to remind herself that it's no small miracle he's agreeing to play at all.

"Alright," she says, setting down the bottle between them. "I'll drink half and you drink half."

"Wait."

Malfoy's suddenly on his feet, fighting his way through the sea of pillows to reach the pedestal
where the gramophone still sits. He stares at it for a moment, then takes out his wand.

"What are you doing?"

"How do you make it work?"

She huffs in surprise, standing up. "You...want to play music?"

"Yes, well — evidently it calms me down, and if we're going to play this ridiculous game—" He
taps his wand against the base of the gramophone as if it might do something, sounding frustrated.
"— I'm going to need to stay calm."

"It's manual," she says. "No magic. Here." Stepping up to it, she gently nudges him aside, lifting
the needle from the last record that played the night before. "What do you want to listen to?"

"Anything," he says — a sigh, really. A nervous breath.

"Anything?"

"Your taste is fine."

She smiles to herself, choosing to take it as a compliment even if it wasn't meant as one. The vinyl
transforms in her hands as she settles on The Cure's Disintegration, and Malfoy watches — a little
transfixed — as she sets it to spin.
When they arrange themselves on the floor once again, it's with purpose.

It reminds her a little of the way they faced each other in that alcove, so long ago. The night she
saw Ron with Lavender. Staring each other down like chess players. Anticipating moves.

Ever accommodating, the Room of Requirement provides each of them with a champagne flute. An
almost ironic choice — as if they're celebrating. She levels out the glasses carefully, making sure
he knows she's playing fair. Even uses a charm to render that clear, odorless potion perfectly equal
between the two of them.

In all the years she'd been saving it, she never once thought she'd end up using it on Malfoy. Much
less on herself.

Part of her probably believed she'd never use it at all.

"Cheers," she says, raising her glass between them and trying to bury her nerves. It was her
suggestion. She's not allowed to be nervous.

"Cheers," Malfoy echoes with far less enthusiasm, tapping his glass against hers.

À ta santé, the stranger murmurs, sounding most excited of all.

And they begin.

It's quite painless, at first. In fact, for some time, it seems the most uncomfortable part of the
experience is the Veritaserum's slightly strange aftertaste. Through a sort of silent agreement, they
keep to harmless questions — at least for the initial half hour.

"What's your middle name?"

"Jean."

"Jean?"

"Yes — why?"

"Your first name is Hermione and your middle name is just — Jean?"

"Sorry to disappoint."

"I'm not disappointed, I just didn't expect it."

"As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

"A wandmaker."

"Really?"

"Is that so surprising?"

"Yes."

"I don't know why. I just found wandlore fascinating."

"Found? You don't anymore?"

"Wandmakers aren't considered high society."

"Oh."

She learns quite a bit about him. At least what's been there, floating on the surface level.
Apparently he broke his tibia twice in one day playing Quidditch as a child. He prefers coffee to
tea. And his favorite city in the world is Venice.

In turn, she reveals that she's violently claustrophobic. Her favorite fruits are plums. And yes, as a
matter of fact she has cheated on an exam — a revelation that stuns Malfoy into a long, almost
philosophical silence.

The stranger keeps his distance, enjoying from the sidelines save the occasional comment. He
wanted to be sure she knew exactly which shade of brown was Malfoy's favorite, describing it as
the same espresso-mahogany of her eyes when they catch the light. And Malfoy, bound by the
serum, could not deny it — though he did manage to say, in a pained, sour voice —

"It used to be blue."

Up until her next question, that was the closest they'd come to scandalous. And perhaps she grew
so comfortable, it loosened her tongue.

"Why did you come here this morning?"

They're both lying back in the pillows, staring at the ceiling from opposite directions. Malfoy twirls
his wand between his fingers, occasionally brushing the side of her foot with his by mistake.

"To see you," he says.

"Yes, I know. But why did you want to see me?"

"Because you stayed with me through the night."

Sometimes his answers are short — as perhaps she expected this one to be — but then, sometimes,
he elaborates.

"I was cold to you yesterday. I wanted to keep you at a distance even without being able to,
physically. I didn't want to feed. I didn't want to see you. I didn't want to think about any of it, I just
wanted to deal with the full moon on my own." He switches hands, twirling his wand with the
other now. "But you forced it. You were loud and disruptive with your Muggle music, the same
way you've been loud and disruptive coming into my life — and somehow, you managed to take
my mind off the cold. The darkness. That awful smell of the Shrieking Shack. I didn't know I
wanted someone to do that, least of all you."

She thinks he's finished, because he pauses for a moment. But he's not finished.

"I was left thinking about you all night. Not what I expected. Didn't plan on it. And usually
thinking about you irritates me, but I wasn't irritated. I started thinking about the distance between
this room and the Shrieking Shack. All night, that's what I thought about. It's a long way. Do you
know how many steps?"

"No," she says quietly.

"Three thousand and six. Give or take. I counted them on my way back, and about halfway, I
decided that I really didn't like the idea of three thousand and six steps in between the two of us."

Us.
"So I came here to close the distance."

There's a tone to his voice that suggests he's not pleased with himself, having revealed so much —
and it feels like he holds his breath while he waits for her to respond.

But she can't think of anything to say. Nothing that will measure up. So she just whispers, "It's your
turn."

He must want to tip the scales back to even, feeling a disproportionate amount of vulnerability on
his end.

"How often do you think about me?"

It's what she's been waiting for. The first question she wants to answer with a lie. But even as her
brain settles on the safety of the word 'occasionally,' her mouth betrays her with, "Constantly."

Malfoy's wand stops spinning, catching between two fingers. He waits a moment, and she breathes
out slowly, the gloomy bass-line of Prayers for Rain bridging the gap.

"What do you think about?"

No. Oh, god no. This will be a mess.

She grapples desperately for whatever she can find that's safe — but also true.

"I — well, I worry. About the full moon and—"

"I don't care about worry," he says, voice deceptively calm. "What else?"

No. No, no.

"I — think about the dreams you've had. The ones I've seen—"

"What else?"

Christ.

She tries to lean on the stranger for protection, but for once, he's chosen a different side. His
presence is heavy with anticipation. He wants to know.

"I think about that night...in the woods. Running from—"

"What else, Granger?"

"Please, don't," she whispers, trying to clamp her mouth shut.

"You never said this was off limits."

"I know I didn't, but—"

"What have you been thinking...that you don't want me to hear?" he asks, merciless. "What are you
afraid to say out loud?"

"I wish you would touch me more."

He sits up to look at her, but she doesn't dare do the same, welding her gaze to the ceiling because
she knows there's more. Knows what the serum wants her to set free — can feel it coming.
Slithering its way up her throat like a viper.

"It doesn't feel good — always being the one who wants more. Always craving something and
feeling like I can't ask you for it, because I know you don't want to give it."

Malfoy is invested, now. She can feel his heart beating faster. Feels the warmth low in his stomach.
The tingling thrill as it rides up his spine. "What don't I want to give?"

How could she have been so stupid? Why did she never stop to think that he might do this? Try
this? Just to humiliate her.

"Answer the question," he says, and the softness of his tone doesn't match.

"Yourself," she grits out. "You don't want to give yourself."

"What do you mean by that?"

Her cheeks feel white hot, equal parts furious and ashamed. "You don't want to sleep with me."

"Say it another way."

Now she knows what it feels like to hear the stranger laugh at her expense.

Bastards. Both of them.

"You don't want to have sex with me."

"Another way," he demands.

"Fuck me," she forces out at long last, seething. "You don't want to fuck me. Be inside of me.
Whatever you want me to call it, damn you. You don't want that as badly as I do." And her eyes
fall shut, weighted down by mortification.

Yes he does, the stranger whispers, practically gleeful.

"Be quiet," Malfoy snaps. "I can speak for myself."

No. She refuses to give him the chance. He tipped this downhill so quickly, she could've blinked
and missed it. Vicious. Cutthroat. And if he's going to play that way, so will she.

Yanking herself off the ground, she sits up straight and looks him dead in the eye. "What about
you, Malfoy?"

His tongue freezes around whatever he might've said next, serum forcing him to wait for the full
question.

"What are you too embarrassed to say to me?" No, that's too gentle. "What would you rather die
than admit to wanting?"

She can feel the stranger's grin spread ear to ear, absolutely lethal, and in place of a blush, Malfoy
goes very pale.

"Go on." She smiles now. "Answer the question."

How much time have you got? the stranger asks, laughing as he speaks.
"Oh, so there's more than one thing..." She folds her hands in her lap and leans in towards him. "Go
ahead, then, Malfoy. What are your worst desires? I'm waiting."

His pulse hammers like a frightened rabbit's, eyes a little wide — mouth half open. And slowly, the
flush of blood leaches back into his cheeks. Beautifully. Like color being painted onto a black and
white canvas.

"I want them to know," he whispers.

Interesting.

"Who?"

"Your friends." A bit of the bite returns to his voice as he names them. "Potter. Weasley. All your
Gryffindor saints."

"What do you want them to know?"

He doesn't get to choose whether to answer, but he does get to choose how he phrases it. And
Malfoy, ever himself, opts for —

"That I've had you." Then, through gritted teeth, "That I have you. That nature took their brightest
witch away and bound her to me, forever. I want them to know so that every time they look at you,
they're forced to picture the marks I've left. The real ones. The invisible ones. Every piece of you
I've touched, whether I've scarred and destroyed it or run my tongue across it. I want them to die a
little inside thinking about the girl who did everything for them lying under me. Crying out for me.
I want them to be sick with it."

She leans back, momentarily silenced. At a loss.

And she's torn, because a part of her wants to bask in every word — but another part understands
what he's really saying.

"I don't think that has anything to do with me," she says flatly.

Malfoy, a little breathless after his speech, looks up at her with incredulity. "What?"

"That's just schoolyard competition. Little boys trying to one-up each other. You wanting to hurt
your rivals has nothing to do with me, and I asked about me."

"That is about you," he rallies, but she cuts him off casually, all at once feeling like she's got
control back over the situation.

"No. It isn't. So I'll ask again, Malfoy. What is it you're afraid to tell me?" Or, perhaps — "What do
you want from me that you can't bear to ask for?"

He stiffens. Flinches. Squeezes his eyes shut and struggles against the inevitable — anything to
prevent it from coming out.

But it does.

"I want you to hurt me," he breathes, barely audible.

The smile melts off her face. "What?"

Malfoy's throat bobs as he swallows, struggling to say it again. "I want you to hurt me."
"Just — hurt you? What, sexually?"

He nods through his own grimace, looking like he might beg for death at any moment.

"You're a masochist?"

Oh, yes, the stranger jeers. Isn't it wonderful? You should see some of his thoughts, paramour.
Utterly depraved. If you took a knife to the poor boy's skin, he'd sing for days.

It's far from what she expected, and curiosity explodes through the fields of her mind like a
wildfire. She wants details. Wants to ask more. So much more. But Malfoy looks so horrified, it's
possible he might be sick.

And that isn't what she wanted.

"What else?" she asks, by way of mercy. "What besides that?"

He doesn't have the strength to hesitate for even a moment this time. Veritaserum grows stronger
the more its victim resists.

Dropping his forehead to his knees, he speaks to the floor between them. "I want your mouth on
me."

God, it's practically a moan the way he says it. Desperate and sad.

"I don't know what it's like so I don't know how to imagine it. Can't — can't even fantasize about
it, because I don't know what it would feel like. But I didn't know how to ask for it, and after the
way things went that night, I thought we would never..." A pause. A breath. "Thought we'd never
try anything like that again."

The stranger picks up where he leaves off.

You should see the envy in his eyes. Slytherins like to discuss all sorts of things over tea, and he
always pictures you when there's talk of anyone getting on their knees.

Malfoy is sweating. Reeling. His stomach feels like it's trying to swallow itself, and a shaky breath
blasts from his lips as he suddenly lurches to his feet. Starts to pace, hands flexing at his sides.

So many times, he almost got the words out. So many times, I've urged him to grow a spine. But
he's far too frightened.

Malfoy leans back against the gramophone stand, crossing one arm — propping up the other so he
can bury his face in his palm. The very picture of shame.

He's wanted to ask you for it every time you're in arm's reach, but he never—

"Ask me for it now."

It escapes in a rush, impossible to hold back. Because she's watching him as he shrinks into
himself. Listening to him berate himself. And over this, of all things.

She finds she can't stand it.

At the sound of her voice, Malfoy lifts his head from his hand, staring at her through the gaps in
his fingers. "What?"
"Ask..." The words trip on her tongue, slippery with nerves. "Ask me for it."

Trembling, that hand falls away from where it covers his mouth, shifting to grip the edge of the
stand behind him.

Ask her, the stranger growls.

It jolts him, and the words tumble out.

"Will you?"

"Will I what?"

He swallows hard once more, eyes squeezing shut. His knuckles go white against the stand at his
sides. He can't seem to decide whether he's excited or terrified.

His voice shakes either way.

"Suck me off?"

The words are jumbled. Rushed.

Ask her nicely.

"Please." He doesn't question it this time. Doesn't fight it. Just says, "Please, please," in such a
hungry, ravaged voice, she almost whimpers. It's a voice that would've had her dropping to her
knees instinctively, she thinks — had she been standing.

From the floor where she sits, it's a beckoning. A plea that tugs her body forward before her mind
fully catches up.

Cautiously, she crawls across the pillows towards him, stopping when her palms bracket his feet.
With his eyes closed, she manages to keep her head for just a little longer. But the moment she
settles back on her knees and reaches for the fasten on his trousers, a sharp breath exits his chest
and she suddenly finds him looking down at her.

That look, she thinks...

That look could end her life.

When she attempted this once before — the night with Viktor — he didn't look at her this way. He
looked at her with excitement. Happiness. Arousal.

Malfoy looks at her with surrender.

He looks at her like a man on a cliff's edge, willing to give up everything. All his pride. All his
principles. All the fight in him. In one swift and lethal blow.

And his thoughts are a graveyard — riddled with the bones of everything he's giving up. Right
here. In this moment.

—never should've—

—what I was thinking—

—the point of any of it—

—I've been stupid—

—I've been stupid—

—I've been so fucking stupid—

—look at her—

She gathers a breath, trying in vain to steady her thundering pulse as they stare at one another.
Malfoy doesn't seem to be breathing at all. Frozen and wide-eyed — like he's been petrified.

"Do you actually want this?" she asks, stopping with the button on his trousers halfway unfastened.

He blinks. Comes to life, biting down on his lower lip and nodding fervently.

She doesn't break eye contact as she starts to drag the zipper down, its sound practically inaudible
with the gramophone so close.

"Are you going to pretend it never happened when I'm through?"

Panic spreading into his gaze, he shakes his head.

Use your words, boy.

"N-No. No, I won't," he stammers.

Her fingers curl beneath the waistband of his trousers, and silently, she pays her respects to the
witch who created Veritaserum.

"Will you use it against me?"

"Never." An adamant gasp.

The serum can't force a man to keep his promises, but it can reveal his true intentions — and
Malfoy's are pure, for once. Even without the serum, she can see it in his eyes. Flayed open and
exposed. He's terrified of how badly he wants this.

And it's lovely to be wanted.

Courage reinforced, she drags his pants out of the way and frees him.

Her eyes widen a little, because perhaps she'd forgotten the considerable predicament of size. Fully
hard, she's not sure what exactly she'll be able to do to him.

Don't be scared, the stranger whispers gently.

"She's—" Malfoy is breathless. "She's scared?"

"I'm not scared." Shaking her head, she steels herself and takes him in hand. Tries to remember that
this is his first, and it's unlikely he'll notice any lack of prowess.

Across the bond, his thoughts explode.

—fuck—

—hands are warm—

—don't know how to—

—if I should—

—do I touch her—

—lose control—

—what if I—

A smile creeps across her lips as she glances back up at him, stroking once up and down. Slowly.
Tenderly. "Yes, you can touch me."

His chest is heaving with every breath. "How?"

Support her chin with one hand. Help her hold her hair back with the other — gently. For once, the
stranger's tone isn't quite so condescending.

And for once, Malfoy doesn't argue.

His palm feels callused as it glides across her cheek, slipping down to cup her jaw, and she realizes
she's feeling the ridges of the Descent's rune, hidden beneath the Glamour. Valiantly, he tries to
capture all of her curls in the other hand, sweeping them back away from her face — but strands
escape, falling at her temples.

"Sorry," she whispers. "There's a lot of it."

"Don't." Malfoy shakes his head, swallowing thickly. "Don't say sorry."

At this, she glances down again, as though it might somehow hide her blush. Stroking him once
more, her gaze fixates on the clear bead of moisture that blooms at his tip, and suddenly her throat
feels dry. Parched.

Guide her forward.

The pressure he exerts is so delicate, it's almost nonexistent. Just the faintest ghost of a tug at the
hinge of her jaw, bringing her closer. She opens her mouth instinctively, letting her eyes fall shut as
the tip of her tongue grazes one of the veins just beneath the head.

All at once, those whirling, catatonic thoughts she hears through the bond scatter like sparks.
Vanish, allowing a slow fog to roll through his mind.

And she finds she likes the idea of granting him solace.

Relaxing her jaw, she opens her mouth wider, and the stranger encourages him to feed it to her.
Inch by inch.

Carefully. Good. Be gentle, be so gentle.

He's excessively gentle, one could say. His grip on her curls never tightens beyond the caress of a
lover, his touch on her jaw featherlight. And she's almost frightened of it, because it leaves
everything at her feet. In her charge.

Which is why it's perhaps good fortune that the stranger grows impatient.

Close your lips around us, paramour, he murmurs.

Us.

Us.

She does as she's told, unable to take him more than halfway into her mouth but enjoying how soft
his skin feels against her lips. She traces his veins with the flat of her tongue, trying not to smile as
he jolts, lower back knocking against the gramophone stand.

Fingers wrapped around his base, she strokes what she can't reach with her mouth, and when she's
experimented enough with the feel and the weight of him, she hollows out her cheeks and sucks.

Malfoy's hand falls away from her chin, a strangled sound echoing across the room over the music
as he clutches desperately for the stand behind him. Struggles to regain his balance. A moan
shortly follows, gorgeous and loud, and she feels his head fall back, glancing up to catch a glimpse
of his exposed throat.

Please, she thinks to herself. A silent prayer. Let him truly be as vocal as this.

Viktor was silent. His encouragements came in the aftermath, and all throughout, she had no notion
of what she might be doing right or wrong.

But Malfoy whimpers.

He cries out and shakes, fingers fumbling for purchase each time she drags her lips to the top and
sinks down again. She can feel those fractured spasms of ecstasy deep in her own stomach, thanks
to the bond. And yet he's so considerate. So kind to show such ardent appreciation — aloud, not
inside his head.

But it's not just knowing that he likes it.

It's the nature of the sounds he makes — innocent and animal and somehow so utterly erotic, they
make her knees shake beneath her.

It feels the way feeding does, listening to him come undone. That's the truth of it.

You are feeding, the stranger purrs, and his voice is a rasp. Distracted. A little breathless. Both of
you. Don't you feel stronger?

No. No, she feels weaker than she ever has. But only in the sense that she thinks she'd do anything
— anything — to hear these sounds he makes. Symphonies to her ears. She's completely at his
mercy.

Moan muffled against him, she takes him as deeply as she can withstand, and Malfoy gasps. Sways
so far off balance that his elbow knocks into the gramophone, and not only does the needle skip
backwards, starting to replay a previous song — but now it malfunctions, beginning to play at half-
speed.

And Lullaby's drowsy, distorted notes flood the room like a strange hallucinogenic.

Do you want me to stop? she asks inside her head, feeling him fraying at the edges. Losing his grip
on things.

"Don't stop," he gasps aloud. "D-Don't. Don't stop."

Don't, the stranger echoes — and it's then, she thinks in retrospect, that it happens.
As she pulls back, allowing her tongue to glide up the length of him, Malfoy suddenly stops
shaking. Suddenly lifts his head from where it hangs to gaze down at her and watch, and that gentle
grip in her hair becomes a fist. Steady. Confident.

When she opens her eyes, she opens them to the stranger.

Malfoy has been swept aside.

With a gasp, she pulls back, but he stops her hand before she can fully let go, urging her to stroke
him. Tightening her grip.

"Where's..." She has to swallow around her dry throat. "Where's Malfoy?"

The stranger's dark eyes are soft. Glistening as they catch the light.

"He was going to come," he says in that low, syrup-like voice. "So I stepped in."

"Is he—" Her voice catches yet again, distracted by the way he guides her hand up and down. "Is
he alright with that?"

"I'm just letting him catch his breath." With his free hand, he caresses her lips, letting his thumb
drag the bottom one down. And she likes that, though she's not sure she's supposed to. Tries not to
allow herself lean into it.

"You'll bring him back, then?"

"Of course." His thumb presses down, parting her lips and slipping inside. Resting on her tongue.
"Tell me you're not afraid to be alone with me..." he murmurs. "Just for a little while?"

She squirms where she kneels. Has to press her thighs together.

No, she thinks.

Smiling indulgently, he slowly draws her back towards his cock, removing his thumb and replacing
it with the head. "You know I would never hurt you."

I know.

He guides himself into her mouth the way a doctor administers medicine, encouraging her with
soft, pretty words. Like it's the cure to all ailments. Like he's treating her.

And where Malfoy couldn't bring himself to add any pressure, the stranger controls her rhythm.
Gathers her hair back into a fist at the base of her skull and urges her to take him a little deeper
each time he pulls her down. Whispers, "Good girl," and "Yes," and "Like that," as though they're
the words of a spell. Some sort of enchantment.

The sensation is unbelievable. Feeling what he feels layered over what she feels, and with his
praise there to top it off like a ripe cherry.

The orgasm builds in him the way water rolls to a boil, each endearment more breathy and ragged
than the last. And when she looks up after a minute or so, she finds his eyes closed, a premature
spike of ecstasy driving a gasp from his lungs. She sucks hard, swirling her tongue as she rises to
the tip and watching him all the while.

He must feel her gaze.

Grey eyes flutter open, locking onto her — disoriented. Caught in a high. Malfoy's eyes.

Did he even notice he was gone, she wonders?

Panting and flushed, the words spill gracelessly from his lips.

"I'm going to — I think I'm..." A gasp and a groan mixed into one. "Come. I'm going to come."

And to her surprise, he releases her curls and takes her jaw in both hands. Lifts her off of him, a
glistening strand of saliva clinging between his cock and her lips.

"Fuck," he hisses when he sees it, taking himself in hand and starting to pump hard.

Her brows draw together. Confused. Deprived. Not understanding. "Malfoy...let me—"

"Open your mouth," he pants, catching her off guard again. "Please. Open it. Open your mouth. I
want to see your tongue."

It's so easy.

Too easy.

At his command, she finds herself tilting her head back the way one does in ecstasy, parting her lips
and offering her tongue like a holy sacrifice.

And Malfoy must like the look of that, because whatever remaining control he had is lost. He
chokes on the sound he makes — almost a sob, pushing off the stand he's leaning against to bring
himself to her mouth.

Warmth paints itself across her tongue. Thick and abundant.

It's exquisite.

She knows what it's supposed to taste like. What she might've tasted, had circumstances been
different. Something bitter and unnatural, its aftertaste a clinging discomfort. She was prepared for
that.

But she is a paramour. And to her, it tastes even better than blood. Sweet and bitter all at once, like
something she knows she shouldn't be tasting. Something not meant to be drunk.

And had the stranger spoken only seconds later than he does, it would've been devoured.

Don't swallow.

Drawing her tongue back into her mouth, she tilts her head forward and opens her eyes. Malfoy
gazes down at her, eyes half-lidded and chest heaving.

Don't swallow, the stranger says again — must feel her throat constrict, aching to do just that.

Even in her head, her voice is dizzy with euphoria. What do you want me to do?

Feed it to him.

Malfoy's panting stops abruptly, and he goes very still. Their eyes meet again, and she sees many
things in that expression — but not what might stop her. Not reluctance. Not disgust.
So she rises to her feet.

Yes. Good. Yes.

The stranger's coaxing suggests Malfoy might not be quite so eager. She expects she'll have to
approach him cautiously. Ask permission with her eyes and accept the possibility that he might
recoil. Might not—

Malfoy fists a hand into the fabric of her shirt and yanks her up against him, forcing the breath
from her lungs. A thin drop leaks from the corner of her mouth when she gasps, and that's what he
takes first.

Chin in hand, he licks the skin clean and drags her lower lip into his mouth with his teeth.

The stranger's hum echoes — a deep growl of approval.

Make him swallow it.

She doesn't have to make him do anything. In the end, Malfoy uses his tongue to steal every drop
he can find from her mouth. It's almost greedy, the way he searches for more. And she wonders
what instinct this is. What makes him want this as badly as she does.

Swallow.

He's preoccupied with kisses. Keeps spilling some of it into her mouth in order to suck on her
tongue, and then has to steal it back again.

"Swallow," she whispers against his lips.

He swallows.

And this time, when that blinding light explodes, it explodes from within.

She showers quickly and heads to breakfast somewhat dazed, her mind wandering in several
different directions.

It's not as though she can research the light.

Whatever its purpose, she knows it's connected to the bisect. And to the two of them. But on both
occasions they've witnessed it, the cause has been—

She flushes, almost missing a step on the staircase.

Bodily fluids, she'll put it that way. The cause has been bodily fluids. And that's not exactly
something she can expect to find in an index.

It was less extravagant, this time.

No glowing, ethereal form floating in front of them. No inhuman form at all. Instead, this light
came from beneath their flesh, exploding bright as day under their skin. They were forced apart to
shield their eyes, and by the time she took her hand away, it was over. Gone.
So quickly, it could've been nothing more than a hallucination.

But she knows what she saw.

And the stranger's only explanation came by way of an elated, almost drunken whisper in the
moments that followed.

Our bond grows stronger.

He's been silent since.

In the aftermath, Malfoy didn't say much either. Fixed his clothes wordlessly, that post-orgasmic
flush still painted across his face.

No, he didn't say much until she could no longer hold her tongue.

"Was it..." Twice, she had to clear her throat to get it out. "Was it good enough?"

And the sound of his sudden, bewildered laugh she'll probably remember for years. The same way
she'll remember the look in his eyes as they fixed on her.

"Granger, I can't even feel my legs."

It sparked an electric sort of pride behind her rib cage, and she left it at that. Parted ways with him
outside the doors to the Room of Requirement, sparing a glance over her shoulder she wishes he
hadn't caught.

It feels like everything has changed.

In the span of less than twenty-four hours, something has shifted in their bond. The way a trapped
gear in a machine might finally break loose and start spinning again.

Meandering into the Great Hall, she takes a seat across from Harry and Ron and starts piling every
sweet, frosted thing within arm's reach onto her plate. She left the Room of Requirement with
something akin to a sugar high, and she desperately wants to preserve it.

"Got a sweet tooth today?" asks Ron, laughing under his breath.

Hermione just nods and smiles back. Can't bring herself to feel any irritation towards him
whatsoever. Not in this moment. Not even with Lavender latched to his side, as always.

It's as she's pouring herself a cup of tea that Ginny loudly clears her throat from beside her.

Glancing her way, she finds the redhead's gaze pinned on Ron. Flashing with some unspoken
demand. And looking back at Ron, she finds him suddenly sheepish.

"Erm...by the way, Hermione — we, er..."

Lavender sighs and rolls her eyes, letting go of his arm to butter a slice of toast. "We're sorry we
gave you trouble about the scars," she says.

Hermione's eyebrows raise to her hairline.

"We are, yeah." Ron nods. "We pushed you too hard."

"I'm sorry, too," says Harry, leaning tiredly against his palm. "I don't know why I pestered you. I've
been in a bad mood lately, and I was just curious what might've happened. I mean — you say
nothing happened, I know. Just — I'm sorry."

Ginny leans forward as well, now — an apology from all sides. Part of her wishes Neville were at
the table to witness it.

"We were worried about you, is all," Ginny says, nudging her arm. "We thought you might've been
hurt."

Hermione nudges her back and smiles. It feels like a weight's been lifted off her chest. Biting into a
madeleine cake, she reaches for the sugar bowl. "I was hurt."

And for a few long seconds, she doesn't notice the silence.

"You...were?" asks Harry.

"Yes," she says, stirring the crystals until they dissolve into her tea. "Badly. Madam Pomfrey said I
was lucky to be alive."

"What?"

"What happened?"

It's as she's halfway through the next sentence that she realizes she's actually saying these things
aloud.

"It was the full moon, and I went to help him."

The blood drains from her face around then, and she drops her spoon, slowly looking up to meet
Harry's wide eyes.

She forgot.

The serum should've worn off by now — but after everything that happened, she forgot she'd taken
it at all. And she doesn't have time to get up and run from the table before he asks it.

"Help who?"

Her teeth clamp down on her tongue, hands gathering into fists against the table. But even as the
panic makes her throat close around the word — even as she fights it with everything in her, every
muscle tensed, every nerve screaming — it still manages to slip out. Utterly inevitable.

"Malfoy," she says.

And it's done.

 Knowing Smiles / Perfect Storms

She feels the way she imagines a soldier does when their boot catches on a tripwire.

She can't step back — can't call it a mistake — without detonating something. The serum won't
allow it.

And for a moment, she can't move at all. Can't blink or breathe, sitting there alone on a live
explosive.

Harry's brows are heavy behind his glasses, the expression in his gaze straddling the fence between
perplexed and furious. Ron, beside him, is straightening out of his sleepy posture, and Lavender's
grip on his arm tightens with a little gasp.

Ginny leans further forward to force herself into sight. "What do you mean Malfoy?"

"What about Malfoy?" Harry practically spits.

The Veritaserum churns in her stomach — and she has less than a few seconds to seize the only
lifeline in reach.

Tearing her wand from her pocket, she jabs the tip into her own thigh under the table. Glances
away and mouths, "Aphasius."

It's a dangerous jinx on a good day, but so is the look in Harry's eyes.

And the moment the magic enters her system, it promptly severs the connection between her brain
and her tongue.

She can feel the question's damning answer rush to the forefront, only to get warped and twisted
along the way as her body tries to convert thought to speech. For a few seconds, she's silent. Can
feel her synapses second-guessing themselves. And when words do eventually escape, they're
meaningless. Nonsensical.

"Act — in pretense — of the storm," she blurts, feeling an instantaneous swathe of relief as she
watches Harry's fury give way to confusion.

"Hermione?" He leans forward, searching her eyes.

"I seek — for flowers — this depth," she says. "Flowers — into morphine. The flowers — I
restrain them."

Ron chokes on his food. "Blimey, Hermione."

"She's completely lost it," says Lavender, like she'd been expecting it to happen at some point.

"Hermione?" Harry demands again, reaching out to take hold of her wrist. "What's happening? Can
you hear me?"

Ginny puts a hand on her shoulder too, giving her a gentle shake.

"Interesting — this light. I trust — I reach. Touch and go. Devils. Trust — devils."

"We need to take her to the Hospital Wing."

Ginny starts to stand up, but Hermione grabs her by the sleeve. That can't happen.

Madam Pomfrey knows almost every jinx imaginable. She'd hear one ridiculous sentence tumble
out of her mouth and immediately perform the counter-curse — and then Hermione would be
forced to explain why she has Veritaserum in her system.

Shaking her head, she pulls Ginny back down onto the bench and starts to rummage through her
bag. Has to devise a plan on the spot.

At the very least, she knows a great deal about Veritaserum. And while it may force its victims to
speak the truth, she knows it cannot force them to write it.

She takes a scrap of parchment and a quill from her bag, spluttering more nonsense when Harry
demands again — "What's going on?"

Black Cat Flu, she scribbles, circling it twice and pushing it into the center of the table.

They each crane their necks to see from different angles, but before anyone can question it, she
snatches the parchment back and adds more.

This is a symptom. Verbal impairment. It comes and goes.

Then —

Sorry. Nothing I say will make any sense.

Harry's jaw twitches, expression tightening like the last thing he wants to do is buy it. "You were
talking about Malfoy—" he starts to insist, but Ron — bless him — has been trying not to laugh for
at least half a minute, and he can't hold it in any longer.

"You just — what? Start speaking gibberish?" The laughter makes his chest shake, boisterous and
bright. "At any given time?"

"It's not funny, Ron—" Ginny snaps, but the question triggers more nonsense.

"Blind — in threefold — expect nothing and luck. Cages and birds."

It sets him off again, and Ginny bats him on the arm with a rolled up Daily Prophet. "Ron."

But she figures as long as she can keep him laughing, Harry won't have much opportunity to speak.

"I've never heard of a symptom like that," says Lavender primly, adjusting the bow in her hair. It'd
be best if she didn't speak either.

Actually, it'd be best if no one did.

Tugging on the parchment again, Hermione writes one more line, painting a sheepish look on her
face.

Bit embarrassing, I know. It'll wear off eventually. I should probably just get some more rest.

As she starts to gather her things, she doesn't fail to notice the look Harry throws at Ginny. A look
that makes her nervous — like he's not done with this. Like he doesn't plan on letting it go.

"Hermione?" Ginny asks when she stands to leave. "Are you...sure you're alright?"
To this, she nods and says, "Happy Christmas."

Ron's laugh is so loud, it sounds like it ricochets off the enchanted ceiling, and she uses the
distraction to quickly make her escape. Not quickly enough, though. Not before she hears Lavender
whisper across the table —

"You know, she wasn't in the dormitory last night."

And if Harry's look of determination wasn't enough to prove this is volatile, that certainly is.

She knows her little act is nothing more than a badly patched leak. Eventually, the water will burst
through — and she'll have to prepare to sink.

Taking the longer path to the Grand Staircase requires her to cut through the Courtyard — a far
less crowded route, especially in late March.

But if she can avoid babbling incessantly at some unwitting student, or worse a professor, she'll
happily brave the cold.

Warning Malfoy was her first thought. If the Veritaserum is still affecting her, then it's likely
affecting him too. And the image of him proudly announcing to the Slytherin Common Room that
Hermione Granger was on her knees for him this morning is — well, it's entirely too vivid for her
liking.

That wouldn't be the only warning, though. She'd have to work up the nerve to warn him about the
fuse she may've just lit under Harry. She'd have to admit how careless she's been.

But it would seem all of that can wait.

He's asleep.

Has been for nearly an hour now, she thinks, judging from what she's felt through the bond. Just
his even, steady breaths — languid pulse thrumming in her ears like a metronome. It would be
soothing, she thinks, if the panic stewing in her gut didn't overpower everything.

Wrapping her cardigan tightly around herself and tucking her nose into its collar, she slips out the
doors into the Courtyard, icy breeze immediately attacking what bare skin it can find.

And as luck would have it, she happens upon both unwitting student and professor. All in one go.

Professor Dumbledore is walking with Neville.

She stops short, instinctively sinking back into the shadows of the stone archway.

She hasn't spoken to Neville outside of classes in days, and even then, only to borrow a quill. He's
been — absent. Not in presence, but in mind. And seeing him with the Headmaster makes her
stomach drop.

Dumbledore paces the Courtyard with him, steps slow and patient, his good hand resting on
Neville's shoulder and the other hidden behind his back. The skin around Neville's eyes is red —
that faded sort of swollen red that suggests he's been crying for days. He looks thin. Hollow and
small under Dumbledore's velvet wing.

"Forgive me, Sir," he says in a fractured voice, eyes fixed on the ground as they walk. "But I don't
— I don't think I—"

"Dear boy, you misprize yourself." Dumbledore squeezes his shoulder. "As I believe you always
have. Trust me when I say that I have more faith in you than in the earth beneath my feet."

Neville doesn't give in to Dumbledore's imploring smile. "Sir," he says again, swallowing hard.
"Wouldn't someone like Harry be—"

"Ah." Dumbledore's smile grows fond. "Harry. Yes. Some would think so. He has accomplished
many great feats in very few years and will continue to blaze a bright path. But this task is for
you."

Neville bats away a tear she can't see from her distance. "Why me, Sir?"

They stop just beside the fountain, and Dumbledore turns to face him head on. Folds both hands
behind his back and tips his chin so he can look at Neville over the rims of his glasses. The way he
always seems to when a point needs to be made.

"Because you are fearless. And loyal. And wise."

Neville blinks hard at the ground with each word — as though they aren't compliments, but blows.

"You possess more empathy than most will achieve in a lifetime. And you are one of the few
students I have encountered who I believe could excel in any of our four Houses."

Neville looks up at this, caught by surprise.

"Courage, integrity, ambition and wit. Rarely does one find these qualities so equally pronounced
in an individual." Dumbledore rests both hands on his shoulders, now. "Your parents would be
proud. In fact, I daresay they already are — and always will be."

More tears fall, each one swept away by stubborn hands. "Thank you, Sir," he whispers.

"This task is for you." Releasing him, Dumbledore takes a small step back, allowing him space. "It
is grave and it is mighty, but you are well-equipped. And though it may make little sense — I've
found that sometimes we must do what is wrong for the sake of what is right."

Hermione barely manages to stifle her gasp — because he's looking at her now. Unmistakably. His
gaze has drifted just a fraction to the side, finding her in the shadows as though he knew she was
there all along. And his smile is knowing and heavy and dangerous.

"I — I understand, Sir." Neville sniffs and wipes his face with his sleeve. "I'll — do my best."

Dumbledore allows that gaze to linger a moment longer before turning his back, arm sweeping
across Neville's shoulders to guide him out of the Courtyard on the opposite side.

"That is all I could ever ask of you."

Lost in thought, she makes her way slowly to Gryffindor Tower, certain those last words were
meant for her.

It's disturbing how sure of it she is.

But the rest...

She can't imagine what Dumbledore might expect from Neville — what beyond that which he's
already asked, that late night in his office. But she feels responsible for getting him involved in the
first place. For drawing Dumbledore's eye.

And she's beginning to wonder whether Neville's recent regression has nothing to do with Adrian
— and everything to do with her.

It would explain his cold shoulder.

The girl's dormitory is mercifully empty when she arrives, dappled daylight filtering through the
bed curtains and casting a ruby-toned glow over the room. She fully intends to take a page from
Malfoy's book — the thought of suffocating her wayward thoughts with sleep sounds heavenly.
But halfway to her four-poster, she spots the sealed envelope lying on her pillow.

It's addressed in Dumbledore's handwriting, those elegant slopes and curls now somewhat familiar
to her. Script that inexplicably fills her with dread.

Miss Granger,

I sincerely hope you found this month's full moon more peaceful than last.

I am writing as I've just received a very concerned missive from your parents. Evidently, they have
not heard from you in weeks. Perhaps you might consider sending something along? They must be
quite worried to write to me directly.

My fondest regards,

Professor Dumbledore

For a moment, she thinks the Aphasia Jinx has disrupted her ability to read as well. The letter
makes no sense.

She's written to her parents once a week without fail — the same way she's always done. Even
injured and bedridden, she still managed to keep the routine.

Taking a seat on the edge of her bed, she blinks down at the words, confused. Reads them over
again, just to be sure.

On rare occasions, during busy work weeks, she won't hear back from her mom and dad. But this
always leads to a thicker-than-usual, highly apologetic letter arriving a few days later.

She's just realizing now that she hasn't heard from them since February.

Not from them, and not from Tonks.

She scoffs to herself, tossing the letter aside — because it's starting to make sense. The only
correspondence she's received in weeks has come from within the school, delivered by house-elf —
and Dmitri, the screech owl she's entrusted with her mail ever since Second Year, is quite a bit
older than the others.

Perhaps he's gotten confused. Perhaps he's been delivering her letters to the wrong address.

The thought lifts a bit of the weight off her chest, if only momentarily. It's preferable. At the very
least, it would mean no one's turned their back on her.

Standing, she fetches fresh parchment and a quill from the drawer of her nightstand, quickly
scratching out an explanation to her parents.

The letter to Tonks takes longer. She has more questions now than ever before.

And more to hide.

Dear Tonks,

I'm sorry you haven't heard from me. There seems to have been a mix-up, and I don't think my
letters have been going through.

The bond is a great deal stronger now, and though I think he and I have made progress — at least
when it comes to tolerating one another — I'm not sure what more the bond can expect from us.

I've been thinking about what you said at Christmas, when you described the bisect as the voice of
the wolf. Do you happen to know if this is always the case? Is there a chance there may be a third
entity? Something completely separate from him and I?

Thank you again for sending The Will & The Way. It's quite intimidating, but I think some of the
rituals have helped us to find common ground. I was hoping you might be able to elaborate on The
Descent. If you don't mind me asking, is this a ritual you've performed yourself? Its effects are
potent, to say the least, and I was wondering if you'd experienced something similar.

My best wishes to you and Remus. I hope to hear from you soon.

With love,

Hermione

Her fingers itch to add a postscript. Itch to mention the prophecy. The last full moon. Neville and
Adrian and all of it.

What would that cause, though, but panic?

She's not even certain she's allowed to talk about the prophecy. Dumbledore wasn't clear. But if
anyone should be told, it's Malfoy — not Tonks. And if she can't even think of a way to broach the
subject with him, then—

No. She forces herself to seal it. Addresses them both and wraps herself in a thick, wool scarf,
bypassing the Owlery and heading straight for the Grounds.
Hogsmeade has its own means of post — an owl terminus near the Three Broomsticks, mostly
unused by students. She'll send them from there, just to be certain, and with any luck, she'll have
word from Tonks within the week.

The walk is refreshing, albeit cold. She likes watching the clouds of her breath rise in the air. Likes
escaping the confines of those flagstone walls for the time being.

It's something of a respite right up until the moment she crests the hill leading into the village.

From this angle, she can see the crooked roof of the Shrieking Shack. Its jagged, lopsided slope —
a dark stain on the frosted horizon.

And what irony, to see it now and feel her skin crawl.

She refused to entertain those school rumors in her younger years. In her mind, it was never
haunted. Never cursed. Merely a looming curiosity she hoped to one day explore.

Now it's a harbinger. A dark gargoyle lurking in the distance, stirring up vivid images she'll never
be allowed to forget. One look at it, and she feels the ghost of tendons tearing from bone. Senses
the gaze of glittering, ivory pupils, leering. Waiting. Fixed on her back.

Her stomach drops, heart stuttering to a frenzied halt — and it's enough to wake Malfoy.

Granger...

His voice is drowsy. She can feel him turning over in bed, a lazy hand sweeping down the side of
his face. Coaxing life back into it.

What, are you flying around on a broomstick?

...What?

Her own voice is little more than a whisper inside her head.

You feel like you're upside down. What is it? Are you sick?

There's a casual petulance to his tone — no real malice. Irritated that he's been pulled from sleep,
but not irritated that it's her.

And she thinks she'd be encouraged by this meager sign of progress if she weren't still staring at
the shack.

What is it? he demands again.

Nothing, she answers at last, forcing herself to take a step forward, letters half-crumpled in her fist.
Just a bad dream.

A good lie, in any other life. The Veritaserum must've finally worn off.

If only the bond couldn't prove she wasn't sleeping.

If only it didn't lay all their secrets bare.

She expected a lot of things, but never that he might actually relish in it.

Foolishly, she allowed herself to forget how much he enjoys getting under Harry's skin — even
though he told her so, right to her face.

In hindsight, she should've recognized it as the only logical outcome.

She admitted her mistake to him later that same day, hidden away in one of the Library's unpopular
stacks; a discussion inside their heads from opposite sides of the Castle. Word for word, she told
him what slipped out in front of Harry and the others — and she didn't sugarcoat her slipshod,
makeshift excuse. Didn't leave out any unfortunate details. She even apologized.

For once, she did the right thing. And she figured she'd be getting ahead of it by telling him the
truth.

Damage control.

But Malfoy has somehow decided that he cares more about making Harry Potter squirm than he
does about hiding his affliction from the student body. And all at once, her near-miss at the
Gryffindor table becomes his perfect storm.

From the moment he finds out — the moment she feels that Cheshire smile spread across his face
— it's like he's been set to simmer. A devious brand of delight swirls in his gut, and he never gets
angry. Never tells her she's been careless or stupid or any of the things she's thought to herself.

He just says, Can he prove it?

No, she whispers back, bewildered.

Good.

Normally, she's not one for Quidditch metaphors — but that word feels like a Quaffle getting
launched into the air.

Because Malfoy likes that Harry suspects him with no way to prove it. Likes that he might know
there's something more than bad blood between the two of them. He revels in the idea of a
lingering suspicion in Harry's eyes.

And he makes a game of it.

One that begins Monday morning, in Charms.

They feed before class — a routine, now, but also the first warning sign that something's off.
Malfoy attacks the wound on her hand with more thirst and fervor than usual. Most days, he's very
clean about it. Careful not to let the blood drip on their clothes. Careful not to break a sweat.

Today, he's fiendish. Greedy. And the blood gets smeared all over his lips and chin.

"Clean yourself up," she tells him once the euphoria fades, sealing the cut with a quick spell.

Malfoy only scoffs, leaning back against the wall of the broom cupboard and studying the streaks
of scarlet drying on his fingers. "Yes, mother."

"Careful." She slings her bag over her shoulder and checks through the crack in the door before
opening it. "You'll give yourself an Oedipus complex."

"Oh, yes — very likely."

The door shuts on him, and from there she expects it to go the way it has every other time. They've
practically rehearsed it. She'll enter the classroom relatively early, and he'll arrive at least five
minutes later, in danger of tardiness.

Casually, she smiles at Harry and Ron as she passes their shared desk, taking a seat at the empty
one next to them only to watch the classroom door swing open again. Less than ten seconds later.

And Malfoy strides in like the cat that ate the canary, tie askew, hair rumpled — one ruby bead of
blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

He looks at her first, smirking when he finds her mouth agape.

And then he makes direct eye contact with Harry — and he swipes the blood away with the tip of
his thumb, licking it clean.

"Alright there, Scarhead?"

Harry looks horrified. Disgusted. At least from what she can see in profile. She has to look away
quickly when his gaze slides sideways and finds her, just as Malfoy intended.

Busying herself with her inkwell, she tries to banish the dark flush from her cheeks by sheer force
of will. Keeps her eyes glued to her desk as Malfoy passes by, taking a seat far too close behind
her.

Struggling not to look frazzled, she waits to speak until can no longer feel Harry's gaze on her.
Until Professor Flitwick begins the lesson.

What the fuck do you think you're doing?

His voice is the picture of innocence inside her head.

Beg your pardon?

Are you out of your mind?

There's a smirk in his tone.

Must be, seeing as I'm hanging around in yours.

I—

She almost snaps her quill in two, jaw clenching. Has to fix her glare on Professor Flitwick's
demonstration and count to ten to keep a hold of herself.

This would be an excellent time for the stranger to intervene, she thinks. Bold as he is, he's always
been the more sensible of the two. At least when it comes to controlling himself in public.

But he's been dormant since that morning in the Room of Requirement. Down for a long nap, it
would seem. She can't feel the warm weight of his presence at all. No shadow of him lingering at
the back of her mind.

No, it's just the two of them.

And Malfoy's apparently lost his sense.

This isn't funny, she hisses. It's dangerous. Harry already suspects you.

So?

She almost scoffs aloud.

So — do you want him to suspect me too?

I think you'll find I didn't actually do anything. If Potter's making assumptions, then that's on him.

Malfoy—

We're in class, Granger. You should pay attention.

Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare, but she bites down on her tongue, fist around her quill going
white-knuckled and bloodless.

It only gets worse as the week goes on.

With each passing day, Malfoy grows more bold. He keeps forcing himself into her space
whenever Harry's looking — never close enough to prove anything, but far closer than he's ever
deigned to be before. He stares at her from across classrooms with a gaze that can only be
described as devious. Bumps into her in corridors and knocks the books off her desk just so he can
pick them up and hand them back again. Twice — twice — he manages to leave noticeable streaks
of blood on the crisp white cuffs of his sleeves, even after she performs the cleansing spells herself.
And Harry always notices.

Their feedings become tense and spiteful — very few words exchanged. His kisses are the sort
meant to leave bruises on her wrists and neck, as though he hopes she might miss one and neglect to
Glamour it away.

And she's not sure if it's worse that Harry never asks her about it. That she only hears Malfoy's
name brought up in low whispers to Ron or Ginny.

Soon enough, she thinks she'll start hearing her name too.

Why are you doing this? she asks at one point, moments after Malfoy's passed them in the
corridor. After he's pointedly forced himself through the space between her and Ron, in favor of
going around.

And when several minutes pass without response, she adds—

Do you want them all to know?

She expects him to feign innocence, if anything. The way he has all week.

But his answer almost makes her trip over the threshold of the Transfiguration classroom.

What does it matter if they know?

It's Friday evening when Harry comes striding up to the Gryffindor table with a smile on his face.

She panics at first — because he's spent the last several days sitting beneath a cloud of brooding
suspicion, and happiness can only mean he's figured something out.

But a furtive glance reveals Malfoy in his regular spot at the Slytherin table, looking bored with his
nose in a book. Nothing quite scandalous. And as soon as Harry takes a seat, he says, "Professor
Lupin's here visiting Dumbledore. Just saw him."

The surprise wipes all expression from her face for a moment.

"He says he might be able to work it out with the Dursleys so I can stay with him this summer."

Ron is instantly excited, and he starts exploding with plans for Harry to visit the Burrow and go
flying on weekends and come to see Charlie in Romania. All things he couldn't do while living
with the Dursleys.

It's her first instinct to be happy for him, too — but the smile is only halfway across her face when
her gaze catches on the open doors to the Great Hall.

Dumbledore is there with Professor Lupin, gesturing towards the staff table. Likely inviting him to
join them for dinner.

But Lupin isn't looking at Dumbledore.

His eyes are narrowed, slowly panning across the hall. Searching for someone amongst the
students. His features are dark — twisted by a deep concern. And in the same instant his gaze lands
on her, Tonks appears at his side.

Her breath catches in her throat, and she feels the blood drain from her face.

He is not here to visit.

 Pity / Blame

As a child, she always dreamt of being extraordinary.

Of standing out from the crowd. Unique. Special.

Strange to think what she would give, now — just to be normal.

The normal students are likely curled up in bed at this hour, sleeping or very nearly there. But she's
sitting in Dumbledore's office, dead center — and they're staring at her like a bird in a cage.

Tonks barely even said hello.

Professor Lupin hasn't said a word to her.

In fact, so little has been said all around that she's not even sure why she's been summoned. Only
that it's something to do with the bond.

Professor McGonagall is present, hovering sort of nervously behind Hermione's chair. Her energy
is maternal. Concerned. As though she can't fathom what more could've possibly gone wrong for
one student.

Dumbledore sits patiently at his desk, and the clock ticks through every second of silence.

They're waiting.

Lupin came to Dumbledore with unknown concerns — Hermione only knows that he demanded to
see her and 'the boy with the sickness.' That's how he phrased it. The boy with the sickness.

Dumbledore sent a portrait to fetch him, and any moment now, that gilded office door will open
and Tonks will see the face of her cousin.

Hermione keeps trying to meet her eyes — staring at her across the room where she sits on the sofa
with Lupin. But she's the only one not looking back. Resolutely looking away, in fact, her hair a
faded, melancholy blue.

What part of her letter was it, she wonders, that brought them here. Clearly they both read it. Even
warped by the clench of his fist, Hermione recognizes her own handwriting on the envelope in
Lupin's hand.

Perhaps he intercepted it.

The hinges on the door creak, and with what seems like a collective intake of breath, all eyes divert
from her to the threshold.

Snape enters the office first — the obligatory Head of House — and for a moment, Malfoy is
hidden by his dark shadow. But then he steps into the light, tie halfway undone and shirt untucked,
as though he was in the process of undressing for bed when the portrait found him. Hermione
watches Tonks stiffen in her periphery.

"What is this?" Malfoy demands, taking in the present company. His eyes find her first, almost
instinctively, then flit to Lupin and Tonks — hesitate on Tonks — only to settle at last on the
Headmaster.
"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy," says Dumbledore in a placid voice. "Please have a seat."

She can sense the accusation in him as he slides into the chair next to hers. A building certainty
that this is somehow, some way her fault. It makes her scoff under her breath.

Bold sentiments coming from the one who spent the past week slathering proverbial targets all
over himself in front of Harry.

She glances away when he looks sideways at her, only to find Tonks gaping at the two of them.
Her hair and lashes have blanched a concerning shade of pale gray, and Hermione can see her reach
for Lupin's hand — subtly squeezing his wrist.

"You're the one with the sickness?" Lupin asks flatly. Those sad, tired eyes are far more alert now,
seeming to assess every detail of Malfoy's person.

Malfoy doesn't answer. Just stares back for a moment, then turns to look at Dumbledore.

"So — what, then? Is this public information now?"

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape warns, but Malfoy's tone doesn't sweeten.

"Should I be preparing a press release for the Daily Prophet?" He crosses one leg over the other
and sits back in his chair, voice taking on a falsely dignified edge. "Yes, good afternoon, ladies and
gentlemen. As I'm sure you're aware, I am the sole heir to the Malfoy bloodline, but I thought you
should also know that I'm a psychotic, murderous half-breed—"

"Mr. Malfoy."

Dumbledore raises a hand at Snape, suggesting he's taken no offense.

"My boy," he says, smiling gently. "I think you'll find that Professor Lupin learned of your
condition by pure coincidence."

"Coincidence," Malfoy echoes, doubtful.

"Yes. Happenstance." That smile brightens. "The letter was addressed to his wife, and he opened it
by mistake."

Hermione's eyes flash at Tonks, watching the guilt seep across her face.

"What letter?" Malfoy demands.

"I told you I was writing to Tonks," Hermione mutters, looking at the floor now. Scuffing the
carpet with the tip of her shoe.

She can feel his gaze burning into her temple when he looks sideways. "Yes, but he told me—" He
stops himself quickly, amending the statement. "I — I was under the impression you weren't
hearing back."

"I wasn't."

Tonks speaks for the first time, and in earnest. "Hermione — I tried to contact you. I swear, I did. I
wrote you at least half a dozen times, but you—"

"I wrote you, too. But I never got a response. Not in weeks."
"A simple explanation for all of this, I think." Dumbledore's voice stretches over theirs, fingers
lacing together on his desk. "A mix-up with the post, I'm sure. I shall have the Owlery inspected
—"

"None of this matters," Professor Lupin announces suddenly, a bit louder than necessary. He seems
to realize as such, clearing his throat and flashing Dumbledore an apologetic glance. "Forgive me,
Professor. But as you know, a few missing letters are not why I'm here."

"Why are you here?"

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape barks again. "This is my final warning."

Professor Lupin relaxes his grip on the wrinkled envelope, unfolding it. "Because of this." And at
long last, he turns that solemn gaze on her. "Because of what you wrote, Hermione."

That sense of blame surges within Malfoy again, and she has to clench her jaw to ignore it.

"You mentioned a book," Lupin says. " The Will & The Way. And a ritual."

Panic. Just a small spark of it, like an ember escaping from the fireplace. She swallows thickly and
nods. "Yes."

"Who sent it to you?"

That ember ricochets and multiplies. She can feel the blood draining from her face. "You..." A
desperate glance at Tonks. "You did."

The grave, downward tilt of Tonks' brow is all the answer she'd ever need.

"I didn't send it to you, Hermione," she whispers. "That book is—"

"Dangerous," Lupin finishes for her, and the look on his face is similar. Eclipsed by a foreboding
shadow. "I can't imagine how it came to be in your possession, but The Will & The Way is not
common magic. It's not even recognized magic. The book itself was stricken from all official
Wizarding records shortly after its creation. It's classified as Dark Arts."

Her stomach clenches. A painful, disbelieving lurch.

"I...I don't..."

I told you.

Malfoy's tone isn't necessarily cruel, but it's the absolute last thing she needs in this moment — and
she gives her head a shake as though to rid him from it.

"I don't understand."

Lupin sits forward. "Whoever gave you that book is no friend to you, Hermione. Nor to Malfoy. Its
rituals are widely untested, and I've heard its magic systems compared to that of making a Horcrux.
Dark — violently dark, dark magic."

Professor McGonagall's hand suddenly grips her shoulder. To comfort, most likely, but it only
makes her jump.

Horcrux...
She knows the term. Read about it once, many years ago. She still remembers the way her skin
crawled.

"What do you suggest, Professor?" Dumbledore asks calmly, unshaken. She'd almost forgotten he
was in the room with them.

Lupin leans back, sweeping a hand through unkempt hair. "I'll need to see the book, I'm afraid.
Study its properties. If there's to be any hope of undoing what's been—"

"No!"

"—No."

The office goes silent, because they've spoken at the same time. She and him.

She hadn't even meant to — instinct forced the word from her throat. And a sideways glance at
Malfoy reveals something similar.

They've both surprised themselves.

Lupin's eyes flash at the reaction, equal parts intrigued and horrified. His gaze shifts from her, to
Malfoy, and then back as the weighted hush endures.

But when Hermione can finally bring herself to open her mouth again, Malfoy beats her to it.

"You can't," he says in a quiet voice — nothing like the snark of minutes ago. "You can't break the
bond. We tried it once, and it was—" The sentence dies in his throat, and when she looks to him,
his face is set in a grimace. "No. No, you can't undo it."

"I wasn't suggesting it," Lupin replies, a little more guarded now as he watches Malfoy. "Nothing
can break your bond at this point. From what Tonks has told me—"

Tonks winces.

"—the two of you have been bonded for over half a year. Anything that might've been reversible in
that regard is now permanent."

Something akin to dread would be an appropriate response to this, but the only thing she feels is
relief. A small fraction of that panic subsiding. And she might've thought to search Malfoy's
feelings, too, had he not saved her the trouble.

"Good," he says flatly, and her gaze snaps to him.

He doesn't turn to meet it, but she knows he can feel her eyes on him. Knows he's only just
realizing he said it aloud, color blooming to the surface and staining his cheeks scarlet.

But if he planned to take it back, he never gets the chance.

"The rituals are my concern, now," Lupin explains. "I'll need to see the book. From there, I can
determine whether it might still be possible to annul what dark magic has been performed."

Annul. An interesting choice of word. Her gaze drifts downward inadvertently, finding the fourth
finger on her left hand as she flexes it.

Lupin has never seen the book himself. He doesn't know what's been scrawled in the margins.
"Not to be undone," she murmurs under her breath.

"What was that, Miss Granger?"

Startled from her daze, she looks to Dumbledore — to the subtle, not-quite-there smile on his face.

She clears her throat. She might as well say it.

"According to the book, the Descent can't be undone. Someone made a note of it on the ritual
page."

Tonks lets out a shuddering breath, dropping her head into her hands as her hair turns a brilliant
shade of vermilion. "This is all my fault. If I'd have told Remus sooner, we could've—"

"It is not your fault," Lupin insists.

It's my fault, Hermione thinks.

"There, now." Dumbledore taps gently on his desk. "Let us not assign blame. I myself do not
believe there is a single guilty party in this room."

Then, with a snap of his fingers, a house-elf appears.

"Headmaster, Sir," he squeaks as he dips into a little bow.

Hermione bristles. He shouldn't have to bow.

"Good evening, Monty," says Dumbledore. "Would you be so kind as to fetch a book from Miss
Granger's dormitory? A large tome, I believe — entitled The Will & The Way?"

"Of course, Headmaster, Sir."

With another bow and a loud pop, he disappears once more.

"I could've fetched it myself, Sir," Hermione mumbles.

"No need."

Lupin is leaning forward again, brow creased. " The Descent," he says, like the words are foreign.
"Can you explain it to me, Hermione?"

At this, she can't help but glance to Malfoy. For guidance? For reassurance? She's not sure.

He looks back with a gaze that's guarded and uncertain, a question in his eyes.

How much do they admit?

"It's alright," Lupin urges. "I promise you, we're just here to help."

She swallows hard, throat suddenly tight, unconsciously wringing her hands in her lap.

"It's — meant to fortify the bond. An exchange of life force."

"Life force..." Tonks echoes, just a breath.

"Malfoy performed it to keep me alive," she says, fixing her gaze on the carpet once more. "And
then I — I just completed it. Sealed it, I suppose."
"Keep you alive?"

She can feel Malfoy tense up at Lupin's question. Clearly, Dumbledore hasn't told him everything.

Peeling the skin from her cuticle, she tries to phrase it gently.

"There was a bit of an accident, the last full moon. Well — two full moons ago, now."

Malfoy laughs. A cold, unfriendly, humorless laugh. "In Granger's world, having been very nearly
killed by me is a 'bit of an accident.'"

Another smothered, gasp-like noise from Tonks.

"What happened?"

"I..." Her cuticle starts to bleed, and she smears it down the length of her thumb. "I got in the way."

Now, Malfoy scoffs — and it appears his very limited reserve of self-control is spent. "Right, let's
just skip over the sugarcoating, yeah? There's no point." Leaning forward in his chair, he mirrors
Lupin's pensive posture. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of them — eyes lit like a
furnace. "She didn't get in the way. She came to help me. And I hunted her down for something
like nine hours. We played hide and seek until she couldn't run any further, and then I broke her leg
to make sure of it. Just—" He makes a fist in front of him. Swiftly, like he's trying to strangle the
air. "—snapped it clean. And as if that wasn't enough, I also severed most of the arteries in her arm,
and I probably would've started eating her if I'd had more time. She was concussed and delirious
and bleeding from everywhere. I can still smell it, sometimes — all over my hands. That's her 'bit
of an accident.'"

By now, Hermione's squeezed her eyes shut, and every beat of her heart is painful. Wrenching. She
has no notion of the looks on the other faces in the room, but she doesn't care to know. She can just
picture his.

"You can't say it like that," she breathes.

"Like what?" Malfoy snaps. "Like it's the truth?"

"Like it was your fault. Like you wanted to do those things to me."

"In that moment, I swear to you I did."

"Enough," says Lupin suddenly. "Both of you."

Forcing herself to open her eyes, she looks up to find him staring hard at Malfoy.

"Forgive yourself," he says. "From someone who's experienced what you have, that is the best
advice I can give to you. In time, you will come to understand that the full moon takes away your
agency. All manner of want and intention and fault. It is a long, trying and painful process, but you
will come to understand that there is a part of you that simply is not you. And carrying around
borrowed guilt will ruin your chances."

Malfoy's glare is warped, in part, by the side of him that actually wants to listen. "My chances of
what?" he demands.

Lupin's hand, whether intentionally or not, finds Tonks' by his side, gripping hard. "Of happiness.
Of the human experience."
Malfoy has noticed their hands, too — and his narrowed eyes twitch at the sight, lingering for a
moment before he forces himself to look away.

"And you," Lupin's gaze shifts targets, finding her. "You are going to have to learn to let him blame
himself. Because you would, if it were you in his position."

Her breath catches at the simplicity of it. An undeniable truth.

"I know very little about the nature of your relationship." He's addressing them both, now, and his
tone reminds her of the one he used to use in Third Year. When he was teaching something he
believed to be vitally important. "But I can tell you this is a universal struggle amongst paramours.
Pity and blame."

She opens her mouth, but evidently he isn't finished.

"That being said—" His eyes return to Malfoy. "You used the phrase 'hide and seek.' Why?"

Malfoy sits back, posture going slack as he rests a hand over his eyes. "Because I was toying with
her — it. It was toying with her. It kept telling her to run. Calling her a prize. Like the whole thing
was a game."

Her memory dredges up those same words in the monster's voice, making the hair stand up on the
back of her neck.

Lupin scoots to the very edge of the sofa, brows sinking even lower, if possible. "It was talking to
her?"

"It never stopped. I felt what it felt. Goading her was half the fun of it."

"I don't—" Lupin breaks off, blinking and readjusting where he sits. "You're saying you heard its
voice?" He's looking at Hermione now. "Fully transformed?"

"Yes."

She'll never forget it.

"That's not possible—"

With a loud crack, Monty the house-elf returns.

"Apologies, Headmaster, Sir," he chirps, dipping into another low bow. "But Monty could find no
such book in Miss Hermione's quarters, Sir."

"I'm sorry, I should've said something." Hermione gives the elf a solemn smile. "It would be in my
book bag, which is on my—"

"But Monty checked your book bag, Miss," he says, twiddling his little thumbs.

Lupin tenses up, anger bubbling to the surface so swiftly it's almost startling. "They know we're
here," he snaps, pounding his fist against the arm of the sofa.

Malfoy pulls a face. "Who knows you're here?"

"Whoever gave her that book," Lupin hisses. "They must know we're here, and they didn't want it
taken."
Odd.

Hermione realizes she should be alarmed by this — anyone would be. But she finds she couldn't
force panic if she tried. Can't even bring herself to suspect anyone.

When Lupin pounds his fist again, Tonks takes hold of his arm, whispering, "Remus," and then
something more hushed — inaudible — into his ear.

"Perhaps there is some logical explanation," says Dumbledore, but Lupin appears consumed by the
idea.

"No," he murmurs, shaking his head and staring off at nothing. Calculating something in his mind.
"No, it's no coincidence."

Dumbledore turns to the house-elf, still hesitating in the center of the office. "Thank you, Monty.
You may go."

"What should be done, Albus?" Professor McGonagall's hand remains clamped on Hermione's
shoulder, grip near-bruising with concern, though she probably doesn't realize.

Lupin speaks over the response, not ready to give in just yet. "You said 'potent.'" He angles
himself to face her, threading his fingers together so tightly, they go white and bloodless. "In your
letter, you said The Descent's effects were potent. Can you describe them?"

Again, she finds herself glancing to Malfoy.

What can she say, really?

We're ravenous, the two of us. Can't keep our hands off each other. I'm at my strongest when I can
still taste him in my mouth.

Malfoy's eyes flash, as though he might've heard these thoughts. His chest rises as he gathers a deep
breath, and he gives a barely discernible shake of his head.

"We..." She clears her dry throat, turning back to Lupin. "We have to stay close to one another.
Otherwise, we grow weak."

Lupin squints, as though analyzing every word for hidden meanings.

"We can use each other to heal more quickly from injuries. To mend ailments."

Instantly, she regrets her phrasing.

"Use?" Lupin repeats. "In what sense?"

"I—" she stumbles. "Use the presence of one another, I mean. Strength by proximity."

Strength through the taste of blood.

"That's the whole of it?" His tone is doubtful.

Not by a mile.

"Yes." She straightens up a little, injecting courage into the slant of her spine. "Why wouldn't it
be?"
"Dark magic is not usually so lenient." He sighs and sits back, sweeping a hand through that
rumpled hair again. "Without the book, I've no idea what we're dealing with here. No idea what
can be done to—"

"What if nothing needs to be done?"

McGonagall's grip on her shoulder falters, and where most other gazes are incredulous,
Dumbledore's is intrigued.

"What?" Lupin recoils, tone suggesting he can't believe she'd ask such a thing.

Part of her can't believe she would either, but it's not the part that controls her tongue.

"Dark Arts or not, that book saved my life," she says in a quiet voice. "Its rituals have only ever
made me stronger, and the effects of The Descent tend my sore leg." She swallows the saliva
pooling on her tongue, growing more timid every moment. Realizing how she sounds.
Nevertheless, the words still manage to escape. "Perhaps dark does not always mean wrong."

At this, something swells in Malfoy across the bond. Something dense and conflicted that she can't
quite pinpoint.

"In this case, it does," Lupin insists. "There aren't enough studies of paramour bonds to begin with.
Adding Dark Arts into the equation is inconceivably dangerous. I simply cannot overstate this —
you mustn't perform another ritual. Not a single one from those pages."

"How can I, if the book is gone?" Her voice is flippant and defensive. Almost offended, actually
— and she sees the instant suspicion flood through Lupin's eyes. "I didn't hide it, if that's what
you're thinking."

She sounds nothing like herself. Shrinks where she sits a moment later, an apology poised on her
tongue. But to her surprise, it's Snape who speaks.

"Perhaps, in this instance, Miss Granger is right."

Unfamiliar words, coming from him. He steps out from the corner of the office, making himself
more present.

"Perhaps...for the time being, leaving things as they are is the best option."

Lupin goes rigid at this, unbothered to temper his glare. Utterly saturated with distrust. "Why,
Severus? Would that benefit you somehow?"

"It may benefit the students," Snape drawls, lips pursing. "And that, after all, is the point — is it
not?"

Lupin's eyes simmer, lingering on him for a moment before yanks his gaze to Dumbledore. "At the
very least, I need to run some tests. Charms to check for dark magic in their systems—"

"No," says Malfoy, suddenly calm. Sure of himself.

Lupin balks. "No?"

"No," he repeats, deadpan. "I don't consent to that."

"Neither do I."
Another thing she doesn't realize she planned to say until well after she's said it, and Tonks looks
more surprised at her than anyone.

But she doesn't. She doesn't consent.

If any dark magic runs through her veins, she finds she doesn't feel threatened by it. And she
doesn't want it taken away.

Malfoy glances at her, and she glances back at him, and something wordless spans across that
distance.

The sentiment is almost — protective.

"Already defending it..." Lupin whispers, eyes glazing over. And Dumbledore must see the way his
hands curl into fists, because within seconds, he's attempting to control the blast radius.

"It's quite late, Remus. Perhaps we could take this up at a more reasonable—"

"I need a clean line of communication," Lupin cuts him off, glare skidding across the two of them
before suddenly returning to Snape. "Clearly, the post is unreliable. And I need to be available,
should anything take a turn for the worst. I am the one with experience, here, after all."

Snape's eyes tighten, only blinking when Dumbledore claps his hands together loudly.

"I shall set up a private Floo Network," he announces, as though inspired by his own ingenuity. "In
the Head Girl's Dormitory, perhaps? I believe Miss Granger is already familiar with it."

Quick thinking on his part. Almost too quick.

In the end, Lupin has to be coaxed a great deal to warm to this solution. Only after he's been
assured several times over that they can communicate whenever necessary — and that he'll be
notified immediately if the book resurfaces — do his stiff shoulders relax.

She and Malfoy receive the same assurances, and from there, the impromptu meeting disbands at
an awkward pace.

Snape vanishes without preamble, taking his leave of the office at once. Professor McGonagall
quietly excuses herself — gives Hermione a final, heartening squeeze and a false smile, but appears
ill-at-ease as she steps across the threshold.

And, making his best attempt at small talk, Professor Dumbledore urges the rest of them to
meander out into the dimly lit corridor. Behaves as though everything has been solved, even when
it's abundantly clear that almost nothing has. Malfoy brushes past him with a scoff, disappearing
into the dark just as Dumbledore traps Lupin into a conversation about the most recent renovations
to the Hogwarts Grounds.

And it seems to give Tonks the window of opportunity she was waiting for.

Abruptly appearing at Hermione's side, she takes hold of her arm and tugs her a little ways down
the corridor. Lupin's eyes follow them pointedly, but at this distance, they're out of earshot.

"Hermione, I just — you need to know how sorry I am. I should've — I..." Her hair fades to a
frustrated plum-purple as she searches for the right words. "I should've realized something was
wrong when I stopped hearing from you. I should've been a better—"
"Tonks, it was hardly your fault." Hermione forces a smile onto her face, even when her mind is
racing. "You couldn't have known. And anyhow, I'm fine. Nothing bad has—"

"Hermione, you can't be serious. From the way he put it, you were on death's door," Tonks insists.
"It's entirely my fault."

Hermione's gaze finds the floor, voice dropping to an almost-whisper. "Just as Professor
Dumbledore said — that was no one's fault."

Tonks is hardly listening. "I should've been more insistent. Shouldn't have kept it from Remus in
the first place. I—"

At this, she can't help but look up again, a spark of old curiosity flaring to life in her gut. "Why did
you keep it from him?"

Tonks' face warps into a grimace. "I...thought it would be safer," she admits after a long pause. "I
think I've told you how Remus feels about his condition. How he feels about me — my
involvement. He doesn't see the beauty in it. Never has. And I thought I could help you without
tainting your view of the whole thing."

"Beauty..." Hermione echoes, testing out the word.

It teases a small smile onto Tonks' lips, and her coloring goes a soft, rosy pink.

"So." Her tone shifts, lightening a fraction. "My cousin, then..."

A small surge of blood rushes to her cheeks, and she tries to play it down. "Neither of us expected
it."

Tonks' shake of the head is encouraging. "No one can expect it. It's — it's a natural phenomenon.
Something not meant to be fully understood or explained. Or at least, that's my belief."

Hermione can't think of a response to this — nothing that warrants speaking aloud. And a heavy
silence stretches between them.

"...Is he good to you?" The question is quiet when it comes. As though Tonks is afraid of
overstepping.

"We're horrible to each other."

Tonks cocks her head to the side. A confused little tilt. "But...the way you both defended the bond
—"

"Mostly," Hermione amends. "Mostly, we're horrible to each other." She glances at her shoes
again, tracing the pattern in the flagstone. It might be embarrassing to admit to anyone else. "But
then — sometimes...I think I can't stand to be away from him. Even without the pull of The
Descent."

She doesn't have to look up to feel the heavy weight of Tonks' gaze.

"Then you want to stay with him?" It's not an accusation, and yet her tone is somewhat baffled.
"You do realize that paramours are—"

"Forever, I know," she murmurs.

"And you..."
"I think I could come to terms with it." She swallows the words the first time. "With him.
Sometimes — I think it might even be nice."

She has more questions for Tonks. Too many to count. But at this thought — at the word forever
— her mind strays.

And in the end she can't seem to phrase a single one.

She departs from that corridor outside Dumbledore's Office with the request to contact them often
— as often as she wants — but also with Lupin's unsatisfied gaze fixed on her back.

It's not really clear whether he suspects her of something. Of lying. Of hiding the book.

It's not clear why any of this matters so much to him.

Certainly, he was an excellent teacher — and she did think to go to him first, all that time ago. But
Harry was always his prime concern. Not the bushy-haired know-it-all always trailing at his side.

It's a wonder he made the journey at all, cursed book or not.

The book...

She can't really bring herself to fear it, regardless of what Lupin said. Can't picture darkness when
she pictures its weathered cover.

If anything, she worries for it. Worries what harm might come to it in the hands of someone else.

Worries where it's gone.

Halfway to Gryffindor Tower, she realizes she doesn't really care to return to her House. Not to a
dormitory filled with Lavender and Ginny and anyone who might think to ask where she's been.

She should thank Dumbledore, really.

His suggestion earlier reminds her of the Head Girl's Dormitory, and when she reaches the Seventh
Floor Corridor, she slips behind the tapestry of the governess without a second thought.

Stripping out of her clothes and tossing her wand onto the nightstand, she crawls into that massive
bed somewhat dazed. Refuses to address any of the pressing thoughts swirling about in her mind.

The mattress is soft against the slow-building aches she's accrued throughout the evening, having
neglected to feed. Tucking the pillow beneath her chin, she lays on her side and watches the
waning moon slip behind the clouds through the window, wondering if Malfoy aches too.

Sometimes it's hard to differentiate between his sensations and her own.

She drifts off eventually, only to wake about an hour later — judging by the position of the moon.

It's the click of the door that rouses her.

And she doesn't have to look. Doesn't have to sit up and turn around, or cast a charm to see in the
darkness.

The moment the persistent throbbing of her leg fades to a barely-there pulse, she knows it's him.

A nervous breath swells in her lungs, lingering there for a long moment as she listens to his
movements. Hears the silken swish of his tie sliding off his neck. The thud of his belt buckle
hitting the floor.

She knows better than to play at being asleep this time.

"Did you..." she asks against the pillow, her throat dry from sleep. "Did you need to feed?"

Because certainly it was the instinct that drew him in. How else would he have found her?

But those movements go still at the question, and after a long while he answers —

"No."

Another pause. When he speaks next, he's a great deal closer.

"Well — yes. Always. But that's not why I came."

The bed sheets suddenly tug against her, and her breath escapes in a shuddering wave — because
he's getting in.

"Why did you come, then?" she whispers, feeling the mattress sink beneath his weight.

Perhaps he's here to say 'I told you so.' To make accusations.

To blame her for getting them tangled up in the Dark Arts.

But she's not dressed. And neither is he, if she heard correctly.

Why would he do that if he wanted to talk?

An answer doesn't come. Just another long expanse of silence — possibly two minutes or more. He
settles and goes still beneath the sheets, about the space of a human body left between them if she
had to guess. She listens to him breathe, unable to make herself turn around. Unable to repeat the
question.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere —

"You're cold."

It's a statement, not a question — and quite suddenly, that space vanishes. All of the space as well
as all of the calm she possesses.

Malfoy slides himself forward, pressing up against her in a wash of heat and weaving his arm
around her naked waist.

Gasping, she forces out, "You don't need to—"

"When you're cold, so am I," he says flatly. His voice is quiet, though not quite a whisper, and the
warmth of his breath sweeps the hair off her neck. "I thought you'd figured that out by now."

She fights a shiver. The lack of fabric pressing against her skin suggests he's completely naked.
There's just his flesh, warm and smooth, heating blood she hadn't realized was chilled until now.

He's only ever done this once.

Just that night in her childhood bedroom, and even then, only when she asked him to.

Immediately, her mind enters a full tailspin, trying to sort out his intentions. And it becomes
something of a challenge just to breathe with his arm where it is. Every inhale makes her skin graze
his.

"What are you doing?" she whispers.

Malfoy's chest rises steadily against her back, his heart rate even and languid compared to her
thundering pulse. She tries not to think about how lovely he smells. Not of perfumes or colognes,
but of his own blood. Of that briny, sticky sweetness she has intimate knowledge of. Knows the
taste of.

"Nice," is the word he murmurs beside her ear after yet another long pause.

"What?"

"That's what you said. Nice. It might even be nice. I heard you."

Her synapses race to make sense of it, and she's left with the memory of him stalking off into the
darkness after leaving Dumbledore's Office.

Darkness he must've lingered in, if he heard what she said to Tonks.

"Oh," she manages at last. A breath. Barely audible.

"You think it would be nice?"

His thumb draws a distracting circle over the skin of her ribs, just beneath her breasts. She's not
even sure he knows he's doing it — but it makes it very difficult to speak.

"I..." She clears her throat as gently as possible, afraid to shift her body too much against him. "Yes,
I think it...could be. If we worked at it."

A small surge of satisfaction greets her from Malfoy's side of the bond, as though he's pleased he
got her to admit to it. Shortly thereafter, his thumb stops painting those shapes and his hand flattens
out against her, adding pressure. Pulling her back into him and filling the space between, as if there
was really any space to begin with.

And it's then that his chin dips and his mouth finds the slope of her neck, nose nestling the back of
her ear.

Her breath hitches as his lips close over the flesh — a barely-there, pressureless kiss. "How would
we work at it?"

The words vibrate against her skin, and she finds herself tensing up. Clenching her thighs and
rubbing her ankles together.

"...What?" she breathes, suddenly forgetful.

Accommodating for once, Malfoy drags the tip of his nose down the length of her neck and then
back up again, repeating himself as he does it. "How would we work at it?"
Squeezing the hand that lies against her pillow into a fist, she clings to her senses. Forces herself to
give him a real answer. A useful answer.

Not just what that sudden ache between her legs might want her to say.

"For starters..." Her voice trembles only slightly, and she tries not to lean into the kiss as he mouths
at her pulse point again. "You could stop provoking Harry."

Malfoy's lips pause against her skin, the only movement that of his hand spanning her ribcage and
coming to rest between her breasts — an intentional miss. "Why?"

She catches herself tilting her head back. Unconsciously trying to encourage his mouth to continue.
"Because sooner or later, he's going to sort it out."

"Honestly, Granger." Malfoy huffs a laugh, and at the moment she doesn't really care if it's at her
expense. The wash of heat it sends across her skin is more than worth it. "Do you really think
Potter reads?" His fingers splay out, grazing sensitive flesh. Forming a wide, star-like position
against her sternum. "Do you really think he knows anything about dogs like me and how they
choose their mates?"

He speaks against her skin the whole time, and on the word 'dogs,' his teeth graze a spot he's bitten
into before. His idea of a private joke, perhaps.

Part of her wishes he'd bite down now. She wouldn't mind.

"He's smarter than you give him credit for."

A scoff. "I'd rather not hear about Potter's many attributes." The warmth of his mouth vanishes for
a moment. "I don't care."

Gathering a breath, she snakes the hand not trapped beneath her pillow up to find his, lightly
resting her fingers over the ones pressed against her chest. "Then perhaps you might stop just
because it bothers me?"

He hesitates. Considers lying for a moment — she can feel it — only to opt for the truth in the end.

"And what if I liked that it bothers you?"

She decides to play her hand then. Imbues herself with false confidence and carefully shifts her
hips backwards so they chafe against his — against the distinct, hard warmth of him. "Do you like
that more than you like this?"

Malfoy's breath escapes in a hiss, a bright burst of pleasure burning across the bond from his end.

"No," he whispers.

"Then stop doing it." A clear threat.

"I will." He nods fervently, tucking his face back into the crevice of her neck. "I will. I'll stop. Tell
me what else."

"Really?" She can't help the way her brow raises. Can't keep the faint lilt of humor from her voice.
"One roll of my hips, and you're willing to fix everything you're doing wrong?"

Perhaps this is just the voice of hunger. Perhaps he's only saying what he knows she wants to hear
because he needs to feed. She'd like to believe she's wrong, but there's no way to be certain.
Malfoy is back to kissing her, starting to suck his way along the expanse of her jugular until the
flesh throbs. His hand escapes from beneath hers, shifting a fraction to the right to cup her breast.
Knead at it.

The movement jolts her, surprisingly bold.

"Tell me how we work at it," he demands, panting a little as he breaks away from her throat. That
hand stops kneading and glides adventurously down across her stomach. Down past her navel and
towards her hipbones.

Quickly, she thinks to lift her leg, twisting to block his path with her thigh.

So he clenches that hand into a fist, knuckles resting against her belly, and his thoughts start to seep
through in scattered, breathless fragments.

—supple—

—gorgeous—

—want to—

—just a taste—

—do anything—

—anything—

But even as the ache in her stomach seems to triple, her heart clenches to counter it. A quiet pulse
of fear. A warning.

"Am I gorgeous to you because you want to feed?"

His lips go still again, soft and hesitant against the curve of her shoulder. "...What?"

She swallows thickly. "You're thinking you'd do anything. But is it because you want to feed?"

His pause is long. Painful. And she holds her breath for every second of it.

"I always want to feed," he says, like he did before — only he continues before the disappointment
blooms to life. "But even after I feed, I see your face in my head. Hear your voice and wind up
picturing the shape of you."

She trembles on the exhale.

"I think you've infected me, if I'm honest. I don't know how else to put it. You cloud my mind like
a fever — make me sweat and ache even when I'm nowhere near you. Sometimes I hate it, but
even a good liar couldn't blame it on a ritual — and I'm not a good liar." His throat seems to close
up. He has to swallow hard just to make himself finish. "It has nothing to do with feeding. I'm
realizing it — slowly, I know, but I am."

"Realizing what?" she whispers.

Malfoy hesitates again, lips brushing feather-light over her skin when he eventually forces himself
to get the words out.

"How much the idea of losing this bond makes me sick." That clasped hand at her waist digs in.
Tight — painful. The way someone might hold you if you were dangling from a precipice, and that
grip meant life. Survival.

When he says it again, the words are toneless. Almost inaudible.

"It has nothing to do with feeding."

She hates herself in this moment.

Hates that she's not someone else — someone who might be able to silence those nagging thoughts
at the back of her mind and take what he says at face value. Someone who might hear this and be
enchanted.

She is not enchanted. She's terrified.

Pretty words are so easily spoken. But pretty things? Not so easily done.

And yes, she hates herself — but there's nothing to stop her from saying it.

"Prove it."

Malfoy becomes a statue at her back. So still, it's possible he's not even breathing. Perhaps he
senses the dark turn of her thoughts.

"If you didn't come here to feed, I want you to prove it."

"How?"

A coward wouldn't say it.

A coward might let him kiss her into dizziness and drag her onto her back. Might let him lull her
worries away with more of those pretty words.

A coward would let him have her right now.

But if she is more to him than the blood in her veins, pretty words aren't enough.

Closing her eyes, she speaks in a low whisper and doesn't falter.

"I want you to stand up."

Malfoy's muscles tense.

"Stand up. Get dressed. Open the door — and close it behind you."
 Romantic Notions / Pretty Things

April passes like a strange, potion-induced hallucination — gentle in some ways, and yet
unrelenting in so many others.

Her talks through the Floo with Lupin and Tonks are never the highlight of the week. Ironic now,
considering a few months ago she would've given anything for such a consistent line of
communication. For their guidance.

A few months ago, discussing aspects of the bond at length would've been a great comfort.

Now, it proves tedious.

That night in Dumbledore's Office changed everything, and she finds she has so many more secrets
to keep than she realized. So much to hide.

The book, for instance.

She can't sit there by the hearth and tell them the truth of it. Can't explain the way it miraculously
reappeared — lying there waiting for her on her bed by the time she returned to the Gryffindor
dormitory the next morning.

Because a house-elf would never lie to his Headmaster.

Which means it was undoubtedly missing at one point — and then undoubtedly returned.

This would only make Lupin more suspicious, as well as all the more likely to race back to the
school and pry the book straight from her hands.

And she doesn't want it taken.

No, in fact she becomes so terrified of losing it, she forms a habit of carrying it with her
everywhere. Guarding it, the same way Harry guards that copy of Advanced Potion Making — and
she thinks perhaps she understands his behavior a little better now.

Books as special as these need to be protected.

She begins to wonder if perhaps it somehow concealed itself when Dumbledore sent Monty to
fetch it. There's a cleverness within its pages. Bordering on sentience. She can feel it.

But Lupin's concerns span beyond The Will & The Way, and he seems to have decided that if he
can't have it, picking her brain for every salvageable detail is the next best option. He drills her
endlessly about the aspects of the bond he deems to be abnormal. He's yet to use the word
unnatural, but she thinks it'll inevitably tumble out of his mouth at some point.

As it happens, there is a great deal of difference between the inner voice he and Tonks can hear —
the one Tonks mentioned at Christmas — and the voice of her stranger.

Their voice doesn't argue. Doesn't have its own opinions on things. Doesn't even speak in complete
sentences, as far as she's learned. From the way they describe it, it's truly an amalgamation of the
two of them. A sort of stream-of-consciousness link between their minds.

It doesn't encourage. Doesn't threaten. Doesn't strike deals or make promises.

It simply is.

And the more the gap widens between her own experience and theirs, the more she's forced to
doctor her responses.

"The voice is gone," becomes her token lie. "I don't hear it anymore."

Though, it's not really a lie, is it? Not completely. The stranger has been silent for weeks at this
point, even in the circumstances he seems most likely to interject. But he doesn't feel gone.

It feels like he's sleeping. The way a true wolf might, curled up in a cave to ride out the long winter.
Waiting.

Part of her is afraid to wake him.

Because Malfoy has somehow...thawed in his absence, relaxing into a version of himself she can't
quite describe. One she's certainly never met before. The state of him feels fragile and ephemeral,
and she's terrified that one word from the stranger might snuff it out forever.

This small, gentle flame she's come to like.

He did the unthinkable that night in the Head Girl's Dormitory. The thing she could never have
expected.

He did as she asked.

And the moment that door clicked shut behind him, the nature of their bond fundamentally
changed.

She'll never be sure why. Whether she simply pushed him just enough at just the right time, or —
somehow — she pinched a nerve and exploited a deeper weakness. But however she managed it,
the Draco Malfoy she now passes in the corridors is not the same boy who flaunted blood on his
sleeves.

All at once, he's keeping to himself. Ignoring Harry. Ignoring Ron. Walking with his chin up and
his eyes down, most of his focus suddenly diverted to his studies. And perhaps this in and of itself
isn't all that surprising — after all, he promised as much.

What surprises her is the way he feeds.

Which — that's just it. He doesn't feed. Not a spoonful. Not a drop. If asked, she'd compare what
he does to himself to fasting — and all the while, she sits at banquet.

When they meet in those broom cupboards, those shadows behind statues, those hidden places, it's
always his wrist being offered. His throat presented to her lips. His blood staining teeth and hands.
Happily, she gorges herself on the taste of him, sustained and healthy — practically glowing, she's
so well-fed.

But each time she offers herself in return, he chooses instead to starve. Silently shakes his head,
folding her outstretched fingers back into a fist and tucking that hand away.

His only sustenance is the ghost of hers, passed down to him secondhand through the bond.

And she thinks this might've terrified her — if she were unable to hear his thoughts. Not so long
ago, she would've assumed he no longer liked the taste of her. No longer craved as she does.
But it's what he's thinking as he feeds her...

—give—

—give—

—for her—

—prove that I—

—worth it—

—to give—

—give—

These thoughts aren't frenzied. Not in the way she's witnessed in the past. There's no tinge of
bitterness — no blatant lack of control. He sounds perfectly collected. Lucid and aware. As though
he could truly stop himself at any time, but instead chooses not to.

And she likes that word — choose. It's not so often, with a bond like this, that she finds she gets to
use it.

Even so, pleasant as it is, his behavior makes very little sense.

"Why are you being so generous?"

It takes her more than a week to work up the courage to ask, watching him carefully as he buttons
his sleeve over the wrist she's freshly bruised. Always the right arm — never the left. She wonders
if he does that on purpose.

"Generous?" he echoes, lifting an eyebrow — as though he finds the concept ridiculous.

She leans back against the door of the broom cupboard and fixes him with a steady gaze. "You
know what I'm talking about." And then, when he gives no reply, "I think you misunderstood what
I said that night."

He's now abruptly engrossed in the act of fixing his tie, perhaps just to avoid meeting her eyes.
"How so?"

"I never wanted you to starve yourself."

A scoff as he bends to reach for his bag. "I'm not starving myself, Granger."

She's surprised by her own speed. Manages to prick her finger with her wand before he's fully
straightened up — and by the time he does, it's to the fresh bead of blood she's offering. Held out
just inches from his lips.

"Then eat," she says.

For a moment, his eyes can't help but fix on the blooming scarlet. Like a beacon, briefly
hypnotizing him. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare. But then he breathes out sharply and
comes to his senses, rising once more to his full height.

"I'm proving what you asked me to prove." He takes her wrist in hand, steadying it just long
enough to cast a healing charm. The blood withdraws back beneath her skin, flesh starting to seal
as he lets her arm fall away. "That I don't just want to feed."

"And punishing yourself is the only way to do that?"

He stiffens — a barely noticeable reaction to the words. But through the bond, she can feel the
faintest, most infinitesimal electric twinge.

Exhilaration.

And a fist of disappointment tightens around her heart, because it suddenly makes some sense.

"Right. I forgot," she huffs, posture going slack as she lifts her finger to study the healed wound.
"You're a masochist."

His bag hits the floor then. A loud thud to accompany his growl of frustration. "Oh, for Merlin's
sake — what? What?" Without their silencing charms, he'd be heard across the corridor. "What will
it take to make you believe there might be a moment in which I'm not entirely self-serving? Or is
there nothing I can do?" He runs his hands through his hair. "Are you just — are you always going
to be suspicious?"

"Can you really—"

"No, I can't blame you," he snaps, filling in the blanks. "Of course I can't. But I also can't snap my
fingers and do away with the last five years. I can't just erase our history. It doesn't work like that."

"I know it doesn't, but I—"

"What will it take?"

A silencing demand. A stalemate. He crosses his arms over his chest and forms a stance that
suggests he isn't moving until she gives him an answer.

"For me to trust you?" Her eyebrows lift.

"Yes."

"The truth?"

"Yes."

"Time," she says simply, unable to help a small shrug.

Malfoy doesn't like this answer. Inhales as though to hide his frustration, briefly glancing at the
expanse of floor between the tips of their shoes. And the emotion that rushes through him is swift,
yet unmistakable.

"Why does that make you jealous?"

His jaw tinges red, exposed by the bond, and for a moment he seems to debate with himself
whether or not to answer. Eventually can't manage to hold it in.

"You didn't need time before," he murmurs. "Not when he was here."

"He?"

"Your stranger." The word is a curse on his tongue. "When he was here, you were only too happy
to give yourself to me. Whether for feeding or not." He's still looking at the ground — glaring at it
now. "But now that he's finally given me space, you want me to prove myself. And when I do—"
A humorless laugh. "—when I actually do try to prove myself, I'm apparently doing it all wrong."

"Malfoy..."

"I feel like I'm lost in a maze." His eyes finally meet hers, alarming in their clarity. "Your mind is a
maze, and I have no idea where I'm going. Every path is a dead end."

That fist around her heart clenches to the point of pain, and for a moment she's stripped of her
words.

He looks sad and vulnerable, standing there — like a lost boy waiting to be claimed. And the sight
makes it impossible not to go to him. To give in to a moment of tenderness she's not quite sure she's
earned.

"And here I thought poetry wasn't in your nature," she says quietly, taking his face in her hands
even as he stiffens.

"It's not."

"Then you have a mind for clever metaphors." Softly, her thumb brushes across the swell of his
bottom lip, and she feels his breath hitch against her skin. "Trust takes time to earn. I'll earn yours
as you earn mine, moment by moment. I don't expect you to overwrite the past. And I don't expect
you to starve."

"Then what do you want from me?" It's barely a whisper, his eyes downcast, lashes painting
spiderweb shadows over his cheeks.

"Depth," she says. "Intimacy. A relationship beyond the bond."

Malfoy huffs, and his lips move against her thumb. "What — you want roses?" A sarcastic
question, but no sarcasm in his voice. "Flowers and love letters and pretty things..."

At this, she takes his chin in hand, dragging it downward so his gaze is forced to level with hers.
"Do I look like I care about pretty things?"

"I don't know."

"And that's just it." Freeing him, she takes a measured step back, leaning against the door once
more. His eyes follow her. "We don't know each other. Not in the slightest."

"The Veritaserum—" he counters, but she cuts him off swiftly.

"That was a silly game. A few solitary details I could count on one hand." She shrugs. "I know you
wanted to be a wandmaker, but I don't know you. And I want to."

"How?" Another huff. "By going on dates? We can't be seen together."

Oddly enough, she's shy to say what she does next — out of everything they've discussed.
"Dates...don't have to be in public."

His brows raise, that sad look fading into the background. "That's what you want? A date?"

"Would it be so hard?"
The thick silence that follows is very telling.

Swallowing back a sigh, she heaves her bag onto her shoulder and opens the door behind her.

"Nevermind, then. I'll see you in class," she murmurs, and slips out through the gap.

She's been having strange dreams all month, but this might be the strangest yet.

Because in this dream, she's dancing.

Right hand clasped in a gentle grip and left resting on his shoulder, she spins round and round
across a checker-tiled ballroom floor. He smells lovely — her partner, sweet and smokey fig scent
all-encompassing with her nose tucked into his chest. And though she can't see his face, she
recognizes the voice of the stranger.

He whispers that he misses her.

Whispers that it's all for good reason.

And just before she wakes, he tells her it won't be long.

Malfoy's voice pulls her from sleep. It's around one o'clock — possibly even two in the morning,
and he's speaking to her across the bond.

Granger. Granger, wake up.

Sweeping the hair out of her face, she rolls over in bed and rubs at the corners of her eyes.

Is something wrong?

They didn't feed again after their discussion in the broom cupboard, and perhaps they should have.
He might be feeling unwell.

But as she's searching the bond for any such evidence, he says —

No. Just get dressed.

For a moment, she's ashamed to consider this might be some sort of trap. Something that dark, third
entity would think to orchestrate. It's not often that Malfoy communicates through the bond,
especially this late at night. But this voice is his voice — nothing like that of the monster. And the
full moon is still a week out.

Honestly, he huffs, tracking her thoughts. If I were planning to murder you, I'd be more clever
about it.

Within ten minutes, she's dressed and on her way out. She takes extra care to step lightly as she
passes Lavender's four-poster, and even more care as she pads across the empty common room,
checking every corner for wayward Gryffindors not yet asleep. But there's no one to intercept her.
No one all the way from the portrait hole to the ground floor of the castle's West Wing, where he
asked her to meet him. The Prefects are easy enough to avoid.
Malfoy is standing just outside the double doors in the cold when she arrives, dressed in a thick,
hooded jumper and some expensive-looking padded gloves.

"Granger," is his flat greeting.

"Malfoy," she replies, burrowing inside her coat and shrinking her hands back into the sleeves for
warmth. "What on Earth is going on?"

"Thought you'd forget to bring gloves," he says simply, and a moment later he pulls another pair
from his pocket. Smaller. Light brown leather. "Here." He tosses them to her. "You'll need these."

"For what? " she argues even as she yanks them on all too willingly. "Why are you being so
cryptic? It's two in the—"

"Dates don't have to be in public." Without waiting to see the stunned look on her face, he turns on
his heel, starting off down the dark path towards the Quidditch Pitch. "And we're going flying."

He doesn't hear the end of it.

Not for the entire kilometer walk to the Pitch, making no response save the occasional groan as she
babbles incessantly about her fear of heights. The dangers of flying. The top ten most devastating
Quidditch injuries she's read about in various texts.

She impresses upon him the absolute lunacy of this idea. The indisputable, unchangeable fact that
she will not, under any circumstances, be mounting a broom. And yet, all the while — for reasons
she can't quite fathom — she follows him. Lets him lead the way into the Players' Entrance,
through the labyrinth of corridors beneath the stands, and then straight out onto the freshly
trimmed field.

He only turns to face her when they reach the center of the Pitch.

"—to mention the numerous broom models that have been outlawed for intentionally tossing their
riders into oblivion—"

"Just shut up, Granger. For fuck's sake."

Her mouth closes around a muffled sound of indignation and she crosses her arms over her chest —
because he'd simply have to have the most romantic notions in the world poised on his tongue right
now to sell her on this.

He's off to a rough start.

"First of all, you can learn absolutely nothing about Quidditch from books. All your little statistics
are completely meaningless once you're in the air."

She raises her eyebrows, opening her mouth to list another one she finds particularly noteworthy —
only to get cut off.

"Second — though you might not have noticed, thanks to Potter and all his obscene, broom-
twirling theatrics — I am an incredibly skilled flyer." Tearing his wand from his pocket, he gives it
a flick and casts a quick Summoning Charm under his breath before continuing. "I've been flying
since I could walk, and while — yes, injuries happen — I would pay for that feeling of fucking
incredible, weightless invincibility with a few broken arms any day."

She blinks, suddenly forgetting the other statistic she had primed and ready to go.

"And third—" He pockets his wand and holds his right arm straight out to his side, palm open like
he's reaching for someone hand. "You said you wanted to know me. And I don't think you'll ever
truly know me until you know what I feel when I fly. If you knew me, you'd know that nothing
compares to the rush I get when the world falls out from under me and everything goes out of
focus. You'd know that I don't smile a lot, but I smile up there, because it feels like the one place I
have complete control. I think you should feel that firsthand, and then we might understand each
other better." He cocks his head slightly, clearly listening for something even as he keeps on.
"Because I think you're right. You don't know me. If you did, you'd know that when you fly with
me, I will never — not once, not ever—"

In a dizzying flash, a broom whips through the space between them, twisting to circle him once
before its sleek, black handle flies directly into the grip of his open hand.

"—let you fall."

Her breath catches.

And in the end, she thinks she needs to reassess what she considers to be the most romantic notions
in the world.

Because within five minutes, her arms are belted around his waist and she's half a thousand feet in
the air.

Half a thousand feet, and she can't even close her eyes. Can't remember the fear brought on by
memories of Thestrals and First Year flying lessons. Can't remember what it was like to look down
and think only of death.

Through the eyes of the bond — through him — she looks down and sees life. Feels the flush in
her cheeks from the thrush of wind as he tilts them into a nosedive that might've once paralyzed her
with terror. Feels the delight flaring up inside of him as they gain speed and hears the breathless,
exhilarated laugh bubble out of her own throat as he guides them through corkscrews and triple-
loops.

She can feel the smile on his face, just like he said — even when she can't see past his tall
shoulder.

And she's stunned by the realization that she's wasted so much of her life on the ground.

In the broad view of society, sleeping together on the first date is usually unwise. It's too soon. Too
rushed. Too vulnerable.

She might've agreed with such sentiments, maybe a year ago.

But as he moves inside of her, each thrust met with a sharp, trembling gasp, she's thinking they're
worthy of an exception. Even if it wasn't a date in the traditional sense. Even if it is too vulnerable
to let him fuck her right there on the rough grass of the Pitch, concealed by nothing but the night's
sure darkness.

His hands still smell like the leather gloves he tossed away, heady and intoxicating as he holds her
jaw steady for a kiss. And they're half-clothed and wholly desperate, as though both of them know
exactly how long it's been since the last time. How long it might be until the next. When everything
aligns in just the right way, like it did tonight.

He is so much more sure of himself without a voice inside his head. So much bolder in his grip,
pinning her wrist to the grass. In the beautiful brutality of each slam of his hips.

His senses glow when her fingernails dig into the thin flesh at the nape of his neck. When she drags
them down, carving marks and drawing blood. Through the feedback loop of the bond, she feels
pleasure — not pain. The mark of a true masochist.

And she's too focused on the soft, wounded cries he chokes out against her throat — too tangled up
in the rapturous storm building in the pit of her stomach — to remember to be frightened of what's
to come.

But when they crash over the edge in tandem, and that bright, familiar light explodes around them,
it's not to punishment.

The swells of orgasm are delicate, echoing off one another only once or twice before gently
receding like a tide. Malfoy sinks heavy and exhausted over her, panting — still thrumming with
the aftershocks. That warmth rings through her too, but her thoughts are elsewhere.

She knows what she heard. Moments ago — just seconds before he gave in to it. And they've been
bonded long enough that she can tell the difference between the stranger's voice and his.

It was his voice. She's sure of it. Which makes very little sense.

Because as the ecstasy consumed him, the word he gasped out was, "Paramour..."

The month's full moon is merciful.

Lupin suggests a Sleeping Draught for Malfoy. And though not effective enough to knock him out,
when combined with the Wolfsbane, it forces the tension from his muscles and the anxiousness
from his mind.

She plays him music of his taste from the Room of Requirement — Vivaldi and Dvořák and
Debussy — all the while talking his ear off so he can't be allowed to think about the monster living
beneath his skin. The one that could wake at any moment.

In the end, he falls asleep just before sunrise and never transforms, and for the rest of the month it
seems they're allowed to count their blessings.

Twice more, he takes her for midnight flights — and twice more, she's fucked senseless in the
grass, staring bleary-eyed up at the stars above and wondering how they managed to find some
semblance of ease.
Even her talks with Lupin become more manageable, because Malfoy teaches her how to lie.
Teaches her what to say and how to say it, so it doesn't appear that she's hiding things. A trade he's
far better at than she is.

For once, she rests easy.

And then May arrives — unannounced and furious.

On the first Thursday of the month, she meets Malfoy behind the statue of the One-Eyed Witch.

It's meant to be a quick feeding. Sustenance before a long day of classes. And only recently has he
begun taking blood for himself again, so she really can't fault him for his enthusiasm. His vigor.

Though it's something of a mess.

The shallow incision along the slope of her throat proves unruly, blood leaking onto his hands and
staining their clothes as he sucks at the wound. She has to muffle her gasp against his shoulder
when his teeth clamp down, quiet moan vibrating across her skin.

Her mind goes fuzzy — muscles limp. She listens to his thoughts ricochet, mostly only saying one
thing.

—fuck—

—missed this—

—the taste of her—

—nothing—

—nothing compares—

—nothing—

A slow smile spreads across her face as she rests her chin on his shoulder, gaze unfocused and
glassy. She stares past the looming shadow of the witch's statue to the far wall, for a while not
making sense of the eyes staring back at her.

But then her brows furrow, and moment by dreadful moment, she grows more lucid. Realizes what
she's looking at.

Harry is standing there, just a few feet away. Staring at them slack-jawed, eyes narrowed —
inexplicably holding the Marauder's Map.

Her next gasp isn't one of pleasure, and Malfoy senses it, mouth parting painfully from her flesh so
he can straighten up and look at her.

"What is it?"

She can't respond. Can't even breathe.

But Malfoy must see the angle of her horrified gaze, because he turns to look behind him.

Turns and meets Harry's eyes with the damning crimson of her blood dripping from his chin.
Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!