"Oh, Granger." He sighed, staring down at her. He raised a hand and placed it across her throat, but didn't squeeze; he just left it there. She could feel the heat of it seeping into her skin.
She stared up at him. Even drunk, his expression was a mask. She wasn't sure what he intended to do next. He slid his thumb lightly along her neck and she felt her skin prickle.
He sighed again. "If I'd known what pain you'd cause me, I never would have taken you."
He just stood there, holding her throat. She could feel her pulse fluttering against his hand. She wasn't sure what he meant; if she was supposed to apologise.
She could smell the alcohol on his breath.
"But," he said after a minute, "at this point, I suppose I deserve to burn. I wonder, if you'll burn too."
His face was suddenly close to hers, she could feel the air from his words brushing against her skin.
His lips crashed into hers.
Chapter End Notes
"If You'll Burn Too" by _knar.m_
"I wonder if you'll burn too" by dragonly.art
Chapter 24
Warning: This chapter contains a brief episode of self-harm.
He tasted of firewhiskey.
It was a punishing kiss. The moment their lips touched, he crushed her body against his. His hand on her throat slid back and up to the nape, tangling his fingers in her hair as he deepened the kiss. His other hand reached up and cradled her cheek in the palm of his hand for a moment before it slipped down along her body.
He angled her head up as he kept kissing her. His tongue pushing into her mouth before withdrawing as he nipped her lips. Hard enough to hurt, but not to bleed. Then, when she was gasping for breath, he pulled his mouth away and started kissing along her throat.
Hermione was frozen in shock. Pliant and stunned in his possessive hands.
He was pulling at her clothes. She could feel the outer robe slipping onto the floor, and the top buttons of the dress open as the cold manor air hit her. He ripped buttons off as he exposed her and explored her bared skin.
He was grinding himself against her as he pulled the dress down over her shoulders, stripping her to the waist.
The cold air bit against her skin, and she felt her nipples harden in the cold as his hands darted up to palm her breasts and tease her. His mouth was at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and he was kissing and nipping his way along it when suddenly he reached a spot and she — moaned.
They both froze.
Malfoy wrenched himself away.
He stood there looking at her. She was slumped against the wall, half stripped, and — aroused.
His eyes were wide, as though he'd just become aware of himself. He stayed there looking shocked for several moments before the mask suddenly clicked back into place. His face grew hard and he smirked.
"Apparently you have accepted your place," he said with a leer.
Then he turned on his heel and vanished into the darkness.
Hermione stayed there in shock. She felt frozen, as a cold sense of devastation crept over her.
She was — she had been...receptive. To Malfoy.
Her pliancy hadn't been enforced by the manacles. It hadn't even occurred to her to push him away. It hadn't occurred to her to want to.
He'd kissed her and she'd — let him. She hadn't felt repulsed. It had thrilled something lonely and aching inside of her. Being touched. Someone with warm hands caressing her. It was a longing laced right through the very fiber of her.
Trapped in the manor, she was latching onto any scrap of kindness she could find.
But it wasn't kindness.
Malfoy wasn't kind; he simply wasn't cruel. He wasn't as awful as he could be. He possessed the meagerest shreds of decency.
Apparently, in her fracturing mind, a absence of cruelty was sufficient solace. For her starved heart, it was enough.
A strangled sob tore itself from her, and she gathered her robes around herself and fled back to her room.
Flinging the doors of her wardrobe open, she wrenched out a new set of robes and buttoned them up as rapidly as possible. Then she wrapped her arms around herself for an additional sensation of security. Of decency.
She was better than this.
She wasn't going to let her psychological survival instincts trick her into falling for a monster; into wanting the attention of the person responsible for starting the war; into being receptive to the man who had murdered her friends.
She couldn't let her mind rationalise into falling for her rapist simply because he wasn't as much of a monster to her as he could be.
She couldn't. Wouldn't.
Wouldn't.
Wouldn't.
She could bear being betrayed by her body. She wouldn't let herself be betrayed by her mind.
She'd rather break it.
She had to get out of the manor.
She pressed her hand against the cold window and stared despairingly across the moonlit estate.
Then she drew her head back, and smashed it into the glass as hard as she could.
The unbreakable pane didn't break. Couldn't give.
She drove her head into it again.
And again.
And again.
There was blood streaming into her eyes, but she kept going.
Again.
And again.
An arm closed around her waist, and a hand clamped over both wrists as she was dragged away from the glass.
She fought. Trying to pull her hands free. Digging her toes into the grain of the wood-floor to push herself back.
Sobbing.
"Granger. Don't — don't." Malfoy's voice was close to her ear.
She pulled futilely to free herself as she sobbed and sobbed.
She was so tired of being hurt and alone. She wanted to be done. If she kept existing in that house she was going to try to find solace. Anything but being cold and alone forever and ever.
She wanted to be touched. She wanted to feel safe, even if it was simply an illusion. She wanted it—
But she couldn't.
She wouldn't betray everyone like that. Harry. Ron. Minerva. Ginny...
She wouldn't betray herself like that.
"I can't — can't—" She sobbed, trying to break free again.
"Don't hurt yourself. Granger, that's a command. Do not hurt yourself." Malfoy growled the order as he pulled her further from the window.
She kept struggling.
"Stop."
The order was snarled.
"Stop trying to physically injure yourself." His voice was shaking.
She felt the manacles around her wrists grow hot as he invoked them, and she struggled against the magic.
"No—!" She sobbed as she felt the magic grow until it almost smothered her mind and her body went limp.
She slumped against Malfoy. He released her wrists and wrapped his arm tightly across her shoulders, as though he expected her to suddenly fling herself against the window again.
She just stayed there, shuddering and quietly sobbing in his arms. There was blood sliding down her face and dripping from her lips and chin onto the floor.
"So—" he said in a tense voice after a few minutes. "You found a way around the manacles, I see."
As she hung against him she realised dully that she had.
The compulsions existed in her mind. The order was not to hurt herself, but didn't specify any difference between psychological and physical harm. So — in a state of sufficient mental agony — she had been able to bypass it. She was hurting either way; she couldn't stop her mind from hurting her. The compulsion had been nullified.
It was always in her mind.
Her interpretation of the compulsions had always been what had limited her. The command to be quiet: she had interpreted it as Malfoy not permitting her to speak without permission because she assumed he would be vindictive like that. So she hadn't been able to speak. If she'd interpreted it as something simpler, like not speaking loudly, she could have spoken; unless Malfoy had clarified and specified the compulsion further.