Chapter Text
It was raining, hard. The Manor's windows were creaking and shrieking, and if Draco Malfoy would close his eyes, he could clearly picture the storm that was brewing outside as his own strained mind. The roof rattled with gusts of wind, and the sound of large droplets of water splashing on its surface completed the scenery.
He straightened up in his chair, refusing to acknowledge the only other presence in the room. Unfortunately for him, his efforts to ignore it were ruined by an obnoxious, lamenting voice that broke the white noise of the falling rain.
"Filthy, dirty mudblood whore, soiling the Manor's floors! Shame!"
The figure curled up against the wall, seemingly unbothered by the screaming wizard, who was peeking from the only picture in the room. He was one of Draco's distant ancestors, though he didn't remember his name - Alistair? Alexander? Either way, it didn't matter.
His headache was growing by the minute, he needed to think, and he definitely wanted the damn wizard to shut the hell up.
The wizard made eye contact with him and angrily gestured towards her, as if encouraging him to do something. One icy glare was enough to reduce his screams to angry mumbles, as the wizard continued to sulk.
One time, as he was younger, maybe seven or eight, wandering through his family's immense gardens, he stumbled upon a small, black ball of fur, curled on the ground, under a rose bush. As he got on his knees to inspect it, a small black head rose from it and two yellow eyes stared intently at him, then it immediately started loudly purring.
It was a black cat. A kitten, to be precise. He took the small animal home, to his parents' utter suspicion. Nobody could tell how it had stumbled into Narcissa Malfoy's garden, and surely nobody apart from him wanted it there.
And Lucius was sure to make it disappear, or at least try to. But no matter how many times the Malfoys tried to get rid of it, no matter how many curses were thrown at it, everything failed. The cat somehow always ended up back in the Manor. They were stuck with it, a common black cat omnipresent in the rooms, a dark sleek shadow watching. It used to only let Draco pet it, but it stopped letting him touch it when he killed for the first time. Maybe it actually felt the cold, or the change inside of him.
As he got up and finally acknowledged her presence, he had the same feeling in his gut. Regardless of his wishes, he was now stuck with the witch.
She raised her eyes and met his gaze, then quickly averted it. He studied her from head to toe for a few seconds, his mind buzzing.
There was no other way to put it, other than Hermione Granger looked like a ghost, like the shell of a person.
The war hadn't been kind to him either, but there was no comparison possible. He had a few scars and he had lost some weight. She looked half dead.
Skin and bones and sick looking, her eyes sunk and her skin pale to the point of being almost translucent. Her bushy mane was still bushy, but now dull and lifeless, as if her entire essence had worn down.
"Granger."
She flinched and he scrunched his nose. What the fuck was he supposed to do with the human equivalent of a beaten dog?
"Granger, get up."
She hesitated, still averting his gaze. Then she slowly rose to her feet, leaning on the wall for support, and he suppressed a surprised gasp.
Because she was almost naked.
Her frail appearance heavily contrasted with what she was wearing. Her body was abnormally thin and heavily beaten, with dark bruises covering entire patches of her skin.
And she was wearing a sheer, lacy black bra, paired with matching underwear. A grotesque, ostentatious invitation to...
No.
Draco inwardly recoiled.
He wouldn't. No matter the punishment, or the torture, or the repercussions, he wouldn't.
He was no rapist. Killer, yes, if he couldn't avoid it, as a last resort, to protect his family. He could even muster up an Imperio, or a Crucio, to save himself or the few people he had an affiliation to.
But not rapist.
So, taking a sharp turn left, he immediately decided to opt out of the situation. That is, he Apparated in his rooms, far away from Granger and the mess she was.
The elves would eventually find her, he figured, and they could sort it out. Give her one of the endless empty rooms in the Manor. He hoped they won't put her in one of the cells.
Either way, he could not - would not - deal with it. Call it disgust, pity or whatever.
***
The elves did sort it out. They must have placed her in an empty room that was far away from his chambers, because for 9 whole days (not that he was necessarily counting), he never ran into her.
And that was good, because Draco did not want to interact with her, as much as he figured she would not want to interact whatsoever with him.
He did talk to Mipsy, one of the many elves serving his family. The elf confirmed that she was regularly fed, was given clothing, and was quietly kept in a part of the Manor that neither his Mother nor his Father would easily access.
In all honesty, it was... way too quiet. Too easy. He was constantly on the edge, expecting her to do something, to try to escape, steal his wand, since hers was broken when she was caught, or whatever. After all, she was Granger. He knew her all too well.
The woman was a bitch and a fighter.
But the next time he saw her, she looked equally as pathetic, if not more so.
As he turned a corner to the library, mentally arguing with himself if checking on her was worth his time and effort, he spotted her sitting down at one of the tables.
She was plopped on the chair, arms on the desk, and she almost looked like she was sleeping. She made no noise when he quietly approached, neither when he bent down to look at her face.
She did not look any better, for some goddamned reason.
The dark purple bags under her eyes indicated a chronic lack of sleep, deeply contrasting with her sickly pale skin, white as paper, as if all the blood has been drained from her.
Three or four huge books of which he could not read the titles, as they were turned away from him, sat closed in front of her.
Upon further inspection, the damned cat was curled in her lap, purring lightly.
In fact, the animal was the first one to acknowledge his presence. That is, as soon as it sensed Draco's presence, it loudly hissed.
Granger was promptly awakened from her lethargic state. As she stumbled to her shaking feet, the cat jumped from her lap, throwing Draco a nasty look that blamed him for the disruption.
And that's when it happened.
Less than two years ago, he had discovered on accident that he had a gift. That gift was a natural talent for Legilimency, and in that particular moment, judging by her... state, Granger was especially easy to read. Occluding was out of the question; her mental walls were not only down, but her thoughts were practically screaming at him.
Because he did NOT want to delve in her head. Unfortunately, it just happened.
Instant regret.
Granger was terrified of him.
Perhaps Draco from years ago would have even enjoyed it, he thought bitterly.
Her immediate thought was that he was there to punish her, for trying to read the books. She had known it was a stupid idea.
What was he going to do? Crucio her, she was certain. Or even beat her the muggle way, punishment for a Mudblood like her.
Or rape her.
He was so close, too close, and she was so vulnerable without a wand. He could...
"You're not going to be able to read them."
"What?"
"The books. They are magically bound to only become readable to the Malfoys, or at the very least to Purebloods. To any other, they either refuse to open or don't show any letters at all."
"Oh."
She looked unsure of what to do or say next.
He did not want to say anything, but he could not refrain himself.
"Why the fuck do you still look like that?"
Her face turned almost gray. He could see her pupils in the dim library light, huge and alert, and her hands trembling. And all he would sense from her mind was sheer panic, mixed with a tinge of shame.
"I asked you a question, Granger."
"They... they put a curse on me."
She made her hands into fists, trying to control the shaking. Her eyes averted his, staring intently at the ground.
Her stalling was making him anxious. Antsy.
"Merlin's balls, spit it out already!"
"I don't know, Malfoy! I... I can only presume, okay? It's not like they walked me through the process!"
Her voice raised half and octave. She looked like a ghost, a ghost that was just about to vomit.
"Something like Amortenia, in a sense. They used your... your hair, I think. They... they cursed me to be addicted to... to you, I think."
Shock was an understatement.
"What?"
"To your presence. Your... your touch, I presume.
His mind went blank. He had no response to that, no snarky remark, nothing.
"To my touch."
"I don't know, Malfoy! I don't, alright?"
"So you want to touch me?"
His tone was neutral. Voice low, tone suspicious. She shook her head, face crumpled with disgust.
"That's the last thing I want to do, Malfoy."
"Suit yourself, Mudblood."
The woman was nuts. He should be the one disgusted to be touched by her! He, the pureblood heir of one of the Sacred 28 families, not her.
If he was honest with himself, he had always known that she would be the death of him, one way or another. Didn't expect it to happen this way, but fate was, just as usual, a cruel mistress.