Chapter Text
Coming back to Hogwarts after the War was like watching a mausoleum pretend to be a school. In hindsight, one had to wonder how the grim castle was ever referred as such at all.
The corridors were dark—lights so dimmed they barely cast shadows within their confines. The portraits murmured in hushed tones, eyes following every student closely, probably hoping to sniff out danger before it happened. As if the Ministry's officials hadn't combed the place already. Little chatter and laughter filled the walls. It was eerily quiet, like taking part in someone's wake.
Everyone walked around on edge, carrying unburied remnants of the past inside them. Draco Malfoy was no exception.
He had returned to Hogwarts because there was nowhere else to go.
At the Manor, the echoing halls cursed and screamed at him. His father was rotting in Azkaban; a much deserved sentence in his opinion. As for his dear mother, she was left traumatized, now a shell of her former self. His feet dragged him around his home aimlessly, every step a reminder of the blood and tears that stained their floors. Her blood. Her tears. He doubted they could ever truly be cleansed.
To make matters worse, the outside world still viewed him as a dangerous wizard. As someone who should have been sent to prison, or better for everyone, perished during the battle, never to be seen again.
So, he had returned to school. But, so did she.
The one thing he resented the gods for sparing during this forsaken war. But also, the very thing he desired in ways that scorched his skin until all he felt was agony.
She filled his mind like oxygen filled his lungs.
He didn't know when or how it had happened. Had it all started back when she punched him during Third year? Or was it when she caught sight of his pitiful appearance laying in the girls’ bathroom in Sixth year? Perhaps it was the aftermath of witnessing her being tortured in his home?
He remembered that day so vividly.
Aunt Bellatrix's mad cackles. His mother's narrowed blue eyes, her feet rooted to the ground. His father’s cowardice, shattering all of his beliefs in one fell swoop. But every time the scene clawed its way to the surface of his thoughts, his feelings of powerlessness threatened to swallow him whole.
She had shattered so beautifully, too. Nothing and no one came close to the rawness of emotions he had witnessed from her. He couldn't get the images, the sounds, out of his head. It sickened him as much as it aroused him.
It seemed like her soul wasn't the only one that splintered on that torturous night.
Now, one look in her direction was enough for him to lose track of time. He didn't know how to stop staring at her, so he watched her, always. He learned her silhouette, and the depth of her shadows, like one does when exploring their new home. She was to be his new residence. A place to lodge his ruined soul and let it fester until it consumed her.
And him. He wanted this awful need to consume him too.
Every stare, every step, drove him instinctively to push for more. To discover all the hidden parts of her being that she so desperately wished no one noticed. To pluck every layer of her mind like petals on a flower, until nothing was left but his rampage through her thoughts.
Escaping him was not an option. He'd find her through every single attempt.
He told himself it was curiosity. Until it wasn't. How could it be when he kept going back and forth between touching her and tearing her open? To keep her safe, forever in his arms, to break her in hundreds of pieces so no one could ever make her whole again.
One thing he knew for sure, Draco would not, could not, ever let her go.
His malady—Hermione Granger.
Draco sat across the Great Hall before class like he did every morning. He pretended not to stare at her petite form, hunched over a book; a rather controversial one at that. Who would have thought the Gryffindor Princess was into dark witches and wizards' retellings? While that thought might have momentarily distracted him, it was quickly replaced by other and more interesting ones.
Like how her brown curls covered almost all of her face, barely leaving enough space for her eyes. Or how she blew them off when they threatened to overpower her.
What he wouldn't give to run his fingers through her hair. The look of shock she'd give him when he pulled hard on her locks, making her gaze meet his. He'd wrap his fist around the strands while he mercilessly pounded into her tight cunt. Would she scream for him to stop? Would she dig her fingers in his skin to hurt him as much as he hurt her? No matter. His face would still be buried in her curls, smelling the same lavender-scented shampoo that haunted every space after she left.
Disgust burned the back of his throat from how badly he wanted everything all at once. Lust crept over him like the devil's breath on his shoulder. No angel's purification was enough to cleanse his tainted soul.
Fuck.
The thoughts wouldn't stop, as if reborn from ashes. The moment he succeeded at squashing one, another formed and bloomed brighter than the other.
He imagined her sitting on his lap somewhere in a dark, forgotten alcove. Her thighs warm, skin soft. The redness of her flushed cheeks. Her muffled, needy moans filling the space while he pressed soft kisses to her neck. The yellow and purple bruises left from his teeth against her clavicles. The handprints on her arse from the spanking he'd given her. She deserved it—a just punishment for bringing attention to herself.
Really, who casually reads forbidden books for breakfast?
Did she want to get caught? Well, she had. By him.
She'd tremble and beg with tears in her eyes. For him to keep going. For him to stop.
Would she be scared if she knew just how bad he wanted her beneath him? How alluring it was for him to imagine carving her body and tasting her blood? Licking it from the small knife he always carried in his pocket.
What a silly question, of course she would. She should be terrified. He wanted to touch her until she couldn't breathe. To keep her so no one else could ever have her. She was his to take care of. His to destroy and rebuild as he saw fit. His, and only his.
Hermione looked up abruptly, their eyes finally meeting.
Odd. Her gaze felt like an invasion. For a split second, Draco swore something flickered in her expression.
It almost felt like she knew. His witch read him like one of her books. And in that moment, something inside him broke. An unstoppable dam; its pressure increasing with every shallow breath he took.
They'd been back to school for weeks now. Draco had tried not to follow her. He truly did.
Many of his evenings were spent laying in his narrow bed, sinking his body into the mattress to prevent himself from getting up. He had whispered to himself like a man trying to calm a petulant child.
You will not search for her in every corner of the castle.
You will not wander the halls by the library in the hopes of seeing her.
You will not map out her comings and goings until you can walk them blindly.
Oh, but the itch to break his word was too strong. The look she gave him that one morning haunted him. Her intense gaze appeared out of nowhere, a memory teasing the edges of his mind, a pair of eyes moving with him through the school, not caring if they destroyed his resolve.
He was weak. His promises turned to dust.
It always went the same way. Hermione would emerge from the library, fingertips smudged with ink, rushing to go to her next class or back to her own room. He'd spot her down the corridor, and before he knew, he'd follow.
He wanted to drown in her nectar, to drag his tongue along her bud, to suck her dry until there was nothing left of her to give.
He wasn't stupid enough to make his intentions known. Draco had learned the art of subtlety the hard way—having been a Death Eater so young, and subsequently, shunned by most wizarding folk. He’d had to make himself small, almost nonexistent, so many times... It proved a worthwhile skill. Any professor or student who'd take notice of his continued presence near Granger would chalk it up to coincidence.
Still, he stayed close enough that he could hear the echoes of her steps across the floor, his breathing matching them without meaning to.
Hermione walked differently from what he remembered before the war. Less carefree, more tense, almost like she was permanently on alert. It was as if the battlefield was still lodged and living under her skin.
He saw how she paused in certain corners, trying to make sense of invisible warnings only she could see. He caught the way her wand squeezed between her fingers during night strolls, eyes expanding into the darkness trying to see anything suspicious each time the old wood floors creaked under her feet.
It made his heart ache to see her this way. Ache to protect her from all of it. Ache to pin her down against the wall and feel her tremors against his body.
The madness was quiet, almost sweet, when it first came to him. It was gentle, like a tender caress. He was dizzy from skimming through the possibilities.
He noticed everything about her: the freckles adorning the bridge of her nose; the light red shade of her lips; the way she bit those lips when she read something complex or stimulating. He catalogued how she pushed her curly strands behind her ears and away from her face, only for it to tumble back into her line of sight seconds later. Every sound she made, every shift of posture, every changing expression. He wanted them all seared into his mind forever.
The gentleness didn't last long. It twisted and twisted inside of him—becoming ugly and violent.
Suddenly, a glimpse of her face was enough to induce sharp pain in his temples. A merciless stabbing at the picture-perfect frame he'd conjured. The first time it happened, he realized the thought of simply holding her was no longer sufficient to curb his desires. No, Draco had wanted to break something open. To break her delicious body apart. To make her gasp, to make her scream. He needed this perfect little melody to soothe his soul, to give him respite.
He had suspicions now. He’d seen the way Hermione stalled when he caught up to her, and like a dog with a bone, he couldn't contain himself, the infection spreading through his cells.
He imagined it so vividly, the way she'd invite him to come just a little closer. Drawing him forward on purpose. Leading both of them exactly where she wanted them to be. Somewhere dark and quiet for his eyes only. Tempting him to touch her, to ravish her. Her breath shallow and her eyes wide with anticipation. Her pulse fluttering under his hand as he wrapped it around her neck.
She wouldn't want to escape him.
Those were the nights that frightened him the most. When he couldn't tell what was him and what was her. If it was her at all.
It dawned on him then that he wanted her to know. He wanted her to see the contradiction that he'd become. He wanted her to alleviate his sickness, to take responsibility for what she had done to him.
She’d given birth to a monster who wanted all possible versions of her. He wanted her shaking for him—in ecstasy, in pain, in fear, as much as he shook for her.