Lucky Tonight, R, (HG/DM) by Taigan23 and waxbean

Title: Lucky Tonight
Authors: taigan23 and waxbean
Rating: Adult, NC-17.
Summary: (Set during HBP) In the hours before Dumbledore's death, Hermione finds a way into the Room of Requirement.  There she confronts not only Draco Malfoy but also the darkness, anger, and helplessness within herself. With the silvery taste of the Felix Felicis potion still lingering on her lips, Hermione makes an unlikely choice -- and in doing so, realizes that the boundaries between love and hate are not as finite as she once had thought.
word count: ~8,600
Disclaimer: Neither of us own any of the HP Universe. That's all JKR, the Genius. 

Comments, criticism, and feedback are most welcomed!

“Ron! Don’t forget to take the potion,” Hermione said, shoving the tiny bottle into Ron’s hand.
 
“And be sure that Ginny and whoever else shows up has some, too.  Now go!”
 
Ron took the potion, but hesitated.  “Hermione, are you going to be –”
 
“Yes! I’ll be fine,” she interrupted. “I’ll be right here. Look,” she said, unfolding the Marauder’s Map and pointing to the minuscule ‘Hermione Granger’ dot, “you’ll be able to see me the whole time, alright?” 
 
Ron nodded in apparent relief.  “Right then. But still, I’ll be back very soon.  Don’t–”
 
“Ron!” Hermione snapped impatiently.
 
“Just don’t do anything risky, okay, Hermione?” Ron asked, the tips of his ears now the same color as his hair.
 
“Ron,” Hermione said, though now much more softly.  “You be careful, too.” And with that, she stood on her tiptoes and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.  “Now go find the others.”
 
Ron smiled in return, his cheeks fully flushed, and sprinted away.  As she watched him turn around the corner, she couldn’t help but feel a little bit of her resolve evaporate. 
 
Hermione took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and tried to summon the courage that she knew she needed for whatever was about to happen.  She was deeply worried about Harry, despite his reassurances that he would be fine with Dumbledore.  And she was frustrated with the perplexity of the entire Draco Malfoy situation.  She desperately hoped that Harry was wrong about him.  Otherwise, they might really be in trouble. 
 
She paused when she came to Seventh Floor.  Drawing her wand, she thought of the incantation for the Disillusionment Charm and then felt a slightly eerie coolness trickle down from the top of her head as her body blended into the surroundings.
 
She crept closer to where she knew the Room of Requirement should be, though only an expanse of stone wall was visible.  She doubted that Malfoy was even in the Room… but still… they hadn’t been able to find him on the Map and they had promised Harry that that they’d watch out for him.  For all she knew, Malfoy might just be hiding behind that frustratingly blank stretch of wall.  Now she recalled the many times that Harry had complained of his bad luck at getting into the room if it was occupied.
 
Luck, she thought, as she licked her lips, where she could still taste the lovely coppery flavor of the Felix Felicis potion. Well, let’s see how lucky I am now.
 
Quietly, she walked by the blank wall three times, thinking If Malfoy’s in that room then I must get in.
 
After her third pass, she stood opposite the wall, and tried to steel herself for whatever might be in that room.  If, by some chance, Malfoy was in there, she’d need to either draw him out or get in there with him.  It didn’t really matter to her; she knew she’d just need to keep him in one place until Ron returned with the others.  She certainly didn’t relish the idea of sharing space with the most obnoxious student of Hogwarts … but if Malfoy really was up to something nefarious, she’d need to keep him out of trouble until Harry returned with Dumbledore.
 
As Hermione was mentally reviewing the jinxes for holding someone still, the door to the Room of Requirement materialized.  She held her breath and hoped that no one could hear the sudden racket that was the thumping of her heart.  She could see the handle of the door twisting. Someone was on the other side. 
 
“Crabbe? Goyle?  Is that you?” came a harsh whisper.
 
The door opened a bit and Hermione could make out a head and a body.   The door opened a few more centimeters and there it was – that gleaming platinum blond hair.  Malfoy. 
 
Harry had been right, after all.  Hermione sighed inwardly, almost surprised with herself for hoping that Malfoy wasn’t, in fact, hiding out in the Room of Requirement.
 
Well, there’s nothing for it, she thought dismally, her heart still beating wildly. Noiselessly, she took a few steps closer to the doorway. 
 
Raising her wand, she thought, Impedimenta.  Then she quickly swooped into the room and closed the door before Malfoy’s thud against the floor could echo down the corridor. 
 
Malfoy had landed in a heap, face down on the floor.  She knelt down briefly to make sure that he was still properly immobilized, her fingers shaky against the cool skin of his neck, and then stood up to investigate the chaos of the room.
 
This was nothing at all like the comfortable room that they’d used for their DA meetings the previous year.  Instead it was a huge dark cavernous space, filled to the brim with stuff, for lack of a better term. There was literally stuff everywhere, piled hither and thither from the floor to the high ceilings – broken furniture, musty old books, long forgotten cleaning supplies, mildewy robes, and things so covered with dust that they were beyond recognition.  It did nothing to ease her growing sense of wariness.  She looked back down at Malfoy.  Though he was curled up in a relatively unobstructed patch of floorspace, he was a bit smashed against a dilapidated wooden cabinet. 
 
With a heave, she managed to shove the cabinet away from his body.  Then she knelt down and rolled him over. 
 
He was still out cold though she doubted that would last for very much longer.  Hadn’t Professor Lupin always said that her Impedimenta’s were short and to the point?  She almost smiled at the memory. 
 
She whispered the incantation for bindings and watched, a bit dazedly, as beautifully woven cords rushed out of her wand and wrapped themselves rather sensuously around Malfoy’s wrists and ankles. 
 
Then she reached into the pocket of his robes, her fingers nervously ghosting across his chest, before finding and retrieving his wand. 
 
“Malfoy, what were you thinking?” she whispered aloud.
 
She spared a few seconds to just look at the person lying before her.  He certainly wasn’t the picture-perfect poster boy now.  His hair was mussed, his robes were wrinkled and covered in dust, and he was lying rather awkwardly on the floor, his mouth somewhat ajar.
 
If she hadn’t been so worried, she might have laughed. As it was, her thoughts were already moving back to her boys.  She fervently hoped that Harry, wherever he was and whatever he was doing, was all right.  And Ron - well, she wished a lot of things about Ron.  But right now, as she absentmindedly traced the cool pale cheekbones of Draco Malfoy, she wished that Ron would get the others and hurry back up here.  Though she couldn’t yet ascertain what he’d been doing here, Malfoy was undoubtedly up to no good and she didn’t want to be alone with him for long.
 
She’d heard the whisperings of the other girls in her year about Malfoy.  And yes, she could concede that he was indeed something to look at - though perhaps his features were a bit too strong to ever really be considered handsome.  She thought that his money probably made the cut of his cheekbones, the pointedness of his chin, and that horrible sneer all the more tolerable. 
 
Unbidden, she let her fingers continue to softly touch his face, to push away the locks of fine hair from his eyes, and to linger around the lines of his jaw.  She imagined that very very few people, and certainly no Muggleborns, had ever touched his skin.  And somehow, the thought that she, of all people, had him here, immobilized by her hex, and under her fingertips, emboldened her.  
 
Finite Incantatem, she thought.
 
His grey eyes snapped open, already wide with fury – more emotion than she’d ever seen in them before.  He didn’t sit up right away.  Instead, he just laid there, his eyes darting around the room.  Ah, she thought, the Disillusionment Charm.
 
“Who’s there?” he asked sharply.
 
This time he did sit up, though rather ungainfully as his hands and feet were bound.  He looked long and hard at the ropes, his raspy breath the only sound in the room.
 
“I know someone else is here. Show yourself,” he demanded.  Hermione could hear the tremor in his voice.
 
It was almost exciting, watching him struggle with his fear, his bindings, and the knowledge that he was not alone.  She chided herself then - what had she been afraid of?
 
She knew he could at least do some wordless magic – she’d seen him in class.  But she had has wand.  There was nothing he could do now – nothing he could do her, to her friends, to Harry...
 
Smack!  
 
“What the hell?”
 
Smack!
 
Hermione bit her lip and forcibly restrained herself from hitting Malfoy again.  As of yet, she really didn’t know if he’d done anything.  But Harry had been right about him being here and she’d already resigned herself that Harry might be right about the rest of it, too.
 
Malfoy had pushed himself up against the ricketedy old cabinet.  He was panting and still looking wildly around the room.  His face was red now, flushed from both fear and the newly forming bruises from where she’d hit him.
 
Finally his eyes seemed to land on her.  She figured that, even with the room’s poor lighting, the dust alone might eventually illuminate her disillusioned form.
 
“I know you’re there,” he said at last.  “I can see you.”
 
She knelt closer then and breathed onto his face.  He backed up so fast that he hit his head on the cabinet.
 
She laughed.  She reckoned Ron had his measure – he really was a coward.  
 
“Not such a big man, now are you, Malfoy?” she taunted.
 
“Granger.” 
 
She said nothing but continued to sit there, just centimeters away from him.
 
“What do you want?” he said finally.
 
“Just a few minutes of your time, Malfoy.  My friends are on their way now.  Whatever it is that you’re doing is over,” she replied teasingly.
 
To her surprise, he laughed, a low raspy rumble – nothing at all like the jeer she’d heard countless times over the years.  The very sound made her want to hit him again.
 
“Your friends? Well, we’ll just have to see whose friends get here sooner, Mudblood,” he spat. 
 
Hermione stood up then and looked around the room once again.  She was fairly certain that there was no one in the room but the two of them.  And though she felt reasonably secure with Dumbledore’s security measures, she couldn’t just shake off Malfoy’s assertion that he, too, had friends on the way. 
 
“I don’t think Crabbe and Goyle are really going to get in my way,” she said, and it sounded lame and flat in her own ears.
 
“You know I don’t mean them.”
 
Hermione dropped back down on her knees and grabbed Malfoy by the robes. 
 
“Who, then? Tell me,” she demanded, nightmarish images from the Department of Mysteries already racking through her brain.
 
She wished that somehow she could have either sounded more menacing or perhaps shaken him with more strength.  She was all too aware of the panic in her voice and the way her fingers were trembling even as they tugged on Malfoy’s robes.
 
He laughed again and this time she did slap him.  But he didn’t cower away.  Rather the slap seemed to amuse him further. 
 
“It’s too late.”
 
She slumped backwards on her heels, and let her head hang down.  She needed to think.  How would anyone get into the castle?  All of the secret tunnels were either blocked or under surveillance....
 
Thwack!
 
Hermione’s head was violently thrown backwards.  She was only partially aware of another much heavier body rolling on top of her, a leg working between her own and pinning her down.  She felt something like a fist fishing over the top of her robes and down her arms before something was ripped out of her hand.
 
She didn’t even hear his spell.  But with the last bit of effort she could muster she thought Protego!
 
Perhaps a minute or two later, she sat back up, one hand rubbing her throbbing head and the other firmly holding her wand.  Malfoy, his bindings vanished, was simply sitting there right next to her, his eyes empty.  He could have been looking straight through her.
 
She looked down at her hands, which were still disillusioned.  And she looked back at his blank eyes.
 
“Malfoy?” she asked hesitantly.
 
“Yes,” he said simply.
 
“What... what happened?”  she said, waving a book directly in front of his eyes.
 
“I don’t know,” he replied, though his eyes did follow the book’s movement.
 
Hermione gulped.
 
“Did you try to hex me just now?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“With what?” Though she already knew...
 
“The Imperius Curse.”
 
“Malfoy, that’s an Unforgivable,” Hermione gasped, once again that familiar feeling of disappointment sinking into the pit of her stomach.
 
“I know.”
 
Hermione stared at his serene face, still red from the marks she’d left earlier.  His eyes were vacant and calm and the smoothest shade of pale grey.  There was no harsh expression.  Just emptiness...
 
She swallowed, her pity mixing badly with her anger and her worry.  “Who is coming tonight?”
 
“I’m not sure. But they should be here soon.”
 
“How will they get in?”
 
“Through a special passageway.  A magical space between here and a place in Knockturn Alley.”
 
Hermione groaned.  But she was glad that Ron had the Map.  Now she hoped that Ron would have the good sense to find Tonks, too.  If the Death Eaters had found another tunnel, surely it would show up on the map?
 
“Malfoy, why did you do this? Why did you go to Voldemort’s side?” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.
 
“He was going to kill Mum.  Me. And my father.”
 
“Why didn’t you tell Dumbledore? He could have helped you.”
 
“Dumbledore?” Malfoy said slowly.  “No, I couldn’t tell him.  I couldn’t talk to him at all.”
 
Hermione continued to gaze at the expressionless boy in front of her.  What would she have done to protect her family? 
 
I would have gone to Dumbledore, she thought angrily.
 
“Malfoy, did you want this?  Did you want to let Death Eaters into the castle? Did you want all the trouble that is about to come to you?”
 
“Want?  No.  No, I didn’t want to do this,” he said simply, as though just commenting about the weather.
 
She couldn’t take her eyes away from him - the boy who’d cast an Unforgivable on her, only to have it deflected back onto himself; the boy who’d sided with Voldemort to keep his family safe; the boy who’d evidently assisted Death Eaters into Hogwarts; and the boy who was very likely to spend the rest of his life locked away in Azkaban.  What had happened to that snide rude little boy whose worst offense was calling her Mudblood? 
 
Hermione was surprised to feel wetness on her cheeks. With the back of her hand, she wiped away her tears.
 
“If you don’t want to be Voldemort’s minion then what do you want, Malfoy? Maybe that’s what you should do.”
 
Malfoy was silent for a long minute.  Then he lifted his right hand until he felt her cheek, leaned forward, and kissed her lightly on the mouth.
 
“Malfoy? Mumph!” 
 
But he’d broken off her speech by pressing his lips more firmly on her own.  She tried to push him away only to have his arms wrap around her, pulling her into his chest.
 
She pushed back hard.  She could have used her wand but she didn’t.  And she didn’t spare that much thought, either.
 
“Stop!”  At once, his arms dropped from her back though he remained right next to her, his breath coming in pants on her cheek. 
 
“What is this? What are you doing?”
 
“What I want.”
 
“What do you want?”
 
Silence.  Hermione watched, fascinated, as a look of frustration crossed Malfoy’s features.
 
“I want to feel something.  I want to experience something... clean.”
 
“And that’s me?” Hermione asked incredulously, unsure if that admission or his breath on her neck had given her gooseflesh. 
 
“Yes.” But Hermione could hear uncertainty in his otherwise vacant tone.
 
“Tell me specifically what you want and how it relates to kissing me, Malfoy,” she said carefully.
 
“I want to feel something new.  I want to know what it feels like to be with someone you care about – someone you respect,” he said a slow measured voice.
 
Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise.  “You care about me? You respect me?”
 
Malfoy’s head dropped then.  “No,” he whispered. “But Ron Weasley and Harry Potter do.”
 
Hermione felt as though she’d been slapped. 
 
“That is fucked up, Malfoy.”
 
But she didn’t back away from him.  And she didn’t slap him either– though some part of her wanted to do both. Morbid curiosity pushed her onward.
 
“Tell me what you want to do, then,” she said, and she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was traipsing through murky waters.  She knew that the spell would compel him to tell her what he wanted but she also knew that she could not explain why she wanted to know.
 
“I want… to taste this,” he whispered, reaching for her face with his left hand.  “I want to know everything- your skin, your breath, you.  All of it,” he said, his breathing now erratic. 
 
Trying to ignore the warm sensation that threatened to engulf her senses, Hermione sucked in a deep breath before asking, “Do you see yourself doing these things or is it Ron or Harry?”
 
“I see myself as one of them, doing these things to you,” he breathed.
 
Hermione wasn’t far enough away that she couldn’t feel the rise in his body heat.  She was also close enough to smell him – his clean scent heavy over the richer odors of dust and old things in the room.
 
She gripped her wand, turning it on herself and thought, Finite Incantatum.
 
She felt the warm tingly sensation move down through her body.  And she saw Malfoy’s eyes widen as she appeared before him.
 
She took a last long look at him before she raised her own wand and whispered the Disillusionment Charm.  He started just a bit at what she knew was the coolness washing down through his body.
 
She sighed heavily, resigned to his desire – and to her own. “Do what you want, Malfoy. Pretend to be someone else.”
 
Because she knew where to look, she could see both of his arms moving immediately to pull her back into his embrace. And yet, though she really couldn’t see him, she closed her eyes anyway even as she opened her mouth to the onslaught of his hot wet tongue.
                                                                                   
She groaned, sparing only a quick thought that she’d have some sort warning before Ron and the others showed up. Then she trusted the Room to give that warning and decided to give in to her senses.
 
His arms were around her now, hands squeezing, and hips gently thrusting into her own.  She backed up into the old cabinet, nearly sitting on it for support.  
 
His kisses were wet and warm and intense.  Not furious like Cormic’s or awkward like Viktor’s. And certainly not sweet and tender like she imagined Ron’s to be. Rather, as she kept her eyes closed and tried to imagine that it was Ron that she was kissing, she knew that she’d be unable to keep up the ruse.  
 
Fine hair was tickling her cheeks and the sides of her face.  Strong hands were gripping her tightly.  And an altogether unfamiliar body was pressing itself firmly against her own.  And other than that one brief and rather embarrassing time with Cormic, she knew she’d never felt anything like the warm hard pressure grinding into her hips.
 
She knew that hair to be blond just as she knew that the hands currently lingering just underneath her skirt but slowly moving upwards belonged to Malfoy.  She tried to tell herself otherwise.  She even tried to convince herself that this could be the one thing to get back at Ron. 
 
But she knew better.
 
This wasn’t about Ron or Lavender, that whore, or Cormic, or anyone else.  This was about Malfoy – the one person who would never deign to touch her and yet needed to experience this – nearly as much as she did.
 
It was that thought that really made the difference.  This was something that she wanted – no, needed.  Being here with Malfoy was means to eradicate something.  With every touch, she felt like he was erasing every vile word he’d ever said to her.
 
It was intoxicating to be so desired.
 
He pushed her up onto the cabinet and she felt his body press closer, his hips nestling between her own as he gently pushed her legs open. His body radiated warmth, and though she couldn’t really see him, the feel of him alone was so exhilarating. With trembling fingers, she reached up to bring his mouth back to hers for another kiss. Her hands met only the soft, smooth cloth of his shirt beneath his woolen robes, before traveling up his arms and over his shoulders to finally tangle in the hair at his neck. Hermione gripped the invisible strands delicately and pulled his face closer.
 
“Kiss me. Again,” she whispered softly against the skin of his cheek.
 
He complied quickly and with fervor. She was momentarily surprised at the combination of tenderness and solemnity in his kiss. His mouth was firm, yet so yielding. It was a kiss like none she’d experienced before, and so different than how she’d ever imagined kissing Malfoy would be. 
 
Malfoy’s hand slid up her leg and gripped the soft skin just below her knee. His other curled in her hair as he deepened the kiss. He moaned low in his throat and she caught the sound, tasting its sweetness on her tongue, before returning it with one of her own.
 
His tongue left hers and began a slow course along her jaw. When he took her earlobe between his teeth, she shuddered involuntarily and tightened her grip on his neck. Malfoy’s warm breath tickled her ear just as his other hand began tracing circles under her knee. As his mouth moved lower, down her throat, his hands came to her blouse. He succeeded in undoing the first button before she realized what she was doing.
 
This was Draco Malfoy.
 
He wasn’t Ron. Or Harry. And for all her time at Hogwarts, he’d been nothing but a nasty little boy. So arrogant. Cocky. She’d never known him to not be self-absorbed and condescending.
 
Until this year. Until this moment. He wasn’t the same boy he’d been last year. He was different, and though she’d tried to deny it to Harry, she had to recognize the change in him. He was manic. There was a cold fury in him, a quiet darkness restlessly seething just below the surface. She’s seen it in him at Madam Malkin’s, as he’d tried to keep his left forearm hidden. In class, with his eyes sunken and dark from lack of sleep. The smirking, spoilt boy was gone. The person who stood before her now was a man. A young, untried man, but a man nonetheless. The transformation was scary.
 
Even as she thought it, the Disillusionment Charm faded from him. He stood before her, frustrated and angry, and something else… something even more frightening than his anger. There was helplessness in his eyes, futility and resignation to his fate. Her eyes traveled down his body; his robes were hanging casually off his shoulders, his shirt bunched and wrinkled where her fingers had grasped him moments before.
 
But she had to know the truth. Even though it didn’t really matter. Not now. Not in this room.
 
“Let me see your forearm, Malfoy,” she whispered.
 
He complied reluctantly, battling the Unforgivable that forced him to do as she ordered. She saw his hand shaking as it pushed the sleeve of his robe up over his left forearm. The ugly mark marred the otherwise perfect flesh and she felt her heart go out to this poor, lonely boy in front of her. Certainly no person who had ever known love would willingly take this Mark.
 
No wonder he’d become a Death Eater. What else is a person to do when all they know is hate? When they have no understanding of the abstract and indefinite concept of love?
 
Before she realized it, she was crying. Crying for him, for Malfoy, the boy who had been forced into this role. He who had never known real love, only tokens of familial affection. Fancy broomsticks. Expensive robes. A constant showering of gifts when all he probably ever wanted was a kind word or physical expression of love. She could imagine an entire history – a thousand stories – all ending in the same sad way. Legions of masked figures, their hearts filled only with hate, their arms branded with their ignorance of love.
 
And one stood before her now, the most unlikely of all, begging to know love. Who could turn someone like this away?
 
He had his sleeve pushed up, his forearm displayed for her inspection, and all she could think was that she had known love, in many forms, and had taken it for granted. And for all the money in the world, love was the one thing that he couldn’t buy for himself.
 
But she had more than enough to give. 
 
In the recesses of her thoughts, she heard another voice, maybe Harry’s or Ron’s or even Dobby’s, trying to warn her from her own heart.  She was certainly smart enough to hear the merit in those warnings.  How many times had she paid the price for thinking with her emotions?  Only in this case, the outcome was undoubtedly going to be worse than the barely-whispered insults from her peers about her endless knitting of caps and scarves. Just as the thought materialized, she pushed it away. Yes, there would be a price for all of this… But what if?  What if she could make a difference?  She had to try.
 
“You can cover your arm now. I’ve seen all I needed to see.”
 
Her voice was cowardly, even to her own ears.
 
Malfoy pushed his sleeve down, covering his arm again, his eyes still strangely vacant as he obeyed her command. Hermione brushed the tears from her cheeks and ran her tongue over her salty tear-covered lips.
 
“Has anyone ever loved you, Malfoy?” she asked quietly.
 
His eyes narrowed, and she saw him rebelling against the curse. It was obvious that he didn’t want to answer.
 
His teeth ground together as the words slipped like sandpaper from his lips.
 
“I think my mother loves me. She may not be able to show me or tell me, but I think she does. And my father has always done his best to provide for us. To give us a good life.”
 
She shook her head slightly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
 
Again his voice was rough and raspy, his anger boiling closer and closer to the surface. “Pansy cares for me. We’ve slept together, if that’s what you mean. She doesn’t love me, though, as much as she loves the idea of me.”
 
“Do you love her?”
 
“No.” There was no hesitation in his voice. No hint of untruth.
 
She felt a bit guilty asking, but the opportunity for Malfoy to be so candid with her was one she wasn’t going to waste, however inappropriate her actions really were. She wanted to understand what pushed him into this lifestyle, what drove him to make the decisions he’d made. And, in truth, she’d never have an opportunity like this again.
 
“How do you know?” she asked.
 
His hand clenched slightly, unconsciously struggling against the Curse, but he answered quickly, honestly, and Hermione had no doubt that it was the truth.
 
“I don’t feel anything when I’m with her. She doesn’t look at me and really see me when we’re together.”
 
“And you think that I see you? That’s why you want to… that’s why you want to be with me?”
 
“I want you to look at me the same way you look at Potter and Weasley. I want to feel wanted. I want to be wanted,” He said softly, his eyes still so quietly empty. But he was fighting the Curse, and she could sense it. His hands were shaking violently and his jaw clenched as he fought against the words. “I want to know what it is to be loved. I want someone to love me. Even if it’s only for a moment.”
 
Hermione knew what it would take for him to admit something that personal, and because of his honesty, however artificially manufactured, she felt herself give in. She would indulge him in this one thing, hoping she could save him, and hoping that in turn she could save herself.
 
She had to think of it this way.  Though it was hard to miss the sensations within her own body, she couldn’t quite admit to them.  The warmth, the tingling, the pulsing between her legs, the intoxicating heat that emanated from her center to her very fingertips —all of it – she would be giving in to that just as much as she would be reaching out to Malfoy.  But she was not yet ready to put a voice to those more carnal desires.
 
Another tear slipped down her cheek as her resolve crumbled. Her fingers reached forward, desperately seeking out his own. When she found them, she grasped them firmly. Moisture glistened on her palms as she pulled him closer to her. Her grip tightened as she brought his hand up to her chest.
 
She felt his hand press down over her heart as it beat erratically against her ribcage.
 
“We don’t have much time.”
 
She tasted salt on her tongue when she kissed him. From the tears, she thought. And she did her best to pour her emotions into that kiss, praying silently that he would understand them. Her fingers wound in his hair, pulling the silken strands as the tension between them mounted.
 
She felt his breath on her skin, warm and sweet as it seeped into her pores and was absorbed into her blood, lighting her skin on fire from within. Her eyes still burned with unshed tears and her cheeks were moist with the remnants of her empathy. The empty feeling in the pit of her stomach, the disparity between hunger and sadness, drove her forward.
 
She needed this… She wanted this.
 
Malfoy pushed her roughly back onto the wooden cabinet, his knees banging into the front as his arms wrapped around her shoulders. The kiss was rougher than before, and there was no hint of sweetness in him now. Hermione felt his teeth bite down on her bottom lip. She would have cried out, told him to stop, but when she felt the smooth texture of his tongue against her own, she almost forgave him the delivery.
 
Her own hands slipped down from his neck to his shoulders to trace the musculature of his back through his robes. But the feel of soft wool beneath her fingertips wasn’t satisfying… She needed to touch his skin. With speed she didn’t know she possessed, she pushed his robes from his shoulders, revealing his carelessly wrinkled shirt and tie.
 
Hermione reluctantly pulled back from the kiss, giving in to her itching fingers to better see the knot and undo it all the more quickly. She focused all her attention on his green tie, trying to keep her eyes from straying up to his face. If she didn’t see his vacant eyes she could pretend that he was a cognizant and willing participant in this. Her guilt over keeping him under the Imperious Curse was rapidly giving way to lust.
 
Her fingers made quick work of his tie and she succeeded in pulling it free from his neck. As she reached up to undo the top button of his shirt, his hand came up and clasped down roughly on top of hers. He squeezed it tightly in his fist, making her gasp in surprise. Timidly she brought her gaze to his face, her breath churning fitfully in her lungs.
 
His eyes lacked all sense of vacancy. His hand, where it still gripped her own, was no longer shaking.
 
He’d broken free of the Curse.
 
Her surprise and fear must have shown in her eyes, for he tightened his grip on her hand, forcing her to relinquish her hold on his button. He dropped it quickly and Hermione immediately brought it to her chest to cradle tenderly. She searched his face for any sort of compassion.
 
She found only anger.
 
And maybe a trace of fear…
 
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, to say something, anything, to make him understand. But then, she was too confused to understand it, either… In the end it didn’t matter because Malfoy was the first to act.
 
He lunged forward, gripping her shoulders and arching her back towards him.  His hands were almost snake-like, striking her with precision and darting through her robes, and making quick work of the buttons of her shirt.  She was so surprised by it that she didn’t think to push him away. And then she didn’t care because his lips were on her neck and his fingers were pulling her blouse from her body.
 
His teeth grazed her throat, nibbling the erratic pulsing of blood beneath her skin. She felt her robe slide from her shoulders to pool on the floor behind her. Her own fingers resumed their quest to remove the barrier between her skin and Malfoy’s. She gave up, however, when his mouth moved lower to bite her collarbone.
 
She felt his frustration at her blouse’s stubborn resistance to his attempts to remove it. The sleeves snagged on her elbows when he tried forcing them down her arms. She sighed her own frustration when his mouth left her body, his attention now refocused elsewhere. Helpfully, she pulled her arms from the sleeves, stopping to undo the buttons at her wrists before finally pulling free.
 
She felt the resurgence of awkward tension when she saw her blouse clenched in his fists and as the cool air made contact with the drying moisture on her neck. She steadfastly refused to make eye contact with him, even when he dropped her shirt next to his robe. When he didn’t come back to her quickly, she hesitantly looked over at him.
 
He was watching her carefully, and when she met his gaze he began undoing the buttons of his shirt, before finally peeling it off when the last one was undone. It too joined the growing pile of clothing on the floor.
 
Hermione swallowed hard. She’d felt guilty before about taking advantage of the situation… Even if subconsciously she could chalk it up to trying to ‘save him.’ Now, what excuse did she have?   Only their mutual desire was left.
 
He took a step closer, the warmth of his body making her shiver in the cool dampness of the room. The air seemed to thicken the closer he came, until finally he was there, his breath warm on her face.
 
He was still watching her when his hand came up to fondle her breast through the material of her bra. Her nipple hardened in response, and Hermione felt her cheeks color. Is he mocking me? As soon as the thought entered her mind, she felt her hands reach out to push him away. They made contact with the smooth skin of his chest and began their frantic struggle to extricate her from his grasp. When he didn’t move, she began pounding on him, until she felt his arms slide around her back.
 
As his fingers undid the clasp to her bra, his voice cut through the relative quiet of the room, echoing her earlier statement. “We don’t have much time…”
 
Hearing her words fall from his lips gave her enough courage to look up at him. Seeing the urgency, and fear, and most of all, the need in his eyes, pushed Hermione over the edge.
 
Tentatively she reached out and traced the skin of his chest, even as she watched his face for his reaction. His face gave nothing away. His hair had fallen down into his eyes, obscuring them slightly, and she found herself wishing she could see them better. Without thinking, she reached up and pushed the soft strands back from his forehead. He watched her carefully as well, his eyes narrowed with some emotion she couldn’t name before falling once again to her chest.
 
His touch was soft as he grasped the straps of her bra from her shoulders and pulled them down her arms. The bra joined the rest of their clothing on the floor. This time when he palmed her breast she didn’t pull away. His touch, in return, was kinder, but no less urgent.
 
Feeling a surge of bravery, or maybe foolishness—she couldn’t decide which—Hermione reached for the waistline of his trousers.  She tugged until she could slip her fingers just under the woolen fabric.  She could feel the top of his undergarments. She didn’t have to be forceful as he seemed perfectly willing to bring his hips as close to her as possible. Yet, she didn’t want to be gentle with him.  While she didn’t want to hit him again, necessarily, she still didn’t think she could go through with this if she had to totally suppress her anger and years of pent-up frustration.  The desires to save him, to possess him, and to hurt him were very much warring for dominance within her.
 
So she did pull roughly at his pants.  She grabbed his belt, taking care to let it slap against the hard muscles of his stomach as she tore it off.  She knew her fingernails were likely leaving some marks against his flesh as she pulled down his pants.  And part of her wished that he’d return the sentiment – that his grip would tighten again – that he’d actively remind her of the incongruity of their current actions given who they were.
 
But his touch was increasingly gentle even as her violence escalated.  Though he didn’t try to stop her viciousness, the smoothness of his movements seemed to almost mock her furious actions.  He touched her, licked her skin, kissed her lips and her neck, and sensuously pressed his near-naked body into hers, moaning lightly into her ear as if they were lovers. 
 
The confusion and the lust were building with such intensity that Hermione wondered if she might just explode – her entire body bursting into tiny bubbles of consciousness doomed to never fully come back together.  With one swift motion, she pushed him violently away and snickered as he stumbled backwards with his pants down around his ankles. 
 
She stood up then and gazed at him, relishing the hardness that returned to his eyes.  She could almost taste whatever spiteful comment was sitting there on his tongue.  She took two strides over to him and planted each leg outside of his hips.
 
His face was red – whether from lust, humiliation, or anger, she didn’t know.  She hoped that it was all three because she knew now that that was what she needed from him.
 
Impatiently, she tugged at her underpants and kicked them off, flinging them haphazardly into the chaos of the room.   Then she stood there fully nude over him, entirely unembarrassed.
 
Malfoy’s face was still red but his breathing had turned into panting to match her own.  Without breaking away from her gaze, his hands nervously pulled down his own undergarments.  Awkwardly, he slid them fully off with his feet and then shoved them towards the pile of their clothing.  Then leaned back on his elbows, his face revealing lust, anxiety, and fear. 
 
Hermione stared at him, drinking in every detail, from his mussed hair, to the sweat collecting on his chest, to the angry red cock that seemed to be straining against the confines of his skin.  Without a word, she dropped to her knees, her wetness coming in full contact with his hard cock.  Then she leaned forward, all the while rubbing herself almost violently against him.  She was only centimeters from his face.
 
“You are not Ron or Harry or anyone else, Malfoy,” she said savagely.  And then, despite the prick of tears in her eyes, she rasped, “I cannot save you. I won’t.”
 
Feeling oddly triumphant, she leaned in further, biting his lip hard and then thrust her tongue into his mouth.  It didn’t surprise her when his tongue met hers roughly and when his moans began to sound more animalistic than anything else.  She welcomed the way his hands gripped her hips and slammed her against him. 
 
She desperately needed to be here in this moment with him – Draco Malfoy.  She needed him to be harsh with her.  She did not want either one of them to forget what was truly happening.  And though a tiny part of her rebelled, crying out that it didn’t have to be like this, that she could very well give him a few stolen moments of the love and respect that he craved, she suffocated it with nearly seven full years of bitterness and hatred. 
 
She didn’t spare much thought for anything too sentimental.  She long ago rationalized that a woman’s worth had nothing to do with any sort of virginal currency.  Had Cormic shown better skills, she might have already done the deed.  But he hadn’t and so the only fingers to have ever made her feel the surge of sensations that were rapidly building between her legs were her own. 
 
She also wasn’t too worried about any long-term consequences.  She had just finished her period.  In fact, it was likely that there’d still be a little bit of blood.  The irony of that certainly was not lost on Hermione.  And she was confident that Malfoy couldn’t give her anything that Madame Pomfrey wouldn’t be able to fix—with no questions asked, at that. 
 
Lifting her hips just slightly off of his, she reached down between their bodies and grasped his cock.  It was already slick with the silkiness of her own fluids.  She squeezed a little too hard and then watched in fascination as Malfoy bit his bottom lip to keep from crying out.  She took a deep breath in, savoring the heavy smell of sex all around them.   Then she loosened her grip and rubbed him, not too gently, but with the intent of letting him know that he couldn’t take anything for granted. 
 
Malfoy’s hand shot between them and closed around her hand, forcing her stroke him at a pace of his choosing.  She allowed him this but only because she was too caught up in the power of having his throbbing hot cock thrusting into her hand.  When he angled her hips with his other hand, making her clitoris to rub directly against the knuckles of his hand, she stopped thinking altogether.  It was several seconds before her eyes focused on his smirking face above her and several more seconds before she realized that he’d rolled her over so that now she was on her back, trapped between his hips and the cold stone floor.
 
Hermione arched her back off the floor and wrapped her legs around his body, drawing his chest closer to hers.  She wanted to control this but didn’t fight him when he gripped both her wrists and forced them over her head.  She merely squeezed him, using her thighs to position him so that his cock rubbed against the sensitive folds of her labia.  When he brought her wrists together, holding them with one hand while the other snaked down between them, Hermione gasped in anticipation. 
 
She felt his fingers, once again agonizingly slow and gentle, as they stroked the outside of her vagina.  She thrust her pelvis up, actively seeking more pressure from his fingertips and his cock.  But he hesitated, loosened his hold on her wrists and then and looked her in the eye.
 
“Are you—”
 
Hermione didn’t let him finish speaking, instead violently closing her lips over his.  She couldn’t have let him finish because she didn’t want to answer.  She didn’t want his kindness or his thoughtfulness.   And she hated him for the gentleness that she could plainly see in his eyes.
 
So she kissed him roughly, hoping that he wouldn’t need any other kind of answer.   And she ignored the salty taste of tears that trickled into her mouth as they kissed.  She didn’t want to know to whom they belonged.
 
The pressure of something much larger than fingers lingered for mere seconds outside of her – just long enough to make her mad with desire.  Slowly, very very slowly, she felt him as he parted her labia with his fingertips and then entered her body.  She threw back her head, unable to keep her eyes open against the dizziness that seemed to flood her brain.  The light was too bright in her room – or perhaps her eyes were too dilated, she thought inanely.  Either way, she felt like her entire being was reduced down to this one part of her body – this one bundle of sensitive flesh and nerves that was being stretched and teased and pressed by Malfoy.
 
Tentatively, he began moving inside of her, and Hermione could tell that he pressed a little more deeply into her each time.  She welcomed him and moved her hips forward, again her actions more violent than his. 
 
He let go of her wrists and leaned down over her, with his elbows on the floor, on either side of her head.  He was so close that she could smell his shampoo and his sweat and the mingling of their bodies. 
 
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, digging her fingers into the muscles of his back.  She fervently hoped she was leaving marks. 
 
The exquisite pressure was building inside of her and she knew it wouldn’t be much longer.  She was almost sorry about that.  She pulled him closer, lifting her head off the floor, and kissed him, roughly but with passion. 
 
She knew she was quickly losing the battle against her heart.  She’d always suspected that, despite her sense of practicality, she’d never be one for casual sex.
 
Her kisses were changing as the pulsing warmth was building between her legs.   She no longer had an interest in being rough or maintaining their boundaries.  She gave in to everything, embracing all the conflicted emotions and thoughts – in a brief but dazzling moment of clarity she knew that she hated Malfoy, that she pitied him, that she wanted him, and that she loved him.  She would always love him. 
 
She moaned loudly between their lips, pressed her breasts into his chest and gripped him tightly with her arms and her legs.   Then she threw her head back, looked directly into his smoldering gray eyes and felt the crest of her orgasm take her.
 
Her muscles clenched together as waves of ecstasy rocked through her entire body.  She felt every thrust keenly as Malfoy increased the pace and the depth of his movements.  Then, in amazement, she watched as a rush of rosy color painted Malfoy’s lips and cheeks even his eyes went nearly black.  He met her gaze, gave a hoarse cry, and then thrust into her one last time.  She could feel the rush of warm wetness inside. 
 
Then he closed his eyes and slumped against her.  It was all Hermione could do to just hold him and resist telling him that he would forever have a place in her heart.   She couldn’t actually say it because she’d never before loved someone that she’d also be willing to kill, should he ever come between her and her loved ones.  The thought was too much and she resigned herself to pushing it away for the time being.
 
After several minutes of silence, she felt a soft kiss on her cheek.  Then Malfoy pushed himself off of her, clearly avoiding her eyes, and began to get dressed.
 
Hermione, too, kept her mouth shut.  She knew that they were both tittering on the edge of drowning in the surrealness of the situation.  One wrong word – or indeed one word at all—would likely upset the delicate peace between them.
 
When she was dressed, she finally looked at him.  He was staring at her, his expression blank and disturbingly similar to how it had been when he was under the Imperious Curse.
 
She waited for him to speak knowing that the only thing that she could say – something along the lines of a warning that her friends and some Aurors would likely be there shortly—hardly seemed appropriate.
 
“You have to go now,” he said quietly.
 
Hermione reached into her pocket and drew out her wand.  She aimed it levelly at his chest.
 
“I am not leaving you here, Malfoy,” she said, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice.
 
He shook his head and sighed.
 
“You really have to leave now.  It’s not safe.  Not for you or whoever is coming back for you—”
 
Hermione interrupted him, “Not safe?  It’s not safe for you, Malfoy.  You could go to Azkaban for the things you’ve done already.”
 
“Azkaban? I’m not going to Azkaban.  I’d be dead long before the Ministry could try to punish me,” he laughed.  But the hollowness of it was chilling to Hermione.
 
Then he stepped forward, disregarding her raised wand, and wrapped his arms around her.
 
“Please, Hermione,” he started, her name falling awkwardly from his lips.  “Please just go.  If you really want to help me, you’ll go and find Snape.  Tell him about me.  Tell him I was here.  He’ll know what to do.”
 
Hermione lowered her wand and leaned into his embrace, knowing that their time together had finally drawn to that precipice.  As she laid her head against his chest, she knew that she had no regrets.  And she knew that she had to let him go.  After this moment, he would be an enemy – indeed, it was likely that Harry was right in thinking that he had been an enemy all along.
 
She stood on her tip-toes and kissed him on his lips – slowly, passionately, and lovingly.  And she took pleasure in the way he returned her kiss, drinking in all the jumbled emotions that he was offering her. 
 
“I’ll go find Snape now,” she whispered between their lips.  Then she pulled away from him, only turning her back to him when she reached the door. 
 
Just as the door was closing she heard his whispered “Good bye.”
 
Quickly, she Disillusioned herself and sped down the corridor hoping with her entire heart that Snape would, indeed, know what to do.
 
****
 
Weeks later, as Hermione sat with Ron, their hands intertwined, she allowed herself to wonder if her time with Malfoy had made any difference at all.  She knew she’d never be the same. 
 
Along with Harry, Ron and Ginny, she, too, speculated about Snape and Malfoy’s disappearances.   She could admit to herself that she was more than just curious.  And she refused to fully believe that either Snape or Malfoy was completely evil, despite the manifestation of their actions.
 
She didn’t miss him.  And while late at night, she was still inclined to relive some of those moments, she certainly wasn’t pining for him. 
 
If anything, she was thankful for their time together.  Malfoy had simultaneously renewed her hope in humanity while also facilitating a loss of naivety.  Yes, she couldn’t save everyone – some were truly without redemption.  Furthermore, she didn’t have to try because some might be able to save themselves.