Happenstance

“Lucy is a Squib. She might have been able to manage First Year but any magic leaves her sick. She’s been educated at home.” He noticed her tension and wondered if he was approaching a lecture. As a diversion, Draco kept talking as he washed himself. Hermione was too schooled in middle class courtesy to interrupt him. “She’s marrying one of the Wilkes. He’s practically a Squib too. His parents packed him off to Salem to keep him out of the way.”

There had been a lot of family-tree pruning amongst the pureblood families. Voldemort had more been an excuse than a reason. The old names had been willing to forgive infirmity or madness or both but an heir without magic was a shame. For magic lifted one from the unwashed masses and protected one from their contamination. But that tree of knowledge bore bitter fruit.

“Private ceremony, of course.” Draco considered the steam hanging in the air. The floating world, wasn’t that the Japanese term? Like soap bubbles, a touch and it was gone. “Gregory has insisted on standing up with her. Their parents won’t be there. They wanted Lucy to marry an uncle of Pansy’s who’s on his third wife already.”

Barren spouses had gone the way of Squibs before. Foxing the Ministry had been de rigueur in the Golden Age of When Wizards Ruled and Muggles Feared. Draco had not paid much mind to the scandals of his lineage. He had thought himself above them. It had been mortifying to realise his actions might sometime be looked upon by a descendant and mocked. He had been a fool but it was not too late to rewrite accounts.

“I’m happy to go.” Hermione washed her hands with the diligence of a surgeon with OCD. “Is there a registry somewhere?” Draco bit down on a mocking laugh, aware she was flying on auto-spell. Some big thought was pushing everything else to the corners of her mind. Registry indeed.

“”The usual custom is to ask the bride’s parents what she requires for her trousseau or the groom’s parents what his household wants. Or give some dust-collecting antique. I have some china from my grandmother, who was half-sister to Greg’s grandfather so there’s a familial justification for foisting it and crockery is useful.” He charmed the soap to clean his back. “They’ll break enough of it doing the washing up by hand.”

Hermione, feeling lightheaded and stubborn, crouched down and shuffled over to him, taking his half-hard penis into her hands. Draco sensed there was something more to this than pleasure and nattered on to avoid distracting her.

“Or there is a glory box of assorted linens from my great, great aunt. She was only married a few days before her husband blew himself up with a misfired curse in a duel. She married the man who had made her a widow but using the wedding gifts from the first nuptials was seen as unlucky. The linen would need airing but it’s hand embroidered and so forth. Mother showed it to me when we were hunting for a gift for some relative.”

Thinking of Narcissa as his lover put her mouth on him was not the most appropriate idea but it kept Draco from groaning. Hermione was frustratingly tentative, stopping and starting. He did not comment. He did grip the shower rail for support. It would take a more restrained man than he to shrug off her attentions. Her tongue slid around his glans teasing the flared edges. Merlin on a flying carpet, she looked good serving him.

Draco would never say so, particularly when she could emasculate him with a bite, but he liked the sight of Hermione supplicant before him. He and Pansy had whiled away many an afternoon playing Master and Pet. It was a pity Hermione would not be amenable to a leash. He would just have to settle for this. He’d force himself, Draco thought with a smothered moan.

Hermione tried not to remember and although her stomach clenched from nerves she found she could do it. One less thing the werewolf had over her though she doubted she would ever enjoy it. Draco smoothed a hand through her hair and tears pricked in her eyes. He felt a sob catch in her throat and girding his loins he pulled out.

The witch choked for breath as she struggled for composure. Why did little things hurt so much?

Draco charmed off the shower and took her to bed. She told him, lying shaking in his arms. Told him about waking up in the barn, of the treason of her body and of the horrible violation of the lost time. Of laughing voices and taking a wand from a dying man’s hand. She still did not remember all of the ordeal and for someone who prided themselves on their mental prowess the confusion was almost as bad as the assault.

He held her, simply listening and put the pieces together in his mind. When her words failed, Draco kissed her brushing his lips across her forehead as though wanting to soothe the pain away. Hermione subsided into sleep exhausted by release. He plotted.

Being a Malfoy, he had absolutely no remorse in using this information to get what he wanted. He would have to move soon before she was fully collected. Hermione was mentally tough. She would recover quickly. Not completely, one never did, but the wounds were already half-healed. And when she was mended fully she would not need him. Draco was not going to allow that.