That Swedish Thing

Notes: I totally forgot to tell you guys that italics mean it's Hermione's memories of what happened. Enjoy!


That Swedish Thing

The commonplace ring slipped from her fingers and hit the floor only moments before Hermione followed its path, collapsing to the ground with her arms folded around her middle. Choked sobs poured from her throat in a ripped staccato between gasping breaths, the memories flowing through her too fast to stop. She rocked back and forth in some semblance of comfort though it was hollow, empty compared to what she really wanted.


The third-floor apartment, which had only minutes before brought her some peace of mind, was now a prison. The outer trappings of her perfect life, her perfect lie. She'd been fooling herself thinking of ways to move on, nothing could be the same after this. Hermione didn't want it to be, the old life had died on a November evening.


She already knew what had happened. Hermione didn't even have to ask the questions, she already had the answers, and the cost of it would shatter her.

Hermione looked out the window at the darkening sky of November, a sure sign that a storm was on the way. She'd been Malfoy's 'guest' for nearly a month, in what she now knew was one of the forsaken pieces of Black property his mother had inherited, and though she'd rather die than admit it, she was rather comfortable with her surroundings; and after she'd agreed to be of help, Malfoy had stopped being quite so acerbic.


He'd set her up with quite a nice room, one a bit larger than the one she occupied in her apartment. It was clean and neat with a simple vertical-striped pattern decorating the walls in pale shades of cream and blue. The furnishings were made from a light weathered oak and the bed was adorned with sheets in the truest blue she'd ever seen. An old-fashioned washstand stood in one corner of the room next to the door leading to the closet and another door to the left of it led to a tidy bathroom done in white. The 'piece de resistance', however, was on the far side of the room, framing the entire space was a large bay window and accompanying seat cushioned in the same blue as the bed. Hermione had a difficult time trying not to gasp when he'd showed her where she would be staying for the duration. Malfoy had explained that she wasn't to go anywhere in the house except this room, the kitchen, and the library. Having access to a centuries-old library was the only blessing Hermione could count in this venture, and she had constantly used its many shelves to keep her entertained.


Hermione was there now, waiting for Malfoy to come back as she watched the storm break in-between reading passages of the book she held in her hands. When he did this, she always worried if he would return and what mood he would be in, according to if he found anything of relevance. It was slow-going, but he was starting to build up his case of innocence by finding the correct files in the Ministry records.


She'd quickly discovered that it wasn't so much her help he sought desperately, but her clearance within the Ministry. Being a Claims Inspector had its perks, mainly because she cleaned up any possible public relations catastrophes, but none as great as the unlimited access. All he needed was her identification, a simple charmed key hanging unobtrusively around her neck and only she could remove it. Anyone who tried to take it and use it without her explicit permission would find themselves the target of endless security curses and probably wake up in Azkaban.


Hence, her being kidnapped and agreeing to help.


After she gave him her key along with her permission, albeit with some hesitance, Hermione had explained to him how the charm worked. The thing about the keys was that not a single person in the Ministry knew who had one and who didn't except for the people who possessed them. Only a few select members were chosen by the the building itself and allowed to have them. The use of the keys went unrecorded for fear of a threat to those persons and a security breach by the hand-picked few was inconceivable. How Malfoy came to know about her key was a mystery to Hermione since she hadn't even told Harry or Ron about it. Most Ministry workers thought the 'keys to the building' was just a myth.


Hermione remembered the day she received hers like it was yesterday. She'd been riding in the lift from the atrium to the fourth floor when the melodic voice in the elevator started speaking to her like an old friend. She kindly explained that she had watched Hermione's work and was pleased and the key appeared out of nowhere on a chain circling her neck. The voice told her she was to use the key to her discretion, when she thought it would help, and then went back to announcing the floors and their departments.


Malfoy had acknowledged this explanation with the utmost seriousness and she answered any questions he might have had about using it. Since then, he'd gone out several nights a week, taking along an invisibility cloak, and used the two items to sneak inside the Ministry and search through the files in the record room. Sometimes he brought a few back with him and she would help him sort through the long drawn-out reports of the war and the fallout from it.


Maybe she'd been too hasty in consenting after hearing him plead his case, but Hermione was nothing if not idealistic and sometimes too generous for her own good. Malfoy's story of justified anger over being blamed for someone else's acts had touched that spot in her heart reserved for anyone who had been oppressed or tyrannized.


A dangerous game to think of Malfoy as anything but a bastard, she reminded herself as a light drizzle of rain started falling from the gray clouds. He doesn't think of you as anything but a Mudblood.


Even thinking the word made her cringe, but the ache in the pit of her stomach betrayed her. Malfoy was no longer the two-dimensional villain to her as she had viewed him at Hogwarts, he was more real to her than ever. Hauntingly, agonizingly real with empty eyes that peered out of a deceptively angelic face.


He never said anything to her that wasn't necessary, words seeming to be a burden to him now and the silent moments dragged between them like an eternity, and he never glanced at her for more than a minute. If she tried to offer him reassurance, he would gaze at her blankly, as if she was speaking a different language. Once she had tried to pat his shoulder and he'd jerked away so abruptly she began to wonder if her touch had burned him.


Hermione would be lying if she said this treatment didn't hurt her, but she would never admit it, even to herself. Malfoy only saw her as a means to an end and after he cleared his name and let her go, he would never be in her proximity again.


Her thoughts came to a swift end when the door to the library banged shut. Malfoy stood just inside the room, his cloak soaked through with eyes focused on her, and his sudden appearance filled the room with a discerning tension. There was something different about him, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. For one thing, she thought when he'd gone out tonight that he was going back to the Ministry but she could clearly see now the cloak he wore was a regular wool one and he held nothing in the clenched fists by his sides. Besides, it was too early for him to have returned from the Ministry.


His gray eyes were hazy as they studied her features before drifting down her body. Hermione felt herself shiver at the implications in that single look, perspiration beaded on her forehead as prickles erupted on her skin, and for a moment, all her Gryffindor courage left her. When it came rushing back to her, she decided to take the developing situation in hand.


"Are you okay, Malfoy? You don't look so good," she asked, peppering her voice with a genuine concern she felt in regards to him. Something had vastly upset him.


The glint in his eyes darkened at being treated with so much familiarity by her, and she was reminded of the storm outside before she was grabbed up from her seat on the library couch and thrown bodily into the wall, the bones in her back reeling from the impact. Her fight-or-flight instinct reared up and screamed for her to run, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide that he wouldn't find her and it would only make the circumstances worse. Hermione desperately didn't want to anger him any further.


"Mal-," she tried to reason with him before he wrapped his hand tight around her throat and held her up against the wall, letting her breathe but not speak.


The blond leaned forward and exhaled in her face. Hermione could smell the alcohol on his breath and now that he was so close she could smell it soaked into his clothes as well. The sheer amount of the scent radiating from him made her want to gag. This was not good.


"Mudblood whore. Why couldn't you have just laid down and died like you were supposed to? Because of you, your people, your fucking beliefs, my mother is dead," he spoke through gritted teeth.


A wire clicked in Hermione's brain. Yes, of course, it was the anniversary of his mother's death, November seventeenth. Death Eaters had been meeting at Malfoy Manor since it was not occupied by anyone but Narcissa. Still thinking only of the best interests of her son even after he'd gone into hiding, she'd tipped the Aurors off and then had been killed in the crossfire of the ambush. No wonder he was so angry.


Hermione tried to pry his grip off her rapidly bruising throat. "Malfoy, I'm sorry about your mother," she gasped as she twisted in his hold.


That only seemed to fuel his anger. "You're sorry? You're SORRY? You're not sorry she's dead, you probably threw a party when you heard. 'Another Malfoy we won't have to worry about.' No, you weren't SORRY. I'll make you sorry."


"No, Draco, please," she tried, hoping the use of his first name would make him come to his senses, but she realized something at that moment. Something that scared the hell out of her, frightened her far more than Voldemort ever had. If he did what she thought, then she wasn't going to fight. Logically, Hermione knew she should be kicking and screaming, but something deeper, an instinct maybe, was telling her that she should let him have his way, that something monumental was about to change.


Malfoy leaned against her and crushed his lips into her own, biting her bottom one to give him access into her mouth. His tongue scraped against her own and their teeth clinked together as he seemingly tried to devour her. The evidence of his desire was swelling against her hip and it made her wary and wanton all in the same breath. The fury that had been so apparent in his every motion was starting to fade and his rigid stance began to relax.


His hand let go of her throat and joined with his other in massaging her breasts with rough, full strokes, and his pelvis jerked into her hips without warning. The action surprising her into lifting her head back for air giving him the opportunity to explore her neck where bruises were rising on the skin. He left slow, drugging kisses down the column of skin as his hands slipped underneath her hem and found the naked globes unadorned by a bra.


The groan that escaped from him let Hermione know that he appreciated the omission to her wardrobe, her hands gripping his shoulders when her balance wavered. Not one to waste much time getting to the point, Malfoy soon had the casual slacks she wore crumpling to the ground as he lifted her into his arms and pressed her into the wall. Her legs automatically went around his waist and her opening made contact with the front of his pants making them both tremble.


Hermione let her hands slide down his torso until she encountered his belt. She started on the buckle as he slipped a finger inside to see if she was wet enough and when his cock was uncovered, he poised the head at her opening, dragging it across her clit in the process. Not giving her any chance to object, he plunged right in up to the hilt and found himself brushing against her cervix. She felt the air rush out of her lungs at this invasion but only opened her legs wider in encouragement and the first stroke of his cock had her tightening her legs around him as her nails bit into his shoulders.


Each push and pull made every ridge and vein of his penis scrape the walls of her pussy, making them both moan and grind and whimper until the walls echoed with the slapping of their bodies. His brow slick with sweat, Malfoy was increasingly pumping his cock into her slit, bringing her closer and closer to a release she knew she needed. When the tension broke she could feel all her worries melt away and Malfoy soon followed with a few more strokes. Not having the strength to hold them up anymore, he collapsed to his knees and slid to the floor taking Hermione with him. She didn't have any energy left after that and was beginning to feel drowsy after expending so much effort.


They both fell asleep within minutes, a pile of exhaustion, confusion, and disheveled clothes on the library floor.

tbc...