Admission

Hermione felt a warm puff of air on her face as Malfoy let out a small sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath. It was…intimate, his face so close she could see darker strands of blue threading the grey of his eyes. She’d never been this close to him before, had never needed nor wanted to be, still didn’t want to be. She was glad when, smiling complacently, he sat back on his heels.

“I want you to say it whichever way will enable you to make it believable,” he explained charitably, unfolding and refolding his legs to sit Indian-style. This was the least acrimonious he’d ever been with her, she realized. Merely the promise of admitting inferiority was enough to placate him; actually saying the words felt like a formality, though she knew it would be foolish to point this out.

She joined him on the ground, leaves crinkling beneath her. She took a deep breath, stared a moment at her hands twisting in her lap, fixating on the dirt underneath her worn fingernails. Finally, she looked up, met his eyes gleaming with quiet anticipation.

“You’re better than me, Malfoy—”

“Draco,” he interrupted, voice firm but not mean. “You’re saying this to me. Not to my father. Not to anyone else.” Despite his relaxed posture, his eyes were intent, holding her gaze.

She swallowed, started over. “You’re better than me, Draco.” Saying his given name threw some switch inside her, and the diffuse energy that had dissipated earlier condensed in her stomach again, ripples of electricity that throbbed with her pulse. She looked away. “I’m…inferior. I’ve got dirty blood, I shouldn’t have been allowed into Hogwarts—”

“Stop,” he cut her off again. She looked at him, confused and exasperated. “You’re going too far for believability. Try again,” he urged, almost whispering. He was leaning forward now; the ropes behind him creaked.

“I’m…” she trailed off, horrified to hear her voice quaver. No, no, no. Why did she feel like she was about to cry? She broke eye contact with Malfoy so she wouldn’t see his reaction; whatever it was, she couldn’t deal with it.

She looked around the tent, its drab canvas walls a shelter and a prison both, littered with their assorted supplies. On either side of the entrance flap stood her and Ron’s two cots, the latter unmade. Next to Ron’s, a space where Harry’s should have been.

It was her fault.

She’d been alone with Harry, out wandering in the woods for a bit of exercise and arguing about their next move, when the Death Eaters had appeared. One had incapacitated her with a casual Crucio before she’d even had a chance to react, and only Harry’s quick reflexes and selflessness had prevented her own capture—or death. Instead, with that one opportunity for defense wasted on Hermione, the Death Eaters had made off with Harry, and she was left writhing in pain on the forest floor, alone. The Brightest Witch of Her Age.

Now she thought she understood Malfoy’s persistent silence the past few days, the blank eyes and forced sneers. She could feel a pit of hollowness growing inside, eating at her, dulling the currents of electricity. How could emptiness be so solid, so heavy a thing?

Standing, she walked over to her cot, withdrew her wand from her pocket, and dropped it on the flimsy mattress. It no longer felt right in her hand, like it belonged to someone else.

She returned to Malfoy, eyes on the ground the whole way, the crunch-crunch of leaves underfoot. She knelt, listened to her steady breaths and Draco’s slightly shallower, faster ones.

The air between them had changed, though Hermione didn’t know if he perceived it. For her, the world had narrowed, gratefully, to this moment, to Malfoy and his need, to her need. Nothing existed outside of it, not even the moments that led them both here.

It was so quiet she could hear the rustle of an insect as it crawled its way blindly but purposefully through the leaf cover. She pretended she could hear her heart beating, Malfoy’s, too. She looked at his chest rising and falling, imagined the flesh beneath the thin, black jumper, the muscle, the ribs, lungs, heart like a buried fist, and the blood she’d cursed.

She took in his Adam’s apple, sharp chin, and ash-blonde stubble, pausing at his split lip before stopping, finally, at his winter-grey eyes.

He regarded her curiously, with none of the petulance or contempt she had expected. Head tilted, he shifted to his knees, waiting with what she might have called patience were he anyone else.

Raising her arms, she placed her hands gently but firmly on his shoulders. She felt his muscles tense, but he didn’t jerk away, and instead of revulsion, she saw apprehension in his eyes. His nostrils flared with it, and she squeezed his shoulders in what she meant to be reassurance, his body warm under her palms.

She said the words again, quiet, steady: “You’re better than me, Draco.” She heard his breath catch, saw his lips part. “I don’t deserve my friends after what I’ve done, what I failed to do. The world will be changed because of it, because of all the misplaced confidence and faith people have had in me. I am inferior. I’m not even what I once was.”

With the words gone, living in the air and, now, inside Malfoy, she felt drained but relieved, as if the guilt they embodied had been fueling that gnawing emptiness.

“Untie me,” Malfoy rasped. He had shifted closer on his knees as far as was possible and bent forward, his face mere inches away from hers. His eyes were black, pupils swallowing up the irises, swallowing her up. She couldn’t tell if it was her hands or the shoulders flexing restlessly beneath that had grown incredibly hot.

“W-what?” she stammered, letting her arms drop.

“Untie me,” he repeated. He was nearly panting, swallowing rapidly.

She shook her head, unable even to process his demand, let alone speak again.

“Granger.” It sounded like a plea, more forceful than the silent one she’d read on his face as she’d tortured him. His eyes darted to her lips, and he licked his own. “I don’t have my wand, yours is out of reach, and, as you and Weasley have been so careful to point out, you’re the only one who can remove the charms. Even if I overpowered you and forced you to end the spells, the third member of your trio is right outside,” he finished in a rush.

Trio.

Her incredulity at Malfoy’s new request, at his sudden desperation, evaporated. As if under Imperius, she leaned around the side of him, reaching back to carefully undo the simple but effective binding spell knots. As she did so, she brushed against him, left arm grazing his chest, wild brown hair trailing across his shoulder, a few strands catching on the fine ribs of his jumper. She felt more than saw him turn his head into her, heard a small sound issue from low in his throat. It vibrated though him, through her, and, though she had only to tug gently on one last length of rope to free him, she paused, watched as he curled and uncurled his long, thin fingers as if something were about to be put into his hands.

Though he could easily have wriggled his way out of the loosened bindings, he waited patiently as Hermione unknotted the last of the rope. His skin was warm where she held his wrists, and she could feel and see raised, red patterns on it from all the violent jerking he’d been doing.

Finished, she tossed the rope aside and, slowly, drew back to face him, feeling his heart beat murderously against his chest and her shoulder, the tip of his nose briefly at her jaw, breath on her neck. She kept her eyes low, watching as he carefully brought his arms forward and rubbed gently at his wrists before settling his hands on his thighs, then going still.

She heard him swallow, and, like a yawn that triggers another yawn, her throat closed and opened in answer, the sound of it amplified as if she’d used Sonorus. Everything inside her felt heavy, each organ, bone, stretch of muscle like a distinct weight the ground pulled at, and she fought against it to raise her eyes to Malfoy’s.

She didn’t have time to read what was in them. Movement a blur, he lifted one of those hands and wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and lower skull, other arm snaking about her waist and crushing her to him. His face went out of focus as he closed the remaining distance between their mouths, taking advantage of Hermione’s startled gasp and thrusting his tongue past her lips and teeth to swipe at hers.

She made a small, high-pitched noise like a question, something very girly that the tiny part of her mind capable of thought would have called a squeal. His teeth ground painfully against hers and she automatically opened her mouth wider and tilted her head. He groaned, tongue stabbing rhythmically in an attempt to coax her into responding. The hand at her waist tightened, and she winced, her side still tender from when she’d gripped it earlier to keep herself from hitting him again. His other hand inched higher until he was palming the back of her skull, fingers winding through her thick, knotted curls, thumb stroking at a random spot just below her occipital ridge. She brought her hands to his shoulders, not pushing, not pulling, surprised by her own inaction.

Suddenly, he let her go and ended the one-sided kiss with a wet smack. His lips were puffy and red, and she guessed hers were the same, despite her lack of enthusiasm. He lifted her chin with thumb and forefinger and looked into her eyes, just looked, as they both caught their breath. She looked back at him, honing in on those blue strands she’d noticed before as if paying attention to that one detail would prevent her from seeing the frenzied desperation firing behind his eyes.

She had no idea what he saw, but whatever it was, he was closing in again, slower this time, gently resting his forehead against hers, blonde, silky strands of hair tickling her cheek as he brushed his lips against hers with the lightest, barest pressure. She breathed in his exhalation and held it, closing her eyes against the weight of his gaze. He trailed his fingers down her neck and she shivered, her hands tightening convulsively on his shoulders as he unzipped her sweatshirt. The sound of it seemed to bounce off the walls of the tent, like the racket of her heart against her ribs when next she felt a warm palm slide under her t-shirt and rest hotly on her belly. She let out a shaky breath, stomach muscles jumping, the electric currents a steady stream of fire now making a slow burn through her body. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut just as his eyelashes fluttered against her brow. Was he opening his eyes? Closing them?

Hermione found herself pressing closer—or was she pulling him to her? Their combined body heat hit her in waves, surrounding them like a cocoon, and a fine sheen of sweat broke out on her skin. She opened her eyes to slits, focused on his mouth, that full, red lower lip. Closing her eyes again, she tilted her head up, found that mouth with her own, pressed.

Malfoy groaned and brought his other hand to the small of her back, the one on her belly sliding around to clasp her left hip. His tongue darted out and licked at the inside of her lower lip, and this time she opened for him willingly, met every aggressive thrust and swipe with her own, their kisses less about exploration than deprivation. Her arm wrapped around his neck and tightened, her breasts pushing up against his chest, both actions unconscious, as if she were following a script she’d neither written nor read.

Malfoy dragged both hands roughly to her arse and squeezed, lifting her slightly and bringing their pelvises into contact and—Oh!—he was hard, she could feel him against her hip, and there was an answering twinge between her legs and a moan in her throat. He nipped at her lip before kissing a wet trail to her neck, his stubble scraping her cheek and jaw on the way, just another sensation her body translated into arousal. His teeth closed on her pulse point, then he sucked the skin into his hot mouth as he ran his hands down the backs of her thighs, mouth now moving to her clavicle, Hermione’s fingers twisting in soft, clean hair, his hands behind her knees giving a yank.

Hermione’s legs went out from under her and she let out a small cry as she fell back against the blanket she’d warmed up Malfoy with earlier. He was on her immediately, hands pushing her thighs apart, then grasping her hips as he ground himself against her, gasping and muttering unintelligible words into her neck and hair. The fire racing through her veins centered in her groin; she could feel herself growing slick, knickers damp with it. Malfoy’s hands were everywhere, messily pushing her shirt up to grope at her breasts, tugging her bra down and rubbing at her nipples with his thumbs as he found her mouth again, tongue thrusting in a rhythm even a novice like Hermione recognized. She squirmed beneath him, both in arousal and discomfort, his bones digging into her painfully. He was so skinny; they were both so skinny.

She reached up to cradle his face, thumbs at his cheekbones, fingers reaching into his hair. She wished she hadn’t cleaned it earlier; it didn’t smell like anything now. The rest of him smelled vaguely musky and sweaty and like, well, boy. He tasted like boy, slightly metallic, some sweetness from the tea, but otherwise simply good. Her body buzzed with him, felt gratefully weighted down by his, pinned and held by his lithe frame and the ground’s solidity beneath the blanket.

He broke the kiss, took her wrists in one hand and held them above her head as he lowered his mouth to one breast, cupping it with his other hand as he swiped her nipple with the flat of his tongue. “Draco!” she gasped, arching into him the little she could and looking down at his blonde head, platinum hair caressing her skin in soft brushstrokes.

He stopped, drew back, and Hermione wondered if his name had broken the moment, this series of moments. She was afraid to acknowledge the disappointment, afraid not to acknowledge it.

Malfoy released her wrists, leveled his gaze on her. He didn’t look angry, disgusted, or panicked, as if he’d woken from a dream, been drugged, or spelled—all expressions she most expected and most feared to see. His eyes were still black, face flushed, breathing shallow. He stared at her as if she were a difficult, delicate potion he was about to add the final ingredient to, something rare and powerful. Unblinking, he brought both hands to the button of her jeans and, with all deliberation, flicked it open. His fingers grasped the pull of her zipper, and he paused, one eyebrow slightly arched, tongue sneaking out to lick at his lips.

He’s asking permission, she realized, and something flared again in her belly, a little heavy, but fleeting. She took a breath, stared back at him steadily, and waited, gaze on his unwavering.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed silver with hunger as he lowered the zipper, and Hermione lifted her hips so he could tug the jeans down her thighs, past her knees, down to her feet. He let her legs drop, finally looking away as he untied her trainers and removed them with her socks, then pulling her jeans free. She shivered as cooler air hit her bare legs and swallowed when Malfoy’s hands went to his own trousers, efficiently undoing the belt with a whisper of leather and a clack of the buckle.

Her arms shook beneath her, having unconsciously raised herself up on her elbows, and she let herself fall back to the blanket. Shirt still pushed high up on her body, bra awkwardly askew, she resisted the urge to cover herself, exposed breasts and hardened nipples or striped, cotton knickers that must, by now, be soaked through.

Malfoy’d gotten his trousers open and was lowering himself back down on top of her. Before settling, he slid his hands up the outside of her thighs and wrapped them around his waist. She locked her ankles behind him and took the opportunity to pull at his jumper, eager to feel warm skin. Bracing his weight on one arm, he worked the garment over his head and off the other arm, shifting to take it the rest of the way off and tossing it aside.

Skin on skin, they both gasped, and Malfoy rushed to kiss her with bruising force, moaning into her mouth so that she felt the vibrations of it through his chest and hers. He didn’t move, cock hot and heavy against her thigh, but still pressing against what felt like silk boxers. As their tongues met and stroked one another, she felt him maneuver a hand between them, and suddenly there was no more silk, just flesh, smooth and hard, and fingers at her knickers, pulling them aside. She dug her nails into his upper arms in anticipation, kiss ending with a final sucking on her tongue that seemed to tug way down at her sex.

She took in a ragged breath, held it as Malfoy, eyes shuttered, face a mask of concentration, guided himself to her slippery entrance and pushed slowly inwards, pausing when the head of his cock had breached her. “Ahhh,” he groaned against her ear, his breath sending tingles down the side of her body, making her jerk. She felt her inner walls stretching to accommodate him and tried to relax her muscles as he worked himself the rest of the way inside her. “Mmm, fuck,” he swore, lifting his head to look down at her. She loosened the grip on his arms and looked back, biting her lip. She felt full, but not uncomfortably so, and nodded her reassurance.

Given the go-ahead, Malfoy began to move, deep, measured thrusts at first, hips rocking rhythmically against hers. Hermione followed the steady pace he set and squeezed at him with her thighs and ankles, hands falling from his arms to encircle his back just below the shoulder blades. His muscles flexed beneath her palms with each movement, slick with sweat, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of him inside her, the throbbing of her clit, and the litany of words tumbling from his lips: “Fuck, fuck, Granger, yes, fuck.” She whimpered in response and was startled to hear him say clearly, “Open your eyes.”

She obeyed, caught immediately by his molten gaze. His thrusts didn’t slacken or lose their regularity as he straightened his arms, bodies separating as he towered over her, and she knew he was going to speak before he opened his mouth.

“Wanna slap me now, Granger?” he asked, voice husky and without a trace of malice or humor. Instead, he looked absolutely serious, eager even. “I’d let you, you know.”

Hermione shook her head, partly in answer, partly out of sheer disbelief. Malfoy looked, what, disappointed? Hurt? A small downturn of the lips and a toss of his head, strands of blonde hair plastered to his skin.

She ran a hand up his smooth chest, raking nails lightly over a nipple, and wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck. She pulled him back down, clenched her internal muscles with all her might, immensely satisfied when he gasped, eyes widening. His hips sped up, rhythm sloppy, and she had a hard time meeting his thrusts. Silent but for the harsh panting and smack-smack of skin on skin, he shoved his hand between their bodies, found her clit, slippery and sensitive, and worked it in furious circles that made her cry out sharply. A moment later she was coming with a high-pitched keen, inner walls spasming uncontrollably around Malfoy’s cock as she clutched at his shoulders and scraped her teeth along his jugular. He quickly followed with a few final, deep thrusts, pausing on the last to groan before collapsing on top of her.

Despite being so skinny, he felt heavy, deadweight, but Hermione didn’t mind, couldn’t bring herself to care about anything as a bone-deep calm settled through her entire body. She stared up at the tent’s sloping canvas ceiling as she and Malfoy regained their breath, hearts pounding viciously, every pulse point thrumming.

Minutes later, recovered, Hermione’s arms loosely circling his shoulders, Malfoy stirred, his lips tickling her earlobe as she felt him inhale before speaking, voice completely neutral. “I don’t know where Potter is. I’m sorry.” He was still inside her.

A sob ripped through her chest and tore from her throat at the admission she knew was no lie.