Atonement

Five



Over the two months that followed, Draco settled into the new routine. Every Saturday evening, he came to Hermione\'s place, stripped, handed over his wand, and proceeded to do chores. At some point, he realized that he stopped feeling demeaned by it altogether. In a way, it was comforting.



Whenever he approached her house, he felt as if he was crossing an invisible barrier, and falling under some sort of enchantment. Draco was not a particularly sentimental man by nature, but ... this felt real, more real than the rest of his life.



Everything about it felt so real. The soapy water, the feel of the hard tiles on his knees, the chill of the room against his naked skin, and Hermione\'s curt, unfriendly orders.



He stripped under her cool gaze and folded his clothes on the chair. Without being told, he handed over his wand, and stood before her with his hands by his sides, waiting for an order to start cleaning.



No such order came. Instead, Hermione surveyed his entire body head to toe with a kind of clinical, detached curiosity.



“You look better these days,” she observed. “Your stomach is less flabby. And even your arms have gained some muscle.”



He felt heat rush to his face. He\'d been taking better care of himself lately, and deep down he was hoping she\'d notice. However, “less flabby” wasn\'t quite the effect he\'d been going for.



“It\'s a body of a tragic man in search of redemption,” Draco said teasingly with a small wink. “This is your cue to see beyond the used-up shell, and notice my broken spirit.”



Her face remained cold, and her expression lacked amusement.



“Oh, I don\'t think you want me to see any of that at all,” she said softly. “I rather think you\'ve been hoping to woo me with your dubious physical charms.”



He stared at her blankly. She was right of course, dammit, even if he had never actually said so out loud. But... dammit.. She was right, and Weasley had been right, too. How long had it been since Draco pictured Daphne in his lonely morning wanking sessions? Half a year? Longer? He could no longer remember.



He could not answer her either. All he could do was look at her longingly. She was dressed up as if for going out tonight, or maybe as if she just came back from an engagement. She was wearing a simple formal black dress, a pair of knee-high boots, and black tightly fitting leather gloves. She was... glorious, Draco thought wistfully, unable to find another word to describe her.



“Well,” Draco said softly. “One can always dream.”



“Really?” she challenged him, as her eyes narrowed dangerously. Her gloved hand reached Draco\'s body and her index finger rested on his chest. “Tell me, what do you dream about?”



“Oh,” he whispered, shutting his eyes, unable to focus on anything other the sensation of the leather-clad fingertip on his skin.



Her finger moved slightly and Draco\'s entire body shuddered at the sensation. The gloved hand brushed against his right nipple, causing it to harden instantly. He groaned out loud when the hand moved again, gliding across the faded, barely visible Sectumsempra scar on his chest, and sliding down to his abdomen.



“Tell me,” Hermione continued as her hand rested on his hip, “what do you dream about? Do you dream about the past? How you shouldn\'t have let the Death Eaters into the school? How you shouldn\'t have placed Rosmerta under Imperius? How you shouldn\'t have broken Harry\'s nose? How you shouldn\'t have taken the Dark Mark?”



“No,” Draco said honestly, as his common sense and his speech center parted ways. “I used to, but not lately... Lately, I just dream of you.”



“Just dream of me,” she repeated mockingly. “In what way? Of me being overwhelmed with lust and impaling myself on your inadequate six inch prick?”



“Oh god,” Draco murmured. He should have been insulted, or at least hurt, but the gloved hand was rested on his backside, probing fingers digging into it, and he issued a quiet, guttural moan.



“I think,” Hermione said grimly, “you have become entirely too comfortable with our arrangement. I think you\'ve managed to forget what you are, and have come to entertain a dangerous delusion that you mean something to me.”



“I...” he stammered, unable to answer her. “I\'m sorry,” he whispered. “Fuck, Hermione, what can I say? I\'m sorry.”



“Sorry for what?” she asked.



“I don\'t really know anymore,” he admitted honestly. “I thought I used to know, but... now, when I\'m with you, all that\'s left is instinct, and I just know that you despise me, and ... I\'m sorry, and that\'s all I really know.”



“Is this insincere confession supposed to disarm me?” Hermione asked in a dangerously low voice.



“I don\'t know!” Draco half-said, half-whimpered when Hermione\'s gloved hand slid between his buttocks and stroked his cleft, making him flinch and tense up. “Oh god, Hermione, you know you can do anything you want with me!” he blurted out furiously. “If you think I\'m too comfortable, just... fucking do something about it, and... tear me apart if you need to, just... just don\'t expect me to somehow ... have the right answers.”



She stood up abruptly, coming face to face with him. Her hand left his backside, grabbed his hair and pulled down hard, pushing him down. He fell down to his knees in front of her.



“Hermione...”



“Shut up,” she said coldly, taking a step back. “You are sick. I\'m going to administer a cure.”



“Okay,” he said, and waited for her.



“Get up,” she said. “Give me your belt.”



He rose to his feet and walked unsteadily to the chair with a pile of his clothing on it. He rummaged through them, and pulled out his belt from his trousers, suddenly feeling horrifyingly exposed, as he held it in his hands.



“Same belt I had back in Hogwarts,” he said softly, handing it back to her.



She shrugged. “That\'s supposed to be a sentimental thing?”



“Maybe. I don\'t know.”



“Bend over the table.”



He complied, leaning against the wooden surface of the kitchen table. Fuck, he thought, why did he agree to this?



His hardened nipples brushed against the cool wood almost painfully. His cheek pressed against the tabletop, feeling the tiniest grooves in the table surface. His palms rested flat on it. He had never felt so utterly exposed, so completely subdued and so fully owned in his entire life, and yet... he never felt so alive, and so aware of every single nuance of what was happening to him. Everything around him, from the air in the room to the harsh surface of the table was blazing with furious intensity.



He took a deep breath.



“Go on,” he whispered. “Do it. Hurt me.”



“I thought I told you to shut up.”



Her gloved hand roamed his back, probing it and exploring it, sliding down lower and lower, until it rested on his backside. The leather-clad fingers probed and poked his buttocks in a decidedly impersonal clinical manner.



“I suppose I will have to go easy on you,” she said finally. “Not much flesh. Daphne must be a dismal cook. You are still skin and bones.”



“Don\'t hold back on my account,” he said bitterly and gasped when a stinging slap was delivered to his buttocks. “Ah!”



“Let me make this clear to you,” Hermione said coldly. “I\'m not playing with you. I\'m going to hurt you. I\'m going to make you bleed. After I\'m done with you, I\'ll throw you out. Do you understand?”



“Completely,” he managed to say. “Do it.”



“Why?” she asked. “You can\'t tell me you feel this guilty over your transgressions. Or do you?”



Did he? He didn\'t know. He felt guilty of course, but... did he really feel this guilty now? Maybe he should have, but... at this point, the guilt and shame that used to plague him for decades had been stripped away, along with his wand and his clothing. What was left was just... him, naked in front of her.



“I – am not sure,” he admitted reluctantly.



“Do you get off on pain?”



“No.”



“Why then?” she challenged him.



That damned question again. How could he answer it, without making a total arse out of himself? He wanted to equivocate, but he found that it was impossible to lie to her in this position, and all he had left was the inconvenient, unpleasant truth.



“Because I want to give you something, and I\'ve got nothing else left to give that you\'d want,” Draco said simply and shut his eyes, bracing himself for a cold rebuke.



No rebuke followed his words. What followed was much worse.



The lash hissed in the air, and landed on his bare buttocks with a horrifyingly loud sound. The pain... he was not prepared for it. He yelped and bolted to stand up involuntarily, grasping his buttocks.



“F-fuck,” he groaned, cradling his injured flesh. “Shit.”



Just then, another blow landed on his backside, hitting his fingers.



Somehow, he managed not to scream. He spun around and stared at Hermione in shock. She stared back at him coldly.



“Are you done yet?” she asked. “Get dressed. Get out.”



He sucked in a furious breath through his teeth and shook his head.



“I can do this,” he said stubbornly. “I want to do this, for you. Just ... give me a moment, please.”



Her lips twitched in amusement. “But of course.”



He used the edge of the table to support to slide down to the floor and stand on all fours. He sniffled slightly, and lifted his hips in the air, leaning on his elbows and pressing his forehead to the floor. Deep breaths, he told himself. Deep breaths should do the trick.



She resumed the whipping again, and the lash fell quickly this time, each blow more and more brutal. The belt was torturing him, cutting him, raising welts, splitting his skin.



He tried to keep as quiet as he could, resolved to withstand her fury. He bit into his hand and shuddered under every fiery lash, as she continued to whip his back, his buttocks, and his thighs. His fists were clenched, and he was barely aware of his fingernails digging into his palms, and the impression his teeth were leaving in his hand. He was barely aware of the involuntarily flood of tears that spilled form his eyes of their own accord.



It was over as suddenly as it had began. Draco\'s knees gave finally, and he curled into himself on the floor.



His back and backside throbbed all over, and he vaguely realized that a few trickles of blood, mingled with sweat were making their way to the kitchen floor.



Kitchen floor. More scrubbing.This insane thought amused him to no end, and he opened his mouth to laugh out loud, but all that emerged from his throat was a hoarse, choked sob.



She tossed the belt on the chair, and stepped over him. His tear-blurred vision focused on her feet. She was so near... so damned near, and so unattainable. She used the toe of her boot to lift his head off the ground, making him turn his face. Tears were still streaming from his eyes, and he lifted his gaze to look at her.



Hermione met his gaze and held it.



“Get dressed,” she said. “Get out.”



He moved to obey, but his arms were trembling, and he was unable to lift himself off the floor.



“I .. don\'t think I can,” he whispered with self-honesty that shocked him. “Please.. let me stay.”



“Stay,” Hermione repeated without any warmth in her voice. “In what capacity?”



“No capacity,” Draco murmured, reaching with his hand to her boot. His aching fingers encircled her ankle and caressed it with awkward gentleness. “Please... Ron is gone for the weekend, isn\'t he? Just let me sleep here. I won\'t bother you... I swear... I just... can\'t go home yet, not after this... fuck, please, Hermione, I\'m begging you... please...” he was breathing rapidly and quickly, and suddenly the idea of being thrown out so soon after this was too much to bear. Panic gripped him, and he pressed his face to her boot, weeping shamelessly, repeating his litany of please\' and begging, over and over again, afraid to beg too much, but afraid to stop begging either.



He wasn\'t certain at what point his begging finally ceased, and when his crying finally calmed. Eventually he heard the sound of retreating footsteps – hers. Feeling drained, and absolutely destroyed, he simply passed out on the kitchen floor, just as he was, covered in his own blood, sweat and tears.

---

He woke up when he heard her footsteps. His eyes flew open and feasted on her. She was barefoot, wearing a simple cotton dress. Her unruly hair was gathered back into a ponytail. She was ... magnificent. And she was so ... close.



She stared back at him, and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, crossing her legs.



Draco groaned quietly, and shivered, wondering if this was some kind of bizarre dream, but the agony in his back and backside testified to something else.... it really did happen. He got whipped, and then... he spent the night on the kitchen floor... he should have felt mortified, or maybe rejected, but... he didn\'t. How could he?. His heart thrilled again.



She didn\'t throw him out.



He lifted himself off the floor, and painfully, slowly crawled to her, until his lips were right next to her foot. He stared at her uncertainly, studying her face.



Her expression was completely devoid of derision or scorn. If anything, she looked a little tired this morning. He looked at her pleadingly, hoping that ... somehow, she would let him know if it was all right for him to attempt another physical contact. Slowly, in a barely noticeable way, she inclined her head forward, as if to give him the tiniest nod. And her eyelashes lowered as well, when she did that.



He dared it then, and pressed his lips to her foot. “Thank you,” he said.



She appeared to be taken aback by his words.



“For what?”



“For not throwing me out last night,” he murmured, and kissed her foot again. It felt soft under his lips.



“Hmm.” She leaned forward, and her bare hand touched his head, stroking it softly. He sighed blissfully and waited, with his lips still pressed to her foot, as her fingers sorted through his thinning hair with incredible gentleness.



And then it was over again, all too soon.



“Get dressed,” she said. “Get out.”



He pulled away from her with a sigh, and rose to his feet, using the table for support. God, how it hurt to move. His entire body ached, and would likely ache for days, unless he used healing spells. He already knew he wouldn\'t.



Somehow, he managed to resume walking, and got dressed under her cool, impassive gaze.



“Thank you,” he said.











TBC...