TW: attampted murder against Hermione.
Blood and violance.
As Hermione adjusted the collar of her sleek black Valentino suit, her fingers trembled slightly. The weight of the upcoming "business meeting" with Draco felt heavier than the pearls around her neck. The soft click of her heels echoed as she stepped away from the mirror, assessing the woman reflected back at her. She barely recognized herself.
The Hermione of old would never have agreed to this. This world of power, deception, and shadowy deals had once repulsed her. And yet, here she stood—dressed for war, though not the kind she was used to. It wasn't just the clothes that had changed her; it was him. Draco Malfoy had pulled her into a world where morality blurred and alliances were built on whispers in the dark.
She knew this wasn't just a business dinner. He had been vague, his words carefully chosen, but the tension in his voice told her enough. Tonight, she would see a part of his world that he had never fully shown her. And she wasn't sure which scared her more—the people they were about to meet or the version of him she might witness.
The woman in the mirror was a stranger—polished, composed, untouchable. But beneath the facade, Hermione Granger, the girl who once fought for truth and justice, still trembled. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders, forcing the fear aside.
Tonight, she wouldn't just be his companion. She would be Hermione Granger—formidable, unshaken, ready to face whatever lay ahead. Side by side with the man who had become both her downfall and her sanctuary.
~~~~~~
As their sleek black carriage rolled to a stop before the looming iron gates of Karkaroff Manor, a deep unease settled over Hermione. The estate, once a symbol of power, now exuded something far darker—an air thick with secrecy and menace. The stone walls, slick with creeping ivy, seemed to absorb the last of the daylight, leaving only shadows in their wake.
A sharp pop broke the tense silence. A house-elf materialized from the gloom beside the gate, his wide, weary eyes flicking between them. "Master Malfoy... Mistress Malfoy," he murmured, his voice a tremor of both reverence and unease. "Wasn't expecting both of you tonight."
Draco, his face an impassive mask, reached into his cloak and tossed a velvet pouch toward the elf. Muttons caught it deftly, his fingers tightening around the weight inside. "Discretion, Muttons," he said, his voice a blade of cold steel. "As always."
The elf bowed low, his frail frame trembling. With a sharp snap of his fingers, the iron gates groaned open, the sound scraping through the stillness like a warning. Beyond them, a narrow cobblestone path twisted like a serpent, leading toward the hulking silhouette of the manor, its dark windows staring back like vacant eyes.
Her grip tightened on his arm, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The cold night air bit at her skin, but the true chill came from within. This was the point of no return.
Yet beneath the apprehension, something fierce burned inside her. She wasn't just Hermione Granger, the girl who had once stood for justice. Tonight, she was stepping into the shadows willingly, prepared to meet the darkness on her own terms.
With her head high and her gaze steady, she took the first step forward. The world beyond these gates would not break her. If she was to walk among devils, she would do so as a force to be reckoned with.
The room was a vacuum of sound, the kind of silence that suffocated. It coiled around the tension like a snake ready to strike. The dim candle light flickered against the stone walls, casting jagged shadows that seemed to close in tighter with each breath.
Igor Karkaroff, draped lazily over the edge of the massive oak table, regarded Hermione with a smirk that curdled in the pit of her stomach. His sharp, hungry gaze dragged over her, a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
"Mrs. Malfoy," he mused, his voice like oil sliding over glass. "How fortunate Draco is to have such a stunning wife… and one who carries herself with such poise. A gorgeous girl, indeed."
His gaze lingered, dark and intrusive, crawling over her like a sickness. Then, with a smirk laced in venom, he added, "It's good to see you've learned your place beside him, where a woman of your standing belongs."
The room dropped several degrees.
Draco moved before she could react, before even Karkaroff could process the shift in the air. One second, he was standing beside her, his posture deceptively relaxed; the next, he was in front of Karkaroff, a blade pressed just beneath the man's jawline, his grip steady, his expression unreadable.
"You will," Draco murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost gentle, "speak to my wife with respect. Or I will carve the words into your tongue so you never forget them."
Karkaroff's smirk flickered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. "Easy now, boy," he tried, his voice lighter than his expression. "I meant no harm."
Draco pressed the blade harder, just enough for a thin line of blood to bead at the edge of Karkaroff's throat. "That's Lord Malfoy to you," he corrected, his tone carrying a deadly finality. "And harm, Igor, is exactly what you're inviting."
The other men in the room stayed unnervingly still, eyes darting between the two of them. No one dared to move. No one dared to interfere.
Karkaroff, to his credit, didn't cower. But the glint of amusement in his eyes was long gone, replaced with the cold realization that he was standing at the edge of a blade—literally.
"Come now," he rasped, shifting ever so slightly, testing the weight of Draco's patience. "I was merely complimenting your wife. Surely, you can't blame me for admiring such beauty?"
The knife disappeared in a blink, but Draco wasn't done.
Faster than the eye could follow, he grabbed Karkaroff by the throat and slammed him back against the wooden table with a sickening crack. The air left the older man's lungs in a ragged gasp, his fingers clawing at Draco's wrist, but it was useless. Draco was calm. And that, more than anything, was terrifying.
"Try it again," Draco whispered, his lips barely moving. "Go ahead. Another comment. Another look. Give me a reason, Igor. Give me a fucking reason."
Karkaroff let out a choked breath, his hands trembling. He could feel it now—the barely restrained monster coiled inside Draco Malfoy, waiting, begging for an excuse to be unleashed.
He leaned in, his breath ghosting against Karkaroff's ear. "You will show her respect. You will mind your tongue. And if I ever hear you speak about my wife like that again…" He tilted his head slightly, considering. "Let's just say, I will ensure you never speak again."
Slowly, deliberately, he released him.
Karkaroff coughed violently, his hands flying to his throat, rubbing at the bruising already blooming under pale skin. He shot Draco a look that was meant to be defiant but was betrayed by the sheen of fear in his eyes.
Draco straightened his cuffs, the picture of composure, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just nearly slit a man's throat for daring to speak his wife's name in the wrong tone.
"Shall we sit?" he asked, his voice pleasant, almost bored. "I believe we have business to discuss."
The room exhaled collectively, the tension snapping like a frayed wire.
Hermione swallowed hard, her pulse a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had seen him angry before, had seen his sharp tongue, his ruthless efficiency in a fight. But this? This was something else.
This was the kind of man people feared.
And, perhaps, the most terrifying part of all—he had done it for her.
Before he could muster another retort, she stepped forward, her gaze sharp as a blade. Control the room before it controls you.
"Mr. Karkaroff," she said, her voice crisp, laced with the kind of intellect that could dismantle empires, "while I appreciate your attempt at flattery, I believe our presence here is for matters far more pressing than superficial observations. Perhaps we should proceed to business."
The silence that followed was palpable, charged. Her words struck like an iron gauntlet thrown into the center of the gathering—a challenge, undeniable and deliberate.
Karkaroff's smirk faltered, the surprise evident in the flicker of his eyelids. He had expected hesitation, discomfort. Not this. Not a woman who could hold her ground amidst monsters.
A slow chuckle rumbled from Draco's chest, dark amusement curling at the edges of his mouth. His fingers traced the rim of his glass as he watched her effortlessly shift the balance of power.
She had expected a disaster tonight. Expected to flounder in his world, to be outmaneuvered, outmatched. But standing here, meeting Karkaroff's calculating gaze without so much as a blink, she realized she had been wrong.
She belonged here. And Draco knew it too.
But then, the air changed.
A new presence slithered into the room, smooth as silk and twice as lethal.
Jelena Karkaroff.
The moment she stepped from the shadows, the temperature seemed to drop, as if the room itself recoiled from her presence. She was beautiful in a way that unsettled—too perfect, too measured. Every move she made was calculated, her grace too practiced, her steps too light, as if she floated just above the mortal realm.
Hermione stiffened.
Draped in an obscene display of pink star diamonds , Jelena shimmered with an unnatural brilliance. The chandelier earrings caught the light as she moved, glinting like sharpened daggers. The necklace that rested between her collarbones pulsed, as if alive, each diamond a cold, merciless eye watching, waiting.
Jelena Karkaroff was not merely adorned in wealth—she weaponized it.
And yet, it was not her opulence that set Hermione's nerves alight. It was something deeper. Something ancient and dangerous, coiled just beneath her polished exterior.
A predator, masquerading in silk.
Jelena's crimson lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, one that never quite reached her eyes. "Draco," she purred, her voice like honey laced with poison.
The room held its breath.
The air was thick with the weight of expectation, of silent wagers being placed, of power shifting in unseen currents.
Hermione lifted her chin, refusing to shrink beneath Jelena's scrutiny.
A flicker of amusement danced in the woman's icy gaze. Good, it seemed to say. Show me your teeth, little lioness. Let's see if you know how to bite.
They called her Miss Cursed Jewel, a name whispered in fear and awe. Stories of her cruelty had become legend, but her beauty—timeless, chilling—was a statement unto itself, one that needed no words to convey the power she wielded.
As Jelena approached, the champagne bottle in her hand gleamed like a gilded dagger, its shimmering glass a reflection of her carefully cultivated elegance—beautiful, deceptive, and laced with quiet danger. The pink diamonds draped across her neck should have sparkled with innocence, but instead, they refracted the dim light in an eerie, almost unnatural way, as if each stone was a silent witness to something far more sinister.
She watched as Jelena raised her flute, the motion deliberate, almost taunting. The way she held it—poised yet commanding—reminded her of a predator toying with its prey before the inevitable strike. The champagne inside shimmered unnervingly under the chandelier's glow, turning the simple act of a sip into something far more unsettling. If someone wanted to poison a drink, this is exactly how they'd do it.
"Dobro veče," Jelena greeted smoothly, her Serbian accent curling around the words like silk—rich, slow, and deliberate.
Hermione felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding slither down her spine. The woman was captivating, her beauty almost hypnotic, yet something in her manner made it clear she was not to be underestimated. Forcing a polite smile, Hermione met her gaze head-on. "Good evening," she replied, steady but wary.
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Jelena's face—amusement, intrigue, or perhaps a carefully veiled challenge.
"You are Hermione, yes? Viktor Krum's previous girlfriend?" Her voice was honeyed, her smile sharp.
Hermione didn't falter, though she felt an old, distant pang of nostalgia. "I am Hermione Malfoy now," she corrected smoothly, her tone even. "Viktor and I had a brief… friendship, but that was many years ago. He's a wonderful person, and we remain on good terms."
Jelena's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the corner of her lips twitching in something that wasn't quite a smirk, but close. "Very well," she murmured, swirling the champagne in her glass. "He is an exceptional nephew."
The weight of her words lingered. The way she said nephew felt more like a reminder than a casual remark, as if she knew more than she was letting on—more than Hermione was comfortable with.
The air between them thickened, turning from polite conversation to something more dangerous. Hermione could feel it now, the subtle, calculated way Jelena observed her. Every word, every reaction, every flicker of emotion—it was all being assessed, measured.
And despite her best efforts to remain composed, Hermione felt it—the slow, insidious pressure of being watched, dissected, and, most of all… tested.
Jelena halted abruptly, turning to Draco with a slow, disdainful sniff. "Our informant," she began, her Slavic accent curling around each syllable like a blade, "claims the shipment was… unsatisfactory. They would like to have a little chat with your supplier."
Draco's smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory amusement. "Now, Jelena," he drawled, his tone light but dripping with condescension, "let's not waste the evening with riddles. We both know how this game is played."
Her expression hardened, her sharp features twisting with irritation. "Do you?" she countered, her voice a slow, deliberate threat. "Because I wonder if you've forgotten who is really in control here."
The air in the room grew dense, suffocating in its tension. A lesser man would have cowered, but Draco merely chuckled—a low, dark sound that sent a visible shudder through Jelena. "No, darling," he murmured, his voice turning to ice. "I think you're the one who's mistaken about that."
For the first time, Jelena hesitated. The weight of her miscalculation settled over her, cold and suffocating. She had assumed he was merely another player in the game, a man whose power was inherited, not earned. But now, staring into the storm brewing in his silver eyes, she realized she was wrong. He was the game.
Before she could recover, Hermione stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension like tempered steel. "There's no need for veiled threats, Jelena," she said, her tone cool and commanding. "We all understand the nature of this business. If there's a dispute, let's address it directly, rather than dance around it with dramatics."
Karkaroff, silent until now, let out a slow exhale, his expression unreadable as he leaned into the shadows. Draco turned slightly toward Hermione, his smirk returning—not amused, but approving. "As my wife so eloquently put it," he murmured, his gaze flicking back to Jelena with quiet menace, "she is well aware of my… operations. No need to test her."
Jelena's narrowed gaze lingered on Hermione, assessing, calculating. This was no naïve housewife playing at power—Hermione Granger-Malfoy was something else entirely. But she wasn't ready to back down. "We'll see," Jelena purred, her voice laced with mock sweetness. "I've heard… whispers about your operations, Draco. And I'm not entirely convinced they align with our expectations."
His smirk didn't waver, but there was an unmistakable shift in the air—danger curling around him like smoke. "I'm sure we can reach an understanding," he said smoothly, though the lethal undertone in his voice suggested otherwise.
Karkaroff finally stirred, his voice as smooth as a well-polished lie. "We do prefer a certain… transparency in our dealings, wouldn't you agree?" His sharp gaze flickered toward Draco. "Trust is paramount. And, on that note…" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "The last shipment was… underwhelming. Our associates have requested a more personal discussion with your supplier."
Draco's jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. "My shipments," he said, his voice controlled but sharp as a blade, "have always met the highest standards. To suggest otherwise is… bold."
Jelena let out a soft, knowing chuckle. With a slow, deliberate motion, she reached into the folds of her luxurious Dior robe and produced two small vials, their murky brown contents glinting ominously under the dim light. "Perhaps," she murmured, tilting the vials between her fingers, "a little sensory evaluation is in order. Just to clear up any misunderstandings."
Draco's nostrils flared, his fury barely leashed. "My palate," he said, his voice cold enough to burn, "does not require validation through such… experiments. I am a distributor, not a consumer."
Jelena's smirk remained, but there was a flicker of something else—hesitation, perhaps even respect.
Karkaroff and Jelena exchanged a glance, a silent conversation unfolding between them.
But the truth was already clear.
Draco Malfoy was not a man to be tested. And tonight, they had made the grave mistake of trying.
Karkaroff finally spoke, his voice devoid of warmth, his gaze cold and calculating. "This is not the business we agreed upon, Draco. We require goods of a certain… caliber." He gestured toward the vials with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "This is shit."
Draco's jaw tensed, his expression a mask of controlled fury. "My shipments," he countered, his voice slow and razor-sharp, "have always met the agreed-upon standards. To suggest otherwise is a rather bold accusation, wouldn't you say?"
Karkaroff scoffed, ignoring the retort, and with a subtle nod, a hulking figure emerged from the shadows. The man was built like a fortress, his blank expression revealing nothing.
Draco barely spared him a glance, his attention locked on Karkaroff. His voice, now a lethal whisper, cut through the air like a blade. "What are you implying, Igor? That after a decade of business, I've suddenly decided to sabotage our arrangement?"
Jelena leaned forward, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "This isn't about sabotage, Draco," she purred, her voice dripping with venom. "Perhaps your… affections have made you careless. Soft."
His head snapped toward her, his silver eyes burning with icy rage. "My marriage," he hissed, each word a dagger aimed straight at her, "is not a topic for discussion. And I suggest you refrain from commenting on your own marital arrangements before I remind you of the skeletons in your closet."
The room crackled with tension. Hermione remained silent, her gaze flicking between them, absorbing every movement, every unspoken threat.
Then, with a single, sharp motion, Draco slammed his wand onto the mahogany table. The sound ricocheted through the room like a gunshot, silencing everyone.
Karkaroff barely flinched, his expression carefully neutral. "No need for theatrics, boy," he murmured, his voice eerily calm, his sharp blue eyes glinting with something dangerous.
Draco leaned in, his voice low and menacing. "But there is, Igor," he murmured, his tone like ice. "Because this accusation—" his lips curled into a mocking smirk, "—this little show you're putting on? It's a lie. And if it's a lie, then I have to wonder… why?"
A slow, cruel smile stretched across Igor's lips. "Perhaps not," he drawled, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "But some lessons are best learned the hard way."
Draco's expression darkened. "Oh, I agree." In one fluid motion, he drew his wand and aimed it directly at Igor's chest.
The room tensed. A deadly hush settled over the space.
His hands trembled—not with fear, but with fury. A rage so potent it threatened to consume him whole. He took a step closer, voice dropping to something lethal, something feral. "You took a vow before you married that cheap whore," he spat, his tone dripping with disgust. "A vow, Igor. Do you remember? We swore loyalty. We swore that no matter what, we'd never betray each other."
Igor's jaw tightened, his body rigid as Draco advanced. His voice, once simmering, was now glacial, lethal in its precision. "I handled your filth. I took care of the problems you were too weak to face. I killed for you, Igor. I buried bodies you couldn't stomach. I destroyed for you." He paused, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "And this? This is how you repay me? You accuse me of dealing in shit? You, of all people, know the quality of my product. You know exactly what I sell. So don't stand there and pretend otherwise."
Igor remained motionless, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
Draco exhaled slowly, his anger shifting into something even more dangerous—cold calculation. His tone turned mocking, his words slow and deliberate. "Or maybe… this isn't about business at all. Maybe you're trying to save face." A dark chuckle escaped him. "Is that it?" he sneered. "You think throwing me under the bus will keep you in her good graces?" His gaze flicked toward the shadowed figure of Igor's wife. "Tell me, Igor," he continued, voice dipping into a chilling whisper, "is she worth betraying a brother for?"
Igor's flinch was barely noticeable—but Draco saw it.
"You took a vow," he reminded him, voice a whisper of silk and steel. "And I honored mine. But you?" His eyes burned with contempt. "You broke yours."
A thick, oppressive silence stretched between them.
He took a single step back, but his presence remained suffocating, his gaze locked onto Igor's with unrelenting intensity.
There were no more words left to say.
Only consequences.
"Don't think for a second that I'll let this slide," Draco murmured, his voice eerily calm, his grip tightening around his wand. "You've made a grave mistake, Igor. One you cannot take back."
Before Igor could react, a single word slithered from his lips, drenched in malice. "Crucio."
A strangled scream tore through the room as Igor collapsed, his body writhing in agony. The scent of ozone thickened in the air, laced with the acrid tang of burning nerves and raw power. The Unforgivable Curse pulsed like a living entity, feeding off the suffering it inflicted. Hermione's breath hitched, her stomach twisting violently. She had seen the curse used before, had witnessed pain manufactured for power—but never from him. Never like this.
He stood motionless, his expression carved from ice, his wand unwavering as if he was sculpted into the very act of cruelty. But it was the glint in his silver eyes that froze her—cold, calculating, utterly merciless. He was not merely punishing Igor. He was enjoying it.
"Let this be a lesson," he said, his voice deathly quiet, dripping with venom. "You will not speak of my wife. You will not speak of my marriage. And you will not—ever again—question my name."
Igor convulsed, his body arching off the floor in silent agony. Jelena took a slow, measured step back, her usually unreadable face betraying the faintest flicker of unease. Karkaroff, however, remained still. A smirk, barely perceptible, ghosted across his lips.
He finally lowered his wand. The curse lifted instantly, leaving Igor crumpled on the cold stone floor, his breath ragged, his limbs twitching. Whether from the lingering pain or the realization of his own helplessness, Hermione couldn't tell.
A strained silence followed, thick as smoke. Igor groaned, struggling onto his hands and knees, sweat glistening on his pallid skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges. "We... we will discuss this further," he rasped. "But not here. Not now."
He staggered to his feet, his movements sluggish, a barely restrained grimace twisting his face. Yet when his eyes met his, something flickered within them—a mixture of loathing and something else. Respect? Fear, perhaps. But respect nonetheless.
Without another word, he turned and vanished into the shadows, the heavy oak door at the end of the hallway groaning as it shut behind him.
The silence left in his wake was suffocating. She exhaled shakily, stealing a glance at him. The darkness had not yet left his eyes. It lingered there, smoldering beneath his carefully composed mask.
And for the first time, she truly wondered if it ever would.
~~~~~~
The Floo flared violently, spitting them out into the opulent confines of their penthouse, the emerald flames retreating as swiftly as they had come. Hermione barely had time to steady herself before he was on her—Draco, a force of nature, his hands cupping her face with a grip that was almost bruising in its intensity. His touch was possessive, his thumbs sweeping slow, arrogant circles over her cheekbones as if to imprint his claim upon her skin.
"There you are," he murmured, his voice dark velvet, a dangerous purr that sent shivers cascading down her spine. His lips hovered mere inches from hers, his breath warm, intoxicating. "And about bloody time, too. Mrs. Granger-Malfoy," he mused, his tone dripping with amusement, "or should I say… Malfoy now?"
His silver eyes gleamed, razor-sharp and alight with something wicked. He leaned in further, so close she could almost taste the whiskey on his breath. "Interesting," he continued, his voice a seductive rasp. "You finally saw fit to shed that filthy Gryffindor label entirely. Took you long enough."
His words sent a thrill down her spine, laced with that unmistakable Malfoy arrogance, with possession. But beneath the taunt was something darker—something that both excited and unnerved her. He wasn't simply acknowledging her choice to take his name; he was relishing it, staking his claim in a way that made it clear that to be a Malfoy was not simply a legal matter. It was ownership.
"Well?" His grip tightened ever so slightly, his fingers threading into her hair as his lips ghosted over hers. "Care to enlighten me, doll? What sudden revelation possessed you to become wholly mine?"
The question wasn't truly a question—it was a demand, wrapped in silken dominance. He wanted her answer, but more than that, he wanted her submission.
She swallowed, the heat between them thick enough to suffocate, her body betraying her with every rapid pulse of her heart. But beneath the haze of desire, a spark of defiance flared—a remnant of the girl who had once loathed everything about this man, the girl who had once fought against the inevitability of him.
"Perhaps," she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her, "it was the realization that the Malfoy name suits me better than I ever thought possible. Especially when it's whispered on your lips."
A slow, wicked grin unfurled across his face. "There's my girl," he murmured, before crushing his lips against hers.
The kiss was a claim, a battle waged between tongues and teeth, a war of dominance and surrender. Her fingers twisted into his platinum hair, nails scraping against his scalp as she pulled him closer, drinking in the heat of him. His hands slid down, tracing the curve of her waist before gripping her hips with a possessiveness that sent a delicious ache between her thighs.
Without breaking the kiss, he reached for the zipper of her dress, dragging it down her spine with torturous slowness. The silky fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her bare before him, clad in nothing but the remnants of her defiance.
He pulled back, just enough to take her in, his gaze molten as it devoured every inch of her. His fingers traced reverent paths over her curves, over the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the heat pooling between her thighs. His control, always so carefully maintained, was slipping—she could feel it in the way his breath hitched, in the way his hands trembled slightly as they roamed her body.
"Fucking perfect," he rasped, his voice thick with hunger.
Before she could respond, his mouth descended, hot and relentless against her throat, her collarbone, her already pebbled nipples. She gasped, her back arching into him, desperate for more, for everything. He lavished attention on her, his tongue circling, teasing, before his teeth grazed just enough to send a jolt of pleasure straight to her core.
"Draco," she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as he took one nipple into his mouth, his free hand trailing lower, lower—
"Please, sweetie," she whimpered, her voice breaking on the plea. "Don't stop."
He chuckled darkly against her skin, his breath a sinful whisper over her flushed flesh. "Oh, love," he murmured, his fingers finally slipping between her thighs, finding her already soaked for him.
"Stopping," he said, smirking as she writhed against his hand, "was never an option."
The fire crackled in the hearth, its golden glow casting flickering shadows across the dimly lit room. Wrapped in warmth, they lay tangled together, her bare skin pressed against his, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek a quiet lullaby.
She traced idle patterns across his chest, her fingers ghosting over the scars she had once only imagined. "Seeing you at work today," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, lost in the soft hum of the fire. "It was… surprising, to say the least."
A low chuckle rumbled through him, his hand trailing lazily through her curls. "Not quite the reunion I had in mind, Mrs. Malfoy," he murmured, amusement lacing his words.
She smirked against his skin. "No, not entirely." A pause. Her fingers stilled for a heartbeat, her breath hitching as she chose her next words carefully. "Though, I must admit… seeing you Crucio Karkaroff—barbaric as it was—stirred something inside me."
The shift in his demeanor was instant. His grip on her thighs tightened just enough to make her gasp, his gaze darkening, molten silver brimming with something dangerously primal. "Something pleasurable, I hope?" His voice was a velvet promise, coaxing her deeper into the darkness they now shared.
Her lips parted, her voice dropping to a breathless whisper. "Unbelievably so."
A wicked smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "Filthy girl," he murmured, fingers slipping between her thighs, tracing slow, possessive circles that had her melting against him. His touch was unrelenting, teasing, claiming her in ways no words could.
His lips brushed against the shell of her ear as he murmured, "Thank you for trusting me, darling. Your loyalty means everything. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else interfering, especially not when it concerns you."
She shivered at the quiet intensity in his voice, at the way his words wrapped around her like a spell. Her gaze flickered to the wand resting beside him, the unfamiliar smoothness of the handle catching her eye.
He caught her staring. A smirk curved his lips as he twirled it between his fingers. "Curious, are we?" His tone was laced with something dark, teasing.
"Indeed." Her eyes gleamed with intrigue. "That one… it's not your usual, is it?"
His smirk deepened, a slow, predatory thing. "Sharp as ever, my love." He lifted the wand, letting it roll across his palm, the weight of it familiar, commanding. "This little toy?" He exhaled a dark chuckle. "Let's just say it ensures I can stay close… protect what's mine. Wouldn't want a misunderstanding landing me in Azkaban, away from you for eternity."
His words were a promise. A threat. A declaration of devotion carved from something dangerous, something irrevocable.
And as she looked into his stormy grey eyes, she realized—she wasn't afraid.
"J'ai parfois eu des pensées suicidaires. Et j'en suis peu fier. On croit parfois que c'est la seule manière de les faire taire, ces pensées qui nous font vivre un enfer."
The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, laced with a desperation that clawed at his chest. He wasn't speaking just to be heard—he was pleading for understanding, for her to see the fire behind his conviction, the war raging beneath his carefully composed facade.
His mind buzzed with the manifesto's tenets, each syllable pulsing through him like a lifeline. He searched her face for recognition, for the flicker of something that told him she understood. He needed her to see it again, to crave the intensity he poured into his ideals, into her. Beneath the bravado, beyond the darkness, he wanted her acceptance. Not just of who he was—but of what he was. A monster? A savior? Perhaps both. But he wanted her to choose him, even in the abyss.
The room pulsed with an eerie glow, shadows stretching like grasping hands along the walls. The fire flickered wildly in the hearth, as if stirred by the storm churning inside him. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.
"You see it, don't you, darling? The truth beneath the surface. The world we were forced into, the darkness that stains our souls."
Her gaze, once filled with unyielding curiosity, now held something far colder. Something unreadable. "I see it, dearie," she murmured, her voice lilting with something unsettling. "More than you know."
A flicker of relief ignited in his chest. "You understand then," he pressed, stepping closer, needing to close the void between them. "The burden I carry. The choices I had to make—"
"Understand?" She cut him off, the edge in her voice sharp enough to draw blood. "I lived it, Draco. The fear. The rage. The desperate need to make it stop."
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Her smile was ghostly, a whisper of something both haunting and mesmerizing. It sent a shiver racing down his spine. "Don't you see? We're not so different, you and I." Her voice softened, though it did little to mask the gravity of her words. "You lost your father. A cruel man, yes, but a father nonetheless. And I..." Her voice faltered, a single tear carving a glistening path down her cheek.
A horrifying realization sank its claws into his chest. His breath caught. "You..."
She took another step forward, so close now he could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips. Her next words were barely above a whisper, but they shattered him all the same.
"We both saw the light extinguished in those eyes. We both felt the burden lift." A pause, thick with something unspoken, something damning. "That's where our understanding lies. In the darkness we share."
His Hades. Her Persephone. Bound by blood. Bound by sin.
~~~~~~
One evening, alone in the quiet of their home, she barely had time to react before a package materialized on the living room floor. Wrapped in elegant silver paper, it shimmered under the dim glow of the chandelier, an unmistakable signature of him.
She hesitated. A familiar thrill of anticipation warred with a prickling unease. He often sent her gifts—luxuries steeped in meaning, laced with possession. But this… something about this felt different.
Steeling herself, she stepped forward, the soft rustle of the paper filling the silence as she carefully untied the ribbon. Her fingers traced the intricate folds before peeling back the wrapping, revealing a velvet-lined box beneath. With bated breath, she lifted the lid.
A tiara.
But not just any tiara—this was unlike anything she had ever seen.
Pink Star Diamonds.
The world momentarily hushed as she lifted the masterpiece from its resting place. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Delicate silverwork wove an intricate lattice, cradling the luminous pink gems that glowed like captured stardust. Each stone caught the light, refracting a mesmerizing spectrum of colors.
Her breath caught in her throat, her awe rendering her momentarily still.
Then, the shift.
A pulse.
A ripple of unnatural heat shot through her fingertips, spreading like wildfire. The air around her twisted violently, the once-solid walls of her home warping into a spiraling tunnel of silver and shadows. A scream tore from her lips as the elegant wrapping paper stretched, unraveled, and consumed.
This wasn't a gift. It was a trap.
Disoriented, the world spinning beneath her feet, she landed hard on damp stone, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. She gasped, coughing as she struggled upright.
The warmth of her home was gone.
Instead, jagged stone walls loomed around her, slick with moisture, their rough edges illuminated by the flickering glow of distant torches. The air reeked of mildew, thick and cloying, wrapping around her like an unspoken warning.
She swallowed hard, pushing down the rising tide of panic clawing at her chest. No. Fear was useless here. Fear got people killed.
Her mind raced, instincts honed by years of war snapping into place. Her fingers twitched toward her wand.
Assess. Breathe. Survive.
Whatever this was, whoever had sent her here—she would not be their victim.
The sharp, deliberate click of heels shattered the suffocating silence, each step slow, methodical—a predator savoring the approach. The torchlight flickered, casting long, shifting shadows against the damp stone walls. And then, from the gloom, she emerged.
Jelena Karkaroff.
Gone was the mere arrogance of their last encounter. In its place was something infinitely worse—certainty. Cold, absolute certainty. A woman who knew she had won before the game had even begun.
Her high cheekbones were thrown into sharp relief by the flickering flames, her pale lips curving into a slow, humorless smile. It wasn't an expression of amusement. It was ownership.
"Welcome, mudblood," Jelena purred, the word rolling off her tongue with a slow, deliberate cruelty, each syllable dripping with venom.
The torches burned lower. The air felt tighter, heavier, as if something unseen was curling around her throat.
Jelena took a single step closer, her presence suffocating, her voice a mockery of politeness. "I see you received my… invitation."
The word slithered through the cavern, its sweetness a thinly veiled knife.
Hermione's fingers twitched toward her wand, her pulse hammering beneath her skin, but Jelena only chuckled—a low, velvety sound, the kind a spider might make before sinking its fangs into its prey.
"Oh, darling," she sighed, tilting her head ever so slightly, her diamonds catching the firelight in an unnatural, almost hungry gleam. "You should know by now… there's no escaping me."
Then, with the slow grace of a queen descending upon her throne, she extended a single hand.
"Shall we begin?"
~~~~~~
A rare flicker of warmth settled in his chest as he stepped into Theo's office, a stark contrast to the tension that had followed him here. The room was unrecognizable from the calculated, impersonal space it had once been. Gone were the cold, austere tones, the reminders of a past steeped in control and precision. Now, the walls bore a different kind of legacy—an explosion of color, of life.
Children's drawings, scrawled in crayon and ink, decorated every inch of the space. Some were little more than chaotic scribbles, but at the center of them all, a lopsided portrait of a grinning baby was tacked to the wall, proudly labeled Lysander. The sight of it tugged at the corner of his lips, an unfamiliar but not unwelcome sensation.
Theo, ever the meticulous planner, had embraced chaos in a way Draco never thought possible.
"Theo," he announced, his voice slicing through the comfortable quiet. "This place… it looks different."
Theo glanced up from the stack of parchment before him, a lazy smirk playing at his lips. "Ah, yes," he drawled, eyes glinting with amusement. "I figured a bit of color wouldn't kill me. Lysander, however, seems determined to see just how much I can tolerate." He gestured toward the grinning baby's drawing. "A prodigy, wouldn't you say? Master of modern abstract expressionism."
Draco huffed a quiet laugh, a sound so rare these days it almost startled him. But the levity was short-lived. His smirk faded as he settled into the chair across from Theo, the warmth of the moment dissipating like smoke.
"Speaking of modern abstract expressionism," he began, voice hardening, "that's part of why I'm here. We have a problem."
Theo arched a brow, his posture shifting ever so slightly. "Do we now?"
"Karkaroff," Draco bit out, fingers drumming against the polished wood. "He claims the last shipment was tampered with. That you—" he leveled Theo with a measured look, "—sold him tainted product."
The humor vanished from Theo's face in an instant. His smirk turned razor-sharp, his expression an unreadable mask of cold calculation. "Tampered?" he echoed, his voice clipped, dangerous. "That's an interesting accusation. Especially considering I don't make mistakes."
Draco studied him carefully. He knew Theo—perhaps better than anyone else. He knew his meticulous nature, the way he double-checked every detail, ensured every move was calculated to perfection. The idea that he had botched a shipment was laughable.
And yet, a flicker of unease crawled up Draco's spine.
"I know," he said, his tone firm, unyielding. "But we can't afford to leave any questions unanswered. We start at the source—growers, processors, distributors. No loose ends."
Theo leaned back, exhaling through his nose, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. "My people are discreet," he assured, voice a low murmur. "If there's a weak link in our chain, they'll find it."
Something dark flickered in Theo's gaze then, a sharp, predatory glint. "Meanwhile," he continued, "I'll see what dirt can be dug up on Karkaroff. A few well-placed whispers in the right ears, a few skeletons dragged into the light… Let's see how much pressure it takes before he starts singing."
Draco nodded slowly, the unspoken weight of their pact settling over them. This wasn't just about business. This was about trust—about the fine line between loyalty and self-preservation.
"Be careful, Theo," Draco warned, his voice a quiet threat. "Karkaroff's not the type to roll over without a fight. And keep this unofficial—the last thing we need is the Ministry sniffing around."
A slow, knowing smile crept onto Theo's lips, but it lacked amusement. "Oh, Draco," he murmured, "you wound me. Discretion is my specialty." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to something just shy of sinister. "And sometimes… the best leverage comes from the darkest places."
The air between them grew heavy, electric with unspoken promises and the weight of the inevitable. They had been here before, treading the fine edge of the abyss.
Draco's gaze hardened. "Then we handle this swiftly. And when we find who's behind it…" He let the sentence hang, unfinished, the promise of retribution thick in the air.
Theo smirked, a glimmer of something ruthless dancing in his eyes. "Then we remind them," he said, voice silken, "why no one dares to fuck with us."
The laughter of a child echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the office, Lysander's innocent giggles a cruel contrast to the darkness they had just embraced. The children's drawings on the wall seemed almost mocking, a reminder of the world they straddled—the one of warmth and innocence, and the one that dripped in blood and power.
For them, there was no escape. Only the dance in the dark.
~~~~~~
"Ti glupava kučka," Jelena spat, her voice dripping with venom as her stiletto-clad foot crashed into Hermione's skull with brutal force.
Pain exploded through her head like shattered glass. The impact sent her sprawling, her vision swimming in and out of focus. The metallic tang of blood coated her tongue, the throbbing in her skull a relentless drumbeat of agony. Every nerve in her body screamed, but she refused to surrender to the darkness threatening to consume her.
Move. Get up. Don't let her win.
She braced herself against the cold, unforgiving floor, fingers trembling as she fought to rise. But Jelena was faster—so much faster. A cruel laugh echoed through the cavernous space, slicing through the ringing in her ears.
And then—crack.
The second blow came harder, sharper, a solid object colliding with her skull. White-hot pain erupted behind her eyes. The world tilted violently. And then—humiliation. A mortifying warmth spread beneath her as her muscles gave out. The realization struck harder than the blow itself. She had lost control.
Jelena's laughter rang sharp and cruel. "Ah, look at you," she cooed, her voice dripping with sadistic amusement. "So pathetic. So weak. You think you are one of us?"
The pounding in her skull made it impossible to think, but instinct screamed at her to move. She couldn't stand—her legs refused to cooperate—but she could crawl. Dragging herself forward, her fingers clawed at the stone floor, each inch a battle against the agony ripping through her body.
Jelena's heels clicked against the stone, slow, deliberate, predatory. "Where do you think you're going, little mudblood?" she sneered, her voice a blade against Hermione's raw nerves.
The footsteps stopped just behind her. A chilling pause. Then—pain. A hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back at an unnatural angle. Jelena leaned down, her breath hot against Hermione's ear.
"Zhalka," she whispered, the single word laced with cruel delight.
The darkness that had been clawing at the edges of Hermione's mind finally won. Her body sagged, her consciousness slipping into oblivion.
And Jelena laughed.
~~~~~~
Agony. Blinding, soul-crushing agony.
It clawed through Draco's chest, a raw and unrelenting force that threatened to tear him apart. The room around him seemed to blur, his mind drowning in the suffocating weight of Ginny's frantic words.
Hermione was gone.
The sharp crack of Apparition split the silence, and in an instant, Blaise and Ginny materialized. Their faces were pale, their bodies taut with fear. Ginny stumbled forward, her breath ragged, her eyes wide and wild.
"Draco!" she gasped, her voice laced with terror. "Hermione—she was supposed to meet me, but she never showed. I went to your place, and—" she choked on the words, shaking her head. "Merlin, Draco, the living room—it's a wreck. Someone took her. She's gone!"
The world tilted. The air turned suffocating.
Draco's hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms as his breath came in short, sharp bursts. A monstrous rage, dark and bottomless, coiled inside him, twisting around his ribcage like a serpent.
Blaise, standing rigid in the doorway, cocked a sleek, black pistol. The weight of it sat comfortably in his grip, his movements steady despite the storm raging beneath his cool exterior. His gaze met Draco's, a silent command passing between them.
Move. Now.
The chair scraped back violently as Draco surged to his feet, Theo right behind him, adrenaline burning hot through their veins.
Theo's voice cracked, thick with panic as he turned toward the fireplace. "Luna!" His hands trembled, but his voice was unyielding. "Get the safehouse ready. Now! Please, my Moon—I love you endlessly."
A second later, the flames roared to life, flickering with emerald intensity. Luna's voice came through, steady and unwavering despite the chaos unraveling around them. "I'm on it, my Sun. The safehouse will be ready. I love you beyond measure."
A deep, unspoken truth settled over them all. This wasn't just a rescue mission. This was war.
They weren't planning for survival. They were planning for carnage.
A reckoning loomed on the horizon, a storm of vengeance and blood.
And Death… Death would welcome them like an old friend.
~~~~~~
The Malfoy Penthouse, once a sanctuary of sleek modernity and impenetrable control, now lay in ruins. The polished marble floors bore the scars of chaos—shattered glass like frozen stars, overturned furniture, books scattered as if caught in a storm. The elegant haven Draco had meticulously curated was now an unrecognizable war zone.
Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Ginny moved through the wreckage in tense silence, each step tightening the noose of dread around Draco's chest. The suffocating weight of absence pressed down on him. Hermione wasn't here. But the destruction screamed her name.
Turning into the living room, his pulse hammered. His sharp gaze swept across the disarray, locking onto every detail, searching for the impossible—a trace of her.
The wedding vase—a gift, a symbol of their union—lay in shards against the wall. The destruction wasn't random. It was calculated. It was personal.
"My love!" he called, his voice raw, reverberating through the cold emptiness. "Hermione, where are you?"
The silence that followed was a living, breathing nightmare.
Blaise stormed into the kitchen, ripping open drawers, yanking at cabinets. Frantic. Uncharacteristically shaken. "She could've left a note, something!" His voice was edged with desperation.
Ginny tore into the study, her hands trembling as she sifted through Hermione's desk. A cold, abandoned teacup sat beside scattered notes—nothing useful, just the echo of her presence.
Then, Pansy burst in. Heels clicking, voice sharp. "So what's the plan? Because standing around like headless hippogriffs isn't getting us anywhere."
Draco turned on her, his fury a barely contained wildfire. "You're not coming."
Pansy blinked. "Excuse me?"
"It's too dangerous." His voice was final, a razor's edge. "You're staying here."
Her eyes darkened with indignation. "Since when do you decide what's too dangerous for me?"
"Since now!" he snapped. "We don't have time for this, Pansy."
She crossed her arms, anger radiating from her like a spell about to break. "If you think I'm sitting on my ass while you all go charging into hell, you're out of your damn mind."
Ginny touched her arm, a quiet voice of reason. "Pans, we'll need you here. Keep the press off our backs. Handle things from the outside."
Pansy glared between them, her jaw tight. After a long, seething moment, she exhaled. "Fine." But the storm in her eyes promised she'd have her say later.
Theo had moved into the hallway, checking every possible hiding place. The bedrooms. The library. The linen closets. But the silence stretched on—oppressive, deafening.
Ginny's voice sliced through the tension. "Draco! Come here!"
Draco sprinted to her side. A glint of silver lay on the coffee table. A ribbon, frayed, delicate. His fingers brushed it, recognizing its texture. It was from the package Hermione had received earlier.
Theo, kneeling beside him, murmured, "It could've been a Portkey."
Blaise's breath hitched, his Italian accent thick with urgency. "Se l'hanno presa, dobbiamo trovarla. We have to find her. Now."
Ginny's gaze scoured the room. "Something has to tell us where it took her."
Theo bent low, his meticulous eyes scanning the floor. "Hermione wouldn't go quietly. There has to be a marker, something she left behind."
Suddenly, Ginny crouched by a shattered vase. "There's something here." Carefully, she sifted through the ceramic shards, extracting a crumpled slip of parchment.
Draco snatched it, reading aloud. "For the diamond in the world of gold."
The words hung like a death sentence.
Blaise's jaw tightened. "What the hell does that mean?"
Ginny's breath hitched. "It's Hermione—the 'Golden Girl.'"
Theo's sharp mind worked rapidly, pieces falling into place. "Draco, who in your world is connected to diamonds?"
Draco's stomach twisted with realization. "That wretched woman." His voice was venomous, filled with hate. "Karkaroff's trophy wife."
His fury ignited. He slammed his fist into the wall, rattling the entire room. "She's always dripping in diamonds, parading them like a damn queen. It was all an act. A façade. If she took Hermione, this is her way of telling me. She's playing games."
Ginny paled. "Are you saying... that Karkaroff's wife is behind this?"
His grey eyes darkened with a murderous certainty. "Yes."
Theo exhaled sharply. "If she left that note, she wants you to know where Hermione is. But why?"
"Because she's baiting me." His voice was eerily calm, the storm before destruction. "This isn't about diamonds. This is about power, about sending a message. Hermione is leverage."
Ginny's voice trembled with barely restrained fury. "Draco, this is because of your world, your business. She's in danger because of you!"
Blaise, though equally enraged, softened his tone. "Mia cara," he murmured to Ginny, a quiet apology in his words. "Our world is darker than you imagined. And people will do the unthinkable for control. But I swear to you, we will get her back."
Draco took a steadying breath, his hands still curled into fists. "If this is about reputation, power, and control—then she's keeping Hermione alive for a reason. And we're going to tear her world apart to get her back."
Ginny's eyes flashed with determination. "Draco, use the soul bond! Locate her!"
His jaw tightened. He whispered, "Uruz."
A holographic rune appeared before them, its soft pink glow pulsating like a heartbeat.
"Uruz, the mother of manifestation," he commanded, his voice steady and sharp. "Show me where Hermione Jane Granger-Malfoy is."
The rune whirled and flickered, shifting into an image. A dark dungeon. Stone walls, damp floors. And her—
Terrified. Broken. Screaming.
Draco's breath hitched. His entire body went stone-cold.
"Hold on, my love," he whispered, his voice hoarse with rage. "I'm coming."
He turned sharply. "Ginerva! Get Potter. We need a Portkey, now!"
Theo stepped forward, his gaze resolute. "There's no need."
Before anyone could react, Theo gathered them together. With a swift, effortless motion, he Apparated them directly to Nott Manor.
Arming for War
They landed in Theo's dimly lit basement. Cabinets lined the walls, filled with weapons.
He moved with precision, yanking open a drawer and retrieving sleek, black reading glasses. He adjusted them on his nose, scanning rapidly before shifting to another cabinet.
With a quick, sharp motion, he flung it open—revealing a vast arsenal.
Guns. Knives. Wands. Instruments of war.
Ginny gasped. "Merlin."
Theo grabbed a wand and a gleaming silver knife, spinning them expertly in his fingers. "We move now. Fast."
Blaise turned to Ginny, his dark eyes filled with an urgency that sent chills down her spine. "Mia cara," he murmured, his voice like a promise of war. "I need you. Your fire. Your fight. You must give everything tonight."
Ginny took a deep breath. Her hands curled into fists, her shoulders straightening.
She was done being a spectator. Tonight, she was a soldier.
With a determined gleam in her eyes, she kicked off her heels. With a flick of her wand, she summoned battle-ready clothes.
She met Blaise's gaze. "Let's burn them to the ground."
~~~~~~
She couldn't move.
Hermione was on the floor face down, her legs paralyzed.
The constant attack against her skull was unbearable, each impact spending waves of agony through her entire being. Her screams filled the room, a desperate plea for help.
Behind her, Jelena crouched, her grip on her hair tightening as she gethered it all in her fist. With cruel determination, she began stuffing into her mouth, her intent clear: she was going to suffocate her with her own hair.
She looked up at the ceiling, a fierce determination igniting within her.
I'm not going to die this way.
She heard the sound of apparation, her hands brushing against tiny bone fragments and something with a grounded meat texture.
Blood splattered everywhere and the air was filled with deafening sounds of gunshots.
With a loud thud Jelena Karkaroff fell to the floor.
She closed her eyes, silently thanking God, Merlin, Allah, Shiva and Messiah for the rescue.
In the haze of her fading vision, she caught a glimpse of fiery red hair. The redhead was relentless, her movements swift and brutal as she plunged a blade into Jelena's lifeless form over and over, rage fueling each strike.
She recognized the faint scent of his aftershave mixed with a hint of mint toothpaste.
Then, everything went black as she lost consciousness.