TW: Murder
She finally returned to the Malfoy-Granger penthouse—a place that had once been her sanctuary, her solace. Now, after everything, it felt both familiar and foreign, as though time had stood still while she had changed irrevocably. A fine layer of dust coated the untouched surfaces, a quiet testament to the months of absence, yet the air still carried traces of them—the scent of parchment and firewood, the lingering warmth of old memories waiting to be revived.
The moment she stepped through the Floo, a blur of ginger fur streaked toward her. Crookshanks, ever the loyal companion, let out a deep, rumbling purr, his body weaving insistently around her legs before hopping onto the sofa, reclaiming his usual perch with a haughty flick of his tail. As if to say, Finally, you're home.
She let out a soft laugh, blinking through the sting of unexpected tears. "Missed me, did you?" she murmured, running her fingers through his thick fur. Crooks butted his head against her hand in response, purring louder, his presence grounding her in a way that nothing else could.
She felt the warmth of his hand slip into hers, his grip firm yet gentle, as if he, too, needed the reassurance that this moment was real. He watched her, silver eyes dark with emotions he didn't quite voice, but she saw it all—the relief, the happiness, and the quiet ache of the months spent apart. He didn't need to say anything. His presence was enough.
Together, they settled back into the rhythm of their life, though everything now carried a new depth, a new appreciation. The simple things—the morning ritual of tea, the quiet comfort of shared books, the way they would lose themselves in conversation about the future—became sacred. Their voices wove through the penthouse like threads of healing, stitching together the spaces where silence had once reigned.
Evenings were spent curled up by the window, watching the city pulse with life below them, the golden glow of streetlights reflecting in the glass. The weight of the past still lingered, but it no longer felt suffocating. It was just that—a past. And they were here, now, breathing, laughing, finding their way forward, together.
Crooks stretched lazily at their feet, his purring filling the quiet moments between their whispered words. The penthouse, though unchanged, had become something more—a sanctuary where love had endured, where they could mend the fractures of what had been broken.
The scars of their past remained, etched into them both, but as she leaned into his warmth, feeling his arm tighten around her, she realized something.
They had survived. And in this place, in this love, they would continue to heal.
~~~~~~
The moment Draco walked through the front door, he knew his wife was up to something. There was an unmistakable tension in the air, a slow-burning anticipation that sent a thrill down his spine.
Then he saw her.
She was standing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a short silk robe that barely covered the curve of her ass, her bare legs illuminated by the soft glow of the pendant lights above. She turned to face him, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Well, hello there," he drawled, raking his gaze over her.
"Hello yourself," she purred, sauntering toward him. "I was hoping you'd come home soon."
He closed the space between them in two strides, his hands immediately finding her waist, pulling her flush against him. The scent of her—vanilla and something inherently Hermione—wrapped around him like a spell, making him dizzy with want.
"You've been waiting for me, hmm?" he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss against her temple, his lips trailing lower, skimming the sensitive spot just beneath her ear. "Thinking about me?"
She let out a soft hum, tilting her head to give him better access. "All day," she admitted, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "Why don't you show me how much you missed me?"
That was all the invitation he needed.
With a flick of his fingers, the belt of her robe came undone, the silk whispering against her skin as it slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. He took a step back, his breath catching at the sight of her—his wife, his beautiful, maddening wife, standing before him, bare and waiting.
"Fucking hell," he muttered, his hands finding her hips, kneading the soft flesh. "You're going to kill me one day, you know that?"
She smirked, her nails scraping lightly down his chest, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. "You'd enjoy it."
He growled low in his throat before capturing her lips in a searing kiss, swallowing the gasp she let out as he lifted her onto the kitchen counter. She spread her legs for him instinctively, her ankles locking around his waist as he ground against her, letting her feel just how hard he was for her.
"I need you," she whispered, her voice breathy, desperate. "Right now."
His response was immediate. He kissed his way down her neck, across the swell of her breasts, his tongue flicking over a hardened nipple before sucking it into his mouth. She moaned, arching into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
He slipped a hand between them, his fingers gliding through the slick heat between her thighs. "So fucking wet for me," he murmured against her skin, circling her clit with slow, deliberate strokes.
She gasped, her head falling back against the cabinets. "Draco—please—"
"Patience, love," he teased, sliding a finger inside her, then another, curling them just right, making her hips buck against him.
"Fuck patience," she panted, nails raking down his back. "I want your cock inside me. Now."
His control snapped.
He yanked his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt with practiced ease, and shoved his trousers down just enough to free himself. Gripping her hips, he positioned himself at her entrance, pausing just long enough to meet her gaze. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire.
"Say it," he demanded.
Her lips parted, her voice a whisper of sin. "I'm yours."
With a groan, he thrust inside her in one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, her legs tightening around him as he set a relentless pace, pounding into her, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the kitchen.
"Fuck—Draco—" she gasped, her body trembling as he angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside her that had her seeing stars.
"Feel good, love?" he rasped, his grip tightening on her waist, dragging her closer with each thrust.
She could only nod, too lost in the pleasure, her breath coming in ragged moans. He felt her walls flutter around him, knew she was close. Reaching between them, he found her clit again, circling it with ruthless precision.
That was all it took.
She shattered around him, her orgasm crashing through her like a tidal wave, her body clenching so tightly around him that he nearly lost himself right then and there. But he held on, barely, riding her through it until she was nothing but a boneless, panting mess in his arms.
When she finally came down, she looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, a lazy smile on her lips. "Still with me?"
He let out a breathless chuckle. "Barely."
"Then let me return the favor," she murmured, pushing against his chest until he was the one sitting on the counter, her hands already working to rid him of what little clothing remained.
He groaned as her mouth descended on him, her tongue flicking over the sensitive tip before taking him deep. His head fell back, a strangled curse escaping him as she set a torturous pace, her hands and mouth working in tandem, reducing him to nothing but pure, desperate need.
"Fuck—Hermione—" he gasped, tangling his fingers in her hair, guiding her movements as his hips jerked helplessly.
It didn't take long. The sight of her between his legs, the heat of her mouth, the sinful way her eyes locked onto his—it was too much.
With a growl, he pulled her back up, flipping them so she was bent over the counter, his cock sliding between her slick folds once more.
"Again," he demanded, thrusting into her with renewed vigor.
She moaned, gripping the edge of the counter as he fucked her mercilessly, her body already climbing toward another peak.
"I'm going to fill you up," he groaned, his pace becoming erratic, the pleasure coiling tight in his spine. "Every day, I'm going to fuck a baby into you. That's a promise."
That did it.
She came again, her body convulsing around him, dragging him over the edge with her. With a deep, shuddering moan, he buried himself inside her one last time, spilling into her, his grip on her tightening as he rode out the aftershocks.
For a moment, neither of them moved, their breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath. Then, slowly, he straightened, pulling her against him, pressing lazy kisses along her shoulder.
"That was—" she started, still breathless.
"Incredible," he finished for her, smirking.
She turned in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. "I love you, you know."
His smirk softened into something gentler, something real. "I love you more, doll."
And as they stood there, tangled together in the aftermath of their passion, he knew—no matter how many years passed, no matter what challenges lay ahead—this was home.
This was forever.
~~~~~~
He sat alone in his study, the weight of silence pressing in as shadows stretched across the polished wood floor. The house, once a source of comfort, now felt hollow, the occasional creak only deepening the unease knotting in his stomach. Something was coming—a storm he couldn't control.
His thoughts drifted to the past few months, a mess of unexpected turns—some welcome, others ghosts he couldn't outrun. Her presence, his past choices, the relentless pull of his family's legacy. But something else gnawed at him, more urgent, impossible to ignore.
A faint shimmer caught his eye. On his desk, an untraceable scroll pulsed with silvery light, alive with magic. The messages were always cryptic, brief—delivered only when necessary. His fingers clenched around the chair as anticipation warred with dread.
Slowly, ink curled into view. Three words.
"Hiding in Romania."
His jaw tightened. The moment he had been dreading had arrived. Romania—a place of shadows and secrets, where nothing stayed hidden forever. This meant only one thing.
It was time to end this.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the thick air. His wand was in his hand before he had fully processed the thought, the familiar weight grounding him.
He stepped to the window, his gaze sweeping over the darkening grounds. But his mind wasn't here. It was already moving forward, toward the inevitable.
No more waiting. No more running. It was time to act.
With a steady hand, he lifted his wand, his voice low but resolute. "Expecto Patronum."
Silver light exploded from the tip, coalescing into a magnificent dragon, its long, serpentine form shimmering with ethereal brilliance. Its eyes burned with fierce intelligence, its wings stretching wide as if sensing the weight of the task ahead. The sight of it should have brought him comfort, but there was no time for that. This was a message, not a shield.
"Tell the Slytherin gang it's time," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of finality.
The dragon flicked its tail, acknowledging the command before launching into the night, cutting through the dimming sky with silent precision. His gaze followed it as it disappeared, swallowed by the dark.
Everything was in motion now. There was no stopping what came next.
He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he turned from the window. Romania would be the end of this. One way or another.
~~~~~~
The Malfoy penthouse dining room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of twilight, turning marble into molten gold and casting warm halos around the chandelier's delicate crystals. The fading light stretched through the tall windows, filling the space with a quiet intimacy—a rare, fleeting moment of peace in lives that had seen too much chaos.
Hermione, propped comfortably against pillows in a plush armchair at the head of the table, watched the small miracle unfolding before her. Lysander, snug in a highchair adorned with the regal crest of a lion, had discovered a new passion—culinary chaos. His tiny fingers, plump with innocence, grasped a spoonful of pureed pumpkin with the determination of an artist at work. Instead of delicately guiding it to his mouth, he flung it in an enthusiastic arc across the room.
Lady did not miss a beat. With a delighted snort, she pounced on the mess, her tiny tongue working furiously to clean the floor as if it were the most exquisite feast ever laid before her. The sight was so absurdly comical that laughter erupted around the table, a chorus of mirth pushing aside the shadows of the past year.
Ginny, seated beside Hermione, reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, her fingers lingering in a gesture both familiar and comforting. Their eyes met, and without words, they spoke—of survival, of gratitude, of the sheer relief of sitting here, surrounded by the people they loved. They had fought, lost, and rebuilt, and now, for just this moment, they were allowed to simply be.
Across the table, Draco and Pansy were locked in a playful argument, their laughter punctuated by the occasional exaggerated groan from Theo, who watched them with an expression of long-suffering amusement. Pansy, ever dramatic, waved a linen napkin like a dueling flag. "This child," she declared, eyeing the pumpkin-streaked Lysander, "is an artistic genius. A misunderstood visionary. We must encourage his work, not stifle it."
Draco rolled his eyes, smirking as he wiped pumpkin from his sleeve. "Brilliant. You can encourage him from your side of the table, then."
Luna, unbothered by the mayhem, traced lazy patterns in the margins of an old book, a dreamy smile playing on her lips. Even Theo, who usually wore his stoicism like armor, let out a rare chuckle as he reached for his wine, shaking his head at the scene before him.
And then there was Lysander—grinning, gurgling, and now thoroughly decorated in his own dinner, utterly delighted by the chaos he had wrought. Hermione felt the warmth bloom in her chest, a rush of love so deep it left her breathless.
This wasn't the life any of them had imagined, but it was theirs. Messy, imperfect, full of laughter and love. And for that, she was endlessly grateful.
The warm glow of candlelight, once comforting, now cast restless shadows along the walls, twisting and shifting as if they, too, sensed what was coming. The Malfoy dining room, filled with laughter just hours ago, had grown quiet, tension thickening the air like an approaching storm. The fragile peace they had clung to was nothing more than a temporary reprieve. The reckoning had finally arrived.
Draco stood at the head of the table, his fingers tight around the stem of his goblet, knuckles pale against the crystal. The usual Malfoy composure was stripped away, revealing exhaustion that seeped into every line of his face. His gaze swept across the table, lingering longest on Hermione, something unspoken passing between them—something raw, desperate.
"A toast," he said at last, his voice steady but heavy. "To honesty. To the truths we've buried. To whatever comes next." His eyes flicked to Pansy, then Theo, then Blaise. They all understood the weight of this moment.
Hermione felt her grip tighten around her glass, the coolness grounding her as heat rose in her chest. The quiet had only delayed the inevitable. The past, no matter how deeply buried, had always been waiting.
The room held its breath. Pansy, once effortlessly vibrant, now twisted her napkin in tense fingers. Theo's usual mask of indifference was cracking, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished table. Blaise clasped Ginny's hand, the strain evident in the way his knuckles whitened. Even Luna sat unnaturally still.
"To honesty," Blaise echoed, his voice a whisper, his dark eyes meeting Hermione's in silent understanding.
Theo nodded wordlessly, jaw tight as if bracing for impact.
The soft clink of crystal meeting crystal rang out—sharp, final, like a bell tolling for what was to come.
Draco lowered his glass, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "No more lies. No more hiding. Tonight, we face the truth."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The candle flames flickered wildly, restless against the heavy stillness.
This was it. No more pretending. No more safe spaces.
Secrets would be laid bare, and when the night was over, nothing would ever be the same.
One by one, the Slytherins led their partners away, retreating to the sanctuary of private rooms, doors clicking shut behind them. Conversations would be had. Truths would be spoken. And whatever came next, they would either weather the storm together—or be torn apart by it.
~~~~~~
The once-celebratory warmth of the reunion dinner had evaporated, slipping through the cracks like smoke. The clinking of silverware and quiet hum of conversation had faded, replaced by the unmistakable sounds of a fight erupting upstairs. Shouts, vicious and raw, tangled with the thud of furniture crashing against walls. Then came a scream—shrill, desperate—slicing through the tension like a blade.
She sat rigid in her chair, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve. Her breath hitched as another crash echoed down the hallway, followed by a string of curses sharp enough to make even Kreacher wince. Her eyes flicked to him, searching for reassurance, but what she found instead made her stomach clench.
His face was unreadable, save for the tight set of his jaw and the cold, measured way he held himself—like a man who had already made peace with the storm he was about to walk into. It wasn't just anger. It was something deeper, something honed and lethal. A quiet, practiced resolve that only came from surviving the kind of battles that left scars no one could see.
"Love," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the chaos. "Are you sure? Maybe... maybe there's another way. One that doesn't—"
He reached for her hand, his grip steady, grounding. "There's no turning back now," he said, voice low, resolute. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in a fleeting attempt at comfort, but the tension in his frame betrayed him. "They need to hear the truth. If we don't do this now, nothing changes. And I won't—" He exhaled sharply. "I won't let it happen again."
The conviction in his voice struck like a blow. She looked down at their entwined hands, her mind racing. Truth. It could burn through every carefully laid deception, but at what cost? She wasn't sure she was ready to find out.
Another crash. Another scream.
He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "We knew this would be ugly. It has to be. But once the dust settles, they'll understand." He paused, and for the first time, she heard the slightest waver in his voice. "They have to."
She swallowed hard. Fear gnawed at her, but so did the truth in his words. The weight of their choice pressed against her ribs, suffocating, irreversible.
A final crash sent splinters of wood skidding across the floor. Her fingers tightened around his, feeling his pulse—a steady rhythm, strong despite the storm around them.
"We can't stop it now," he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. "But we can face it together."
She nodded, though the fear hadn't left her. "Together," she whispered, the word feeling like both a promise and a prayer. It wasn't enough to quiet the dread curling in her gut, but for now, it was all she had.
The door to the hallway slammed open, and the first of their enemies stepped into the room, the tension palpable as the truth started its inevitable march forward.
Ginny didn't see reason. She didn't see hope. All she saw was Draco Ferret Malfoy.
With each measured step towards the dining room, the fury in her eyes intensified, a wildfire threatening to consume her. Reaching the doorway, she stopped, not to gather her composure, but to savor the dramatic effect.
"Draco Malfoy," she hissed, her voice laced with enough venom to petrify a troll. "You dare speak of reason? You, whose family motto might as well be 'Death and Destruction for Dummies'?" A humorless laugh, sharp and brittle, escaped her lips. "Resistance? You call this resistance? This is what you dragged me into? This clandestine, pathetic little rebellion?"
She scanned the room, taking in the bewildered face of Hermione, who looked ready to faint at the sight of her blazing fury. "You want me to see reason? Look around you, Malfoy! Look at the terror you've instilled in these people! This is your legacy – fear, not freedom!"
Her gaze snapped back to Draco, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You took away my family," she choked out, a single tear tracing a fiery path down her cheek. "And now, you want to take away their future? All because you can't seem to escape the shadow of your Death Eater father? Well, let me tell you something, Malfoy," she snarled, her voice cracking with barely contained rage, "you may be a Malfoy, but you'll never be a leader. All you are is a pale imitation, a wannabe revolutionary clinging to the coattails of a ghost."
Hermione flinched, the accusation a fresh wound on top of the confusion already swirling in her gut.
"Ginny, wait!" she called out, her voice small in the wake of her fury. "It's not that simple."
Ginny spun on her heel, her emerald eyes blazing with an inferno that froze Hermione in place. "Not that simple?" she snarled, her voice sharp enough to cut through steel. "He vanishes for weeks, comes back reeking of blood and death, and you're standing here telling me it's not that simple? Does your own psychopath tell you about his killings? Or does he just conveniently leave that out when he's washing the stench of his crimes off in your bed?"
She flinched again, guilt flickering across her face, but Ginny wasn't finished.
"Don't you dare defend Blaise to me," Ginny spat, her voice low and venomous. "You're supposed to be the smart one. The rational one. And yet here you are, enabling him, justifying all of this, like you're his bloody accomplice! Is that what you've become, Hermione? His perfect little enabler?"
Her voice cracked, but it didn't falter. If anything, the break only made the fury behind it more raw, more devastating.
"Blaise… he wasn't always like this, at least not in school," Ginny said, her tone softening, but only for a fleeting moment. "He used to be good. He used to be… a good person. But this? This family business you keep dancing around? It poisoned him. It's turned him into someone I barely recognize. And you—" her finger shot out, trembling with rage as it pointed at Hermione, "—you're just standing there, holding their leash while they drown themselves in darkness!"
She opened her mouth to speak, but Ginny cut her off with a bitter laugh.
"No, don't even try it," she snapped. "Don't tell me Blaise is doing it for us. For me. For some noble, self-sacrificing cause. You think I can't see what this is? He's choosing the dark. Every time he walks out that door, every time he comes back with blood on his hands and refuses to talk about it, he's choosing them over me.."
Tears spilled over her cheeks, but her voice only grew colder, sharper, each word a dagger aimed at Hermione's chest.
"And you," she hissed, her gaze narrowing, "you're standing by Malfoy like some lovesick fool, pretending it's all for the greater good. But tell me, Hermione—when do we get to be enough? When do the people who love him get to come first? Or are we just collateral damage in whatever twisted war you think they are fighting?"
The room was suffocatingly silent, save for her ragged breaths. She looked at Hermione one last time, her face a mask of fury and heartbreak.
"You tell Blaise," she said, her voice low and trembling with anger, "that he gets one last chance. Me, or them. Because I will not let him drag me—or anyone else—down with him. And if you keep standing by Malfoy's side, then you're no better than he is."
The raw pain in her voice struck a chord deep within Hermione. Looking at him, his face ashen and his shoulders slumped in defeat, she realized she wasn't entirely wrong.
"Ginevra please," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Don't play the wide-eyed ingénue. The Zabinis? They've been neck-deep in bloodshed for centuries. Saint Blaise? More like Saint Butcher. Your precious husband was a murderer long before he ever crossed paths with me. This darkness? It's woven into the very fabric of his family tapestry."
He leaned closer, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "Did he ever tell you about the fun little 'accidents' that kept the Zabini coffers overflowing? Or maybe he prefers to keep his trophies hidden under that greasy charm of his."
His voice dropped to a venomous hiss. "Don't delude yourself, Weasley. Your perfect husband is just as good at playing pretend as you are. He may smile and bring you trinkets, but beneath that veneer lies a monster you wouldn't recognize. A monster you probably wouldn't mind taming, considering your taste in broken things."
Her face contorted in a mask of fury, her emerald eyes blazing with a fire that could rival a phoenix's. "Don't you dare," she spat, her voice a feral growl. "Don't you dare speak of him like that! He may not be a saint, but at least he doesn't slither around in the shadows like a malnourished ferret, his every action dictated by a daddy with a reputation for torture!"
"Threats, Malfoy? You wouldn't know a real threat if it Avada'd you from behind. Maybe you should worry about the crumbling foundation of your own ancestral home before you try to lecture me on mine. Because unlike you, Draco Malfoy, I will protect my family. Even from overgrown schoolyard bullies with delusions of grandeur and a desperate need to cling to the coattails of a Dark Lord whose shadow will forever stain your pathetic existence."
"And what about you, Granger?" She shrieked, her voice strained with a mix of fury and hurt. "After everything? After I spent months holding your hand, this is how you repay me? After I wiped your ass for months while you were busy mooning over your precious ferret-faced husband?"
Draco bristled at the blatant disrespect towards Hermione, his own voice laced with icy contempt. "Ginerva, enough of this Gryffindor theatrics," he sneered. "Don't you dare talk about my wife like that. We all know Weasley heroics are best left in the past, along with your precious brothers who couldn't defend themselves from a rogue bludger."
Her face contorted in a mask of fury hotter than a fiendfyre. "Heroics? You wouldn't know heroism if it confunded you straight into the Chamber of Secrets! You spent your entire life hiding behind your daddy's robes, while I was out there facing Death Eaters, not waltzing around like a pampered peacock with a superiority complex the size of Hogwarts!"
She took a menacing step forward, her voice a low growl. "And don't you dare lecture me about loyalty, Malfoy. Your wife, your precious Granger, couldn't stay loyal to a cause for a single school year, let alone a husband. Just like you, she's a traitor who betrayed her friends and her ideals for a seat at the Slytherin high table."
A dangerous glint flickered in her emerald eyes. "Perhaps you two deserve each other. A pair of self-serving people, more concerned with power and prestige than anything resembling decency. You with your delusions of a pureblood utopia and your wife with her insatiable thirst for knowledge that always seems to lead her down the most self-righteous path."
Draco's face flushed a deep crimson, his sneer replaced by a grimace. "At least my wife possesses an intellect that rivals her morals, Weasley. You may have had your five minutes of fame during the war, Weasley, but those days are over. Now all you have left is the bitter taste of defeat and the desperate need to cling to the ghost of a lost brother."
A choked sob escaped her lips, a heartbreaking counterpoint to the fury in her eyes. With a feral snarl, she lunged for Draco, her hand raised high, aiming for a stinging slap across his smug face. But vengeance was ripped from her grasp.
A flash of crimson light filled the room, not from her wand, but from Hermione's. "Stupefy!" she shouted, her voice hoarse with a mixture of anger and despair. The spell hit her squarely in the chest, sending her flying backwards.
Ginny crumpled onto the threadbare rug, the breath knocked out of her lungs. Her emerald eyes, wide with shock and betrayal, locked onto her face. Tears, a treacherous mix of fury and hurt, streamed down her cheeks, blurring her vision.
The fragile peace of the evening shattered with a sudden, violent commotion. Heavy footsteps thundered down the grand staircase, voices raised in confusion and panic. The celebratory air twisted into something sharp, electric with tension. Couples rushed into the dining room, eyes wide with disbelief as they took in the scene before them.
At the center of it all, Ginny lay sprawled across the rug, chest heaving, fury burning through her tear-streaked face. Her wild red hair fanned around her, a sharp contrast to the dull, threadbare carpet. Her fingers twitched, aching to lash out, but she was frozen—stunned, not just by magic but by betrayal. Above her, Hermione stood motionless, wand trembling, the crimson afterglow of her spell still clinging to the air.
The silence was suffocating.
"She was going to kill him," Hermione whispered, voice barely more than a breath but cutting through the room like a blade.
Draco, standing beside her, felt every muscle in his body coil with restrained fury. His jaw clenched, his grip on Hermione's hand tightening, his pulse a low, steady drumbeat of rage. His storm-grey eyes flicked between Ginny, still gasping on the floor, and the others—Theo, Luna, Neville, and Pansy—frozen in stunned silence on the landing.
And then, his lips curled.
"Well," he drawled, his voice smooth but laced with venom. "That was certainly… dramatic." He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Perhaps some of us should learn to manage our emotions."
His tone was mocking, but beneath it lay something far darker. The air around him crackled, the weight of his anger pressing down on the room like a gathering storm.
He turned, his gaze locking onto each person in the room before landing on Hermione. His grip on her hand was no longer just protective—it was a silent vow, a promise etched in the marrow of his bones.
"Tonight," he murmured, his voice calm, too calm. "We don't seek justice. We seek vengeance."
The declaration sent a ripple of energy through the room, each person instinctively straightening, as if pulled to attention by the gravity of his words.
"Jelena Karkaroff," he continued, eyes burning cold and unforgiving. "The woman who dared to harm the one I love."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers flexed against hers. He was no longer speaking as the heir to an ancient house, no longer the man who played at civility. This was something primal.
"An eye for an eye," he murmured, the phrase spoken not as a thought, but as a sentence. A death sentence.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm outside echoing the storm within.
"Igor Karkaroff is in Romania," he continued, voice sharp as a blade. "Lurking in the shadows like the coward he is. We'll smoke him out."
He scanned the room, his steely gaze daring anyone to hesitate. The candlelight flickered against his face, casting jagged shadows that made him look more warlord than wizard.
"Form groups," he commanded. "Find him. This is not a request." His tone was final, ringing through the air like the last toll of a war drum. "We do not fail the ones we love."
The room shifted, the energy changing, solidifying.
Luna took on a sharper edge, her mind already calculating. She spoke softly, summoning creatures of the night to aid in the hunt, her magic stretching into the unseen corners of the world.
Pansy moved with quiet efficiency, gathering vials of poison with meticulous precision. No theatrics now—just cold, lethal focus.
Neville, no longer the hesitant boy of their youth, strode toward his collection of weapons, fingers curling around the hilt of a blade. It glinted in the dim light, a symbol of the quiet, unshakable force he had become.
Theo and Blaise worked in tandem, loading their arsenal with practiced ease. Metal clanged, the whir of enchanted mechanisms humming between them. Their movements were smooth, their minds already ahead, already calculating, already ready.
Among them all, they stood together, still, silent. His fingers brushed against hers, grounding her in the storm.
No more waiting. No more running. Tonight, they were not just fighting. Tonight, they were delivering a reckoning.
~~~~~~
Pansy remained by Luna and Hermione's side, intent on addressing the escalating situation with Ginny. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the urgency that propelled them into action.
After Draco and the others vanished through the portkey to Transylvania, the girls wasted no time in working together to help Ginny regain consciousness.
Hermione, her expression resolute amid the chaos swirling around them, knelt beside her, determination etched into her features. "Ginny, wake up," she urged, her voice a soothing blend of gentleness and authority. Each word was a lifeline, pulling Ginny back from the depths of her unconsciousness.
Luna, her usual ethereal calm replaced by an intensity rarely seen, waved her wand over Ginny with a fluid grace, murmuring a soft incantation. "She'll come around soon," she said, her voice steady and unwavering, radiating a quiet confidence that calmed Pansy's racing heart.
Pansy stood nearby, her demeanor uncharacteristically serious as she crossed her arms, tension coiling within her. "When she does, we need to make sure she understands everything," she said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "We can't afford any more misunderstandings." The gravity of the situation loomed over them, and she knew that clarity was paramount if they were to navigate the storm brewing around them.
As they waited in the dim light, the girls formed a protective circle around Ginny, their bond fortified by shared purpose and silent determination. They were not merely friends; they were allies prepared to face the unknown together, ready to unravel the web of confusion that had ensnared Ginny and threatened to pull them all under.
Ginny stirred, a low moan escaping her lips as she gradually regained consciousness. The world around her was a haze, harsh light piercing through her eyelids, prompting her to blink against the brightness. Slowly, the shapes and colors began to solidify, and she caught sight of her worried face hovering above her. "Hermione?" she whispered, confusion clouding her gaze, each word a fragile thread pulling her from the depths of unconsciousness.
Hermione, who had been anxiously awaiting this moment, squeezed Ginny's hand reassuringly, a lifeline in the tumultuous sea of emotions. "It's okay, Ginny. You're safe," she said, her voice steady but tinged with concern.
Ginny's eyes flickered with recognition, but the moment was short-lived; an avalanche of anger replaced any semblance of relief. "Safe? You call this safe?" she spat, her voice thick with disbelief as she struggled to sit up, the effort pulling at the wounds of her heart. "My life is falling apart because of you! Everything is your fault! Ever since the day I met you in school, everything is your fault!"
"Ginny, please," she pleaded, her voice trembling as she tried to bridge the chasm opening between them.
"NO!" Ginny shouted, the raw intensity of her emotions breaking through, her voice quaking with fury. "Every bad thing that happened to Harry and Ron is your fault. Everything that happened during the war, and my Fred's death—it's all in your hands!" The accusation hung in the air like a thundercloud, charged and dangerous.
She flinched, confusion clouding her brow. "It started with me?" she echoed, genuinely bewildered. "Ginny, I don't understand."
"Don't you dare play dumb!" Ginny spat, her rage bubbling over. "Remember first year? You waltzed into Hogwarts with your bushy hair and know-it-all attitude, stealing the attention like a siren. Suddenly, Harry's only interested in what Hermione Granger has to say, not Ginny Weasley!" Her voice cracked slightly, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the fortress of anger.
"That's not true," she countered gently, desperation threading her words. "We were all just kids then, learning the ropes. Harry valued your friendship too."
Ginny scoffed, disbelief etched across her face. "Maybe. But then came the Triwizard Tournament. You were all for Harry entering that death trap! Didn't you care about the danger? What if he hadn't come back? What if I'd lost him too?" A choked sob escaped her lips, tears of frustration mingling with the memories of that harrowing year.
"We were worried sick about Harry," she admitted, her voice softening as she remembered their collective fears. "But we never thought…"
"Then came the fight between Ron and Harry," Ginny interrupted, her voice gaining momentum as she spoke. "Fourth year, the Yule Ball, all that mess. You were supposed to be their friend but you let everything explode. Didn't you ever think about how it affected the rest of us?"
She flinched again, a pang of guilt twisting in her gut. "Of course I did! But sometimes friendships go through rough patches. We all make mistakes."
"Maybe," Ginny conceded, the bitterness in her voice lingering. "But it always felt like there was this inner circle— you, Ron, and Harry. Planning, strategizing, keeping secrets. While the rest of us, me included, just… existed on the periphery." Her words dripped with resentment, a painful truth that cut deeper than any spell.
"That's not fair, Ginny," she pleaded, desperation creeping into her tone. "We included you whenever we could. Remember the Chamber of Secrets? You were a target, possessed by that awful diary. If it wasn't for Harry…"
"Don't you see?" Ginny cut her off with a sharp shake of her head, her emotions spiraling. "All this danger, this war… it stole my childhood, Hermione. Stole Fred! Maybe if you hadn't been so focused on fighting the good fight, on following Dumbledore blindly, things would have been different!" Her voice rose, filled with anguish as memories of loss flashed before her.
Tears streamed down Ginny's face now, a raw torrent of long-suppressed emotions finally breaking free. "And now you! You dragged me into this mess with Malfoy, and look where it landed me. Blaise has changed, Hermione. There's darkness in him, a darkness you seem content to ignore because it fits your narrative."
Hermione stood there, tears silently sliding down her cheeks, unable to respond. The torrent of Ginny's anger and grief washed over her, leaving her feeling small and helpless. The weight of Ginny's accusations, a culmination of years of unspoken hurt, felt like a crushing blow, leaving her breathless and shaken.
Suddenly, Luna, who had been quietly absorbing the tumult, found her voice. It was a sound both soft and fierce, surprising them both. "That's enough, Ginny," she said, her eyes flashing with a newfound intensity. "We've all lost people we love. Blaming Hermione won't bring them back. It won't bring Fred and Ron back." Her words hung in the air, a counterbalance to Ginny's rage.
Ginny recoiled slightly at the mention of her brother, a flicker of pain momentarily eclipsing the fury in her eyes. But the anger quickly reignited, the fire burning hotter than before. "No, Luna!" she shouted, her voice rising with renewed fury. "My husband and all the men are gone, just to save Hermione's golden cunt! What's so fucking special about you, huh? Why does everyone bend over backwards for the brightest witch of our age?"
The venom in Ginny's voice hung heavy in the air, a bitter echo of her pain. Hermione's eyes widened, her face pale and stricken, unable to respond to the onslaught of accusations.
Before anyone could react, Ginny spun on her heel and apparated away, the crack of her departure leaving an oppressive silence in its wake. The room seemed to hold its breath, the absence of her presence amplifying the tension that lingered like a fog.
Luna sighed, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. "She's hurting," she whispered, her voice thick with empathy. "We all are."
Pansy, uncharacteristically subdued, crossed her arms tightly against her chest. "That doesn't excuse the outburst," she muttered, her gaze flickering to Hermione, who stood frozen, a tapestry of emotions swirling across her face.
Guilt gnawed at her insides, each of Ginny's words echoing in her mind, relentless and unforgiving. "Maybe it is too much," she choked out, a tear escaping her eye. "Maybe I am the reason they're all in danger."
"No, Mimi," Luna shook her head firmly, her voice steady and unyielding. "They're doing it because they care about you. Because you're part of the family."
Pansy nodded, her voice softer now, laced with understanding. "We need to stay strong, for them and for ourselves. Ginny will come around. She just needs time."
She nodded, wiping away her tears as she drew a shaky breath. "We have to keep going. For all of us." Her voice was tinged with determination, the fire of her resolve flickering back to life.
As they stood together, the strength of their bond became their anchor, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos swirling around them. In that moment of shared vulnerability, the trio forged an unbreakable alliance, ready to face the trials ahead, their hearts intertwined in a tapestry of love, loss, and resilience. They were warriors in a battle not just against external foes but also the internal demons that threatened to tear them apart. The world outside may have been dark and perilous, but together, they could weather any storm that came their way.
~~~~~~
Landing on the cobblestones, Blaise looked around, his breath visible in the chilly night air. The dimly lit street stretched out to his right, the flickering lamps casting long shadows. He had an address in mind, a safe haven in the labyrinth of the downtown backstreets.
He moved swiftly, his steps echoing softly against the cobblestones. The address belonged to an old friend, a trusted ally from his darker days. Reaching the modest townhouse, Blaise knocked on the door, his knuckles rapping against the aged wood with a sense of urgency. Minutes passed with no response. He knocked again, louder this time, but the house remained silent. Frustration gnawed at him. He knew he couldn't stay exposed in the open for long."Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath. His plan was unraveling before it even began.
The crisp mountain air of Hargita-Băi stung Draco's lungs as he stepped into the dense forest. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick canopy overhead, casting long, eerie shadows across the forest floor. Blaise and Theo flanked him, their expressions grim as they surveyed their surroundings.
"Any sign of him?" Theo asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Draco shook his head, his gaze darting nervously between the gnarled trees. "Not yet. But this place…" he trailed off, the unsettling quiet pressing down on him. An unnatural stillness hung in the air, broken only by the occasional snap of a twig or the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth.
"Feels wrong, doesn't it?" Blaise muttered, pulling his cloak tighter around him. "Like the magic here is… twisted."
A shiver ran down his spine. He wasn't one to shy away from the darker corners of the magical world, but there was something about Hargita-Băi that felt different, more malevolent. Perhaps it was the lingering knowledge of the dark rituals rumored to have been practiced here in centuries past, or maybe it was the weight of their mission – vengeance against a woman who had sought to harm his love.
Suddenly, a loud screech echoed through the trees, sending a flock of crows scattering into the twilight. Draco instinctively reached for his wand, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Just a bird," Theo said dismissively, but his hand hovered near his own wand.
"Maybe," he replied, his voice tense. "But keep your eyes peeled. This place seems to be teeming with… something."
They continued deeper into the forest, the silence pressing in on them, broken only by the occasional rustle or crack. The air grew colder, and the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled their nostrils. The further they ventured, the more twisted and gnarled the trees became, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, clawing at the sky.
"There," Blaise hissed, pointing towards a clearing ahead. In the center stood a dilapidated cabin, its windows dark and boarded up. Smoke curled from a crooked chimney, the only sign of life in this desolate place.
His breath hitched. A cold certainty settled in his gut – they had found Karkaroff. This was the place where Hermione's would-be murderer lay in hiding.
Now came the hard part – extracting their vengeance.
A wry smile played on Theo's lips. "About time, Neville," he chuckled, his grip tightening around the worn hilt of his sword. The years of relentless Herbology studies had transformed him, but his Gryffindor courage still burned bright. Here, in this remote village nestled amidst an unsettling forest, he had a chance to prove himself worthy, not just to his friends, but to himself.
The white church, once a symbol of hope, now seemed strangely out of place next to the dilapidated house spewing ominous smoke. It was a stark reminder of the corrupting influence of dark magic, even in the most unexpected corners.
Neville adjusted the straps of his pack, ensuring his arsenal of magical plants was readily accessible. He'd spent countless hours researching obscure flora with Professor Sprout, learning their unique properties and potential applications in combat. Tonight, that knowledge might be the difference between victory and defeat.
"Remember the plan," Draco said, his voice low and steely. "We take Karkaroff by surprise. No time for theatrics. Theo and I will disarm him, Blaise will watch the perimeter, and Neville…" Draco's gaze met Neville's, a flicker of respect replacing his usual indifference. "You'll handle any… surprises Karkaroff might have lurking in the shadows."
Neville straightened his back, a surge of determination coursing through him. "Ready when you are," he replied, his voice firm.
With a silent nod from Draco, they crept towards the house, their movements cloaked in the shadows cast by the encroaching darkness. The rhythmic creak of the old wooden door and the faint glow emanating from a single cracked window were the only sounds that disturbed the eerie silence.
As they neared the porch, a low growl erupted from within the house, a sound that sent shivers down Neville's spine. It wasn't human. Whatever lurked inside with Karkaroff, it wasn't something they'd anticipated.
Neville's hand instinctively reached for the pouch containing powdered Dittany, a potent healing agent – just in case.
A tense silence descended, broken only by the ragged breaths of the approaching group. Neville's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the stillness.
This was it. The moment of truth. He was no longer the shy boy who couldn't remember a simple charm. He was Neville Longbottom, and he was here to fight.
But the fight wasn't what he expected. As they burst through the creaking door, a hulking creature lunged from the shadows. It was a monstrous boar, its tusks gleaming wickedly in the dim light. Karkaroff, pale and sweating, scrambled back in fear, his wand clattering to the floor.
Theo and Blaise reacted instinctively, disarming Karkaroff before he could reach his wand. But Neville's focus was solely on the enraged beast. Adrenaline surged through him, sharpening his senses. He remembered Professor Sprout's lessons on Mooncalf aggression – how they were soothed by calming scents. Thinking fast, he rummaged through his pack, pulling out a vial of lavender essence.
With a deep breath, Neville tossed the vial at the boar's feet. The creature, momentarily stunned by the sudden fragrance, hesitated in its charge. Seizing the opportunity, Neville lunged forward, not with the grace of a skilled swordsman, but with the raw courage of a Gryffindor. He parried a vicious swipe of the boar's tusk, then used his knowledge of Herbology to his advantage.
Spotting a clump of Devil's Snare growing in the corner, he yanked a length of the vine with surprising strength and entangled the boar's legs.
The enraged creature squealed in frustration, struggling against the constricting vines. With a final heave, Neville managed to trip the boar, sending it crashing to the ground with a thud. He stood there, chest heaving, his sword pointed at the subdued beast.
Silence descended upon the room, broken only by Karkaroff's ragged breaths.
Theo and Blaise stared at him with a mixture of surprise and grudging respect. Even Draco's eyes held a flicker of something that might have been admiration. In that moment, Neville Longbottom wasn't just the Herbology prodigy anymore. He was a warrior, a protector, and a testament to the power of courage that resided within him.
Neville's grip tightened around his sweat-slick sword hilt.
He wasn't sure what awaited him outside, but the chilling finality in Draco's voice sent a shiver down his spine. Loyalty warred with unease, the weight of their mission pressing down on him.
"What about Karkaroff?" he managed, his voice hoarse. Leaving the former Headmaster with Draco and the others, especially after witnessing that monstrous creature, felt wrong.
A flicker of something akin to respect crossed Draco's face, a stark contrast to his usual Malfoy sneer. "We'll handle him," Draco said curtly. "Just… go. Clear your head."
Neville hesitated for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the subdued boar and the disarmed Karkaroff. Finally, with a deep breath, he nodded curtly and turned towards the doorway. As he stepped outside, the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the oppressive silence.
He found himself standing on a creaky wooden porch, bathed in the cool moonlight filtering through the dense canopy. The crisp mountain air stung his lungs, a stark contrast to the stale, fear-tinged atmosphere within the house. Distant sounds of the forest – the rustling of leaves, the hooting of an owl – seemed amplified in the sudden quiet.
Neville leaned against the rough wooden railing, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He wasn't naive.
He knew what awaited Karkaroff inside. Vengeance, swift and merciless. A part of him, the Gryffindor part, recoiled from the violence. But another part, the part that ached for his parents and all the others lost to the war, understood the thirst for justice, even if it came at a dark price.
He closed his eyes, the image of Hermione's face flashing before him. Her unwavering belief in him, her fierce loyalty, fueled a surge of determination within him. He may not have been a part of what was happening inside, but he would ensure their mission's success. He would protect Hermione and his wife, no matter the cost.
Taking a deep breath, Neville straightened his back and squared his shoulders. He may not have been able to fight with herbs this time, but the lessons learned, the courage ignited, would stay with him. He was Neville Longbottom, a Gryffindor, and he would stand strong, ready for whatever came next.
~~~~~~
The air crackled with a different kind of tension now, thick and oppressive. Luna and Lysander, thankfully, remained blissfully unaware, their rhythmic breathing a stark contrast to the horror that unfolded before Pansy and Hermione. The silence that followed the sudden apparition was deafening, punctuated only by the soft clinking of a glass as Pansy set it down with a trembling hand, the sound echoing in the stillness like a warning bell.
Their gazes fell upon Draco, their initial relief at his safe return morphing into sheer terror as they absorbed the macabre spectacle before them. He stood there, an unsettling stillness radiating from him, an eerie calm that seemed at odds with the chaos surrounding his presence. Blood, a sickening crimson, soaked his clothes and dripped from his hands, one of which clutched a grisly trophy— Karkaroff's severed head , its eyes wide with a permanent, silent scream.
She lurched forward, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The image before her threatened to shatter her, a grotesque tableau that was far from the determined Draco she thought she had been fighting alongside. This was not the man she knew; this was a monster, a chilling reflection of the very darkness they were trying to vanquish.
"Draco… what have you done?" Her voice was a mere whisper, laced with tremors of fear and disbelief.
Pansy, usually so composed and full of bravado, seemed to shrink under the weight of the moment. Her face drained of color, mirroring the horror dawning on Hermione's. This wasn't vengeance; this was cold-blooded murder, and the implications sent a shiver down her spine, wrapping her in a shroud of dread.
Draco, however, remained unmoved. His gaze was distant, as if he were lost in a world only he could see. He raised the severed head , its lifeless eyes staring vacantly into nothingness, and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.
"Justice has been served," he said, the words echoing hollowly in the tense silence, reverberating off the walls like a death knell.
Pansy, as if sensing a shift in the atmosphere, practically leaped out of her chair. Her usual poise was replaced by frantic desperation as she flew into his arms, seeking solace in the face of chaos.
"Nevie, my love, are you alright?" she whispered, her voice trembling, a fragile lifeline amidst the horror.
Neville met her embrace with a measured calmness that surprised him. He held her close, a silent promise of protection in the face of the storm brewing around them. Across the room, Draco stood like a statue, Karkaroff's head still dangling from his hand. His earlier detachment had given way to a chilling emptiness in his eyes that seemed to suck the warmth from the room.
"I should've brought you trophies as well, home sooner," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, the words slithering through the air. Was it a genuine apology or a twisted justification for his actions? It was impossible to tell, and the uncertainty hung heavy in the air.
The room hung on a knife's edge, the tension palpable. Pansy clung to Neville, her body shaking with silent sobs, her heart breaking for the man she once knew.
Theo, with a faint grimace, used a silent charm to levitate Luna and Lysander, their peaceful forms undisturbed. They drifted upwards, glowing faintly in the moonlight filtering through the window, before Theo gently deposited them in the guest bedroom, their innocence preserved amidst the surrounding darkness.
Blaise broke the suffocating silence. "Where's my wife?" he asked, his voice laced with worry. His wife, usually calm and collected, wouldn't just disappear without a word.
Pansy, drained from the emotional rollercoaster of the evening, sighed deeply, her voice weary. "Ginny had a… meltdown," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Big one. She Apparated out of here in a huff."
Blaise's face hardened, the news of her outburst striking a chord of concern within him. Without a word, he rose from his chair, his cloak billowing around him as he prepared to take action. A crack echoed in the room as he Disapparated, his destination likely shrouded in urgency and fear.
The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the chilling scene before them. Hermione stood there, isolated in her disbelief, alone with Draco and the severed head of Karkaroff, a grotesque centerpiece on the table. The air crackled with unspoken words, the weight of the night pressing down on them like a shroud of despair.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Hermione spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "The head," she said, her throat tight. "Toss it in the fire. Get rid of it."
Draco turned towards her, his face an unreadable mask, the shadows of the room dancing across his features. He picked up the head by its hair, the lifeless eyes staring vacantly at nothing, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione thought she saw a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in his gaze—a dark thrill that sent shivers down her spine.
"Thank you, sweetness," she said finally, the words catching in her throat, laced with a mixture of gratitude and horror. "For taking care of things."
A wry smile played on his lips, a chilling counterpoint to the sincerity in her voice. "Anything for you, my love," he replied, his voice laced with a hint of something that could have been devotion—or something far more dangerous. The night hung heavy with unspoken truths, and Hermione felt the darkness close in around them, leaving her wondering if the man she once loved was still in there, buried beneath layers of blood and betrayal.
He strode towards the fireplace, the head dangling from his hand like a macabre trophy. As he tossed it into the flames, a wave of heat rolled out, momentarily obscuring their faces. When the flames subsided, only ashes remained, a silent testament to the brutality that had transpired.
Hermione watched him, a storm of emotions brewing within her. Gratitude for his actions warred with unease at the darkness that seemed to simmer beneath the surface. They were bound together by this mission, a tangled web of loyalty and desperation.
Karkaroff, unease at the price they had paid. She took a deep breath, trying to quell the tremor in her hands. This wasn't the time to unravel, but the tension thrummed in the air, an electric current buzzing beneath her skin.
"Draco," she said, her voice barely a whisper. He turned, his gaze meeting hers across the room. It was a look that spoke volumes, a shared understanding of the darkness they had just walked through.
Hermione took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath her weight. She stopped a few feet away from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, far enough to maintain a sliver of distance.
The unspoken words hung heavy in the air, a silent invitation laced with a desperate need for solace.
~~~~~~
The bathroom door creaked open, and a wall of steam billowed out into the hallway. He stepped out of the shower, a white towel wrapped around his waist. His blond hair was slicked back, water droplets trickling down his broad shoulders and muscular chest.
The room was dimly lit, casting shadows on the walls and floor. Hermione knelt in the center of the room, her heart pounding in her chest as she waited for her husband to come to her. She had been waiting for this moment, her body tingling with anticipation and desire.
"Well, well, well," he said, stepping closer to her. "What do we have here?"
"I'm here for you, Draco," she replied, her voice low and sultry. "I'm here to serve you, to pleasure you, to do whatever you desire."
He chuckled, reaching down to stroke her cheek. "Such a good girl," he said. "Always so eager to please."
She leaned into his touch, her body trembling with desire. "Please, sweetness," she begged. "I need you. I need to feel your cock inside me."
He groaned at her words, his hand tightening on her cheek. "Such a filthy little slut," he said, his voice husky with desire. "You love it when I fuck you, don't you?"
She nodded, her eyes wide and filled with longing. "Yes," she said. "I love it. I need it. I crave it."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a gentle kiss. "Then let's not keep you waiting any longer, doll," he said, his hand moving to the button of his pants.
She watched as he undid his pants, her eyes widening as his cock sprang free. It was long and thick, and she licked her lips in anticipation.
"Please, Draco," she begged, reaching for his cock. "Let me pleasure you."
He nodded, letting her take his cock in her hand. She stroked it gently, her eyes never leaving his as she leaned forward and took the tip of his cock in her mouth. She sucked on it gently, her tongue swirling around the head as she tasted his precum.
"Such a good little girl," he groaned, his hands tangling in her hair as she sucked him deeper into her mouth. "You love the taste of my cock, don't you?"
She nodded, her eyes watering as he hit the back of her throat. She sucked harder, her fingers gripping his thighs as she took him deeper and deeper.
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his hips thrusting forward as he fucked her mouth. "Such a good little girl."
She moaned around his cock, her body trembling with desire as he fucked her mouth. She could feel her cunt getting wetter and wetter, her juices running down her thighs as she sucked him.
"Enough," he said suddenly, pulling his cock out of her mouth. "I need to be inside you."
She nodded, lying back on the floor as he positioned himself between her legs. He rubbed the tip of his cock against her cunt, teasing her before he pushed inside her.
"Yes, yes, yes," she moaned, her nails digging into his back as he filled her up." Fuck me hard."
He groaned, his hips thrusting forward as he fucked her. He was rough and dominant, his cock slamming into her pussy again and again as he took her.
"You like that, don't you?" he growled, his hand gripping her throat as he fucked her. "You like it when I breed you, when I fill your pretty little cunt up with my cum."
She nodded, her eyes wide and filled with desire. "Yes, Draco," she moaned. "Please, cum inside me. I need it. I need to feel you cum inside me."
He groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he felt himself getting closer to cumming. "Such a filthy whore," he said, his hand tightening on her throat. "Begging for my cum."
"Please, Draco," she begged, her pussy clenching around his cock. "Please, cum inside me. I need it. I need to feel you."
He groaned, his cock twitching inside her as he filled her up with his seed. She moaned, her cunt clenching around his cock.
"Yes, yes, yes," she moaned, her body trembling with pleasure as he filled her up.
He collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. She wrapped her arms around him, her body still trembling with pleasure as she felt his cum inside her.
"Such a good little girl," he said, his voice low and husky. "I apologize for saying these nasty things. I just love when you beg for my cock."
She smiled, her eyes closed in contentment as she felt his cum inside her. "I love you," she said, her voice soft and filled with love.
He kissed her, his lips gentle on hers. "I love even more," he said, his hand cupping her cheek.
"Should I kill more people for you, my love? So you would beg me more? Beg me for a baby even?" He asked, a wicked glint in his eye.
"It's a possibility," Hermione replied, smiling sheepishly, her cheeks tinged with a playful blush.
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.