Chapter Text
The library at Nott Manor was grand. Its ceilings arched into vaults of carved oak, dark and weighty, and its shelves rose like monoliths along the walls, thick with tomes and centuries old grimoires. Draco stood in the doorway, watching Hermione’s face as she entered. She stepped forward with a rare look of awe, her eyes sweeping across the room as if each shelf held a secret she had been born to unlock.
He allowed her that small indulgence. It cost him nothing to see her breath catch faintly at the rows of gilded spines or the ivory ladder that leaned at an angle, promising access to texts even a Professor at Hogwarts would never dream of lending.
Theo leaned against one of the tall desks near the back, a glass of Firewhisky in his hand, his expression lazy but his eyes alert. Luna sat beside him, perched on the edge of a stool, her pale hair cascading down her back, her gaze drifting over the titles as if she were cataloguing them in her own dreamy way. Draco watched as Luna’s soft smile disarmed Hermione, the kind of look only Luna could conjure, as though the world could not fracture so long as kindness lived in her.
“It’s good to see you again, Hermione,” Luna said gently, her voice floating and airy.
Hermione’s throat worked before she replied.
“You too, Luna.” Her voice faltered, then steadied as she glanced down at her lap. “Your library is impressive.”
Luna smiled.
“Yes, I quite like it.”
She jumped down from her stool and pulled Hermione towards the stacks.
“I’ve pulled some books you might like, why don’t we go and look at them while the boys chat, hmm?”
Hermione knew dismissal when she heard it and nodded as Luna led her deeper into the grand library. Theo made sure they were gone before turning to Draco.
“Have you made any progress yet?”
Draco’s silence was answer enough.
“What do you think, Theo? It’s bloody Granger, stubbornest witch on the planet.”
Theo sighed.
“I heard Walden MacNair talking about Granger. I worry.”
Draco rubbed his hand over his face, downing his whiskey in one gulp.
“I know, Theo. It keeps me up at night knowing what might happen to her if I let my guard down for even one second. I have already hurt her once, I do not want to do it again.”
Theo frowned.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this. Luna was a mess when I rescued her from the Dungeons. You remember, Draco. It took me a year to even get Luna to allow me to touch her hand. I’d hate for all of her progress to be broken because of lesser cretins like MacNair and Dolohov.”
Draco growled.
“Dolohov will not lay a single hand on Luna or Hermione. I will never let that happen. He already has my mother, I will not let him take more. I’m not the same helpless eighteen year old.”
Theo sighed.
“I hope you’re right, Draco. I can’t bear to watch my Luna break again.”
Draco sighed.
“Luna and your situations were different, Theo. You had no choice.”
Theo shot Draco sympathetic eyes.
“You did what you had to do, Draco. We know the true horrors of revelry and whether you want to argue morality or not, you spared Hermione the worst of it. It’s, it’s complicated. Do you remember what they made Luna do to me?”
Draco shuddered. How could he forget? It was humiliating for both of them.
“Yes.”
Theo laughed.
“Do you think Luna, no matter how much we love each other now, will ever forget what we’d been made to do? Do you think that it erases the fact it happened? Love?”
Draco shook his head.
“I imagine not, no.”
Theo nodded.
“But we’re also stronger for it. There’s more good than bad these days between us, and, ultimately, Luna is now the Lady Nott and I can better protect her.”
Theo poured himself another glass.
“It’ll work out. It has too.”
Draco could only hope. When the girls finally returned, Hermione had a stack of four books in her arms. She seemed genuinely happy to be in Luna’s presence and Draco soaked up every second of her radiant smile.
“Did you ladies enjoy your girl time?”
Theo cheekily winked at Granger. Draco rolled his eyes.
“We did, Theodore. I quite liked showing Hermione our extensive collection of Tomes.” Luna replied, once again joining her husband’s side.
Theo smiled.
“You can come back anytime this git here can bring you, Granger.”
Hermione was the one to roll her eyes this time. She watched as Draco took the books from her hands, shrunk them down, and deposited them in Hermione’s cloak pocket.
“We will see you guys soon, I’m sure.”
Draco offered his arm to Hermione, who knew the drill by now, and didn’t even think when she’d slipped her own through it. They disapparated with a crack and Draco hoped her good mood would stick. He loathed the horror that awaited them.
The table stretched long and endless, a slab of black oak carved with serpents and sigils, its surface glimmering faintly beneath silver goblets filled to the brim with wine. The air itself seemed swollen with power, heavy with the kind of silence that demanded obedience. Every seat had been filled.
Malphas stood near the far end, not far from the throne-like chair where Voldemort presided, his pale fingers tapping idly against the armrest as if the room itself played a song only he could hear. His expression was smooth, indulgent, almost playful. The Dark Lord enjoyed these meetings as much for their theater as for their purpose, and Draco knew the trap hidden in every word that left his mouth.
Dolohov lounged to the right, smirking, his presence like rancid garbage. To the left, Yaxley and Macnair leaned close, their murmurs cruel and lewd. Across the table, Theo sat with lazy precision, his gaze heavy lidded yet alert, while Blaise exuded that effortless charm that never truly masked the blade beneath. The Dark Lord’s voice cut through the murmur with a precision that silenced the room.
“We celebrate victory,” he said, his lips curving into something obscene, his voice scratchy over poison. “The Ministry has fallen into our hands, and with it the illusion of their Order, their so called righteousness.” His pale fingers drummed once against the table before stilling. “A victory such as this deserves indulgence. Another feast, perhaps. The ultimate revel.”
Low laughter rippled around the table, but it did not reach Draco’s lips. His jaw remained set, his eyes trained on the rim of his goblet. Voldemort’s gaze slid across the table, crimson eyes glowing faintly as he savored the unease his pause created.
“And you, Malphas,” he murmured, the name rolling from his tongue like mockery and recognition all at once. “You will bring your pet Mudblood.”
The only words that could ever truly strike fear into Draco, into Malphas, were any words that would harm his little lion. Every Death Eater present leaned forward just slightly, scenting blood.
“You will show us how obedient your little pet can be. Demonstrate that she bends to your leash, that she knows her master. I did grant her to you for that reason, after all. If you’re not up to the task…”
Draco inclined his head in practiced deference, though inside, his stomach turned to lead. He felt the eyes of every man in that room on him, lingering with greed and envy, hungry for a show. And Dolohov, he didn’t even have to look at him, to know that he would do anything for the chance to take Hermione away from him, too. Just like he stole Narcissa. Voldemort did not relent. He leaned back, savoring the silence, his pale mouth twisting into a grin so obscene it seemed to begin from madness itself.
“And you, my faithful,” he said, his voice widening to fill the chamber, “you will bring your wives. We have fought long and hard for this triumph, and it is time we allow ourselves the touch of our ladies. Do you not agree?”
The chuckle that followed slithered through the room, a laugh that invited no answer yet demanded one. The men echoed it, a chorus of sycophantic mirth. Draco watched his friends, watched as Theo swirled his wine, his smirk practiced, his glance flickering across the table to Draco though his eyes betrayed him. Blaise tapped his glass against the wood in mock salute, his mouth tightening even as his expression remained composed.
Draco forced himself to breathe, to lower his gaze in submission, though he felt the fury coil beneath his skin. He could already picture Dolohov’s leer, Macnair’s filthy hands, the way even the Dark Lord’s gaze would weigh on her. He could withstand lashes, curses, the bite of Cruciatus until his nerves burned black, but the thought of them touching her, even in jest, was unbearable.
He had just started to make progress with her. He had just started to soften her, and now he would have to hurt her all over again, lest someone else do it. He didn’t want to, it made him sick. Voldemort turned his head slightly, surveying his men as though admiring the puppets he strung with invisible thread.
“It will be a night of spectacle,” he said softly, almost lovingly. “A night where the world learns that resistance is not only futile, it is forgotten. We will feast, we will indulge, and we will remind every trembling fool beyond these walls who holds dominion over life and death.”
The meeting dissolved into murmurs of assent, goblets lifted. Dolohov laughed loudly, clapping Macnair on the shoulder as he muttered something vile about how he would dress his wife. Draco heard it distantly, as though from underwater. Theo caught his eye across the table, and Draco knew he was thinking about Luna, about the things they’d both been forced to do. Blaise’s dark gaze met his briefly, quick and cutting, before sliding away as though nothing had passed between them. The three of them did not need words to understand. This dinner would be a reckoning.
When the meeting broke, Draco stepped into the corridor, the chill of the stone doing little to steady him. His boots echoed faintly, and though the air was cooler outside the chamber, it felt no lighter. Theo joined him, his expression casual, though his voice was low when he spoke. The disgust in his eyes were thinly veiled.
“This will be vile.”
Blaise appeared a moment later, adjusting his gloves with precise care.
“Vile does not begin to cover it. They want a performance, and they will not be satisfied with scraps. If even the wives are to be involved? I’m sorry guys.”
Draco stopped, his eyes narrowing, his voice quiet and lethal.
“I’m not going to let anyone touch her.”
Theo tilted his head, a spark of something like sympathy in his eyes, though it was quickly masked.
“You know as well as I do, Draco, you cannot shield her from everything. Not this time. If my Luna is not even spared, then how will your pet fair?”
Blaise gave a humorless laugh, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“How much more of the Dark Lord’s ire do you think you can endure before he decides even Malphas is expendable?”
Draco’s hand tightened at his side, pale knuckles straining. He thought of Hermione pacing the confines of their room, fire in her eyes even when she trembled. He thought of the inevitable leash at her throat, the collar that marked her as his he’d have to show off, and the bitter truth that it was both her prison and her shield.
“I won’t let anything happen.” Draco muttered, his tone almost too quiet to hear. “But she will remain mine.”
Theo regarded him, his smirk gone entirely, replaced by something colder.
“Then you had better figure out how to get Granger to cooperate.”
Blaise’s gaze lingered on Draco, searching, as though weighing whether to speak further.
“Pansy is going to have to bring Longbottom to the revel. I know you wanted to keep them separated. I’m sorry.”
Draco shook his head, bidding them both goodbye. When he got back to his room, he realized Hermione had gone to her library and lab, so he sat alone at the edge of the bed, the leash he’d pulled from his armoire coiled in his hand like a serpent waiting to strike. The collar glinted faintly on the table, silver against the dark wood, innocent to any who did not understand what it signified.
He imagined placing it around her throat once more, imagined the fury in her eyes, the way her body went rigid with loathing every time the leather touched her skin. He imagined the revel, the laughter of men who had killed for less, their gaze crawling across her body while she stood bound to him.
The thought was enough to make his stomach twist. As he sat there, his blonde hair falling into his eyes, his fingers tightened on the leash until the leather bit into his palm. He feared the vow to protect her would mean nothing if he could not shield her from what was coming. The night of the dinner was fixed, and its shadow already stretched long across the days to come. He closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath, steadying himself as he had done a thousand times before battle. This time, however, it was not his life on the line. It was hers. And for that, Draco Malfoy knew he would bleed until nothing remained.
Draco sat in the familiar chair by the bed, one ankle crossed over the other, his head tipped back in restless half sleep as his mind whirled with everything. He never allowed himself more than an hour at a time, rousing before his mind could sink too deep, always scanning the room, always ensuring that no threat slipped past his wards, though he knew that to be virtually impossible. The rhythm of his vigilance had become as steady as breathing, but it was her sound that broke through first.
A faint whimper, a soft plea to stop. Draco’s eyes snapped open, his body taut as he shifted forward, gaze locking on the bed where Hermione lay tangled in the sheets. Her face, which so often bore defiance, twisted into torment, her brow drawn, her mouth trembling with words she did not speak aloud. Her fists clenched at nothing, her legs shifting as if caught in some terrible chase.
He rose without thought, crossing the small space with the silence of a predator. His hand hovered above her shoulder before he dared touch, every instinct pulling between his hunger to soothe and his fear of waking her into greater distress. He lowered himself slowly onto the mattress’ edge, his fingers finally brushing the wild strands of her hair away from her damp forehead. Draco rarely revealed his softer talents, but music had always belonged to him.
His mother had once said the piano was the only thing that made him human in his father’s house, and though he had long since learned to weaponize most of himself, music remained private. Tonight, it slipped from him before he could consider it. A hum rose low in his chest, the melody of an old French nocturne he had memorized as a boy. It was soft, steady, the sound pleasant and soothing as he stroked her hair in careful rhythm.
Hermione’s breathing stuttered once, then eased. Her body shifted against the sheets, her fists uncurling, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. Draco hummed again, allowing the tune to fill the night. His thumb traced gently over her temple, his palm cupping the side of her head, grounding her where nightmares had dragged her. She looked less like his captive and more like something delicate in these moments. Her eyes opened slowly, drowsy, still tangled in the haze of sleep. She blinked up at him with confusion, her lips parted slightly, her voice no louder than a whisper.
“Stay.”
The words left him speechless, as if he didn’t trust his own ears. He stilled, every muscle taut, as if the moment itself was too good to be true. She had never asked this of him, never invited him closer than what he stole in the darkness of her slumber, in gentle, feather-light touches and soft whispers. His pulse thundered, but he forced his hands to remain steady as he smoothed her hair once more.
“Are you certain?”
His voice was low, strained with the weight of what she was offering. Her eyes slid closed again, lashes damp against her cheeks. He had waited so long to lay with her in his bed. He didn’t want to seem too eager.
“Please.”
With a sharp exhale, Draco moved. He shed his outer robe with a flick of his wand, fabric transfiguring into dark sleepwear that clung to the long lines of his frame. He slipped beneath the covers, every motion deliberate, as if he feared she might rescind her invitation. The bed dipped under his weight, and when his arm slid around her waist, drawing her back against him, the air in his lungs burned with something close to triumph. Her body was warm, soft, and real against his.
She nestled into him without thinking, as though her unconscious trusted what her waking mind refused. He wrapped his larger body around hers, his hand splaying over her stomach, his face buried in her hair. She was so small next to him. He realized just how petite she was compared to his taller friends like Daphne and Pansy. He allowed himself to close his eyes fully, to breathe in her presence not as a thief in the night, but as a man finally holding what he had long claimed as his.
Draco’s mind splintered into two halves, each equally obsessive. One half exulted in the holy possession of her, the fact that he was the first man she had asked to hold her, that she had chosen his arms to banish the terrors of her dreams. The other half was maddened by the torment, by the way her curves molded against him so perfectly it felt like fate itself had carved her for him. His cock pulsed against her, hot and insistent, and though he did not move, the temptation was agony.
He bent his head, pressing his lips to her hairline in a kiss so light it barely existed. His voice slipped out with the remnants of his song, humming once more against her ear as if he could bind her dreams to safety. His hand tightened minutely on her waist, not enough to wake her fully, only enough to claim her body as his sanctuary.
She sighed in her sleep, the tension draining from her shoulders, and shifted again, nestling more firmly against him. Draco closed his eyes and allowed himself to indulge, to have her soft against him. He let himself indulge in her warmth, to imagine all that might one day be his. It was both heaven and hell. He cursed himself silently for the hunger that refused to be silenced, as he did his best to ignore his biological urges. Nevertheless, he would endure a thousand sleepless nights for the privilege of feeling her like this. Draco spoke his words in secret, into nothing, only a sleeping angel next to him.
“I’ll always keep you safe, Hermione.”
Draco tightened his hold, content to surrender to a few precious hours of sleep with his obsession cradled against him. Far to quickly, dawn bled through the windows of their bedroom. Draco stirred before the sun had fully claimed the sky, his body already alert though he had slept more soundly than he had in years. His first awareness was not of himself, but of the petite little dove next to him. Hermione lay curled against him still, clutching the fabric of his shirt in her tiny hands. Her hair was a wild tangle spilling across his chest, her breath soft against the crook of his neck.
Draco did not want to move, though he knew he should. It was dangerous, how easily his mind painted this as permanence, as though waking to her warmth were not an accident of circumstance but the order of their lives. His hand rested against her hip still, curled there with the unconscious possessiveness of a man who would never let go. He imagined what it might mean if she woke like this willingly, if her eyes opened and softened instead of sharpening into fury. If she were Hermione Malfoy and not Hermione Granger.
The fantasy unraveled with the ache between his thighs. His cock had spent the night hard against her, a steady pulse of torment each time she shifted in her sleep and pressed back into him. The fabric of his trousers did little to shield him, and the memory of her soft curves against his length had driven him through hours of exquisite torture. Morning had not relieved it. If anything, the need clawed more insistently now.
He swallowed against the growl building in his chest, his pride warring with the heat that begged him to rutt against her until the pressure broke. He had vowed he would never hurt her again, however. So he would wait, she would come to him willingly or not at all. Though he wanted nothing more than to grind his need into her until she cried out, begging him to put his cock into her, he had vowed to preserve her for the day she chose him.
With care, Draco eased his arm away, sliding from the bed in practiced silence. She stirred faintly, murmuring something incoherent before rolling into the empty space where his body had been. He paused, watching her settle against the sheets, his chest tightening with a strange, possessive ache as she snuggled into the loss of warmth. The sight of her asleep in his bed was enough to weaken him. He wanted to crawl back in, to anchor himself inside the dream of her warmth, but his body throbbed with need, reminding him that he could not remain without losing control.
He crossed the room, his bare feet soundless against the carpet, and slipped into the adjoining washroom. The heavy door shut behind him with a muted click, sealing away the vision of her in tangled sheets. Draco braced his palms against the counter, head bowed, as he caught his reflection in the glass.
His hair was disheveled, his eyes hooded, his chest heaving with the remnants of restraint. The shower hissed to life, cold water sluicing from the ornate, waterfall spout. He stripped quickly, the pants sticking briefly before sliding down his legs, freeing him to the cool air. His cock jutted forward, flushed, already leaking with anticipation. He stepped beneath the spray, the chill biting into his skin and dragging a shudder from his lungs. It dulled nothing. The ache persisted, relentless, fed by the memory of her body pressed against his all night.
Draco’s hand closed around himself, long fingers curling over the velvet length, and he hissed as he gave the first stroke. The friction was immediate, sending jolts along his spine, his body bowing toward the release it craved. He pressed his forehead to the tile, water cascading over his shoulders as his strokes quickened. Images flooded his mind unbidden. Hermione arching beneath him, her hair spread over his pillow, her voice gasping his name as she finally yielded. He imagined her thighs parting for him, imagined the tight heat he had preserved himself for all these years gripping him tightly.
His strokes grew rougher, desperate now, his breath ragged against the cool spray. He pictured her waking to find him between her legs, tongue pressed to the slick heat of her body, claiming what had always belonged to him as she came apart. His cock twitched in his grip at the fantasy, his climax building fast and hot, settling low in his gut. He groaned, muffled against his arm, as he spilled across his hand, thick ropes lost quickly to the streaming water. His body trembled with the force of it, his jaw tight as he rode the waves of pleasure and torment all at once.
When it was done, he leaned heavily against the wall, water cooling the fever of his skin. His chest rose and fell, his muscles taut with restraint even in release. He washed quickly after that, banishing the evidence before she stirred, unwilling to allow her to glimpse the weakness of his need. By the time he stepped from the washroom, toweling his hair into order, his pajamas had been replaced by his full Death Eater Regalia, cleaned and pressed by Tinky, his expression had returned to its usual mask.
He didn’t want to leave their bed, her warmth, their safety. But he was Malphas, and today Malphas had been summoned to observe special prisoners. The truth remained, however, that Hermione had asked him to stay last night. She had melted into his arms as if she belonged there. Draco had had a taste, and now he would never let her sleep without him again.
He would make certain it happened again, until she understood what he had always known. She was his, and he was hers, every aching inch of him honed and preserved for the day she finally accepted the truth. With a renewed sense of protection, he slid his silver mask on to face the day. He would not let this dinner break them.