Archive of Our Own ^beta

The reek of stale bin juice was starting to seep into Hermione’s robes. For three hours, they had been crouched in the narrow, piss-soaked gap between a derelict apothecary and a purveyor of shrunken heads, the relentless Knockturn Alley rain plastering her hair to her cheeks. Three hours of listening to Malfoy’s judgmental breathing beside her in the suffocating dark.

“He’s late,” she whispered.

“He’s not coming,” Malfoy countered, his murmur somehow more infuriating than a shout. “This is a bust. Your source was wrong.”

“My source is reliable.”

“Your source got two Aurors injured during the Selwyn raid because you didn't wait for proper reconnaissance,” he shot back, shifting his weight. “You trust too easily. You always have.”

The game they always played. A constant, bitter tally of past failures, each one a stone thrown at the other. “And you trust no one,” she retorted. “You’d have let Selwyn escape if I hadn't pushed the advance.”

“And all Aurors would still have all their limbs,” he hissed.

Before she could retaliate, a flicker of movement at the end of the alley caught her eye. A figure in a hooded cloak moved furtively, clutching a package. Dolohov’s son. Her source had been right. She shot Malfoy a triumphantly venomous glare.

His eyes narrowed with a barely-perceptible nod. The argument was replaced by the thrum of professional focus. Another part of their twisted game—for all their animosity they moved like two halves of the same destructive whole.

“On my mark,” he murmured, his hand already tight on his wand. “We flank him. No heroics, Granger.”

But the target was skittish. At a hint of their whisper Dolohov spun, his wand out, a spray of sickly green light searing the air where Hermione’s head had been a second before.

The alley exploded into chaos.

Hermione lunged from their hiding spot, a Stunning Spell on her lips. Malfoy was right behind her, a silver shield erupting from his wand to deflect a Bone-Shattering Curse that would have pulverised her shoulder. He moved with a lethal grace she hated to admit she admired. They were closing in, spells a deadly web, Dolohov was cornered, desperate.

He dropped the package and brandished a wicked-looking dagger, its blade shimmering with viscous coating.

Dolohov dove at Malfoy.

Malfoy parried the attack with a disarming charm, sending the dagger skittering across the wet cobblestones. But in the blur of motion, the cursed silver had kissed his forearm. He grunted, his spell-work faltering for a fraction of a second. It was all the opening Dolohov needed. He vanished on the spot.

“Malfoy, move!” Hermione commanded, grabbing his arm. The nauseating lurch of Apparition twisted them out of the alley, leaving the rain to wash away the evidence of their fight, and they landed hard on the wooden floor of the Ministry safe house. The sudden silence and light were a shock after the grimy darkness. Adrenaline sang through Hermione’s veins.

Malfoy staggered, catching himself against the wall. He was breathing heavily, his face pale and slick with rain. And as he pushed himself upright, his left hand came away from his other arm, fingers stained with a dark, viscous liquid that wasn't just blood.

“Don’t move,” she commanded, her tone shifting to clinical. She closed the space between them, her wand already out, casting a diagnostic charm. The glowing output confirmed a festering hex, intended to cripple. “Jacket. Now.”

He flinched. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she retorted, her fingers unfastening the buckle of his tactical gear. He was rigid under her touch, as she forced him to shrug out of it. “This is Selwyn all over again,” she snapped. “You, holding back while the target escapes.”

“This is what happens when your reckless plans go to shit,” he sneered. “It's the same reason Gawain had to carry you out of the Leaky last month—you don't know when to stop.”

Her jaw tightened. She uncorked a vial of Dittany. “Sit.”

He sank into a chair. She knelt, pushing up his sleeve. The purple veins branching from the cut were like dark lightning under his pale skin. The intimacy of the moment was suffocating: her fingers on his skin, the heat radiating from him, the hiss of the potion.

He sucked a sharp breath through his teeth.

She worked quickly, feeling his intense gaze on her and the quiet between them was charged. Once finished she stood up, putting distance between them, but the tension followed.

“Stop playing the martyr, Granger. You don't have to bleed for every cause.”

She spun. “It’s a damn sight better than standing on the sidelines, waiting to see who wins. Your usual modus operandi.”

At the mention of the war his face went rigid, every trace of weariness gone, replaced by a chilling stillness. He rose from the chair like a predator uncoiling. His voice was a dangerous caress as he towered over her.

“Is that what you and Weasley spoke about on your little dates?” he whispered, eyes glittering with malice. “The poor, broken Death Eater boy the Ministry assigned you to babysit?”

The cruel weaponisation of her job, her failed romance with Ron. It made something in her snap. The air crackled. All her frustrated rage at their impossible dynamic, her hateful admiration of him—it united into violent impulse. A guttural screech tore from her throat as she shoved him, hard, with all her furious strength.

He stumbled back, hitting the wall with a thick thud. He stared, eyes wide with shock, hair falling across his brow, before a predatory smile spread across his lips.

“There you are,” he whispered, his voice dripping with a darkly intoxicating promise. “I’ve been waiting for you to get your hands dirty closer to home.”

His smile was dangerous and before she could process the shift, before she could even think to raise a shield, he moved.

In one stride he closed the distance, and the world narrowed to the hard planes of his body. Her back slammed against the cold wall, the impact jarring her teeth as he caged her instantly, his larger frame unyielding. His hands found her wrists, snapping them up to the plaster either side of her head.

She didn’t back down. “Finally grown a spine, have you, Malfoy?” she taunted, her voice trembling with adrenaline.

His smile widened, all teeth. “I’m here to show you what happens when you start a fight you can’t finish,” he murmured, gaze dropping to her mouth.

She was cornered, breathless, and burning with a reckless, terrible fire. She lifted her chin in a final act of defiance. “Go on then,” she dared him, her voice a low, ragged whisper. “Bite me.”

“Gladly,” he hissed, the word a raw promise.

His mouth crashed down on hers with a bruising kiss that tasted of anger and want, his tongue sweeping into her mouth in a battle for dominance she was determined not to lose. She bit him, hard, and the coppery taste of his blood filled her senses. He groaned into her mouth, a feral sound of sugared savagery.

He broke away, lips swollen and dark, chest heaving. He lowered his head, his hot breath ghosting across her jaw as he hissed, “You wanted this, Granger. You pushed. Show me what you can do.”

Her response was to writhe in his grip, a futile effort that only served to grind her body more firmly against his. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing into her stomach, undeniable evidence of the dark truth between them. Her magic, wild and untamed, crackled in the air.

With a snarl, he released one of her wrists and fisted his hand in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the long, pale line of her throat. He sucked and bit at the sensitive skin, a brutal act of marking that she knew would leave a dark, ugly bruise. “You taste sweet,” he growled, the word a raw confession as his mouth continued down her neck.

The pain was sharp, exquisite, and a choked sob escaped her lips. He used her momentary weakness to rip at the buttons of her uniform, the sound of popping threads echoing in the sterile room. He shoved the fabric aside, his cold fingers finding the lace of her bra before tearing it down the middle. Her breasts were bare to the cold air, her nipples instantly hard.

“Look at you,” he sneered, his gaze devouring her. “The Golden Girl, undone.”

“Is this all you have, Malfoy?” she spat, her breath a panting mix of fury and arousal. “Crude words and brute force?”

His eyes flashed. With a flick of his wrist, a shimmering cord of silver light wrapped around her right wrist, binding it magically to the wall. He released her other hand. A challenge. She accepted. Her free hand clawed at his chest, her nails seeking purchase, tearing at the thin fabric of his top. He hissed as she drew blood, the sharp sting only seeming to fuel his desire.

He undid his own trousers with frantic movements, never breaking eye contact. He was hard and brutally ready. He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly against the wall, but her own trousers were in the way. "Off," he snarled against her mouth, and with her one free hand, she fumbled frantically with the button and zip, shoving the fabric down. He held her pinned with his body as she kicked the garment and her knickers away until they pooled at her ankles.

He positioned himself at her entrance, slick with her own arousal, and with a guttural groan, he slammed into her.

It was a violent entry. No tenderness, only punishing need. A scream tore from her throat, a sound of pain and soul-deep pleasure. He was filling her completely, stretching her, branding her from the inside out.

“Scream for me, little lion,” he commanded with a raw rasp as he began to move, his rhythm fast, hard, and merciless.

“Make me,” she choked out, digging the nails of her free hand into the muscles of his back, her other arm straining against its magical tether as if to match the force of his thrusts.

The world dissolved. There was only the sound of their ragged breaths, the slap of their bodies, and the desperate litany of curses and pleas they gasped against each other’s skin. He drove into her again and again, chasing something he couldn’t name, and she met every brutal thrust, arching her back, the silver cord pulling her arm taut, her wrist raw, taking all of him, all of his hungry anger, all of his sweet pain. It was a hateful, beautiful agony and she could feel her climax building, a tightly coiling thing deep in her belly.

He must have felt the shift in her, the small tremors that wracked her body. A wicked and triumphant smile twisted his lips. He leaned in, his mouth finding hers, teeth cruelly teasing her lip as he thrust deeper, his hips slamming against hers with punishing rhythm. Her release tore through her in a white-hot wave that ripped the air from her lungs. Her orgasm triggered his own, and with a shuddering groan, he poured himself into her, his body rigid against hers.

The aftermath was ringing silence. They collapsed, a tangle of limbs on the unforgiving floor, surrounded by the wreckage of their professionalism. The silver cord around her wrist dissolved into silent sparks, the game finally over. The adrenaline faded at speed, leaving only the shocking reality of what they had done. Her skin was stinging, his back was bleeding, and the air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

He pushed himself up onto an elbow as he reached out to trace the fresh bruise on her neck with the pad of his thumb.

He had a taste for her now. And God help her, he was starving.